So This is What Panic Feels Like

The Redhead and Second Favorite Uncle hanging out in London.

I thought I would be writing about how The Redhead went to London with Favorite Uncle and Second Favorite Uncle and had a fabulous time. But I'm not.

He did, of course, have a fabulous time. From what I can gather (and that comes in bursts of information at random times because that's how teenage boys communicate) he saw the Tower of London, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, and some castle. He took the tube, went on a river tour, and stayed in a flat. He sampled every British candy bar that exists, it sounds like, and is particularly fond of something called the Wispa. The Uncles took him to see numerous theater productions, most of which he slept through, but seemed to appreciate all the same. But I have trouble focusing on these travel tales because it is all such white noise for me compared to the fact that he had a severe allergic reaction and I wasn't there.

I was nervous sending him on his first trip out of the country without us. (To complicate matters, Aquaman left the day before for Alaska where he'll be commercial fishing for the whole summer with limited communication. But that's a whole other post.) We checked and double-checked that he had his Medic-Alert bracelet on his wrist (I would have glued it there if I could have), that Benadryl was stashed in various spots that he could get to easily, and that he had his Epi-Pen and inhaler, just in case. He had instructions to parse out 2 Benadryl each to The Uncles so that if he somehow managed to screw up and forget his, he would still be covered in an emergency. The Uncles are familiar with his food allergies - his most serious ones are to all nuts and fish. They've watched him grow up and seen us navigate the world with dietary restrictions. Favorite Uncle was our nanny one summer when we lived in Alaska and fed, diapered, bathed, and cared for all three boys like a pro. I couldn't have asked for better circumstances under which to have The Redhead venture beyond America's borders.

The Redhead goes International!

This trip was a gift from The Uncles for The Redhead's 15th year. He is old enough to travel without parents and young enough to still want to travel with relatives. Aquaman and I didn't go abroad until we were 18, so he beat us by 3 years, which is some kind of awesome. I dropped him off at the airport on Friday and he flew to Chicago to meet The Uncles. They continued on to London, arriving Sunday. We had limited communication, but I got texts and pictures periodically when they had access to WiFi (international cellular charges can be brutal and are best avoided). A lot of the pictures are of The Redhead sleeping, everywhere they went. Which is probably more because he's a teenager than because of the 6 hour time change.

Teenagers sleep anywhere.

A rare moment of The Redhead awake and Favorite Uncle explaining something British.

Things were going well. I had worried for nothing, as mothers do. Then, on the last day, I got this text from The Redhead around noon:

Guess who fed me cashews 

And the world stopped spinning.

My response?

Oh shit. Are you ok?

And I'm thinking he's GOT to be okay because he's texting me. But maybe it just happened. But still. He's texting. It can't be THAT bad, right?

He texted back that they were at an Indian restaurant and had explained his allergies to nuts and fish. They had all ordered the same thing, but The Redhead's was a smaller version. When the food came, The Uncles saw there was a particularly tasty mint coriander sauce missing from The Redhead's plate. So, naturally Second Favorite Uncle took a chip, dipped up some sauce and handed it to him. "You gotta try this!"

You can hold your breath at this point. I know I did. Like I said, I wasn't there. But here's what I've managed to piece together.

The sauce was definitely tasty. And then tingled the roof of The Redhead's mouth where it first made contact. And then his tongue felt funny. And then his throat felt tight.

"There was definitely something in that," he announced. "Yep. I'm allergic to something. Bad." He popped first one Benadryl, then another for good measure.

The Uncles were floored. "Are you sure it's not just spicy?" they asked.

I snorted at this part in the story. Amateurs. (Perhaps I have some built up resentment that all parents of allergic children have? Or maybe it's just bitter old me. But the fact is no one else really gets it - truly - until they've seen it in person.) This is how it happens. Innocently, as part of sharing a meal. We humans do it three times a day. It is a necessary part of life. And for someone with food allergies, this very act of existing involves inherent danger. And no one's to blame. No one is at fault. It is just reality that things can go from normal to life threatening in seconds.

