Again

2nd grade is upon us. And is it ever!
I can sense that Isaac's changing...that I'm changing.
I would normally have a new outfit all laid out...backpack ready.
Camera ready to go...excitement filling my mind as I anticipate walking him into school
But this school year...this school year is different.
I have no idea what Isaac will wear - and I don't care, as long he picks out, puts it on and doesn't zone out in front of the tv in the middle of all of it.
I THINK his backpack is hanging in his classroom from supply drop-off day. And if it's not, he's grounded.
I have allotted an extra 10 minutes in drive time tomorrow morning, so I can drop him off at the front doors and get to work on time.
I am hoping and praying that I remember what it was like for me when I first took him to Kindergarten. I need to remember that I had no idea where to park, what the courtesy was for the mommy line...and every other annoyance I will find myself facing tomorrow morning.
I need to remember that I was one of them.
I need to remember barely being able to speak as I ran out of the primary school...then pulling over in a parking lot 2 blocks from my work - and sobbing.
I need to remember needing to watch him physically enter the school building when he decided he didn't need me to walk him in anymore.
I need to remember when I had to roll my window down, so he could kiss me goodbye.
I need to remember when he'd turn around and wave goodbye, because he decided kissing me was just not cool.
And I need to remember, that just because he's in 2nd grade...and he thinks he's old enough and wise enough - that's he's not. He's 7. And I can walk him into school. And I can make him kiss me. And I can need him to be my first-born baby no matter how old he is.
So tomorrow, I'm going to walk him to his class. And I'm going to hug him and kiss him and make him miss me when I leave.
Because I need HIM to remember all of this.

Happy Birthday, Dad

My superhero.
I always say that my dad is the greatest man I have ever known.
And he is.
He introduced me to "The Claw" (which my boys now have as their own childhood memory).
He brought CCR, James Taylor, Fleetwood Mac and many many more into my life.
He made me love music.
Always believed in me...lifted me up.
I could/can tell him anything. Anything. No matter how disappointed it would make him. I knew I could tell him.
He showed me what a father should be.
I'm laid-back like him (most of the time?). I have his blue eyes and his thin hair.
I luckily inherited his weirdness and sense of humor.
He told me to be level-headed...think before I speak.
But more importantly, pray.
Pray when I'm at my worst, at my best, when I think I need nothing, when I think I need everything, when I'm at the bottom, when I'm at the top, when I'm in-between.
To listen to God...and to wait.
His faith in God is never-ending. It is truly the most amazing thing I've ever witnessed.
He is fearless.
I am the luckiest most blessed girl because he is my dad.
I love you, dad. You did good.

Ahhhh...

I attended a "lecture" on Sensory Integration tonight. And wow. I feel like I'm not a crazy. I also feel validated now when I DO act crazy. So, I'm not sure if it was a success or not :)
I heard a great explanation of the biological/neurological reasons that Milo is Milo.
I also learned that I'm not doing a great job. Well, she didn't say that. But I can tell you that what I've been doing is NOT what I should have been doing. Which should have been obvious to me when he punches himself in the face or throws himself into the walls/furniture/whatever.
BUT, I've always been a slow learner.
So now that I have all this useful information, I need to process. Try to figure out how to make his life better...more fulfilling...less obnoxious...more stimulating...less stimulating...more effective...more controlled...less controlled... STOP.
It's just
Too.
Much.
I am too much.
He is too much.
Together that equals WAY too much.
But do I feel better. Yep.
You can't tell now, I'm sure.
But I think I do.

Self-Realization

I am THAT mom. And by that I mean that mom that screams at their child from the sidelines of whatever sport they're playing. That mom that expects their child sit still through a sermon when the pastor announces there will be no children's church that Sunday. That mom that expects PERFECTION from their child...while she, herself, fails miserably every day.

When I got the letter saying Isaac scored high enough to start testing for the gifted program, I just knew it was a slam dunk. I mean, of COURSE my child was gifted. So when the counsellor called today to tell me he didn't qualify, I'm pretty sure my voice took on a tone of defiance. But what was even worse, was that I began questioning what he had done wrong...he knows better, he could have done better, was he applying himself...all these things I thought about my 1st grader. Who does that? What kind of mother puts that pressure on a 7 year old?

The counsellor began to explain that it was his math score, and while high - just wasn't high enough. "But, Jillian, Isaac's reading scores were amazing." Yes, I know. Of course I know. Just like I know he could have done better in math. What is wrong with me? How do I differentiate between wanting my child to succeed to his full potential, and putting too much pressure on him that he begins to withdraw?

I look at him - when he fixes his own lunch everyday for school, when he puts away all his and Milo's folded clothes, when he makes his own DINNER and Milo's, too, when he puts the dog in her kennel every morning before we leave for school, when he lets her out every night when we return home. How is it that I want more?

I am so humbled that God has given me a child who sees me through forgiving eyes, who loves me with an open heart, who knows me with a discerning mind...because I am his mom. He, who is 7 years old, knows that I will fail...he knows that I will act like a crazy, that I will always say I'm sorry, that I will always admit to my faults. He knows this, and expects nothing more from me.

My Thinker

There are certain moments of your birth that I remember. But the one that sticks out is when the Dr. brought you to me while I was laying on the operating table. I looked over at you, not knowing what you would look like, and one single tear fell from my eye when I saw your crazy red hair and heard you crying. You were my first. There will never be another you...another first. And because of that - you are so special. I learned with you how to be a better person...a selfless person. You became the reason I wanted to BE. Everything I did...and still do...is all for you.

You are a thinker. You have an explanation for every idea and thought that you have. How amazing and rational our world would be if we all had that logic. Creative, oh yes!!! Drawings upon drawings cover the refrigerator and dishwasher and washing machine...I love that about you. It reminds me of myself...and what I wish I hadn't lost. You are such a chatterbox! And one day the world will listen. You are going to do great, great things. Loud, passionate...sassy, of course. You are your mama's boy. But I think you do a better job of it than I.

I am content with how I've raised you, but I am PROUD at who you've chosen to become. Happy 7th birthday to my interesting, never boring freckle-faced first. I love you more than you will ever, ever know.

My Baby

4 years ago today is not the day I began loving you, because you had my heart the day I knew I had made you. But 4 years ago today is the day I saw your beautiful face...and the day you changed my life. I think you made my heart bigger...I know you made my patience grow. You opened my mind. You made me close my eyes and see things from a different perspective. Every year I have had you in my life, you have changed the way I live it. You are the most amazing blessing that could have been bestowed upon me. I wish I could sense the world the way you feel it...it would make me a better person. I love you with all of me, my Milo. Happy Milo day to you.

Just Today

Tonight I decided I was tired of being mommy. Tired of answering questions, "Mommy, what are we going to eat? When can we go fishing? Why is there bird poop on your car? Why can't I play with the water hose? Why do I have to take a shower? Why can't I sleep with you?" Tired of the crying because they can't sleep with me, because they're grounded, because they can't have another cup of milk. Tired of not being listened to, tired of being ignored, tired of being mean, tired of giving baths, tired of pretending that made-up jokes are hilarious...just plain tired.

But then I stop....when the questions, the jokes, the crying all stopped... and I thought tonight about 7 years ago. When I couldn't complain about any of that. When I didn't have anyone TO ignore me. When I didn't have anyone to tell me silly jokes that made NO sense. When I didn't have anyone to teach. When I had no one who wanted to cuddle and be my "snugglebug". When I had no one to love so much that I would sacrifice a few minutes of my life and be the bad guy.

So now I'm stopping. And not feeling bad about feeling tired...because who doesn't? But how many of us take the time to stop and realize how great tired can be?