With the arrival of Labor Day comes the end of summer. School is back in session, though it didn’t make much of a difference to Freebird and Baba, as they do the same thing they’ve always done. The pools in our town are now closed, even though it’s in the 90s this week and we could easily go after work to enjoy it. There’s simply no lifeguards because they all went back to school. Corduroy and wool are in the store windows, which is alarming visually since, see above re: 90s. I’m still wearing light layers to combat the 100+ degree subway platforms vs. my 10 degree office.

I liked this summer, even though our beach house is rented for the year, and we didn’t go to the Jersey shore once. I also feel like we’re sneaking in a vacation in a few weeks. Since Baba and Freebird aren’t in school, we can go away to the beach in September, which is my very favorite time there. In Jersey, the water is warm and blue and the weather is still nice but it’s absolutely vacant. Not crowded at all - I hate crowded in any venue. So in a few weeks we’ll head to Florida and enjoy the beaches there.

Baba took his first steps on Sunday, so the first of September brought a big milestone. Beach trips are a good idea, and its a pity we don’t have the house at the shore. Freebird learned to walk on the sand because if you fall down, it doesn’t hurt. But maybe the sands in Florida will be friendly to toddling Baba.

I like fall. Hubby loves fall - warm days and cold nights are his favorite. If he couldn’t live in San Diego where it’s in the high 70s most of the time, he’d be happy in a place with perpetual fall. I like fall, especially the beauty of it, and the crisp smell of it, but I’m sorry to see summer end, since I feel like I missed it. We didn’t have a kitchen until nearly July, and because of that project, our ability to finance a summer vacation was profoundly limited. Coupled with writing the book and writing in general, plus travel to San Francisco for a conference, our options were few, leaving me feeling a bit like summer passed me by.

I have to pay more attention this fall, so I can enjoy it more, and be more present in the present.

I’ve been ruminating frequently on the fact that I don’t remember things from when I was 2. Or 3. Or even 4. My earliest memories are very very small and fragmented, and I don’t know what age I am. I remember sitting between my parents on a bench seat of the family car while my dad drove, and I remember singing along with the radio. No car seat. Not even a seat belt, I think. Had to be the 70’s so I was probably under 5 years old. I don’t remember what song, but I do know that one of my childhood favorites was “Forever in Blue Jeans,” by Neil Diamond.

Yes, I was always that cool. Still am.

But I don’t remember things from when I was 2. So it absolutely blows me away that I have whole conversations with Freebird, absolutely hysterical discussions about things, and he won’t remember them. I’m amazed, just drop-my-jaw stunned that I will be the one to remember how much he loves his orange crazy shirt (which is so orange and so loud that I had to find a pair of cobalt blue shorts to pair it with, because if one’s shirt can be seen from space, one’s shorts should be equally as visually startling) and he sat on the bed with me this morning watching “Super Why” telling me that he’s Alpha Pig (with alphabet power, if you’re curious). I’m going to remember so much more of this time than he will, and that responsibility is overwhelming to me more than a little bit. It’s no secret that my memory is horrible. I don’t remember what I was wearing yesterday unless I think really, really hard about it.

I might not remember the specifics, but I do know that I won’t ever forget how fun Freebird is, how funny and happy and quietly thoughtful, how he has my concentration so when he’s focused on something, he won’t see or hear anything else. Drives Hubby nuts - now there are TWO of us in the house like that. I might not recall the specific little bits, but I absolutely adore without limits the pleasure of getting to know my son as he grows up. He might not remember the specifics of this time, but I hope he remembers that we’re having fun. 

I know one mom whose scrapbook page for her daughter’s first haircut is a technicolor wonderment that honors the first trip to the salon. I am not that mom. Not that she’s wrong, but that’s not me.

I picked up Baba O’Riley, who has long curly hair now that he’s nearly a year old, and was asked very kindly by the assistant director of his school if I wouldn’t mind trimming his hair out of his eyes, because he’s trying to walk and it obstructs his vision. No problem. Just don’t tell my mother in law, I said.

My MIL didn’t cut Hubby’s hair until he was 3 years old. It’s a Jewish tradition, and Orthodox families still do so, because the first haircut produces the long temple forelocks that you see on observant Jewish boys. While Hubby didn’t have the curly forelocks, he had a lotta hair at age 3. For a more contemporary version of what this looks like, look for an older picture of Ryder, Kate Hudson’s son. Hudson didn’t cut his hair until he was past 3, in deference to her Jewish heritage.

We were going to wait with Freebird, but when he started being mistaken for a girl shortly after he turned 1, we got his hair cut. It wasn’t worth it for people to wonder if he was a girl, especially because we weren’t going to cut the forelocks (aka peyes).

I was going to wait until after a year to cut Baba’s hair, but since the school asked me and had a valid reason, I grabbed the kitchen shears and trimmed his curly bangs so they’re out of his eyes. I think we’re going to take Baba to get a formal haircut this weekend, because with the short bangs and long curly back, he’s rocking quite a mullet.

(Yes, I saved the trimmings. In a Ziploc with his name and the date in Sharpie. SCRAPBOOK THIS!)

Hello Self:

This morning I read an entire magazine devoted to examining workplace health and happiness, and of course there was the obligatory, “Our jobs were stressful so we both up and quit and now we’re successful consultants with too much business and lots of time and money!” article. Blow me.

But the part that hit me right between my sleepy eyes was the section that talked about managing time (dedicate a time to answer your email so that your entire day doesn’t become auto-reply) and managing your balance (when you disconnect from work, disconnect ENTIRELY). This weekend we had friends over, and I was saying that in effect right now I have two jobs. Two nearly full-time jobs, all because in 4 or 5 years I want 1 part time job so I can be home at 2:30 when Freebird and Baba O’Riley get out of school. Really. All this work, all the writing and the development and the business plan? I don’t want to take over the world. I just want to earn enough that I can work from home on writing and speaking engagements and be home at 2:30. That’s my grand plan: home at 2:30. I know. Aim high? No. Aim for 2:30.