"Nope. This is the real deal," The Redhead explained. After having to request water and drinking his soda to try and get some relief in his mouth, he announced that he would be throwing up. He made it down the stairs and opened the door to the bathroom and barfed everywhere. (This means he threw up all of the Benadryl he had just taken before it could work.) He had to stay down there for a while until he felt like he was done throwing up and could stand up and walk, during which time several men tried to come in the bathroom and were confronted with a slick of vomit. The Redhead finally made it back upstairs and The Uncles had interrogated the waiter and discovered that the sauce was intentionally left off of The Redhead's plate because it contained cashews.

So I abruptly stopped getting texts from The Redhead and instead got a picture of him sent by Second Favorite Uncle. I think the picture was meant to reassure me, but all I saw was my baby with a slightly swollen eye and lip, which happens during a severe reaction. So I began firing off texts to assess the situation and stationed myself in front of my laptop to quickly refresh myself on the stages of allergic reactions to cashews. Here's a sample of some of the texts flying back and forth between me and Second Favorite Uncle:

Me: 

OMG

Did this just happen?

Has he taken Benadryl?

SFU: (I think it's funny that Second Favorite Uncle's initials contain FU)

Yes

He took it

He's ok

Me:

Is he drooling

Or having trouble breathing

SFU:

And we will watch him closely...try not to worry

Me:

Did his eyes swell

SFU:

He is fine

No

To all 3

I promise I will tell u if he has any trouble

Me:

How long has it been since he took a bite

SFU:

15 mins

Me:

And about 15 min since Benadryl?

SFU:

He just threw up but he is not having trouble breathing

Me:

OMG

SFU:

Yes he took it right away 

Me:

Good that he threw up

SFU:

His eyes are not swelling

Me:

Tongue?

Any hives

SFU:

Nope

Nope

Me:

Good

SFU:

He is moving around just fine

Me:

He is probably freaked out

He may have stomach ache later and diarrhea.

And be very tired.

15-20 minutes is usually the time frame for major reaction so if passed that good

SFU:

It has

Me:

But watch him for next 24 hours. I have heard of secondary reactions later. 

SFU:

He is already joking around again.

Me:

Ok. Take care of my redhead. He's the only one I've got.

Be ready if things get worse. Use the epipen and get to an er if it isn't getting better.

And during the time that I'm texting, I'm searching Google for things like "stages of anaphylaxis" and getting images like this:

Wikipedia image. Creative Commons.
Serious shit, alright? 

Probably not the most reassuring image. I was also looking up cashew allergies and finding articles that proclaim cashews cause the most severe reactions, are worse than those to peanut, and strongly related to anaphylaxis. (This New York Times article about radical treatments for severe food allergies only made me feel worse, but in good company with other parents.) Of course I know all of this already. The Redhead's worst reaction ever was to a cashew nut disguised under a layer of chocolate on Halloween when he was a wee toddler. I am quite familiar with all of the horrors. And I couldn't stop myself from looking it up. And you know what else I looked up? The distance from Dallas to London. 

How bout they just say, "A long fucking way, Momma."?

4,745 miles, folks.  

I hadn't looked it up until that moment. 

And that's when I fell apart. 

Tears came along with the terror of the realization that I could do nothing for my child. Things were beyond my control, out of my hands. I was crying so much that I had to wipe away the tears to be able to focus on the goddamn texts I was sending and receiving. I felt compelled to send The Redhead a text telling him that I loved him.

I felt sick to my stomach. Then I just gave over to it and sobbed, my head in my hands on the desk. 

As I surrendered to helplessness, the desperation I felt reminded me of a book I had just finished reading. Mary Karr's memoir Lit details her battle with alcoholism and spirituality and her finally giving in to praying. A pivotal moment for her was when she got down on her knees in complete agony to pray for the first time. I understand this resistance. And in that moment, I dropped to my knees on the floor beside the desk and whispered, "Please don't take him, God. Please don't. Not now. Not like this. Don't do it. Please. I'm begging." 

I felt worse. Uttering the words "take him" made me feel like I was opening that possibility up to the universe. I jumped up, ran to my bed, and got back down on my knees with a new request. "Please, God, protect him. Send a cloud of goodness around him that nothing can penetrate." I visualized this cloak of healing and recovery, bathing him in light. "Protect him. Protect him. Protect him," I chanted. And that made me feel better. But I kept right on crying.  

