Tag Archives: school

Running from Preschool

I suppose I ought to be more distraught today—perhaps even a little melodramatic, clutching tissues and sighing wistfully at family photos—but, apart from my knees muttering unrepeatable things about my running schedule and the Ohio humidity, I’m actually buoyant. Today, my youngest began preschool. This is remarkable not for the educational milestone, but for the subtle breaking of the laws of physics involved: at eight months, he walked out of the living room and straight past the baby stage, like someone late for an appointment. I’ve been waiting for this day with the patience of someone in the world’s slowest Starbucks line, already certain he’d love school, collect a minor fan club, and, with luck, keep his streak as resident class clown.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when he wept at the threshold. Cried. Suddenly, we were the emotional equivalent of the Titanic, and I’d become the ice floe. Part of me—about forty percent, depending on knee status—didn’t want to usher him forward. These transitions, these big-boy milestones, tug harder than anticipated. I mislaid a good chunk of his miniature years, busy patching up my own heart, knees, and other body parts, and now even the universe seems to have pressed fast-forward.

He is, contrary to this morning’s Oscar-worthy scene, ready. I know he’ll be brilliant. But the real snag, if I’m being honest, is called summer. Thanks to a few golden months with his dad and older brothers, my preschooler now suffers from dangerous levels of sibling confidence, convinced his miniature personal assistants are always on call. This is the magic realism of being three. He has no notion that his entourage must soon return to their educational holdings, leaving him more or less abandoned with only me, a healthy snack, and the increasingly bitter complaints of my knees.

By Friday, I expect he’ll ascend to full class celebrity and will start telling people, “Preschool is fine, but the staffing is subpar compared to what I’m used to.” Until then, I’ll be over here—alternating between nostalgia, pride, and speculation about whether it’s possible to put one’s kneecaps in timeout.

Running from a Pickaxe

Tax-free week in Ohio is the back-to-school version of Rope Drop at Magic Kingdom. If you’re a parent, you know the drill: you’ve got a list longer than the line for Peter Pan’s Flight, desperate for deals and every coupon clipping you can snag. Last Saturday, the Thompsons charged into the outlet malls like it was the opening bell at Black Friday—fast, purposeful, semi-delirious.

Now, if you’ve ever wandered World Showcase in August, you’ll be familiar with the special brand of sweaty exhaustion that set in as we wound our way through the stores, kids melting faster than a Mickey bar in July. Coupon victory came hard, but eventually we limped home, untamed shopping bags in tow, seasoned and slightly singed around the edges.

But the magic didn’t end there! A sign at the end of our street declared in bold: “Garage Sale. Tools and Man Stuff.” For those who share their home with another adult, this was less a suggestion and more a legally compelling summons. Chas vanished faster than a Lightning Lane slot at Rise of the Resistance, Oz in tow, clearly hoping to unearth some hidden Indiana Jones relic (or at least another stick to add to his collection).

Ten minutes and one mini-expedition later, they reappeared, faces radiating unspoken adventure—think dads after surviving EPCOT’s Food & Wine with only a wallet mildly damaged. Moments later, Oz, our seven-year-old, appeared clutching a ten-dollar bill and loudly proclaiming his new life ambition: acquiring a pickaxe. Cue visions of him storming Frontierland, wielding his new prize, with me nervously calculating just how quickly Child Protective Services would respond in our zip code. But hey, boring never makes for good park stories or memorable family runs.

If there’s a lesson buried beneath the layers of outlet shopping, surprise hardware quests, and the ever-present din of “when does school start”—it’s this: structure is more magical than any Cinderella castle. By the time the school year finally started this morning, my fifth grader bolted for the door like he was rope-dropping Seven Dwarfs Mine Train; his enthusiasm was nothing short of Disney magic itself, and I couldn’t be prouder to stand on the sidelines, medal or no medal.

My second grader approached with equal excitement, though laced with those opening day jitters familiar to anyone who’s ever tried a new ride (or new lunch table). He’ll be making friends by lunchtime, probably organizing a lunchroom conga line just to make things interesting.

The preschooler, meanwhile, is pure Tomorrowland—marching to his own futuristic beat, running operations with a tone that suggests he skipped straight past “Cast Member” to “Attraction Manager.” If anyone’s wondering, yes, I’m bracing for parent-teacher conferences featuring references to “leadership skills” (read: tiny tyrant).

But I crave the rhythm as much as the kids do. And after a summer of running from everything—chaos, coupons, pickaxes—I’m ready to settle down with a fastpass for structure and a side of predictability.

So, here’s to tax-free weeks, unexpected adventures, and the kind of family training that leaves you with memories more magical than any race medal or Disney pin. May your journeys be as joyful and slightly unpredictable as a day at the parks—and may your neighbors never need to speed-dial CPS.

And the morning rope drop? Well, we made it. Just keep running forward.

But are you bleeding?

Let’s be honest: how many times have you shouted up the stairs, “Are you bleeding?”

If your answer was “daily,” then we have already established the foundation of a meaningful friendship.

At my house, the response is “YES!” roughly 40 percent of the time, which sounds alarming until you realize that my children are 5 and 2 and are not, as a rule, in possession of a great deal of blood. What they do possess is an instinctive understanding that the word bleeding has a certain urgency to it. It causes a parent to put down whatever they are doing and travel upstairs at once, usually to discover that someone has bumped an elbow, dropped a Lego, or experienced a disappointment of such magnitude that only an adult witness can make sense of it.

After yelling this question approximately one million times during the long, strange months of quarantine—and considering my boys are still only 5 and 2, with decades of household emergencies ahead of us—I began to think about it differently.

