Ethan fell on his head yesterday. We were rough-housing on my bed. I usually throw him into the pillows, leave him in the middle while I run away and then full-speed run back and pounce on him. I chuck pillows at him. I lift him with my legs to do airplane. I swing him upside-down by his feet.
He yells. He giggles crazily. He throws himself into me and onto the bed. He bounces and loses his balance, little feet flying up above his body.
He loves it. I love it. We are like rambunctious puppies, spilling over each other. The wish for rough and tumble play was one of the reasons why I not-so-secretly wished for a boy when I was pregnant.
But yesterday he actually fell off the side. The top of my bed is a good two and a half feet off the ground. Ethan dove off. He was just barely outside of my reach. I missed him. I did not exactly see how he landed, but it must have been squarely on his head. He looked stunned and contorted on the ground. I thought I had broken my child in three places.
It looked like both his shoulders had been dislocated and I was terrified that his neck had been injured. Thankfully he screamed loudly right away. I consider that a good thing. I have no idea whether there are any medical grounds for this, but I think a head injury can't be that bad if the kid reacts to the pain quickly. It would be trouble, on the other hand, if he were too dazed to cry.
Oh. And by the way, my mother-in-law had witnessed the whole thing. Don't get me wrong, I love her. She's wonderful. But no mama ever wants her mother-in-law to see her as Bad Parent. Good Parents tell their kids no jumping on the bed!
I yell Bonsai! as I drop onto Ethan like a wrestler leaping off of the ropes onto a worthy opponent. Bad Parent.
As I pumped Ethan's arms and elbows, checking them for damage, held his neck, touched his back and head, asked him where it hurt, I was genuinely scared. But I was also mortified that I had been caught in the Bad Parent act. Even as the day wore on and my concern for Ethan's possible concussion waned, my fear of being judged as reckless continued. Later on the playground, as I watched nannies carefully handle their charges I thought, really, I would be fired if I ever tried to be a nanny. I imagined having to tell a potential parent-employer why I lost my last job. Dropped him on his head. No biggie.
I wonder if Ethan is safer with his nanny than with me. I wonder if I should be happy about that, or if I truly need to improve my parenting skills.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I want to look not old
Last month I attended a fundraising event at Blossom Birth, a little resource center that helps men and women transition into parenthood. The event was all about pampering moms and moms-to-be with mini spa services like aromatherapy, massage, and make-up. Having not slept for longer than 3 or so hours at a time for nearly a year, I needed a lot more than pampering. But it was a start. I signed up for as many services as I could get.
I want to look not old, I said to the pretty girl at the make-up table. She wore purple eye shadows of different shades from the bottom of her eyelids all the way to her brows. She was maybe 20-years-old. She had bright brown eyes and shiny dark hair. Her skin was flawless. She had on a little black outfit with difficult stilettos. She sort of tottered and shuffled around, unable to walk from heel to toe.
She half-laughed at my request, uneasy with what I had tasked her with. I imagined she thought something like, lady, there’s nothing I can do about your being old.
Instead of addressing my needs head-on, she apparently fell back on her trusty color scheme and asked, How do you feel about purple?
I feel fine about it, I replied. Why not? I thought. It might make me look not old.
Pretty in Purple went to work on me. Eye liner. Shadow. More shadow. More shadow. And ten minutes later, voila! She gave me the mirror.
Here’s the sad truth, I really had expected some sort of change. A mask to hide my mama fatigue, my years in the sun without sunscreen, and my serious caffeine consumption. Instead it looked like my eyes were afraid of the rest of my face and were trying to take flight. I had distinct, groovy purple wings swooshing out from my eyelids.
It looks pretty, Purple said.
Mmmmm, I nodded politely. I looked ridiculous, but I thanked her anyway. In her own way, she had done what I had asked her to do. I definitely looked too weird to look old.
Afterwards, my weird, winged-eyes and I mingled among the other mamas. No one said anything about my daring new make-up. I didn't know whether they were quiet out of kindness or horror, but I no longer cared about what they might think. I was feeling grateful for the chance to feel good and different. I had an artist paint a mendhi flower on my hand. I sipped too much coffee. I ate one of those monster chocolate chip cookies. I visited with old friends and met some new ones. I had a great time.
