grunts and squeaks

In the end, I spent nearly 48 hours with Rachel, Kehry, and little Louisa, who is not yet two weeks old. When I walked into their cozy home on Saturday afternoon, she was sprawled along a nursing pillow on Rachel’s lap, head tipped back, eyes nearly closed, limbs draped heavily in every direction. It was the most iconic, adorable portrait of a milk-drunk newborn imaginable. I put down my bag, sat down next to Rachel on the couch, and cried.

I don’t know why. Maybe I cried for her tiny perfection, or her abundant black hair, or her intimacy with my sister who had been so recently transformed into a mother. I think I cried simply for her incontrovertible thereness -- she had not been there before! It boggles the mind. 

Also, I had not known that I would love her right away.

Being at their house brought me right back to the time-out-of-time mode that defines life with a newborn. Day and night become less meaningful concepts; the world is reduced to a room, or a couple of rooms, where the ins and outs of nursing, sleeping, and diapering dominate the agenda. Being in newbornland elicited vivid memories from my own first days of motherhood: sitting with day-old Frances in our packed up Philadelphia apartment that sweltering June, admiring her golden skin, distracted by how very hard our futon couch suddenly seemed. (But really, after an episiotomy, what sitting surface isn’t cruelly firm?) I remember the novelty of being attached, of our bodies operating in tandem. At times it felt oppressive, relentless (especially at night), but at the same time I could not ignore the strange ache that set in my arms if we were separated for more than an hour or so. 

But there was plenty of breathing room between me and my niece, who is ultimately not my responsibility, and so being in her presence was a simple, easy pleasure. (A window into the joys of grandparenthood!) Louisa did make me think also of my own parents as they must have been when we were born, young and beautiful, tired out, admiring us as we flung our arms wildly around in a bassinet. I thought of my in-laws, imagining them hovered over a tiny Mike: watching his irregular breath fill his belly and then draw his delicate ribcage into relief, fingering his toes, nuzzling his head, laughing at his baby grimaces and worried brow, relishing the smell and feel of him, perfect and precious.

We were all so once. My husband, who is off talking about Hegel at St. John's College; my neighbor Barbara who was widowed last year and loves to garden; Miss Bernadette the mail carrier who always has a kind word and regularly delivers our mail to the house next door. We were all covered in soft, paper-thin skin, possessed of impossibly tiny fingers and toes, unable to lift our heavy heads. 

Doesn't it change things somehow, to look around and remember that we were all once exquisite, small, and helpless, too?

the journey to louisa's house

So there I was, standing outside the Minneapolis airport after midnight last night, using up my last reserves of energy for the purpose of remaining upright. Countless other stranded, tired passengers joined me. An airport worker stood smoking listlessly nearby. One by one, at least fifteen hotel shuttles pulled up who were not there for me. Each time one turned the corner, my hopes were lifted, only to be dashed once the logo on the side of the van came into view: Ramada Inn, La Quinta Inn, Best Western, Hampton Inn, Embassy Suites. Who knew Minneapolis boasted so many chain hotels? My peanut butter and jelly sandwich was a distant memory. I was wearing the wrong shoes. Desperation set in.

But then I heard this guy on a cell phone behind me. He was a handsome man in his fifties, traveling with a strikingly fit and put-together wife, and he had come unhinged. “We’re in Minneapolis. No, really. It’s fine. I like it here. We’re going to go to the goddamned Mall of America, that’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go buy myself a hundred gold watches there, I swear to God.”

I started giggling. I looked at his wife, who was smiling placidly. I found someone else who was also waiting for the mythical Hilton shuttle. She was a fresh-faced, earnest young woman who crunched numbers for the Department of Education and was traveling to a 50^th high school reunion in Sioux City to collect data on people who had taken part in a wide-ranging longitudinal study called Project Talent. They had been asked questions about their career ambitions as 10^th and 11^th graders, and now she was going to see how it had all turned out (in a quantitative survey sort of way), fifty years later. She couldn’t have been older than 24, in a messy blond ponytail and flip flops, slinging a bright green tote bag with the Project Talent logo on it. I somehow resisted the urge to hug her and wish her well on life’s way when we parted at the hotel.

Then I slept. And showered. A nice man brought me an enormous vegetable omelet and two cups of coffee in the hotel restaurant this morning. The world was looking a lot brighter. 

I was the only person on the hotel shuttle heading back to the Minneapolis airport, so the driver and I talked. He is a studying international business at the University of Minnesota. Born in New York, his parents emigrated from Nigeria, and he speaks three African languages (in addition to French and English). We talked about traveling, about how Africans laugh all the time (me: I think I would like that, maybe I belong in Africa? - him: it’s kind of annoying though. Will somebody please get serious?), about his experiences traveling in Zimbabwe, and having to stop the car for an elephant crossing the road.

