A jumble of September meanderings

Try to remember the kind of September
When life was slow and oh, so mellow.  (Music: Harvey Schmidt, Lyrics: Tom Jones)

My dad, who loves autumn, too, 12 years ago, with the twins.

Okay, to be honest, I'm not sure how these lyrics apply to this post. I just love that song from The Fantasticks, so sweet and melancholy. I have a love hate-relationship with September. Autumn, though technically starting in October, previews in September. It is my favorite season by far. The clear blue skies, changing leaves, brisk air, mellowing sunshine. Without any expectations I could drink in all that fall has to offer.

Unfortunately my life is burdened with expectations, both real and imagined. Probably more the latter. September means I am afraid I'll putter around the house, do the laundry, or secretly waste time on Facebook and lose a precious day I could have been spending at the arboretum or on a hike. Panic that I've missed an opportunity to live a full life. Yet shame, too, if I do go out, that my husband is overworked and I should be finding a job. I ought to be cleaning the house, it's the least I could do. Instead I end up staying at home fretting, managing to not clean the house, not drink in autumn and not find a job. Whoopee.

September means a quiet house. A cup of coffee, laden with extra milk to mellow it, and the Tuesday New York Times crossword puzzle (good thing the first day of school isn't a Friday!) A walk with a friend. A shopping trip to replenish the coffers. (To you language purists I think coffers has more to do with finances so it isn't the right phrase here, but I wanted to use it, so there!)


At the end of the day a different picture. Cranky, overwrought, tired children tumble into the house, their bodies wrung ragged, unaccustomed to being imprisoned in hard chairs, knees pushing against desks, minds muddle by too much information, thumbs bewildered by not having game controls in front of them.

(I can't write the above without saying our children are so spoiled, not knowing they could go to schools in the impoverished inner cities of Detroit or Newark, or not even be given a chance living in garbage dumps of Guatemala, or the war zones of Afghanistan. How lucky they are to have school. Try telling that to a suburban teen or pre-teen, who knows, without a doubt, that his school is the worst it could possibly be, a total waste of time, and that they cannot possibly learn anything of value.)

September is a bucket of worry. My Janet starts her first day of middle school in three days. At the orientation last week we sat in the bleachers in the crowded gym, close to the door. Eyes riveted on the incoming rush of students, she sat seeking a friendly face. None arrived. Even the children who used to sometimes hang with her, who came to her birthday last March, do not even deign to make eye contact, not even a short wave, a nod of the head. As each child enters the gym their eyes sweep the room, then they rush over to a friend or two screaming "How was your summer!" Janet didn't say a word. Neither did I.

Later I found out two "friends" will be in her homeroom. Friends that didn't call the whole summer but hung out with each other. It's my fault, too, because the principal asked me if she could place Janet with any friendly faces, and in June these girls had been hanging with Janet. I wish I'd never mentioned them. Now I feel terrible that two past friends will be in her classes, bonding while ignoring her. So I remember to breathe and try to distance myself from my childrens' social lives. They will work it out better on their own. Unless they don't, and they get depressed and I miss the cues. Oy. (I know, I'm not Jewish, but I love "oy," it's very useful.)

Will Janet be teased, singled out, ostracized for being transgender? Will she lose her one good friend from a different elementary school who doesn't know she's trans? Will she find new friends who get her differences, with secrets of their own? How will I help without bringing in all my own anxieties and fears?

I lie in bed typing this entry. The crickets call to each other, their songs slowing down as the night gets chillier. Unbelievably it's below 70 degrees and I'm optimistically wearing long sleeved pajamas. It's past midnight, so it's already a September morn.