By the end of the afternoon, I was relaxed and happy. It felt so good to care for myself. As silly as it sounds, the purple wings around my eyes somehow lifted my spirit, even if they had not turned back the clock.
I want to look not old, I said to the pretty girl at the make-up table. She wore purple eye shadows of different shades from the bottom of her eyelids all the way to her brows. She was maybe 20-years-old. She had bright brown eyes and shiny dark hair. Her skin was flawless. She had on a little black outfit with difficult stilettos. She sort of tottered and shuffled around, unable to walk from heel to toe.
She half-laughed at my request, uneasy with what I had tasked her with. I imagined she thought something like, lady, there’s nothing I can do about your being old.
Instead of addressing my needs head-on, she apparently fell back on her trusty color scheme and asked, How do you feel about purple?
I feel fine about it, I replied. Why not? I thought. It might make me look not old.
Pretty in Purple went to work on me. Eye liner. Shadow. More shadow. More shadow. And ten minutes later, voila! She gave me the mirror.
Here’s the sad truth, I really had expected some sort of change. A mask to hide my mama fatigue, my years in the sun without sunscreen, and my serious caffeine consumption. Instead it looked like my eyes were afraid of the rest of my face and were trying to take flight. I had distinct, groovy purple wings swooshing out from my eyelids.
It looks pretty, Purple said.
Mmmmm, I nodded politely. I looked ridiculous, but I thanked her anyway. In her own way, she had done what I had asked her to do. I definitely looked too weird to look old.
Afterwards, my weird, winged-eyes and I mingled among the other mamas. No one said anything about my daring new make-up. I didn't know whether they were quiet out of kindness or horror, but I no longer cared about what they might think. I was feeling grateful for the chance to feel good and different. I had an artist paint a mendhi flower on my hand. I sipped too much coffee. I ate one of those monster chocolate chip cookies. I visited with old friends and met some new ones. I had a great time.
By the end of the afternoon, I was relaxed and happy. It felt so good to care for myself. As silly as it sounds, the purple wings around my eyes somehow lifted my spirit, even if they had not turned back the clock.
Friday, June 12, 2009
A poem about Saturdays
My son will wake me early
wanting his milk and cuddle.
I’ll hold him then we’ll stroll
down to the market
in the spare lot.
He’ll chomp on pluots, tomatoes,
and apricots, his favorite.
Using his 7 little teeth.
Juice running down his chin.
We’ll buy fresh eggs, lemon basil,
red and white carrots. Strawberries.
Maybe some chard.
I will eat a scone.
Sweet, crumbling, filling me.
Give my son a taste
as he toddles through the stalls.
Walking home. Uphill.
He sleeps. I sweat.
Hoping this activity
balances my proclivity
for eating pastries.
Swim lessons are next.
Daddy with the baby.
Me in the big pool
back and forth
back and forth
breathing left
right
left
right
then it is time to help Daddy
with the wet baby in the swim diaper.
Back home I can rest.
Or prep vegetables.
And dream of someday having
a Kitchen Aid
to keep alongside
my Dustbuster.
wanting his milk and cuddle.
I’ll hold him then we’ll stroll
down to the market
in the spare lot.
He’ll chomp on pluots, tomatoes,
and apricots, his favorite.
Using his 7 little teeth.
Juice running down his chin.
We’ll buy fresh eggs, lemon basil,
red and white carrots. Strawberries.
Maybe some chard.
I will eat a scone.
Sweet, crumbling, filling me.
Give my son a taste
as he toddles through the stalls.
Walking home. Uphill.
He sleeps. I sweat.
Hoping this activity
balances my proclivity
for eating pastries.
Swim lessons are next.
Daddy with the baby.
Me in the big pool
back and forth
back and forth
breathing left
right
left
right
then it is time to help Daddy
with the wet baby in the swim diaper.
Back home I can rest.
Or prep vegetables.