The Uncles and The Redhead had to leave WiFi en route to their next destination, another theater. But Second Favorite Uncle left the theater to text me that everything was okay and to try not to worry. They were able to FaceTime with me later so that I could lay eyes on The Redhead, who looked exhausted. He had slept through another theater performance after eating an entire bag of malted milk balls. This made me cringe. I wanted him to eat nothing but plain rice until he got back to me. 

The next afternoon, he was back. I had to banish fears of him having a secondary reaction while they were on the flight from London to Chicago. I was able to breathe again when The Uncles texted that they were back stateside and that all parties were alive and well, but I didn't relax until he was safely in the passenger seat of my car at the airport in Dallas. He then gave me a blow-by-blow account of the whole episode and filled in some of the details - like the part where he took 2 more Benadryl after throwing up the first 2. That might be why he slept through the theater. Just a guess. But it may have saved his life. 

And it's the life taking/life saving part that gets me. All parents worry. I know that. But I have a very legitimate reason to worry. Food allergies mean that something your child eats can kill them. It's just that simple. Which makes parenting just that complicated.

So I'm extra grateful that The Redhead returned safely and he had this amazing international experience at the tender age of 15 thanks to two pretty amazing, generous, and caring individuals who also happen to be his uncles. He's back to his old self. After a short "honeymoon" period wherein he sweetly shared his British candy bars with his brothers, he's back to fighting with them nonstop. He hasn't showered since he came back to America. That sounds really dramatic, doesn't it? It's the reality of living with a teenage boy. And I know how lucky I am to experience it.  

The Redhead and Me.
I look squirrely. With good reason.

Redheaded Stranger

There are things that separate me in my house of boys. I am the other. I am the girl. I do not concern myself with the inner workings of solar panels and recharging batteries and hydrogen. My eyes glaze over when they talk about Minecraft and I simply do not understand the frenzies they work themselves into over the xBox. We are so very different, my children and I.

Or are we?

Our oldest, The Redhead, has made me see things differently lately. I have written before about how we get each other. But as he becomes firmly planted in the world of teenager-ness, those moments of connection are fewer and far between. So I take notice when they happen. I don't want him to become a stranger to me. I want to acknowledge and recognize and shout from the rooftops: "We have something in common! We share an interest! My sweet firstborn child is not lost to me forever!"

Here's the secret formula:
Books + Music = Connection

1) Books

I am a huge reader. I used to teach middle school English and high school Social Studies, and while I haven't taught for two years now, I still keep up with the new and good in YA fiction. I wouldn't characterize The Redhead as a huge reader (I had plenty of students that always had their noses in books for comparison.), but he does enjoy a good book and is usually reading something. We've connected before with books - The Hunger Games, Ender's Game, The Book Thief - reading them aloud as a family and then going to see the movie. But a few months ago for my book club I read The Fault in Our Stars by John Green and loved it.

It wasn't going to be something we would read aloud with The Redhead's little brothers, who are in 7th grade. It involves kids dying from cancer. But I knew The Redhead was old enough to handle it. And I thought he'd like it. So I handed it over to him. He already knew the Green brothers from their Youtube channel, vlogbrothers, so he was willing to give it a try. I told him I cried through the last 30 pages. He smirked. I could see he was thinking I was just being a sentimental momma. Three days later, he came in to my room after everyone else had gone to bed. His eyes were wet. "I finished it. It was awesome."

And my heart was happy.

He got another John Green book from his English teacher at school: Looking for Alaska. When he was done, he pronounced it equally awesome and gave it to me to read. Do you see what's happening here? We are recommending books to one another. I started reading it and saw all the talk of teenage attraction and sex a bit differently knowing that my son had already read it. There is a pivotal scene involving oral sex - yep, oral sex - that embarrassed me for a moment. Only because I knew my 14-year-old had already read it. And yet he wasn't so embarrassed that he didn't recommend the book to me. So I got over my embarrassment and considered it a very good thing that we could "talk" openly - through reading - about a sensitive subject that most parents would avoid like the plague. We ended up having a great conversation about John Green and how he actually went to a boarding school (like the characters in the book) and how I also had gone to a boarding school. Which The Redhead knew but now sees in a whole new light.

