Separation Infatuation

When I was little I used to wonder if the entire world ceased to exist save for the moments that I was present in it. If the moment I left a room it evaporated. If people would go dormant in my absence like powered-off droids if I wasn't there to engage them. I think this is the epitome of self-centered. When I was six I thought the world literally did revolve around me. Silly, yes, except I'm fairly certain that this ego centric view of the universe has been passed genetically to my toddler.

Our pediatrician has asked us repeatedly about "separation anxiety". It was a milestone our kiddo never hit. Sure, he's shy when an inquisitive stranger smiles at him (generally resulting in sly smile and burying of little face into my leg). Sure, he's going through an epic "Mommy" phase which is equal parts adorable and impossible. But when it's time to part ways my son has mostly come to accept the reality that we have lives beyond one another. Or, more rightly, that he has a life beyond me and I sit in a closet all day gathering dust until it's time for me to pick him up again.

When C was six months old I went back to work full time and he started up at daycare - a wonderful family run program that incorporates a pre-school curriculum into daily activities and has really come to be a second home to all of us. Rewind two weeks before I was scheduled to head back to the office and young C to the classroom, however, and you would find a panic stricken mother who couldn't get her baby to nap without at least forty-five minutes of vigorous, swaddled rocking and who couldn't get her baby to eat from a bottle. So, unless I was able to find a way to medically detach myself from my boobs and staple C into his swaddle there were going to be some hefty changes a foot. And in the nearly six months that C and I had known each other we had come to the mutual understanding that we both suffered greatly when hungry, sleep deprived, or confronted with change. Hooray!  Lo and behold, though, that the transition to daycare did not bring forth the end of the world. Nothing fell from the sky. The world continued to turn. Honestly, I think we were both a little surprised. Suddenly, the bottle was an acceptable medium for dinner and sleep training brought forth oodles of much needed hours of sleep for all involved.  It was a good change for both of us. I knew it. And C knew it. And he never once cried when I dropped him there at the end of the day.

In effect that should be a good little parable. But, of course, it left me wondering if I had in some way failed him. Why wasn't he clinging to me with wild abandon begging me not to leave him? Doesn't he need me anymore? Truth? He does need me. A whole lot. And the drama free drop offs? A sign that he's a happy, well adjusted and confident little world explorer. Still, it's at least a smidge heartbreaking every time he gives me a little kiss and yells "BYE BYE MOMMY!!" as he's running off to join the other children each morning. He's two. I didn't think I'd have to see that kind of gleeful departure until he was eighteen.

Since that time our little guy has made new friends, developed his own keen interets and expanded his little world exponentially - something I don't think I managed to do until college. In the instances when C gets up in the morning and I've already left the house, he looks at G and asks: "Mommy work?" He knows where I am. He knows what it means (to some extent at least - that could still mean gathering dust in the closet next to his old jumperoo). And most importantly - he knows that I'll be back.

His vocabulary is sprouting new seeds every day - surprising the hell out of G and I every time he shoots off a new word or phrase. And, of course, being the true only child - all things belong to him. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives. He is possessive of all of them. "My mow-mow!"(lawn mower); "My night-night!"(sleep); "My toot!"(farts - he's not just accountable for them, he's damn proud of them) and, newly added to the list, "My wiggle!"(the group the Wiggles. Somebody better inform their representation - they now legally, physically and metaphorically and otherwise belong to my child).

I also happen to think that someone explained the concept of parenting to him incorrectly. I am not now, nor have I ever been, or in any way resemble a genie in a lamp. For some reason my son seems to think that if he claps his hands that you magically materialize at which time he can make unfettered demands. "Bob - on!" (aka - put on Bob the Builder. This news stuff is crap and Daddy, the Cubs still suck.)  "Daddy - mow-mow! Mommy weep!" (aka - Daddy, go mow the lawn as it amuses me endlessly. Mommy....make yourself useful and clean up the mess I made all over the kitchen floor) "Mickey - eat/march/run/deet!" (aka - you're lower on the food chain than I am dog and we both know it. So eat, march, run and sit at my command lest you want me to prod you repeatedly with my jabby finger or run you over with my fisher price lawn mower. Here's some scraps for your trouble).

Yes - my son is not lacking for confidence or independence. When he isn't busying himself with barking orders he's germanating new and exciting ways to confound G and I. Current favorite activity? Reading the "C" books (the many volumes of photo albums all starring - C! Not so interested in the ones before he was born). Current favorite word? "Park". As in "lets go to the". Last week G and I were cleverly referring to the "Parents Guide to Outsmarting Your Toddler" by spelling everything in front of C. I said, "G - it's supposed to be sunny tomorrow, that may mean it's nice enough for the P-A-R-K." C looked at us and exclaimed "PARK!" That constituted one of those moments where you realize how grossly you've underestimated your children. G and I exchanged glances and therein came to an unspoken agreement that we'd raised an evil genius - a spelling prodigy. With trembling trepidation we repeated the question over and over..."C, what does P-A-R-K spell?" "PARK PARK PARK!" It wasn't until some time later that I thought to ask..."C, what does B-A-B-Y spell?" "PARK!" "What does D-O-G spell?" "PARK" "What does D-A-D-D-Y spell?" "PARK PARK PARK" And with that we were once again wrapped in a warm blanket of reassurance that (for the time being) we were not on the verge of being surpassed in power and/or intelligence by our two year old. Of course, he may just be on to us and feigning ignorance...only time will tell.

