The bliss of normalcy

As I sit at my desk in the room that Glen and I refer to as our "home office," I cannot help but overhear the unmistakable slurping sounds that are coming from right next to me: Lager, our beautiful 12-year-old Labrador, is licking himself with an almost OCD-like concentration.

Slurp. Slurp. Slurp.

David pads into the room to announce, with great delight, that he has finished Chapter 4 of the first Harry Potter book. "I hope to get through Chapter 6 tomorrow!" he proclaims, all giddy. Never mind the fact that it's already 10:30 on a school night.

I wander downstairs in search of a quick snack (a bologna sandwich did the trick) and pause to look at the pile of laundry just sitting on the floor next to the washing machine. I move on.

Once in the kitchen, I take mental note of the open plastic box that serves as my portable filing cabinet for all things pertaining to Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts. The counter is a mess. I go about my bologna sandwich business and go back upstairs.

Back to Lager: he is now in repose on the floor next to me, chin down between the paws, resigned to the fact that he only got a crust (or two) of the aforementioned bologna sandwich. A deep, dramatic sigh emotes from his sturdy frame.

The clock on the wall is ticking. Loudly. I can't tell if it's trying to remind me that I should be getting "real work" done, or simply be heading to bed.

I know that, one day all too soon, I will look back on moments such as these and yearn for the normalcy of it all. Kids - still small and still thinking that I am cool - tucked into bed; the sweet dog at my feet; the house in satisfying disarray.

I resist the urge to go into "the zone" and tidy everything up. Were it not for the late hour, I'd more happy to go back to the kitchen and cook up some of the cookie dough in the refrigerator.

Not tonight. Tonight I pause, and take it in. And enjoy the precious gift of being a mommy.

After a long hiatus ...

Well, this is awkward.

I know that I do not have scads and scads of devoted followers of my blog, but I must say that, were my livelihood dependent upon regular posts, I'd be broke.

But I think that one of the reasons that I haven't had any deep thoughts to share is that ... well, life has been pleasantly uneventful. With the exception of one thing: I have changed jobs.

Any mom who works outside the home - full time, part time or otherwise - is more than aware of the constant battle within her heart as to how to divide her time equitably between many obligations and responsibilities: the office, the kids, the home, etc. So, when the opportunity can to take a full time position at David and Elizabeth's school, I jumped at the chance. Not just jumped, but LUNGED.

I am now happily taking on the role of Director of Admission at Foothill Country Day School. I am so lucky that the school's leadership took a chance on me, a person who has 12 years of experience crunching numbers but very limited background in the world of admissions.

Additional details and reports from my new headquarters will be forthcoming, but suffice it to say that David and Elizabeth love hanging out in my office at the school as much (if not more so) than they did at HMC. And they like to bring their friends by. And their friends' friends.

It's awesome.

First day of school, for all three of us!

Besties

So, what does one do when one's nine-year old son comes downstairs at 9:00 p.m. at night, in tears and declaring, "I hate my life!"?

Such was the case yesterday evening, after David and I had a frank discussion about his needing to be responsible for bringing ALL of his homework home with him. He has a history test coming up on Friday, and his study terms were apparently left behind in his desk at school.

I sent him upstairs to get a shower and get in his jammies. I toiled away in the kitchen for a few minutes, and then was greeted by my sobbing little boy, who threw himself into my arms.

Now, I NEVER mind having my kids run up for random and huge hugs. Hugs are my specialty, and I love to dole them out with (appropriate) abandon. But when it's accompanied by declarations of such doom and gloom, I begin to worry.

So, I took Little Man by the hand, and said, "okay, let's have a chat," and went over to the couch.

"Explain to me why you hate you life," I began.

"Well," he said, between gasps for air, "the kids in my class are so noisy. And Walker is gone. And Spike is gone. And Honey [the cat we had for 9 months] is gone." And he burrowed his head back into my arms with dramatic flair.

Now, had I shown such despair with my mom when I was his age, I would have been promptly met with a resounding lecture on self-pity, lack of appreciation, and selfishness. This was not the lecture I wanted to give to David, nor one he wanted to hear.

So I took a different tactic. "I know, sweetie. I know that you miss Walker and Spike and Honey. I know. We all miss them so much. But can you spend a few minutes thinking about all that is good with your life?"

By this time, Elizabeth came downstairs and surveyed the scene with a genuine look of worry on her sweet face. She quietly sat down next to her big brother on the couch.

"Um ... we still have Lager," David began.

"Right!" I said. "And you're very healthy, and you have a lot of friends."

I tried to guide him toward a bit more positive thinking and positive imagery. He mentioned that he's still not pleased that Glen works up north, and that he misses his daddy.

