kool-aid anyone?

when i was four-years-old, my best friend was a little red-haired girl named susannah.  she had narrow feet and chronic kidney infections and an older brother.  i was covetous of susannah's life.  i wanted her narrow feet and an older brother.  she could wear all the cool shoes.  

there was even a small part of me that wanted her mother.  or really, i wanted my mother to be the kind of mom that her mother was.  like i said, it was a very small part.  this little piece of me wanted a mom who was home every afternoon, who was first in line to pick me up at preschool, who always had a pitcher of kool-aid waiting when we got home.  instead, my mother worked sixty-hour weeks in a profession she helped to open to women.  she was (she is) a pioneer.  and this is the thing: sometimes life is tough on the frontier.  

my mom stood up for what she believed in and she withstood a whole lot of back-biting and complaining.  she ran errands and she ran meetings and she ran late.  

it used to drive me crazy that i was always the last kid to be picked up from school. i was ashamed to end up in the principal's office, under the withering gaze of mrs. spenrath (emphasis on wrath), the school secretary.  as i waited, i bit my nails and tapped my feet.  i strained to hear the particular click of my mom's heels on the linoleum.  i tried not to make eye contact with the mrs. s.  i tried not to think about what might keep my mom from me--like a heart attack or a car accident or a freak tornado. my anxiety fueled horrific daydreams of death and destruction.  surely it was only disaster that kept my mother from me?   and when it turned out that she'd been caught in a meeting or stuck on the phone, i remember the anger and the strangle of tears.  i was relieved and broken at the same time.  just because it was a common occurrence, it never became routine for me.  


you love your work more than you love me, i accused.  i would never put other people ahead of my children, i swore.  i won't be like you, i promised. 

this week, i was late to pick up the little boy for the first time.   

it happened like this: i was at a meeting in another suburb.  i told the people at the table that i needed to leave, even if they wanted to stay.  they all agreeably joined in the packing up of notepads and the gathering of purses and laptops.  and then as i was heading down the stairs, one of them wanted to tell me just one more thing.  and then as i was rounding the corner, one of them needed me to check my calendar.  and then as i was crossing the parking lot, one of them asked for clarification about something.  and then as i was driving away...

you get the idea.

as i drove over the speed limit, with one eye on the clock, i realized that there was no way i was going to be on time.  even if i leaned forward in my seat trying to propel myself that extra inch.

i thought about that old promise to myself.  once again, i was the one in a panic. what would happen to him if i didn't get there? who would i have to explain myself to?  how could i make them understand that i had the best intentions? how do you tell someone that no, you do not have one more second for them? how do you ever explain that you didn't give away that time freely, that it was taken and that you wish you could take it all back. that you, too, would rather just pour a round of kool-aid.

my son is too young to know that i was dashing in at the last minute.  but i knew.  and as i tossed his bag over my shoulder and raced out of the daycare center with him on my hip hoping to avoid a confrontation with the staff, i knew that i was in the wrong.  

i had been all along.  tonight i need to call my mom and apologize.  i'm sure it won't be the last time.

g is short-form for germs. and guilt.

 

week one of play-school.

august in texas and still

he has his first cold.

his teacher is great.

she won't send him with strangers--

unless they are germs.

if you two stayed home

he might not ever get sick.

what, ho, mental health?

no vaccine will ward off

every scary thing out there.

 this one's gonna hurt.

you are afflicted--

acute guilt for a cute kid.

it's a chronic case.

the working mom's plight,

no way to protect your heart

or his body now.

how to send your child to daycare for the first time.

your problem is that you have always been farsighted. most people don't get that way until they turn forty. but, you were born unable to see clearly the things that are right in front of you. it's a strain to look at your infant son while he nurses. or to see your husband smile as he leans in for a kiss. even though you can see mt. ranier looming on the horizon all the way from texas.

close your left eye--the bad one--so that you can look at your baby. really see him. he lies beside you in the bed, his hair damp and his mouth slack with sleep. for months he's woken up at seven on the dot, but today, he's sleeping late as if he senses a change too. linger in this place, this space. know that as soon as you get up, the spell will be broken.

it hurts to be this close to him.

roll out of bed. make it across the hall before you hear your son stirring. damn, you think, racing back. he's pulled himself up, rocking on his knees, ready to follow the sound of your footsteps. he would crawl right over the edge of the bed if you weren't there to catch him. of course, he would.

put him in the bouncer while you get breakfast together. notice how much taller he's gotten over the summer, the way he's standing flat footed now where once he was on his toes. leave him in the bouncer while you get dressed. leave him in the bouncer while you throw things in the bag he'll take to daycare. diapers--check. wipes--check. alternative outfit 1. alternative outfit 2. milk. jars of food. pacifer. sippy cup. lovie. leave him in the bouncer while you throw things in the bag he'll need when you pick him up from daycare and take him to the office. diapers--check. wipes--check...

impatiently, he waves his arms at you, ready to be rescued again. sweep him up. cover him with kisses. eat him up before giving him his breakfast.

spend ten minutes talking him through the importance of the first-day-of-school clothes. tell him about the unfortunate year that you wore a t-shirt with three laughing cows to start off sixth grade. promise him that someday, when he has a say, you'll try to walk the fine line between letting him make his own choices and protecting him from any mistakes of bovine proportion.

as you load him into the carseat, talk about how much fun he'll have with his classmates, his teacher, his friends. realize that these are his first peers. worry a little. will there be pressure to walk? to talk? to be thinner or fatter or happier?

when you pull up to the school, you notice other mothers getting out more children with more organization. they are better dressed, more well groomed, thinner. worry a lot. run a hand over your messy bun.

his teacher is standing at the door when you get there. she holds her hands out for him and speaks in that high friendly voice that people always use for small children and small dogs. he looks up right away. he smiles and leans forward. "are you ready?" she asks, and you are about to answer that you don't really think you are and then you realize that she is talking to him. "to have some fun?"

stand in the doorway watching him. he doesn't look back at you. instead he fidgets in her arms, wanting to be put down, to go and play. as soon as she puts him on the floor, he scoots to the far side of the room. he puts his mouth on a bright plastic toy, satisfied.

don't cry. this is what you wanted for him all along. remember that if you are going to leave him at daycare with strangers, it is easier for you if he seems to like it.

see you later, baby, you say. and as you walk back to the car, you do just that--see this baby, this boy, in five years. in ten. he is starting kindergarten. he is starting college. and at every stage you imagine him just as he is now. ready to make his move, ready to lengthen the distance between you.

it is a curse and a blessing, this long view.