TW: Miscarriage/pregnancy loss; general kid medical problems
Two trips to urgent care and three trips to the emergency room for two different medical issues. All in one week.
As I drove to the ER for the second time, going 25 miles an hour in the freezing rain, REM’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It” came on. Despite the circumstances, I couldn’t help but laugh. What could be more appropriate?
“Up Up Up!” my younger son cries, jabbing the air with his finger. I swing him up onto my lap, resting him on my left leg. He continues to clamber up me, holding onto my shoulders. “Up Up!” he says again. I can only say, “Dude, you’re as far up as you can go!”
But that’s his personality – always up, always bigger, always faster. Like his nickname of Little Bird, he’s both tiny and longs to fly.
Even when I was pregnant, he was constantly stretching and kicking, reminding me of his presence. He came into the world in a rush, almost a month early and with a labor so short that I gave birth less than a half-hour after we left the house for the hospital.
And now he’s two.
Holding my wedding photo, I look down and see a snapshot of a moment almost 12 years ago. My hair up and my dress poofing out, I’m stepping down the church stairs, holding my husband’s hand. We’re both grinning the grins of those who are young, in love, and finally able to wake up next to the person they adore. On both sides of us, friends and family are blowing bubbles and cheering.
Back in the present day, my four-year-old is sitting next to me on the couch. He points to the person on my right. “Who is that?” he asks. I respond, “That’s my friend Drew and that’s Nana…” as I go through and identify everyone in the photo. No matter how many times I identify these people, my kids still ask. There’s a sense of magic in the ritual. It’s as if I’m evoking that day for them, allowing them to experience something they could never participate in.
TW: Racism
Reading the text from my husband, Chris, I frowned. “We left the park because [our older son] said something very racist to the girls there.” Furrowing my eyebrows, I typed back, “What did he say??” “That black people look like poop.”
My first thought was, “What the hell was he thinking?” My second was, “How the hell did this happen?”
“I can’t ask questions?” I asked my husband, my voice squeaking at the end of the sentence. “What am I supposed to say?”
When we decided to pursue speech therapy for my older son, we didn’t know what to expect. But whatever I was imagining, reducing the number of questions I asked my child wasn’t one of them. At the time, I felt like the speech therapist took away a core tool in my parenting and communications toolbox.
But since then, I’ve realized that no matter what parenting strategy I use, there’s one piece of parenting advice that has never failed me.
This story was supposed to have a sweet and happy ending.
At midnight a few nights ago, just as I was about to go to bed, I heard my younger son (who is almost two) wailing. I rushed from the kitchen to his room. He was standing up in his crib, nothing visibly wrong. “Up up,” he demanded, hands raised.
So I picked him up. I walked over to his rocking chair, nestling him in my lap. I cradled him like a baby, one arm under his head, the other across his chest. My arm anchored him to me. His body sunk into mine.
“This might be the last time I do this,” I thought. “Take it in.” “Enjoy the moment.” “It passes so fast, you know.”
When I hear parents say, “I don’t like playing pretend with my kids,” I think, “Oh, I love it!” But then I stop right there. I’ve realized that like all things in parenting, there’s an exception. A big exception.
That’s because I love playing pretend with my older son (nicknamed Sprout) when it’s time to actually play. Just not all of the time. He frequently doesn’t distinguish – or refuses to distinguish – when it’s time to play versus time to get stuff done. If he’s supposed to be getting ready for bed, he’d rather pretend to play drums or zoom around a roller coaster. Taking toys away is no use – the really good stuff is in his head. He can sit on the stuffed chair in his room and weave elaborate worlds out of whole cloth.
Two weeks ago, I was finally able to call my husband a chef. Looking at him in his white culinary school jacket with his name on it, I realized this situation wasn’t quite what I imagined when I watched him walk across that stage. Because instead of him being the head of a high-end fancy restaurant, he was teaching a bunch of preschoolers how to cook.
It’s been a full year since Donald Trump became president. A full year since he stood on the National Mall and swore to “faithfully execute the office of President of the United States,” just as Barack Obama had done eight years before. Attending President Obama’s inauguration was one of the most patriotic moments of my life. Instead of attending Trump’s inauguration, I joined with half a million other women in the next day to raise our voices in protest.
Needless to say, I entered Trump’s administration ready to fight. In my Instagram photo from that day, I’m wearing my Wonder Woman shirt, my smirk and stance challenging the camera.
But despite my attitude, I was worried. In fact, I had been worried since I blearily read the results the morning after the election. I was worried for you and even moreso for the many families less privileged than ours. As we’ve seen since then, my worries about the treatment of immigrants, LGBT folks, black people, and poor families were justified. Everything has been as bad as we expected. In some cases, it’s been worse.
And yet.
“I don’t want to get out of the car,” my son said.
“Why not? It’s time to get out,” I responded, my tone taking on an edge of impatience. Then I paused and raised an eyebrow. “Wait – is it because you want to hear the rest of the song on the radio?”
“Yeah,” he responded. I smiled. That song?
Piano Man, by Billy Joel.