Turning Point

Today's blog is less about you, my Succotash, than it is about the world immediately around you.

Once there was a day, many years ago, when everything changed. On that day, described in another blog at another time by an earlier version of your mother, your dad gave a job talk at Harvard Business School at the exact same moment that my first book went to auction. Is it shook out, the auction was a smashing success, but the job talk was not. The following year was a hard one - I was on the road promoting the book they had paid for, but your dad was on the road being a management consultant and feeling like everything he had worked so hard for was coming to nothing. (It wasn't true. In fact, the things he learned at that otherwise terrible job went on to inform his work in significant ways. But even so. It was a hard chunk of time.)

Well, this week we have another one of those days. On Wednesday, we will learn if you get into the snazzy private school we are hoping you will get into, at the exact same time your father will be giving a job talk at Johns Hopkins. We also, at some point in the coming days, might field a second offer on our New York City apartment. I hope some day you will forgive us for selling that beautiful little prewar box with the working fireplace and the soon to be illegal gas stove, where you spent the first five months of your life, and then one year when you were two. I guess overall that is a smallish percentage of your overall life, and if you retain any memories of it at all, they will be hazy, and probably having to do with an elevator that still had an elevator operator. It will last as a story you tell about yourself, after hearing us tell it to you, and seeing the pictures.

Otherwise, you continue to grow. We're still trying to wean, and it's tough going, but we have discussed that even though it will be sad when we stop nursing, that it will mean that you are really a big kid, and that is something to celebrate. I've dangled the prospect of a balance bike as part of this coming celebration, something only big kids can do. Balance bikes aren't for babies.

I think you are using pretend to work through your feelings about no longer being a baby. After warm water when we are getting ready for bed you will sometimes pretend to be a little baby, curl up in a ball and ask me to carry you like a baby. I pretend to rock you, and sing Rockabye Baby, and shower you with kisses. Sometimes you even say "I am just a baby! I can't walk! I need a diaper!" and then we put your underpants on, and you tell me that you "kept growing, and growing, and growing, and now I'm a big kid!" I like that you are using stories and pretend to work it out. I've whispered to you that sometimes everyone wishes they were still a baby, even grownups. As my mother fades and fails far away, I sometimes wish I could be a baby still, too. Last night I even dreamt about her, as she was, giving me instructions about something. I wonder if the day will come when you dream the same thing about me.

New Year

You are upstairs with your dad watching the Disney Robin Hood movie, "the foxes one, not the people one, the people one is for older kids." We have been on a quest for movies with knights in them for you, and tried A Knight's Tale ("I think this one is for older kids") and The Princess Bride a couple of times ("too scary!"). Last night we did Ivanhoe, which as far as we can tell was a success, though in was a bit surreal having a forbidden exotic Jewess love subplot lying in wait in an 11th century English knight movie, with Robin Hood and King Richard and a ton of arrows and some really solid swordfighting scenes, to say nothing of jousting.

"There's too much talking, I want to see the joust!" you said. Reasonable. You also had to wear you knight costume, which consists of hauberk, cape, sash, helmet, sword, and shield made from an Amazon box. Also your "knight pants," which are sweatpants Ama found somewhere that for whatever reason have a shield on them.

You have been a little under the weather this week, though we can't figure out what's up. You are COVID negative, but have no appetite and are very tried, but insist that you feel okay. Tonight something hit you the wrong way and I unlocked a motherhood level by having you spit up at the dining table at Maddie's into my cupped hands, which I quickly secreted away in a paper towel. Fortunately we had an extra shirt.

"Look at it this way," your dad said as we wheeled you home in your red carriage. "That's not the first time someone has barfed at that table at Maddie's."

True.

Earlier this afternoon we made a snowman together, which was charming and idyllic. Your talking has gotten so much better that at Christmastime Ginger and Brian exclaimed over how much progress you must be making in speech therapy, but you haven't actually begun speech therapy. Nor will you, at this rate, given that they have no placement available for you. They keep wanting us to do interminable intakes and meetings and so far you have received zero services of any kind, despite it having been three months. All of which underscores my suspicion that early intervention is largely a scam designed to bilk insurance companies, and any advances can be explained away by growing. But I am a curmudgeon, Succotash. You know this already.