It was about that time that Elizabeth put her arm around David.

"David," she said, "I love you."

David put his arm around his little sister.

"And you have a little sister who adores you and thinks the world of you," I added.

Elizabeth nodded, and then went in for the kill: she put her head on David's lap.

He melted into a hug with his baby sister.

Priceless.

Grace through cupcakes?

I never intended for two months to pass between blog posts. This is sort of silly and embarrassing. Despite my great hopes and ambitions of doing a DAILY blog to detail, with painstaking accuracy, the ups and downs of being a single mom five days a week, this simply didn't happen.

And, why not? Why not, in my copious amount of spare time, could I not find the wherewithal to pen an intellectual, thought-provoking treatise seven days a week?

The answer is two-fold:

1. I don't have copious amounts of spare time to write (and nor, for that matter, do my friends and family have copious amounts of time to read my blog posts).
2. Not a whole lot of interesting stuff happens in our household each and every day. The kids and I wake up, get dressed, gobble down some breakfast and, if we're lucky, we get to school with one or two minutes to spare. On Fridays, if we're feeling ambitious, we get donuts on the way to school.

 Feeling untrue to my inner blogger, I was feeling contrite for my lax attitude about the whole thing, when a few things came to pass during the past week.

Childhood, or Anarchy?

Let's just say that listening ears in the Hastings household have not been up at full volume lately. I count myself as part of the problem here, as I am sure I've been doing a lot of talking (and cajoling and scolding and huffing and puffing) but not a whole lot of listening. In turn, my sweeties have found either great pleasure or just great curiosity in testing their own selective listening skills all while also trying out new behaviors. Like, you know, fibbing. Or ignoring me. Suffice it to say that conversations that take place after the initiation of said behavior do not go well.

On Monday, Elizabeth proudly announced to me, as she was piling into the car when I picked them up from school, that she ate the apples I'd packed in her lunch. Note: getting her to eat fruits and veggies of any sort requires high levels of intensive diplomacy and negotiation.

"Really? That's great!"

A pause. Silence.

"Lizzie, did you eat your apples?"

Pause.

"Well," she began ... "I had one but the rest were kind of icky."

"So, you DIDN'T eat all of your apples?"

Pause.

"Elizabeth?"

"No," she whispered.

"So, that was a fib?"

"Yes," she said with a dramatic sigh.

Okay, so she got busted for that.

Later that evening, when it was well past 9:00, David came into my room and asked if he could either keep reading or play for a bit. "No, sweetie, it's past your bedtime. Time to tuck in."

"Okay," he said, and trotted off.

Thirty minutes passed and I peeked in on him. There he was, sitting on his bed, lights on in the room, playing Sudoku.

"David? Did I tell you to go to bed?"

"Yes," he said quietly, but not looking up from the puzzle he was working on.

"Did you?"

"No," he confessed, still looking at his book.

"WHY NOT?" I asked, getting a tad shrill.

"Because I wanted to do Sudoku."

After we'd established that he had, in fact, ignored me, it was confirmed that he, too, was busted.


And these incidents, while certainly not the end of the world, do make me wonder whether I'm giving priority to the right things. The kids go to a highly challenging school, where the work load ramps up with each grade. This year has been a doozy for David, and he's finding it hard to adjust to the fact that some subjects might just take a bit of work to master. Don't get me started on the poor kid's penmanship; he gets that from his parents. And yet, with all of this in mind, I feel a huge pang of guilt whenever we come home from school and see the neighborhood kids playing outside. David automatically rolls down his car window and calls out, "sorry, can't play. I have homework."

What kind of childhood is that, I ask you?

I don't think any of us have a great answer to that, because no balance between work and play is perfect. But the one thing I could indulge the kids in this week was to prepare dessert for a "birthday party" they were throwing for one of Elizabeth's baby dolls. On a whim, I made a batch of chocolate cupcakes for the kids to enjoy with their stuffed and plastic companions.

Ultimately, it was a win-win situation all around: the kids got celebrated play time, the baby doll got a birthday party, and I found Zen both through baking and seeing the beautiful smiles light up my kids' faces.

Words of comfort?

David, Elizabeth and I had the delicious pleasure of having Glen with us and, for the most part, all to ourselves for two glorious weeks in December and the first week of January. Glen and I spent wonderful hours together assembling Christmas morning on Christmas Eve, and we watched the kids' sheer joy in finding the treasures left for them under the Christmas tree. We drove to the Bay area, and spent time with the other Hastings cousins, visited Glen at the Facebook campus, and stayed warm and cozy in our small little apartment. We returned to the south land right before New Years, and David and Elizabeth spent several lazy days with nothing better to do but stay in their pajamas, play with their new toys, and bask in the glow of being with Daddy.

