More than leaves cling in the Fall
I hear more than the leaves blowing in the early autumn winds these days. As the rain thrashes the soil and pulls at the foliage and its tenuous stems, I hear cries against the routines of Fall. The transition to more serious routines, away from the fancy-free flow of summer is pulling at my kids. And they in turn cling to me, yanking on my heart strings.
A broadcast on the Weather Channel told me yesterday that in Fall we dress more seriously and give off a different call to prospective mates: I’m “settling down material” in my new Fall attire; gone are my short shorts and flirty sundresses, tanned bronze skin and star gazing attitude. We must give off this new scent to our off-spring too because every day seems to bring new resistance, a fresh battle and a call for more creative parenting.
Our summer ended with a kerplunk as the last week of warm August swimming weather turned quickly to cold, gray Labour Day winds. There was no so-called indian summer in our part of the world and frankly, we are all unprepared for the suddenness of the Fall.
My son started his new schedule first with two physical activity programs and 2 half-day programs. His was a big shift from nearly full-time with Mommy or our caregiver Jane, to go-go-go action. His temperament demanded the ramping up, but I’m sure the change took his reasonable expectations by storm. My daughter had a few more weeks of grace as her 5 day-a-week Montessori program started later in the month and eased her into the half-day routine. Her extras came on stream equally casually so I thought at least she might adjust seamlessly and perhaps even be happy to be back into her school curriculum.
But 4 weeks into the full-swing of the Fall routine and I’m in such demand even my expectation of extra neediness from my kids is blown-away. My son took the half-day program by storm for the first 4 visits. He was proud to be going to his own “school” just like his sister and even asked to be attired in big boy underpants. But as the luster of being away from Mom wore off he was quite direct about his wants: “Walk past Carol’s. I want to go to the park with you!” he’d quip en-route.
Although I’ve been successful in keeping him on track, spending a little more than a brief moment at drop off, he’s getting me in other ways. His bedtime routine is dragging out an extra hour. Some days he’s crying when I leave for the day or telling Jane she needs to go home (so I will return). He’s definitely not interested in using the toilet and nudges closer to me when we sit together. I am his touch-stone. I can feel him tapping my energy.
My daughter has had her first-ever melt-downs about going to school, is expressing more anger and has brought bedtime drama to Oscar caliber. I am coaching myself that she’s still just a four year old baby, deserving of joyful play, cuddles, the security of a loving environment and lots of patience. But it’s hard when I’m also tired at bedtime to silence that dark voice in me who wants Kate to take care of herself, as I was expected to take care of myself at her age.
Maybe I need a mantra to to remind myself that Kate’s needs are normal and healthy: let her be little, let her be little, let her be little, I could chant silently. Maybe that would open my heart. I have resorted to a “chart” to encourage co-operative bedtime behaviour (the voice of reason taking over): 3 nights of earned stickers and we can have some special Mommy-time out for Tea. I know she wants more of me and I’m prepared to give it to her, I just want it to be during the day!
At the end of the day, when I’m forced to lie in a darkened bedroom with Michael because he’ll otherwise bolt to who-knows-where and force me to begin our settling-down routine once again, I have no choice but to let Kate languish, yearning for Mommy-time. It’s in that darkness — when I can hear only their breathing and bodies wrestling with sheets as they try to settle themselves — that my most sympathetic side over-rides the exhaustion of being at the centre of their Mommy-centric world. I long to be a better Mom who can hold them both safely into slumber.
Sometimes I will kiss their sleeping heads and tell them how very much I do love them; I admit sometimes I’m too tired to share it with them. But I know it’s there. And tomorrow will be better. They’ll be one day older and so will I.