Make new friends

Today, I took my daughter to her Kindergarten meet-up.

It's actually a brilliant move on CPS' part.

We go in to meet the teacher, the other kids.

Kind of an orientation before the real day this fall.

Great, right?

She was nervous.

I'd been telling her for a couple weeks about all the friends she'd make.

All the fun they'd have.

But she was nervous.

"But where will you be, Mama?"

Right next to you.

"How long do we have to stay?"

Not too long. But it's going to be fun, so who knows!

We started walking to the school.

And I realized...

that I was nervous.

For both of us.

Yes, these are formative days for her.

And yes, it'll take a minute for her to adjust. (It was literally a minute.)

And I know she'll be fine.

But me?

We walked into the building,

that smelled like every elementary school in the world: chalk, wood desks and xerox paper.

Here were all these (mostly) women: most of whom have stayed at home with their kids for five years.

All the way up to this point.

And there I was, also a veteran.

Of three weeks.

Standing in the chaos of this classroom.

Kids running around, looking at the class pet fish.

At the class pet crab (?).

And it somehow felt...like my first day of school.

Or my first day on a new planet.

What will we have in common?

I made awkward conversation with other awkward parents.

There were those who knew each other from their kids having been here for preschool.

And they chatted like they'd known each other for years.

I'm not used to being left out.

But there it was.

I kept trying to act normal.

Talking to my daughter.

Ooh-ing and aah-ing about the fish.

"Yes, they have a fish, honey!"

But my daughter was already a part of this scene.

Already starting the courting dance of kids getting to know one another.

("Mommy, Sophie's sitting next to me!")

And I was the wallflower.

For probably the first time since my first day of kindergarten.

I was on the sidelines.

We left the kids with their teacher and their fish, and headed to the cafeteria.

About 100 people, gathered at picnic-style tables, in a fluorescent room.

I sat with someone I knew through a mutual friend.

But she (traitor) was talking mostly to the people she'd met through preschool.

"Oh, the good old preschool days!" Laugh, laugh. Ha, ha.

So I sat, studying the school papers that were handed to us as we walked in.

When suddenly, a woman across the picnic table from me, said, "Hi, I'm Ruth."

Ruth?

As in Old Testament?

"I'm __________."

Small talk, small talk.

What class is your daughter in?

Where do you live?

Do you have any other kids?

Do you work?

"No," I said, fumbling for an easy explanation.

"I was in advertising, until recently.

Now I'm home freelancing."

That should do it.

Quick and painless.

Ruth: "What agency?"

Come again?

"Uh, _____________," I replied, a bit confused, but hopeful.

She smiled.

"I'm a freelancer, too. I'm a designer."

Ding ding ding!

Then we talked about everything.

The industry.

The possibility of actually freelancing while being home with a kid.

The projects we've worked on.

Then, she turned to a guy next to her and said, "This is my husband, Leonard.

He's a planner."

I'd hit the kindergarten-mom-trying-to-make-friends jackpot.

And he was British.

(Why are all planners British?)

I started to relax.

And talking to Ruth and Leonard, actually got the ball rolling.

I met Jennifer (strange, clingy, gossipy mom of twins)

I met Wendy (absolutely stunning mom to Sophie, a mix of Spanish and German.)

I was beginning to feel like the prom queen.

We exchanged email addresses and talked of playdates.

To get the kids together.

To get them comfortable.

To get us all comfortable.

And as I walked home,

with my little girl sing-songing about how much fun she had,

when she'd been so full of anxiety about this day,

I let out a deep breath.

It was a success all around.

She was so happy.

And somehow, I know,

that at least for now,

she's okay.

She's resilient.

And adaptable.

And good at making friends.

And today I helped show her

that life is about meeting new people.

Experiencing new things.

Being brave and kind and friendly.

But the thing I hadn't expected

was to come away from this,

her "first day" of school,

having learned something myself.

I've been doing the same thing, in the same circles, for close to 20 years.

And I've become set in my ways, set with my group of work friends and college friends.

I was so worried and focused on my daughter being able to adjust and make new friends,

that I lost sight of the fact that this is a skill

I need to brush up on, too.

Going from being around people you've known forever, and people you work with and see more than your family,

to being around complete strangers,

who are now part of your child's future...

And therefore yours...

is a strange feeling.

I really do have a lot to learn.

What should I wear tomorrow?

That's what I'd think about before going to work every day.

What kind of jeans-and-t-shirt-combo can I come up with for tomorrow?

Client meeting?

Jeans and a nice shirt.

But...no longer.

I no longer work.

I'm retired.

Or semi-retired.

And I'm living to tell about it.

After almost 20 years as a working woman--5 of them as a working mom--I have left the building.

It was a decision my husband and I had discussed over and over again over the last several months.

The ad industry has morphed from a fun, exhilarating field...to what it is now.

And I needed to get out.

So we pored over the numbers. Adding. Subtracting.

Yes, subtracting a lot.

Then re-adding. Re-subtracting. Re-figuring.

But once an opportunity for me to "let myself go" arose, there was no question in my mind.

So now I'm spending the days with my 5-year-old-going-on-kindergarten daughter.

We go to the park.

We go to lunch.

We go get yogurt.

We read. Have "school".

We play, like I haven't played with her in years.

And I'm so happy.

I was worried that it would be a huge adjustment. That I'd regret my decision. That I'd realize I'd made a huge mistake.

But I'm so. Incredibly. Happy.