Of course, Glen had to return to his normal schedule in the Bay area sooner or later, and the kids and I took Glen to the airport on January 6. And David has pretty much not been the same ever since.

Sunday evenings are always difficult for David, given that's when he has to say "so long" to Glen for the week. But it's been harder this time. It's difficult to console an inconsolable child. David is so very young and very small, and I know it's difficult for him to process many of the facts that remain: 1) Daddy's job is a good one that he truly enjoys; 2) our commute schedule will not last forever, but it must last for a while yet; and 3) David needs some very real coping skills.

Elizabeth? She's easy. And she's noticed David's struggles of late, as well. When she sees him cry on Sunday evenings, Elizabeth puts on her game face, and puts her arm around her big brother. She even went so far as to say, "David! I am just trying to be a big sister to you!" after one of her affectionate overtures was sort of rebuffed by her very sad brother. It's amazing to hear a five-year-old girl say to her big brother, "there there, David. It's going to be okay."

Of course Elizabeth misses her daddy when he's gone, but it's clear that she and Glen have a very different bond than the one shared by David and Glen. David and Glen are soul brothers. They share a love of football, basketball, Lego and ... well, more Lego. The two days they spent together over the winter break building David's new Lego Death Star were nothing short of magical for all parties involved. And when Glen departs, he takes a little piece of David's heart with him.

It's no secret that David has inherited the uptight, anxious components of his personality from his mother. That's clear as day. For the most part, Glen is mellow, and I'm the worrier. Of course these roles shift from time to time, but it's safe to say that I'm the appointed hand-wringer in the family. I always have been.

And when I see David behave and act in a manner that reminds me of my own childhood anxieties, it's difficult to watch. Case in point: after a bout of "chirping" smoke detectors (whose batteries needed replacing) in the middle of the night a couple of months ago, David became terrified that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground. Flashback to when I was 9 years old: my grandfather purchased smoke detectors for our home in Corona (because, back in 1979, smoke detectors were the newest thing), and I was convinced that the house was going to catch fire and burn to the ground.

At the same time, after a while the repeated cries of "I MISS DADDY" get a little old, particularly when they keep a nine-year-old boy up at night, and then make him terribly groggy and cranky in the morning. And Glen and I agree that we're torn between several different ways to approach this: 1) seek therapy for the little guy; 2) console and comfort as best as we can; 3) tell him that, at some point, he'll need to get a grip. I hesitate to emphasize any of the three exclusively, but a balanced combination of the three might be in order.

The first Sunday Glen returned to the Bay area, I was snuggling with David as I tucked him in to bed. We chatted about how a son and daddy have a special bond, and one that is different than that between a girl and her daddy, or even a girl and her mommy. I explained to David that bonds are special, good, and important, and are real reasons why Daddy being up north tugs at his heartstrings so much.

As I kissed his soft hair and continued to wipe his tears, he confided in me the following thought: "Sometimes, Mommy, I think it would be easier for me if you were the one who left each week, and not Daddy. No offense."

I assured him that no offense was taken at all. I told him, "I am so glad you feel comfortable and safe enough to tell me that. It's all good."

Indeed, if Glen and I are creating and maintaining a home where David and Elizabeth feel completely safe to speak the truth, then we are doing something right. David doesn't need to know that, after we finally said goodnight, I returned to my bedroom, gutted.

So, I guess the Boogey Man is Real

For us, Friday morning started out with absolutely bucolic splendor. The skies were crystal blue, accented by puffy, white, post-rain clouds. The delicious chill in the air finally heralded December-appropriate temperatures. The kids and I left the house just a bit early, with time to spare to stop by our favorite doughnut store to get some before-school treats.

Little did I know ... heck, little did anyone of us know ... that such special moments with my little ones would, without warning, suddenly seem so remarkably special.

Like most people, I cannot begin to wrap my head around the concept of 20 small children being gunned down in what should have been the safe confines of their classroom at school. I do not know these children, their families, or their brave and heroic teachers who did all that they could to shield their charges from flying bullets and sheer, unadulterated terror. I cannot begin to fathom the bone-crushing pain that these families are enduring, as their children are sent to heaven. I am gutted by the notion that, for these families, Christmas, Hanukkah, and the New Year will simply never be happy holidays again.

My work day at HMC was, I admit, pretty much a wash once I began to learn of the slaughter that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary School, about 2,816 miles away from my home. Of course, I thought instantly of David and Elizabeth, and their friends, and their friends' families, and the wonderful teachers and staff at Foothill Country Day School. At one point, I looked at my clock, saw that it was 11:45 a.m., and decided that would be a perfect time to drop everything, go over to the school, find the kids, and hug them.

