Whitman

Goggles

I have a few areas of definitive, even spectacular, parenting Fail.

Food.  Both of my kids are terrible eaters, Whit far worse than Grace.  I never make them finish their food, and generally believe that no child will charge in the presence of food.

Shoes.  There will come a day this fall when inevitably the only shoes that fit my kids will be crocs and rainboots.  Probably a day when we need to do something like go to soccer practice or church or a birthday party – that is to say, somewhere that crocs and rainboots are at best inappropriate and at worst totally insufficient.

Tooth brushing.  Um … casual.  At best.  I’m just not sure I feel the urgency here.  Every time we go to the dentist my childrens’ beautiful teeth are remarked on.  See?

I get it—sometimes it feels like there’s no rush when their teeth always seem to look great at every check-up. But here’s the thing: even with naturally beautiful teeth, good habits like regular brushing are key to preventing problems that might not show up right away. Cavities, plaque buildup, and gum issues can creep up slowly, and by the time they’re noticeable, they can lead to discomfort or more serious dental procedures.

That’s why staying on top of daily brushing and routine visits to the dentist helps ensure those healthy smiles stay that way for years to come. Even the most beautiful teeth can face challenges without proper care, but with the right attention, any issues can be addressed early, and smiles restored before they ever lose their shine. After all, taking small steps now helps avoid bigger problems later and keeps your kids’ smiles sparkling.

Googles.  Oh.  My.  God.  I hate the goggles.  I continuously forget them and then deal with screaming kids who won’t go in the water.  I’m sure this is some kind of Freudian attempt by me to subvert their goggle habit, but it’s not working.  I forget them, they lose them, they don’t work, they can’t be tightened or …

They break.

Is there a parenting nadir lower than the broken goggles?  If so, I don’t know it.  Well, specifically, overtired + broken goggles. And, + my 5 year old boy.

Today, with half an hour on the clock at Basin Harbor, I was trying to pacify a hair-trigger, exhausted Whit by letting him jump off the diving board a few more times.  He came over to me and asked me to tighten his goggles.  I did so … and wound up with one of the ends in my hand.  Uh-oh.  The goggles were still on his face.  Aware that I was surrounded by land mines, I suggested, gingerly: why don’t you just go in with those?  Mentally, I was already trying to figure out where we could  stop en route to my in-laws’ to get a new pair.

Whit barrelled off of the diving board, came up smiling, and swam to the side.  I sighed.  Crisis averted.

Just as my pulse was beginning to slow, Whit was standing in front of me, goggles in hand, face awash in both pool water and tears.  “They broke!  Mummy, you broke my goggles!  You are the Worst Mummy Ever!” he shrieked.

He handed me the goggles and the orphan piece of rubber.  “I can fix them, Whit, I can,” I said urgently and began the panicky effort to thread the broken end through the (incredibly difficult, still, always, why?) fastening at one side.  I tried to poke the rubber end through the small opening.  Tried it in both directions.  Used my teeth.  Futile.  Frustrated.  Frantic.

The volume of Whit’s whining rose and rose.  “Whit!” I hissed.  “Shhhh!”

I HATE GOGGLES.  Have I mentioned that?

A kind-looking woman walked over to me, holding out a pair of blue goggles.  “Do you want to borrow these?” she addressed Whit directly, who set his lips and vigorously shook his head.

“No.” He said, surly, adolescent, rude.

“Let’s try them, Whit,” I smiled gratefully at her.

“Believe me, I’ve been here.” What a nice woman.  The goggles didn’t work for Whit (the pickiness, also, with goggles?  because they are unnecessary, children … get your face wet already).  But they interrupted his rising tantrum in a way that was incredibly helpful, and the offer touched me.

Just be kind, people.  We are all trying.  Stranger woman, fellow mom at the pool?  Thank you.

Witty Whit

Right now my head and heart are running dry. I feel exhausted in a bone-deep way. The words are eluding me.

But this kid? Well, he’s priceless. He can be serious, but usually, he’s not. The material keeps on coming.