And dream of someday having
a Kitchen Aid
to keep alongside
my Dustbuster.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Books and Bites
The day I was back in a law library, I was so happy. It was quiet. I had a sturdy chair. I sat behind a desk and could see stacks and stacks of multi-colored books with bold titles on their spines. I was so calm. The books made it seem possible to control damn near anything! It felt like I could boil any problem down to its smallest parts and then follow the steps to solve the whole of it. There were answers.
The big books chunked life into digestible pieces. CONSENT TO TREATMENT, a practical guide. SPORTS LAW PRACTICE. LABOR LAW – BASIC TEXT. I felt grabby. I wanted to pull the books off the shelves with my whole arms and have them. I wanted to lay them open, each book overlapping the next, and reference and cross-reference. I wanted to inhale the information. Internalize it. Have it at my ready disposal so I am never unprepared.
The boundaries were so clear. The carrels marked proper study spots. Beyond the front desk was the space for Art Law. Land Use belonged in the next aisle, next to Gender, Justice & Law. It felt like I was where I was supposed to be. And everything else was too.
In my daily life outside of law libraries – way outside of them, so far away from them in mind and body that I wonder how the attorney part of me can continue to exist – there is so little order. Instead, my darling, love-of-my-life child colors my world with smashed bananas and randomly placed Cherrios. He twirls in loopy orbits and flaps one arm like a chicken wing for good effect. He pulls me. On my hair, on my thoughts, on my heart. He holds on, holds on, holds on to me tightly so I do not put him down. He is in constant motion, climbing up and climbing down, yanking clothes from drawers and heaping them into piles, scattering clattering kitchen utensils on the floor. He drops drumsticks in the bathtub and phones in the trash. He takes laundry out of the laundry basket and puts himself in.
Despite my son’s comfort with the chaos, I am rocked by the unpredictability. I feel entirely unprepared to parent well. No matter how many parenting books and articles I read, I can’t find the Good Parent answers. Boundaries are smudged away by sticky handies.
Today Ethan and I were in a different kind of library, listening as a librarian read about Maisy’s Nature Walk and other toddler tales. Afterwards the little kids tripped around the room, clambering up chairs and onto book shelves. Ethan played with the spring lid on the trash can. I thought about stopping him, but then engaged in chat with a parent on the other side of me. I took my eyes off my son. As I did, a bigger kid bit Ethan hard. Really hard. This kid looked like he was younger, unable to express frustration or control his impulses, but huge for his age. He towered (and teetered) over the other kids like a baby Andre the Giant.
The teeth marks were deep and purple in my son’s skin. I was shocked by the damage. How did that kid have so many teeth?! It was like Ethan had been chewed by a bear. Another mother commented that I should have him checked for rabies!
Ethan was hurt. I was so upset. Andre’s mother apologized sincerely. I said, “it happens” as I hurried my son into the bathroom. His skin was unbroken, but I gave his arm a lengthy washing.
I should have protected you from that big kid, I said to him. I’m so sorry. I should have known he might hurt you. I wasn’t watching when I needed to. I let you play with a trashcan for chrissake.
I think I did the right thing by letting Andre’s mom off the hook. Little kids bite. They hit too. It happens. But where are the proper boundaries? Part of me wishes that I had stood up for my son. I really hope that when it counts I can give the offending child’s parent hell. I am, after all, a lawyer even if I spend most of time reading books like Thomas the Tank Engine in a library very different from the legal kind.
The big books chunked life into digestible pieces. CONSENT TO TREATMENT, a practical guide. SPORTS LAW PRACTICE. LABOR LAW – BASIC TEXT. I felt grabby. I wanted to pull the books off the shelves with my whole arms and have them. I wanted to lay them open, each book overlapping the next, and reference and cross-reference. I wanted to inhale the information. Internalize it. Have it at my ready disposal so I am never unprepared.
The boundaries were so clear. The carrels marked proper study spots. Beyond the front desk was the space for Art Law. Land Use belonged in the next aisle, next to Gender, Justice & Law. It felt like I was where I was supposed to be. And everything else was too.
