A few years ago, I was taking my somewhat
customary walk, after work, down along the Arroyo of the Connecticut River,
near my office and home , when I came upon a woman I had known years
ago, though daughters being best friend. She was seated with her sister, on a
folded blanket, by the side of the dike, drinking wine, having a snack dinner,
and laughing as the sun began it’s descent.
She recognized me at first
by name, re-introducing me to her sister, whom I was introduced to maybe 15
years ago also, and then promptly forgot my name as she made small talk with
me.
I wished them a pleasant
time having a riverside sunset dinner, and walked on down the one mile to the
path’s end, the ancient Oak, the deer path down to the river, and the perennial
flock of Cedar Waxwing birds’ home in the vines beneath the trees.
Years ago, my middle child
was 7, and began going to a charter school in the hill towns of this area. She
flourished there, and in that small class she was in for so many years was
another child to become a dear friend. Eventually they were at each other’s
homes, and I was often driving them to and fro, as their mom was.
And so it came to pass
that, as a parent, I would encounter this fellow parent over and over, in our
town, at school, and eventually at a campground , where their family and ours
often spent a week or so camping with our kids each year.
At the time, we had lived
in a series of homes- two of which we owned, and then a total eventually of 21-
19 rentals. I had great difficulty
living in apartment complexes where people parented in less than stellar ways.
I simply, with an upbringing one could call ‘unthinkable’, could not manage. Thus
we always were renting houses that then became unavailable eventually, when
they were sold or rebuilt.
We sometimes rented houses
that had been, unbeknownst to us, “over” ‘treated’ with a pesticide, and as the
symptoms (swollen lips, bronchitis the family-side, pale faces, twitchiness,
and more ) became apparent, my time spent researching (with two babies and one
older child, pre-internet time) increased until I realized the situation and
forcibly pressed my poor husband out of that rental, with three children, two
dogs and three cats, and into another. Which was new, and made of all kinds of
fake, off gassing materials, which of course made us sick in new ways noone
understood at the time, so we then had to enlist the help of all of our loyal
friends and family to help us move once again to an additional rental. And
another. And another, as circumstances changes, despite my abiding efforts to
secure us a home that we could stay in.
When these two children met
and became fast friends, I would go deliver my child to their immaculate, new
but very fashionable home, just enough
in the woods to be lovely, but still accessible to town and school. The floors
were clean, the laundry always in the process of really being folded, versus
stationed somewhere looking as if someone was just about to fold it..any
minute….really….actually, probably not. And this child’s mother made wonderful meals on time, and kept her perfectly clean, organized,
decorated, multi-bath roomed, home. She would greet me during child exchanges,
and as these things go, at times we would begin to talk about this and that.
Now, we parents all know
that sometimes this blossoms…into something fun and light, or a deeper
connection- that, when the children no longer like each other, can either end
or be continued by adult choice. And sometimes it simply does not fit.
So she and I would talk, and she would talk
the way most of the very nice, normal mothers I was surrounded by talked. About
school events, and recipes and child activities and tv shows and …I guess ….so
many things that , at times, we had in common, and for the most part, was like
two people with half a shared language struggling to find common ground.
Which was fine. Very nice
person having my kid over while her kid came over, being a responsible parent
I-could-trust-with-my-kid-even-when-they
got-the-inevitable-school-age-lice-together. Over and over. And Over. And then
went to camp together, at the last minute . She pesticiding the crap out of her
kid’s head once and for all (she hoped) so that kid WOULD be happily ensconced
somewhere ELSE for a week away and she would have 1/3 of a breather. Right?
In the meantime, at said moment, I was sitting
on the hood of our car, 2 miles down from the camp in question, in the same
situation, with a partially hysterical husband irritated and overwhelmed out of
his mind, one older kid at home, and the younger one twiddling his fingers
trying to tolerate the situation while I slowly and methodically, one last time,
dipped my kid’s head in essential oils, to kill the suckers, and then slowly
and painstakingly located and removed every single little sucker egg from her
sweet, semi-tantruming, mortified head, in order to deliver her to the
beginning of the camp, trying somehow to look NOT like she had just spent hours
on the hood of her car with her family in various states of emotional disarray
while her mom nit picked her, successfully , I might add.
