Now We Are Five

Kevin and Sophia were locked in mortal combat.  I was eavesdropping in the next room:

“Different socks CHANGE LIVES!  I will NEVER wear that shoe.  If you get off me, I’ll calm down.  If you don’t get off me, I’LL HIT YOU.  I’m trying to calm down, but you never give me a chance.  LEAVE ME ALONE!  I want to be ALONE!”

(Actual tantrum monologue.  I am not clever enough to make this s*** up.)

That was Sophia a couple of months ago.  When she was four.  All fire and fight.

This is her now:

Sophie just fell out of her chair because, despite my constant warnings, she had been precariously perched on the edge, hanging on by its black shaker spindles.  In the first minute after she hit the floor, I watched her decide whether to cry.  Perhaps she was considering whether the tears would garner her some sympathy and spare her a lecture about sitting properly.  I narrowed my gaze and stared at her intently, my eyes full of disappointment, my mouth tightly drawn and silent.  

Someone must have once looked at me this way; it comes so naturally, occurs so unconsciously, I am barely aware of it.  

Sophia immediately implodes—wailing and dripping tears. 

“No!  Mommy, don’t look at me that way.  I’m SORRY!  Don’t be mean mommy.  Bring back real mommy.  Be the nice mommy.”  

It is heart wrenching.  And even I, hardcore behaviorist who has no time for ploys, manipulations or histrionics, am moved by this display. 

“Come here,” I beckon to her.  She crawls onto my lap and sobs as uncontrollably as she used to rail against me, not so very long ago.  “You don’t love me.  You will never love me again.”  I pet her soft head and run my finger along her even softer cheek.  “Shhhhhhh,” I tell her.  “Shhhhhh.” 

I know her tears run the risk of becoming a habit with too much attention.  At the same time, she appears truly injured.  Deeply sorry.

I am moved.  And a little bit afraid. 

She finally cares about what I think.  She is finally contrite.  I finally have the power my parents once did, to wound with a withering look.  Not that I want to wound her, but I do want my words to have some weight.  I want her to listen.

Of course, I still want her to challenge authority, to question what she is told—just not MY authority.  At least not all the time. 

I had heard or read somewhere that five is the year of mellowing.  The year when rules become important pillars to abide by.  When dualism, in it’s most concrete forms—good and bad, right and wrong, black and white take hold.  It is the age of obedience.  The advent of tattling.  The first blush of guilt and remorse.   

With it comes the desire to please.  Fear of disappointment.  Pride in doing well. 

Please let this be so. 

Sophie calms in my arms.  Heaves become whimpers.  Whimpers become giggles. 

“Mommy?  What’s that word again?  What you called that weird lego?”

“Doohickey.” I say. 

“Doohickey!” she squeaks.  Giggles turn into laughter.   She is suddenly my silly girl again.  Talking nonsense, dimples breaking through her tears.  I can feel her urgency to fix this.  Her desire to make me smile too. 

She gives me a quick peck on the lips, slides off my lap and climbs back into her chair.

“Look, Mom.  I’m sitting in my seat and eating.  Just like I am supposed to.”

And indeed, she is.  

Away from Her

This weekend, for the first time since I went on my do-I-want-to-have-another-child cruise almost three years ago, I am away without Sophie.

It is so quiet, so peaceful.  Last night, I slept eight continuous hours.  Today I made breakfast for no one but myself.  And then I sat down here to write, without having to make Sophia a lunch, brush her hair and teeth, and drop her off at nursery school before having the space to do so. 

Heavenly. 

And yet, my thoughts keep turning towards her.  Not in a worrisome way.  But feeling her absence strongly.  In the little house where I am staying, there is an extra room off of mine with a single bed and a slanty ceiling and a tiny closet/crawl space just perfect for lining with blankets and hiding out.  I want to climb inside it with her.  At the beach, I gathered up well-worn stones, sanded to smoothness by the water that I want to give to her.  Yesterday, I saw a tiny crab, laboriously carry his oversized claw, walking sideways. I was reminded of last weekend, when Sophie and I watched The Little Mermaid together and the sea gull called Sebastian a “silly side walker.”  At the time, I had explained what it meant.  Now, I am sorry I am not able to show her.

As happy as I am to be alone, I know I would also enjoy having her at my side, sharing this with me, delighting in her every revelation that comes with a new experience.  Her gasps of surprise.  Her dances of delight.  The way she rushes toward each new thing with enthusiasm and intensity.  The looks on the faces of others watching her.  Knowing that she spreads joy everywhere she goes.  The pleasure of being her parent. 

