School Bus(t)

I cry when Nic gets on the bus in the morning.

He’s my little boy.  He struts down our driveway.  He heaves himself onto the first step of the bus by grabbing onto both rails.  I yell “I love you!  Have a good day!” from the front door as he disappears into the sea of children on Bus G.

And then I wonder, Would I Still Feel This Way If He Had Made It Home On The Bus On His First Day Of School?  Because Nic didn’t make it home.  On his first day of kindergarten, his bus driver dropped him off at the wrong stop, 2 miles away from our house.  She didn’t check off the names like she was supposed to, instead she let a swarm of children off the bus and yelled to the parents, “Has everyone got their kids?” and drove away.  A stranger called me and told me she had found Nic walking down her street, alone.  He looked out-of-place, and she called him over to her.  Luckily, Nic had on a name tag with his address and phone number.  But even luckier, she was a good person.

I drove him to and from school for the next month, the What-Ifs constantly on my mind.  The bus driver contacted us and we met with her in person.  She had a long and impeccable record and was very upset about what happened.  Despite this, Doc and I wrote a lengthy letter to the school board and she was suspended.

We ended up putting him back on the bus. It’s almost halfway through the school year and I still get choked-up as he boards his bus in the morning.

I’m on “E”

I woke with a headache this morning.

Last night was the third night in a row Doc has woken me up and kept me awake with his snoring.  Kicking him no longer works, I may have to resort to the pillow…

Jungle Terry came to the boys school today.

Gibs and I were invited to join in the wild adventure.  We saw the chinchilla, hedgehog and skunk before I had to carry him out, kicking and screaming.

I sat in the van with him while he calmed down and then we went shopping.  After I paid for our corn on the cob and minneolas, we shared a candy bar on an outside bench.

When I returned to the school to pick up the boys, Lee’s teacher told me he had cried all afternoon because he “missed his mommy.”

We came home and I dusted while they watched tv.  After Gibs went down for a nap, I took Nic and Lee outside.  We were outside for almost 3 hours.  We cleaned the patio, brought out (and cleaned) our outdoor furniture, toys, fire pit and grill.

Halfway through, Lee yelled he had to pee.  He ran inside and peed all over the bathroom.  When we were done outside, I cleaned the bathroom floor and washed the rugs.

Dinner was barbecue pork chops, corn on the cob, waffle fries and jello with mandarin oranges; chocolate chip cookie and ice cream sundaes for dessert.

The boys played outside with Doc while I cleaned up the kitchen and talked to my girlfriend on the phone.  Then it was bathtime and bedtime.  At 8 o’clock I went back outside to clean up and straighten our solar lamps that were left outside during the winter.

Now I am sitting on my butt, dead tired.

Not much depth to this post.

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I am still spring cleaning…

Made, with love

I met Ed at a Christmas party last year.

Ed is an elderly gentleman.  He has been eating my banana bread for years prior to our meeting: I make the banana bread. Doc takes it into work and leaves it in the community room.  Ed raves about it; how it tastes just like the bread his mother used to make; from scratch with chunks of ripe banana. Doc comes home from work and tells me how much Ed loves it.  I make it again.  Repeat.

At the Christmas party, Ed asked me if I was “The Doctor’s Wife.”  I told him to please, call me Betty Lou.  Then we talked about the history of his love for banana bread.  Later, Ed read Yes, Virginia… with exuberance, and I’d say he believed every word.  His voice trembled as he fought the lump in his throat.  As I watched this 80 year-old man read to my children, I too had to fight the lump in my throat.

During the short time I spent with him on that day in December, this is what I learned…

As a young man, he lied about his age so that he could enlist in the army.

He has lived a hard life, but a good life.

He thinks he is going to die soon, but he is not worried about it.

His birthday is in November.

Since his mother’s death, he has treated himself to a banana bread from a local bakery every year on his birthday.

The bakery has closed.

I told him that I would make him a banana bread for his birthday from now on (in addition to the ones I have been sending in for him regularly since finding out how much he loves them).

Except for one thing; I can’t bear to tell him that my banana bread is from a box.

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Pillsbury, to be exact.

Tests, Sighs and Videotape

Lee has been getting out of bed after he’s been tucked in.

He needs a drink of water or he has to go to the bathroom or it’s too dark in his bedroom or he needs to be covered up with his blankets.  As a result, he’s tired and grumpy every day.  As a result, Doc and I are tired and grumpy every day.  Deep breath.

