I was talking to my mother yesterday when she asked to speak to Zoe.

“Zoe Eleanor!” I called, sweetly, into the other room.

“Yes?” Zoe replied.

“Come here, please.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Mimi wants to talk to you.”

As she plodded into my room, I heard an audible sigh of relief from Zoe.

“Mom, please don’t call me by my full name.”

“Oh, okay,” I replied, with only a bit of confusion in my voice.

But all was made completely clear with what followed:  “It makes me think I’m in trouble!”

Well…she has a point.

A year and a half ago, I enrolled Evan in a gymnastics class. It was to be “his” activity, as his sister Zoe already had her weekly ballet classes.

That lasted about two weeks. After enduring two weeks of listening to Zoe whine throughout Evan’s entire class — what the hell were they thinking when they (gasp!) made the waiting room into an actual observation area?!? — I gave up on the concept of “individual” activities and enrolled Zoe as well. The unexpected benefit — at the cost of an additional $50 a month — was an hour a week in (relative) peace and quiet during their shared class time. Enduring the whining of each child for only 15 minutes as one waited for the other to finish their class seemed to be far superior to a full hour of whining.  The concept of my children’s activities having as much benefit for myself as for them began to have great appeal.

To that end, I thought I’d managed to improve upon the situation this fall, as I enrolled them in classes with exactly overlapping times. No more “But he gets to go in early!” or “But she’s still in there!” I would have one full hour of quiet time, with nary a single complaint to spoil the silence.

Alas, as the school year arrived, I realized I’d hardly improved upon the situation at all.  Sure, they got to go to gymnastics, and had some great instructors and social interaction to boot.  But, for me (and that’s all that really matters, right?), discovering that the pre-school gymnastics-going set is a far smaller group than school age gymnasts was a difficult discovery, indeed. Instead of a few moms milling about mid-morning in the waiting room of a near-empty gymnasium, my hour of quiet time was transformed into an hour of enduring crowds of parents oohing and ahhing over the flips and flops of their child — their one child among, oh, seventy-five or eighty filling the gymnasium in the evenings. And then there were the siblings. And the other siblings. And coaches. And. And. And. Quiet, it was not.

After one semester of this nonsense, I was struck with yet another brilliant idea. Why not enroll Evan in a mid-day pre-school class and keep Zoe in her evening class? One of us could surely keep Evan at home in the evenings (ostensibly, for quality one-on-one time with a parent), and I would get quality quiet time during his mid-day pre-school class.  Not a bad idea, indeed.

So it was with renewed visions of peace, quiet and tranquility that I arrived at the gym yesterday with my knitting in hand.  I was gleefully anticipating the entire hour Evan was to be in his lesson whilst I waited, nearly alone, in the quiet, sparsely occupied observation area.  Oh, the joy!

And then I walked in the door to the gym.  I saw not one, not two, but three girlfriends of mine who, apparently, have their children enrolled in the same mid-day class.  If ever I’ve wondered how much my life has changed since I became a mother, I learned, exactly, as I tossed my knitting aside in resignation, sat down next to them, forced a smile and resigned myself to an hour of god-damned friendly conversation and socializing.  Ha-rumph.

With a full week of school under our belts, we’re beginning to get our sea legs. The subject “we” is very much appropriate here, because despite the fact that only Zoe is attending school, it’s clearly the case that everyone in the family is affected by her newest milestone. There are changes in the morning routine, requiring a far-more efficient use of time than here-to-fore. There are papers to be signed, and car-pools to coordinate, and lunches to pack, and money to send, and, and, and. All of it, affecting our lives as much as (more than!?!) hers. And most, I must admit at this stage, are stressful changes. Most.

But there’s been one very pleasant surprise in all of this chaos. And, all of the pleasure is mine.

Each afternoon, just after two thirty, I head out the door. I drop Evan off at a neighbor’s house, and I drive to the school to pick Zoe and our neighbor’s other son up in the carpool lane. As I approach the school, cars are lined up around the block. I take one look at the line careening down the block and out of sight, and I smile. I smile because lying next to me in the seat is a book or a magazine — one destined to be my companion during the wait. It’s not a long wait. Ten, maybe fifteen minutes on a bad day. But a bad day in the carpool line is a good day, indeed. A few extra minutes in line is a few extra minutes in words and dreams and tears and shock and everything else bundled between the covers of a good read. A few moments to read, undisturbed, in silence, in the middle of the day. Nothing, nothing can beat that pleasant surprise.