In my daily life outside of law libraries – way outside of them, so far away from them in mind and body that I wonder how the attorney part of me can continue to exist – there is so little order. Instead, my darling, love-of-my-life child colors my world with smashed bananas and randomly placed Cherrios. He twirls in loopy orbits and flaps one arm like a chicken wing for good effect. He pulls me. On my hair, on my thoughts, on my heart. He holds on, holds on, holds on to me tightly so I do not put him down. He is in constant motion, climbing up and climbing down, yanking clothes from drawers and heaping them into piles, scattering clattering kitchen utensils on the floor. He drops drumsticks in the bathtub and phones in the trash. He takes laundry out of the laundry basket and puts himself in.
Despite my son’s comfort with the chaos, I am rocked by the unpredictability. I feel entirely unprepared to parent well. No matter how many parenting books and articles I read, I can’t find the Good Parent answers. Boundaries are smudged away by sticky handies.
Today Ethan and I were in a different kind of library, listening as a librarian read about Maisy’s Nature Walk and other toddler tales. Afterwards the little kids tripped around the room, clambering up chairs and onto book shelves. Ethan played with the spring lid on the trash can. I thought about stopping him, but then engaged in chat with a parent on the other side of me. I took my eyes off my son. As I did, a bigger kid bit Ethan hard. Really hard. This kid looked like he was younger, unable to express frustration or control his impulses, but huge for his age. He towered (and teetered) over the other kids like a baby Andre the Giant.
The teeth marks were deep and purple in my son’s skin. I was shocked by the damage. How did that kid have so many teeth?! It was like Ethan had been chewed by a bear. Another mother commented that I should have him checked for rabies!
Ethan was hurt. I was so upset. Andre’s mother apologized sincerely. I said, “it happens” as I hurried my son into the bathroom. His skin was unbroken, but I gave his arm a lengthy washing.
I should have protected you from that big kid, I said to him. I’m so sorry. I should have known he might hurt you. I wasn’t watching when I needed to. I let you play with a trashcan for chrissake.
I think I did the right thing by letting Andre’s mom off the hook. Little kids bite. They hit too. It happens. But where are the proper boundaries? Part of me wishes that I had stood up for my son. I really hope that when it counts I can give the offending child’s parent hell. I am, after all, a lawyer even if I spend most of time reading books like Thomas the Tank Engine in a library very different from the legal kind.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Messiest. Day. Ever.
I expected parenthood to be messy. Messy diapers. Spit up. Spills and leaky sippy cups. I have learned to accept most of the messes associated with caring for my young son. Sometimes, however, I am overwhelmed by the sheer volume and constancy of them. Today was one of those overwhelming days.
Adding to the usual messiness, I have decided to start potty training my son. It is unconventional in the U.S. to start potty training at thirteen months. Still, it is not unheard of. Early potty training is common in places around the world where the expense of diapers lends itself to getting children out of them more quickly. I don't particularly like diapers. So I would like to be done with them soon. Ethan may have a different plan in mind.
First things first, I bought Ethan a potty. It is a little pea-green (pee-green?) number with four stumpy dinosaur feet and googly eyes to protect by-standers from seated stream. The potty is in the living room because that is usually where we are and I want to be able to get Ethan to it quickly.
Day 1 was uneventful. On day number 2 he pooped in the potty! No, I did not ask my young toddler if he had to go. He still calls me Dah! so I chose not to bother with chit-chat. I simply waited for the poop face. You know the one. And ran him over to the potty.
He pooped. Naturally I thought it was all done. I gave my son the all done? sign – making jazz hands backwards and forwards above my shoulders. He signed back All done! All done! All done! flapping his arms and hands up and down in front of him with such force that his little body rocked with the movement.
Great. Off you go. Time to clean the potty. No need to put a diaper on yet because he just did his business. Or so I thought. As I cleaned up in the bathroom, he pulled himself up to the coffee table and peed onto one of the legs and the carpet. And then he pooped again.
I watched it happening, powerless to stop it in time.
Quickly I accepted that this was all part of potty training. I said, Uh oh, and accidents happen, as I grabbed the Oxy-clean and wiped up the mess.
