Somersaults

My son did a somersault last night and I exploded into a blathering mess as though he'd just cured cancer. I was filled with amazement and parental pride - my son, a gymnastic prodigy. G dove into a heated Google search: "When do children learn to somersault?" Answer: Around the age of four. In our heads? Twenty-five. Yeah - our son is one gifted somersaulter. Aint nobody flipping over like our boy. We high fived. We cried. We held a parade. And then he rolled over again - directly and almost strategically - right off his rocking chair and into his dresser. Calamity ensued.

My take on parenthood, thus far, is directly tied to this little set of events. One moment good, one moment screaming mess. I figure if I'm batting somewhere around .300 I'm doing alright. For every three somersaults, there are seven ouchies. For every three weeks of clear noses there are (at least seemingly) seven weeks of hacking, phlegmy, no good very bad viruses. (*side note* Our pediatrician told us that in his first few years C may have 6-10 colds lasting 7-10 days a piece. That's like....six zillion days a year. How have I not constructed a bubble around this child??) Sure, the good times are easy to revel in and remember. The so dang cute giggles. The hug-a-bug hugs. Bedtime kisses, lazy Sundays and sunny park days. It's when you catch yourself in the middle of a bad moment, when you're in the middle of toddler warfare having unknowingly pulled the pin on the tantrum grenade, and you are overcome with the feeling of "yes, this is my unrecognizable, untidy life - and I so, so love it" that you find the strength to go on and embrace the goodness of parenting. I don't presume that anyone's finding bliss amidst the bad time chaos (at least, I haven't). But I have been able to find the humor, the love and the humanity in it. That's more than I've been able to do in like instances in the past where my modus operandi has been to curl up and die. Maybe becoming a mother just shook it the hell out of me. Maybe parenthood just gave me a lot more practice. Let's take, for example, a recent 'no good' moment which transpired in the middle of a crowded restaurant as my wailing child hurdled his utensils to the floor and, as his shrieking began to resemble the sound of a small farm animal caught in a barbed wire fence, someone - I won't name names (*ahem* HUSBAND) - takes the liberty of telling me that THIS WAS MY FAULT. So, what was initially just a typical child meltdown has devolved into DEFCON 1: spousal war is imminent. I swept C out of the restaurant leaving a wake of angry glances back over my shoulder.

As an aside, the presumed reason that THIS WAS MY FAULT stemmed from the sippy cup that was negligently left in the car. I had forgotten to stash it back into the diaper bag after C had put it down and we were therefore left sippy cupless upon entering the restaurant. In the first ten seconds after we sat down I was attempting to let C drink from my water class when a good portion of the contents went icily spilling down his shirt. I literally sprinted out of the restaurant, into the atrium, up three sets of stairs, across a pedestrian overpass, through a mall, into an elevator, across a parking garage to our car...and back...only to discover upon my return, that even after bestowing the sippy cup, which, breathless, I surrendered like the holy grail of baby drinking chalices, that it would do no good. It was too late. Aggravation had escalated and the rest is history.

So, there I was, sitting in an empty vestibule outside the restaurant holding C in my arms where his sobbing is now reverberating off of the walls. He's crying, I'm crying. I'm thinking I'm the worst mother, no other parents go through this, my child is uniquely wicked and was born wicked because he is his father's son and his father is an evil, evil man who has never packed the diaper bag - ever! Raaahh!!! It's at this point that I'm approached by the manager of the restaurant. C has quieted, his tears soaking my shoulder, and he listens as I apologize for the disturbance and for clearly being the world's worst parent. She smiles at me and puts a hand on my arm. "I understand. I'm a mother too. You have as much right as anyone to be here." God bless this woman. There's not a snowball's chance in hell that I'm dragging this child back in there, who is clearly "done" (the word "done" takes on a whole new meaning with the onset of parenthood) and needs to go home. I thank her, wipe away my tears, and approach the entry, sure that I would see my husband emerge with the food 'to-go' so we could head home and put this behind us (this has been the third instance that morning where our best laid plans have, let's say, gone awry). But my darling husband is not packing our things. He is not sweeping across the restaurant, diaper bag, sippy cup, jackets and food in tow. He is sitting there. Eating. EATING!  Raaaaaahhhh!! 

With a few carefully chosen hand gestures I indicate that we might be better suited to begin the long trek home and, in fear of his survival, G concedes. I watch him begin to begrudgingly gather our things and stand there feeling the weight of my angry, exhausted baby boy against me. And I am struck by the odd sensation of happiness. Happiness at the feeling of this soft, chubby cheek against my neck. Happiness because I know, in spite of the collective mishaps of the day and in spite of the irritable look G is flashing me as he slogs our stuff towards us and inches ever further from the teriyaki ribs he was so looking forward to, that we are going to get in the car, look at each other and find a way to laugh things off (either that or he is going to have a teriyaki rib embedded in his ear). Sure enough, the bad moment subsided. Now - I know that this isn't a truly terrible moment. There are much worse things than a two year old's snit and a ruined meal. Things like Cancer. Divorce. Abuse. Things that I've seen touch my family, my husband's family, and people that I have loved in my life. But even in the din and the disorder of every day family life it isn't difficult to get buried - to be lost in the bad moments where dinner is burning, the children are screaming, work is calling and there are miles to go before you sleep.

Parenthood, I think, is a daily miracle - and a daily achievement. It's hard. And rewarding. And funny. And full of surprises. None of those sentiments are novel - but they're true nonetheless. I may have traded in my quiet, romantic restaurants for now. Maybe forever. But I get something so much better in return. I get somersaults.