What else? We had Will and Irina and Clara come for Christmas, and it was largely a success. Clara, who is almost six, enjoyed setting up treasure hunts for you, which was adorable to see as we hunted around the house for a driedel shaped box filled with chocolates which she had hidden in some folds of the Christmas tree skirt. She had a slightly rough time Christmas morning, under the impression that you had received more presents than she did. Oh, well. I can't control if kindly neighbors wish to give you presents. So it goes.

We have started going to Old North on Sundays, which you like because of the music, and because of the lemonade and snacks afterwards.

Some terms of art: "yogurt milk" for the little yogurts you now enjoy drinking, "sticky drink" for apple cider. We are trying to wean, and when I say "we" I mean "me," because you are still very committed to nursing. "I love nursing," you will say with a wistful sigh. We've made some progress stopping nursing at night, but honestly, you're closing in on 3 1/2 and I don't want to scar you for life by carrying on so long you remember it.

Clara was also a reluctant weaner who nursed well into her third year. I tried to introduce this as a point of common interest for you two to discuss. "Yeah," she said, nodding. "I'm still kind of obsessed with my mom's breasts." So, maybe it's too late? Oh well. You do excitedly cry "Boobs! I want to nurse on them!" when I get undressed for the shower. Guessing the ship has sailed.

After Christmas we went to Houston to see my parents, and it was a really lovely visit. I got some nice footage of you handing Nana Christmas presents, and playing piano with Grandpa, and pretending to conduct Grandpa like in An American in Paris. You are largely unaware of this, but in the past week or two my mom has suffered a severe setback, in part because of her and Dad finally getting COVID, and maybe because of Paxlovid interfering with all her Alzheimer's meds. I've been very on edge for a couple of weeks, under pressure at work (three book contracts, not enough feedback, and not being paid on time), and under pressure to help my mother, for whom I can do nothing meaningful beyond traveling to see her, prattling to her on the telephone about you, and sending her a walker from Amazon. Between that and weaning, I haven't been the mother I want to be to you. For that I am sorry. I'm trying to do better. It's hard going, midlife. I'm glad it's a good long time before you are there.

Tomorrow you and I are going to Shore Country Day for a shadow visit. We applied for you before we bailed on New York after the cluster that was the beginning of the school year at Flatiron. We'll find out soon enough if you get in. Initially we'd planned for you to do another year at Harborlight, but now it seems that while you are growing socially by leaps and bounds, you aren't actually learning anything. You know, like letters, or numbers. You can't tell the difference between yellow and green. I guess we could be working harder on that stuff at home, but I think I assumed that you were, you know... going to school? 

Anyhoo. We'll see what happens. Presumably by the time you read this, should that time ever come, you will have sorted out that yellow and green are different. Or maybe they aren't different, and you have no truck with arbitrary and culturally-determined distinctions? You already reject the artificial choices that all the parenting books say we should offer to give you a sense of agency and authority. "Do you want your horserider shirt with the hood, or a bowtie shirt?" I'll ask you. "No shirt!" you will say with an impish grin, a grin that tells me that you know you have to wear a shirt, but the choice I've just offered is meaningless. I know it is, my smart boy. I know it is. 

Some recent remarks

 Last night, in bed reading books, apropos of nothing:

"I used to be an old old old timey shoemaker."

"You did?"

"Yes. I used to sew half a side of shoes by hand. It took me a long long time and I wanted to go home. Then my friend came to work with me and I was happy. Now I'm not an old timey shoemaker anymore."

"What are you now?"

"Now I'm a fancy shoemaker."

[This conversation has led me to assume that our house is haunted by a cordwainer, FYI. But your dad thinks you've been reading too many Early American Trades coloring books before bed.]