Now you must be done, I said, but just in case, let’s get you off the carpet. I took him into the bathroom with me but did not put on a diaper, thinking, how could it get worse? Repetitive pooping is usually not how our bodies work. Usually.
After clean up number 2, I stepped away from my small son to get the diaper. When I got back, there was more number 2. For a third time. All over. He had stepped in it. And moved. A lot.
Into the tub. Then on with the diaper. It would seem like that would be enough mess for one day. Alas, the day was not over.
Next he ran through vomit while we were playing in the park. I had not seen it in time. So gross. I pulled off his little zapatitos (I just love using the diminutive form of Spanish words. Zapatitos. So much more fun, I think, than shoesies.) and socks. Then I sat down with him to think through my dilemma: there was yucky stuff and a hazard – a little running stream – within his toddling distance so I could not leave him to his own devices long enough to rinse the shoes, but I also could not put the unwashed shoes in my car. I just couldn't.
I sat there for a while. Stumped. Then I settled on a solution: ditch the shoes. And I did, for a minute. Then I remembered that these were the only shoes that I could actually get on his feet in under 15 minutes. I pulled the sun hat off his fair little head and wrapped the shoes up in it. Not breathing through my nose, I considered the problem solved and drove home.
I had a meeting that evening, but was having a hard time getting out the door. Ethan was fussing, clinging. To distract him, I got the jello jigglers from the refrigerator.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. It felt so matter of fact, like, doesn’t everyone keep a few jello jigglers on hand for self-extraction purposes? I gave them to Ethan. He did not eat them. He squished them, decapitating the neon-red rabbit shape. (Yes, I cut jello not into squares but into bunnies.)
It worked. He giggled hee-hee. When Ethan giggles, it is a rounded, vibrating sound. His tiny new vocal cords must have more pliability than an adult’s. Hee Hee from an adult comes out just like that: Hee. Hee. With edges. Out of Ethan, it almost sounds like a purrr. I want to keep that sound forever in my memory.
Then the jello jigglers plan stopped working because he began throwing the jello. Sticky red clumps landed everywhere.
Desperate, I picked him up, stripped him down, grabbed the jello shapes with one hand and scudded off to the bathtub with him under my other arm. I dropped him and the jello in together. Go for it, I said, and then chucked a piece of jello at him. It stuck to his belly.
hee-hee
3 poop clean-ups, 2 trips to the tub, 1 vomit incident, and 1 final, late-night cleaning to get the red, bleeding, gelatinous glop off of bathroom fixtures. It was the messiest day yet. But at the end of it I got to hear that ticklish, kitten-like giggle, which was the last thing I thought of as I fell asleep smiling.
Adding to the usual messiness, I have decided to start potty training my son. It is unconventional in the U.S. to start potty training at thirteen months. Still, it is not unheard of. Early potty training is common in places around the world where the expense of diapers lends itself to getting children out of them more quickly. I don't particularly like diapers. So I would like to be done with them soon. Ethan may have a different plan in mind.
First things first, I bought Ethan a potty. It is a little pea-green (pee-green?) number with four stumpy dinosaur feet and googly eyes to protect by-standers from seated stream. The potty is in the living room because that is usually where we are and I want to be able to get Ethan to it quickly.
Day 1 was uneventful. On day number 2 he pooped in the potty! No, I did not ask my young toddler if he had to go. He still calls me Dah! so I chose not to bother with chit-chat. I simply waited for the poop face. You know the one. And ran him over to the potty.
He pooped. Naturally I thought it was all done. I gave my son the all done? sign – making jazz hands backwards and forwards above my shoulders. He signed back All done! All done! All done! flapping his arms and hands up and down in front of him with such force that his little body rocked with the movement.
Great. Off you go. Time to clean the potty. No need to put a diaper on yet because he just did his business. Or so I thought. As I cleaned up in the bathroom, he pulled himself up to the coffee table and peed onto one of the legs and the carpet. And then he pooped again.
I watched it happening, powerless to stop it in time.