I am an overthinker. I can take one small concern and, with enough quiet time and internet access, turn it into a full-scale disaster scenario involving emergency food supplies, school closures, government notifications, and the gradual collapse of civilization. I worry about things that might happen, could happen, or might possibly occur under a very unusual set of circumstances involving poor timing and someone sneezing near a shopping cart.

It is exhausting work.

So recently, I decided to use one simple question to sort through my worries:

But are you bleeding?

It is not a perfect system, of course, but it is surprisingly effective. It helps distinguish between a real emergency and the sort of problem that merely arrives wearing a dramatic hat.

For example, yesterday my husband—who is now an elementary physical education teacher, a development I am saving for another day because it deserves its own chapter—texted me to say that my son’s teacher was quarantining because her husband had tested positive for COVID-19.

My first thought was entirely calm and reasonable.

Then came the questions.

How much time had my son spent with her since she had been exposed?

Her son is in my son’s class, so how much time had the boys spent together?

My son sits next to him. What had they both touched? Pencils? Desks? Glue sticks? The shared classroom air?

Had my younger son been around either of them?

What if we had to quarantine?

Did I have enough food to feed two small boys for two weeks?

And, perhaps most importantly: would quarantine mean that I could sleep in?

The questions kept arriving, one after another, like relatives who have heard there is cake in the kitchen. Before long, I could feel myself slipping into the familiar whirlpool of worry, where every possibility expands until it needs its own zip code.

And that is when I asked myself: But are we bleeding?

In this particular case, there were certainly legitimate concerns. COVID is not something to shrug off. But no one in our home had symptoms. None of us has a pre-existing condition that required immediate panic. Everyone had been wearing masks. We had not been contacted by the health department to quarantine.

So, no. We were not bleeding.

At most, perhaps there was a tiny trickle.

And even a trickle has practical solutions. I could order groceries online and pick them up at Walmart. My mother-in-law could leave supplies on the porch. We could pay attention, act responsibly, watch for symptoms, and take the next right step if something changed.

That is what “stopping the bleeding” looks like: not pretending a concern does not exist, but refusing to turn every concern into a catastrophe before it has earned the right.

Everyone felt fine. No symptoms. No quarantine order. No emergency grocery bunker required.

Winning.

Of course, if we had needed to quarantine, there was still the possibility of sleeping in. That would have been a significant victory, though perhaps not significant enough to justify the rest of the situation. Since we did not have to quarantine, however, I suppose that means I lost that particular round.

So that is how you stop the bleeding in approximately 27 mental steps.

Any questions?

Wait. What was I saying?

Is confusion a symptom of COVID?

And just like that, we are back at the beginning.

Still, no one died. Everyone is okay. And that is worth celebrating.

But Lord, am I tired.

Running from the Beach

Well, here I am, on day eight of a ten-day travel odyssey, and I can scarcely believe I’ve made it this far without collapsing into a heap of exhaustion. Since last Wednesday, life has been a whirlwind of suitcases, sunscreen, and sporadic Wi-Fi. From Florida’s sandy shores to California’s bustling streets, I’ve covered more ground in the past week than I usually do in a month. It’s been two weeks that feel like two years.

The first leg of this adventure was spent in Florida with Chas and the boys. Daytona Beach and Disney World were the highlights, and let me tell you, we packed more “magic” into those days than a Harry Potter marathon. Chas’ conference went swimmingly (pun intended), and the boys had the time of their lives. Now, I’m in California wrapping up work for Prep2Prep, but honestly, my brain is still somewhere between Cinderella’s Castle and the Pacific Ocean.

Let’s pause for a moment to talk about the Hilton Daytona Beach. If you’re ever in need of a place to stay there—and frankly, why wouldn’t you be?—I can’t recommend it highly enough. The location is perfection itself: smack dab in the middle of the boardwalk area, with nine restaurants (yes, nine!), a lovely pool area, and views of the Atlantic so stunning they could make a poet weep. Our room overlooked the ocean, which made mornings feel like something out of a travel brochure. Sure, we had a couple of minor hiccups—the TV decided to stage a rebellion, and we needed a fridge for the baby’s milk—but the staff swooped in like superheroes to save the day. Honestly, you could spend your entire trip within the resort’s confines and leave feeling utterly content. A heartfelt THANK YOU to the Hilton Daytona Beach for making our stay unforgettable!

Now let’s talk about Cub—our resident Aqua Lad. This child was in his element at the beach. I wasted precious packing space on sand toys only to discover he had no interest in them whatsoever. His sole focus? The water. Waves crashing? No problem. Surf pounding? Bring it on. He ran back and forth through the surf like he was auditioning for Baywatch: Toddler Edition. And when he wasn’t frolicking in the ocean, he was in the pool—so much so that his eyes turned red from all the chlorine. Did that stop him? Of course not. Cub has mastered holding his breath underwater to such an alarming degree that strangers started looking concerned.

Then there’s Oz, our little trooper-in-training. He’s teetering on the brink of major mobility—Labor Day will likely mark the start of our new life as full-time wranglers of two mobile children. On this trip, though, he was content to nap on the beach while I dug him a little shady spot in the sand like some sort of makeshift crib architect. He enjoys water too but prefers splashing over swimming—a distinction that makes him slightly less nerve-wracking than his older brother (for now). Flying with him wasn’t terrible this time around, but once he starts moving? Game over.

As this marathon of travel winds down, I find myself staring down the imminent arrival of school season with mixed emotions. On one hand, I know these moments with my young family are fleeting—Cub will be off to school before I know it, and then it’s all downhill from there (kidding… mostly). On the other hand, there’s something comforting about returning to normalcy after two years of pregnancies and ear infections throwing us off course. This year feels promising—straightforward even—and I’m optimistic it’ll be our best one yet.

But for now? Two more days on the road before I can collapse into my own bed and declare this epic journey complete!