The Delirious Conversations (the perks of colds)

Colds suck. And all the late night waking sucks.

But there are little bright bits of yarn woven into the choppy nights: all the dreams (many of which involved the cast of Friday Night Lights because obviously in my subconscious I think we really are friends). The quiet whispering from the pillow next to me, "I wuv you." The little foot against my leg looking for contact. The conversations.

At some point last night, Silas became too tired to keep waking up, so each time he had to cough, he would sit straight up, cough and cry a little, but not fully wake. His eyes would roll a little and he'd pause as if he were searching for something to say:

Lie down Silas.
Mama,--
Shhhh, go back to sleep.
could ... you...?
His eyes rolled a little and he reached out his hand.
Could you... ?
Lie down, Silas.
He lay down, hand still out.
Could you... bite ... my finger?
...
I pretended to bite his little finger, the one he sucks that is covered with coughing disease.
He started to pull his hand back in -- then pointed again.
And kiss my finger?
I pretended to kiss his ET finger.
He held out his palm.
And kiss my hand?
He settled into the pillow.
I kiss my own hand holding his hand.
...ok.
And then he was asleep.

Threats: take 2

I learn again and again how hard it is to bite my tongue at the peak of frustration and not hurl empty threats into the air like: "SO HELP ME SILAS! if you don't get your pants on RIGHT NOW you will NEVER leave this house again!! " (when on earth did I start saying "so help me,"?) I have been trying to curb these outbursts and instead say things that actually have meaning, to motivate with positive reinforcement, to redirect. But all of this is very hard.

I wrote about a low point in my threatening career when Silas was at the peak of I'm-2-and-have-a-new-baby-sister. Today I hit another low point when talking to Eden. Fortunately, she still isn't fluent in English, and I'm pretty sure she was unmoved.

It became clear as of 20 minutes ago, that I am weening Eden today. She has nipped me a couple of times as babies do, I've screamed, she's frowned the biggest frown, burst into tears in slow motion, and then finished nursing. But today, she rounded a corner and became an all-out repeat-offender biter. So nursing is done. Especially since after she bit me the fourth time, I yelled again and inadvertently whacked her little diapered bottom. And then laughed. I am not a spanker, but I can see how biting could drive me to it.

Anyway, once it became clear there would be no nursing today, I frowned at Eden, carried her downstairs, put her on the floor, grabbed a bag of frozen milk from the freezer, frowned again, saw that Eden looked concerned, flashed her a huge smile, thawed the milk, made a bottle and took her back upstairs.

I should add that the child has hardly eaten today, went to Disneyland (talk about sensory overload) AND missed her nap -- I expected her to gobble the bottle and instantly pass out -- and I really hoped she'd do both.

Instead, she bit the bottle, pulled it out of her mouth, looked at it, squirmed, wiggled, twisted, did back bends toward the window. I re-situated her, turned her around, said things like Come on, Eden... Here you go, Eden... Open your MOUTH, Eden... Come ON, Eden!... Put this BACK IN YOUR MOUTH, Eden!... COME ON!... And then -- EDEN!... YOU ARE NEVER GOING TO DRINK MILK AGAIN IF YOU KEEP ACTING LIKE SUCH A MAD WOMAN!

Sitting at the kitchen table an hour later, the house is FINALLY quiet. After talking and crying and yelling in her bed, sitting up and shaking the bars like a little trapped zoo monkey, Eden is asleep. Whew. And I think I will give her milk again later. And maybe even some oatmeal.

Colds -

I am sitting in the loft. My eyes itch. My nose is running. I can't hear anything. It feels like someone with big chubby hands is squeezing my face and head. I have Silas's cold.

Silas is in his room -- his and Eden's room! -- coughing in the dark. Despite the box's warning "NOT FOR CHILDREN UNDER 6 YEARS OF AGE," I just gave him some children's Dimetapp. His Dr's office suggested it (does that make it ok?), and I opted for sleep. I hope this is ok. I remember as a kid faking sick at night so I could drink the grape syrupy Dimetapp that lived in the narrow hall closed above the ironing board. And I've lived to tell about it. But I was probably older than 6.

This is one of the nights when going to bed feels exhausting -- the anticipation of hard sleep interrupted. And interrupted. And interrupted. A night like last night when Silas woke up so many times that I was sure it was almost morning -- the time when all of the fitful waking would end -- only to find it was 12:07 AM and so many hours still lay ahead. I am going to take some dimetapp too.

It is hard to dig deep in the night. To dig deep and meet a child's need with sweetness, kindness, care, when I feel so impatient that the child has needs at this hour. It's hard not to feel put out or to think about how tired I'll be at 6AM.

But that's my job, isn't it? To take CARE of. To think of Silas when he cries out or whimpers or coughs in the night, not of myself. To remember what it felt like to wake up in the night and want my mom. To remember what it felt like to have someone be patient with me, what it felt like to be received. To put myself, my tired self, aside. I had to will my whole body to remember this last night as I stroked Silas's hair for the millionth time and softened the irritation from my voice. The great life lesson condensed in a cold.