Quickly I accepted that this was all part of potty training. I said, Uh oh, and accidents happen, as I grabbed the Oxy-clean and wiped up the mess.
Now you must be done, I said, but just in case, let’s get you off the carpet. I took him into the bathroom with me but did not put on a diaper, thinking, how could it get worse? Repetitive pooping is usually not how our bodies work. Usually.
After clean up number 2, I stepped away from my small son to get the diaper. When I got back, there was more number 2. For a third time. All over. He had stepped in it. And moved. A lot.
Into the tub. Then on with the diaper. It would seem like that would be enough mess for one day. Alas, the day was not over.
Next he ran through vomit while we were playing in the park. I had not seen it in time. So gross. I pulled off his little zapatitos (I just love using the diminutive form of Spanish words. Zapatitos. So much more fun, I think, than shoesies.) and socks. Then I sat down with him to think through my dilemma: there was yucky stuff and a hazard – a little running stream – within his toddling distance so I could not leave him to his own devices long enough to rinse the shoes, but I also could not put the unwashed shoes in my car. I just couldn't.
I sat there for a while. Stumped. Then I settled on a solution: ditch the shoes. And I did, for a minute. Then I remembered that these were the only shoes that I could actually get on his feet in under 15 minutes. I pulled the sun hat off his fair little head and wrapped the shoes up in it. Not breathing through my nose, I considered the problem solved and drove home.
I had a meeting that evening, but was having a hard time getting out the door. Ethan was fussing, clinging. To distract him, I got the jello jigglers from the refrigerator.
I can’t believe I just wrote that. It felt so matter of fact, like, doesn’t everyone keep a few jello jigglers on hand for self-extraction purposes? I gave them to Ethan. He did not eat them. He squished them, decapitating the neon-red rabbit shape. (Yes, I cut jello not into squares but into bunnies.)
It worked. He giggled hee-hee. When Ethan giggles, it is a rounded, vibrating sound. His tiny new vocal cords must have more pliability than an adult’s. Hee Hee from an adult comes out just like that: Hee. Hee. With edges. Out of Ethan, it almost sounds like a purrr. I want to keep that sound forever in my memory.
Then the jello jigglers plan stopped working because he began throwing the jello. Sticky red clumps landed everywhere.
Desperate, I picked him up, stripped him down, grabbed the jello shapes with one hand and scudded off to the bathtub with him under my other arm. I dropped him and the jello in together. Go for it, I said, and then chucked a piece of jello at him. It stuck to his belly.
hee-hee
3 poop clean-ups, 2 trips to the tub, 1 vomit incident, and 1 final, late-night cleaning to get the red, bleeding, gelatinous glop off of bathroom fixtures. It was the messiest day yet. But at the end of it I got to hear that ticklish, kitten-like giggle, which was the last thing I thought of as I fell asleep smiling.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Carwash
I took Ethan to the carwash today. I felt mildly guilty about it, spending the money I mean. I could have saved $20 by scrubbing my car myself, but it is cold outside. And I am lazy.
I talked myself into having someone else wash my car by believing it would be fun for Ethan. There is a reason why carwashes allow people to watch the washing, right? It is cool to see the car drive itself through the mechanized tunnel of shooting water and sudsy soap. I thought Ethan would get a kick out of it and I might knock out 15 minutes of my day having someone else entertain him.
In fact, Ethan loved watching the car washing. Cars drove themselves into the tunnel. Then, after the initial rinse and soap application, four men in rubber boots and aprons scrubbed down the car. As car after car moved along, the men stooped and scrubbed, getting a break only long enough for the first car to enter the rinse area and the next car to scoot along the conveyer belt between them. Maybe 30 seconds. It looked like hard work. It was obviously tedious and probably cold on a day like today. These guys have to get wet, and it did not look like the tunnel sheilded them much from the wind.
Ethan smiled at the men working in the tunnel. They smiled back. They engaged with him in the seconds they had between car washes. Ethan pointed and waved. They made silly faces.