So while I’m running around in triage-mode trying to do everything, I’m neglecting the very things that I want to be home for at 2:30. That doesn’t make sense. So I need to come up with a better schedule and a better system to manage my time.

1. I need a set of times during which I will answer email and field questions.
2. I need to give myself a short task list at the end of each day so I can know what it is I need to do, and do it.
3. I need to prioritize the major projects and break them down into little steps.
4. I need to build a giant More Hours In The Day machine to build hours into my day (duh) enough that I can get more done and still do my other job(s).

Mostly, I need to keep breathing.

1. Best LOLcaption this week, possibly for whole Olympics.

2. I am tired. Bored now? Let’s move on.

3. Hubby said something wise last night while we grunted at each other over dinner (which was good, too. Hubby makes good burgers). Our whole life right now is triage. Deal with what’s most urgent, move on to next urgent thing, with many, many things piling up in the background. So, so fucking true like holy shit.

4. Freebird: “Baba is loooking at me! Stop looking at me!”
Morag: “It is way, way too early for that. No way.”

5. In a small matter of great personal triumph, I have managed to carve out 20 minutes for myself three times a week after work. I am so, so proud of myself for this. It’s ridiculous. But those 20 minutes I guard with the ferocity of a really cranky overtired overworked bear. With big teeth.

I have my first real complaint with our day care, the first that I have to bring to the attention of the directors. It’s not a big deal, and I have no problem with the care that they give, but the idea that I have to raise a complaint makes me feel awful.

Since Freebird moved up to the preschool level, they’ve been watching movies. I have absolutely no problem with TV. Really, I couldn’t care less that they watch movies while they have snack. They turn down the lights, they sit in chairs and have cups of crackers, and they mellow out before the end of the day.

But a few nights this weekend, particularly two nights ago, Freebird has been waking up with massive, screaming, awful nightmares. They’re not night terrors; I read about them online (because the internet is for your own home psychiatry needs!) and Freebird can interact with us and have conversations, so it’s not night terrors. It’s straight up nightmares - but they’re awful. He dozes off, has another one, wakes up crying, and wants us to sit with him. At 2, 3, and 4 am? I want to sleep.

We couldn’t figure out what was scaring him so bad. We left the light on, we used a room air freshener spray as “anti-witch spray” because he’s been scared of witches for awhile. We added a nightlight, we used the dimmer on his room light, we gave him books to read so he could be quiet until he fell back asleep. None of it would work. He was scared shitless and wanted us in the room with him.

Yesterday afternoon, I asked him in the car if he remembered that he had bad dreams the night before.

“Yes.”

“Did you have dreams that scared you?”

“Yes.”

“What were you scared of?”

“The witch and the shark.”

Uh oh. I had a bad feeling about that one, because I bet I could guess the source.

“The witch and the shark?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you see a witch and a shark?”

I’m scattered so here’s a list:

1. Morag: “Ok, dude. Time for you to rest.”
Freebird: “I don’t wanna rest!”
Morag: “Well, I’m tired. I’m going to rest. First I’m going to have a shower, then I’m going to rest.”
Freebird: “You’re going to take a shower?”
Morag: “Yup. I’m dirty.”
Freebird: “What are you covered in?”
Morag: *blinks*

I had no idea he equated showering with being covered in something. I mean, I was covered in grass from running around the yard in a sprinkler, but still. Whoa.

2. Yesterday, Baba O’Riley stood up on his big baby feet, let go of the table in front of him, clapped his hands, and sat down on his tush. He stood unassisted. Walking will not be far behind. He’s 10 months old. Oh, boy oh boy.

3. We have our house back. Hubby and I were blessed by the coveted double nap on Saturday and Sunday and we cleaned and moved and schlepped and reorganized, and now we have a kitchen, a dining room, a living room, and a big ass playroom for the boys. Used to be we had a construction site (kitchen), a temporary kitchen/holding pen of appliances (dining room) and an all-purpose mess room (living room). I have my home back. My house is a home for us again. I cannot possibly say how happy this makes me.

4. We were also blessed by a double-sleep-in on Saturday morning where both boys lovingly and adorably slept to mother-effing 8:30 am (Oh thankyou thankyou thankyou). But of course on Sunday, which is Hubby’s day to sleep in, Freebird was ready to rock at 6am. So I got up, and while Hubby and Baba slept in, and Freebird watched Super Why, his new favorite show (all about reading, letters, and phonics), I cleaned and moved furniture around and generally made myself and our house very happy.

5. Freebird helped me make pancakes ("I stirred the milk and the egg!") and helped Hubby install a new baby gate at the top of the stairs ("I did the screws!"). He’s on the cups of being a big boy and being the baby at home, now that he’s moved up to preschool, but seeing how capable and eager he is just kicks ass.

6. Baba O’Riley is at that also-annoying (for him, not us) cusp of wanting to interact with us and wanting to communicate with us, but not having the language or motor skills to do so. But funny enough, Freebird helps us out. This weekend, Freebird tore his cheese ravioli up into little pieces and shared them with Baba at dinner last night. I never would have thought to try that, but Freebird announced, “He likes yolis too!” (Ravioli are “yolis” in Casa Morag) and sure enough, there was nom-nom-nomming going on with both dudes. Baba was happy to sit next to his big brother and Freebird was very carefully and thoughtfully tearing up pasta and sharing with his brother. So awesome. Makes me happy just thinking about it.