Doc (I accidentally speeld his name “Dic.” See?  I’m tired) is studying rigorously for an upcoming exam.  It is an elite sort of thingamajig, only a few doctors in our state hold it.  He studies every day.  For hours.  Most nights I am asleep before he crawls into bed.

These past few weeks I have been waging a quiet battle on the behalf of our family and neighbors regarding (as I type this, Lee is sitting on the floor, rubbing his hand up and down my leg.  My unshaven leg, mind you) a proposed construction project that directly affects us (the consensus being that it affects us negatively).  By either default, or choice (I haven’t decided which one yet), I have become the designated spokesperson.  Without giving too much google-able information away (because it is becoming an increasingly hot issue around these parts), my battle involves petitions, city officials and, eek, speaking in public forums.  Deep breath.

Suffice to say, we have been busy.

So yesterday, when I sat down to review some VHS tapes (yes, VHS tapes) that I am in the process of converting to DVDs, it was a much appreciated break in the (Lee just put himself back to bed.  I think.  I hope) busyness of recent weeks.  The tapes were of the boys.  Nic’s birth (well, not the actual birth; the hospital stay), Nic as a baby, Nic learning to crawl, to walk, to talk.  Me pregnant with Lee, Lee as a baby.  Repeat.  Me pregnant with Gibs, repeat.  Deep breath.

The tapes brought to surface feelings I had placed on the back burner.  Ya’ know, because we’ve been busy.  I’ve been busy; too busy to give enough thought to having another baby.  But there they came, erupting to the surface like an active volcano.

The tapes should be ready tomorrow.  Did I mention we have a new, 47 inch (perfect for baby-watching) flat screen tv?

Doc won’t be studying tomorrow night.

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Lee just got up again.  Deep breath.

Vindictive

Each night, after the children were tucked into bed,

I opened my laptop and stared at the screen until finally giving in to the exhaustion I felt.  Without a post to show for all my thought.

My mother-in-law received the money last Friday.  She spoke with her ex-husband (Doc’s stepfather) on Saturday.  On Sunday he called Doc to inform him that I was juvenile and vindictive.

JUVENILE.

AND VINDICTIVE.

Juvenile I can shrug off.  But vindictive?  I went through a flux of emotions; I was angry, hurt, sad.  But not for myself; for my children.  I gave my mother-in-law the opportunity to have a relationship with her grandchildren and she squandered it.  And the pity falls with the one who is the problem.

I’m not vindictive.  Even if I wanted to be, I don’t have the time for such nonsense.

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It’s been a busy week.  I am glad to be back, I have missed you.

Return to Sender

It arrived on Monday.

I knew it was coming because she had called Sunday night, drunk, to tell Doc she sent it.  But when I thumbed through the mail and saw the envelope, I was still overcome with anger.  Maybe hatred.  I dialed the phone and whispered to the person on the other end, “If I lived close enough to her, I would drive to her house and punch her in the face.”

Shame on me.  But what’s the point of telling you if I’m not honest.  I’m human.

I told Doc I was sending it back.  His mouth fell open, like he was about to say something.  But I was hot, and on a roll, so he closed his mouth and listened.  And then I think he forgot that I said I was sending it back.

That birthday card, with a $20 bill tucked into it, sat on my kitchen table until today.  This morning I removed the bill and folded it into a blank looseleaf sheet of paper.  On an envelope, in black ink, I wrote my return address on the upper left hand corner and wrote my mother-in-law’s address in the middle.  I put the paper into the envelope, sealed it and placed it in my purse.  I stopped by the post office on the way to taking the boys to school.  I pulled up to the mailbox and rolled my window down.  I looked in the rearview mirror; no one was behind me.  I held the envelope out into the rain.  I looked at her name and thought to myself This can’t be undone.

And then I dropped it in.

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Oh boy.

Five

I had eaten my way through my first pregnancy.

I gained almost 50 pounds and I fully expected to deliver a mini sumo wrestler.  My forkful of strawberries and cottage cheese dangled midair when the first contraction hit.  I knew it would be awhile until I got to eat again, so I sent Doc to McDonald’s for a Big Mac with extra pickles, a large fry and a Coke.  I had heard stories of women doing some un-lady like things during the delivery, but during those last hours of pregnancy I didn’t care; I took advantage of…eating.

Twenty-three hours and eight centimeters later, everything was brought to a halt in one panic-stricken discovery: Nic was breech.  He obviously preferred to eat sitting up, unlike me, who had been devouring entire cherry pies while laying on the couch (at least I wouldn’t be emptying my bowels in front of anyone).

