Almost two weeks ago, Tre graduated from high school. Every night since, I've thought about blogging about it, about starting with a picture of him from the beginning of the year:

…or no, how about a picture from the beginning of high school?

Holy cow, that is a little boy, there! Also, I think that was the last day his shirt was that white. 

And then, in a blink of an eye, this is where we were:

And then on Monday, I put him on a plane for Turkey. It's enough to take a mama's breath away. 

His biological dad came to graduation, which was the first contact they've had in twelve years. When we were filling out invitations, Tre said he thought it was time to reach out to him, and it was. And it was fine. (Naturally, it was more than that, but I'm trying to tread lightly here, because so little of this story belongs to me.)

This child of mine? This young man? He is a miracle. He is strong and sure and brave. He is striding out into the world, to smack into reality and clamber over God-alone-knows-what. He is kind and helpful and excited about…just about everything. And right now he's sending me pictures of the Hagia Sophia and remembering when we learned about it when we were homeschooling, a million years ago.

The day before graduation I wept to Clay, "All I need is another eighteen years. THEN I'll be ready." And he patted my back and tried to make comforting sounds, but mostly pointed out that we don't really want a 36-year-old living with us.

I do, though. I want to keep them all, always. I want to lock them up and know they're safe and hear their voices and laugh at their jokes every day for forever.

But then again, there is a feeling lodged in my ribcage right now. Alongside the grief of missing him, right next to the panic that this isn't anywhere near enough time, there is another feeling. It's what it feels like to watch your baby grow wings and fly.

And it's the only thing that makes it possible to let go. 

 

This afternoon found me across town, taking Max to be evaluated by the school district audiologist. He'd apparently failed two previous hearing tests, so she wanted him in her office, in her soundproof box. Which sounds a little menacing, now that I think of it. Anyhow, she wanted to test him with no distractions to be sure of what was going on. 

As she was leading him into her soundproof room, I asked if I should come in too. She said it was up to me, so let me answer that question for you, if you are ever left to decide it by your own audiologist: No. You do not want to go in the room with your child. It is not only soundproof, it is pretty much airless. And as you sit there, with the temperature steadily rising, your job is to not make any noise at all. And your phone must be off. 

Max had headphones on, and the audiologist was talking to him, but all I could hear was him responding to her with random words, like he'd suddenly caught Tourette's from her or something. "Baseball," he said, "ice cream. Hot dog." I concentrated on not making noise and wondered if anyone ever fainted in the soundproof, airless room. Then I tried not to think about that, because it was SO QUIET in there (whenever Max wasn't speaking), that I was a little nervous that she could actually hear what I was thinking. Hey, it was hot, okay?

What I tried to do, instead, was think about all the other things I should really be doing. Clay's mom arrives tomorrow, so of course I have to plan to clean All The Things, even though she would never worry one bit about what my house looks like because she's A) not that kind of person and B) the mother of six grown kids herself. Also, I never get it all done anyhow. So I don't know why I do that. But I do.

Besides that, Tre's graduation is Thursday, and I have to pick up Kate so she can come with us, and Raphael has an Honor Band concert on Sunday, so that means extra rehearsals this week. And Max is leaving for a three day school trip on Monday, fertheloveapete. 

This line of thought was making me consider hyperventilating, which I don't think would be perfectly silent, so I switched to thinking about other things. Like all the previous medical tests Max has had that turned out to be nothing. Like the ultrasound of his heart. Heh. Goober. And just a few years ago he had an EEG, and that was tickety-boo also. Hey, remember when I tried to convince everyone to say tickety-boo? Don't you think it's time you people got on that?

Well, eventually she finished, and released us from the booth (seriously, it looked just like a restaurant freezer from the outside. Airless). She told us to have a seat, and she'd be right over to explain the results.

Then she sat down with her papers and said that Max has a mild but significant hearing loss.

She said lots of things after that, but I just sort of looked at her and tried to process what she'd said. He might need hearing aids. He could hear all the sounds, but certain speech noises in particular are hard for him to decipher, making listening a mentally fatiguing job for him. He would need accommodation in the classroom. He needs to see an ear specialist. 

