Wanderlust

Letters to the O

Seventeen Months

This month your father and I suddenly came to the realization that you are practically human! You walk without stumbling, your words are nearly distinguishable and you are able to hoist yourself in and out of chairs and off the bed as if you weighed three hundred pounds rather than 20.

The past few weeks you have become rather opinionated. In fact, you have a firm idea of how everything should be done and if even the slightest detail is left to chance, the chaos of it reduces you to petulant tears. If your new found words are not getting the point across, you'll simply tug on my clothing like a bulldog who has latched his teeth into my leg until I come and see what it is that you need. You frequently haul me to the cupboard and insist that graham crackers can be a diet staple or direct me to the shower so you can wander around the slick, wet interior in constant danger of cracking your head open. And now we have reached that charming toddler stage where everything you want is a desperate NEED and my refusal to see that reality has you convinced you are the most ill treated toddler on the planet. "But I NEED to carry around that tube of toothpaste in my chubby fist. I NEED it like I need to breathe air. That tube of toothpaste is a part of my very BEING."

It is hard to imagine a being more stubborn and impatient than myself and your father, but I think we should have guessed it would be you. It's hard to tell how much of this is those mean looking molars breaking through your back gums like a jackhammer or the twin ear infections that magically re appeared in conjunction with your third cold in less than two months. Certainly, life is no bed of roses for you these days. But it is still remarkably easy to make you laugh and there are times when you spend an entire afternoon with your finger in your belly button, smiling as if you know a secret I don't. Which, of course, I'm sure you do...

Warning: Reader discretion advised

If I told you Owen was sick again with another cold, would you believe me? Thankfully we still have the industrialized snot sucker. That thing will never go out of style.

Yesterday the lovely woman who has been providing care for the O since I began working gave us her resignation, effective next week. For all sorts of mysterious reasons, she'll be unable to watch the gooey monster. And so here we are again. Up the creek without a paddle.

My sister has agreed to fly in and save our asses for the next three weeks. This is monumentally nice of her. And then my ever patient and understanding boss, who should be nominated for sainthood because I can not count how many times I have come into his office in the morning and said, "You're never going to believe this, but...", has agreed to let me begin working from home in mid/late July. This does not solve our problem however since talking on the phone all day with a eighteen month old is still not a realistic solution. And so back to the drawing board we go, conducting interviews to find at least one candidate who is willing to spend entire hours with a being that thinks cheerios are God's gift to mortals.

On a cheerier side note, there was a guy in the women's room at work yesterday. I walked in and the unmistakable order of sweaty ball sack wafted out. I was startled to see a pair of loafers and a puddle of khakis in one of the stalls. I ran back to cubicle town and spread the word that a guy was in the woman's room. Nearly 20 minutes later, someone else ventured back from the restroom to report that he was STILL in there. This caused wide spread gawking and for the next several minutes the door to the bathroom was like one of those swinging western saloon doors. I don't when he finally emerged and disappeared, unscathed into the darkness. But I swear if I ever see those loafers and slacks again, I'll recognize them.

Memoirs on Mommihood Part XXI

THE BIG TRADE OFF

It's been nearly two months now since I attempted to do the tight rope walking, ball juggling circus act know as full time working Mom. In some respects this hectic life has fallen into a normal routine of chaotic house, rushed mealtimes and minimal sleep habits. George plays housewife, cooking dinner, caring for Owen and doing dishes until I stumble in the door late in the evening, ragged from the perpetual grind of the bumper to bumper commute. There is barely enough time left to eat, bathe the gooey monster and send him off to bed before I devote the rest of my evening to compiling three lunches, two snacks and breakfast. By the time the weekend rolls around I stare at Owen in wonderment, struck by the ways in which he is grown and trying not to feel as if I barely know him.

And while our financial urgency has eased, the trade off has been enormous. I try not to focus on the resentment I feel every time I notice a new word, a new mannerism that I am certain he has learned somewhere else. Every moment I am not there to see the first scramble down the stairs, the first ride across the driveway is a moment I ache to relive. A moment I know is gone forever. This is the stuff that is priceless, the experiences you can not have back. This is the big trade off.

I think the only thing that sustains me as a parent is to never look back. My hold on the certainty that this is a temporary solution is all I have. And so I work harder, longer trying to secure that day when I will not have to leave him, when I will not have to be the third or fourth person to hear him say "Thank you" for the first time.

Just this week, Owen stopped protesting my departure. For a month and a half straight, there were tears and quivering lower lips every time I removed him from the safety of my arms in the morning. And then suddenly he stopped. The first day Owen looked simply panicked as I began to wave goodbye and move towards the door, but a word and a hug from his babysitter soothed him and he simply watched me leave. The next day he smiled, waving and calling out "bye, bye!". The last time I dropped him off he practically shoved me out the door, cheerful and confident in his happiness. "Bye, bye momma..."

And then it was my turn to sit out in the car and cry.