First. Seventh.
First. Seventh.
For the first first day of Lu's school life, we didn't drive her. I hollered after her as she climbed into the carpool, throwing a "love you bye" over her shoulder. Milo started first grade with little excitement (screen withdrawal is tough, yo). But he came home chattering about the anatomy of his brain and lost his third tooth (he lost one last year on the first day).
I already appreciate them more, even one day back into regularly scheduled programming.
Actually, not popular... rather, the specific demand of one of the stars of this blog. Lu said to me Friday, "Mom, you haven't updated lucyandmilo.com in more than a year!"
She knows. She has read every entry. It's her baby book. It's the story of her life. And it petered out a few years ago (starting when her co-star came on the scene), then abruptly ended. She's right to wonder. I struggled to explain why.
I started with the most immediate explanation, one that she'd understand: Do I want to be posting embarrassing stuff about you? Her answer: "No, but still..."
I have been thinking over the last few days about why, and I think I have some elaboration on the "let's not embarrass Lu" rationale, though I am committed to maintaining her privacy.
The big reason: we have emerged from the urgency of early childhood. All those tiny triumphs and failures of parenting (food, sleep, behavior) could be contained in mere posts. Our family was easier and harder, but simpler.
Life with one big and one little-ish...do I write two blogs? Each dedicated to the observations of its child? Theirs? Ours? Mine?
With this, I rededicate myself to this blog, if only (and really only) to help my kids make sense of the stories of their lives. And also to complain about them.
As I type this, we are watching the Lego documentary and Lu is reconsidering dreams of Broadway for life as a Lego master builder. Milo is asleep in a newly reorganized room, having picked out his own pajamas from a drawer within his reach.
Jason and I are tired, from building the business and weighing huge opportunities that have landed in our lap in the last week — inconveniently timed good luck.
We are also tired from 8 weeks of helping my mom recover from a devastating hip injury in various hospital settings...then helping my dad during a dramatic psychiatric hospitalization.
Oh, and we are getting a dog on Sunday (because we need one more creature look after).
At some point soon, I will fill in the detail. For now, I am just reporting the facts. I don't know what the hell is happening: life is incredibly complicated and hard, and still so good.
Lu is in the thick of pre-pubescent social sorting, and, bless her, she is finding (or feeling) herself on the outside. There are the Coder Girls, anointed by the technology teacher, against what rubric and serving what mission, I have no idea. I only know her sadness about seeing herself on the outside. Most recently there's the Ladybug Club, which Lu was either tacitly or explicitly excluded from...because she may or may not have accidentally killed original ladybug "Fat Genius." Not since Biggie's death has there been such a scandal.
Part of me wants to say, "Kid, these are the character years. This suffering and humiliation makes you who you are! Jane Austen was NEVER cool. And you know Judd Apatow wasn't. David Foster Wallace is dead. Shrek?! This outsider narrative is going to serve you well."
Then this other super-healthy tack: "Oh, babe, I had it way worse. I ate lunch in the restroom for the better part of sixth grade. You're doing great."
But what does a non-striving, non-projecting, well-adjusted parent (ahem, me?) say to her extroverted, confident, well-adjusted, isolated, questioning child? I have no idea. Well, I have an idea, when it's an academic exercise, but when it's heartfelt pillow talk...what I REALLY REALLY wanted to say was a bunch of shitty, insulting, protective/defensive things, but I didn't. Somehow.
Tonight, I went with:
I love you. You are an amazing human being.
I've been there. Feeling like you're on the outside is a very powerful and sad emotion, and I know it well. I survived, and you will, too.
I will snap the heads off your enemies. Name them. Their academic and career prospects will be limited with their heads so far from their bodies. (This is our running joke, but I. will. do. it.)
We have been having versions of this same conversation for days. And we will have it so many more (I hope). I love that she wants to have it.
When I was preparing for middle school, the big questions in my mind were:
As Lu is preparing for middle school, she is sorting through her own form of the above, but also having to make choices about where she will go. With questions like the ones I had about college:
She has now done more to get into middle school than I did to get into the University of Texas. Granted, the UT bar was low at the time, but this is a hell of a lot of work and consideration for middle school.
Anything you need to know about our daily life is here.
Eleven days ago, Milo turned 5. I had great intentions of writing a funny tribute on his actual birthday, but I found it impossible. I was sad.
Sad because 5 feels like the real end of his babyhood. The end of being wrapped like a burrito after a bath. The end of board books. The end of R’s that sound like W’s. The end of existential questions like “Is today tomorrow yet?” The end of him climbing onto my body trying to close every gap between us with a hug.
At 5, the gaps begin to open. And they’re supposed to, I realize. These openings are beginnings: writing his name, reading, dressing himself, being a boy (and he is becoming a great boy, indeed). For now I still want to mourn the baby.
Milo, in a rare burst of affection (perhaps brought on by the fact that his primary love object, Jason, is away), has me in his sights. And it is precious, indeed.
Milo: Mom, I love you more than cupcakes with sprinkles.
Me: Wow. I love YOU more than caramel.
Milo: I love you more than chocolate cake.
Me: I love you more than my books.
Milo: I love you more than hot dogs and macaroni.
Me: Wow. I love you more than the radio.
Milo: I love you more than potty words.
Me. You do love potty words. I love you more than chocolate chip cookies.
Milo: I love you more than Black Bunny.
Me: I love you more than all the books in the library.
Milo: I love you more than birthday cake.
Me: I love you more than my computer.
Milo: Really?!! I love you more than guys and toys AND Legos.
Me: Wow. You love me A LOT.
Milo: I love you a lot lot lot lot lot. Can I have another cookie?
One day last week, Milo’s lunchbox got left at school: a source of great angst. The next day, Jason sent him with lunch in a brown paper sack, on which he didn’t merely write Milo’s name, but drew this great smiling dinosaur. So every day since, despite the fact that the lunchbox has been located, Milo has insisted on a sack lunch, which Jason has illustrated in some new, fantastical way. Aliens. Ninja Turtles. BATLUNCH. Jason isn’t concerned that the now-located lunchbox sits unused, or that we waste paper sacks. He wants to delight Milo. The disaster of a lost lunchbox is now a daily dose of joy.
When Lucy was leaving for camp last week, she was deeply afraid of being homesick. While I was wringing my hands, coaching Lu through positive visualizations and affixing labels on shampoo bottles, Jason had the solution: talisman bracelets. He had Lu choose four matching beads — Jason and I would each wear one to represent her, and she’d wear two: like us on either side of her. And it worked: all she needed to manage was a little magic.
Delight? Magic? Who has time for that shit amid the schedules, the breakfasts, the dreaded car rides together, the daily injustice of who touched whose Legos?! [Please ask to see my treatment of a family drama loosely based on “The Wire.”]
Jason does. He instinctually says “yes." Every day.
Happy (belated) Father’s Day to the keeper of delight and joy in this joint.
Scene 1
Jason: Milo, every minute you spend asking to watch television is time you don't get to play before bed. You're wasting your time.
Milo: NO, DAD, YOU ARE WASTING MY TIME.
Scene 2
Milo: I miss Lucy so much. I don't care if she ever comes back.
Scene 3
Milo: This dinner is hot and I know it.
Kate: Milo, it's been sitting there for 10 minutes — it's not hot.
Milo: Well. It looks hot.
Kate: Then eat some watermelon.
Milo: Is it hot?
Kate: [stern look]: Eat. It.