For a few minutes he wasn't the only one having a hard time deciphering speech. I looked at her and nodded and failed to assimilate one word for a few minutes. There's nothing wrong with Max. He talked early! His enunciation has always been fine. He's a MUSICIAN, for goodness' sake!

I decided, sitting there, that I wouldn't be sorry that I'd homeschooled him. This would have been caught earlier if I had, but then again it wasn't a problem until he was in a classroom. Nope. Not going to do that.

I guess what I'm going to do is navigate the tasks ahead of me. I'm going to find the specialist he needs to see and make the appointments and figure it out. I'm not going to lie, I'm somewhat stunned. 

I guess what we'll do is just whatever is next.

On Saturday I was at the grocery store, because that's how I roll. And I'm sorry, I've been saying that all the time recently, and I know that must be annoying because 2006 called and wants its phrase back. My children are going to injure themselves, with the eye rolling but hey. That's how I roll.

Anyhow, there I was, at the grocery store, seriously considering buying some greek yogurt (I resisted, again. I doubt my resolve will hold, though). When I finally turned my back on the yogurt, I strolled down the baking aisle. I tossed a box of parchment baking cups in my cart. I selected a bag of flour and tucked it in the cart too. I rounded the end of the aisle and headed back up the next one. There were canned tomatoes, and I spent a few moments trying to remember if we needed some. In the end, I decided to risk it. I neared the end of that aisle and glanced down at the purse sitting in the child seat. 

It was not my purse.

It was, to extrapolate a little, not actually my cart. I'd sauntered away from the yogurt with someone else's cart, complete with purse. 

I gaped at it for a moment, because that always helps. Since I'd gone all the way down an aisle, then back up the next aisle, I was back near the yogurt and I looked up to see my cart, marooned there all by itself. I seriously considered slipping away from the stolen cart and grabbing mine and disappearing. But there, just feet from my cart was a very worried woman, talking to a store employee.

"Well, ma'am," he was saying, "it can't have gone too far…"

"IT WAS ME!" I rushed over and pushed her cart toward her. "I STOLE YOUR CART! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to! I don't know what is WRONG with me! I just wasn't paying attention, and I grabbed the wrong cart! I'm sorry!"

She was greatly relieved at first, but as I babbled on, her relief started to wane a bit. She took the handle of her cart and started to ease away, nodding in what she seemed to hope was a reassuring manner. 

"I don't think I put anything in your cart!" I babbled on. She glanced down and frowned.

"Um…except the flour. And the baking cups?" She fished them out and handed them to me. I apologized twenty more times, and then we each went our own way.

Except. Have you ever talked to a fellow shopper at the grocery store, at the beginning of your trip, and then as you work your way down the aisles, you find yourself coming face-to-face with that person over and over again? And it gets awkward, because how often can you smile and nod at a stranger before it gets creepy? But then again, you don't want to be rude either?

Yeah, well. This poor woman seemed to end up facing me on nearly ever single aisle. And she looked increasingly nervous about that, so I tried to reassure her that I'm a normal, non-stalking kind of person by smiling warmly every time I saw her. 

The effect, after a few meetings, was that she'd swing around a corner and see me, and I'd reflexively grin so wide my cheeks hurt, and nod a few times. Maybe make a few reassuring sounds in the back of my throat. I'M DESCENDED OF PEOPLE FROM MINNESOTA. I CAN'T HELP IT.

The smiling routine was clearly unnerving her after a while, so I sternly ordered myself to knock it off. So the NEXT time I saw her, I schooled my features into a sober, neutral expression. When she picked up her pace and fairly trotted away from me, I realized that I was perhaps actually glaring a little. Which again, not comforting.

But it got worse, because just a little later, she parked her cart next to the tortillas and started perusing the offerings there. This was only a problem because I had JUST been going to get tortillas, and the ones I wanted were right behind her cart. I loitered at the spices for awhile, waiting for her to move, but she didn't, and I knew if she noticed me studying the artificial maple extract in her vicinity too long, she'd probably call security. I was considering calling security on my own silly self, just to put us both out of our misery.

Finally, I decided to just get over it, and get the dumb tortillas. As I reached across her cart, she swung around and we came face-to-face. Again. This wouldn't have been so terrible, except I flinched. And dropped the tortillas in her cart. She picked them up wordlessly, handed them back to me, and turned and left.