Next to us at the window, two young kids watched a portable DVD player and goofed off. A woman came up behind them. She was short, even shorter than I am. At almost 5 foot 3, I was a good head taller than she was. The woman opened up a plastic grocery store bag and took out some grapes. She told the boys to eat their lunch and then noticed me watching her. "They're out of school today," she said apologetically while smoothing one of the boy's hair.
I gave her my best oh no! Gotta deal with the kids, eh? I hear ya! look. I asked, "which holiday do they have today?"
"It's spring break, " she responded, then turned back to her boys to spend the time she had on her lunch break with them.
I felt terrible for all the times I have resented my stay-at-home motherhood. I know that my life, not working outside the home and still with plenty of childcare options, is my life. Her life is different, which is nothing I should feel terrible about. Still, I had brought my son to the car wash for fun. For 15 minutes. Her kids had to sit there. All day.
I went outside with Ethan to watch the workers touch up and dry the car. It looked beautiful, shiny and reflecting the cold sun's rays off of the sleek red finish. I was proud of my car, glad to have such a luxury.
The last woman who dried my car held up her towel, signalling that it was ready to go. I bustled over with my toddler on my right hip, my diaper bag slung over my left shoulder and my purse hooked over my left wrist. I still had to get my claim check out of my purse somehow. I plopped Ethan down in the back seat. The woman smiled big at Ethan. She cooed at him while I rummaged through my purse. "What is his name?" she asked.
"Ethan," I told her.
"Beautiful name, " she smiled. "How old is he?"
"Just one year, " I said. Officially, he's 13 months. Most parents use months when telling a child's age under two. I am so grateful for making it through the first year, however, that I keep saying "one year" over and over, like some comforting self-validation.
"My son is one year too," she said. "His name is Sebastian."
"Beautiful name, " I said, and handed her the tip and claim check. She kept smiling. Then she turned to get a new towel to start drying, drying, drying, the next car.
Feel lucky, I told myself. Then I felt bad. Why should I need reminders to feel lucky? Why at someone else's expense? This mother did not seem unhappy, just as the mom inside had not, just as the men who made silly faces at Ethan (maybe missing their little ones at home? maybe just nice guys) had not seemed to resent their repetitive jobs in the wash tunnel.
Maybe they look at me, without a paying job, balancing - but badly - a toddler, a diaper bag, and a purse, and think to themselves, feel lucky.
I talked myself into having someone else wash my car by believing it would be fun for Ethan. There is a reason why carwashes allow people to watch the washing, right? It is cool to see the car drive itself through the mechanized tunnel of shooting water and sudsy soap. I thought Ethan would get a kick out of it and I might knock out 15 minutes of my day having someone else entertain him.
In fact, Ethan loved watching the car washing. Cars drove themselves into the tunnel. Then, after the initial rinse and soap application, four men in rubber boots and aprons scrubbed down the car. As car after car moved along, the men stooped and scrubbed, getting a break only long enough for the first car to enter the rinse area and the next car to scoot along the conveyer belt between them. Maybe 30 seconds. It looked like hard work. It was obviously tedious and probably cold on a day like today. These guys have to get wet, and it did not look like the tunnel sheilded them much from the wind.
Ethan smiled at the men working in the tunnel. They smiled back. They engaged with him in the seconds they had between car washes. Ethan pointed and waved. They made silly faces.
Next to us at the window, two young kids watched a portable DVD player and goofed off. A woman came up behind them. She was short, even shorter than I am. At almost 5 foot 3, I was a good head taller than she was. The woman opened up a plastic grocery store bag and took out some grapes. She told the boys to eat their lunch and then noticed me watching her. "They're out of school today," she said apologetically while smoothing one of the boy's hair.
I gave her my best oh no! Gotta deal with the kids, eh? I hear ya! look. I asked, "which holiday do they have today?"
"It's spring break, " she responded, then turned back to her boys to spend the time she had on her lunch break with them.
I felt terrible for all the times I have resented my stay-at-home motherhood. I know that my life, not working outside the home and still with plenty of childcare options, is my life. Her life is different, which is nothing I should feel terrible about. Still, I had brought my son to the car wash for fun. For 15 minutes. Her kids had to sit there. All day.
