For Now Is Not Forever
Wombat speaks in superlatives. A good day is the BEST day. A soft cat is the SOFTEST cat. A cool new shirt is the COOLEST SHIRT EVER. When you ask him what his favorite food/animal/book is, he channels Sarah Palin and says, “All of them. They are all my favorite.”
“Isn’t this great?” he’ll say to break a moment of stuffed-mouth silence when we’re in our favorite big round booth at Chipotle. “What a beautiful view,” he declares when we’re at the beach. “This picture is GORGEOUS.” “Fox is ADORABLE.” When I asked him if he would help me clean up the living room last week, he said, “I’d be DELIGHTED to.” Wombat speaks in extremes, and he lives that way too. He is a superlative. There is nothing better than best.
So where do you go from there?
His favorite jacket right now is one Simon brought home from a lost-and-found box destined for the dumpster. The jacket is dark gray and just the right size and it has pink rhinestone hearts on the chest and ruffles edging the hood and pockets. “A girl’s jacket?” said Daycare Lady, and I felt myself puff up in defense of this thing Wombat loves, even though her reaction was mine exactly when Simon first brought it home. And if adults (who know better) react that way, what will his peers say?
I worry that Wombat will want to wear that jacket to preschool and that I will want to hide it in a closet and pretend it never existed because there are Big Boys there and I don’t want him to stand out for this of all things. Wombat’s favorite color for the last two years has been unwaveringly pink, but who wants to take bets on how quickly that changes once he starts school? I can’t even let him pick out his own lunchbox and backpack because I’m afraid he’ll go for the pink one with kitty cats or sparkling unicorns all over it, and rah rah progressive parenting etc., but as much as I’d like him to educate the class about boys and girls being able to love and wear whatever the hell they want, I also know that it’s easier to “correct” his behavior than everyone else’s. There are battles worth fighting, but I don’t think this is one of them. And it makes me sad because when he was still just a wee little boy, there were no battles and everyone could like or wear or be whatever they wanted, but now he’s a big boy and this is real life and the world is a battlefield.
If we take out my grief over leaving daycare (because that deserves a post in and of itself), I’m really, truly excited for Wombat to start preschool next week. Simon and I both loved school from beginning to end, and as all parents look forward to sharing their beloved passions with their children, we’re super jazz-handy jazzed that he’s about to be indoctrinated into the equal-parts-wonderful-and-fucked-up world of academia–even if it is only preschool, and a play-based one at that. But still. New backpack! New lunchbox! Picture day! A coat hook with his name on it! Scholastic order forms on that not-coincidentally-Bible-like onionskin paper!
But of course, because this is me we’re talking about, I’m also filled with all the dark feelings (ALL OF THEM) about the change because GAH. CHANGE. Have you ever noticed you can’t spell the latter without the former? Where is my motivational poster for that, huh?
Now that I’m thirty-three and a half years old, I’m mostly comfortable with the idea that change is part of life. What I’m still not too cool with, though, is that life changes us. Why can’t change just happen to other things out there in the world? Why can’t change be content to swirl around us while we remain our untouched selves in its midst? Why can’t Newton’s third law of motion be just a theory?
The trick might be for me to stop thinking of Wombat as the Platonic ideal of himself and instead embrace that he is not a static finished product but clay to be molded. So far we have shaped him in our own image, using loving and gentle but firm hands to do it, and yes, I admire our handiwork, and yes, I’d like to stop time right now, to fire him in a kiln and preserve his current shape forever (that sounds more candy-house fairytale witch than I’d intended), and yet I also know that when less-loving, less-gentle hands get their chance at him–in the form of external forces like schoolyard bullies or internal ones like frustrations or heartaches–raw clay will always fare better than fired clay. Better to bend and dent, even to collapse in parts, than to shatter.
It’s just that so much about him is DELIGHTFUL and ADORABLE and GORGEOUS now that I fear change can only mean losing those things to the life experiences he’s about to have. What’s more, I’m having a hard time deciding what things to prepare him for and what things to protect him from, even as I know there will be things he’ll fall into blind while I’m looking the other way, worrying about something completely irrelevant. We’ve tried to give him a range of experiences in his short life thus far, but the longview reveals that however large his bubble is, it’s still a bubble. Will preschool expand that bubble further or burst it? I don’t know, and that’s what’s scary.
That said, I do like that he’s such a big boy these days. I appreciate that he’s learning to wipe his own butt and can get his shoes on and off, and at the same time, I’m doing that annoying mom thing by clinging tight to the times he wants and needs me, like when he asks me to zip up his jacket in the morning (“Because even superheros need help sometimes, right, Mom?”), knowing those days are numbered too. I’d be lying if I said this gentle rose-colored view of motherhood was our everyday; sometimes I just want him to get ready and out the door, for god’s sake, hurry hurry, and those are the days I zip him up quickly and jam his feet into his shoes even as he protests “I can do it myself! Let me do it!” and I hate to admit that this unsentimental version happens more often than not, but hey, that’s just the way of it.
But there are also days when I’m able to slow down, days when I want to savor these moments because I know exactly what’s happening. He’s growing up. It doesn’t just happen over years but over days, even seconds, so pay attention, I tell myself, oh please, don’t forget to PAY ATTENTION. One moment he’s fumbling with the zipper and the next he feels it catch and glide up to his chin and his face lights up and he’s doing it all by himself and I wonder if the last time he needs my help was yesterday and I missed it because I was in a rush. There’s solace, though, and it’s this: Even though he doesn’t need me to help with a lot of things, he still needs me to witness. To see him do all the things he can do. To just be there. “Watch, Mom! Watch me!” I must remember to watch.