But, to my surprise, there is no ache in my heart.  No sense of regret.  No sorrow.  This vision is simply a fantasy, a wish to have her here with me—not guilt-driven intrusive thoughts intended to punish myself for going away alone.

It might have been that a year ago.  I might have felt badly that I was going off to rest and renew, while saddling Kevin with the evening and morning routines and leaving Sophie in school for a full day.  I might have struggled to justify it—to Kevin, to others, but mostly to myself. 

“I haven’t taken a vacation in years.”

“Kevin’s going away to Ireland in October.”

“I work hard.  I’ve earned this.”

No.  I simply want this.   It is a secret that I am no longer afraid to speak.  And I say it with great joy. 

Mommy Down

In the midst of an endless heat wave, with temperatures in the 90’s, and brief storms that thicken the air, but bring no relief, an Arts and Crafts show came to town.  I thought it might be fun to have Sophie’s grandparents come down for the festival.  We’d saunter the half-a-mile into town, peruse the booths, get a smoothie and head home where I’d make steamers for dinner. 

We didn’t get started until about one, which used to be Sophia’s naptime about a month ago.  She’s still in the process of transitioning to a napless day.  Some days she begs to go to sleep (or can’t help falling asleep).  But on those evenings—even if we put her to bed later—she will repeatedly creep downstairs, an I’m-trying-to-get-away-with-something smile on her face and say,

“I’m scared.”

“I’m not tired, yet.”

“I need (more water, more toilet paper, some glue).” 

Kevin is more patient that I am.  He reassures her and leads her back to bed.  I give her the evil eye and point upstairs, sometimes accompanied by a single stern, “Go to sleep, Sophia.” 

Thus, we push through this trying hour.  And as we walked the half-mile in 96-degree heat to town, she repeatedly complained, “I’m hot.  I’m tired. I’m thirsty.” 

I tried to reassure her, “We’re almost there.  When we get to town, I’ll get you a drink. We’ll see what kinds of fun things there are for kids to do!” 

As we approached the festival she spotted a man handing out balloons.  “Can I have one, Mommy?” she asked, running towards the man, not waiting for a response.  She came back with a red one.  “I am going to have to tie this around your hand, Sophia, so you don’t lose it.”

“No!  I want to hold it.”  We have been down this road before.  And yes, we have contributed to the demise of our planet by accidentally releasing latex into the ether. 

“I don’t want you to accidentally let go of it, Soph.” 

“I won’t!”

“I know you don’t mean to, but you have before.  Either you give it back to the man, or I tie it to your body.”

“Tie it to my wrist,” she conceded. 

Now, I had two potential hazards to monitor:  Sophie and the red balloon that bobbed in the air after her. 

It bonked several people before I insisted on holding on to it in the crowds (or return it to the man).  Begrudgingly, Sophie acquiesced. 

She took an interest in the first few booths, rushing forth to put both hands on the glass that separated her from photographs of wild animals, as if she could enter them through sheer force and wishing.  “No!  Sophie!  Look with your eyes, not with your hands!”  I’d exclaim.  Or she’d grasp at sparkling jewelry to tell me, “Oooh, I love this.  Can I have it mommy?”  And I’d have to pry it out of her hands, apologize to the artisan, and remind Sophie, “Look, honey, don’t touch.”

She eyed grandma or me jealously, each time we touched an item to check on the price or hold it to our ears.  I knew what she was thinking.  There are only so many times she can be told not to touch and observe the great injustice that those who say “don’t,” do it themselves, before concluding, “this sucks.” 

What was I thinking?  That my little bull would be content to gaze at the china around her, just happy to be at my side on one of the hottest days of the year, during the hour formerly known as naptime?

We approached a booth where people were painting silk scarves.  Sophie was rapt.  “I want to do THAT!” she said, excitedly. 

“I’m sorry, honey, you’re not quite old enough yet.  We’ll find something that you can do.” 

“No, I don’t want to,” she whined.  “I want something to drink!” 

“Okay.  Let’s get a smoothie.”  We walked into a shop and I ordered us a drink.  I got a large with an extra cup.

At the table, I poured half of the smoothie into a cup, and gave Sophie the other half.   I handed her the straw that broke her ability to hold back. 

“YOU TOOK MY SMOOTHIE!” 

“Sophie,” I said calmly, “we’re sharing.” 

“NO!  It’s MINE.  YOU SAID YOU WOULD GET ME A SMOOTHIE.”  I took the smoothie away from her and told her that she could not have the smoothie until she calmed down.  She tried to grab it away from me.  I moved the smoothie to my other hand, and suddenly we were playing a game.  She hopped around, trying to seize the cup, and I moved it from hand to hand, trying to extract a polite word out of her. 

Now, if I had my wits about me, I would have aborted the mission right then and there.  Somehow, I still clung to the hope that we could still have fun at the festival.  If I just cooled and refueled, everything would be okay.  I turned the smoothies over to my mother, hustled Sophie out of the restaurant and onto the street.

She was livid—hitting, scratching, and kicking me in a blind rage.  I slipped behind a building and held her in my lap, restraining her flailing limbs.    I was still fairly calm at this point.  “Sophie,” I warned, “we’re not going back until you calm down.”  It wasn’t until she leaned over and tried to bite my hands that I finally realized:  This isn’t going to work. 

I dragged her back inside the restaurant to get my phone, call Kevin to come pick us up, and let my mother know the plan.  I stuck my hands under her armpits and walked Sophie back out of the restaurant as she overturned anything in our path.  The grandparents followed, apologizing and righting furniture.  Once outside, I called Kevin to come pick us up.  Sophia scratched my mother’s chest as I gave him the coordinates of where to meet us.  Grandpa Bernie held the smoothies.

I tried to give my mother and Bernie a casual wave.  “Go enjoy the rest of the show, ”  I told them as I half-carried/half-lugged her to the library where Kevin would have the car, Sophie kicked off her shoes.  When I went to pick them up, she made a break for it. 

I was in wedge sandals.  Running after her, I turned my ankle. 

The pain was bright and immediate.  The car was still far away.  I had no choice but to grab Sophie, pick her up, and limp my way to where Kevin was waiting.  By the time we got to the car, my foot was swollen and blue.  I saw Kevin and started to cry tears of relief, frustration, and pain. 

He fettered our wild child to her booster, and helped me into the front seat. We rode home in silence.  Kevin ushered her up to her room and gave her a time out.  Sophie promptly fell asleep. 

I iced my foot watching it grow larger and turn an ugly shade of greenish-purple.  Soon, Mom and Bernie returned.  Bernie, took a look at my foot and declared it a sprain.  At least I did not to have to spend the afternoon in the emergency room to get this information.

I broke out my crutches from last year, when I had torn my peroneal tendon.  The sprain, it seems, hit that same vulnerable spot.  So, for the past couple of weeks I have been resting, icing, compressing, and elevating the foot.  Already, it’s getting better. 

All this rest had given me a lot of time to reflect.  I don’t want to be too hard on myself—it is a difficult dance, balancing my needs and desires against my child’s needs and desires.  Certainly, going to a craft show is not a need, but it is something I enjoy doing with my mother—admiring the beauty that people bring into this world, indulging in a little something now and then, supporting their art.  And this pleasure is a result of the countless art and antique shows to which my parents took me when I was a child.  One of my better memories is of running around Waterloo Village with my sister, unsupervised, while my parents bought agate pins, glass vases and a chair with lions on the arms that my mother reupholstered.  

It is not wrong to want this.  A wise person once said to me—there is no right or wrong, only conflicting needs.  Different perspectives.  If anything, I think I err in the direction of catering to Sophia’s rhythms and schedules to the exclusion of my own.  I am still trying to find the shifting border that satisfies us both.  It means making occasional misses, but not torturing myself with guilt (for indulging myself) or resentment (for indulging her).  And it means attending to these feelings as they arise, being curious about them, and then adjusting accordingly.

Our happiness is tied up with each other.  We are inextricably linked.  Her misery can quickly become my misery.  My frustration can quickly become hers.  All it takes is a little bit of awareness to move from pain to joy. 

I strongly suspect that when I listen to her, I am teaching her to listen to me. 

The Guilt List

The following is a book-inspired blog contribution to the online bookclub, From Left to Write. I received the book from the publisher free-of-charge, however I was not compensated to write this entry. You can read what others had to say in reaction to the book here.

M.F. Chapman’s Take the Cake: A Working Mom’s Guide to Grabbing a Slice of the Life You’ll Love is a quick read that offers practical suggestions for moms to achieve a more “balanced” life. Chapman eschews the “mommy wars” and avoids any discussion of staying and working at home v. working outside the home, which allows this book to be relevant for all moms.

Now, I’m not a big fan of the word “balance.” I think it’s one of these “pie-in-the-sky” ideals that goes along with being “guilt-free” and “perfect.” I prefer terms like “less-harried,” reduced-guilt,” (except when it’s applied to food) and “increasingly comfortable with imperfection.” But as my mom always says, if you can take away one thing (from a book, a training, a talk, etc.) it hasn’t been a waste of time. And Chapman had more than one strategy in her book for improving one’s quality of life. I could easily have addressed her chapter on television watching, “unplug,” playing outside, “fresh air,” or nutrition, “eat well,” but those are all things that I feel fairly good about. I thought it would be more meaningful if I mined what is, perhaps, my greatest struggle as a parent:

GUILT.

The Guilt List
Chapman recommends that you: 1. Brainstorm all the different aspects of guilt you feel in relation to your child, spouse, friends, work and most importantly, self (I will focus on “child” here—otherwise this could reach novel proportions.); 2. Determine which truly have negative consequences and delete any that are “moderate or inconsequential when thinking about the big picture.” 3. Examine the remaining items and determine whether you can live with the guilt because the item is in service of something larger or you can’t live with the guilt and what you are going to do to change it.

So here goes…my guilt list (in no particular order):

1. Letting Sophia lounge in bed a little longer while I try to grab a couple extra minutes of sleep. Particularly since she has to go to the bathroom when she wakes up.
2. Not wanting to pretend with, read to, or complete a puzzle when I do fetch her from the crib. Particularly pre-caffeine.
3. Getting impatient with her as she dances around the room and I need her to get dressed so we will be on time for whatever comes next that day.

That’s three pangs of guilt before breakfast.

4. When we are out and about I feel guilty about underutilizing our post-diluvium basement playground. When we are in I feel guilty about not taking her somewhere fabulously stimulating and engaging that day.
5. Checking my email/hit count/FB on my iPhone (when I could be interacting with Sophia).
6. Setting Sophia up with a pile of books while taking a shower (when I could have taken one during her nap, but was too busy responding to emails, writing, etc.)
7. Not involving Sophia more in my household chores (cooking, laundry, cleaning, etc.) and letting her fend for herself while I do them.
8. Not giving Sophia a sibling.
9. Making a phone call or simply receiving one when Sophia is around.
10. Missing a “bath day” (because, as it is, I only wash her ever other day)
11. Playing with Sophia too much (not letting her have enough independent time).
12. Not playing with Sophia enough (see #8 not giving Sophia a sibling).

I detect a theme here. Okay, so my list is mostly about attention and active engagement and the constant question that plagues me: Am I giving her “enough” of me? I am fairly certain that this would be true whether I was working 16 or 60 hours/week (though I’d definitely be feeling it more if I was working full time). It never feels like enough.

Of course the minute I start doing playing with Sophia out of guilt and not genuine enthusiasm, it becomes inauthentic, to which I’m pretty sure all kids are fairly attune. In fact, I would venture to say that it is far better to let her play by herself (which she does enjoy) than to have me doing it out of guilt (and either neglecting my own needs, which breeds resentment, or neglecting our household needs, which creates a whole other host of problems) just to assuage my guilt. The right amount is probably whenever the spirit moves me (which it often does; I like to play), and not when it doesn’t. But I tend to ignore all evidence in support of this (that Sophie happily reads while I’m taking a shower, that Sophie is not deprived—she has plenty of opportunities to play with other children through playdates, school, outings, that Sophie is becoming increasingly independent and creative on her own) and only listen to this nagging inner voice that constantly berates me for not doing more.

To return to Chapman’s task: The fact of the matter is not one of these things would have a negative consequence…well, maybe if Sophie wet the bed that would kind of suck. But I don’t think Sophia is going to be sitting in therapy one day talking about the fact that her mother never paid any attention to her. In fact, what could happen instead is that she finds herself talking about how I didn’t give her enough space, how I wouldn’t give her opportunities to be bored and create…or worse…how I poisoned our relationship with leaked resentment that stemmed from my perceived need to constantly attend to her.

I know I need to chill out, back off, and deal with the anxiety that pops up as a result. I wish making dramatic changes in one’s psychology was as simple as making a list, but alas, it’s not. I take some comfort in knowing that awareness is an important first step in the right direction.