Needing a change of scene and craving friend time for both of us, I scooped you up and we flew to Houston for February break, just the two of us. I got you your very own suitcase, with a built in scooter, which was really genius. You loved it, quickly mastered steering, and could largely handle your belongings yourself. And when you were tired, as you sometimes were, you could ride and I could push you and my own suitcase with relative ease. It felt freeing. You are in that cusp moment, of still part baby in some respect - needing snuggles, still reaching for my breasts for a stealth grope or kiss out of strong somatic memory for when they were the source of all comfort, still liable to an occasional meltdown when too hungry or too tired. But then, who among us isn't? And you are also a great companion now.
I packed our schedule with playdates for you, and it was actually marvelous. We went to the zoo. We exhausted ourselves but refused to miss riding the train. We tried napping but it was too exciting staying at my aunt's house. We saw Grandpa play a piano recital. We played in a backyard fort. We hit playgrounds. We went to friends' houses. At one of them you ran around wreaking havoc with a water gun while I gave a phone interview to some magazine in Florida, and then we all ended up back in the pool. Then you and two friends dressed in full pirate regalia and ate buttered pasta while watching Muppet Treasure Island and I sat outside on an elegantly lit patio and spoke with adults. We even went to a color museum with Grandpa, playing with huge balloons, throwing confetti, dancing with headphones on, and wading through the biggest ball pit I have ever seen in my life.
I was exhausted by the time we made it home, but I'm so glad we went. We got sun, and fresh air, and wore shorts, and went swimming, and ate different food (that part was a little hard on your tummy, poor guy), and had so much practice just being with other people.
Maybe it's my disillusionment about not getting into Shore. I am furious at them, still, weeks later. You are testing at benchmarks ready for Kindergarten a full year early, Succotash, with the exception of knowing your letters. We're going to have you checked for dyslexia, as I've noticed that to you lower case p, b, d, and q all look the same. I'm sympathetic - they look the same to me too. Don't worry, we'll sort this out. But I have to tell you, I have never felt a rage as pure and unadulterated as the fury that gripped me when I felt that an institution was standing between you and the opportunities I want for you. I have no wish to be a snowplow parent. I love watching you push yourself. Take little risks. You're liking climbing more, you are testing your independence. I'm excited for you. I felt like you grew up, a bit, as we traveled. Your brain drinking in different experiences, different places, different people.
It's all left me thinking more seriously about Baltimore. A city. A real one. With art, and culture, different people, different food. If we moved there, you wouldn't have to miss your dad two days a week. They have schools there that seem to understand boys, and I'm increasingly convinced that your boyness is part of why you haven't been well understood by a school yet. We could keep Marblehead, still have our summers here, still have sailing and summer camp and nothing says you couldn't go to boarding school for high school if that's what you wanted. There is a community of writers there. Universities. A bigger world.
But it's a big change.
I don't know. We'll see.
