Gotta Catch ‘Em All

When I hear the original Pokemon theme song, I can recite every word from memory. Until a few years ago, it was buried in the recesses of my mind. When the first chord strikes, my eyes light up like a sleeper agent called to action. It’s all still there. Every note, every lyric. My little brother’s obsession from the 90s, the show in the background every afternoon, the cards, the characters, the video games. They say every trend comes around again. And boy, has this one come back around in full force.

What started with 151 characters in the 90s has snowballed into more than a thousand today, and I’m pretty sure that’s the number of cards scattered around every surface of my house. “Gotta catch em all.” We’re certainly well on our way.

What’s neat this time around is seeing how many generations of our family have embraced Pokemon cards, characters or games, and the connections this shared interest has made as it carves its niche into our world. The boys collect cards, sharing equal excitement with their cousin, a high school senior, who has been known to stop by the house to give them extra packs, meet at card shows, or give tips on which trading card vending machine has stock. They also play Pokemon Go, sharing digital gifts with their grandmama and Auntie who play the game that turns real life surroundings into a battleground for catching characters.

Their dad has started collecting as well, taking them to shows to trade and filling his collector’s heart with a hobby that thankfully for me doesn’t take up too much space. I’m not much of a collector, but I learned how to play the card game and I’m learning how to help organize and sort them into binders based on character, or deck, or evolutions, or was it type? We’re still figuring out how they’d like them organized. Once we do, I’m sure they’ll be much more manageable.

In the meantime, I’ll wade through Pokemon all over the house just as I do with Legos, and I’ll sing right along.

The Grief of Parenthood

Another morning rush routine, but this one felt a little different. It was final. Later than ever, we grabbed shoes and water bottles and scurried to the car with just two minutes to spare before the gates closed for school by the time we arrived. It was the last day of the year. For Big Bro, it was his last day of elementary school.

I said have fun and pulled away and rounded the corner of the drive lane and then, I cried. I don’t know what’s harder, not knowing it’s the last time, or knowing it’s the last time. As the realization that I’d never drop them both at school together again hit me like a ton of bricks, I sobbed my way to work and spent 10 minutes in the parking lot re-doing my makeup. Change is inevitable. That doesn’t mean it gets any easier.

Just a week later, during a particularly sassy tween moment with my oldest son, I found myself missing him. We were arguing about me needing help with a task, and in the back of my mind, I thought of the previous version of him that wanted to help with absolutely everything. Even if it took half a century or made a terrible mess. The version of him that mispronounced “yogrit” and needed help tying his shoes. The version that danced across the house and rolled hot wheels cars across restaurant tables. Where did that little boy go?

Parenting is a lot of things. It’s tremendous joy, it’s determined sacrifice, it’s worry, it’s laughter, it’s love, and it is also grief. Knowing I’ll never hear the word “yogrit” again or drop both boys off at school together tears a part of my heart so slowly and quietly I almost didn’t notice. I certainly didn’t see it coming.

Brandi Carlisle released a new song recently called “You Without Me,” and there’s a line that says:

“Heavy are the hands that you are free to slip right through”

It resonated instantly. As parents, we spend so much time holding hands until ideally, they are free to slip right through. That’s the goal. Change is inevitable.

That doesn’t mean it gets any easier.

Morning Rush Routine

We’ve gone through several evolutions of our bedtime routine, but morning is a different story. I’d love to call it a routine, but it seems as if we just can’t get consistency into the start of our day. Only one thing has remained the same each morning: utter chaos.

I wake up with the best of intentions. My alarm goes off early so I have time to exercise for 30 minutes before the boys get breakfast. Instead, I stay in bed thinking of all of the reasons I don’t have to get up right that second. I plan for packing lunches, making their breakfast and getting myself ready to head off to work and school. Instead, I throw a fruit, vegetable and pbj into a lunchbox with a hope and a prayer that maybe a third will get eaten, I rush to get dressed while the boys toast frozen waffles, and I scramble to make coffee while yelling about putting on shoes. Most days, we’re lucky to get in the car with 10 minutes before their school gates close. We’re lucky we live very close to the school, which is also very close to work.

It doesn’t seem to matter how many different ways I try to make mornings a peaceful, organized affair. I’ve set reminders for each step that needs to be done, I’ve tried packing lunches the night before, and I’ve made my hair and makeup the most efficient process humanly possible. I even bought Big Bro his own alarm clock so he gets himself up and dressed before everyone else. But, no matter the tactic, we still end up piling into the car with minutes to spare and show up without a water bottle, or homework, or a trombone, or today- a lunchbox. (It doesn’t matter, he wasn’t going to eat half of it anyway)

We have five weeks left in the school year, and I doubt we’ll use it to miraculously pull off a polished morning exit. I had high hopes that by now we’d have it in the bag because next year, Big Bro will have to catch a bus on his own. He’s starting middle school. By the time the middle school bell rings, little b will have already been in his elementary classroom for an hour. Big B will need to find his shoes and remember his water bottle and lunchbox on his own.

Five more weeks to nail this morning routine so I can leave with the confidence of a mother whose son doesn’t follow right in her snooze button footsteps. Wish us luck.