****

He didn’t fall asleep last night until 9:30, and for about half an hour before that lay in bed singing California Gurls to himself. Grace somehow can tune him out, which is a skill that I’m pretty sure she’s had to develop to survive. Then he got up at 5:30 and started talking. At 7:20, as we walked into breakfast, I think it’s possible that my normally impenetrably calm, Zen, mother-of-the-year facade cracked slightly. Responding to this, he stopped in his tracks.  He sighed, resignedly, and said, “OK, Mummy, how about I give you a break from questions for a while?”

Sounds good, Whit.

****

The other day Whit was short-circuiting from being tired and overwrought and generally falling apart. He was half-whining, half-crying, dragging his feet as we walked home from the camp bus. He finally burst out, “Mummy! I’m hungry! I’m tired! I am thirsty!” He sobbed.  “I don’t know what I am, but I’m something!”

That’s a feeling I know.

****

Apropos of absolutely nothing, on the long airplane ride home from Legoland, Whit elbowed me urgently.

“What?”

“Do you know what the problem with turtles is, Mummy?”

“What??”

“The problem is they have short legs so when they flip over onto their backs they can’t get back over.”

I tell you, spending an hour inside his head would be comedy.

****

Last week, after dinner, when I was trying to wrestle Whit into the submission of sleep, he began agitating that he was hungry.

I glimpsed a pretzel from a couple of hours earlier on the floor. I scooped it up without his noticing (I thought) and handed it to him. “Here, eat this.”

We walked upstairs towards the bath. Through his mouthful, Whit asked me, “Did you just give me food from the floor?”

“Yes, Whitty, I did,” I sighed. “That’s just the kind of mum I am.”

“That’s the kind of awesome you are!” he exclaimed.

Whit, missing things, people, and places

I’ve written an awful lot about Grace’s sensitivity and old-soul tendencies. This summer, however, this summer of adventures and trips and full to bursting with memories, it is Whit who is more often exhibiting a nostalgia and awareness of life’s bittersweetness.

About a month ago in a conversation about dogs, the kids mentioned Parker, who was Matt’s twin brother’s family’s dog. Parker, a good-natured, easy-going yellow lab, who was absolutely beloved of my children, died a couple of years ago. I can’t remember exactly the context in which Parker came up earlier this summer, but I remember that Whit noted sadly that he had died. He was quiet after that, pensive. On our drive home I asked him what was on his mind, and he shrugged, looking out the window, and said, “Parker.”

“I know, Whitty, I know. It’s sad.”

“Why do we have to have people and things in our lives that will go away, Mummy? I almost wish I hadn’t known Parker because then I would not miss him.”

***********

We landed at Logan from Legoland at 8:30pm. We had left our hotel at 7:10am that morning. Even with the 3 free time-change hours, that’s a long day in the air. Needless to say, once we had gotten home and eaten, Whit was exhausted. I put him to bed curled up around Lego the big green bear and assumed he would pass out immediately.

Instead, after about 20 minutes I realized he was crying in his room. It’s uncharacteristic for Whit not to come out whenever he has the smallest excuse to do so, so I was surprised. I went in and lay down next to him on his bottom bunk.

“Whit, what’s wrong?” I whispered.

“I miss Legoland! I miss …” a hiccup, “The hotel! And all the fun we had there!” He was crying hard, clutching Lego to his chest.

“I know, Whit. Me too.” I rubbed his back and felt my own tears come.

“I hate that that trip will always be over, Mummy. We can never have it again.”

*******

Tonight, I put Whit and Grace to bed early. They came home from a week in Vermont with their grandparents exhausted and delighted, tripping over each other in their excitement to tell their stories, and each clutching some brand new stuffed animals. Once again I assumed that the boy who fell asleep in the car (with a chicken mcnugget clutched in his hand, no less) would go right to bed.

Wrong. He popped out of his room and peered down the dark hall to me sitting at my desk. “Whit?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Okay. Let me come in and help you.”

“Will you cuddle me?”

“Of course.” I lay down next to Whit again, smiling at the robot sheets that have made me smile every day for years. I rubbed his birdlike shoulders as I whispered to him. “Whit, just think of some happy things,”

“I can’t,” he wailed.