I…assume she'd finished her shopping? Probably?

You might be wondering why I'm telling you this story today, and I assure you I have a point. Two actually. First of all, it was still Mother's Day when I started this, and my own mother thinks I should blog more often. So this one's for you, Mom.

And secondly, I want to salute all the moms out there. We're doing our best. I truly believe that. Even though sometimes it looks…a little strange.

I have to tell you how amazing it was for me to watch the Indiegogo campaign for Tre's robotics team. The first contribution made me cry. And then when my best friend contributed. And then when I found out it was actually her kids who had pooled their money. And I cried the first time someone I didn't know contributed. And when someone gave $10, which was incredibly touching for some reason. 

My aunt was one of the people who called and offered to cover my hotel room. 

"I don't know what to say," I stammered.

"You say thank you."

She was right. I needed to go. And I went, because people are actually amazing, no matter what TMZ has to say about the world. People are amazing. 

And so I say thank you.

 

St. Louis was incredible, and the days flipped by insanely fast. Suddenly we were finding our seats in a packed room for the final awards ceremony. In the aisle a group of kids did front hand springs and back flips, out of sheer joy and youthful exuberance. As the lights dimmed and the M.C. took the stage, it hit me.

It's over.

Not just World, not just this trip, not just his year, but for me as Tre's mom, robotics is over.

I won't be sitting in any more gyms, forgetting to breathe with the anxiety of a match. I won't get emotionally involved in how many cubes are in a basket and how high a flag is raised. I won't watch my son's face radiate joy over a perfectly executed autonomous round.

It's really over. 

In the dark, tears poured down my cheeks, unchecked. I picked up my phone and sent Tre a text, sitting eight seats away from me.

Hey, I wrote, thanks for doing robotics. Thanks for being amazing at it. And thanks for letting me come along for the ride. I'm so proud of all of you.

A moment later he glanced at his phone. And a moment later, he replied.

🙂

I cried in the dark, and I said thank you. 

Yesterday was a rough day. We only won two out of six matches, and some of those losses were heartbreakingly close. One of them was a soul-shredding robot fail that left the boys standing there, unable to do anything but watch the clock count down. So sad. And one of the other matches, all three of the other robots failed, leaving our robot hemmed in by carcasses, scarcely able to do anything. We won that one (I should hope so), but it wasn't what you'd call a pretty win.

Everyone is exhausted. They're scraping the bottom of the barrel for parts, disassembling broken pieces to try to jury-rig what they need. Tempers are running a little high.

And yet, when I left them in the pit a little while ago, there was a determined knot of kids around their robot. They knelt around it and fiddled and jabbered at each other. They're still fighting.

I'd like to report that they're winning everything – or even most of the things. But they are pushing forward, on a field that pushes back harder than anything they've ever faced so far. I'm proud of them. 

And so, I'd like to leave you with one of my favorite quotes from the week so far. The first night here, as we were leaving to head back to the hotel, we passed a team that was huddled up, giving a loud, enthusiastic chant about how great their team is for making it to World.

"Hey, guys," I said, "YOU need a chant!"

Volkan, who is club president and one of Tre's very best friends, looked at me, bemused.

"Why would we do that?" he asked. "They're just stating the obvious."

Ah yes. From the robot, to the adorably robot-like, they're winners. Obviously.

UPDATE: Midway through the morning I got a text and a surprise. Look who just dropped by?

Okay, I have a terrible picture to show you of me with Clay's daughter, Jennie, and her youngest son, A.J. It's a terribe picture of two absolutely wonderful people, plus me, and I can't show you because it's on my phone, and I'm having terrible problems with the wifi. Ugh. I'll try to upload it later.

ANYHOW, Jennie drove here to see Tre's team compete! FROM MICHIGAN. She spent eight hours in a car with two little boys (Quentin, age 3 and A.J., 9 months old – I'M SAYING), so she could watch their robot battle. (She also brought her sister-in-law, Margaret.) It makes me teary, just thinking about it. That was an amazing thing for her to do. And those boys. I swear my hands get hungry to touch them. They're just so precious. 

