Could I say that our bad turn actually began the day before at our most favorite place, Tuesday Market? No, I can’t quite bring myself to lay blame entirely on the mushrooms. That wouldn’t be fair. It wasn’t their fault. Nor could I responsibly lay blame for the afternoon’s turn-toward-steaming-misery-and-tears-and-bad-humor all at the second child’s feet. I couldn’t.
I can say though, that in part, we suffered a mushroom problem.
**
Before I get to that, I must begin with the super good news: my second guy, the mushroom enthusiast, started seventh grade at a brand-new school. His first half-day received two thumbs up. To rewind a bit further: he was really brave and game getting going.
On the drive there (he will take the bus but first, starting middle school, he’s getting chauffeured for the first couple of days), he said, “I have butterflies.” Natural, I responded, adding I even had a few. He pointed out, “I haven’t started a new school since kindergarten.” You probably don’t remember your first day, I guessed. He did not.
Truthfully, I do not remember his first day of kindergarten, either. I can only barely remember dropping his younger brother off two years ago, being clung to until the teachers said to clung-to parents: “Shoo.” I felt badly about not being worried. By then—third kid through, second to have this particularly fantastic teaching team—I knew I was giving that clingy boy a big gift. Fortunately, after the adjustment, he agreed.
But here we were heading into a new parking lot, with its own confounding technical issues (namely too many cars funneling through too small a space with nary a natural turnabout). We were early and grabbed a parking spot with ease. I walked Lulu to the petite seventh and eighth grade classroom building. Three kids stood by the door, waiting for it to open. No other parents in sight, my seventh grader and I walked up together. Beyond nearly inaudible “hi’s,” no one spoke until a fourth kid, a second girl, approached her friend as if already launched into breathless monologue. My kid quietly muttered, “Bye, Mom,” and off I went into the big building where parents had been asked to gather first-day papers. I did say Bye, but not too loudly.
A quick aside here to say that for as much mumble and adolescent-like near-silence accompanied that scene—as middle school new day as you can get—inside the school I was greeted by an equal amount of warmth and welcoming. Parents I knew made a point to stop. Parents I didn’t know made a point to say hello, too. That’s a school culture issue. My kids’ elementary school does not have it, not that many parents and teachers aren’t welcoming in the hallways—indeed, they are—but this was different.
Anyway, at half-day’s end, he said he was “tired” and a little “overwhelmed”—and relieved. There’s more to the story, sure, and I am guessing we aren’t on easy street just yet, but what a satisfying feeling to imagine you did it—started something new after seven years in one place—and could feel pretty pleased about it. Added bonus: his little sister nearly leapt into his arms in his new classroom, drawing some positive attention—the perennial lure of the cute—his way. We nabbed a frozen yogurt before heading home, and could laugh at the complete stupidity of my ways, letting Saskia eat a soft-serve anything in the car. She was a mess of soupy sweetness dappled with rainbow sprinkles.
**
The frozen yogurt was especially good because it was a stinking hot day outside. The fact that I’d stood in a swimming pool for an hour-plus catching two toddlers as they jumped from the side before going to the school meant nothing to my body by the time we reached the school, wet suits in tow.
Back at home the afternoon took on the cloying quality of swampy-heat-plus-not-to-do plus a flurry of anticipatory butterflies about school starting for the others next week. This late Labor Day, with one in school, prolongs the hanging-and-waiting sensation for the rest. It’s not fun, especially when you add bayou air.
In no particular order, there was a grumpy seven year-old at loose ends, his pal Kate sick and unavailable to play although he’d been waiting (and his earlier refusal of two separate invitations to swim so he was just doing nothing), a teenager with a computer crash, the new-school kid bent on first doing nothing and then making tomato sauce and fresh pasta for dinner (heat be damned!) and to cap it off a toddler whose current idea of a successful naptime includes pulling her diaper off and peeing in the crib.
The only actual difficult part in this was the tomato sauce. It began innocently and well enough with the two middle brothers mounting bikes to pick up Hungry Ghost pasta, which seemed a fine first-day-of-school treat. I handed them money. Here’s what I remember: we checked out the pantry to confirm if there wasn’t HG pasta, we had some dry pasta on hand (we did).
The boys came back fifteen dollars later with two pricey containers of ravioli from Serios or State Street and capers and olives. I never agreed to any of those purchases. Stern mama-lecture #1: You must, Lucien, clear every purchase with me. You must not stray from what we’ve agreed upon.
Grumbled defensive non-apology from Lucien accompanied by profuse apologies from little brother, complete with worried little boy hugs. What’s wrong with that picture? Store the image, please.
While I was upstairs, pasta sauce was being cooked. With mushrooms—here we are, I do wrap back to the beginning—the exact ones that were purchased only after this conversation at Tuesday Market took place:
Lucien: “Can I get some mushrooms? I want to make tomato sauce.”
Me: Ezekiel doesn’t like mushrooms.
Lucien: “Some, he does.”
Me: You can only use them in tomato sauce if you get his agreement first.
Lucien: “If I don’t use them in the sauce, I’ll use them for something else.”
Me: Okay, then.
When I came downstairs having had a distraught—computer crash and then highly anticipated tomato sauce and fresh pasta dinner ruined—overtired teenager (in need of some kind of reasonable schedule and a bit more to do) in a furious rage just moments before, I came down hard on the tweenager.
Me: You were only allowed to get those mushrooms because you explicitly agreed to check with Ezekiel about how to use them.
Tweenager: I forgot.
For all my it’s-his-first-day sympathies, I had to make a consequence (and this kid, he abhors consequences). I said no cooking until the weekend and the rule—ironclad—is that he must clear every ingredient with a parent before he makes anything. He shot back that his consequence would be not to speak to me until the weekend and I retorted then he’d be getting himself to school because I wasn’t about to drive someone who wasn’t speaking to me anywhere (not my best response, I know).
We were speaking to one another again after he returned from the DA debate.
**
The seven year-old had a really hard evening, worried about his part in the mushroom debacle and upset over raised voices (he hates them as much as his brother does consequences, a poor synergy) and that vulnerable moment led him to melt down—again—about starting school without his most beloved people there (that’d be his friend, Kate, and his big brother, and a couple other just-turned seventh graders).
The toddler exercised her lungs at bedtime, possibly to rattle her mama’s nerve endings.
The eldest ate some of the ravioli and critiqued it mightily and used his papa’s computer, watched some Buffy the Vampire Slayer and generally calmed down.
**
Silver lining: the seventh grader reported “fewer butterflies” as we headed toward school the second morning (and as I drove off, I noted him talking to another kid standing outside the building).
Lastly, my dear old friend made a great suggestion on a recent blog post: don’t keep all the canvas bags. Brilliant! I tossed some. Note the improvement and forgive me for having finally ditched your extra clogs during last year’s attempt at remedying clutter, PD. I love comments.