And last week, some remarks on my outfit for a holiday party:

"Mama, what's that black stuff on your eyes? Your eyes look different."

"Don't worry, it will wash right off."

"How will you wash it off?"

"With soap."

"Can you wash it off right now?"

[Then, a few minutes later....]

"Mama, if you wear your pointy shoes in the street you're going to punch holes in it."

[And finally.....]

"Mama, your boobs look like they're trying to get out of your dress."

December Notes

Miscellany: 

Me: "May I kiss your tummy?"

You: "No. My body is mine!"

Me: [inane comment]

You: "Mama, you have to raise your hand."

[Built this City by Starship playing on the car stereo]

You: "Do Muppets live here? This is a Muppets cleaning song!"

Me: "Ooh, did you bring home a new library book?"

You: "Yes! It's Dragons Love Tacos. We have it in New York, and puz we don't know when we can get it back from New York I got one from the library puz Dragons Love Tacos is a good sleepy book."

"Puz" is how you're pronouncing "because" these days.

Also, lots of "perhaps." As in "Perhaps I was a good knight, puz I was wearing armor."

Recent costume personas: "Bad magician," "Good knight," "Bad knight," "Money Charles" [playing with poker chips to set up a pretend bank in the passage between the dining room and living room], "Sailing kid"

Recent pleasurable activities: Going to "the place where you take your shoes off" (i.e. Marblehead Parenting Center), going to "the car playground" (in Beverly, has a car climber), going to "the boat playground" (Dane Street playground in Beverly; twice we've met a sweet 6 yo named Jacoby and had really fun playtimes with him and his 2 yo sister Sadie), dinner at Maddie's to which you ride your scooter, new monkey swing in the cherry tree in the garden, babysitting with Abby (You, wistfully: "I love her.")

Recent challenges: trying to adjust to the idea of weaning. We've dropped the after school nurse, but you're still REALLY into it at bedtime, and in the morning. I'm worried that we'll have to go cold turkey, with me going out of town for a few days, which will be tough for everyone. But.... you're three. It's time. Also, real hot moments when it's time to stop watching Muppet Babies and go downstairs for dinner. Whoa nelly. The pure, unadulterated rage of a Charles denied his due portion of Muppet Babies!

Plans: Will, Irina, and Clara are coming for Christmas, and then on the 26th we are flying to Houston to see Nana and Grandpa. Busy busy days. 

Typology

"Some mamas have boobs, and some mamas don't have boobs."

"That's true."

"Some mamas have little boobs, and some mamas have round boobs, and some mamas have book boobs."

"Are book boobs boobs you read about in books?"

"Noooooo,"

"Are book boobs boobs shaped like books?"

"Yes!"

"What kind of boobs does Mama have?"

"Mama has round boobs."

[pause]

"Mama, I want nursing."

"Whoa. Get out of town."

"Nursing nursing nursing!"

"You mean to tell me that I have boobs, and milk comes out of them? That's so weird."

[laughter] "Nursing nursing nursing!"

"And when that happens, it's called nursing?"

[even more laughter]

"Am I a comic genius, Charles?"

"Yes. Mama, I want nursing."

The Police Officer, and Halloween

 For some months now you have determined that a tiny police officer (sometimes a baby police officer) lives in the small door to the under eave storage at the top of the stairs on the third floor. You like to open the door on our way downstairs and check on him. Sometimes he is still sleeping. Sometimes he is there, and awake, and we have a long conversation, and then you occasionally place him in the palm of my hand (he is very small). This morning you informed me that he wasn't there, because he was visiting his other family. I wondered aloud if he had one other family, or several? You said he had one. 

"Some families have sisters, and some families don't have sisters," you said as I carried you down the stairs.

"Do you have a sister?" I asked. Sometimes you call your babysitter in New York your sister, and lately you have taken to calling your baby sitter in Marblehead - formerly "my big kid with crocs" - your sister. 

"My sister is at my house far away," you said.

