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Once a year, my husband tries to grow a beard. He has not succeeded mostly because his facial hair tends to sprout in patches, which, as it grows longer, looks remarkably similar to the coat of a dog afflicted with mange. Being the supportive wife that I am, I mock him endlessly when he makes these attempts. I don’t know why he puts up with me.
It’s funny how differently things look to a four-year-old.
Small was on the toilet, doing some deep thinking. “Daddy?” he called, “How come you got-th hairth on you fayth and arm?”
My husband grinned at me and wandered into the bathroom to talk to his son. “Well, buddy, that’s just the way God made me.”
“Huh,” Small said, disappointed. “Den God made me pwain.”
As of 11ish this morning, Small turned 4. Yes, as his mother, I ought to know exactly what time he was born (along with how much he weighed), but I don’t. For me, it’s enough that I carried him in my uterus for 37 weeks and then birthed him.
Quite honestly, I barely remember what he was like as an infant (Henry, if you ever get around to reading these oinks of mine, you know Mommy loves you and just because her memory is crap doesn’t mean that you weren’t the most special 30th birthday present anyone could ever ask for).
I’m pretty sure that he was an easy going baby, but when I try and recall those special little moments with him—you know, the ones I should have recorded in a baby book—it’s as though I’ve been lobotomized. Medium was 20 months old when Small made his appearance; Large was in kindergarten. After struggling through the I-have-a-new-baby-who-doesn’t-sleep-at-night zombie phase, I returned to my human resources position where it was my job to fly all over the country and spank people (only in the figurative sense). Until recently, I had neither the time nor the inclination to look back; it was all I could do to look forward, put one foot in front of the other, and try not to drop any of the balls I was juggling.
You’d think that I wouldn’t wax nostalgic for those days, but sometimes, I do. I miss my co-workers and the easy banter that comes from working with people day in and day out. I miss the challenges of searching for the truth and articulating management’s best options for justice. I miss feeling that I am an expert at something—for God knows, I am no expert at parenting.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t regret my decision to take this hiatus from paid employment—I was lucky to have the choice. And I know I would be regretful had I kept on keeping on the way I was doing. Six months ago, my family was out of focus. Now, I am in the midst of an incredible opportunity to make memories with my children and to participate more fully in their lives.
There is a quote attributed to Oprah Winfrey but one I associate with Lynda Carter. Ms. Wonder Woman was attempting to revive her career after many years out of the spotlight—years in which she spent raising children. She told an interviewer, “I realized that you can have it all, just not all at once.” How that sentiment resonates with me!
So Small Henry, I may not remember our times as a nursing couple or when you cut your first tooth or what was your first word, but I know what you’re like now. And I’m writing it all down. Happy birthday, little man.
Then:
and now:
I have been debating whether or not to post this as I want to maintain custody of my children. I’m only half-joking. No judging.
The babysitter hasn’t shown up, the older kids are still in their pajamas, and I am running late. Although I managed to get Henry dressed, he found—and is enlarging—a previously unnoticed rip in his pants while regarding his uneaten breakfast, now congealed and unappetizing. Today is Henry’s first day of preschool; the one I picked based on the school’s reputation (excellent) and proximity to our house (close).
I am feeling a bit apprehensive on his behalf in spite of my confidence in his social skills. After all, until recently, he has attended an all-day daycare, four days a week. He’s a social butterfly—I’ve witnessed it. No, my butterflies must stem from something else. Perhaps my awareness that a responsible parent eases her child through the transition to a new school. Henry missed both of the school-sponsored playdates due to our family’s packed summer schedule. He knows no one and hasn’t even seen his classroom. The closest we came to visiting this school was to look at the outside of the locked building from the inside of our vehicle. Sure, I talked with him about leaving his old daycare and tried to excite him about going somewhere new. But talk is not action. Any anxiety he is now experiencing is my fault. My plan is to make-up for my deficient parenting by spending the morning with him exploring his new space, facilitating conversations with his peers, helping him accept this change that was out of his control.
Of course, things do not always go as planned. Reality dissipates my vision. My choices: 1) Leave Medium and Large seated comfortably in front of the television at home; or 2) Bring Medium and Large with me and allow them to bicker and complain in the school’s parking lot. Neither of these options appeal, but I am out of time.