It used to be, when I was nursing my children, I found a selfish indulgence in the ritual of providing food and love for my children. Sure, there was the time spent close and intimate with my child. Time spent snuggling and laughing and in awe at the wonder that was my child. But, Oh! The Reading! I devoured books while I was nursing. Devoured them, as if their intake was a crucial part of the extra nutrition required by the very task of nursing a child. A few minutes here, a few minutes there — each time my child paused his busy life of exploration to quietly drink in his love, I paused, too, to drink in a page or two or three of a book.

I certainly wasn’t expecting to re-discover that kind of personal joy in the sterility and mechanicalness of the suburban carpool line. No, not at all. But, I have. In the last week, there’s been the most recent issue of Brain, Child, devoured lovingly, article by article. And then, there were the last few pages of a clever, imaginative and surprising book of Faeries. Next week, Elephants, and then ugly Americans. After that? Who knows! It doesn’t matter, really. Representing a few moments of quiet, a few moments of serenity — right smack in the middle of the chaos that is the day — whatever text it is that sits next to me on the ride to the school occupies a sacred space. For, directly behind the mini-van with the mom droning on her cell phone and in front of the Volvo with its driver blankly enduring the interminable wait is a quiet little spot where words float from a page and get caught — every last delicious one of ‘em — by a most adoring and appreciative mom.
Yep, ten minutes, maybe fifteen on a “bad” day.

Welcome to Kindergarten, Zoe. I’m thrilled to be along for the ride.

The difference was apparent immediately.

Yesterday, she’d bounded to the car, filled with glee, unable to contain her excitement about the day. “I loved school, Mom!” she’d proclaimed before she was even half-way in the car. Today was a different story entirely. Hardly half-way in the car, and she tearfully said she’d really missed me at the end of the day. Voice cracking, she could hardly keep it together. And then, through choking sobs, the explanation for all the tears: a yellow card.

A yellow card. In the world of kindergarten’s rules and consequences, the palette of green, yellow, red, and then finally an ominous blue, marks a child’s behavior for the day and the week. Displayed on the wall for all to see, my daughter’s yellow card might as well have been a scarlet letter. The offense: talking out of turn, after repeated warnings. The yellow card her ticket to tears and hurt.

Certainly, she made a mistake. She broke the rules, and she must pay the consequences. Today, no green stamp. And this week, there will be no trip to the treasure box. These are real consequences to her. I believe she’s learned her lesson.

But there are other lessons to be learned which will be much harder to grasp. I’m certain of — and saddened by — this reality she unwittingly faces. Her deep, deep hurt broke my heart today. The tears, the self-disappointment, the anxiety — all of it, all too familiar. She was her own worst critic. And I recognized it immediately. My empathy for her was borne from my own tears. As much as, no, more than I wanted to make sure she understood what she’d done, I wanted to let her know, kindly and gently, that we all make mistakes. All of us. And we must be kind to ourselves when we do. Honest and fair, but kind, too. Because, too often, no one else will. Faced with the puddle pouring into the car this afternoon, I knew that was the lesson that was of import at the time.

Talking out of turn? I’m pretty sure she’s got that one licked at this point. Showing one’s self compassion and kindness? Somehow, I doubt that starting over tomorrow with a green card will be the end of that lesson. If only it were that easy.

Today is technically Zoe’s first day of Kindergarten.  Technically, I say, because where we live there’s this interesting phenomenon called “staggered entry” for kindergarten students whereby each child goes to school only once the first week of school and then ramps up to full time in the second week of school.  I can see the value in it — sort of — but the result is one very befuddled mother who’s trying to decide if she should technically be all verklempt today or wait until next week when it really means something.  But, I digress.

My daughter is very much like a teenager in the sleep department, and getting her out of bed in the morning is quite the task.  We’ve been practicing these last few weeks, trying to get her accustomed to the seven o’clock hour.  Zoe, meet seven o’clock.  She is your friend.  Really, she is. But today was the first day when it all came together “for real.”  Wake up, go potty, get dressed, brush hair, come to the table for breakfast, yadda, yadda, yadda.  Efficiency, Efficiency, Efficiency.  (Never mind the hobgoblin of small minds business…)

“I don’t like getting up early,” she complained, not surprisingly.  Her eyes had barely opened for the day when those words came out of her mouth.  In an empathetic but all-too-adult-like resigned way, I simply reflected, “Zoe, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I kind of regretted it.  Who’s to say it doesn’t have to be that way?

But Zoe’s a damn quick study.  No sooner had I offered her the gloomy prescription for the rest of her life, she brightened with a smile of recognition of one of life’s purest joys.  “I can sleep in on the weekends, right?”

You sure can, Zoe. You sure can.  Have a great first day at school, Boo.  I love you.