We've got our own little book club. We are the only two members. So now we're on to Divergent by Veronica Roth. I read it and passed it on to The Redhead. I told him he has to finish it so we can go see the movie. And of course we are going to see The Fault in Our Stars when it comes out this summer - that goes without saying.

2) Music

As a mother who can impose my will on my children, I have insisted that they all learn to play an instrument. In this family, the band program offered as an elective at school is mandatory. The Redhead was the first to experience this tyranny, since he's the oldest. He started out taking piano lessons as a wee one. This helped him immensely when he joined band in middle school because he already knew how to read music. He suffered through a year of trying to play the french horn before he changed to the clarinet. He was so good he was asked to play the bass clarinet. This year has been his first year in marching band and it has been a success.

The Redhead after his winter concert.
That blurry thing is his bass clarinet.

Although my children may argue, my point is not forcing my will on them. I am hoping music will become something that they love and that brings them some enjoyment in life. But I can't make it happen. I can provide an environment that values music. I can make sure they have parents who listen to music at home and in the car. Parents who plan their entire day around the approaching Grammy awards and expect watching the show to be a family affair. I am a mom who turns it up and sings along. Aquaman is a dad who quizzes them when a song comes on the radio: "Who sings this?" he asks them and they scramble to answer correctly.

For Christmas, the boys requested things like laptops and iPhones and iPads - things we could not afford x3. This is in addition to the fact that we have successfully resisted giving our teenagers smartphones for many reasons. We tried to be creative with gifts - things that would encourage their interests. For The Redhead, I zeroed in on a record player as the perfect gift. At his high school's Open House in the fall, he had been most excited to introduce us to his English teacher because she had a record player in the classroom. It wasn't just an antique - she played it every day and displayed her collection of albums. She told us that she had to move The Redhead to a seat somewhat removed from the record player because he was mesmerized (read: distracted and unable to complete assignments) by it. This stuck in my head. I mentioned it to Aquaman as we did our Christmas shopping. He wasn't on board at first. "Do you really think he wants that?" he asked. "Are you sure? He didn't put it on his list, did he?"

I stood firm. "Yes. He'll love it. Trust me."

I did worry that I would be wrong -  that he would be disappointed when he opened the box Christmas morning and it wasn't a computer or a phone.

Only he wasn't. He was so surprised and pleased that he almost cried. He told me later it was the best present he had ever gotten.  

The best present ever.

We have had a great time hunting used bookstores for albums. Aquaman and I got him started with a few favorites of our own. We consider these essential to his music library.

The first album that was ever given to me.

A favorite of my parents.
We must have listened to this album a million times growing up. 

Only the best country album ever.

I am a child of the 80s. This proves it.

And while we guided him in the old wise ways of 80s pop, he introduced us to this:

His English teacher plays Daft Punk in class a lot - that's how he found out about them. I had never heard of them, but once I listened to the song Get Lucky, I had to scroll through Youtube and let The Redhead listen to Zapp and the S.O.S Band and Marvin Gaye and Stevie Wonder so that he could hear how 70s disco and 80s R&B had influenced this incredibly popular group of 2013. See what's happening here? We're recommending music to each other. And when Daft Punk won their Grammys this past weekend, I knew all about them. Which made me feel like a cool, hip momma - no easy task for a 43-year-old. Thank you, son. 

This past week, I heard the new song Say Something by A Great Big World on Pandora and was haunted by it. Have a listen. I challenge you not to cry. 

This song was playing one day when The Redhead came home from school and I asked him if he knew it. He did indeed. He was busy on the iPad, so I continued cleaning up the kitchen and washing clothes. And then, as I folded, I heard him picking out the notes to the song on his Casio keyboard. I paused in my work, straining to hear. He was playing the song. He searched it on Youtube and found a tutorial on the chords and now he was playing it. I had done the same thing countless times as a teenager (minus the Youtube part, since it didn't exist) - picking out a song from the radio on our piano. I almost cried. That was it. That was the moment that I knew exactly why I had insisted on piano lessons and band and music in our lives. It was for this. So that a person can connect with a piece of music on a level that makes them want to learn to play it themselves. 

