I remember various moments of first grade, although my memories are very unspecific and really just snips of time. I had terrible separation anxiety from my mother, (which she will totally attest to) a virtual nervous break-down daily. I had stomach aches that I now realize were most likely phantom and a result of reaching the realization that my mom was home, watching All My Children, without me at her feet. My teacher, Ms. Kaiser, wore long, itchy wool skirts that I buried my face in and sobbed...daily. I sat next to my best friend, Jennifer. Jennifer fell asleep frequently and it was my responsibility to keep her awake. My desk was so messy that I kept my pencil box on my lap. I refused to clean it out because I hated school. I hated the desks. I hated math. I hated every moment of the first grade. Hugh Sutton fell off the slide and cracked his noggin on the concrete and I swore I would never return. But I did, because I had to, and I hated it.
Times are different now. Dylan enjoys school. The kids have lockers, cubbies, little kidney-shaped tables with holes in the middle for a trash can so they don't have to get out of their seats. They have scented pencils, fluorescent crayons, and backpacks with wheels. Dylan has had a little bit of a tough time with friends, but it's obvious that it is because he is bossy and demanding in general. I'm sure he will learn quickly how the ebb and flow of friendships work. Until then, he'll continue returning home with pockets full of wood chips that one of the kids have thrown at him. Dylan's first grade teacher is a sweet lady. She is young, thin, and a firecracker. I don't believe she has any children, as any patience she could possibly have for them has been spent on Dylan and Dylan alone throughout the school day.
I'm sad to see the first grade ending for Dylan, because I know we will never get to go back. Every step of the way, I realize just how fascinating of a kid he really is. His reasoning skills have improved so much since the days of kindergarten. While he still throws fits like he used to, it's obvious now that he knows how irrational he's been once it's over. That - to me - is improvement.
I'm proud of Dylan for making it through something I, at the time, was certain I would die from. I'm happy he didn't have as hard of a time as I did in the first grade, he is so much more independant than I was at his age. I'm excited for the second grade, although I could do without the mandatory science project (Which I feel like I should start on NOW, just to get a head start. I'll resist.) And I can't wait for him to have good friendships with equally mischevious little boys.
I have high hopes for this summer. I'm hoping Dylan learns to leave the park without throwing himself on the ground in a plea for five more minutes. I'm hoping he learns to fold clothes, so the laundry couch becomes a thing of the past. I'm hoping he learns to appreciate things a little more, little things that he has thus far taken complete advantage of.
I've started taking more things away from him and taking him less places. This will be very hard for me, as I look forward to nothing more than exploring with him all weekend. However, this weekend, I turned down Cubs tickets for a variety of reasons, but one major one was because Dylan didn't deserve it. Once I explained it to him, that his behavior didn't facilitate an outing like that, he stared at me - dumbfounded - as if I killed his dog. "Yep." I said "You have to earn things like that."
I betrayed him.
And he didn't speak to me, acknowledge my presence, for about two hours.
But once he came back around, he asked "How do I earn it?"
Which brought me to tears, because he understood why I was being such a circumstantial mother. Again, improvement.
Right?
I realize that I didn't say anything about Mother's Day. It was a good day. We went to my parent's for a cook-out. My mom helped Dylan make a stepping stone for me, and he gave us all the things he made at school. Those little notes in their abrupt, precious handwriting that make me a basketcase every time I see them. Even when other people show me things their kids have written them, I lose it. I had a napkin in my purse, which I pulled out at work to blow my nose in. I unfolded it and saw "I Love You" scrawled across in red crayon. I lost it.
At work.
Like a crazy woman.
I also got to hang out with my neice for a little while. She is one of my favorite people on the face of the planet. I cannot explain why, but whenever we get to my parents and I know she will be there, she is the first person I want to see. I examine her stature, her eyes, her skin, her chipping nail polish. I am continuously amazed that she continues to grow into such a balanced combination of her mother and my sister, who are two obviously different people. They couldn't possibly be the same person.
Anyway, she's adorable, and I love her deeply. This is her, on the right, and my little sister, on the left. I find the photo pretty fitting of our personalities:
Anyway, I ordered flowers for my mom about three weeks in advance, the moment I realized Mother's Day was coming up and she got those the day before. Dylan woke me in the morning with a huge mixing bowl overflowing with Fruity Pebbles. He shoved it right up to my face and whispered "Happy Mudder's Day, Mum....Mum?" I said "Oh my gosh! Dylan!" because I had honestly completely forgotten. I said "help me eat all this!" He said "No, it's ok. I already ate some."
Because he's wonderful. And he really loves me. We just forget that part sometimes in the midst of all this growing up.
"Summer afternoon - Summer afternoon... the two most beautiful words in the English language."
-- Henry James
Hmmmm, your writing style here reminds me of someone..... Bukowski? Yep. Influences show.
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