a rugs life

Every year my daughter and I go to a picnic hosted by the social worker who helped my daughter and I find each other. Its a big gathering with lots of families. And there are, naturally, lots of kids.

We’ve been to this picnic 3 years in a row. The first year we went, Rada was still in her ‘everything is mine and the world revolves around me’ mode. I shadowed her like a bad detective, worried that she’d swipe food off someone’s plate, or commandeer a child’s stuffed animal.

The second year, Rada was ‘practising’ wearing big girl underpants. I ran after her asking every 3 minutes if she needed to use the bathroom. My efforts were to no avail because she eventually had a disastrous accident in the middle of the kitchen, which took rolls of paper towels to clean up, and necessitated an entire clothes change.

This year, the third year, was completely different. The minute we got there she said to herself, ‘oh yes, I remember this’. And she went off on her own for the entire afternoon. She made friends, had her face painted, took several pony rides, and organized a pick-up hoop game. Periodically, she’d report back to me about all the things that she was doing by herself.

All of a sudden I was left to my own devices. I had to brush up on my social skills, meet new friends, and strike up conversations, all on my own.

Last weekend Rada and her friend Kayla had their long-awaited sleepover. While Kayla’s mom Kathy enjoyed some grown-up time, Kayla, Rada and I mixed it up at home.

It was the third or fourth time the girls had gotten together without the presence of both moms and the dynamics were interesting. During the transition phase, before Kathy left, the kids were testy and whiney.  I was worried that this was a portent of how the evening would go. But it was as if they were purging themselves of all negativity.

Once Kathy left, and it was just me and the two girls, all of a sudden they developped a team-like mentalilty. And I started seeing them as a group, instead of several individuals.

When it was time for bed I said, “OK, everyone into their pajamas”, as if there were hoards of un-pajamed children roaming about. 

When Rada and Kayla holed themselves up in Rada’s room I said “Gosh, where did everyone go?” as if a big party had somehow dissipated.

I began to see the appeal of the family with multiple children. You can herd them. You can make sweeping policies. You can quell insurrections and issue edicts. You can also have a party or put on a show. Three is a crowd, but sometimes a crowd is a good thing.

Later that evening, the girls decided they wanted to sleep together in Rada’s bed. It took a long time to calm them down. They wanted me to lie with them, so I found myself with a 5 year old draped over my legs and a 3 year old on my stomach. Finally they settled down. I heard the regular rhythm of their breath, indicating sleep.  Gently eradicating myself from their limbs, I stood looking at the small bodies sprawled on the bed before quietly closing the door.

It had become more and more difficult to shift my car’s gear into park. On Sunday, I struggled against several bumps and pops before it reluctantly slid into place. Finally, the reality bubbled up through layers of denial: your car is about to breakdown, take care of it sooner rather than later. 

So I left the car at home yesterday, walked to work, called the mechanic and made an appointment for the next day. This morning, as I was getting ready to drive over, I prayed that I’d be able to get out of park and drive the junkmobile car safely to the garage. Once deposited with the mechanic, there was an elaborate plan in place for alternate transportation. It involved strollers, taxis, busses, and the fervent hope of no rain. 

All went well at the garage. We made it there safely. The car let me put it into park one last time. I had a long talk with the garage receptionist about cable tightening, gear replacement, and in a lowered voice ‘possible transmission problems’.  I listened stoically, signed the paperwork for repair, and headed on my way.

As I was walking up the street, one of the mechanics ran after me and said, “humph, what, eh?” (an articulate man). 

I nodded understandingly and said, “Yes, it’s the gears, or the clutch. You see, it won’t go into park.”

He said again, “what? Huh? gears?” 

I offered to demonstrate the problem. We walked over to the car and I turned on the ignition, put the gear into drive, into reverse, back into neutral, and then preparing myself, shifted into park. 

There was no bumping, no cracking, no spine-tingling pops. It slid into park with the ease of a baseball player on a lucky day. 

How could this be? How could this be? Suddenly I felt the breeze and the thought of summer trips to the seashore. 

The mechanic said maybe I had not been pressing the button hard enough and thus not fully engaging the gear. I nodded, half-listening, knowing that I had been pressing that button like it was connected to an intravenous drip. But I listened happily, not needing to question it too much. I did not understand; I did not need to. 

The amazing thing is that this had already happened. I’d already had a get out of jail free day with my car. I wasn’t expecting a second one.

Sometimes lightning strikes twice, I guess. 

I had thought I could finesse it: that it would be possible to escape certain embarrassments, but no…

This morning, my daughter and I were trying to get our things together and out the door. She was looking for the ‘chosen animal’ , the one which would accompany her to daycare. I was finishing up packing the lunches, and bringing the bags to the stairs.

But I couldn’t find my glasses. I knew I had used them earlier that morning, but couldn’t remember where I’d put them. I ran around the apartment, looking in all the usual places, getting more and more frustrated. My daughter finally asked what I was doing.

“I lost my glasses,” I said, running my eyes across the kitchen counter. “Can you help me find them? I know they’re around here somewhere.”

She looked at me with a mixture of perplexity and dismay. “They’re on your head”, she said.