"Ok?" and Indecision

The other day I was at a child's birthday party. Halfway through the party, when the kids were in the thick of playing, one of the mothers turned to her 3 year old and said, "Aubrey, we are going to leave in a minute so you can go to dance, ok?" The child's face reddened and her eyes welled with tears. "You want to go to dance, don't you? It's your last class!"

Kids raced around the girl. "I don't know," she said. She looked around the room, looked at her mom, threw her little hands into the air, "I DON'T KNOW!" and stormed away.

Over the next 20 minutes, I watched them have this same conversation 3 more times (they didn't leave early).

Not long ago I read an article in a parenting magazine about parents' tendency to tack "ok?" at the end of statements. We do it to include the kids, or, most often, because we feel indecisive ourselves (when it is clearly time to go, we don't usually ask our children how they feel about it). But the "ok?" turns a our assertions into choices, which, though they may sound nicer, throws everyone into a noncommittal state -- the parent isn't firmly the parent, the child isn't simply the child, the plans are loose -- there are no rocks.

This all seemed pretty as I watched that woman at the party (easy to see things in other people, isn't it?) waffle between wanting to stay herself and feeling they should leave... So instead, no one decided, they stayed, and no one had fun.

Oh, indecision.

Much of the day consists of decisions: Do I let Eden chew on those beads that were probably made in China? Do I let Silas have the cookie he's begging for? Do we walk to the park or drive to the library? Do I let Eden scream in her bed for 20 more minutes because she needs a nap or do I get her up because she's miserable? Do I sit Silas on the steps because he's knocked Eden on her face (once again) or come up with some other punishment? Do I take Silas to the museum with his friends and skip Eden's morning nap or stay home because she needs it? Do I pay for a babysitter and have a few hours to myself or have special time with Silas while Eden sleeps? Etc. And much of the time I don't know which choice is best (but definitely will later), or I know what is best but feel torn, myself, or bound by what I think I "should" do.

Whatever the reason, it's easy to pass the buck to the kid, even when (and especially when?) we have the best intentions.

So today I'm going to try to listen to myself, listen for that little friendly-sounding "ok?" and for snags of my own indecision that I need to square away first.

Now I'm off to make popcorn and go to the park with some kids from Silas's class. He's still lying in bed feeling grumpy and sleepy after waking up from his nap. I won't ask him if he wants to go...

This Side of Parenting

I am sitting in a house of noxious fumes -- I came home from walking Silas to school and found that a plastic baby food tub had fallen into the depths of the dishwasher to burn and melt.
I've opened all the windows in hopes that Eden's little braincells will stay intact.

It's funny being on this side of parenting.

As a kid at Christmastime, one of my favorite projects was making ornaments: we would set those short, plastic punch cups upside down on the counter, puncture holes in the bottoms, (color them? i can't remember that part), put them in the hot toaster oven, and wait. We'd stare through the glass and watch the heat soften and torque the plastic until the cups melted into shiny rippled doughnuts we could hang... I remember learning this somewhere (church? school? a friend's house?) and teaching my mom. She was a good sport...

Another fun activity in my house was stair sledding. My brothers and I would pull an old crib mattress from the garage, climb up to where the stairs turned the corner, pile on the mattress and FLY -- slick plastic against carpet -- into the middle of the front hall. When the plastic finally ripped and the mattress foam slowed us down, my mom helped us put it in a garbage bag so we could keep racing. I have no idea how often we did this, but I remember it as a thrilling regular occurrence that happened mostly when my dad was out of town. I also remember its constantly being interrupted by someone falling down the stairs without the mattress; someone hitting the wall, the railing, the table near the bottom of the stairs, a brother; arguments about whose turn it was ETC. and this also not being a deterrent.

It's funny being on this side of parenting.

Will I keep an old crib mattress? Will I let my kids destroy it? Will I allow Silas and Eden to rocket down the stairs into each other and various stationary objects? At bedtime? When the fun is over will I find a trash bag to help them start it up again?

I hope so.

What Happens When I’m Responsible For Only Myself…

If there is one thing I’ve practiced the past few years, it’s efficient travel. I know how to move three of us out of the house in hours; I know what to gather, to sort, to carry on, to stow away; I know what we will miss if we leave it behind and about the unexpected necessities. Though I often leave the wake of a whirlwind through the house (sorry, Ben), the bags are organized to a T and logistics are seamless.

I can think of only 2 times in the last 3 years that I have flown without a child in tow (or on hip, or in stroller). And today makes #3. I spent yesterday laying wool sweaters on my bed, doing laundry, rounding up boots, scarves, gloves ONLY for me – no onesies, no sipply cups, no play dough, just magazines, books, a journal, a laptop, a few squares of chocolate to carry on.

