Well, she has officially been launched into a new stage of life. It went well. She walked right into her classroom with her teachers; she got the teachers I specifically wanted her to have; she apparently did great and came out happy, told me all about stuff they learned about (mostly just orienting them to the room, where the bathroom is, what some of the materials are for, where they keep their backpacks/etc.
I took her out for a celebration lunch (Boston Market -- what can I say, she's 3...) and some ice cream. She then took a 2-hour nap, the first one in a while. She woke up, we made pumpkin bread, then played outside until Jon got home. Chatted with some neighbors, quick dinner, played some more and bedtime.
She's like a different kid.
I think this is exactly what she has been needing, desperately. You could just see her feeling bigger and older, being completely captivated by something new and fun.
And now I feel even sadder because it brings back so many memories of Hannah starting preschool, and because now Emily really isn't a baby or toddler any more like she was when Hannah was still here. I can't even pretend that Hannah's just temporarily gone. Too much time has passed, too visibly and concretely.
It was also brought to the forefront because I met with Emily's teachers for a bit after class was over and told them about the accident, Hannah's death, and Emily's and my injuries. I just wanted them to be aware of it from the very beginning so that if Emily talked about it or other issues came up about topics like family members, or safety, or who knows what, that they wouldn't be taken by surprise and they'd have an idea of how to handle it with the other kids and with Emily. The principal already knows, I talked to her the other day.
On the whole I'm glad that we've gotten to this stage. I think both Emily and I were ready for a change, and I have a very comfortable, confident feeling about all of this -- I believe she'll thrive at this school, and we'll each have some time to pursue our own interests and growth, and the time we have once she's home from school will be better because we'll each have had some space and respite.
But it's still sad, too.
It could always be worse, though.
My god. Those poor souls left in the wake of Katrina's destruction. I have no words at all. All I can do is be very glad that we're safe and alive and together, and find some way to help, even if it's pretty insignificant in the big picture. I know that I can't even begin to imagine or understand what they're going through.
Still, and I know this is way out of line and presumptuous to even think it: something about seeing the magnitude of the disaster and starting to realize how long it will take before anything is even close to livable, let alone normal, reminds me of when I first realized Hannah was dead. It was complete chaos. How could we wrap our minds around something like this? And how could we live with it? That's why I clung to some kind of fantasy that somehow it would be undone, that she would be brought back or just some miracle would happen, because it was simply unimaginable that it was real and permanent.
I do know that if she were here she'd want to do something to help the survivors, especially the children. While I understand completely that I'm biased, I think it's safe to say that she had a capacity for compassion and empathy that was a bit beyond what I'd imagined a five-year-old was capable of. The time that her friend Maddie's mother died, for instance. Or even when we read The Lorax and she became upset because a new shopping center was being built near our neighborhood (for which several wooded acres were cleared and leveled) and cutting the trees might destroy everything around us.
Never mind. I can only imagine how I'd be rolling my eyes if anyone else I knew wrote something like this about their kid; how delusional can a besotted parent be? People who didn't know her personally will just have to take my word for it. Or not.
8.31.2005
8.30.2005
School days
Well, the YSU strike(s) is settled, just in time for classes starting yesterday, so Jon is back at work, his job is not in jeopardy, and we can get back to normal on that front. It was a hard week, let me tell you. Both Jon and I are suddenly experiencing what we think are physiological panic attacks -- random attacks of nausea/shortness of breath, difficulty sleeping. We just panicked because him losing his job was really the last thing we needed. I know it's not reasonable, but I just feel like we deserve a pass of some kind. The last two years have been HELL and I think we need a break.
And... Emily's first day of preschool is tomorrow. It's not a "real" day -- just the three-year-olds are coming in for a couple of hours to their classroom(s) while the parents are in the other room getting their indoctrination -- orienting them to school schedule/routines, signing up for committees, propaganda about the fundraiser, that sort of thing.
Emily's a little nervous -- she has random episodes of misbehaving, where she will do something like suddenly bolt away from me in a store or grab stuff on the shelf (she never does this usually), or decide to throw a fit when we remind her to wash her hands after going potty. That kind of stuff. Also she's intermittently clingy, in between being adamant about doing all kinds of stuff "by myself" (shampooing hair, etc.).
