Month: September 2010

The first day of school

Although it had been raining all morning, when we loaded ourselves into the car for the new commute to the boys’ new school in Manotick the sun was thinking of peeking through the clouds. The boys were boisterous — even more so than usual — and their excitement about the new school swelled up and carried us all down the road on a sea of enthusiasm.

We parked near the school and chose a spot to meet up after school. We walked the long way around the building, pointing out climbers and hopscotches and picnic benches along the way. The boys chose a spot to meet during morning recess as well.

We moved from one taped-up sheet to another, searching for the Grades 1 and 3 class lists. We found Tristan’s class and a cluster of eight year old boys standing nearby. “Are you in Mrs Lee’s class?” I asked them. They regarded me with a universal indifference but indicated a vague affirmative. “This is Tristan, it’s his first day!” I said with bright and perhaps over-the-top enthusiasm. They took a quick look at Tristan and returned to their conversation. I forced a bright smile at Tristan, who looked very much like a turtle trying to pull back into his shell. “Do you want to wait here, or come with us to find Simon’s class?” I asked, and felt heartened when he chose to stay near his class list.

Simon bounced along beside me as until we found his name on a similar list. I approached a teacherly-looking woman with a clipboard in her hand. “Are you Ms Edwards?” I asked tentatively, and breathed deeply at her welcoming smile. I introduced Simon and she swept him up in a sea of happy chatter, welcoming him to the school and exclaiming that he was the very first check mark on her very first attendance sheet of the year. Simon ate it up with a spoon and I knew he would have no trouble with the many transitions he was facing, both into a new school and into a new full day of classes. Simon, my gregarious little flirt, would be fine.

I walked back over to where I’d left Tristan, and watched relief wash over his face when he craned his neck over the heads of the kids around him (not much of a stretch, since he stands about a head taller than most of them) and met my eyes. I moved to stand beside him, and ended up in a convoluted conversation with a rubber-boot wearing, curly-haired boy who regaled us with tales of his summer vacation while Tristan looked at his own shoes. Eventually I found Tristan’s teacher and introduced him to her. She tried to engage Tristan in conversation about his first day, but Tristan’s shyness made him nearly mute. Instead, she and I chatted companionably about the school (she’s been teaching there for more than a decade) and the neighbourhood while Tristan listened without seeming like he was listening.

I wanted to tell her that he’s just shy, not rude, and that he’s such a fantastic kid. I wanted to tell her that he’s an artist, and smart, and loves school, but that he needs praise and positive feedback to warm up. I wanted to tell her that he’s bursting with affection, and has loved each of his teachers to the point of tears at the end of the school year, but that he’s overwhelmed and tongue-tied and she’ll have to work to draw him out but that she will reap huge rewards when she does.

But I don’t say any of that. I just stand with my heart in my throat and one hand on Tristan’s shoulder, feeling like I did on his first day of junior kindergarten, wishing I could infuse him with just a touch of the easy gregariousness that smooths his brother’s social interactions.

I remember all to well facing the first day in a new school, the seemingly impenetrable barrier of previously forged social bonds. It was tough, but I never imagined I’d be feeling it so sharply all these years later, by proxy.

Eventually, the teachers led straggling queues of backpack-laden kids into the school. Tristan tried to step near the front where he’d been standing, found his way blocked by chattering kids, and instead worked his way to the back of the line. He shot me a grateful and painfully grown-up smile as I beamed 10,000 volts of my very best “I’m so proud of you” grin at him, and turned to follow his new classmates. I turned in time to see Simon leading his class behind his teacher, already so engaged in conversation with the mother of the brown-eyed girl behind him that he almost missed my vigourous kiss-blowing as he walked past.

This mothering thing will either break my heart or cause it to burst from pride one of these days. Or maybe, both.

530:1000 First day of school!

Thoughts on changing schools and echoes of years gone by

Today, Tristan will be starting Grade 3 and Simon will be starting Grade 1. It’s taken me about this long to stop fretting on the boys’ behalf about the first day of school. After a few years, I’ve finally realized that they have suffered none of the grade school trauma I endured as a child; they are not marginalized, not outcasts, not teased, mercilessly or otherwise. In fact, they have lots of friends, are secure and well-adjusted and to all outward appearances, perfectly happy at school.

At least they were, until I uprooted them and sent them to a new school.

Of all the factors involved in moving, changing the boys’ school has caused me the most regret. We all loved the school the boys were at, and they had strong ties to the students and teachers. While the new school has an amazing reputation — even better than the old school — I’ve still got a big lump of regret in my stomach every time I think about the school we’re leaving behind.

I’m sure this has everything to do with the fact that I moved several times in grade school and blame being the new kid on at least part of my social awkwardness. We moved when I was in Grade 1 and in Grade 4 and one more time just before I started Grade 7, and what I remember about elementary school, at least from a social perspective, is somewhere between unremarkable and unpleasant.

I’m glad we were able to firm up the deal on the new house soon enough that I could register the boys with the new school for the first day of classes. Changing schools in between years is tough; doing it five or six weeks into the school year would have been horrible. It means driving back and forth and changing my work hours for a couple of months, until we can move, but that’s a small price to pay to get them oriented right from the beginning of the school year.

The boys have impressed me with their positive attitude toward change — they must get it from their father. They’re excited about the new school, and looking forward to meeting new friends. Any lingering regret over leaving the old school behind seem to be mollified by the idea of each having their own room soon, and of the play structure and tree house in the new house’s backyard. If only I’d known years ago what an effective incentive a tree house could be!