I emerged from the laundry room and captured the moment.

We ended up moving to the living room where he played the keyboard and I played our out-of-tune piano, the music loud for us to follow and cover the sounds of our off key voices. We advanced to Coldplay and played Fix You and Clocks and The Scientist. It was a Partridge Family moment. We had fun together. 

And again, my heart was happy. 

This teenager thing isn't so bad.  

The Surprising Things You Need to Survive an Ice Storm with Three Teenage Boys

The library is closed. 

I survived the great Ice Storm of 2013 and so can you!

Icepocalypse 2013 arrived north of Dallas late Thursday night. I woke up to the sound of what I thought was gunfire. It turned out to be trees, breaking under the weight of ice half an inch thick. We still had power. I rolled over and went back to sleep. What? School was cancelled for the day. If you think I wasn't going to take advantage of not having to get three boys out the door, you're crazy.

Our backyard icicles.

Frosty.

The backyard was a popsicle when I looked outside our kitchen window Friday morning. Everything was encased in ice. The trees drooped. One of our peach trees still stood proudly, the other looked like a wilted house plant someone forgot to water. Our driveway, covered by arching limbs that provide shade, had become an icy tomb for my car. Limbs hung heavily, inches away from the car's roof. Other limbs had snapped, blocking the way. I wouldn't be going anywhere.

Happy Peach Tree

Sad Peach Tree

Can you see my car buried in there?

Those are icicles on the flag. Really.

The Redhead. The only one awake before noon.

I walked up and down our street, mug of coffee in hand, astonished at the number of ancient oaks that had split under the weight of ice.

Our street

One of my favorite trees right next door

It's a goner.

I tried to talk a neighbor out of driving to work and discovered that the rest of the street had been without power all night. I felt lucky. Neighbors came over and warmed up in our still cozy house. I made a pot of chili. Just as I finished, we lost power. I didn't feel so lucky.

Our three teenage boys had been wandering the street, busting up anything encased in ice. Seriously. I had to confiscate a baseball bat from The Redhead and explain that plastic and wood will shatter if you hit it in freezing temperatures. They tried sledding down a hill with the lid from an ice chest and cardboard boxes. It worked about as well as you might think. The Redhead and Thing 2 talked me into walking the few blocks downtown to buy sleds at the only store that was open: The Ski Shop. They were doing a brisk business selling all things winter while everything else was shuttered. I had no idea that, for $30.00, I was buying my sanity for the next 50 hours.

And that brings me to the things that became absolutely essential to surviving Icepocalypse 2013 with three teenage boys. I've listed them in order of importance.

1) Sleds

Worth every penny and the dangerous trek downtown over icy sidewalks, sleds saved me. The boys were completely entertained, flying down nearby hills on plastic saucers. They stayed out for hours with other kids from the street, leaving me to fret over how to keep the pipes from freezing as temperatures hovered a few degrees above single digits. Thing 1 made a modified snowboard by removing the wheels from his skateboard. Genius. They came home only when they were too cold to stand it any more and to eat. Which brings me to my next item.

2) Beans

I can't tell you how grateful I was for the cans of beans we had stocked in our pantry. We ate baked beans, black beans, and refried beans. We ate them in chili, with cut up hot dogs and cheese, and plain. They're easy to heat up (we had a gas stove that we could light with matches), allergy friendly, and filling. There were consequences as a result of our legume-exclusive diet that could not be avoided. It was worth it.

3) A Fireplace

I had forsaken our fireplace last winter because it didn't draw correctly and we got smoked out of our living room. It was a frivolous item in Texas, I had decided. We didn't really need it. I cleaned that sucker out this spring and threw away the bulky fire screen and log grate. I thought about decorating it with pillar candles. And now I was kicking myself.

It was our only source of heat, smoky or not. Aquaman had carefully stacked logs he'd collected on the side of the house in various places. They were covered in ice now and I didn't know if they'd burn. But I thought back to our days in Alaska where we heated our home with a wood stove. We had cords of wood stacked up outside and it was certainly exposed to the snow and ice there. So I went and dug under the top layer of wood and found dry logs and hauled them in. I opened the flue all the way, crumpled up old paper grocery sacks underneath the wood, and lit a match. It burned the paper and went out. The Redhead wandered in and get this - brought me a Duraflame log from his room. I'm not kidding. You never know what those boys have in their room. He said it was left over from a camping trip. A kind neighbor also brought me a bag of Pinon wood. We soon had a roaring fire, which I tried to sit in front of nonstop over the next two days that we were without power.

