Peering through a plexiglass wall, I held my two-year-old steady as he stood on a narrow ledge.
Ten minutes earlier, we had been on the other side of that plexiglass wall, on the ice of our town’s outdoors skating rink. Unsteady on my own skates, I held his left hand while his right hand gripped the wall. His feet flailed beneath him, slipping backwards, then forwards.
Looking out on the vast, rushing waters, I realized that this waterfall is where I visit when life feels beyond my control.
I visited here not long after my older son was born. The days were long, spent with a baby who refused to be put down for even a minute without crying. Afternoons and evenings stretched out, just us together after we walked my husband to the subway for work. The nights were longer, up every few hours rocking and nursing, rocking and nursing, wondering when it would be over.
But I came here and found something bigger than the confines of my little home. I pushed him in the stroller and nursed him on the bench, letting the roar of the water fill my soul.
Don’t say anything, don’t say anything, I repeated to myself as I looked at my son’s construction paper pumpkin.
The pumpkin was a “family project” from kindergarten, a totally optional assignment for fun.
It started out simply enough. Cut out the template and trace it onto the construction paper. But as soon as he lifted up the template, I noticed something. There were huge gaps in the lines. This could be better, I thought. But I don’t want to tell him it’s wrong!
“We’re going to be a little sad when you go to kindergarten,” I said to my five-year-old son at dinner one night a few weeks before school started.
His face dropped and his lip quivered.
“Oh honey! You shouldn’t be sad about growing up.” I paused, trying to figure out how to explain this. “Mommies and daddies get a little sad about their kids growing up. We know you’ll never be babies again. But we also love watching you grow up so much.” I smiled, then got up and hugged him in his chair.
What I didn’t tell him was this:
Going for a hike on a brisk day, I asked my then four-year-old if he wanted his sweatshirt. “No!” he insisted. Nonetheless, I was going to be the responsible mom and bring it along anyway. Just in case.
Arriving at the hiking trail, he climbed out of his car seat and declared, “I’m coooold! So cold!”
Going to look for the sweatshirt, my smile dropped off my face. Nope, not there. Not there either. Crap, I forgot it.
Dripping sweat, I staggered in the door after my Sunday afternoon run, only to hear my two-year-old wailing “Mammmmmaaaaaaaa!”
“What happened?” I asked my husband, who I found standing outside the bathroom. I peered in to see my son sitting on the potty, his face red and damp. “He hasn’t been like this since he woke up, has he?”
I recalled some of my last words as I headed out the door: “Make sure you wake up [Little Bird].”
My husband winced. “Well, he didn’t want me to get him out of bed. And then he didn’t want to go on the potty. Then he refused to let me help him off the potty. Then he didn’t want me in the room at all.”
Walking into the bathroom, I sighed, leaned down and helped my son off the potty. After pulling up his pants and helping him wash his hands, I picked him up. HIs small arms wrapped around my neck while mine embraced him. My sweat dampened his shirt as his small face pressed into my shoulder. His crying slowed and finally subsided.
Guilt pierced me. So did anger.
“Can’t I be gone for just a half-hour?” I thought. “But maybe not. Maybe I shouldn’t.”
I never thought I’d be so happy about having a bookshelf with actual books on it. I haven’t seen this sight for more than four years.
These books have been in hiding – shoved under my nightstand, stacked up on the bottom shelf of an end table. There’s nothing wrong with these exact books. It’s the very act of placing them on a bookshelf and trusting that they’ll stay there that’s revelatory.
While books don’t jump off shelves, they do end up on the floor when a toddler pulls them down with his sticky, wet little fingers.
“Let’s start school in a year or two. Clearly you’re not ready and you’re not coming back until you are. You think you can do these things, but you just can’t, Nemo!” said a puppeteer holding a cartoon fish. I immediately burst into tears. Heavy weeping wracked my body as I tried to stay quiet.
“Are you okay?” my husband leaned over and asked.
“Noooo,” I whispered between tears. I absolutely was not okay. Because that cartoon fish dad was me and I was him and we were both utterly unprepared for our kids to be starting school.
I did not expect to have a parenting epiphany at Animal Kingdom in Disney World, but there we were. (Although maybe I should have, considering I had one last time we were at Disney World.)
Hugging my son, I felt him shake a little as thunder clapped and the lights cut out. A booming voice declared, “Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later.”
“That’s the worst part, honey,” I swore to him, squeezing him close. As we walked into the Haunted Mansion’s “doom” buggies at Disney World, I kept glancing at him, taking his emotional temperature. As we rode the ride, I pointed out little jokes and kept up a jovial attitude to help him enjoy himself.
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.