“Yes, you can. Think about the fair yesterday with Grandma and Grandpa.”

“But that makes me sad, Mummy,”

“Why?”

“Because then I miss it. I can’t think of anything good because I am sad it’s over. If I think of anything bad I get nightmares. So what should I think about?”

Oh, Whit. I don’t know. I think your pulse throbs, like mine, with the heartbreaking, irrefutable reality of life’s endless farewells. This isn’t the first time your melancholy has flashed through your light personality this summer. I’m realizing that both you and your sister have inherited from me a heavy freight, and I wish I could take it for you, my blue-eyed boy, believe me, I would if I could. I wish I could carry the ballast that sometimes weights your soul; I know exactly how it feels, and I wish you didn’t.

I’ve lived my entire life this way, every joyful moment has had a strand of loss woven through it. I wish you didn’t have to ever know sadness or miss something, but I can’t take that away. What I know is that you can’t avoid the love, the joy, the happiness, for fear of the loss and sadness that will follow when they are over. You just can’t.  And I know you’ll have losses and pain far, far greater than missing Legoland or Parker.  I flinch to think of that, but I know you will.  I think often of the line from Shadowlands:

The pain now is part of the happiness then.  That’s the deal.

What I also know, Whit, is that this is a good way to live life. It’s the only way I know how.

I am the one whose love overcomes you

I am the heart contracted by joy ..

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you,
when you think to call my name …
(Jane Kenyon)

Grace, Whit,

I hope you will always remember this trip …

The rides, the winning of Lego the enormous green bear, the fact that your first words every morning, Whit, were “I love you, Grace,” the late-afternoon cheese & crackers and running on the grass, the holding hands, the morning Cocoa Pebbles, the races between the stairs and the elevator, the laughter, the swimming in the pool (even me!), and the kisses on the tops of your heads. The tears in my eyes at random moments, which took you (and me) by surprise. The waking and sleeping and breathing and eating all together; the way our very pulses synched.

I hope you will always remember how very, very much I love you.

The struggle and the beauty

“One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.”
– Sigmund Freud

Many thanks to Anthony Lawlor, from whom I found this quote on Twitter. I do believe this to be true, absolutely, though it’s so incredibly difficult to remember in the moments where the struggle seems overwhelming. The struggle which occurs for me on so many levels these days. The struggle to stop my crazy squirrel brain from frantically spinning over and over on the same questions. The struggle to remain patient and present with my lovely children who can be charming, curious, and incredibly aggravating. The struggle not to over-identify with Grace, to maintain the distance and perspective I need to parent her well. The struggle not to crush Whit’s effervescent spirit, whose enthusiastic bubbles sometimes challenge the rules and norms. The struggle to try to keep alive my professional and creative selves, as well as to have enough left over for those who need me.

“These are the day of miracle and wonder”
– Paul Simon

For some reason that lyric was in my head nonstop this weekend. My subconscious was trying to remind me of the richness of the present moment, I suspect, which can be so hard to really see.

It was a weekend with plenty of struggle as well as ample beauty. Somehow the struggle is so quick to occlude the beauty, so much more urgent and immediate, so hard to shake off. Does this make sense? It is here, on the page, and through the lens of my camera that I am more able to see the beauty. It rises more slowly, over time, asserting itself in memory rather than in the vivid moment. The beauty is in the smallest moments, infinity opening, surprising me every time, from the most infinitessimal things, like a world in the back of a wardrobe (there really are only two or three human stories, and we do go on telling them, no?). Why is it, then, that the struggles, also often small, can so quickly and utterly yank me back to the morass of misery and frustration, away from the wonders that are revealed in the flashing moments of beauty?

I wish I could change the dynamic between these two, but the beauty, fragile as it is in the moment, seems sturdier over the long arc of a life. Freud’s quote supports this, the notion that the beauty develops over time, like a print sitting in the solution for a long time, image gradually forming on the slick surface of the photo paper, slowly, haltingly hovering into being. It is, of course, the photograph that is the enduring artifact of the experience.