Posts from — April 2008

Most of the talking I do with Bug is ordinary everyday talking - a conversation about a big truck we’ve passed in the car, a discussion about what we’ll have for snack, stories about what happened at school, a fight about which pair of underwear he can wear to school (Dirty vs. Clean), etc., and my awareness of my parenting is lost to the humdrum of daily activity.

Then sometimes in the midst of a string of Which book are you going to read me Mama? Are you going to read to me now Mama? Bug will ask me a Really Big Life Question and all of a sudden I feel like I can’t breathe. Here is this gorgeous child with big brown eyes staring at me, waiting to hear my answer to his question, and I know that my answer will be The Answer to him. It’s like someone rang my doorbell and said “Hello! Just to remind you, you’re largely responsible for shaping this person’s development! Have a nice day!” Great. NO PRESSURE.

And the feeling in my stomach is exactly the same feeling that I used to get before tennis matches in high school or voice recitals in college. A kind of Holy Shit Here We Go feeling that almost always coincided with an extreme urge to empty my bladder.

Today, it went down like this.

We’re sitting on the couch, attempting Quiet Time (which is turning out to be wildly unsuccessful) and Bug has been doing his normal random chattering about cars passing by outside and which toys he’s playing with at the moment when all of a sudden he says

“We don’t die, right Mama?”

Long pause. I look at him. Welcome to Winging Parenthood 101. Class is in session.

“What buddy?”

“We don’t die, right?”

“Well, actually, we do die, Bug. Everybody in the world dies at some point.”

“But I don’t die, right Mama?”

“Well, even you will die someday. I don’t think that day will be for a long long time, but one day even you will die.”

“Why?”

“Well, because our bodies are made to last only a certain amount of time, and when they don’t work anymore we die. But it’s ok, because that’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s the way God made it.”

“But I don’t want to die, Mama.” (He’s getting a little upset at this point.)

“I don’t want to die either Bug. It’s nice to live isn’t it? But dying is just a part of living, and it’s what’s supposed to happen.”

“But I don’t like it.”

“I know. I don’t think many people like it Bug. It’s nice to be in the world and be around the people we love. And it’s sad when people die and it makes us sad when they’re not here anymore doesn’t it.”

(sadly) “Yeah.”

He looks at me for a long time, right in the eyes, and I think He can see right inside me, all the way.

“But Mama, little kids don’t die, right?”

Geez Louise.

“Well Bug, sometimes little kids do die. And that’s really sad because they didn’t get to live for very long, but it does happen sometimes. Sometimes kids get sick or get in accidents and they die just like grown ups.”

“Mama, I don’t want to die.” He buries his head in the arm of the couch.

I scoop him up in my arms.

“Buddy, what made you think about this? You don’t have to worry about dying any time soon. You are healthy and safe and everything is ok. And I love you.”

“Ok, Mama.”

And we just sit there for a minute, me cradling him like I used to when he was a baby and I’m thinking All I want in life is to be a good mom to this kid.

And then he separates from me and says “Now can I have a snack?” And just like that we’re back to the everyday talk.

It’s supposed to be that way though, I think. Niney-nine percent of the time we parent the humdrum moments (knowing on some level that no moment of parenting is unimportant with a small child) and one percent of the time we are thrust into the hyper-aware state of parenting. The state that says “Pay attention to this. This is important. You are the world to this child and your words influence him more than anyone else’s.” We can’t take too much of that state though, or at least I can’t. Too much performance anxiety.

So I just keep doing the best I can. It’s all I can do.

I don’t know what made Bug think about dying or his dying. But I’m glad he’s asking those questions. I know we’ll talk more some day and what he learns will be built upon by others as he gets older. Even if I can only give him my feeble answers and explanations for now, I’m glad I can do those things sitting on the couch with him, in the middle of the day, at the time it came to him. I’m just glad to be around for it at all.

Even the Holy Shit Here We Go part.

Reasons for Getting Out of Bed
(Each Warranting a Separate Trip to the Living Room):

“Mama, I’m going to sleep with my new Batman!” (Which he already had in his hands when I said goodnight.)

“Mama, my tummy hurts.” (Suspicious, but wait for it…)

“Mama, I have to poop on the big potty.” (And there you go.)

“Mama, I can’t sleep by myself.” (BUT YOU HAVE BATMAN.)

“Mama, I’m having bad dreams.” (That’s funny, I thought only sleeping people had dreams.)

“Mama, I need some ice water.” (No. Sleeping people don’t drink.)

“Mama, I have to pee pee.” (Dadgummit that’s legit. I’mproudofyouforgettingoutofbedto peenowthatyou’resleepinginbigboyunderweargoodjob. NOW GO TO BED.)

(Long pause! Silence! Victory is ours!)

Then a head pops around the corner…

“Mama! Today at school we read a book about pigs! And they were in underwear! It was SO SILLY.”

Well thank God you told me that. Otherwise I may not have been able to ENJOY MY EVENING.

Back in the olden days before I turned TOTALLY AWESOME, I would have written a haiku today because I just got back from a three hour Farmer’s Market/Grocery Store marathon (with a donut and milk break in the middle, of course) and feel as though the baby has been online ordering barbells that have been arriving to my uterus every five minutes. Does that even make sense to you? Honestly, I’m too tired to care.

But like I said, now I’m totally awesome. So instead of a lame haiku I will post this picture of a pretty pretty flower that all of a sudden has bloomed in our front yard. Did it bloom last year? No it did not. Did we plant it? No siree. My personal theory is that it is our fertile land expressing its profound joy that we are abiding alongside it in this house a few more years. The vegetation rejoices in our quest to forever leave it growing unhindered and free.

Of course, that’s total crap. These kinds of flowers probably only grow every other year.

Who knows. I’m so pooped.
Look at the flower! Uh oh.
HAIKU STRIKES AGAIN.

…spends a whole day in a very small space together. We survived it though, and with only minimal yelling. If you’d like to hire us to paint for you, we can do a room in only one day! And the kid is cheap labor! And comes with his own roller!*

*Management is not responsible for any damage done to your room while working. Like say small footprints on your hardwood floor or paint smears on your brand new loveseat. Just for example. Hypothetically.

I know, I know, blogging about paint choices. BO-ring. Except dadgum it feels like a really big freakin’ deal to me, a preachers’ kid who lived a good portion of her life in parsonages where you had to go through 87 committees to have the right just to paint a room approved. Then the process started over again for color choices.

Then I lived in off white dorm rooms for four years. Then off-white apartments for five years. Then an off-white house (save the Gorgeous Grapes in the dining room) for two.

But today:

Today WE PAINT.