Squinting

Dear all,

R is back in the spotlight again and it’s not a very flattering light.  He has taken his mock common entrance exams (his mock senior school entrance exams).  We had some differences of opinions while he prepared for these exams, namely WE thought he should have his nose in a book and HE thought he should walk around with a book, singing Led Zeppelin songs.  Finally, we agreed that we’d let him do it his way and see how it all worked out.  Or not.

The one thing you can say about R is this:  he is NOT your average student.  There is nothing average about him at all.  He is either above or below (in direct correlation to how much he likes his teacher), but he is certainly not average.

It was a little tricky congratulating him for his magnificent triumphs when he needed a kick in the pants for his, well, below average work. 

One night J and I lay awake wondering what to do with R.  I was feeling desperate and was running out of ideas to motivate R.  J reminded me that two years ago M was a huge worry.  It seems like ages ago, but yes, I worried day in and day out about M for years. Maybe it is R’s turn or maybe it is his age or maybe in time, kids will all turn out just fine no matter what…

When the kids were toddlers and even into grade school, I’d find that at night, when the room was dark, I could squint my eyes, stare at them sleeping in their beds and see them as babies.  I could remember their soft breath and how they felt in my arms.  There they were, these big kids, but with a little darkness and just a bit of squinting, those babies were right there.  I still stare at A as he sleeps. 

Those small, pudgy babies of mine disappeared and now I step over piles of muddy grown up shoes by the front door.  I feel robbed of precious moments.   

When the kids were small (and still with A), exhausted, we’d practically limp upstairs to put them to bed.  We read the same favorite books over and over until I thought my mind would turn to soup.  I figure somewhere around fourteen years of reading Cars! Cars! Cars! can do damage to your brain.

Time is smooth and seamless.  Each day spent with our young family was noisy and chaotic, however change came about silently:  babies became toddlers and toddlers became kids.   Preferences evolved.  How could I have known the significance as I placed The Runaway Bunny back onto the shelf that one particular night, that I would never be asked to read it again?  Well over a decade of reading this tattered book and I placed it along side the other books on the shelf without thought or notice, without ceremony. I wasn’t aware at the time, but this simple act of putting away a book was profound:  an end of an era.  In that small and seemingly insignificant motion, part of their childhood, and my mothering, was over.

I had an epiphany recently, just days after I worried so much about R.  M and S were in the kitchen talking, laughing and helping out.  I watched them in a way that I hadn’t before.  I stood back and really had a good look at them, like they were some sort of experiment and I was a scientist extracting data.  I noticed how they interacted.  I listened to their voices and to the intelligent and funny conversation they were sharing.  And then I did it:  I squinted.

In that moment I discovered something even MORE magical and MORE joyful than seeing babies in big kids.  Squinting in the full light of day, right there in our kitchen, I saw an amazing sight:  our twins were nearly adults.  It didn’t take much to see that they are almost there. 

As I processed this in my mind, it surprised me just how much, through watery eyes, I liked what I saw.

With love from England,

T-Ann