Thanks for checking in. I have been working some projects and re-visiting priorities--although, obviously, art lessons didn't make the list. Oy.
All's good here, though. Hope you can say the same.
More to come soon. Cheers, y'all ~ Jan
‘Tis the last day of August, and I can’t help but think: Good riddance, Month No. 8! I don’t think I’ll miss you.
Truth is, in recent years August has come to bog me down with its air stagnant as dog breath, its gardens that wilt overnight, its lake water hot as a bath.... I could go on, but it’s probably obvious already. The “in-between-seasons” blues hits me hard this time of year. Every year.
But August also happens to be “Happiness Happens Month!” So on that note, here are a couple lessons I've learned, or reconfirmed, during August. Some have made me happy. Others have just made me think. In either case, here you have 'em.
About the seasons: The seasons (and months) don’t just change with the weather, they change with our lives. August is a prime example.
As a kid, I loved August. Yes, it was hot and humid even back then, even up north in my native Michigan. But back in the day, school didn’t start until after Labor Day. August meant days at the lake. Nights to hang out. Time to wind down before back-to-school time hit. August was good.
Later, as a parent of school-aged children living in the South, I was surprised to learn back-to-school time didn't mean September but rather August. It was soooo early for the poor kids. But lucky mom. August became my second chance at a new year, a season to start with a clean slate once again. Equally important, August provided a chance to catch a breath before life really got busy, as in the HalloThanksChristmas season.
But August looks different in the grandparent season of life. I find myself happy but sorrowful as the grands return to school, their sports teams forming, their days less leisurely. They can no longer prioritize coming over for pool time or spending a day at the lake. That doesn't make me happy.
If I take an even deeper dive into this season of my life, August is one more marker of so many things I haven’t accomplished, like traveling to Scotland, finishing my work-in-progress, landing a literary agent, and marking all fifty states off my list of places I have been. Diving even deeper, if I get out of myself and plunge into the cavern of others’ lives, August reminds me there are loved ones of kids no longer with us (think Sandy Hook Elementary or Stoneman Douglas High School, just for two examples). Those folks truly have reason to mourn this bittersweet month.
Indeed, the seasons don’t just change with the weather. They often change on a dime. Much the way that life does.
About science and medicine. This past August has brought into focus medical miracles that continue to transform my life. I continue to be grateful and awed. And, no, I’m not talking about COVID vaccines, although they do fall into this category.
There are other medical wonders, besides the development of vaccines, that have transpired in the last seventy years or less. Specifically, I’m thinking about organ donation and transplant. The first successful kidney transplant occurred in the 1950s. Successful liver, heart, and pancreas transplants occurred in the late 1960s, and lung and intestinal transplants followed in the 1980s. Why do I care? Probably because my sister Lisa (below right) is alive today because my sister Tina (below left) bravely donated a kidney to her back in 2001.
Two other young women very special to me are facing a similar journey in the coming months of 2021. Needless to say I’m grateful for the advances in science and medicine throughout the years.
You likely have similar stories of medical miracles that have touched you. What about that sweet friend who’s battling cancer? Or the loved one struggling with mental health issues? Advances in science and medicine increase their chances for a positive outcome. A medical miracle touched my life yesterday when my husband had his left retina re-attached. Chances are he’ll regain at least 90% of the vision he’s lost. That’s the bomb. So I’m grateful for so many things. Advances in technology. Gifted doctors. Prayer. Good mojo. Positive outcomes are never guaranteed, but this August I’m reminded that miracles do happen.
About the garden. Oh, my, yes, Georgia gardens do get dry in August. (Dry, or plagued by floods, depending on the year and the time of the month.) In past arid Augusts, I blamed my wilting garden on my work schedule and not being able to water early morning. I no longer have that excuse. But I also don’t have the onus of fretting we’ll starve if the garden fails to come through. In that case, we’ll just re-till and try again.
But you know what? Sometimes even dry gardens produce. And that makes me happy.
So here’s to August—the lessons it provides, the happiness (and sadness) it brings, the seasons of life it touches. I may not be all that sorry to see this August's passing, but I damn well hope to be around to usher it in again in 2022.
Cheers ~ J
(This one’s for everyone muddling through this hot mess of crazy, also known as the beginning of the 2020/21 school year. God love us all!)
Ahh, the beginning of the school year. It used to be one of my favorite seasons. Not this year, though. This year I’ve got the blues. The back-to-school blues.
Once upon a time when I was a kid, back-to-school time meant new outfits, fresh school supplies, and the excitement (mixed with some dread) of learning who my teacher would be. I loved it all.
As a parent, back-to-school time represented an opportunity for fresh starts—for the kids and for me. I counted my blessings that my kids enjoyed school, and I didn’t feel too guilty about how much I reeeeeally loved the sanity of separation school provided both mother and child. I thought every parent felt that way, but soon I learned otherwise.