I hastily run through the list of admonishments: Lock the door behind me; do not answer the phone; do not answer the door; do not operate the stove; do not touch the computer; stay away from the windows; and remember to dial 911 if there is an emergency.
Henry protests that he wants to stay home and watch TV too. Tossing him into the vehicle, I buckle his seatbelt (I am not wholly irresponsible) and then recall that I have forgotten to tell Liam that I will be back in half an hour. I race up the front steps and ring the doorbell. I hear the patter of little feet and then the door is unlocked and opened. “Yes?” Liam asks.
I unthinkingly do a poor imitation of Edward Lewis: “I told you not to open the door.”
“Oh, right,” he says, before slamming the door in my face.
I knock and yell for him to re-open the door. When he does, I tell him not to worry and that I will be right back.
Henry sucks his thumb in the backseat. He clutches Piggy to his nose and inhales what I suspect is the scent of sweaty little boy with undertones of yesterday’s entrees: pizza, peanut butter and banana. He is silent.
Starting the engine, I murmur a brief prayer to whomever might be listening to protect my children from the monsters that hide in plain sight.
My guilt is monstrous. I have never left my children alone in the house before. I know that if my husband did this, I would be furious with him. I try and convince myself that the kids are safe; that I am not a bad mother.
Is it acceptable to assuage one guilt by accepting another?
I am evicting the chipmunks living in our garage. Since they ignored my pleas to go quietly, I was obliged to put out a trap. A subtle, catch-and-release trap (I can kill mice and moles but not chipmunks–I don’t have it in me. I watched too much Disney growing up.). Even so, I didn’t tell the kids.
But they saw it anyway.
And this is what they did to it:
“Guys, what’s all this?” I asked.
“They should have an acorn party before they get trapped! They deserve it!”
Looks like Chip and Dale will overwinter with us after all.
We spent the weekend in Boston with the kids—packing in the memories like sardines in a can. The Children’s Museum. The Barking Crab. Nantasket Beach. The Red Parrot. U2 at Gillette Stadium (this last was only for Liam and Brendan). We stopped fifty miles from home to return the borrowed stroller to my in-laws and to pick up our other car. I offered to drive the sedan in a selfish ploy for an hour of peace and quiet.
“Anyone coming with?” I called, hurling myself from the still moving vehicle. “No? See you at home!”
I was opening the car’s door when I heard the van pull in behind me. It had been too good to be true.
“Medium and Large are coming with you,” my husband announced, gripping the steering wheel with one hand and his Blackberry with the other. He continued perusing his email inbox and didn’t notice the glare I gave him.
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope. They want to be with you.”
I am almost never alone. This is one of the hard truths I have faced while morphing from Woman-With-A-Career to OINK. I am constantly accompanied by, or in the company of, others. Usually very small others. Don’t get me wrong. I’m a people person. I like people and I like to believe that they like me. But there are times when I pause to think longingly about closing the door to my office and sending the calls to voicemail; about the rental cars where I listened to whatever caught my fancy on the radio; about the airports where I sat blanketed in anonymity—just a speck in the endlessly amusing spectacle of humanity.
In those spaces, no little voices were ordering me to turn up the volume on “Crazy Frog,” whining about needing a snack ten minutes after we finished breakfast, sobbing that someone had poked them. And while I had other voices in my head—the ones reminding me to finish this proposal or that brief, nagging me to return phone calls and emails, chastising me for being the parent who was always late picking up her kids from daycare—they were all my own.
I miss my own company.
My husband interrupted my reverie. “Liam didn’t want you to be lonely.” The side of the van slid open and Liam jumped out, followed closely by his sister. In spite of myself, I was touched by my son’s thoughtfulness. He gave me an awkward, one-armed hug and ducked his head. He and Nora scurried off.
“Well, that was sweet of them.” I tried to sound positive.
My husband chuckled. “Nora is only coming with you because she wants to be with Liam. When Liam worried you’d be lonely, she told us, ‘Mommy’s not lonely–she’s fine! Liam, you stay with me!’”
Either she knows me better than I realize or she is more like me than I know.
I love my kids, but what I need is a Fortress of Solitude.
OINKtales 
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