(This one’s for everyone muddling through this hot mess of crazy, also known as the beginning of the 2020/21 school year. God love us all!)
Ahh, the beginning of the school year. It used to be one of my favorite seasons. Not this year, though. This year I’ve got the blues. The back-to-school blues.
Once upon a time when I was a kid, back-to-school time meant new outfits, fresh school supplies, and the excitement (mixed with some dread) of learning who my teacher would be. I loved it all.
As a parent, back-to-school time represented an opportunity for fresh starts—for the kids and for me. I counted my blessings that my kids enjoyed school, and I didn’t feel too guilty about how much I reeeeeally loved the sanity of separation school provided both mother and child. I thought every parent felt that way, but soon I learned otherwise.
One of my first hints came when it was time to check out preschools for our youngest. I discovered a school that ran from 9 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. “Yay,” I cheered, “three days a week with no lunchtime fuss and muss at home.” “Ooooh,” a neighbor countered, “I’d hate to miss lunch and snuggles with my little those three days.”
It got me thinking. Was I Mommie Dearest or something? Or maybe just one of the Bad Moms ahead of my time?
Over the years, I’ve had plenty of moments to feel like a less-than-stellar mom. During the kids’ school years I second-guessed myself (and sometimes Rice and I butted heads) about everything from bedtime to screen time to study time to leisure time. Never mind homework and grades. We fretted over extracurricular activities, too. I’d spent my childhood involved in lots of activities. Rice hadn’t. I thought kids needed more down time to breathe. Rice didn’t. I suppose we were a good mix. He loved the camaraderie of being a team dad. While he liked to carpool and coach, I cringed at the snowballing competitive frenzy of it all.
One of the nicest things about not having school-aged kids for me has been feeling free of competitive pressures. Yes, in hindsight plenty of these pressures were ones I put on myself. (I’m lucky Pinterest hadn’t been invented yet; it probably would’ve sent me over the edge.) It took me a long time to realize I could be a decent mom even if I didn’t agree to be room mom, team coach, PTA prez, scout leader, art assistant, car pool queen, and primo party planner. I wasn’t a bad mom if I didn’t help build A+ dioramas or ribbon-winning science fair displays. I could be an A-okay mom even if I did serve processed foods, forget to pick a kid up from a club, fail to send in lunch money (twice in a row), or even—oops—drop the F-bomb.
It’s been years since I’ve had to worry about school-aged kids and the “mom” challenges they bring.
Until now. As of two weeks ago, our third-grade grandson has been attending school (via a quasi-Zoom session) from home. The catch? Our grandson’s parents aren’t at home to oversee this. They have to report to jobs, on site, with no telework options. An interesting irony? “Mom” reports to a public school to teach her own kindergarten students, who are also learning remotely. So yup, our third-grade grandson has been reporting to JJ and Big Daddy’s house, or to his Nana’s, to pursue his remote education. Each and every day of the school week.
For the record, I’m not second-guessing the district’s decision to go remote. Nor am I blind to the fact that so many families have much bigger concerns with all this. I get it. We’re among the lucky families with nearby retired grandparents able and willing to pick up the slack.
All that aside, I’m not loving this full-time remote-learning thing. It’s not exactly the retirement some of us had envisioned. Sure, in a bit, after I’ve finish this post, I’ll try to return to some Polly-Janna positive thinking and reframe all this. There’s always a silver lining, right? For instance, I am getting to spend more time with my grandson.
For now, though, let me vent.
I don’t like to see my “mom” insecurities returning. (I have even less energy and patience now than I had years ago.)
I don’t like the gosh-darned daily reminders that my computer skills are remedial.
I don’t like the tug-of-war between Rice and me to “oversee” B’s remote classroom. We both have first-born sensibilities. We both like to be boss. We figured out long ago we could either run a business together...or stay married. But now there’s this.)
I don’t like seeing my grandson lose interest because remote learning is not his thing.
I don’t like the huge burdens our teachers face...learning new technology pronto, getting to know their students by remote, trying to provide extra help to students who need it. This is particularly true for kids who have special needs or who speak English as a second language. But truth be told, don’t we all need extra attention from time to time?