UPDATE #2: The boys discovered what was wrong with the robot! It was a teeny tiny line of code, that was causing the power supply to turn on and off rapidly, rather than running constantly. You can imagine what a difference this made. Their last two matches were beautiful, with them performing the way I expect them to. They won, and they won, but in the end it wasn't enough to overcome the earlier losses. 

They didn't make it into the finals, which was hard. But when I asked Tre how he was doing, he said, "You know, I can't even be sad about losing. Look at us. Look where we are!"

And we did. We looked around, at the chaos and wonder of it all. They're really winners.

Obviously.

Google Maps will tell you it takes roughly twelve hours to drive from Denver to St. Louis. Google Maps lies.

It takes all the hours.

It takes every single one of all the hours, and by the time you arrive in St. Louis, you're aching from the effort of being in the car that long, and everything seems surreal, and you kind of want to die a little. There would be no good reason to do that, if it weren't for the FTC Championships.

And in that case, I was happy to.

Tuesday morning I headed off, the middle of a three vehicle caravan, to help get Tre's robotics team to World. My car had Tre and the other two seniors on the team, plus one well behaved sophomore and his mom. The truck behind us carried the gear and the robot. The van in front of us had all the kids with poor impulse control. I'm not saying it was their fault we didn't arrive until 2 AM, but it WAS their idea to stop every single time we did. I thought the kids in my car were going to have a coronary. You know it's getting serious when an 18 year old boy suggests that everyone just skip dinner. 

But we got here! And after a bracing few hours of sleep, we headed off to the competition. I've been thinking about how to explain the size of this event, and I can't seem to find the words. There are kids everywhere, in costume or matching tshirts. Kids from all over the U.S., sure, but from the Netherlands, Australia, New Zealand, South Korea, China, Siberia, and more. Hundreds and hundreds of kids, all aglow with the wonder of being here. They made it to World. They can't stop grinning. It's kind of stunning.

Also stunning is how much STUFF some of these teams have. We goggled at their charter buses and custom vans and personalized trailers. The equipment and tools and costumes. What does it cost to outfit a few dozen kids as pandas in tutus, exactly? Our boys moved in among them, the ten of them dwarfed by teams five times their size. We were suddenly less impressed by the fact that we'd brought ten pounds of atomic fireballs to hand out. It was a little bit intimidating. 

At the opening ceremony last night, it was mentioned that this crowd represents the top three percent of robotics teams in the world. In the world. 

Yesterday was technical judging and interviews. Matches start today. I'm exhausted and a little queasy from eating food-like substances instead of food. But I tell you what, it's an honor to be here. I mean, the boys are honored to be here, sure. But I am amazed to be able to watch and grin from the sidelines. First match is in a few hours. You can watch the streaming (courtesy of NASA) here http://science.ksc.nasa.gov/robotics/first/st-louis-2014/

We'll be on the Franklin field, I believe. Our robot is 4287. 

And we're so happy to be here.

So, I've done it again. I've gotten so far behind on stuff to tell you that I don't know where to start, and there's no way to get it all caught up on. So instead, I guess I'll tell you some stuff.

Last week we went out to Phoenix for the wedding of Clay's sister, Theresa, to her beloved, Jordan. They had a gorgeous, sun-drenched backyard wedding. It was just beautiful. They sent their guests colorful prayer flags to decorate with advice, wishes, prayers, and these fluttered overhead as they said their vows. Really gorgeous. Whenever I go to a exquisitely crafted event like that, I think two things: 1) Oh, I wish I had that much good taste and energy and 2) LORD HAVE MERCY, I'm glad I'm not getting married again.

Weddings, man. Brutal.

But the main thing is that Jordan and Theresa love each other, and they made it offical, and we got to be there to wish them well. It matters, it just does.

And then we got sick.

Oh, so sick.

Clay started throwing up the day after the wedding, right before I flew home (into a snowstorm) with Tre and Max. I got home, settled in, and started throwing up the next day. Back in Phoenix, Sophia started throwing up the day after that. The next day Clay and Raphi flew home with a limp, sad Sophia. Now my dad's battling through the end of it. It is a bad and terrible virus, and no one should ever have it ever. Lord. 