My Mom arrived in California this morning to take care of the kids while Ben is at work (bless her!!) , and multiple times she commented on how relaxed I was, taking both the packing and the leaving children in stride. Yes, I thought, everything is squared away and I am relaxed.

Only after driving through chilly sunshine to the airport, zipping my credit card through the kiosk, and checking one bag, did I discover how relaxed I truly was traveling alone – I had brought no ID. The one essential item for travel, I didn’t bring.

Wheeling my enormous bag (yes, I’m only going for 3 nights and have the same bag I use to pack for 2 weeks. And it’s almost full), I ran to the escalator, outside across two streets to the taxi stand and dove in a car. We have to hurry. The driver tore down the road, weaving through traffic like we were in an arcade. We hit 70 on a surface street and hardly slowed down to grab my passport from my mom standing on the curb outside my house. He made a mad u-turn across 4 lanes of traffic and drove like the world was ending back to the airport. In retrospect, I should have tipped him more …

I hurried back to the desk, checked my bag, stood in the security line, and was on the other side with 25 minutes to spare. Whew.

At my gate I saw red letters flashing on the screen – DELAYS. The ever-so-friendly goateed man at the counter told me my flight was actually DIRECT (a welcome surprise that explained why I only got one boarding pass!) and that the flight was going to board 45 minutes late … Glory! I could get the mocha I’d been craving all day and settled in for a warm-beverage-ed time of solitude.

As I sat sipping the whipped cream, I suddenly heard my name over the loudspeaker, but not the loudspeaker above my head at Gate 4, but some other speaker: PASSENGER NEWCOTT PLEASE COME TO GATE FIVE FOR FINAL BOARDING FOR LAS VEGAS. Gate 5? Las Vegas? Ohhhhhh. Las VEGAS, the city where MY flight changed planes. ohhhhh…

So with ZERO time to spare I boarded my plane (they were again reading my name over the PA onboard) with my little paper cup and headed to Vegas where I would catch my flight to Chicago. Why do I have only one boarding pass? I can’t tell you, but hopefully I get to Chicago and let you know from there…

Thoughts on a Poem

I first read this poem in the New Yorker, then months later heard Galway Kinnell read it himself. I waited and waited for his book Strong Is Your Hold to come out so I could hold the poem, myself, and read it again.

It struck me as perfectly told -- the cake, the quick movement of disaster, the child's outrage, the humor, the entreaty years later. I was so thrilled with how he sculpted the story that I didn't even focus on the emotions woven throughout it. I was pregnant with my first child at the time.

When finally I bought the book, I read the poem to my mother on the floor of the guest room as I packed my suitcase and was taken aback by her reaction -- she quieted and withdrew and said something like, "oh, how many times we parents do that." Moment moved on to moment, and I never asked her about her reaction, though I have often thought of it.

Now Silas is nearly 3. When he becomes stern or earnest I often can't suppress a smile or even a little laugh. His sincerity is so sweet, his offences so unexpected. But each time he immediately looks into my face and says, "Nooo, don't LAUGH!"

Now I understand the poem, the heart of it in stanza 5. I understand how our jobs, above all, are to protect, to defend, to honor and to see.


It All Comes Back
-Galway Kinnell

We placed the cake, with its four unlit candles
poked into thick frosting, on the seat
of his chair at the head of the table
for just a moment while Ines and I unfolded
and spread Spanish cloth over Vermont maple.

Suddenly he left the group of family,
family friends, kindergarten mates, and darted
to the table, and just as someone cried No, no!
Don't sit! he sat down right on top of his cake
and the room broke into groans and guffaws.

Actually, it was pretty funny, all of us
were yelping our heads off, and actually
it wasn't in the least funny. He ran to me
and I picked him up but I was still laughing,
and in indignant fury he hooked his thumbs

into the corners of my mouth, grasped
my cheeks, and yanked -- he was so muscled
and so outraged I felt he might rip
my whole face off. Then I realized
that was exactly what he was trying to do.

And it came to me: I was one of his keepers.
His birth and the birth of his sister
had put me on earth a second time,
with the duty this time to protect them
and to help them to love themselves.

And yet here I was, locked in solidarity
with a bunch of adults against my own child,
heehawing away, all of us, without asking
if, underneath, we weren't striking back, too late,
at our own parents, for their humiliation of us.

I gulped down my laughter and held him and
apologized and commiserated and explained and then
things were set right again, but to this day it remains
loose, this face, seat of superior smiles,
on the bones, from that hard yanking.

Shall I publish this story from long ago
and risk embarrassing him? I like it
that he fought back, but what's the good,
now he's thirty-six, in telling the tale
of that mortification when he was four?

Let him decide. Here are the three choices.
He can scratch his slapdash check mark,
which makes me think of the rakish hook
of his old high school hockey stick,
in whichever box applies:

[ ] Tear it up.
[ ] Don't publish it but give me a copy.
[ ] OK, publish it, on the chance that somewhere someone
survives of all those said to die miserably every day for lack
of the small clarifications sometimes found in poems.