I was whisked away to the OR.  Terrified, I had fleetingly contemplated indulging my panic-stricken state while in the delivery room (ripping out my IV’s, fleeing the hospital).  A cool washcloth and soothing words (thanks, anesthesiologist!) brought me back to reality, Did I want to be awake when my baby was born?

And then the single best moment of my entire life…

(my mini sumo wrestler, weighing in at 6 pounds, 12 ounces)

The next evening, over a cheeseburger and fries (haha!), I asked Dr. H. when I could do it again.

(Nic today, his 5th birthday)

This morning as I was singing Happy Birthday to my boy, I got a little teary-eyed.  Nic touched my arm and said, “It’s ok, Mom.  Don’t be sad.  I’m only growing up.”

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Excuse me while I grab a tissue…

Skeleton Man

Ninety-nine percent of the time I embrace Motherhood.

The other one percent I envision a long vacation on a tropical island far, far away.  Away from piles of laundry, sticky floors and yes, children who tell me they hate me.

Last night as Doc was giving the boys a bath I overheard Lee’s mounting frustration deflate into one proclamation: “I hate you, Dad!”  I quickly thought of the punishments we had tried with him in an attempt to eliminate that word from his vocabulary: no dessert, time-out, early bedtime, taking away his favorite toy.  As I was distributing dirty clothes to their respective laundry baskets, my eye caught the bin of Halloween costumes and an idea formed.  I rummaged through the bin, found what I was looking for and put it on.  I could hear my own breath as I approached the bathroom door.  Through the eye holes, I could see the boys in the tub, Lee was arguing with Doc.

And then they saw me.  Wide-eyed, stunned silence.

Did I hear someone say the word HATE?

“It was Lee!” with fingers pointing at the guilty party, but eyes never leaving my mask.

I don't like it when little boys say the word HATE.

I slowly creeped back into the hallway.  It was quiet until bedtime.

This morning I took Lee and Gibs to the grocery store.  When I told Lee No, I was not going to buy Finding Nemo because we had it at home, he loudly exclaimed for everyone to hear, “I hate you, Mom!”  I felt the eyes of an old woman on me and I swore I heard a tsk and saw a slight shake of the head.  I bent close to Lee, put my lips close to his ear and reminded him of last night’s visitor.

Skeleton Man doesn't like it when you say the word HATE.

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Five years ago I would have thought this was mean.  Now I prefer to think of it as creative. But if you can’t resist the urge to tell me I’m mean, by all means go ahead. Skeleton Man has thick skin (get it?  Skeleton Man?  Thick skin?  Ha ha).

On the way to school

“Is a sister a girl?”

Nic piped up from the backseat, as I turned out of our street.

“What?”

“I SAID is a sister a girl?!”

“Yes.  Why do you ask?” I replied, as I looked at him in the rearview mirror.

He was looking out his window, smiling.

“Then I would like to have a sister, please.”

I’d give him the moon if I could.

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Doc and I are talking about it.

Death by chocolate

I mostly dress for comfort.

So last week when I went shopping with Gibs (Nic and Lee were at school), I bought a pair of jeans without trying them on.  They were the same brand, same style, same size, but different wash of a pair I already had at home.  If something is comfortable and fits, I usually end up with more than one (I also bought the same shirt in 3 different colors during this trip) (I am slightly embarrassed to admit that).

Later that evening I tried on my new pair of jeans.  As soon as I stepped into them my brain registered an “uh-oh.”  But they were skinny jeans after all, so I tugged them on and heaved them over my butt and onto my waist as I swayed from side to side (ya’all know exactly what I am talking about).  I looked in the mirror and cringed.  But they were skinny jeans after all, so I sucked in and buttoned them.  Or tried to.  1-2-3, hold my breath, now close dammit!  The button was so close to that hole!  I took them off and folded them up.  Back to the store they would go.

Saturday afternoon we were all piled in the van, on our way to lunch, when Doc looked between our seats and saw the jeans sitting there.  He looked at me.

“I need to return them, so if we have time today…”

“Return them?  Why?” he asked.

“Well…” I said, “they don’t exactly fit” I explained.  “They are the same brand, same style, same size but different wash as I pair I already have.  My other pair fits perfectly.  These must be defective or something” I elaborated.

“Well, there ya’ go!” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘there ya’ go’?” I asked.

“Jeans stretch out the more you wear them.” He glanced my way.

I stared at the road ahead.  “What exactly are you saying?” I inquired.

“I’m saying it’s all those Snickers you’ve been eating.”

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I bought a Snickers 6-pack at the grocery store this morning.  It’s still unopened.