And at the risk of sounding terribly self-focused, let me tell you what I don’t like the most:
I don’t like that my joy as a grandparent has been diminished. I hate to say that. But dammit, it has.
Grandparents shouldn’t have to set up an in-home learning center for a kid. Grandparents shouldn’t have to eavesdrop on a kid and narc him out to his parents when he tells the teacher he “forgot” to do an assignment. Grandparents shouldn’t have to chastise a kid because he’s not working up to his potential. Grandparents should be able to do what they do best: dote and spoil.
So, yeah. We all have our own challenges right now. Our coping mechanisms and tolerance levels are different. Some days we find it easier to stay positive than others. Some days we’re better about being kind and gracious with ourselves when we slip. And, God love us, some days we just have to wallow in the muck. And then do what we can to re-frame this whole thing.
There’s a phrase meant to remind us we should cherish the good times in life while remembering the bad times are not permanent. It is: “This too shall pass.” Some say it comes from the Bible (“...and it came to pass”). Others say it originated as a Persian adage, passed down through the ages, embraced by many, including Abraham Lincoln (“How much it expresses!”).
I, too, am a fan of the phrase. I use it. Often. And I believe it.
Another phrase comes to mind, too. It’s one I remember hearing from my late mom, a three-time widow who raised five daughters. I can’t remember her exact words, but I think the gist was to put on the big-girl panties and get over it.
Touche, Mom. I’m trying.
But dammit, 2020! Get on with it, won’t you, please?
I’m tired—oh, so tired—of singing the back-to-school blues.
Shooby dooby doo.... I mean, cheers ~ Jan
Holy man! Can you believe it? As of today (May 22), school’s out for summer here in our part of Georgia.
Memorial Day’s yet to be observed (meaning we shouldn’t even officially be wearing white shoes, right, you all?). Yet the azaleas have faded, and the oak leaf hydrangeas are popping. The pool has opened for the season, its renovations fresh, its water still cool. Kids’ squeals echo stridently off the cement. Moms and dads share their kids’ excitement. Yay for summer! At the same time, a grimace (or an occasional outright declaration) gives away that nagging feeling shared by many in parental silence: “Heaven help us all!”
This morning I had the privilege of taking one last lovely walk to the park to see my grandson and some neighbor kids off to school for the end of the 2018-19 academic year. It was last call for the school bus...until next fall, of course. The kids were bouncing off the sidewalk. (Well, not above. That pic is the second-to-last day, when they were slightly more contained.)
On this last morning, freedom was mere hours away. Forecasts of their summer journeys varied. One family was preparing for a move to Savannah. (I was touched that Ms. Roxanne, the bus driver, brought them a parting gift.) Inevitably, somebody mentioned their summer plans involved a trip to the beach. I’m not sure which beach. The Florida Panhandle is a popular destination.
Now I, too, love the beach, particularly the Panhandle. I love it in the spring or fall, not in the God awful dog-breath heat of summer. But here’s an amazing truth: Almost everyone else I know loves to do Florida in summer. ‘Tis the season, they’ll say while forking over a hefty premium. My own daughter and son-in-law are among these blazing-sun-and-sand worshipers. Power to ‘em. Maybe it’s my Michigan blood, but I just can’t do it. Not even for a week ocean-front with the grands. I. Just. Can’t.
It’s not that summer wasn’t once my favorite season. It was, back when I lived in God’s country during my formative years. Sally Hanes, one of my dearest junior high friends, would invite me to her family’s cottage on Hardwood Lake for a week or two each summer. During the early years of my visits, the Hanes’ cottage was small and rustic, with no indoor plumbing. We used the outhouse without a fuss, and we gladly pumped water from the creaky well for use in the kitchen at meal time. Over time, the Hanes family added indoor plumbing and a sleeping porch, and they converted the uphill garage into a bunk area with beds and an old piano.