I don't think most people at the wedding got sick. Just us, and a few other members of Clay's family, who had the bad fortune to be in close quarters with us (Sorry Maggie! Sorry Sharon! Sorry Dan!). OH, I hope it didn't go any further. I'm left feeling both guilty for being the bearer of the badness and resentful that we got it. Stupid virus owes me at least a week of my life back. TWO DAYS of which were supposed to be kid-free, I'M JUST SAYING.

I love Clay's family, though. The last two times now that I've gone out to Phoenix to spend time with them, we've all ended up with a terrible stomach flu, and I'm really hoping no one notices that we're the common (puking) denominator, and they don't disown us or start having secret family meetings without us in North Dakota or something. That would be very sad. 

Anyhow, we survived. And it's Easter! And I don't know, maybe there was something weird going on this morning, but we were overrun by weirdo strangers, raiding the kids' baskets.

This guy was all up in Tre's candy. 

I do NOT like the look of that guy. Shifty.

That one too. Shifty, I tell ya.

And that one's just plain scary. Seriously. How did this happen?

It's a good thing we have this fierce and mighty dog to protect us. See? Max is back already! THAT'S better.

So to sum up: stuff happened. We all survived. We wish you and yours a blessed and joyful Easter, with lots of candy and weirdos and love.

Oh, and attitude.

You guys. You guys. Last week, when I posted about Tre's robotics' team? And I finished with a small whine about the support they're not getting? I swear to you I was not fishing.

And yet.

People just…responded. They've stepped forward and made offers and wanted to help, and it has blown my little mind. By the end of the day on Friday, three people had offered to cover my hotel room. But as it turns out, they won't need to. Because we set up a fund raising campaign over at Indiegogo, and with that support, the school has stepped up to pay for my room. (It doesn't hurt that the kids – ahem, young men – in the club pitched a fit about me not being able to go. Love those boys.)

So we've got this campaign going, and if you're so inclined, you can help out at https://www.indiegogo.com/projects/send-lotus-robotics-team-to-the-world-ftc-competition/x/6992740

And thank you again, sincerely, for all your support. From the comments to the "where can I send a check?" emails, you people are amazing. I have gotten all teary several times a day since Friday, and you've bouyed my sense of what is real and possible in the world. God bless you all, and I mean that.

Last month I had the opportunity to drive half of Tre's school robotics team to the State competition. Now, lest you think the word choice "opportunity" sounded a little sarcastic, I was really happy to be going. Tre has been completely obsessed with robotics for his entire high school career, and it's actually guided him in what college he chose. It's been pretty important, is what I'm saying. And I was aware that this competition could very well be his last high school robotics competition ever, which seems both impossible and sad.

Tre and I stumbled out of the house in the early, dark, bitterly cold morning. We drove to the school in silence. Not even the excitement of the competition could override our shared lack of enthusiasm at morning. Plus, after picking up the others at school, we had another hour's drive ahead of us. Hard to get worked up over all that.

We arrived at the school and made our way through dark, empty hallways to the robotics room. What is creepier than a quiet, dark high school hallway? The rest of the team was in the robotics room, packing the robot and its accessories into plastic bins. When I walked in the room, I was struck full in the face by a wall of air. Air that had not moved out of that room all school year long. Air that held the smell of teen aged boys who had logged hours in that room, had stressed and worked and argued and triumphed and eaten obscene amounts of junk food. Air with TEXTURE.

There are no girls on this robotics team. In case that wasn't obvious.

They got it all loaded, the other adults arrived, and we left. When we arrived at the school gym that would be my home for the day, I sat down on the bleachers to judge the level of comfort they'd offer. They seemed to have been designed for maximum pain. Nice. Plus, I was so so so sick that day, drowning inside my own head. This was going to be a long day.

Except you know what? It wasn't. It was THRILLING. These boys? This team of boys, from the mean streets of Aurora? This little, underfunded, ridiculously disorganized robotics team that began four years ago with the tiniest, most pitiful little robot? 

THEY DOMINATED.

They were AMAZING. In this robotics league, they are partnered up with an alliance team for each match. More than once, their alliance's robot stopped working, and they went on to single-robotedly defeat BOTH other teams. 

I wish I could really explain how many hours these kids spent working on their robot. Since September, it's been like a part time job for them. After school nearly every day. Saturdays. Fall break. Winter break. These boys were there, in that little, airless room, crafting their robot. And it was beautiful.

