Says You

Me: John, please climb out of the trunk and put your glasses back on.



Ainsley: Mama, may you would you please turn on The Donut Man?



Unidentified male member of the family: John, get a red light on your conduct card. Chicks dig bad boys.



John: Thanks you, God, for making Oatmeal Pies.

A Mystery

A glue stick starts off purple

It turns clear when applied to paper.

It remains purple when smeared all over khaki pants and a white shirt?

These Moments

 

 

Week 1

All of us want to be doing this:

 

Because we've been preoccupied dealing this:

 

The result of a seventy-two hour shopping spree was this:

First Day of Kindergarten

So John started kindergarten yesterday.

It was a hectic and emotional morning for me. We were on time -- spiffy uniforms, crisp, new backpacks, grocery bags stuffed with crayons and paper towels, Kleenex and binders.

(Is it just me or have the school supply lists grown by leaps and bounds since I was a kid? Ainsley needed ten glue sticks. That's a whole lot of glue.)

The older they get, the less they need, but the price tags actually goes way up. You can buy a ream of filler paper and bathtub of hand sanitizer for the price of one graphing calculator. I looked at Tim and issued a simple plea: The calculator, the L.L. Bean backpack, the glasses -- don't lose them, 'kay?

I assembled the lot of it Monday night. As clear evidence of the aforementioned splinching, I briefly found my eyes wandering from the fourth grade supply list to the third grade supply list.

What's this, I thought. I could have sworn John was the only one who needed colored pencils. I realized my error, chuckled at my scattered state of mind, and returned to the fourth grade list. At 10:34 p.m., it dawned on me that Kolbe is entering fifth grade and that the fourth grade list wasn't quite so helpful after all.

What can I say? Splinched!

I scrounged another composition notebook from the diminished stash and went in search of a highlighter. Mission accomplished. Everyone prepared.

Except that I wasn't really prepared.

John walked off in his red polo shirt, his neatly pressed khaki shorts, his new glasses. And I could feel my chest constrict and my eyes start to well. I held it together because John was, well, not quite John. The opening assembly began with a praise song. Everyone in the gym was singing and clapping. John was standing ramrod straight, like a tiny Marine.

After assembly, the kindergarten parents followed the students like a roving band of paparazzi. The kindergarten teacher had a little note for us to read to our children. There was a sticker and a line about sticking together, an eraser and an encouraging word about making mistakes, a Starbust and something about being a star. I couldn't make it through any of it.

He's not the first. He's not the last. But he's John, my only John.

John's friend, Jonah, broke the tension when he found John's name tag on a desk and said, "This one's mine, but she spelled it wrong."

They are a cast of characters, no doubt about it.

John came home happy but just a little put out that he got the soccer ball eraser and not the car eraser and that the older kids were headed for recess while he was headed for home.

I asked him how his glasses were working out.

"Great," he told me. "Without them I can only see pixels."

And I can see a young boy maturing and moving forward to seize life's next challenge (and taking a sizeable chunk of his mother's heart along with him).

Splinched

The bags were packed. They were ready to go. The gang of four started school today.

For those of you who wondered why I had fallen off the face of the electronic world, first, thank you for your concern. Second, let me site three reasons for Internet silence:

1. We were in Michigan and Canada for about three weeks.

2. We returned just in time for a three day frenzy of uniform and supply shopping

3. I've been splinched.

Regarding the third reason, Harry Potter aficionados will recognize the term "splinched." Splinching occurs when one attempts to magically move from one destination to another, a process called apparating. When apparating, one should remember the three D's -- destination, determination, and I can't remember the third one which may explain why I keep splinching.

The result of splinching is that some body part -- ranging from a leg to an eyebrow -- gets left behind.

I've done a lot of moving this summer -- home to mountains, home to Michigan, Canada to home. I've facilitated a lot of moves -- Dave and Tim to Boy Scout Camp, Tim to Boot Camp, Tim to a vocations' retreat. And while in town, we've moved quite a bit as well. Mostly home to pool, pool to home.

I've had lists and bags and tables covered with gear.Suitcases and backpacks and wet bags (or are they called dry bags?) have gone up and down the attic stairs again and again and again.

It's been good, really good. Our recent visit to Michigan and Canada was probably our best ever. In fact, this summer has probably been our best ever. That's if you disregard last Friday and Saturday which were just this side of gruesome. Boys and clothes shopping? Too, too fun, don't you know!

The highlight was heading out for boys' white button down shirts, size 16. Sounds easy enough. Walmart? Sold out! Target? Nary a one in sight! Sears? I found two -- same size, same brand, slightly different design. One was $5.98; one was $16.98. Sold!

Ignoring these rather trying and lengthy shopping excursions, we've had a good summer. Not perfect, but really, really good.

I've been mentally debriefing and attempting to pinpoint exactly why things went as well as they did. I've come up with five reasons:


1. It wasn't last summer. Summer 2011 wasn't a banner one for the Dolins. One hundred and twenty days above 90 degrees. Two non-swimmers. John in, ummm, a challenging season. A bored teenager. A husband working like a dog. Not a horrid summer, but not a great one.

2. This year I made a conscious decision to refrain from whining about the weather. A ten year drought lifted. No joke. Really, if I had known my paltry little whine-fast would alter the entire meteorological pattern of Augusta, believe me, I would have tried this long before now.

3. Our resident teenager had a variety of interesting and challenging opportunities. This was huge.

4. We joined a different pool, one that offers a lengthy shallow end for the little people and diving boards for the big people and lots of friends to hang out with.

5. John learned to swim. We bought Ainsley a puddle-jumper.


And this is all good, very good. But somewhere along the way, I splinched.

Even when it all goes well, summer has a certain intensity. A relaxed intensity in that we typically don't have deadlines and school bells and homework. But we're all together almost all of the time, and that alone can be intense.

In this world, there are introverts and there are extroverts; I would have to call myself a hybrid. I do not do well when I'm alone day after day. Isolation and cloudy weather are a particularly difficult combination for me.

But the opposite is also true.

When I'm never alone -- when I have to post rules detailing the circumstances in which my offspring can knock on the bathroom door -- when someone is nearly always right there needing or wanting something -- eventually, I splinch. Honestly, I don't think I've been alone of two hours since May.

When I splinch, I'm fairly sure the part I leave behind is my cerebral cortex.

I can't think.

You know those calls you get reminding you about a doctor's appointment? They irritate me, at least the ones that require you to call back and confirm the appointment all in some vaguely threatening voice. I already confirmed the appointment, I think to myself. I confirmed it when I made it. My tirade usually ends with the smug thought that it's been ten, maybe fifteen years since I've missed an appointment.

This summer I've missed two doctor's appointment and very nearly missed a third.

Splinched!

I can not think.

While vacationing in Michigan and Canada, I had a dozen thoughts I wanted to write about, but most of the trip involved grandparents and aunts and uncles and lots and lots of cousins. It's wonderful, and it's intense. And I couldn't string two sentences together. Rather than fighting it, I simply recognized my splinched state of mind, put people before things, and enjoyed our vacation.

I've now been alone for one hour. The kitchen is clean. My fingers are typing. Blogger is acting up rather badly. I'm hoping that as I once again take possession of my cerebral cortex, I can sort this mess out.

Maybe then I'll reschedule my dental appointment.

Generosity Goes Only So Far

Our kind neighbor dropped by with a plate of sweet rolls this morning. When I thought someone had eaten his share as well as Dave's, John came up with a quick solution. "We can cut one in half," he generously offered. "But not mine!"