We have been sort of soft-playing the idea that we aren't going back to New York to you. Mainly I don't want you to worry about the toys that we couldn't fit in the car, since they will be coming here eventually. But there are toys and books we couldn't bring that you probably miss if I draw your attention to them. I think you like the apartment, and you like your room in the apartment, but I have floated the idea that soon we will turn the small guest room in Mustard House into your room. But one thing for certain - you sure don't miss that school. What a disaster. Last week you started back at Harborlight, and every dropoff was easier than the easiest dropoff we had in the city. Your teacher Miss Sue actually knows what she's doing and actually cares about you. Everyone at the school administration knows you, and said things like "welcome back, Charles!" We went to the family fall festival on Saturday, where you got to crunch in leaves and use a play bow and arrow and were leery of the bouncy house and adored the hay ride, and while I waited for you and your dad I ran into a great woman I knew from the yacht club baby pool and another woman I know from sailing and met a mother of a sweet older boy in your class. And you know what? Nobody was shut out of coming. No limited tickets. No freaking Instagram backdrop for posing. Just a mob of kids running around eating cotton candy and a bake sale run by actual parents and a tractor hay ride driven by an actual dad and a petting zoo with a tiny, soft baby goat. 

There are things I miss in New York. There are things I will regret. This is the first time that my interests have run in direct conflict with yours I think. But there was no question in my mind that as much as I adore my shelf at the NYPL and my long-dragging-on tenure in the Center for the Humanities, and as much as I love our weird apartment with its gorgeous views and its working fireplace, it is so much more important to me that you are happy. Tonight is Halloween, and we will trick or treat with some neighborhood friends, people you will grow up with, and now you will actually know all of them because you will be around. 

We will wear our matching rabbit costumes, and Daddy will be a carrot, and your uncle will come too, and nobody will be posing for pretend experiences. We will just be living a pretty charmed life.

Changes

Well, it's been a busy couple of weeks. First, we tried to go to Puerto Rico for a wedding, and for our first vacation since 2018. You adored the hotel, in part because Ama and Poppop were there too, but also because there was a huge water slide and a big pool and we just played in there all day long. It was great! You finally turned three for real, and the whole restaurant sang to you at breakfast. Ama gave you toy knights to joust with and some lovely Magna tiles and everything was fun. You stayed with them playing while your dad and I went to the welcome drinks for the wedding, where we expressed pleasure to our friends that we had never caught Covid.

Then that night you awoke in the night as warm as a bread loaf, saying "Mama, I'm hot."

Guess what. We got Covid.

Unfreakingbelievable.

We didn't go to the wedding.

We flew home, perhaps unwisely, but unable to stomach being locked in a hotel room with only three Richard Scarry books and 24/7 merengue blasting by the pool. We masked up as well as we could, fled home, and holed up in our apartment, where at least there is good food delivery and we control what music is played, and at what volume. 

But bigger news still is that you have been absolutely miserable at school. We think you got off on the wrong foot, hitting a classmate a couple of times, even though we had warned them that this was an ongoing area needing work. Your teachers, we think, telegraph their disapproval or disappointment, because thereafter you were hysterical at dropoff. You don't like them. They, we think, don't like you. The school wasn't willing to move you to a different classroom. You are miserable, and we are miserable because you are miserable, and I am furious at them. Absolutely. Furious. They were the only reason we were still in the city anymore, really. And when you need extra exercise, they have you walk in a circle along a line taped to the floor. Like in prison.

So, guess what? We're quitting. This is your last week at your fancy New York City Montessori. On Saturday we will drive back to Marblehead. Next Tuesday you will go back to teachers you know and love at Harborlight. We will delay our application to Shore by a year. You will have consistency. And calm. And people who care about you. 

Goodbye, New York. 

Big change, huh. 

I want you to know I'm sorry, Succotash. You know, I do these things because I'm trying to get you the best start in life. But when all is said and done, if you aren't happy, and it's not just difficulty with change but actual, not-working-out unhappy, then yes, I will uproot absolutely everything. I will burn it all to the freaking ground if that is what is necessary.