God, how I loved my times at Hardwood Lake. Sometimes Sal and I would rise early to row to the foggy marsh to fish. Later we’d shave our legs in the pure lake water till they “felt like silk” and then soak up the sun on the dock, reading teen magazines. We water skied (she in a graceful slalom, me chopping over the wake like a bobble-head toy). We’d cruise in the boat in search of the “Green boat” guys, eventually anchoring near them on the other side of the lake. Cranking the tape deck, we’d sing at the top of our lungs to Chicago’s Just You and Me, or maybe a Beach Boys’ oldie.
Later, back at Sal’s dock, we’d lounge in the idle boat, challenging each other to a game of Battleship, the version before computers when you had to plot and play out your strategy on a piece of graph paper. Rarely, if ever, did we venture into town. The lake in summer was all we needed. It provided a season of respite, a time to slow down and catch one’s breath.
Categories
All
Creativity
Fairy Tales
Gardening
Grandparenthood
Marriage
Musements
Photography
Resolutions
Travel
Water Fun
Now days, summer no longer brings rest. The busiest family gets the prize. What can I say? Times change. These days, therefore, I measure my seasons differently. They no longer fill mere months on a calendar. Rather, they weave a colorful landscape, a beautiful messy life. In the spring of this life, when I was a mom, I grew easily frustrated when my kids’ personalities clashed with mine, when their peccadilloes caused the dominoes of my day to crash down around me. Now in the fall of my life, my role is that of a grand mom, or JJ, as I’m called.
What’s the difference between a mom (spring) and a JJ (fall)?
JJs have more patience for the kid who dawdles over breakfast. JJs don’t have to nag the kid to get ready to walk to the bus. (They have an Alexa to do the prompting for them.) JJs find the kid’s quirks amusing, and they take him to the pool on opening day. (Once upon a spring, when this JJ was not yet a grand mom, she’d choose a root canal over a trip to the pool on opening day. Hands down.)
But I digress.
School’s out for summer here in our part of Georgia. The water will soon turn hot as Hades up at the pool. That’s where you’re apt to find me, probably with the grands. Yay for summer? Yeah, right. It may be the fall of this JJ’s beautiful messy life, but still you may hear me mutter: “Heaven help us all!”
Cheers! Jan
(This post is in recognition of National Grandparents' Day. 'Tis great to be a grand....)
A week or so ago, my grandson Britton faced a seemingly impossible task, in his mind at least. His teacher had challenged her first grade students with learning to tie their own shoes. As Britton’s mom dropped him off at our house before school, she encouraged him to work with me to tackle the shoe-tying challenge. “I can’t do it, JJ!” he grumbled. “It’s too hard.”
Now I’m no early childhood expert, but as far as I could see, Britton had no physical or mental limitations to learning this new skill. At the same time, my experience as a mom reminded me that kiddos develop different skills at different times, often to their parents’ pride…or utter frustration. (Britton’s mom tied her shoes at age three; she didn’t walk until fifteen months or ride a bike until age seven.) As parents, we take ownership for our kids’ successes and failures. As grandparents, we realize we’re not the complete reason for either.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I told Britton as we headed into the house. “Let’s get JJ’s shoes, because practicing on long laces is easier than short ones. But we’ll only practice tying three times before breakfast because practice takes patience. And patience takes time.”
Working side by side, I proposed to demonstrate each step so Britton could copy it. There was no pressure. If it worked, cool. If it didn’t, no biggie. There was always tomorrow.
Britton agreed to try. During our demonstration round, he grew annoyed with himself, not enjoying the fact that he wasn’t very nimble and couldn’t tackle this thing on the first go-round. I encouraged him to slow down and make adjustments (things like “pinch the loop lower on the lace, closer to the shoe”). Once he gave in to being patient with himself, he was able to succeed on his second go at it. You know that look a person gets when he thinks he’s done something stellar, like climb Mt. Everest? Oh, yeah, the kid had that look. Truth be told, I had that look, too. After all, I had taught the B to tie his shoes. I had reframed an impossible task into a doable challenge for someone I love.