I am sorry for all the nasty things I said about you, Fireplace.

4) Books

When the power goes out and school is cancelled and your car is frozen and everything is closed and it's too dangerous to travel on the icy roads, you have a lot of free time. I used it to catch up on reading. It was quite pleasant under piles of blankets in front of the fire. I finished Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking. At night, we all huddled as close to the fire as we could and I read aloud with a flashlight. It got dark by 5:30. After we ate our beans, there wasn't much else to do while we tried to stay warm. I am a huge proponent of reading aloud - not just to children - to everyone. Icepocalypse gave me a captive audience. We breezed through Lois Lowry's Gossamer, a lovely book. Thing 1 and Thing 2 are reading The Giver in their 7th grade English class so it was nice to read something else from the same author.

5) A Dog

Yellow Dog was in heaven. There were no cars going up and down our street and few people, so she was free to be off leash, pursuing boys on sleds. She was exhausted each night. The ice took a toll on her paws and nails, but she's recovering. She was more than willing to snuggle up with me in front of the fire and help keep me warm.

"I will keep you warm, my human."

Other things that were pretty nice to have? A gas stove, gas water heater, sleeping bags rated to -20F, awesome neighbors, batteries and matches, flashlights and candles, and a hand crank radio.

At the height of the storm, there were 250,000 people without power. So I was very glad to see this outside our door Saturday night:

The line truck. 

The power came back on and I jumped out from underneath the blankets and ran around blowing out candles and turning on lights. I was just about to start the dishwasher when it went out again. This was hard on the psyche. The thermostat in the hall read 35 degrees. That's right. Inside the house it was close to freezing.

I took a picture because I knew Aquaman wouldn't believe me.

You have power! For 10 minutes!

Thing 2 after power was restored and then cut off again.

We ended up in another heap in front of the fire, but I migrated to my bedroom with a sleeping bag. Sleeping inches away from teenagers full of beans is not ideal. Around midnight, friends out sledding showed up on our porch and insisted that we come stay with them. They had never lost power. I was cold. And tired. I gave in. I left the fire to die and faucets dripping and hoped for the best. I slept great at their house and had a hot shower the next morning. We went to check on our house Sunday at noon and found the power had just come back on.

We had survived. The boys said it was just as well that the power was back because it had warmed up enough that the sledding was no longer any good. Thing 2 plopped himself back in front of the xBox, Thing 1 in front of the laptop, and The Redhead in front of the iPad. Back to normal. School was cancelled again Monday. When Tuesday rolled around, I was willing to dig my car out of the ice to get them there for the two-hour delayed start. I didn't care how icy the roads still were - I was getting them back to school.  

I think it's safe to say that I have forgotten all my Alaska survival skills. It makes me a bit nostalgic, but also thankful that I no longer have to work so hard just to get through daily life. I don't even have the right gear anymore - no Sorel boots, no North Face jacket and pants, no proper socks and gloves. If I'm really honest with myself, I might admit that what I thought were my Alaska survival skills are really Aquaman's Alaska survival skills. He was stuck out on a shrimp boat while we were in Icemageddon, but I know if he had been landside, he would've excelled at keeping the fire going, wielding a chain saw to clear limbs, and holding his own sledding with the boys. Most importantly, he would've kept me warm.

Four days, three teenage boys, one dog, no power and no husband. That's one for the record books.

And this is why I love Aquaman

Aquaman has been gone for two weeks. Two more weeks to go. I'm not gonna lie - I was ready for him to get on that boat. He was able to be home for over two months this summer. That is a loooooooong time with three boys off from school and one Aquaman off from work. I was exhausted. We played and played and played. We went to Mobile, Alabama, and Ocean Springs, Mississippi. We went to Houston (twice), Galveston (twice), Jasper, Brownwood, and Eureka Springs, Arkansas - all to see family. And I was done.