I pulled into the school's parking lot about 10 minutes later, and found Elizabeth and her class, enjoying a post-lunch activity with their wonderful athletics coach. Miss B (the coach) saw me in the doorway, and when I pantomimed the motion of  "hug," she knew instantly why I was there. Obviously, Miss B and others were aware of the national tragedy unfolding in Connecticut. She said, "Elizabeth! Your mommy is here!" Elizabeth looked excitedly at the doors, saw me, and said, "MOMMY!" And she ran to me. We shared a quick embrace, I planted a kiss on her silky blond hair, and she went merrily back to her friends to complete the day's lessons.

I paused just for a moment, breathless with the notion that 20 families in Newtown, CT, would never again hear the beautiful sound of their child calling their name, feeling the warmth of their child's hug, or even see the quizzical look in their child's eyes, asking, "what the heck are you doing here?"

Then, it was time to find David. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just after 12 noon. His class would be starting their lunch break now. Sure enough, I saw David and his classmates leaving their classroom, happily skipping to the lunch line to pick up their hot lunch for the Day. "Hi, Mrs. Hastings!" a chorus of happy voices sang out as I started walking toward them. "Hi, Mommy!" said my little man.

I gave him a quick squeeze, asked for permission to kiss him in front of his friends, and let him go about his day.

The kids usually leave school at 5:00 on Fridays so that they can take part in an after-school chess class. I decided that pulling them out early would not solve anything, so I went back to work and followed CNN the rest of the day.

At 5:00 I was at the school, in my car and waiting for my little ones to come out to the pick-up area. They bounded into the car. And then I told them what happened in Newtown.

I was stunned and, quite frankly, proud of David's first question: "The gunman is dead, right?" he said, with a swagger in his voice that matched my vitriol for the &*$%#@ who pulled the trigger in Sandy Hook.

"Yes, buddy, the guy is dead."

And then Elizabeth asked the $64,000 question for which there is no answer: "Why would he do that?"

We went about our evening, running a few errands to get ready for the cookie party we were having at the house the next afternoon. We stopped by Costco for a quick slice of pizza (for Elizabeth and me), and as we were browsing around, Elizabeth spotted a toy she's coveted for quite some time: a Pillow Pets Dream Lights plush toy.

"Mommy! They have Dream Lights!" she called out, and promptly began reciting the song played in the commercial that is forever streamed on the Nickelodeon channel.

"Mommy! Can we get this? It will help me not be afraid of any monsters in my room," she said.

A quick pause, and then I asked her, "which one would you like?" absolutely speechless with the profundity of her statement. Were it only as simple as having a soothing light in a dark, dark world to ensure that the Boogey Man will forever stay the hell away from my babies.

Gap time

Wow, where did eight weeks go? Not that the handful of people who follow my blog have been waiting with bated breath for a new posting, but, seriously. I've been slacking.

It has been almost two months since my last blog post, and it is probably a good thing that, in terms of single parenthood (during the weekdays), there is nothing new to report.

Now, I will say that the last week and a half was a delicious exception, because Glen was home. He insisted on being back down in Southern California for Halloween, not only to see the kids in their adorable costumes, but also to partake of our wonderful neighbor's Eight-Alarm chili that we share together every Halloween night. Then, just a few days after that, he had meetings in Palm Springs for Harvey Mudd College, more events for their alumni board on November 7, and then we both had the annual fundraiser for the kids' school on November 9.


Suffice it to say that when Glen packed up his trusty old truck on Sunday afternoon and hit the road for the Bay area, the house was notably emptier after having relished 11 days of daddy and hubby time.

We're coming upon the two year mark of Glen joining Facebook, and of me embarking upon this weekday single parenthood adventure. If you'd asked me two years ago how long this arrangement would last, I would have answered, "one and a half years, tops." Now, here we are, and neither Glen nor I see any change in our arrangements in the near future.

But definitely one thing that I have hugely benefited from in Glen being gone most days of the week is a true and pure appreciation for all that Glen is and all that he gives to our family. The life of the household just hums just a little better when he's home. Everyone is just a bit more mellow and relaxed (at least, I think we are). When he's gone, he is very missed, but when he comes home, we are so grateful.

Next week, we are spoiled again for another marathon of Glen/Daddy time, as we're traveling to Pittsburgh to visit my brother and his family to take in a Steeler's game, and to also visit friends in Ohio. Then it's back to LAX on Thanksgiving Day and up to Monterey, where we'll spend three more blissfully unstructured days with my dear friend from college.

I have it pretty good.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours!