An Indecent Proposal

Sophia and I are eating breakfast together.  This is a time when Sophie is inclined to suddenly reveal a little tidbit of what happens in her life when I am not around.  I relish these moments. 

These crumbs of personal experience must be offered, I have learned.  When she comes home from school, she is always tight-lipped about her day.

“So, Soph…what happened in school today, anything interesting?”

“Can I listen to Seussical?”

“Can we talk for a little bit first?  I haven’t seen you all day.”

“Okay mommy.  I will tell you one thing.  Then, you have to turn on Seussical.”

I sigh.  I don’t want to grill her.  But come on.  Why the secrecy?  When I was a child, I was all too happy to share every intimate detail of my day with my mother.  Much to her chagrin.

My mom:  “What happened at school today?”  She braces herself.  Pours a cup of coffee.  Takes a seat. 

Me:  “First period: insert lengthy story.  Second period: insert lengthy story. “  I am oblivious to all social cues that I should speed things up.  Eyeball rolls. Yawns.  Glances at the clock.  (She teases me to this day, asking me when she calls, “So what happened during first period?”  Very funny, mom.) 

And even now, I catch my husband glazing over, when, in Technicolor, I illustrate for him exactly how the day went. 

Even my therapist, MY THERAPIST, jokes that I talk too much.  Can I help it?  I’m a storyteller.  It’s in my blood. 

But, clearly, this is one trait Sophie has not inherited from me.  Which is why, I get really excited when she engages in spontaneous sharing.  I try not to act too hungry for every gory detail, but I know my eager expression betrays me every time.

“Trip asked me to marry him,” she says, as casually as if she was saying she learned how to squats in Kick N’ Flips. 

“Who’s Trip?”  I had never heard of this Trip fellow.  Never seen him at Montessori before.  He must be a new kid.  Clearly, a man of action. 

“Oh, he’s not in my class.  He’s a napper.  I see him on the play ground.”

“When did he ask you to marry him?”

“So, Trip was already in the bathroom, and I showed up.”

“What was he doing?”  I pictured a one room bathroom.

“He was going to the potty.” 

“Okay….”

“And he asked me if I saw his foot.”

“So he was in a stall?”  She looks at me like I’m an idiot, as if this is why she never tells me anything. 

“Yes, Mommy.”

“So what did you do?”

“I said no.  And he said, can you see my foot now?  And I said no.  And he said “AHHHHHHH!  My butt’s on fire!”

“I’m not following.”

“He says that sometimes.  To be silly.”

“So then what happened?”

“Then he asked to marry me.”

“And what were you doing, when he proposed to you?”

“Oh, I was pee-ing,” she says, matter-of-factly.  Really.  Can you think of anything more romantic than this?

“So what did you say?”

“I told him…maybe,” she gives me a coquettish, side-long glance. 

“Why maybe?”

“Because.  I don’t know if I want to marry him, or PJ or Samantha.”   

I nod, understandingly, and reach for pen and paper.  

“Let me get this all down, I tell her. “ And she beams, while I write down her story, asking her to recount each detail, making sure I get it right.

When I’m finished, she asks, “Can I see?” 

“Well, I just kind of scribbled it, Soph.”  I tell her, handing her the slip of paper.  She studies it, and I watch her mouth move.  She’s reading it. 

“What do you think?” I ask?

“Great!” I can see she is quite pleased with herself. 

She may not suffer from the same verbal incontinence that I do, but she shares the same impulse.  We all share that impulse.  

Just Like Heaven

As a member of the online book club, From Left to Write, I received a copy of The Unexpected Circumnavigation from the author, gratis. I was not paid to write the following article, which was inspired by the book. You can read other members’ musings and impressions by clicking here, on June 28th.

It has been almost four years since Kevin and I have taken a vacation alone together. We’ve had a stolen moment here and there, but nothing quite as indulgent as the four-day trip to Vermont we had planned.

When I first attempted to broach the subject of our long-weekend get away to Sophia, we were all seated at dinner. “Guess what!” I began. Kevin, intuitively knowing where I was going, shook his head no, his hand stretched out before him as if to stop me. I shot him a questioning look.

“I don’t want her worrying about it,” he said, just above a whisper. Sophie shoved in a mouthful of lasagna, oblivious to our interaction. “Okay,” I shrugged. I was fine deferring to his judgment, though I less concerned about this possibility. My mother had generously offered to take her for the duration of our trip. Since we have been driving up to and staying with my mother every week for the past two years, I felt pretty confident that Sophia would be okay with the arrangement.