Done with people, done with visiting. Done with human interaction. I was so ready for everyone to just, please, go back to their regular schedules.

So, of course, I got what I wanted.

School started yesterday, much to my delight. But it was a hell of a lot of work getting ready for it. School clothes and shoes and athletic gear had to be bought. Massive trips to the grocery store. School supplies (I swear, I am never buying another set of map pencils or markers. Ever.) and band supplies.

The day before school started, Aquaman called for his weekly, 20 minute, crappy connection, satellite phone call and wished all the boys luck on their first day. He said he wished he could be there for it. "Be glad you're not," I said as I supervised Thing 1 cleaning up his side of the room he shares with Thing 2.

It was a rude awakening getting up so early - for me and the boys.

The twins had to be at football practice at 6:30 a.m. This is Texas, remember?

I managed to get a shot of all three of them on the swing before we left. It was still dark. They were not amused.

Yippee! First day of school!

I got back from dropping off Thing 1 and Thing 2 just in time to see The Redhead off on his bike.

It's blurry. Because I was sleepy. And he was movin' fast.

Quit following me.

He met up with a neighbor from up the street to ride together. They're both freshmen, both redheads.

The Redheaded Freshmen Club

And I had peace. Mostly. 

I had to drop off paperwork for two of the three boys that have life threatening allergies and asthma. This did not go smoothly. We had a parent meeting for football after school. We didn't eat until 7:30 or so. There were lots and lots of papers to sign and more forms to fill out and school supplies to organize and syllabi to look over. Everyone was tired. Helping three kids get organized for football and band and all of their classes is a lot of work. 

I wished Aquaman was there with us.  

We did it all over again today, only this time Thing 2 forgot his schedule that I absolutely had to drop off for him at the middle school and The Redhead forgot his schedule that I absolutely had to drop off for him at the high school. 

Then the UPS man came and left a package on our front porch swing. It was from Aquaman. But how could that be? I inspected the routing and saw the name of a friend of ours in Galveston. Aquaman left Port Bolivar two weeks before. He must have gotten our friend to mail it in time for the start of school. 

So he was kinda with us, after all.  

Here are the things Aquaman sent:

Our haul.

For The Redhead: A TAMUG sticker, coasters and t-shirt.

For Thing 1: A "Throwing Set" (whatever that is - I know it's sharp and dangerous, okay?) and electronic circuit set.

For Thing 2: A Zippo lighter (he collects these. Don't judge. I know a 12-year-old boy doesn't need a Zippo collection. But still.) and an Aggie water bottle. 

For Me: Coffee (God bless him), a TAMUG coffee mug, and a book on Galveston architecture. 

I cried. He takes care of us. 

I can't wait for the boys to come home and go through their loot. 

And this is why I love Aquaman.

One time, at band camp...

The Redhead. Sweating his arse off. 

For the past three weeks, The Redhead has been immersed in marching band camp. We ended all of our summer travels early so that we'd be home on the required date, a full three weeks before the first day of school.

This was actually the second summer band camp session - the first one was the week after the previous school year ended in June. During this three day mini-session, the students were introduced to their music and the basic marching step. Sounds easy enough. It's just walking, right? Um, no. It's marching. With an unbended knee. Harder than it sounds. They glide.

During the first band camp, the only two people The Redhead knew quit band. Yep. Just up and quit. He was discouraged. He kind of dreaded coming back for band camp, but I was firm. "Music is mandatory in this family," I explained. And that was that.

I did note, however, that the "camp" schedule looked pretty hard core. He had to be there, every day, from 7:00 a.m. to 4:30 p.m. They fed them lunch. Four hours of marching on the field in the morning, hopefully before the temperatures reached triple digits, and four hours of practicing music in the blessed air conditioning in the afternoon. It was a long day. I got up early every morning and made him a good breakfast before I dropped him off at the football stadium with his instrument. They were required to wear a hat, sunglasses, and sunblock. They were advised to steer clear of rich foods for breakfast. And they were required to wear this:

It's called a Camelbak. Technically, it's a hands-free hydration system. I call it genius. They arrive to practice with it filled and they refill it at least once in the morning. No water bottles or cups or coolers for the band directors to deal with. No running to the water fountain. Just marching.