Who else have I met in the course of my airport adventures? Squirmy, three year old Ethan of the beautiful blue eyes, reunited with his military Mommy after a month’s separation while she was in training. Boy scout Troop 90 of the Chippewa Valley Council (the braces, the gangly limbs, the hatwear…!) hoisting sleeping bags and backpacks over their shoulders, en route to a doubtlessly memorable camping trip. A middle-aged Dominican couple hoping to finally make it to Las Vegas before the holiday weekend was over.  A Middle Eastern man carrying the most outrageously trimmed lap dog you can imagine, attracting the attention of every child within a hundred foot radius. He held it over the wide trash can in line in security, joking that he couldn’t take her through so he’d have to dump her, much to the delight of one particular airport security worker who clearly loved dogs. And all of this, all of this was set to the music of so many Minnesotan accents floating on the air around me.

Sometimes I just love America. I love it. Who knew getting stranded on my way to visit my new niece Louisa would inspire this kind of overwhelming love for my fellow man? And woman? And country? Maybe it’s the solidarity that comes with these kinds of experiences. Maybe it’s because our new suburban lifestyle has deprived me of city streets and buses and the diverse strangers one is privileged to inhabit those spaces with. But honestly, where else in the world could I have met the above collection of people? Where else do they brush up against one another and share daily life?

Despite persistent and frightening xenophobia that courses through American culture and politics, this country continues to be the place that admits more immigrants legally than all the other developed countries of the world combined. What distinguishes us more as a nation than that? What better to be proud of, than a young man who speaks five languages, who wakes at 4 am to drive the hotel shuttle to pay for college, who is more New York than Nigeria – who is so decidedly, so extraordinarily American?

I’m about to board a plane for Cedar Rapids, Iowa now. Things just keep on looking up.

Happy Fourth of July, friends!

the growing edge

Adam Gopnik wrote recently in The New Yorker about learning to draw. In describing the psychological difficulties involved, he articulated something I've noted often since becoming a parent: we adults have the luxury of simply avoiding those things we don't do well (or don't know how to do at all, and would rather not suffer the humiliations required to learn them). When you spend a lot of time with children - or, in this case, attempt to pick up a new skill in adulthood - you remember what it's like: "I was filled with feelings of helplessness and stupidity and impotence that I had not experienced since elementary school. Why was I so unable to do something so painfully simple?"

Of course that uncomfortable confrontation with our limits begins long before elementary school. Young children are asked to learn so much, every day, and some things are inevitably more challenging than others. Cowardly grown up that I am, I tend to take long, meandering routes around any foreign task smacking of difficulty in my path. My kids, however, don't enjoy the same degree of navigational control.

I'm sure I've made reference to the growing edge in previous posts. I learned the expression years ago from a psychologist who talked about the comfort zone, the pain zone, and that perfect in-between where change and development happen: the growing edge. Children live on the growing edge all the time. It's their job. As parents, we ideally support them in finding that slippery place, somewhere between complacent ease and a difficulty so great as to actually impede growth. But how to know where the lines are?

On his first day of soccer camp, Gabriel clung to my arm, begged to be picked up, and cried. He sat down on the field and refused to participate. When he was finally coaxed into playing by his kindly, energetic coach imported from the UK (who could refuse that accent?), he edged onto the field, then immediately burst into tears when another kid kicked over the cone he'd been considering kicking over himself. That was it. Done for the day.

Frances has soccer camp before Gabriel, so every morning we sit in the shade and watch her play with the bigger kids on a beach towel before his camp begins. Yesterday I brought books and crayons, and today I brought a box of Legos. Gabriel and the other younger siblings share toys, climb in and out of their mother's laps, and gradually wilt in the heat. It's a lovely scene, and it's something Gabriel knows how to do. He's a champ at Legos and reading books with me. It feels good; it comes easily. Not so resisting using his hands when it comes to playing with an enticingly big ball.

Day two was slightly better. I resorted to bribery, and promised a video after nap time if he would participate. He joined in for about two-thirds of the hour-long camp, but I could see the immense psychological and physical effort it required. There were more tears. I stood nearby, and watched the coach bark "No, no Gabriel, stop crying, you can do this!" and somehow he pushed through the awful feelings and kept going. It may have been the first time an adult responded that way to his tears. He's used to his mama and his maternal teachers at school, who wrap their arms around him and listen as he talks about his feelings. This was entirely different. Apparently there are no I statements on the soccer field.