The other day, a friend showed me this clip on YouTube:

The back story: the two men raised the lion from infancy until they could no longer care for him properly. He was released to a refuge, where he lived as wild as he could. The video clip shows the trio’s reunion, over a year after his release. At the time, I was overwhelmed by the raw power and emotion of the moment captured on that video. My heart warmed and smiled at the same time.

I couldn’t help but think of that video this morning as I headed out the door to a day-long conference. It was early in the morning — just after seven, in fact. Although awake, neither of my kids had made it out of bed yet. I’d hugged and kissed them in their own beds, sharing a special moment with each of them before heading out the door.

As I opened the door, but before I stepped outside, I heard from my son’s bedroom a sweet voice telling me one last thing: “I miss you, Mom!”

Not even out the door yet, and I was missed. At that moment, I felt the complete love and adoration of my son, more powerful, wonderful and awesome than a thousand lion hugs and kisses.

Yesterday, as Zoe settled into the car after a play date with her friend, she said to me, “Mommy, you aren’t as thin as Julia’s mommy.” Ouch. Of course, Julia’s mommy runs marathons, so, even though I do in fact prefer a different body than I currently have, I don’t have any desires to acquire that of Julia’s mom’s, particularly if having it requires the running of marathons. Because, really, why? Still, Zoe’s remark — an innocent observation on her part — hit home a bit and caused me to pause.  That’s what self-consciousness will do to you.

I’m so glad my mood can be so easily swayed by my child. Because, today, Zoe had a different observation. When she whined pined for the beach, I told her to draw a picture of it to help her remind her and bring back good memories.  This is what she drew:

And her narrative?  Goes something like this:  This is the beach.  There is the ocean and the sand.  These are the coconut trees. And this is me and my mom in our bikinis.

Dude, I love this girl.

(And no, I decidedly do not wear a bikini in reality!)

“It’s MY room! I’ll arrange it anyway I want to!” said my all-too-sassy sixteen five year old girl one day.  She’d decided that her toys made great decorations throughout her room and was quite disappointed when I’d told her to put them away where they belong.  Really, she was just making yet another excuse to avoid cleaning up her room.

“It is not your room, Zoe.  This is my house, and your daddy’s house, and we let you sleep in this room.  But my rules apply in this room.  You will put the toys where they belong — in baskets, and in your pie safe.” (Don’t ask about the pie safe. Yes, I live in the South.)

Grudgingly, she accepted her fate.  I was pleased to have shown her the nature of the household hierarchy, despite the fact that I sounded too much like my father in doing so.

Apparently, though, I made an impression upon her.

“Go clean up your room, Zoe,” I asked this morning, as we were getting ready for the day.

Hardly a moment passed before I was met with the repercussions of my previous authoritative lesson.

“It’s YOUR room, Mom.  Your house.  Your room. You should clean it up.”

Don’t get me wrong, her attitude most definitely needs some adjusting.  But, damn her –  why wasn’t I that smart when I was her age?

Men aren’t the most empathetic of beasts. Don’t get me wrong — men are capable of empathy, and when they show it, it’s almost always powerful and strong and supportive and comforting all at the same time. But, in general, empathy isn’t usually the first reaction a man brings to a given situation. For them, empathy isn’t so much instinctual as it is a learned behavior — and one which must almost always takes a back seat, or at least plays second fiddle, to practicality.

This observation has never been so clear to me than it was this morning, as I was helping my son put on his shoes.

“Ow!” he complained, as he accidentally hit, with his shoe, the toe that he’d just injured the night before.

“Oh, I’m sorry, hon,” I offered empathetically. See, there was that female instinct rearing its head.

And in less than a nano-second, Evan replied, revealing his own instinctual bias, “But you didn’t do anything, Mom. Why are you saying sorry?!”

Such. The. Man.

Weeping Willow trees aren’t an every day sight around here. Our climate is just about at the edge of their comfort zone, and these days, it’s just too damn dry to support their voracious thirst. So, while there are Weeping Willows in the area, you might have to go looking a bit to find one.

Leave it to Zoe, our resident detailed observer, to spot one on the road the other day as we were driving to swim lessons. After a few a few miles of descriptions on her part that failed to bring to my mind the species of tree she’d seen, I was forced to turn around and drive back by in order to shut her, er, identify exactly what she’d seen.

“Oh, that’s a Weeping Willow, Zoe,” I explained as I drove past the tree a second time.

“A Weeping Willow?” she asked curiously.

“Yep.  See how the branches are drooping down?  It looks like it’s sad and crying a bit.”

“No it doesn’t!” she protested.  “I think it’s reaching down to give me a hug.  I think it’s a Hugging Willow.”

A Hugging Willow.   Some horticulturist sure missed the boat on that one.  I’m glad I have Zoe to set things right.