Spill It

My mother likes to remind me of the somewhat exaggerated fact that every time she poured me a glass of Tropicana orange juice, I spilled it.  The fact that the juice was Tropicana is key here, because, according to her, I only spilled the expensive stuff.  If she gave me orange juice from concentrate or some off-label brand, I managed to keep it in the cup. 

I also probably didn’t drink it, orange juice snob that I was.   I’m sure the frequency with which I spilled was directly proportional to how frequently I raised my glass to my lips.

I have the clumsy gene, passed on to me from my mother.  Our legs are dappled with black and blue marks, and have been as long as I can remember.  Growing up, the piano bench was my mortal enemy.  I couldn’t come down the stairs, round the corner at the base and walk the dining room without making contact with it.  I can picture it there, waiting to strike, snickering as it heard my footfalls nearing.  Thus, I had a perpetual violet slash just above my knee.  Today, I can rarely trace the ugly elliptical bruises to a particular insult.  Which is to say, I walk into far too many objects to lay the blame with any one in particular.

I do not need to wait to have our genomes sequenced to know that this is carried on the x-gene, a dominant trait, that has been now been passed on to my daughter.  Sophie is also a klutz.  Maybe I’m not being fair.  Our maladroitism is probably better attributed to a dreamy, head-in-the-clouds state of being than to an inherent lack of grace. 

Sophie is always whirling, twirling, jumping, bumping, crashing, crying and suddenly flying again—just as fast as I can call out, “Be careful!  Look out!“  By now, I would think she’d be made of tougher stuff, but she takes her bruises hard—every minor scratch is worthy of gooey maternal attention. 

But when it comes to beverages, I got smart.  I wasn’t going to bemoan the loss of $2000 worth of organic milk due to spillage.  I was going to prevent the spillage from happening in the first place.  Thus, well into her sixth year, against my mother queries of, “don’t you think she’s old enough to drink from a regular cup?” she imbibed from a cup, capped with a straw. 

And every time it came crashing to the ground with nary a leak, I commended myself on my utter brilliance.  Independence be damned. 

But there comes a point in motherhood, where you start to grow uneasy with your intrusiveness.  You start to question the degree to which you might be enabling instead of empowering.  It’s an invisible tipping point.  A gentle nagging as you look at all the other children around her drinking from regular, grown-up glasses…isn’t it time.

But I wasn’t ready to turn over our glasses to Sophie.  Bestowed to us wedding gifts, uniquely square and now irreplaceable, they have thinned in number due to my ongoing drinking problem.   

Fact of the matter:  I should still have a cap and straw. 

There had to be a happy medium.  A training glass.  Something she could wrap her slippery paws around made of such strong stuff, they would bounce instead of shatter as they hit our hardwood kitchen floor.   So I googled it.

Low and behold, there is such a glass, the Picardie by Duralex, which has been the primary drinking glass in French school cafeterias for decades.  Durlex introduced tempering in 1939, which renders glass 4 to 5 times stronger than standard glass. 

I realize I sound like a commercial.  I swear, Duralex did not sponsor this article and I am not in the business of promoting particular products, but I was excited to find something to replace the plastic Take n’ Toss cups we have likely been using for far too long.  Particularly as we discover that almost all plastics—even those that are BPA-free and thought to be safe—have some level of estrogenic activity. 

I showed the image of glasses to Kevin who noted that they looked very similar to the cups he drank from as a child.  In fact, we still had two in the cabinet.  He retrieved the two small 6-ouncers that were stashed away on the top shelf, next to our shot glasses.  Sure enough, they bore the Duralex made-in-France stamp at the bottom.

Kevin’s mother had purchased these somewhere in the vicinity of 35 years ago.  At once, I felt a quiet kinship with her and saddened by the fact that she was no longer alive to have given me this bit of advice.  I might have made the transition sooner. 

