Home Grown

I swear it wasn’t that long ago that I had three kids under the age of 3. Sometimes it feels like it was just a few short months ago that I had a toddler wrapped around each leg and a baby in my arms. Only a couple of weeks back that all three could still climb into my lap together for a bedtime story. Just the other day that they were learning to pedal tricycles, ski down the bunny hill, and sound out words.

But somehow, now, my oldest has to bend slightly to hug me, and next week my not-so-little littlest wraps up her elementary school days in a place that’s been a part of our family’s life and daily routine for most of the last decade. She’s ready to move on – the kids always are by the time they’ve progressed from small kindergarteners to almost-teenagers. And I’m calmer about this milestone than I thought I might be, but I’m betting it’ll take a while before I get used to turning the other way, toward a different school, at the bottom of our hill for the daily drop-off and pickup.

I remember standing in the elementary school foyer on the first day of kindergarten for my older two children. Back then, I was used to preschool-sized kids who couldn’t quite pronounce their Rs and were still learning to tie their shoelaces. On that morning, as my two 5-year-olds stuck close to my side, a bit anxious about their first day in the “big school,” the 6^th graders seemed enormous and so grown up.

Now, of course, my perspective has shifted. I am used to (although sometimes still surprised by) the still-growing stature of my daughter and her 6^th grade classmates, who are all approaching or have already surpassed my height. But those kindergarteners seem so tiny – even if it sometimes seems like last week that my own kids were that small.  

The end of each school year is one of those times when it’s easy to contemplate the changes in our children. Some are moving on from preschool, others – who, really, were learning their shapes and letters in preschool not so long ago – are graduating from high school or (gulp) college. So, their growing up offspring is at the top of many parents’ minds.

When your children are babies, it seems as if everyone – parents of older kids, strangers in the grocery store – tells you to “enjoy every minute,” that it passes quickly. And, on some level, you know they’re right. But then you’re also in the midst of changing diapers and cutting food into tiny pieces and being woken at all hours of the night. It’s exhausting.

All that exhaustion fades into the background, however, when a small human, whose world literally revolves around you, hands you a bouquet of dandelions or blows a kiss from the outfield in a t-ball game or snuggles in with a favorite stuffy for a cuddle – or says in a voice impossibly sweet, “I love you, Mama.”

And the next thing you know, they’re asking for the keys to the minivan so they can go out with their friends. OK, OK, so we’re not quite there yet. But judging by how fast these years seem to go, we’ll get there next week. Or tomorrow. Or five minutes from now. 

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's June 10, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record.

Time Flies

This week, my oldest offspring selected classes for their first year of high school. Even as I type that sentence, I can hardly wrap my mind around it: two of my children will be high schoolers in a few short months, and my baby a middle schooler. No matter that two of them are now taller than I am, and the third is gaining on me quickly, I can still picture all three as newborns, toddlers, little kids.

The girls, when they were little.

I don’t think I would say I miss the days of tending to infants or preschoolers or any other bygone stage
of my children’s younger years. I have loved each of my children – and gotten to know them – through the progression of their childhoods. Despite the trials of the “terrible twos” and the “sassy sixes” and the excessive eye rolling that happens in my house these days, I’ve enjoyed most parts of every phase of their growing up.

When I look at photos from years past, or when we’re sitting around swapping “Remember When” stories, it is easy to feel nostalgic, though I don’t have any desire to go back in time. Contemplating the tiny, chubby-cheeked, big-eyed kids in those photos, however, makes me realize – again and again – how quickly these years pass by.

It really wasn’t all that long ago that I had three kids under the age of 3. Then three preschoolers, then three in elementary school. Back when they were all in diapers – and pretty much dependent on me for everything – someone told me, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Whoever first uttered that adage obviously had raised children.  

These days, I sometimes feel a sense of woeful panic at how few years of childhood my children have left. Four more years. That’s what remains until my older two move on to whatever comes after high school. A mere four years ago, they were in the midst of their elementary school years, and four years from now, they’ll be legal adults. It doesn’t seem possible – to me or to them.

One of my children has said to me several times lately, “It seems like time is passing by so quickly.” And it’s no wonder. These middle school years are the bridge between being a little kid and becoming an almost-grownup. My teenagers are newly and acutely aware that childhood has an expiration date, even if the exact deadline is obscure.

I have a clear memory of an 11-year-old me sitting with a friend on a summer afternoon, days before we entered middle school, and saying to her that it felt like time was flying by, that soon we’d be in high school, then college, then who-knows-where. In that moment, that looming change seemed overwhelming. I could see adulthood on the horizon, even as it was still years away.

She laughed, and a few minutes later, we were off again, riding our bikes through the hazy summer day, as carefree as the children we still were. That’s the mercurial nature of this time in my children’s lives – one moment thoughtfully considering some serious responsibility, the next playing a silly made-up game with friends or siblings.

I can also clearly remember the anxiety of dropping my kids off at preschool for the first time, then at kindergarten in the “big school” a couple of years later. Even back then, I thought, “How are they so big already?!?” Sometimes, still, it feels as if just last week they were so small I could snuggle all three together in my lap. I can’t imagine how I’ll feel when they step out into the great big world all on their own.