He's definitely his own person - and I love that about him. For the first many months of his life G and I would contemplate which parts of him were derived from parts of he or I. My ears, your nose. My feet, your eyes. My laugh...your insatiable desire for mischief and destruction. It's only recently occured to me that so much of C is just that - him. His sense of humor. His dance moves. His imagination (what other kid out there has a stuffed seal named "kitty", a push wagon named "doggie", a penguin named "duck" and a family of stuffed bears all named "Nunny". Blue Nunny. Red Nunny. Baby Nunny. Oh, and Nunny Too.) He always engages us in his world of play - excited to share with us all of his wonderful creations and scenarios. And while he might skip away when it's time to part ways for the day, eager to learn and explore and grow, he always comes running for me when I pick him up. He never wants to leave us, necessarily - but his world goes on for the short times that we do. And when we're at home again, he sits in my lap and we begin my favorite time of day - when he recounts to me all of the amazing things he encountered in those parted hours with the excitement and wonder that Dorothy had upon her return from Oz. And he hugs me. And there's no place like home...no place like home...

1+1 = ?

There are days that I pause long enough to wonder what weight I'm capable of carrying. I've been told that God does not give people more than they can handle - and while I wish I could say that the lion's share of the time I feel as though I can take on the world I think the truer reality is that I spend quite a bit of time considering how close I might be to that line and to the buckling of the legs of my life.

I've caught myself gazing out my office window several times this afternoon. Funny - I don't know that I ever believed I'd have an office with a window. Certainly not one that overlooked Elliot Bay and the Olympics. Ah, the weight of a window. A transparent pane of glass that symbolizes, in part, where I am now in my career. It provides a new perspective - and also gives me some indication on how far down I could potentially fall. Some days this window is a scary thing. In school it was easier to achieve a single A than to string them together into a consistent 4.0 average. Now, perhaps it's easier to be awarded a promotion - and a window - than it is to consistently prove that you deserve both. Somehow, when there was seemingly less to lose with respect to my career, there was also a feeling of relief. If I screw this up something else will come along. I can stay home - with my children - as some part of me always wanted. Now - now there are days where I let my trepidation overwhelm me. Days where I fear that I can't 'have it all.' That I can't have this job and be the mother and wife that I want to be, ultimately. What do I do with that? I don't think there's an answer necessarily.

What brings even further gravity to the 'have it all' argument is the thought of bringing another little someone into the equation. There is no question that we have our hands full as it is - between two very full time jobs and one very precocious toddler. There's also no denying that the mother part of me is orbiting towards the desire for one more member to complete our loving family. People make much more difficult situations happen. I know this. People with little to no means have much larger families. People with more strenuous jobs still support their families. But can I? Does God think that I can handle it? Do I think I can? I waver on that determination most days. I think there was a not so quiet part of me that debated what kind of mother I'd be to one baby, let alone two. It's the not knowing - it's the great uncertainty - parenthood for the first time. But once G and I made the decision to enter into the unknown world we did so with gusto and excitement and hands firmly intertwined. I have a faith, a quiet confidence, that I will be re-visited by that same conviction when we do finally make that decision. It's just that...it's a little less unknown now. I now know what it's like to be sleep deprived for huge amounts of time strung together like a bitter cloth of woven frailities and exhaustion. I know what it's like to fight and pick and bicker with the man you love over things so small that they're imperceptible to the 'outside world' because you are so removed from yourself out of the deep sadness of feeling as though you are failing your crying child. Of forgetting what life is like outside of sweatpants. Of the fear - the persistent fear - that something is wrong with your child because he isn't compliantly developing according to the pediatrician's say-so chart of milestones. Of the worry shaken through you when the baby monitor goes off in the middle of the night and you stir desperately out of the sleep you weren't even allowing yourself to fall into because you're afraid he'll stop breathing. And yet - with all of that now a part of my internal fabric, I still so much want to go back there. Go back to that land of Never-Nod. Perhaps a little wiser. Definitely looking older. I want to go back there in spite of all of the fear and the fighting and the exhaustion and the worry. Because the good outweighs the bad in such vast numbers that I'm unable to recount it all here. Because family really is paramount to me. I don't know what my life will look like come baby number two. But it'd sure be nice to consider it all while looking out this window across an expanse of water - while the sun slips down the late afternoon sky. I suppose it doesn't matter where you see that sun rise or set when it all comes down to it. I guess I'd gladly trade the window for a family to watch that sun with - through any window. And in knowing that - maybe there really isn't that much to fear after all.