For now, when he needs help with his zipper, I don’t kneel in front of him to do it, I stand behind him and hunch over. For his sake, I want him to watch how my big hands do what his small hands will learn to do, but for my sake, I want to take the measure of him with my own body, to note how far I have to lean before my face is in his hair, flush with the dirtyclean smell of three-year-old boy. For now, I have this.
I don’t know what to say except that yes, to all of this yes. My heart breaks every single day. He puts it back together every single day.
This is pretty much the most beautiful comment I’ve ever gotten. Thank you for this, Jennie.
This was beautiful, and it made me cry. And this line, “Better to bend and dent, even to collapse in parts, than to shatter”? I need to tattoo it on my heart. Thank you for writing this.
AH, SOB. I was just thinking all these things today. But I was ready to keep mine two and a half, and you’re teaching me to let him grow. But honestly, why can’t the world be better? I hope it gets better for them.
And how ridiculous is it that he’s delighted(!) to help you clean up. What a kid.
“He’s growing up. It doesn’t just happen over years but over days, even seconds, so pay attention, I tell myself, oh please, don’t forget to PAY ATTENTION. One moment he’s fumbling with the zipper and the next he feels it catch and glide up to his chin and his face lights up and he’s doing it all by himself and I wonder if the last time he needs my help was yesterday and I missed it because I was in a rush.”
This made me cry so hard, Leah! My daughter, an only child, will be four in a few months and I am so afraid of missing those “Lasts” which are just as significant as the “Firsts”. I dread the day she will tell me she wants to read a story alone before bedtime. Or study. Or talk/text on the phone. Time goes so fast, all we can do as parents is pay attention and try to savor every moment.
Okay, well, now you made me cry. This resonated with me SO much. My son is nine months old and, wow, he already seems like such a big boy. (I know he’s NOT, of course, but still.) I wondered aloud the other day how I could bottle all of this– all of him, right now– up, so that I wouldn’t forget all the little things. The chuckles when I raspberry his tummy, the way he smiles when he wakes up from a nap, how his hair never quite lays flat. You can’t, of course, bottle all of it up. The best you can do is, as you say, pay attention. Slow down. Take note and enjoy the now because it goes so, so fast.
Ok, so remember when we all told you that you were going to love Baby Number Two just for him, and it would be completely different and wonderful even though you couldn’t imagine it? This is just like that.
I promise, Three was great, but oh, Five is also so amazing and wonderful. And somehow it’s SO hard to imagine sending them off with a pink heart jacket to BIG OLD MEAN school when they are three, but by the time they get to five? You realize they can handle it. They really can.
I struggled a lot with whether or not to leave Eli’s toenails painted. I don’t want him to get made fun of. Some battles aren’t going to be fought USING my kid, you know? But then I read Sarah Lena’s post about it and I decided, damn it, I’m leaving them. I’m letting him be free to be him.
http://theanviltree.com/4576/what-hate-feels-like/
Oh, this turned on the water works for me tonight. I keep telling myself to PAY ATTENTION every single day, but it’s so easy to get sucked into the day-to-day routine.
I have a son (my first child) who is about six weeks older than your Fox, and much of what you write these days (even if it’s about Wombat) resonates with me. Day after day, I find myself playing a mental tug-of-war: where’s the fast-forward button (I can’t wait until he will sleep through the night) and holy shit, where is the pause button because if I have to pack away any more clothes that my baby has already outgrown, I don’t think my heart can take it. Ah, motherhood.
Oh this made me cry, and that doesn’t often happen!
I have a three and a half year old son who is just a hair younger than Wombat and a six week old baby girl… Much of what you’re writing lately mirrors my own life, but this strikes an especially strong chord. Even though so much of my energy has lately been devoted to the newborn, I have been trying to make a huge effort to stop and soak in the every day details of my son, because I know that these days are fleeting.. Thank you for the reminder to stop and watch.
Mind if I print this and read it to myself ever so often?
So many parts of this post were my favourite parts that I think I just have to say that this was my FAVOURITE post ever! (Perhaps I’m channeling my inner Wombat?) I especially loved your observation about Scholastic order forms.
From the sounds of it, you and Simon are excellent parents and Wombat is an excellent kid. Which means you have nothing to worry about. And everything to worry about. (Does that make sense?)
I have to give Simon a virtual high-five for bringing home “a girl’s jacket” because my own dad didn’t want anything “girly” near my brother and got upset when we played barbies together. He almost had a heart attack when my brother asked for a doll one Christmas.
I also have to give you a virtual high-five, Leah, for realizing that Wombat needs you to witness what he can do. He will ALWAYS need you to watch! I’ll be 23 in November and while I sometimes (okay, often) get annoyed with my mother and her desire to help me, I still want her to watch what I can do. And you just made me realize that about myself, so thank you for putting into words what I feel. (Although I hope that doesn’t sound horrible, that I essentially just compared myself to a 3 year old.)
That was such a LOVELY post to read over my Sunday morning coffee.
I’m sure you are familiar with it but one of my favorite little familial nugget is this:
“There are two lasting gifts we can give our children, one is roots, the other is wings.”
Clearly, you two are doing it right.
I can’t wait to see how Wombat develops and how his clay is molded. Wouldn’t it be simply WONDERFUL if he remains that darling boy, with a strong sense of self, and shuns those who may negatively critique him?