That evening, I filled the glass –the one her own father drank from as a child, though I doubt he dropped it much, if at all—and set it in front of Sophie.  Her round grey eyes grew rounder with pleasure as absorbed it’s implications—this new level of trust. 

Letting Go

Sophia just told me that she wanted to go to the pool, which—in my mind—justifies the fact that I am holding her down and vigorously applying sunscreen to her tender baby flesh. 

New skin is perfect.  Smooth, poreless, incredibly soft.  I would stroke my child all day long if she let me. 

It is my duty to protect this skin!

I am half sitting on her, one hand gripping her arm, the other smearing white sticky goo up and down it, intent on my mission, deaf to her protests. 

Then, from beneath me she cries.  “I AM NOT A TOY.  I AM A PERSON.  STOP TREATING ME LIKE A TOY!”

Is this a ploy?  Is she trying to arouse my guilt for trying to shield her from the searing North Jersey sun?  Or could this be how she feels?  Manipulated, like a doll, as if she is not real.  As if I have no respect for her feelings.  Her humanity. 

I feel sick.  I let go of her. 

She is still livid with the injustice.  Clawing at me.  Hitting me. 

Unfortunately, we are not alone.  I have an audience.  My friend Pam is there, along with some of the other parents and kids who share our cabin at camp. 

Pam says calmly, “What do you usually do?”

“Give her a time out until she calms down, but how do I do that here…?”  Here, at camp where no space is private.  Pam acts swiftly, picking Sophie up and depositing her into an adjacent room full of bunk beds.  It’s where the adult campers with disabilities have been sleeping.  But right now it is empty.  As Pam closes the door I hear the thud of Sophie’s sandal against it.  Pam chuckles. 

This is the second tantrum Pam has witnessed.  The first was in the shower, when I tried to wash Sophia the other night.  As I soaped her up, she squirmed away, as slick and slippery as an eel.  Pam held her and told me, “You know, you’re much too thorough.”

It’s true.  Whether I am washing Sophia’s body, brushing her teeth, wiping her butt, combing her hair, or applying sunscreen, I make sure I get every nook and cranny.  It feels obsessive as I’m doing it, but I can’t bear the thought of missing a spot.  It rises from my gnawing perfectionism.  From the fear that I might be remiss as a mother—any pimple, cavity, snarl or sunburn evidence of my failure. 

But the truth hurts.  I couldn’t hear her.  Not then, in the moment, frustrated and overwrought.  “Can we talk about this later?”  I asked her, not kindly.  In that moment, I just wanted her help, her extra hands.  The patience every mother has for a child that is not her own—not her advice.  Pam got it.  She gave me what I needed.  We got through it.

And now, my daughter is raging in the other room, and I am ready to listen.  I need another pair of eyes.  An objective, unemotional view.  Wisdom from someone who has been there. 

She tells me that she used to fight every battle, until it was killing her.  She tells me how she has learned to let things go.  I’m listening.  I believe her.  I have known her to be every bit as hardcore and unyielding as I am. 

She suggests that I let Sophia do more on her own. 

You mean, give up control?  Let a four-year-old wash herself?  Brush her teeth?  Comb her hair?  I have tried to let Sophia do some of these things, with less than stellar results. 

I would have to be okay with that.  I try it on.  I feel the muscles in my arms and chest tighten with resistance. 

Then I hear a voice inside my head telling me to question anything I hold dear. 

“Okay.”  I tell Pam, “Thank you.”  She hugs me.  We check on Sophia.  She has fallen asleep.  I have not learned the lesson my broken foot was meant to teach me. 

She was exhausted. 

When we get home, I give Sophia a bath.  I hand her a washcloth and tell her that we’re going to try something different.  This time, she’s going wash herself, and I am going to help.  She likes the idea, proudly soaping her chest and legs—letting me get the hard-to-reach places, like her back.  She still dilly-dallies.  She still resists me.  But it’s less combative, more collaborative.