But, just to be on the safe side, I introduced the concept with a story. A couple days later, we were alone at breakfast when Sophie made her usual request, “Mommy tell me a story with you, me and Curious George.” I seized the opportunity to paint an idyllic vision of a “vacation” with her grandparents.

“Once upon a time, Mommy and Daddy and Sophia decided to take a vacation.”

“And Curious George,” she reminded me.

“Who’s telling this story?” I asked, “Curious George is going to make a surprise appearance.”

“Okay,” said Sophie cheerfully.

In the story, Mommy and Daddy leave Sophie at her grandparents for a vacation, while they go on their own vacation for a couple of days. Grandma and Grandpa take her to visit some relatives who have a boy Sophie’s age and a beautiful glistening pool in their backyard. When Sophie arrives, she discovers that the boy has also invited his best friend (you guessed it) Curious George. The three of them frolic in the pool together, eat mac n’cheese n’ peas for lunch, take a nap in one big bed, and wake to an ice cream treat. I forgo the Curious George formula (George innocently causes a stir that has unintended positive consequences, which ultimately allow everyone not only to forgive his naughtiness, but to hail him as a hero.). Instead, I appeal to Sophia’s idea of heaven. By the end of my “story” she is grinning ear to ear.

Later, I overhear her telling her beloved stuffed Snakey Pie the story. “Once upon a time, we all went on vacation,” Sophia begins. Snakey Pie stops her, “What’s a vacation?” he asks. “It’s when we go to Grandma and Grandpas and Mommy and Daddy go on a very long date.”

Bingo.

I know that, in reality, despite the inclusion of Curious George, I have not created an unreasonable expectation. My mother has big plans: the zoo, the Jersey shore, relatives with pools, a Chinese restaurant, the play ground, the library, ice cream and intense periods of pretend play. Sophie will not be disappointed.

When we arrived at my mother’s, Sophie sprang from the car. I quickly transferred her things to the house, and within minutes my mother was whisking her away to the zoo. “Good bye, Sophia. I love you. Mommy and Daddy will see you in three days. And we’ll call you every night.” I held out my arms for a hug. Sophie shrank away from me into grandma’s side.

She was mad at me. So be it. I was a little sad that our parting wasn’t sweeter, but she was entitled to feel the way she felt. After all, we were ditching her.

As we climbed into the car and started up the engine, Sophie came running back. “Mommy! Mommy!” I rolled down the window and leaned out for a kiss. My mother held her up to me and we touched our puckered lips together. As soon as her feet were back on the ground, she scooted off towards Grandma’s car for her trip to the zoo.

This time, she didn’t look back.

Neither did I.

I’d like to think it’s not because either one of us is cold hearted, or even relieved to finally get a breather from the other, but because we share a secure attachment. She is sure of my love. She understands it’s permanence, whether I’m present or not. She knows I’m coming back. I can remember, as a teenager, babysitting for a 10-month-old boy. He would cry bitterly when his mother left. Instinctively, I whispered into the soft down of his head, “Mommy will come back. Mommy always comes back.” This soothed him. In a similar vein I have reassured Sophia time and time again, “I will always be here for you.” And, in moments of nascent empathy, Sophia has echoed this sentiment back to me, “Mommy. I will never leave you. I will always be in your heart.”

Once in the car, Kevin’s first order of business was to remove all the kids’ CDs from the car stereo. We drove the five hours to Vermont listening to music that has been idling in storage for the past four years. We enjoyed sustained conversations with each other during which we were able to complete, not only entire sentences but entire stories without interruption. We made a pit stop that did not involve 15-minute machinations of removing and returning a child to a car seat. We ate a dinner that did not require feeding anyone “like a little baby,” or reminding someone 47 times to “please sit in your seat.” We made out without having someone climb between us. And that night, there as no one to get ready for bed other than myself, nothing to listen for other than the lake gently lapping at the shore.

Just like heaven.

The Very Best Stories...

So good. I know I am not supposed to review the books I read for From Left to Write, but in this case, I cannot help but gush. Read Christine Watson’s Tiny Sunbirds Far Away. I’m not going to tell you anything else. Just read it. Neither the author nor the publishing company paid me to say this, however, I did receive the book gratis because I participate in the coolest online book club in the world. And, no, the book club did not pay me to say that either. What follows is a post inspired by the book. You can read other posts inspired by the book right here.

It is my hope and fear that one day Sophia will read my blog. My hope, because it is the story of her life, carefully and closely examined, lovingly told. Perhaps it will help her to know herself better one day, to understand how she came to be who she is. True, it is not her narrative, it is mine, but I believe that insight can be born of an outside perspective. If it offers her any wisdom, any pleasure, it will have been worth it. Of course, a person is more than the sum of her stories. A person is ineffable, defying description. I have only captured a flavor of her. My writing of her life will always be inadequate.

