It is Mother's Day and my sweet husband has taken all the kids out for the morning. "You say you never get time alone at home," he says. It is true, but I can hardly complain. I don't feel that I lack for time to myself these days. I have the YW, of course, and Don graciously handles the evening routines alone once a week while I go out, to dinner with a friend, or book group, or a blood donation. But time to myself in our home, when I am not half-listening for a baby to wake up-- that is a rare treat.
I know I'm not alone, of course. The cover for this week's New Yorker was of a scene at a bustling playground. At first, I didn't get it. Playground, babies, slides, strollers. The point? I turned to the table of contents to find the cover title, hoping that would help: "Mother's Day." Flipping back to the cover, I finally noticed--all the parents at the playground, save one startled mother with a stroller, were dads. Ah, the irony. Mother's Day, and the greatest gift we can receive is time without our children.
It brings to mind an article I read a few months ago, which cited a study that seemed to suggest that people without children are happier. When asked how pleasurable parents found various activities, from talking on the phone to taking care of their kids, spending time with kids came out at the bottom of the list, just above cleaning house. Oh, I get it. Every morning Clayton begs me to read him a book, tell him a story, play with his toys. "Just let me unload the dishwasher," I say. "Hold on, I just need to put up this laundry, change your sisters' diapers, sweep the floor..." I'm relieved if he relents and plays by himself, so I can get the table cleared or the bathrooms cleaned. In those moments, I honestly feel like I'd rather scrub the toilets than make his toy animals talk to one another. Partly, it's that I really do need to do those chores. I hate coming home and trying to fix lunch with the breakfast dishes still cluttering the counters. But it's also that playing with toys is boring. How many variations of some bad guy (the zebra, for instance) trying to catch some good guy (a lizard, perhaps) before the zebra turns "nice" can one stand? Plus, I know that as soon as I sit down the girls will swamp me, wanting to nurse, or grabbing Clayton's toys out of my hand. "Just a second," I'll tell Clayton, "Let me find something to make your sister happy." I'm up and down a zillion times, fetching books or drinks for the girls, or chasing them down to recover stolen toys, while Clayton gets increasingly frustrated. "Come on, Mom! Will you just make them talk!" Of course I'd rather be accomplishing something.
Even today, when Don left with the kids, I had to resist the urge to clean our bathroom without having to worry about Dee Dee chucking a toy in the toilet. Instead I filled our giant tub, lit the eucalyptus candle Don gave me for my birthday, and took a bath. A light, steady rain was falling outside, the birds were singing despite the damp, and the house was deliciously quiet. I opened the windows wide and just lay and stared at the trees, my skin steaming.
But so what if right now "taking a bath" comes out above "spending time with my kids?" That study misses the point. I'd rank the bath higher, probably even cleaning the bathroom higher, because that's what I don't often have the freedom to do. It is certainly no indication of my happiness.
And, I am happy. More than a year and a half after I left my job, I feel like I'm finally at peace with it. Oh, when I went to the middle school last week to vote, and saw the teachers in the hallways, looking official with their ID badges and their keys, dodging adolescents and smiling at coworkers, I admit I felt a pang. That used to be me... But mostly the world of teaching feels more and more remote. I'll be back there one day, I'm sure, but it feels good to have let it go for now.
And then there's my marriage. The other day at playgroup, one of the moms said, "Someone should have told me I'd be annoyed at my husband for the first year of my son's life." It was hyperbole, of course, and we all laughed, but really. I think of those childbirth classes, the cheerful, excited couples acting out C-sections, the soon-to-be dads showing off their new vocabulary: dilated, effaced, transition... We breathed together lying on the floor and came up with code words for when the pain became unbearable, but I don't remember any hint at what was to come after the birth: your relationship will be tested like never before. Maybe we couldn't have heard it then, anyway. (Although I do now often recall our teacher saying "Scrambled eggs is a fine dinner," so there's no real knowing what will stick.)
But here we are, a year and a half after the birth of our second and third children, and it's like the sky has cleared. I am overwhelmed daily by my love and gratitude for the father my husband has become. When he used to change diapers, I'd listen with annoyance to the curses. Spit-up on his shirt, or poop all over the changing table... Now I listen for Sylvia's shrieks of laughter; a diaper change with mom is rarely so much fun. This morning Clayton complained of his stomach hurting-- "I think the Special K is poking it!"-- and I brushed him off. He just wanted attention, and I was eating my breakfast. But Don took him in his arms, and watching them, I was overcome by how much they love each other, how easy it is for Daddy to make everything all right.
Don and I hug more now, and laugh. The other night, Clayton, up past his bedtime and casting about for something to distract us from sending him back to bed, caught sight of the figure of Ganesh on the bookcase in the living room.
"What's that?" he asked, pointing.
"It's a Hindu god," Don explained.
Clayton stared at the Buddha-like belly, the elephant trunk, the four raised arms. "That's God?" he said in disbelief. You could almost hear him thinking, that's who we're talking to when I say my prayers? He looks like he could be a monster from a Scooby Doo episode. Don and I cracked up. So much for our stern reprimands to go back to bed.
I remember when Don and I were newlyweds who wouldn't shut up about our dogs. All of our conversations turned to them eventually. "Did you see how Dulce..." Even having started that sentence, I can't for the life of me think what we had to talk about. But it's worse now. We follow each other around the house to tell our stories. "You should have seen Sylvia at the playground. She got this woman to pick her up!" (Sylvia, my serious little girl, in so many respects far less outgoing than her sister, flirts unabashedly with total strangers.) Or, "Dee Dee loves that trampoline! She stops nursing to tell me, "Dumpa-dumpa!" We're both bursting with pride over how well she jumps. "Look at her!" we say in amazement. "Look how much air!"
We had friends visit from out of town this weekend. Their daughter is almost exactly the twins' age, and for the better part of their visit, we alternated raving about our kids, politely waiting for the other couple to finish their anecdotes so we could share ours. I know their daughter must be as cute and extraordinary to them as Dee Dee and Sylvia are to me, but I don't feel it. Nor, of course, do I expect my kids to be as interesting to other people as they are to me. (Sort of ironic, I suppose, that I'm blogging about them.) Only Don truly gets it. So, yes, I miss the mountain bike rides that started us on our journey together, miss the way we used to dance in the kitchen on weekend mornings while the cheese grits bubbled on the stove. But our love for our kids, and the joy we both find in our family, has brought us together in new and unquantifiable ways. Sure, I'd probably rank a kid-free overnight at a B&B as more pleasurable, but cracking up in the bathroom together--yet again-- over Clayton's incredulous "That's God?" or watching Dee Dee and Sylvia holding on to each other's hands as they stumble down the hill towards the trampoline....Well, I'm pretty darn happy.