And now, a few weeks later, I realize that Sophia has not asked me—not even once—to wipe her butt after using the toilet. 

More importantly, I haven’t offered. 

Spoil the Child?

I really dislike the term “spoiled child,” as if a little one has gone rancid and foul-smelling, or worse, is ruined for good and must be tossed out.  But I can’t think of anything much better:  Over-indulged? (Sounds as if she is swelling, glutted with attention.)  Self-centered? (Sounds too much like she has no awareness or concern for others, which just isn’t true.)  Egocentric? (Well, what child isn’t?)

But, I am aware that my constant being “on-call,” like a doctor who can be paged day or night, has created an expectation for me to be constantly on call.  My daughter expects, nay demands, instant and incessant attention.  For the past four years, I was complicit.  I agreed with the relatively new adage, “you can’t spoil a baby with attention.”  In fact, I believed this to be true of a toddler and a preschooler as well.  Stuff, perhaps, but love?  Can one ever have too much love?  I wanted to be there for her, attune and responsive, but now that I see Sophia as a more capable, independent human being, I want her to be a more capable, independent human being. 

And she wants me to play with her.  Every. Waking.  Moment. 

At dinner if Kevin and I have a brief exchange, Sophia asks, “How come no one is talking to me?”

And from the second I wake up in the morning, Sophia, who is perfectly capable of reading a book by herself, thrusts What Do People Do All Day? into my face and insists that I read four—no five—stories. 

Then, the day is peppered with demands, “Mommy be a witch.”  “Mommy, you have to color with me.”  “Mommy, read me just one more…just one more!” 

I want her to adopt an attitude of gratitude.  Where is her thankfulness?  Her appreciation?

And where is my moment to myself? 

Perhaps Sophie’s need to be constantly entertained is not unique to only children, but it is certainly fueled by Sophie’s only status.  There is no one to split her time with, her toys with.  So, even though we don’t actually give her much stuff, what she does have is all hers.    And time?   What’s mine is also all hers.

I have only first started to feel some resentment, annoyance, and perhaps fear around Sophie’s requests.  Resentment that she’s encroaching on my territory, edging out my life with hers.  Annoyance at the relentlessness of her demands, and the what-have-you-done-for-me-in-last-minute attitude.  And fear that it will only get worse. 

But, as with all behaviors one wishes to change, awareness is key.  I am conscious of my irritation.  Spoiled children are only spoiled by complicit parents.  There has to be a spoiler and a desire to spoil.  I want to stop.  Starting now. 

So I am initiating a campaign to bring about change, foster greater independence.  I call it, Go Play by Yourself.  I set her up with scissors, glue and old magazines and let her go to town.  I stick her in the living room with a pile of books while I’m cooking and insist that she read by herself.  I put her in her bedroom for rest hour and shut the door.  I can play with her only after.  After I get the laundry done.  After I finish sending this email for work.  After I clean up the bathroom. 

To my surprise, Sophie has been responding not with anger, nor resistance, nor even simple complicity, but excitement and even a little pride.  When I set out to wash the floor this weekend, I gave her a few copies of South Jersey Magazine, a glue stick, her scissors and some construction paper.  A half-hour later she emerged with cards for each of her friends.  She had made collages of images she thought they would like.  True, some had images of women bouncing in bikinis on beaches or real estate photos of mansions on the market, but they were sweet.  Thoughtful.  Gracious.

“Mommy, can you help me write some words to my friends?”  Now it was “after.”  I was ready.  Present and relaxed. 

“Sure kid.  What do you want to say?” 

“Margo, sweetheart, you are so lovely.”  I write down her words.

“Madeline Crazyhead.  I love you.”  I write this down too. 

And as I do, I think to myself, perhaps my fears are unfounded.  Maybe she is yet unspoiled.  There is no faulting her for wanting what she wants; there is only shaping it into a new form.  Helping her find satisfaction in other ways.  And gratitude at four is not expressed as “thank you.”  It comes in small unexpected acts of love. 