Weirdly, it didn't bother me. I think it might have been a positive change. But was it the pain zone? Knowing our limits is so hard; knowing our children's limits is even harder. How do we know when a challenge is too painful for a kid to tolerate? On Monday and Tuesday I was tempted to let him observe camp from the safety of my lap - firmly in the comfort zone - but some other part of me felt it was important to encourage his independence. (Which just barely outweighed the part of me that yearned to hoist him onto my hip, wipe away his tears, and tell him he never has to do soccer camp again. But oh, friends! He is a baby no longer.)

Today, Wednesday, was the best morning yet. There were more pleas to play in the shade with Legos instead of play in the sun on the field, but he did it. For the first time, he allowed himself to become engaged and consequently felt proud of his swift kicks. He cried too, but not as often, and not as tragically. The truth is that life on the growing edge does involve some pain. Learning something new is so hard that it hurts - at least a little. So this morning, watching Gabriel play from eight feet away (instead of right next to him), I didn't worry too much about pushing him past his limits. He's pretty resilient, after all.

But I did bribe him again, with ice cream after lunch. I wanted to reward the Herculean efforts he is making at First Kicks soccer camp; I wanted him to know how great it is to try something even when it's scary and hard.

But in retrospect, I think maybe he didn't need ice cream to know that.

now we are six

Yesterday, 9 am: the chocolate beet cupcakes were cooling (what better way to ensure some of the garden beets make it into my children's bellies?), the kale that was destined to be oiled, salted, and roasted that evening was harvested, my coffee was sitting cold on the counter, and Frances had opened all her presents.

The birthday was well under way, yet already the happy tide was turning. We had plans to participate later in a homemade science camp organized by a group of local mothers. Over the summer, each family will host at least once, planning a science activity for all the kids. Sounds fun, right? Frances had been on the fence about going for the first time on her birthday, since we only know one of the families involved, but when she heard we were going to play with bubbles she couldn't resist.

Until ten minutes before we were supposed to go. "I think I'm going to hate science camp," she told me. "We can't go." Huh? That was followed by predictions of encountering the meanest kids ever there, and comments of the "bubbles are dumb anyway" ilk. Well. I tried and failed to shake her out of it, herded the children into the car with cupcakes and sunscreen in hand, and steeled myself.

Her behavior was atrocious. As the host mother explained activities, she would sigh loudly, looking up at me accusingly and saying things like "I told you I wouldn't like this." She was trying pretty hard to be a jerk, but anyone could see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. I was increasingly mad at her, and also sad, not to mention completely embarrassed before the other mothers, none of whom I had met before. I couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with any of them for more than a fleeting second, which was easy because so much of my attention was focused on preventing Frances from ruining the bubble fun for everyone else. She asked to go home; I refused. Her brother was having fun, and I held out hope that things might yet turn around.

When the structured part of the morning was over, the kids ran wild in the yard. Frances continued to channel a negative little troll on the swing set, interpreting every delayed turn as further confirmation of the horrific nature of science camp. But then I watched a big-hearted little girl named Elise run after her, offering a hug and a turn with the bubble machine. Frances collapsed into her skinny arms. It took my breath away. Elise melted the hardness in Frances in a way I never could have. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers.

Then Frances found a new friend in Portia, who had also just turned six. The two of them hit it off and played beautifully for the rest of the morning. As I watched them, my own brittleness gave way. I was able to sit and chat with the other mothers. When Frances began to play nice, I relaxed and found I could too.

The rest of the day was just great. Though Frances walked the line of birthday enthusiasm, every so often losing her footing and stumbling into the land of birthday grubbiness, it was all okay. I forgave her without effort; love triumphed. The two of us were able to swim at the pool while Gabriel napped, then we all welcomed five of her favorite grown up friends over for a big celebratory dinner with more presents and ice cream. Oh, and those kale chips! (Which, I am pleased to report, she requested specifically for the occasion.)

Sitting back in my chair at dinner last night, surveying the wealth of excellent friends and good food before me, I was reminded of our first weeks in Annapolis. Frances had just turned three. Night after night, it was just us, a disoriented foursome in our impersonal, white-walled kitchen. The social situation in our new friendless town could only be described as impoverished. How it weighed upon Frances! She kept asking if could we please have some friends over for dinner tonight?  Or could we go to a friend's house instead?  It broke my heart to tell her we didn't have any friends to invite, or be invited by. Those were lonely times. When I remember them, palpable gratitude flows through my limbs. The kindness of strangers - and new and old friends - brought me through. How much has changed in three short years!