It's the best decision I've made since deciding to have a baby. (and before that, deciding to get these cute black wedge boots that are with me to this day)

Sure, it's only 2 weeks in. And everything still seems sparkly and wonderful.

But I don't get that stressed out feeling anymore.

You know.

When you dread going to work on a Sunday night...or in my case, toward the end of my career, the feeling I had every night. And in the shower the next morning.

That stress is gone.

In its place is a kind of wonder.

Wonder. That I'm making this work.

That my husband is so amazing and supportive and happier now than before (most likely due to me not snapping at him every 5 minutes now that I'm free).

I'm a stay at home mom.

Kind of a strange title.

But I'm home. Doing freelance when I'm not pushing my daughter on the swings.

Being with her and being present.

Instead of rushing her to hurry-up-and-eat-dinner or hurry-up-and-walk-faster.

Because really, there's nothing to hurry for right now.

We are making our own days.

We are doing what we want, when we want to do it.

Until fall.

When she'll start kindergarten.

This fall, she'll run straight into the schoolyard.

And begin a running-away-from-me that I won't be able to control.

But this. I can control.

And I think I timed it pretty well.

Because no matter what, I'll never regret this.

I'll never regret walking away from a career that was killing me,

And walking toward my life...

It's going to be a good summer.

The little things

Wow, it's been over a year since I last wrote. This one is going to be short...

Tonight, while we were driving home from work/school, my little girl paused in singing her Lady Gaga song and said, "Mama, I want to stay the same age forever." Out of the blue. Apropos of nothing.

I turned to look back and smile at her, and she was wearing her sunglasses. At 6pm. In the pitch dark of winter rush hour.

I said, "Me, too, honey. Me too."

I got some sad news tonight.

Our dog walker was in an accident about a week and a half ago and they took her off life support on Sunday. She was so young. So, so young.

The news has really affected me, for some reason. Apart from the obvious sadness of it all, I'm not sure exactly why she hasn't been far from my thoughts for the last week and a half. I'd only met her a handful of times: a young girl, crazy about animals, crazy hair, strong personality.

Honestly, after meeting her the first time, and being reassured she wasn't a psycho and would be good to our dog, I never really gave her a second thought unless I happened to be home when she came to get the dog. She was just this...fun girl who walked dogs for a living, mine included.

And here I am: swollen eyes, mind racing. I can't let it go for some reason.

You'd think the reason would be because I have a young daughter. And thinking about anything happening to her—from being bullied in school (which is a possibility, considering how awful I was as a child and payback is a bitch) to being snatched away by a predator—drives me insane.

But I don't think that's it. Partly, yes. Of course.

I can't imagine losing someone I love that much, much less my daughter. I can't imagine what her family must be going through, having to say goodbye. I just can't imagine...

But mostly...it's the suddenness of it. One day she's on a trip to Costa Rica with friends. The day after she returns, she's in intensive care.

How does that happen?

Over the last week, I've thought to myself, "She'll never have to get old. She'll never have to get sick. She'll never have to worry about her kids getting into sudden accidents and being rushed to the emergency room and put in intensive care on life support... She's at peace."

But at the same time, I thought, "She'll never get married or have a partner she wants to spend the rest of her life with. She'll never have kids. She'll never see a sunrise or the stars again. "

So the week's been a kind of seesaw of emotions for me.

My last post was about appreciating my life and all that's in it. But I don't really. I try to. I try to be present and engaged and really "in" my life. But mostly I take it for granted, racing through the days just to get it over with.

And I think maybe that's what it is. She was so full of life. She had a head of hair that could rival Cyndi Lauper on her craziest of crazy hair days. Her personality was bubbly, without being annoying, and irrepressible. And now she's gone.

How does that happen?

So tonight, I'm sad. And I'm having a glass of wine (or three) to help me cope. It seems like an irrational sadness and completely out of proportion, considering my relationship with her. But I'm sad, nonetheless.

I'd like to say I'll learn from this: take life by storm and really live. And I really do intend to do so.

But it seems that even with all my good intentions, that promise always gets pushed aside. Because I have so much I think I have to do right now. A whole week will pass before I realize I don't really remember any of it. And it's such a waste. I have a life I'm not always present enough to actually enjoy. And she had a life she embraced with both arms.

So while I don't understand how things like this can happen, perhaps she'll be a reminder to me to be happy with what I have and not care about what I don't.

To really pay attention when my daughter is telling me for the hundredth time why the twins were not good at lunch and how one kept throwing her cup off the table.

To let the irritations at work roll off me once I leave and enter my real life.

To really appreciate that I have a life. That I am alive and able to choose to have a happy life. And I have to. Because in one second, it can all change.

She'll always remind me of that. For all she was to everyone who really knew her (and looking at her facebook memorial page, she was very well loved) she will be that to me. A beautiful, crazy-haired reminder to be thankful for what and who I have in my life, and for life itself.

So thank you, Lindsay. For loving our dog, and for who you were—in my somewhat enhanced memories of you—and in reality.

Be at peace.

Always rushing, rushing, rushing.

After my last post, I thought I'd gotten it straight: stop and smell the roses.

But yesterday, I had the day off with my little girl and instead of smelling the roses and taking life in, I lined up errand upon errand upon errand. Rushed her around and stressed us both out.

Then, in what turned out to be the final store, she sat down on a big cushion and pointed to the one next to her. "Sit with me, Mama!" she said. I relented (although still checking my watch) and she hugged me.

"We're together!" she whispered excitedly.

What a wise kid I have.