And so, I will swallow the lump of regret I feel each time I look across the field to the boys’ former school and remind myself a few more times that they are not me, and their mileage may vary from mine. They are smart and sweet and wonderful, my boys, and they will be fine. More than fine, they will be awesome, just like they always are. And as long as they’re fine, I will be too.

Fear of framing

So here’s a quirky little peccadillo I’ve never told you about. You know I like to take pictures, right? I’ve got tonnes of pictures of the boys, of landscapes, of still lifes, of people and stuff and abstracts, you name it and I’ve photographed it, and some of them are actually pretty good if I do say so myself. And every now and then I get all excited in Winners or Michaels, usually when there’s a really good deal to be had, and I buy a whole whack of frames. And then?

*sound of crickets*

I literally have boxes upon boxes of frames — with nothing in them. Much as I love the idea of actually framing my own pictures, of having a tangible copy out to enjoy, every time I get a frame into the house I get all anxious and critical and can’t find a single picture worth investing the $2.49 at Costco to make a print and frame it.

Weird, eh? I don’t know if it’s a self-confidence thing or what. And there have even been a few that I’ve actually gotten as far as framing and then — put them back in the box. Actually making it to the point where they get hung on the wall happens about once every couple of years. The whole print to frame to wall process is just too arduous and insurmountable.

Ironically, it was decluttering and staging the place that finally pushed me into printing and framing a bunch of stuff, just because the pictures that had actually made it into frames and on to the walls were almost exclusively of the boys and other family shots, and “they” say you aren’t supposed to have a lot of family pix up when you’re showing the house. It strikes me as nothing less than perverse that we spend hours repairing all the holes in the walls and repainting the place only to be told that we should put in a bunch of nails on the nice fresh paint job to hang pictures that I couldn’t bring myself to hang before and that will only stay up for about five more weeks.

This whole moving thing is more Kafkaesque with each passing day.

It’s been four days – is it time to call in The Unsellables yet?

This whole house-selling thing? Is way too much work. Way, way too much work. I haven’t been this tired since there was a newborn in the house.

I’d thought that getting the place up to standard would be the hard part, and that simply keeping it clean for the showings would be challenging but not impossible. Ha! No such luck.

(Oh yes, I am going to whine in this post. Consider yourself warned. No doubt there are people with far larger problems in their lives than selling a quarter-million dollars worth of townhouse but right now? Oh yes, there be whining ahead. And maybe a little whinging, too.)

The good news is that after what seemed like a slow start, there’s been a fair bit of interest in the house. We had two showings on Sunday afternoon, another one Monday evening, three on Tuesday evening, and another two scheduled for 4 – 5 pm and 6:15 to 7:15 this evening. I mean, we can’t sell it if we don’t have people coming through, right? But do they have to cluster their visits around nap time and dinner time, the two most disruptive times of the day? I can’t believe we’re actually sick of eating out!

Plus, it’s a pain in the arse to come home from work and spend a frantic 90 minutes wiping down every surface in the house, and vacuuming, and swiffering, and mopping, and hiding the kids’ toys, and remembering to move the bowl full of fancy raffia balls back on to the dining room table while making sure that Lucas doesn’t launch any (more) of them, and flushing all the toilets (you can never take that chance, I learned) and hiding the dish towel and the dog bowls and the waste cans and all other signs of life while also remembering to place the feature sheets in an artful and welcoming fan on the table… well, you get the picture. And then we have to go somewhere else and do something for an hour or three, and by the time they’re done it’s past the boys’ bedtimes. Has it really not even been a week yet? I can’t keep this up for much longer!

One of the most annoying things is that there is simply nowhere to hide anything. The closets, the cupboards, the basement, the garage — anywhere where we might have stashed a little clutter has to be kept tidy and orderly. Even the laundry has to be folded and put away the moment it gets removed from the dryer. We are lazy people, simply not accustomed to having to work this hard for such a sustained period of time.

Even living an austere life makes a certain amount of mess, and now that it’s been four days and six showings without an offer, I can’t possibly relax in the house if there is something more I can clean. I’m down to the kind of cleaning that would be scoffed at by even the most obsessive neat freak; I just finished polishing the pipes behind the toilet for god’s sake. But, says the voice in my head when I’m thinking of — say — pausing to write a blog post or something, “Don’t stop now! What if that little bit of grime in the back corner of the cupboard under the sink is what turns them off? What if they would have bought the place if only the garden were more fully weeded?” Gah!

There are probably bigger jobs I could do to make the place more appealing (the ugly blue carpets come to mind, as does the deck in need of repainting) but I simply don’t have any more money to throw at the problem. Instead, I will obsess over the most minuscule amounts of dirt and disorder and wonder if *that’s* what has prevented people from making an offer.

Oh, I know this is nothing to whine about. It will all be worth it in the end. But today I’m tired and cranky and resentful that I’ve spent so much of the last week cleaning and so little of it enjoying this last spectacular week of summer with the boys. And I miss my camera like crazy — I haven’t taken a picture in two weeks. What the hell is up with that?

Speaking of which, it’s been about 30 minutes since I’ve cleaned something, and we have to be out of here in another hour and a half for tonight’s round of showings, so I have to go. Wish us luck; I’m not sure how long we can keep this up!