It's an odd juxtaposition... being pregnant while tragic things happen every day. The shooting in Oregon, reading stories online about the Syrian refugees, and I just heard this 13-year-old youtube sensation died of "natural causes" out of nowhere a few days ago. It could be that I'm just paying attention to the tragedy that happens every day, or maybe it's just that there is more tragedy happening every day. My mom was here over the weekend and reminded me of the year her family has had - full of loss, diagnoses and transition. Far away, close to home, I feel so much gratitude for my life and also heavy to bring a new little human into the world. I looked at Ben the other night and said, "promise me you will do good when you get older. Promise me you will always try to help people." I sniffed his hair extra long and traced his flawless skin, soaking in every minute of his perfect form.
Kindergarten is still a struggle for Ben. I imagine he thinks he is clever, concocting a plan to try to get out of going hours before school starts. His best attempt yet happened a couple of weeks ago.
"Mom I can't go to school, I hate it. It's a waste of time and I think I should be in first grade because I'm six, and I don't like having two teachers, and I don't feel well." And then the big tears start forming in his beautiful blue eyes.
"Ok, well why don't we just get dressed."
"No. Mom, I'm not kidding. I'm not going. I also am just really sad at school. I cry at my desk and my work gets wet. I miss you. It's too long to be away from you."
My heart... whether it's strategic or not, he's going for my heart.
"I'll tell you what. Let's put a picture of us in your lunchbox, and a small stuffed animal that you love in your backpack. Would that help?"
We searched around for a photo that could fit into a plastic bag to avoid getting yogurt spooged, and a small stuffed dog that he would just know was in his bag for comfort. OK, I thought. He is totally set now...
He got some clothes on and started weeping. Quietly crying, he explained that he still, in fact, could not go to school. We talked about being brave, about it being hard for most of the kids, and about how it would actually be ok. He wasn't buying it.
"Hmm.... I have a bracelet. It matches mine. What if you wear it, and every time you feel sad, you can rub it, or tug on it and it can send me a message and I'll tug mine so that you feel all of my special love?"
Ok. He agreed. This was progress. The bracelet with teal and clear jewels was tied tightly around his tiny wrist.
"I like this, but it doesn't smell like you, mom. I want to smell like you. I want to feel like you are right next to me."
He had to be kidding. What do I even smell like, other than b.o. and weird pregnancy hormone sweaty smell. I didn't want to smell me.
"Would you like a squirt of my perfume? Or some of my lotion?"
"No. Cut a piece of your shirt. That way it will smell like you right now."
Luckily I had on a raggedy old tank top and easily sliced off a little of the bottom. This was desperation. I CUT MY SHIRT. He sniffed it, approved, and put it in his pocket.
"I feel good about all my stuff mom, but I just don't feel great. I think I'm sick! I really do! I'm not even lying. I am sick. Yep. Sick."
"Well, if you feel sick at school, call me and I will come get you." It seemed logical since he didn't have a fever and wasn't projectile vomiting. Isn't there a school nurse or something?
"NO MOM. They don't let me call! I won't be able to call you!" Now hysterical, I could see the panic on his face. Panic I had felt as a child when I didn't feel heard or understood. That feeling of knowing that you could call, but having the teacher call your bluff and you sit quietly feeling like a prisoner whose sentence was just extended.
"I'll write you a note that says you can call me. Ok?!"
A pep talk, a photo, a stuffed dog, a love bracelet, a piece of my clothing, a note in his pocket.... what else could I put on him? What else could I do?
"I'm not going." Tears. Sad face. Arms crossed. Defiance.
At that point I was out of tricks. Ben is a 55 lb, 4'3" kindergartner and I'm weeks away from giving birth. There simply was no way I could force him into the car and into his classroom. I was at a loss. It felt like the old days of him being 3 years old and completely irrational. I've totally taken logical conversations for granted. We were 30 minutes late, I wasn't going to let him stay home, and I was totally frustrated.
"Ok, Ben. You go to school, I'll buy you any Lego set you want when I pick you up at the end of the day. ANY ONE YOU WANT. Deal?"
"It's weird mom, I feel a lot better. I think I'll be able to make it."
He went to school. Late. Loaded with love. And he got the coolest Lego set Fred Meyer had to offer after his full day at kindergarten.
I got worked.
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