I went outside with Ethan to watch the workers touch up and dry the car. It looked beautiful, shiny and reflecting the cold sun's rays off of the sleek red finish. I was proud of my car, glad to have such a luxury.
The last woman who dried my car held up her towel, signalling that it was ready to go. I bustled over with my toddler on my right hip, my diaper bag slung over my left shoulder and my purse hooked over my left wrist. I still had to get my claim check out of my purse somehow. I plopped Ethan down in the back seat. The woman smiled big at Ethan. She cooed at him while I rummaged through my purse. "What is his name?" she asked.
"Ethan," I told her.
"Beautiful name, " she smiled. "How old is he?"
"Just one year, " I said. Officially, he's 13 months. Most parents use months when telling a child's age under two. I am so grateful for making it through the first year, however, that I keep saying "one year" over and over, like some comforting self-validation.
"My son is one year too," she said. "His name is Sebastian."
"Beautiful name, " I said, and handed her the tip and claim check. She kept smiling. Then she turned to get a new towel to start drying, drying, drying, the next car.
Feel lucky, I told myself. Then I felt bad. Why should I need reminders to feel lucky? Why at someone else's expense? This mother did not seem unhappy, just as the mom inside had not, just as the men who made silly faces at Ethan (maybe missing their little ones at home? maybe just nice guys) had not seemed to resent their repetitive jobs in the wash tunnel.
Maybe they look at me, without a paying job, balancing - but badly - a toddler, a diaper bag, and a purse, and think to themselves, feel lucky.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Redistribution
Around twelve months of age, children go through what child-development experts call a "redistribution" period. They like to take things from one place and put them in another place. It is hilarious to watch Ethan sort and categorize the big peoples' world in a way that makes sense to him.
The bottle scrubber, for example, fits perfectly in my Ugg boot. I watched him take the scrubber, toddle out of the kitchen, and then thonk sink it into the boot as if thinking, there. Yes. That's perfect. He slid the large wooden salad spoon into a hole of just the right size in the box holding his plastic bottle liners. He has put bits of banana in drawers and puzzle pieces in the diaper genie. Everything from bibs to balls has gone into the kitchen trash can.
I am delighted every time I see him practice this sense of order. Open. Put thing in. Shut. This evening he put himself into the laundry basket. He took the liner off this low, square wicker basket. Then he put his rain maker toy in. He climbed in after it and discovered that he fit quite nicely. I peeked in on him as he played in his basket in his bedroom. Who-waa he whispered to himself. He rocked the basket. He sat on his bottom and reclined.
The more Ethan redistributes, the more things have gone missing. I found the flash light in his book basket and the TV remote in his dump truck. Other things that usually belong in the kitchen are suspiciously absent. I imagine that Ethan threw them away and I failed to notice them when I took out the trash. At least he has not yet flushed anything down the toilet that I know of, but I'm sure that day will come.
The bottle scrubber, for example, fits perfectly in my Ugg boot. I watched him take the scrubber, toddle out of the kitchen, and then thonk sink it into the boot as if thinking, there. Yes. That's perfect. He slid the large wooden salad spoon into a hole of just the right size in the box holding his plastic bottle liners. He has put bits of banana in drawers and puzzle pieces in the diaper genie. Everything from bibs to balls has gone into the kitchen trash can.
I am delighted every time I see him practice this sense of order. Open. Put thing in. Shut. This evening he put himself into the laundry basket. He took the liner off this low, square wicker basket. Then he put his rain maker toy in. He climbed in after it and discovered that he fit quite nicely. I peeked in on him as he played in his basket in his bedroom. Who-waa he whispered to himself. He rocked the basket. He sat on his bottom and reclined.
The more Ethan redistributes, the more things have gone missing. I found the flash light in his book basket and the TV remote in his dump truck. Other things that usually belong in the kitchen are suspiciously absent. I imagine that Ethan threw them away and I failed to notice them when I took out the trash. At least he has not yet flushed anything down the toilet that I know of, but I'm sure that day will come.
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