Summer's Finish Line

John had the entire month of August to get sick but instead spiked a fever the night before the first day of school: a day circled and highlighted on our calendar since the end of June.

July was a piece of cake with summer camp to fill our days. But August! A month of unstructured weeks and hours. Fourteen days at the beach with family had its own poetry and routine but that left two more weeks. Two more long weeks. Pool fatigue set in and really — you can only go to the library so many times. That finish line was looking mighty fine for us all.

We went to open houses, met teachers, surveyed the land. We went to Target, stocked up on supplies, cleaned backpacks and lunch boxes. I began to talk to John in earnest about going back to school. "Back to school?" he laughed, jumping up and down. We picked out clothes, read stories about school, ticked off our classmates' names (a total of four).

Finish line.

And then the middle of the night fever, the early morning refusal to eat or drink. The phone calls to the pediatrician, the bus depot, new teacher and school. The disappointment. (We were all disappointed, I will not lie!) But I felt so bad for him.

John loves school.

He loves the bus, the staff, the routine. And I love that he loves something that is apart from us. We had made it through so many days already, what was one more. But John sobbed for nearly two hours, I told him, "First doctor, then school tomorrow." He'd repeat it, calm a little, then as if heard the injustice for the first time, cry again and wail, "School tomorrow?"

So John's first day of school was Sam's second. We were lucky: strep was negative and he awoke happy and fever-free. When the bus pulled up, he ran down the drive to meet it.

And his teacher this year? Fabulous.

Back to School

I am alone for the first time in months. Hello silence! How I've missed you. Which also means: Hello self! There you are! How are we feeling about being alone? Should we eat some ice cream or should we write. I've carried half-written posts around in my head all summer, never finding the space or time to sit down and share them. My boys turned seven. We had a lovely family vacation and I sank into brief breaks here and there — a book on the beach, a stroll on the sand — but nothing quite beats the sound of silence for this weary mom.

Back to school brings with it the familiar angst, the wringing of the hands, the transition to something new. We're in second grade. The amount of worrying I do as back-to-school ramps up is ridiculous. Ridiculous. It helps when I hear that I'm not the only neurotic mom trying to micromanage every aspect of my kids' lives. As if I could.

Last year I lost sleep over John's then-new teacher, so worried was I that she wasn't going to be as good as his first one. She turned out to be better! You'd think I'd learn from that — and I have, really. It just has not stopped me from fretting anew about all of the things I cannot control. This part of being a mom is the absolute worst — the letting go, the trusting. I do not do it well. The only thing that makes it bearable is that my kids are much more resilient than me.

So here we are: Sam moved up to second grade with not one friend or classmate from last year. Not one. It's like they went out of their way to isolate him. This, when social skills are paramount on his IEP.

The first week the students line up in front of the school by classroom. On the first day I lead an anxious little boy to his new teacher. He is quiet. He notices several former classmates in a separate line. He waves and says hello under his breath but they don't notice. I tell him "They just didn't see you, honey." If his teacher wasn't excellent... I think, but she is. Members of his team try to reassure me that this is going to be Sam's best year yet but I have no objectivity. My head has checked out and given control over to my heart, which by the way, is breaking! He's all alone! He's sad!

Of course I go home, call the husband and sob. He picks up after the first ring, says he's been expecting my call. He hears my concerns, wonders if this might not be a positive in some ways. But you didn't see his face! It's not right, I say. I spend the rest of the day drafting anxious emails to the principal and his team — should we transfer him?

I save the draft and decide to see how his first day went. If he's sad, I will hit send! I go to the school and wait out front for him. I'm prepared for the worst, my imagination is by now, firmly in overdrive.

"It was a great day!" he says running to me. "I love second grade!"
Resilient. Positive. Confident.

He has already memorized half of the class in alphabetical order, of course. He rattles them off to me, "...numbers 12, 13, 14, and 15 I don't remember yet, but I will tomorrow. Number 16 is... " He even found his best friend C. at recess and they played together. Huh.

Letting go... trusting... it's a process. He teaches me. How I love that boy.

Here, on the Sound

Life is not always rosy but when you're on vacation and your child does not bolt at every opportunity but instead turns when you call his name and miraculously, comes running — well, life is pretty damn picturesque. This means that going to the beach isn't just one big exasperating John-chase. You can sit and take in the sand and surf and appreciate how magnificent it all is.

Last year, John took a cast of Sesame Street characters everywhere he went. It was a struggle to find a bag to contain them all. In that regard, we are fortunate this summer because he has one lone traveling companion: an Elmo finger puppet. They have lots of private conversations.

We are at the beach visiting my dad — their Grampy. It's a miracle he's here at all. Six weeks ago he went to the doctor complaining of allergies and ended up on the table having sextuple bypass surgery. Who has ever heard of more than five? He is so lucky, they said, it was only a matter of time, they said.

The truth is, we are so lucky.

I try not to think of my mortality or the mortality of those I hold close and dear — you do this especially if you're a parent to a child with special needs — but sometimes the river comes rushing to meet you. As we waited for the news that my dad was in the clear, I thought of all the times I've moaned and groaned about our busy crazy life — how hard it is sometimes. And it is hard.

But I'd rather the difficult, the challenging, the frustrating, if it means I get moments like this with my family and my kids and my husband. I'd rather the life hard won as long as the people I love are here by my side. My dad has always been by mine.

Our days are still full of tough moments, no doubt! But here, on the Sound, we are just happy to be alive.