I hope she settles in soon. As desperate as she is for the company of other kids, and as bored as I'm beginning to realize she is just being at home, I can't imagine it'll be too hard. Her favorite babysitter's mother teaches the adolescent class at the school, and so she knows that Sophy's mom is there and that seems to please her. She is also jazzed about her new backpack (thanks Denise) and the "inside" shoes we bought. (They wear slippers or inside shoes while inside and change to regular street shoes when they go out -- keeps the floors a lot cleaner, which I like.)
I am feeling so torn about this. I'm burned out beyond anything I could have imagined. I NEED some time to myself on a fairly regular basis. I love being home with her but am getting so frustrated with it at the same time. And yet, the idea of her not being here for a few hours each day freaks me right out.
I think perhaps one reason I've gotten to this point of burnout is because without realizing it, I've been hypervigilant about her safety and well-being. I was always a borderline "hover" mom, but with Hannah, apart from her being my first (and therefore my being more nervous), it was easier to let go if I knew she was comfortable and happy.
Hannah's first day of preschool went something like this: We pulled into the parking lot; she unstrapped her car seat and opened the door almost before I could get around to her side of the car; she jumped out and grabbed my hand and RAN to the school; once we were at the classroom door she dropped my hand, RACED inside, and made a beeline for one of the painting easels, saying over her shoulder, "Bye Mommy, you can go now." That pretty much set the tone for all of preschool and even kindergarten, which I thought would be a bigger transition for her. She took it right in stride, though.
I felt very mildly misty while walking (being pulled by) her into school, but seeing how incredibly excited and happy she was, I very quickly became comfortable with it and by the time I got back to the car, was salivating to get myself over to the bookstore and camp out with an iced coffee and People. It was a great, great school year.
But since losing Hannah I think I've been extremely OVERprotective of Emily, at least physically. I still make her hold my hand inside the mall, in the library, wherever. If she runs ahead of me even five feet I panic and bark at her to get back to my side. At the park it's a little easier because the tot playground is enclosed and you can pretty much see every part of it from every bench. But lately she's wanted to go to the "big kid" part of the park and I can barely handle that -- I feel like I have to go through every single piece of equipment with her because I cannot let her out of my sight, and preferably reach as well. I freak out if she looks like she might fall off a couch or bed or anything else; I am very picky about who can watch her; it goes on.
I know that sounds somewhat normal for the parent of a three-year-old, but what isn't normal is the constant panic I feel whenever we're anywhere other than my house, or the house of a trusted friend or family member -- like I have to be in CONSTANT surveillance. I dread taking her anywhere else unless I *know* she will hold my hand (she doesn't always want to and it's a battle) or if she's willing to go in the stroller, which she now is if she knows it's going to be a horrifically long walk. I don't let her so much as stand out on the front porch even if I'm right inside the front door -- if I have to run in and get something I forgot, she comes in too, even if she remains in my sight the whole time she's outside. I think the sense of panic and alarm I constantly feel is what's taking the stuffing out of me.
It has taken a while for me to figure this out. I was protective of Hannah, and in some ways was more uptight when she was really small, because I was brand-new at this. But I didn't feel this constant fear, this tightness in my chest and stomach (sadly, my stomach only feels tight from the inside, so it hasn't affected my appearance for the better). It is just that in a way the stakes are even higher -- if something happens to Emily or we lose her somehow, then I really can't survive. Life would literally be over.
I know that if we had another child, it would help in some ways -- Emily would have someone else around in her general age group; it would diffuse the intensity of our focus on her; it would give us more of a sense of our family being complete. But I'm not ready to do this and don't know if I'll ever be. I think right now I can't make an informed, objective decision (well, not that anybody ever makes an informed objective decision to have kids -- it isn't about that), but maybe after she's gotten used to school and I feel a little less stressed, I can give it some more thought.
Also Emily starting school really makes Hannah's absence so much more obvious and painful. Even seeing the Halloween candy that's starting to creep into the stores makes me sad.
And... Emily's first day of preschool is tomorrow. It's not a "real" day -- just the three-year-olds are coming in for a couple of hours to their classroom(s) while the parents are in the other room getting their indoctrination -- orienting them to school schedule/routines, signing up for committees, propaganda about the fundraiser, that sort of thing.