Sophie Do It

Lightening tore fresh holes in the sky. The thunder was so loud it shook the foundation of our house. I woke suddenly and bolted upright, heart pounding. Meanwhile, Sophia, who rouses whenever I step on a creaky floorboard, slept unperturbed in her crib next door.

I didn’t want to be. I knew it was irrational. But I was terrified.

I debated running downstairs to Kevin, who was sleeping (or not) in his insomnia-resistant cave, for reassurance. And then I got to thinking about dependent and independent states, which turned my thoughts to Sophia.

In the last few weeks, Sophia has transitioned from a rather docile, mostly obedient, and largely dependent creature to a little girl with a will of her own and a distinct lack of coordination to execute that will.

Example #1: We are in a buffet-style salad restaurant in Florida with my sister, her husband, and my nephew. In an effort to be more flexible parenting-wise, I squirt out a white chemical concoction from a shiny aluminum machine which claims the stuff is frozen yogurt. I set it down in front of Sophia, who eyes it suspiciously, but after one orgasmic mouthful is hooked. She encircles the bowl with her right hand, and digs her spoon into the food-like substance with her left. The bowl wobbles precariously on the table, threatening to spill down her bib-less body. “Here, let me,” I offer helpfully, stabilizing the bowl. “NO! SOPHIE DO! SOPHIE DO!” she shouts, pushing my hand away with surprising force. “I’m just trying to help you,” I insist, now just letting my hand hover over the bowl. Even this is too invasive for her. She slaps my hand away, “SOPHIE DO IT!” With a look of great concentration, she successfully scoops out a spoonful and awkwardly twists her wrist 180 degrees to aim it towards her mouth. The melting, viscous yogurts slides and hangs off of the edge of the spoon. I am waiting, albeit at a safe distance, napkin in hand as she drags the spoon into her mouth, leaving a creamy trail across her cheek. I resist the impulse to wipe it clean.

Example #2: Sophia has never liked costume changes, but suddenly it’s an all out battle to get her out of her play clothes and into her pj’s. As I try to pull on the bottoms, she protests loudly and rolls around on the bed, eluding me. I grab a leg, try to insert it into the pants and she cries out “SOPHIE DO! SOPHIE DO!” reaching for them. Ripping the pants out of my hands, she attempts to put them on upside-down. I resist the impulse to reorient the pants as she tries repeatedly to aim her foot into a small hole. I try talking her through turning the pants around, and she listens. With one leg finally in, she claims success, abandons the project, and resumes rolling. Bracing for a fight, I guide her other leg into the pants and pull them up. Furious with my audacity to improve upon her work, Sophia endeavors to rip the pants off, pulling them back down over her diaper. There is a struggle. The pants are up. I am victorious. Sophia is pissed.

It is the hardest thing to stand back and let Sophia do for herself. I am not sure if it is because I am not yet ready to let go of her earlier phase of absolute dependence. Or if I'm the one who can’t tolerate her frustration at not experiencing immediate success. Or if I simply just want things to move along faster. It’s probably some combination of the three. I know she needs to do it and that I have to take a step back. It is the hovering that conveys a lack of capability. That breeds helplessness and fear. And so, I’m trying—but, still, it’s difficult to resist the impulse to take over.

Outside, the storm continued to punish the earth. Wide awake, I picked up an article by Michael Pollan about the pending extinction of cooking . A line from the page jumped out at me. Pollan derived this lesson from Julia Child, who, he explained, “took the fear out of cooking” for many women: “The only way you learn to flip things is just to flip them!” So simple. So true.

I didn’t go downstairs to Kevin. Sophia eventually did wake, cried out, and almost immediately went back to sleep. I didn’t go to her. I didn’t have to. She soothed herself. The storm subsided, and I, too, soothed myself and went back to sleep.