I'm the Mom!?

You would think that after five years of being one, I would be at least a little comfortable with the title of 'Mom'. But nothing could be farther from the truth. When Uta was a baby it was easier. Caring for him was simple, like an extension of my own body, I could anticipate his needs, calm him in an instant. Nurturing him came easier then caring for myself. I felt like I had always been his mother. 

But with the start of school things shifted, our once symbiotic relationship had a new outside influence, the clock. No longer could we flow through our days following nothing but our natural whims. Uta had to be at school by 8:40 and that meant getting him to bed early enough to make that a possibility. We had deadlines, bedtimes, consequences. Overnight I grew to hate the sound of my own voice, always pushing him, trying to move him along at a pace completely foreign to him. Uta felt the difference. He started saying 'You hate me' all the time. He said that I was different, I had changed, and requested that I start wearing my hair in a ponytail again like I did when I was 'nice'. (This request was a little baffling and all I can guess is that he had linked my ponytail to the summertime when our days were our own.)  

Of course I didn't hate him, but suddenly I had no patience and spoke to him in a tone that I never would have fathomed just months earlier. He clearly didn't like it and I didn't either, but thats the way it has to be I thought. I'm the Mom, I have to be the time police. When talking about this with a friend recently she said, 'Welcome to the daily grind'. Just then something in me clicked. No! I will not welcome the grind. Yes, we have to be in school on time, but there is no reason why we can't engage the morning rush with smiles on our faces. There is always time to bring a little joy into the moment. I don't want to be the 'Mom', I just want to help this little person bloom. I just want to be with this new soul, who happens to be my boy, and dance this dance together.  

Old Trick, New Kid

Happy Easter

We love Erica-sensei!

One of the hardest things I have encountered in motherhood is entrusting the care of my boy to complete strangers. Fortunately I did not have to face this hurdle until last year when Uta entered Pre-K. I know for some, the prospect of spending 24 hours a day for four years straight (literally) with one's child sounds like a nightmare, but for me, nothing else would have felt right. Never once did I have to worry if he was in good hands, I could be confident that every moment of his days were imbued with love. And in my opinion that's all the early years need be about, being loved. 

Uta's pre-K teacher was a gift, endlessly patient and kind, it was easy to trust her. The transition was natural. But this year we were not so fortunate, the only thing Uta is learning in Kindergarten is the fact that not everyone in this world is nice. I guess he had to find out sooner or later, but its sad to watch that magical thinking fade into reality. 

Restoring our faith in education is Uta's after school teacher Erica-sensei. Uta spends Thursday afternoons with her studying Japanese, and its clearly Uta's happiest time of the week. Never do I see him as proud as when I pick him up after Japanese class. Not only is Erica-sensei gentle and encouraging in her approach, she leads with her heart. On several occasions tears have welled up in her eyes as she spoke to me about Uta's progress. She really gets him. She sees past the shyness that hangs heavy on him in the classroom. His shyness is just on the surface, a cloud of hesitation, easily blown away in the right hands, but not everyone takes the time to do this. Erica-sensei does. She sees how brilliant he is inside and has made it her personal mission to make him see it too. We love Erica-sensei.

Sinking Ship

H and I have always lived in odd homes together, some of them pleasantly so, others not so much. Our first apartment was a block from a Hudson River off shoot, sort of trapezoidal in shape, it felt grand, like the helm of some old noble boat. Our next place had no front door and was truly baffling to access. Enough said. Our home in Japan was utterly perfect, but was also coincidentally a stopping place for the gods, the fact of which was verified by the local buddhist priests. The last place we lived would have been better suited as a bowling alley. And now? Well, this place is most akin to a sinking ship. In more ways than one.

New Neighbor

Somewhere, lost in the towers of boxes that line the walls of our apartment, is my clarity of thought. Oh and our daily routine. We've located our pajamas, toothbrushes, and of course the legos, but all else is momentarily unavailable.  We are all a little batty at the moment, longing for the humdrum of everyday life, where things are where they should be, and every impulse is not followed by a blind search through everything we own. Until things settle a little bit more, I'm afraid all I can do is post pictures. For now, please fill in the stories. I promise to return with words in the not too distant future.

Painting the Walls

Building a Bed

First Night

Moving Day

We were very lucky to have two good friends help us move. Really good friends. Good friends willing to carry heavy heavy boxes down from our old third floor walk up and up to our new second floor apartment. Too too many boxes, and garbage bags, and bicycles, drawings, and cumbersome furniture. It was a very long day too, lasting  from 11:00 in the morning to 8:00 at night. It was a day worse than the toughest boot camp,  like being on a possessed stair master that is running at top speed but won't let the rider go free. Really really good friends. I am so grateful to them. Thank you.

And as if that were not enough, as the u-haul pulled up to the new place to prepare to unload, another dear friend arrived toting the most beautiful and delicious homemade bento. Together we all enjoyed a picnic lunch on the floor and our new apartment took a giant step closer to feeling like home.  Thank you.

Uta, however, was most impressed with his artful arrangement of fork and spoon. (Picnic photos courtesy of Uta.)

So Long Sunset Park

So long Sunset Park. So long to the white dog on the corner with the different colored eyes and to Uta's arch-nemesis, Issandro. S0 long to the dumpling man who calls Uta, 'Yuri' and to Eighth Avenue, with its buckets of turtles and frogs, baskets of escaping crabs. So long to the Vietnamese ladies who swarm around Uta searching for proof in his features that he is really my son. So long to Rosa in the Avon shop who accepted our packages and taught Uta to say 'Buenos Dias.'  So long to the boys at Johnnies and to the church that filled our view. So long 'N' train. So long to our home that held us safe for three sweet years. So long.

But this whole house loves me.

We are moving. What prompted this sudden uprooting is still too tragic to put into words. Once we are settled, I hope to gain a little perspective, a little humor, and then I will write about the details. We will still be in Brooklyn, but a new neighborhood, closer to Uta's school. We will be able to sleep thirty additional minutes in the morning! This is huge. And on the return side, the quicker commute means more 'home-time' for Uta in the afternoons. This is like hitting the jackpot for the boy, he desperately craves home. He complains on a daily basis about not having enough time to play with his legos. The afternoons at our house are always this mad squeeze to fit everything in, my agenda and his, and still sleep at a reasonable hour. It rarely happens. So the move is good. We will have more time, ride fewer trains, and be closer to friends. 

But it is still a move, and moving is always horrible. Anxiety rises as more and more of our everyday gets packed into boxes. At night especially, worries bloom, and protests rise up. This is home for Uta, it has been for three years. Although he has moved several times already in his young life, this is the first time he really comprehends what's happening and can voice his concerns. And this is his home. He loves it here. This too far from everything, awkwardly arranged, extremely loud, third floor walk up is home. It is love. And this love is not unrequited. According to Uta, this whole house loves him. This whole house will miss him.