Emily's a little nervous -- she has random episodes of misbehaving, where she will do something like suddenly bolt away from me in a store or grab stuff on the shelf (she never does this usually), or decide to throw a fit when we remind her to wash her hands after going potty. That kind of stuff. Also she's intermittently clingy, in between being adamant about doing all kinds of stuff "by myself" (shampooing hair, etc.).
I hope she settles in soon. As desperate as she is for the company of other kids, and as bored as I'm beginning to realize she is just being at home, I can't imagine it'll be too hard. Her favorite babysitter's mother teaches the adolescent class at the school, and so she knows that Sophy's mom is there and that seems to please her. She is also jazzed about her new backpack (thanks Denise) and the "inside" shoes we bought. (They wear slippers or inside shoes while inside and change to regular street shoes when they go out -- keeps the floors a lot cleaner, which I like.)
I am feeling so torn about this. I'm burned out beyond anything I could have imagined. I NEED some time to myself on a fairly regular basis. I love being home with her but am getting so frustrated with it at the same time. And yet, the idea of her not being here for a few hours each day freaks me right out.
I think perhaps one reason I've gotten to this point of burnout is because without realizing it, I've been hypervigilant about her safety and well-being. I was always a borderline "hover" mom, but with Hannah, apart from her being my first (and therefore my being more nervous), it was easier to let go if I knew she was comfortable and happy.
Hannah's first day of preschool went something like this: We pulled into the parking lot; she unstrapped her car seat and opened the door almost before I could get around to her side of the car; she jumped out and grabbed my hand and RAN to the school; once we were at the classroom door she dropped my hand, RACED inside, and made a beeline for one of the painting easels, saying over her shoulder, "Bye Mommy, you can go now." That pretty much set the tone for all of preschool and even kindergarten, which I thought would be a bigger transition for her. She took it right in stride, though.
I felt very mildly misty while walking (being pulled by) her into school, but seeing how incredibly excited and happy she was, I very quickly became comfortable with it and by the time I got back to the car, was salivating to get myself over to the bookstore and camp out with an iced coffee and People. It was a great, great school year.
But since losing Hannah I think I've been extremely OVERprotective of Emily, at least physically. I still make her hold my hand inside the mall, in the library, wherever. If she runs ahead of me even five feet I panic and bark at her to get back to my side. At the park it's a little easier because the tot playground is enclosed and you can pretty much see every part of it from every bench. But lately she's wanted to go to the "big kid" part of the park and I can barely handle that -- I feel like I have to go through every single piece of equipment with her because I cannot let her out of my sight, and preferably reach as well. I freak out if she looks like she might fall off a couch or bed or anything else; I am very picky about who can watch her; it goes on.
I know that sounds somewhat normal for the parent of a three-year-old, but what isn't normal is the constant panic I feel whenever we're anywhere other than my house, or the house of a trusted friend or family member -- like I have to be in CONSTANT surveillance. I dread taking her anywhere else unless I *know* she will hold my hand (she doesn't always want to and it's a battle) or if she's willing to go in the stroller, which she now is if she knows it's going to be a horrifically long walk. I don't let her so much as stand out on the front porch even if I'm right inside the front door -- if I have to run in and get something I forgot, she comes in too, even if she remains in my sight the whole time she's outside. I think the sense of panic and alarm I constantly feel is what's taking the stuffing out of me.
It has taken a while for me to figure this out. I was protective of Hannah, and in some ways was more uptight when she was really small, because I was brand-new at this. But I didn't feel this constant fear, this tightness in my chest and stomach (sadly, my stomach only feels tight from the inside, so it hasn't affected my appearance for the better). It is just that in a way the stakes are even higher -- if something happens to Emily or we lose her somehow, then I really can't survive. Life would literally be over.
I know that if we had another child, it would help in some ways -- Emily would have someone else around in her general age group; it would diffuse the intensity of our focus on her; it would give us more of a sense of our family being complete. But I'm not ready to do this and don't know if I'll ever be. I think right now I can't make an informed, objective decision (well, not that anybody ever makes an informed objective decision to have kids -- it isn't about that), but maybe after she's gotten used to school and I feel a little less stressed, I can give it some more thought.
Also Emily starting school really makes Hannah's absence so much more obvious and painful. Even seeing the Halloween candy that's starting to creep into the stores makes me sad.
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