In statewide competitions like this (they'd already been through Regionals, so these were the top teams in the state), you can't always clearly pick out the very best. There are lots of different strengths used in different ways, and the competition is close and hard fought. But this day, our boys swept the field. It was beautiful. 

And they won, you guys. They took first place in State, and for the first time in their high school robotics career, they were headed to Super Regionals. In California.

Now, you know I could draw this story out for another 600 words or so, right? I could describe the texts from Tre, updating me after every match, the roller coaster of emotions, the constant recalculations on where they were in the standings? But I'll cut to the chase. This was Super Regionals. The best of the best. They did not dominate, like they did at State.

But they did final.

And they are going to the World Championships this month.

It's like Hoosiers, you guys, but with robots. You should be standing up and screaming. I'm crying right now, a little.

But I'm also complaining a little, because this is a big deal. A huge accomplishment. But because it's not basketball or football or some other sort of ball, people don't really care. I think this is news, a great honor for the state, but no one really cares. 

The boys have to build a new robot for World. And their school has been as supportive as they can afford to be, paying for new parts for the robot. But that doesn't cover travel costs, or slick 3D printers like other teams have. I was going to drive them to World, but I'd have to pay for my own hotel room, and that's not doable right now. 

These kids, right here? They're amazing. They deserve it all. And I wish I could give it to them.

I don't suppose I should let that bother me. They'll figure it out.

 

This morning I tugged socks onto Sophia's unwilling feet. I pulled a shirt down over her head, a bit of a struggle as she refused to push back. I combed her hair and she raised tear-filled eyes to me. "PLEASE, Mom. I don't WANT to go today."

Preschool. She didn't want to go to preschool.

I made her go. I've let her stay home so often lately that I'm feeling cringe-y about it, and today I put my foot down and urged her, weeping, into the car. Her big issue is the worksheets. They start the day with these ridiculous, asinine worksheets (that aren't even developmentally appropriate for…well, for humans, but certainly not for FOUR YEAR OLDS), and Sophia hates them. If she doesn't finish them fast enough, there's no time for coloring, and coloring is her favorite part.

She started off the school year so enthusiastic about preschool. She even went to bed more willingly the night before a school day. When I picked her up, she chattered and chattered and chattered about the wonder of all things school.

But then, ever so slowly, that light started to dim. The work started to increase. There wasn't anything new to report, just the same things they'd done last week. She had friend issues. It got harder and harder to get up on school mornings until she began to get weepy many mornings before she even got out of bed. I tried talking to the teachers, but never felt like I got anywhere with them. Sample conversation:

"Sophia has been having some problems with MonsterChild."

"OH, NO! Sophia does FINE with the other kids! She's always playing with someone!"

"Yeeeessss. Okay. But apparently some of the girls she's playing with are saying mean things to her."

"No! She's GREAT! MonsterChild has older siblings, so she can come across a little harsh sometimes, but they like each other just fine!"

"Um. I…don't know how to respond to that. Sophia has older siblings, but she's not a jerk."

"NO! She's GREAT!"

"Huh. Am I supposed to say thank you now?"

Okay, I didn't say that last part in the outside the head voice. Nonetheless. The point is that things have been going downhill, and I haven't been able to work any of it out with the teachers. Last week I told them that Sophia was in tears nearly ever school morning over the worksheets, and they reassured me, loudly and repeatedly, that she was doing FINE on the worksheets, JUST FINE.

I know she's doing fine on the worksheets. I know what Sophia can do, and those worksheets are an inane waste of her time. The fact that she's capable of doing them is not the point. The point is that they're so boring that they make her itch with desperation to get away from them.

I have to figure out what to do. We're so close to the end of the school year, and the end of the year is usually so much fun. Parties, graduation, nonsense. I've been holding on, thinking she'd enjoy all that, but I'm beginning to wonder if it's worth it. I don't want her to feel like she failed at preschool. Then again, I don't want to go along with the teachers, as though they haven't failed her. The whole thing is complicated by the fact that I'm picking an entirely different school experience for Sophia, and so far I've really screwed it up. The fact is, I failed at choosing her preschool, and while the fault isn't entirely mine, that just sucks. I'm looking forward at all the other decisions to come, and I am awash in panicky dread.