A person is like a book, part what is there and part the perception of others. We are our stories. And we are so much more.

I try to imagine having such a complex and complete literary portrait of my life and I cannot. Children of this generation are better recorded (both photographically and narratively) than any previous generation. I realize that this could have unintended consequences. Consequences beyond my imagining. She has had no control over this information. She may be hurt by it. She may resent it. She may despise me for it.

And so, I also fear that she will read my blog. I joke that, one day, she will start a rival blog, Life with Melissa: An Expose of How I was Parented. If she does, I will embrace whatever she writes, as long as it is her truth. Already, she has begun to tell stories. They are facsimiles of the stories I tell her, but increasingly, they are hers. They are expressions of her experience. Her attempts to entertain me and inform me: this is what I value; this is who I am; this is how I see you; this is how I want you to see me.

Christine Watson writes, “The very best stories are told to a daughter.”

Yes, Christine, I agree. And, I might deign to add, the stories a daughter tells her mother have a magic all their own.

Because I want to pass this book on--it is too good to keep to myself--I’m going to try something new. I’d like to do a random drawing. If you leave a comment and some way for me to get in touch with you (because I’m not technologically advanced enough to figure out who you are without it), I’ll put your names in a hat, pick one out, and send you the book. It’s in really good condition, except for a tear stain or two.

The Girl Who Cried "Bathroom!"

“Mom, tell me the story of the Sophie who cried 'bathroom,'” I sigh, and begin to tell Sophia, for the umpteenth time, the story I “invented” to teach her a lesson about lying to escape dinner.

I am a victim of my own success.

“Once upon a time, there was a little girl who didn’t want to sit at the table and eat her dinner....”

“…Sophia. Her name was Sophia.” Sophia interrupts.

“Her name was Sophia. And Sophia got a brilliant idea. She thought if she said “Bathroom!” she could get down and go play instead of finishing her chicken.

“She could go read a book…”

“Who’s telling this story?” I ask.

“You.”

“Okay then. She could get down and go read a book. So she said, “Bathroom!” and her mother, who didn’t want her to have an accident, let her down. But did Sophia go to the bathroom?”

“Nooooooo.”

“No she didn’t! She went to the living room and picked up a book and began to read. This made her mommy very angry. Her mommy said, ‘Sophia, if you don’t get yourself to the bathroom by the count of three, I’m going to bring you there myself.’ So Sophia trotted off to the bathroom, but did she have to go?”

“Noooooo.”

“No, she did not.” So her mommy made her go back to the table and finish her dinner. The next night, again, Sophia decided she would rather play than eat her dinner. So after a couple of bites, she announced, ‘Bathroom!” again. This time, Mommy and Daddy were both skeptical—do you know what that means.”

“Yes.”

“What does it mean?”

“I don’t know.”

“It means we doubted you. We didn’t quite believe you. But we—I mean, Sophia’s Mommy and Daddy gave her the benefit of the doubt and let her down from the table. And do you know what she did?”

“She ran to the living room to get a book!” Sophia cried out gleefully.

“That’s right. She did. And this time mommy was very angry. And again, she said if Sophia did not go to the bathroom by the count of three, she was going to take her there herself. So Sophia went to the bathroom. But again, she didn’t have to go. And again, Mommy made her go back to the table to finish her supper. Finally, on the third night, Sophia was eating her dinner when she realized she really did have to go to the bathroom. Again, she said, ‘Bathroom!’ but this time Mommy and Daddy did not believe her at all and told her she could not get up until she finished her dinner.”

“’But I really have to go,’ Sophia begged. Still, her Mommy and Daddy would not let her go. And do you know what happened?”

“She had an accident!” Sophia’s face bore a look of demonic pleasure.

“Yes she did. She pooped and peed in her pants, right there at the table. Poor Sophie. She was so uncomfortable. But she had said ‘bathroom,’ so many times when she didn’t have to go, that her parents didn’t believe her when she was telling the truth. And do you know what the moral of this story is?”

“I don’t know.”

“You shouldn’t tell lies, because people will think you are a liar and won’t believe you, even when you are telling the truth.”

“Again!” cried Sophie.

Kevin says she gets it. I am less sure. Still, I tell it. Because stories have a way of boring into the unconscious, of staying with us in ways of which we are unaware. If we tell ourselves a story over and over again with great conviction, over time the story becomes an integral part of our reality.