And so I keep reminding myself – in the moments when I’m facing eye-rolling, contrary, children in the process of growing up – that these days, too, may sometimes seem long, but the years are as short as ever. I bask in the happy times we spend together and in our shared adventures. I try to offer advice and comfort in those moments when these children of mine feel stressed or sad or worried. I strive – not always successfully – to keep my temper when they push buttons and boundaries. And when one of them needs a hug, I lean in and hold on, for as long as they want, until they let go.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's April 8, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Summer Strange and Sweet

In some ways, this has been a strange summer. And in others, it seems just as summer should be. The strangeness began with the early closing of school – both the physical school building in mid-March and the release from remote learning at the end of May, two and a half weeks before the originally anticipated last day of school. The kids have been home nearly four months already, which hasn’t happened since before they went to preschool.

For large chunks of that time they have been left on their own to entertain themselves and each other. If necessity is the mother of invention, well, boredom seems to be a good motivator.

With no big trips planned this summer, no fast-moving weeks filled with the happy chaos of cousins visiting from California and Texas and Tennessee, no camps to attend – there are a lot of hours to fill. Some of these are taken up with books or puzzles or board games, others with screens, a few with chores, and some spent around the corner at grandparents’ houses.

The rest is time outside – alone or with each other, roping me in when I am not typing away or meeting-by-zoom in the hot office upstairs. We’ve had a couple of big hiking days, with more anticipated later in the summer. There’s the occasional bike ride. But for the most part, the kids have to find their own fun – or invent it.

For weeks this spring, after the snow had melted from the yard – during that long stretch of time

where we didn’t go anywhere or see anyone outside of our own family – we held daily 2 v. 2 soccer games late in the afternoons. We rotated teammates every other day and argued every call. It was an unwritten part of the daily schedule, a reward for making it through another day of school via Google Classroom.

In the weeks since school has ended, the kids have cycled through several rounds of self-propelled amusement. There’s a rudimentary rope swing hanging from the branch of a maple tree near the edge of the yard, and the skeleton of a fort in another corner. For a while there was an obstacle course climbing and twisting through a series of natural and kid-made structures. They’ve created a disc golf course and three variations of foot golf courses, weaving around gardens and through trees to hit the designated targets. The actual golf clubs have made only one brief appearance.

Only recently have we expanded our pandemic era circle to include a few friends. We hike through the woods toward mountain summits together, or meet at the river in the afternoons, where the kids skip rocks and choreograph synchronized leaps into the water.

Many days, as I make my way through working remotely, the kids make summer plans up as they go along. There is no itinerary, no set agenda, no schedule mapped out by the hour or the day.

But there is hot sunshine and cool, clear water just down the hill. There are bikes in the garage, hiking boots in the mudroom, and flipflops strewn across the front porch. There are trees to climb, friends to meet, towels hung on the line to dry between splashing in the pool and leaping into the river. There are books to read on long, lazy afternoons and fireflies flickering through the tall grass of the field after dark.

While we are missing some of our cherished summer traditions, I think maybe this is how summer should be, even if just this once – completely unmapped, unplanned, unbusy. Strange, perhaps, but sweet, too.

Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay appears as Meghan's July 9, 2020 Close to Home column in the Littleton Record. 

Beyond Preschool

There was a time, not all that long ago, when I could claim I was the mother of three children under the age of 3. It was something of a badge of honor, a sort of twisted brag uttered in sheer exhaustion. Well, school ended this week, and I can no longer claim to be the mother of even one preschooler. I am now the mother of two 2^nd graders and a kindergartener.

The end of each school year marks a new milestone in the march toward growing up. I can clearly see, at the dawning of summer vacation, how my children have grown – in stature, knowledge, and ability – since the start of the school year. The conclusion of this year marks a particularly big change for our family, as we say so long to a place that has nurtured my children through their earliest classroom experiences.

Each school day for the past four and a half years, I have driven down a bumpy back road along the Gale River to deliver a child – or two, and for a short time all three together – to preschool. In the time my family has been at this school, the faces of the children and the parents and even some of the teachers have changed, the fields of the farm on which the school sits have been brought back to a life of growing food, and my kids have skipped and played and grown in this sacred little center of learning.

In four and a half years as a preschool mom, I have changed, too. In the beginning, I was the nervous, first-time-at-preschool parent, walking through the door with a 3-year-old grasping each hand. All the other kids, older than my son and daughter then, seemed to know the routine. All the other parents seemed unbothered by leaving their children here, in the small, bright classroom with the kid-sized chairs and tables, and going about their lives for the day, while I was a mess of nerves and emotion.

Soon, of course, we all learned the routine of preschool. And in what has become one of the things I most cherish about this place, we were welcomed into the family, a family that changes every year as the 5-year-olds move on to kindergarten, the younger children grow into the role of “big kid on (preschool) campus,” and new students arrive with their own nervous parents in tow.