I often was in the position
of being with other mothers, and feeling quite like a different species
altogether. At Gymnastics, they would line up, perfectly dressed, smaller children playing quietly and politely,
while we all gazed obediently through the huge windows toward our
soon-to-become-completely-famous small children, in their gymnastic clothing,
going through the paces.
At times, the owner of the
school would pull a mother aside at the beginning or end of a session, and
quietly talk to them of the child’s acceptance into the next , more elite level
of classes. In which case, no one would ever say one word, but the child and
mother would disappear from the group experience, to reappear at another time
with another group.
We parents were carefully
urged to increase the number of classes a week, as a way of ensuring the
eventual arrival of our beloved progeny into an elite group of pre-Olympic
gifted individuals, with more and more pressure exerted upon both parent and child.
Until the sane ones, in my mind, agreed with the kid and said ‘uncle’, and left
off the whole escalating deal, never sure why the middle ground of love of
gymnastics and development of upper body strength and agility could not have
been enough.
It was with these parents
that I learned the different-species deal, although when my husband brought
kids, he fit right in with all those moms- discussing recipes and things that
simply baffled my mind. Here were the main topics at the start of one
lesson-
1. How terrible it was to
try to get your husband to eat vegetables.
It simply never occurred to
me to try to get my husband to eat anything. I mean, we were friends and lovers
and partners and parents. Why would I think about trying to make him eat
anything?
2. How terrible it was when
one’s daughter tried to go to school with a wool pleated skirt on the bottom,
and a velour top.
Really. I kid you not. And
it went on, so many things they cared about and agreed on, and felt
passionately about, none of which I had ever given a thought to, being a
different species interested in different sorts of things, I guess.
Eventually, I got smart,
smiled, and would park myself on the bench, taking out a million things that
either I was studying or needed to do or organize in a notebook, intermittently
standing up and going to lean on the huge glass windows and watch my passionate
kids doing their hard gymnastic work.
As years passed, I learned
to understand the fellow/parent dance- the code words, the tell tale signs of
resonance of interests or complete lack of anything in common.
When one then gets to know
, somewhat surreptitiously, the parents and homes just enough to decide it is
an ok place for the kid to hang out and play, and eventually measure up to the
additional standard of ok to have overnights at.
I learned to have the
prerequisite conversations that were polite and sincere and just enough with
groups of parents that might have been from Pluto, and then settle myself down
and do what I wanted- watch the kid soccer game or singing lesson or horseback
riding lesson or basketball game or martial arts class- you name it. Watching
enough to be involved and care and be there watching your sweet kid when they
look over at you at a particularly stunning or miserable moment, but having things
to do in bits and pieces that you could fill your own needs too.
I remember often filling
capsules with herb formulas at indoor soccer games. The other parents would
sidle over, and ask me what that amazing aromatic smell was. I would explain
the Cardiovascular or Blood Sugar, or Bone Density or Sleep formula, they would
look at me as if I were , again, from another planet, smile and then slowly
back away.
My kids laugh about me
sitting at some soccer games with our rescued Australian Shepherd, whose coat
was too thick to shear, and whose bite was too much for any groomer. I
therefore found myself slowly, over many games , cutting swatches of thick fur
from the poor girl’s body, gathering it up into bags, and eventually having her
comfortably and messily sheared, somewhat, for the summer heat.
Over the years, children
grow up. After bringing my child to the cape, with her other children, each
with a friend along, to set up tents by herself, and tarps, and feed and care
for them all, my daughter recently commented on how ridiculous it was that this
mom managed this alone for so long.
It amazed me too, but
often, if you are ok enough and supported enough, you end up doing these nutso,
hard work things for your kids….things that use up your deep stored savings
account a bit each time, unbeknownst to you. You dig deep and manage one kid
thing after another, with as much grace and love and realistic honesty as you
can manage, to give them the upbringing and then send-off that might hold them
in good stead. And of course, because you love them so.
Last night, I finished the
2 mile walk by our big old river, and passed the mom and her sister on the way
to my car. She and her husband divorced years ago, and I had not seen her
since. By now, the wine was empty, and they were laughing and bending over with
sisterly delight, their snacks gone and the sun almost out of sight. I wished
them goodnight, and she called “Hey, can you take a picture of us?”
I agreed, took the phone,
and snapped a number of shots, the last one including the descending deep red
sun looming behind their backs, as they held each other and looked up with
their familial delight.