A few days later, still basking in the afterglow of my JJ awesomeness, I came across a social media item written by M. Molly Backes (find her on Twitter @mollybackes). Her topic? The Impossible Task. Specifically, she wrote: “Depression commercials always talk about sadness but they never mention that sneaky symptom that everyone with depression knows all too well: the Impossible Task.”
Whoa. I could feel my afterglow of awesomeness start to fade. I continued to read. The Impossible Task, Backes wrote, is not an official name. Rather it’s the name she herself uses when something as simple as replying to emails or placing phone calls becomes suddenly undoable. The Impossible Task varies from person to person, and even more exasperating, the task itself can vary withinthe same person from day to day. In other words, you might have had zero trouble placing a phone call yesterday but find telephoning an Impossible Task to handle today. “From the outside,” Backes says, “[the task’s] sudden impossibility makes ZERO sense.” The task is rarely actually difficult, and it may be something you’ve done thousands of times before. This makes it very hard for outsiders to have sympathy. Or patience.
Ding ding ding! Dear God, I thought, she’s describing me.
Truth be told, I face dozens of Impossible Tasks almost everyday. Mundane but important information eludes me constantly (like computer passwords). I can’t remember simple sequences when receiving oral directions and almost always have to ask for repeated instructions. If I research a bit about the Impossible Task on Google, I might diagnose myself with Executive Functioning Disorder. If I complain about it to my husband, he might smile and tell me I don’t remember things that aren’t important to me. If I moan about my lack of recall at work….
Stop. Wait. No!
At work, I struggle with grueling ferocity to hide my lack of recall. My biggest challenges often relate to multi-tasking. Or new technology, which can leave me flummoxed. Shoot, even old technology presents Impossible Tasks. Judge me if you will, but often I’m the first to remind co-workers that I’m THAT PERSON, the more mature IT user in need of remedial assistance. My modus operandi? Make fun of myself first…before I become the laughing stock of others.
That’s not always possible, though. Sometimes I’m headed to a meeting off site, where our IT gurus are unavailable and my other colleagues are busy with their own pre-meeting to-do’s. On these occasions, I load myself down with iPhone notes and post-it’s to remind me of all sorts of mundane but important information that I might need to know:
call-in numbers and passwords
which cords to plug in where
how to link my laptop to the big screen
which icons or toolbars to click and when
a reminder that this too shall pass
Can you say ex.haust.ing?
I admit M. Molly Backes’ post comforted me. A good bit. She’d cut open her own veins to bleed out loud about something personal and poignant. Close to 15,000 readers liked that Twitter post. Hundreds commented “hell, yes!” They totally understood the Impossible Task.
Part of me, though, got little solace from Ms. Backes’ post. I mean, why does my brain not work better? Why do I struggle so with recall, especially when it comes to technology? Even at home, my computer gets testy. I swear, it freezes up when I’m having my most prolific thoughts. Technology, ugh. “I can’t keep doing this, Rice!” I’ll holler from my downstairs office to my husband’s upstairs workspace. “It’s too hard.”
Sometimes Rice will come down the stairs to offer help. Other times, he doesn’t hear me. (Or maybe he’s ignoring me?) During my most recent outburst, he simply wasn’t home. Agitated, I rose from my chair and paced into the kitchen. There on the floor sat my tennis shoes. Yes, THE shoes that represented my grandson’s recent Impossible Task. Both shoes had been tied by Britton, in double-knots even, because sometimes you can go that extra mile if you just take your time. “Practice takes patience.” My own words rang in my ears. “And patience takes time.”
Taking the time to teach a little boy to tie his shoes had been a lesson of love from me to him. Staring at those double-knotted shoelaces, I realized they held a lesson for me as well. Being patient with Britton is easy. So why is it so hard to be patient with myself? Especially at work, patience with myself is often my most Impossible Task.
So here’s to upping my game when it comes to sharing time and practicing patience. May I offer these gifts to others often. But may I also shower them on myself. After all, doesn’t the present of patience say “you’re worth it”? Doesn’t the gift of time say “you are loved”?
That, my friends, is just one of the wonderful lessons my grandson has taught me.