Children seem to take these transitions – finishing another year of school, reaching the next birthday, learning some new skill – in stride. For parents, though, the waning of one phase of childhood into the waxing of the next can be a bit emotional. Each milestone our children reach marks the beginning of something new and, hopefully, good – but also the ending of something else. My littlest one was a baby when her siblings started preschool, and it is not easy for me to let go of this phase of my family’s growing up, even as I want nothing more than for my children to continue to learn and grow and be happy in their next steps.

This week, I made that journey to preschool for the last time as a parent of a preschooler. I’m sure we’ll come back for an occasional visit. But come fall, my daughter will head to the “big school” with her older brother and sister, who remember their preschool years fondly, but have moved on to other teachers, other friends, a bigger playground, school lunch, reading and adding and learning more all the time about the world around us.

It is strange knowing that I will not travel this road every morning and afternoon next year, not walk up those five wooden steps and through the door to greet the teachers and discover the fun morning activities of the day. This has been a happy place for each of my children, and I will forever be grateful that they started school here, with these teachers, these families, in this place.

On the first day of kindergarten at the end of summer, I will once again send my baby into a world that is unfamiliar, new, sometimes a little scary (sixth graders are considerably bigger than kindergarteners, and they share the hallways). Once again, she will navigate some of this new world on her own, but she’ll also have her big brother and sister to show her the ropes – at least during recess and school-wide activities – just as she did when she started preschool.

Someday, I’m guessing long before I’m ready for it, I’ll be able to claim I am the mother of three teenagers. But that’s too far down the road of life to think of now. Kids grow up too darn fast, as every parent knows, and it’s officially summer vacation. I’m heading out to play with my three grade schoolers. Summer, after all, is as fleeting as childhood.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul, posted to her Blog: Writings From a Full Life. This essay also appears as Meghan's Close to Home column in the June 13, 2014 edition of the Littleton Record.

Dancing to joy

For the first several weeks of dance class last fall, Ella entered the studio tearfully. The first day, as she sat against the wall watching the other children leap and twirl, she turned to me and said, a bit desperately, “Mama, I want to do that.” But she wouldn’t – couldn’t – move from the edge to the center of the room. This weekly ritual was painful for both of us, and more than once I was on the verge of pulling her from dance class, waiting another year, or forgetting it altogether.

   

When she was a toddler, she was fearless. She would climb the stairs, jump off the couch, laugh at anyone, tackle her twin brother, play with worms, splash in puddles with unending exuberance. She took to skiing without a backward glance as she careened downhill. She pedaled her tricycle – then a bike – with happy abandon. Then she went to preschool, and my oldest daughter realized there is a whole, big world out there.

Even in a safe place, surrounded by a dozen other children her size, she stuck close to her brother or her teachers. At home she was silly and strong and independent. But at school, she was reserved and quiet – attentive and engaged, but still shy. As her brother expanded his social horizons, running further and playing more with the other children, she still clung to me each morning at drop off.

This year I have watched her, a kindergartener now, branch out to new friends and new experiences. She has learned to spell bigger words and read on her own, add numbers and measure dinosaurs. She maneuvers through other students on the playground at recess. She took weekend ski lessons all winter, with her brother there by her side, and played soccer and t-ball. And she started dance lessons.

From Wednesday through Tuesday, Ella chatted happily about dance class and the moves she was learning and the other kids there. Each Tuesday afternoon, though, the anxiety returned as we arrived at the studio. Ella wanted to dance. I wanted to instill the importance of finishing what you’ve started and the value in overcoming anxiety to get to the fun of something that is initially scary, but ultimately rewarding.

Ella’s dance teacher, Miss Kathy, who is ingenious in ways beyond dance instruction, created a Bravery Chart to help ease the initial angst of class. For completing tasks like walking into class by herself, sitting with the other dancers during attendance, and remembering to have fun, she received a sticker each week. Although still a bit nervous at the start of each lesson, Ella was soon smiling through dance class with the other children and showing off new moves at home.

We all have our fears to face, whether we’re 3 years old or many decades beyond – starting a new job or leaving a comfortable but unfulfilling one, walking through the doors of a new school, training for a marathon or a 5K, moving away from home, ending a relationship or diving into a new one, writing a book, meeting new people, fighting or accepting an illness. Sometimes we have no choice but to confront a challenge. Sometimes we choose to simply take the easy, comfortable way. Often, though, if we make the decision to face what makes us fearful or anxious or just uncomfortable, the rewards are big: personal happiness, professional satisfaction, new friends.

For my daughter, sticking with dance class was a challenge. Would she have been OK if we had decided to wait for another year? Sure. But we both knew she wanted to do it, and I think we would have regretted that decision, even if it had meant less hectic Tuesday afternoons.

Last weekend was the recital. It’s a big deal, with some three dozen groups performing and hundreds of people from throughout our area turning out to watch two shows. Ella was excited, but also nervous – not with stage fright, but with her usual separation anxiety. When I left her backstage before each show, she was clingy and a bit tearful.

But when the curtain came up, there was her smile and her six-year-old shimmy. Not a hint of the fear or anxiety she’d exhibited months ago or a few minutes earlier. Just pure, dancing joy – proof that sometimes doing the thing that is hard is also the most fun.

Original content by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul and published on her Blog: Writings from a full life.