The first day he was exhausted. The second day he was overwhelmed and exhausted. We had a block party for National Night Out and he sat down next to me in the street in our lawn chairs. And then he cried. "It's too hard, Mom. I'll never learn all the music. There's no way I can learn all the marching steps. I don't want to do it."

Gulp. It doesn't matter how old your child gets, when they cry, it is awful. I gave him a pep talk. "You're going to learn it, I promise! You're going to play it over and over and over again and you're going to be hearing those songs in your sleep! There's no way you're not going to know it. Just wait - when you're out there at your first half-time show and you all play together and the crowd goes nuts - it will be AWESOME!" He went inside, took a shower, and went to bed.

I was concerned. I felt bad. Was I pushing him into something, just because I had done it in high school and loved it? Was it too much? Was he going to hate it and blame me? I realized that there was one big difference between his experience and the one I had: I had grown up with older brothers and a sister who were either in band or played football. Friday nights were football and marching band (not to mention Frito pie at the concession stand), from the time I was 5 years old. I grew up going to Aggie football games in Kyle Field, hearing, "Now forming at the north end of Kyle Field, the nationally famous, Fightin' Texas Aggie Band!" Chills. Every time.

But The Redhead didn't. He has lived in Alaska (no football in all that snow) and then in a tiny Texas town with a 1A school that had a surfing team, but not a football team. And here he was, in a 5A school, with a 175-member marching band. He has no idea.

The day after his breakdown, we went to the music store and picked up some supplies he needed. A few reeds - did you know they make plastic reeds now? - a flip book, a lyre, and a comfy neck strap. He seemed interested. In the parking lot of the store, he voluntarily showed me the basic steps he had learned so far. I was hopeful.

Day four dawned. I dropped The Redhead off at practice, bright and early. He was not enthusiastic. As the temperatures climbed higher, towards the triple digits that were forecasted for that day, I received a text from The Redhead.

"I just realized band is awesome."

Thank you, God. Thank you.

Was he delirious from the heat? Being sarcastic? I thought it was a possibility. But no. The group had advanced far enough that they started practicing the half-time routine while they played the music. That's where the magic happens.

I told him it was gonna be awesome.

I breathed a sigh of relief. We were over the hump.

It was a good thing, too, because the next weekend was March-a-Thon and it's exactly what it sounds like: a marching marathon. Six hours. Marching from the high school through neighborhoods and performing along the way. It's their biggest fundraiser. They get pledges for each hour that they march. Thing 1 and I followed along. From 7:00 a.m. until around 11:00. Then we wimped out and went home to the air conditioning.

The Redhead and another bass clarinet player - a senior who has taken him under her wing.
He's so hot and tired he can't keep his eyes open. 

Only 3 bass clarinets in the 175 member band.

Taking a break.

You can hear them coming.

Stopping traffic. Yes, that's a golden retriever marching with one of the band directors.

Musical soldiers. The Redhead has an Aggie cap on. 

"Did I mention how hot it is? Or that we had to march uphill the whole way?"

He's not terribly fond of the uniform. I remind him often that it is way better than the wool uniform I had to wear.

The uniform. He's not crazy about it.

Holding "set" position.

His garment bag to hold his uniform. Fancy.

Practice field.

Tonight, for the last day of band camp, the parents were invited to come to an Exhibition. It was impressive, what they've learned in three weeks.

Front and center.

They look and sound great!

Then they had a surprise for the parents. We had to go out on the field and get a lesson in marching. We shadowed our kid, learning two movements in the routine. I was not prepared. I had inappropriate footwear (Birkenstocks are not made for marching). They made us do it over and over again. And then? Our babies left us and went and watched us from the bleachers. We were bad. Real bad. But they clapped for us. Exuberantly. The Redhead met me on the sidelines after we were dismissed. "Mom, you weaved too much!" He demonstrated. "You can't do that when you march! You have to be steady."

Thing 1 and Thing 2 agreed. "You did! Your hips moved like this!" they said. And they showed me.

Tough crowd.

I think it's going to be okay. Fingers crossed. 

Royal Pride.
photo by Darlene Jules.

Clarinets rock!
photo by Darlene Jules.

Goofy.
photo by Darlene Jules.