One of my first hints came when it was time to check out preschools for our youngest. I discovered a school that ran from 9 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. “Yay,” I cheered, “three days a week with no lunchtime fuss and muss at home.” “Ooooh,” a neighbor countered, “I’d hate to miss lunch and snuggles with my little those three days.”
It got me thinking. Was I Mommie Dearest or something? Or maybe just one of the Bad Moms ahead of my time?
Over the years, I’ve had plenty of moments to feel like a less-than-stellar mom. During the kids’ school years I second-guessed myself (and sometimes Rice and I butted heads) about everything from bedtime to screen time to study time to leisure time. Never mind homework and grades. We fretted over extracurricular activities, too. I’d spent my childhood involved in lots of activities. Rice hadn’t. I thought kids needed more down time to breathe. Rice didn’t. I suppose we were a good mix. He loved the camaraderie of being a team dad. While he liked to carpool and coach, I cringed at the snowballing competitive frenzy of it all.
One of the nicest things about not having school-aged kids for me has been feeling free of competitive pressures. Yes, in hindsight plenty of these pressures were ones I put on myself. (I’m lucky Pinterest hadn’t been invented yet; it probably would’ve sent me over the edge.) It took me a long time to realize I could be a decent mom even if I didn’t agree to be room mom, team coach, PTA prez, scout leader, art assistant, car pool queen, and primo party planner. I wasn’t a bad mom if I didn’t help build A+ dioramas or ribbon-winning science fair displays. I could be an A-okay mom even if I did serve processed foods, forget to pick a kid up from a club, fail to send in lunch money (twice in a row), or even—oops—drop the F-bomb.
It’s been years since I’ve had to worry about school-aged kids and the “mom” challenges they bring.
Until now. As of two weeks ago, our third-grade grandson has been attending school (via a quasi-Zoom session) from home. The catch? Our grandson’s parents aren’t at home to oversee this. They have to report to jobs, on site, with no telework options. An interesting irony? “Mom” reports to a public school to teach her own kindergarten students, who are also learning remotely. So yup, our third-grade grandson has been reporting to JJ and Big Daddy’s house, or to his Nana’s, to pursue his remote education. Each and every day of the school week.
For the record, I’m not second-guessing the district’s decision to go remote. Nor am I blind to the fact that so many families have much bigger concerns with all this. I get it. We’re among the lucky families with nearby retired grandparents able and willing to pick up the slack.
All that aside, I’m not loving this full-time remote-learning thing. It’s not exactly the retirement some of us had envisioned. Sure, in a bit, after I’ve finish this post, I’ll try to return to some Polly-Janna positive thinking and reframe all this. There’s always a silver lining, right? For instance, I am getting to spend more time with my grandson.
For now, though, let me vent.
I don’t like to see my “mom” insecurities returning. (I have even less energy and patience now than I had years ago.)
I don’t like the gosh-darned daily reminders that my computer skills are remedial.
I don’t like the tug-of-war between Rice and me to “oversee” B’s remote classroom. We both have first-born sensibilities. We both like to be boss. We figured out long ago we could either run a business together...or stay married. But now there’s this.)
I don’t like seeing my grandson lose interest because remote learning is not his thing.
I don’t like the huge burdens our teachers face...learning new technology pronto, getting to know their students by remote, trying to provide extra help to students who need it. This is particularly true for kids who have special needs or who speak English as a second language. But truth be told, don’t we all need extra attention from time to time?
And at the risk of sounding terribly self-focused, let me tell you what I don’t like the most:
I don’t like that my joy as a grandparent has been diminished. I hate to say that. But dammit, it has.
Grandparents shouldn’t have to set up an in-home learning center for a kid. Grandparents shouldn’t have to eavesdrop on a kid and narc him out to his parents when he tells the teacher he “forgot” to do an assignment. Grandparents shouldn’t have to chastise a kid because he’s not working up to his potential. Grandparents should be able to do what they do best: dote and spoil.
So, yeah. We all have our own challenges right now. Our coping mechanisms and tolerance levels are different. Some days we find it easier to stay positive than others. Some days we’re better about being kind and gracious with ourselves when we slip. And, God love us, some days we just have to wallow in the muck. And then do what we can to re-frame this whole thing.
There’s a phrase meant to remind us we should cherish the good times in life while remembering the bad times are not permanent. It is: “This too shall pass.” Some say it comes from the Bible (“...and it came to pass”). Others say it originated as a Persian adage, passed down through the ages, embraced by many, including Abraham Lincoln (“How much it expresses!”).
I, too, am a fan of the phrase. I use it. Often. And I believe it.
Another phrase comes to mind, too. It’s one I remember hearing from my late mom, a three-time widow who raised five daughters. I can’t remember her exact words, but I think the gist was to put on the big-girl panties and get over it.
Touche, Mom. I’m trying.
But dammit, 2020! Get on with it, won’t you, please?
I’m tired—oh, so tired—of singing the back-to-school blues.
Shooby dooby doo.... I mean, cheers ~ Jan
