The Crumbmobile

[This is a repost from a few weeks ago, but it was only up for a week or two. If you missed it, enjoy. I hope to be back with new content next week.]

I drive a Mom car. Yep. Inside and out, my blue Volvo has Mom written all over it. That wasn’t my plan. When I bought it, I was looking for a comfortable commute and a little European engineering. But I guess sooner or later, we all turn into our parents.

Eric does not drive a Mom car. He doesn’t even drive a Dad car. So when Josh was born, I decided to put the extra car seat in the babysitting grandparents’ SUV instead of in his performance tire–clad, suspension-enhanced ride.

The real problem comes in on the weekends. That’s when Eric has to drive my car if he wants to take Josh anywhere outside our neighborhood. And that’s when I have to magically transform my Mom car into something more respectable. Something he can actually stand to drive.

That’s not easy.

When I see Eric come downstairs in his baseball cap and find Josh scrambling around for his shoes, I sneak into the garage to begin my weekly chore of decluttering what I not-so-affectionately refer to as “The Crumbmobile.”

The front passenger seat usually tells the story of our week. It is filled with time-sensitive paperwork. It is filled with assorted art projects. It is filled with miscellaneous chargers for the various electronic devices that recently died. I find the workbook from the wildlife museum we visited on Monday. I find the construction paper mitten Josh laced up at school on Tuesday and the self-portrait he drew on Wednesday. I find the unopened pretzel snack pack and juice box from our impromptu trip to the park on Thursday. And I find the Scholastic order form Josh enthusiastically handed me at sign-out on Friday with the collection of Froggy books circled. On the floor are a few empty Ziplock bags and the paperback book I planned to hand my bored four year old during a long car ride before I stopped quickly in traffic and it landed just out of reach.

I move the crucial and the cherished to the front lawn, and I trash the rest. Then I start on the back seat. Josh’s car seat looms large in the middle position. On its platform, it looks like his rightful throne, and I remind myself that this car is really not as much mine now as it is his.

He sits snugly each day in the five-point harness as I chauffer him from town to neighboring town on our way to parks, playdates, and preschool. He often rules from this elevated seat, offering unsolicited driving rules and tips. “Are you going 4-5, Mom? That sign says you should go 4-5,” he often instructs. Or “Slow down, Mom. The road is getting very bendy.”

Other times, he is my irrepressible navigator. When he hears my turn signal as I near the new shortcut road to school, he sometimes shouts, “No! I want to go the old way,” meaning the two-lane country road that winds past the last steadfast farms and equestrian centers that claimed this area when I was a girl. Who can blame him for preferring to look out at goats and cows, tall pompous grass and fields of mustard flowers, instead of cookie cutter houses built exactly eight feet apart and painted in various shades of beige?

I plan my week around his activities. I happily escort him to and fro. And I relish our drives while he is still willing to tell me about his day. It’s all worth the back seat driving and bossy orders to the Mom-turned-DJ to play the song about the pots and pans, not the one about the colors. No not that one. That one!

Scattered around his car seat is a veritable snapshot of his current interests: USA Hockey magazine lies face down on the seat to his right. 1001 Things to Spot with the bent back cover is propped upright on the floor at his feet. The Dynaco helicopter from the Cars movie that he has taken from car to house to car since Christmas is wedged part way under his car seat; he likes to spin the propeller as we drive. Scattered tissues, unopened fruit snacks, and a discarded fireman’s hat litter the vacant seats. But the floor is truly the most embarrassing part. It’s covered in two parts broken Cheerios and one part cereal bar crumbs, combined with the occasional empty juice box and an itinerant sippy cup.

As I heave item after item into the trash or onto my growing pile, I look around and realize that I am still alone. Both husband and son must be otherwise preoccupied with the ritual and routine of getting ready. Momentum is on my side. So I decide to tackle the trunk that I have struggled to fit only a couple bags of groceries into all week. What it could possibly be filled with is a complete mystery to me.

I lift the lid and remove the red duffle bag that holds Josh’s hockey gear along with Eric’s skates, red gloves, and black ski jacket, which is not to be confused with his once cream, now dingy gray winter coat with a second set of gloves poking out of the pocket that I remove next. I toss reusable Trader Joe’s bags and a navy and red plaid park blanket onto the pile. Then I add Josh’s lost pullover; two of Eric’s sweatshirts; and Josh’s backpack stuffed with activity books and crayons and enough little plastic games to keep him busy in restaurants, at the doctor’s office, and even in the grocery cart. I unload Josh’s bike helmet, a super-sized Frisbee, and a chunk of colorful rubber attached to a bungee cord that he got for his birthday. And as I survey the mound on the front lawn, I now understand why two bags of groceries barely fit.

It seems my Mom car is very much like my Mom life: It is stacked to the brim with everyone else’s stuff, leaving precious little room for my own. Along the way, I did discover a few things stashed in the corner that are truly mine. A Target gift card tucked inside the center console from a dear friend that I’ve been carrying around for months. A craft fair flyer that slid between the two front seats, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve done anything moderately therapeutic. My favorite black umbrella — the one I carried through every major city on the East Coast on my springtime sabbatical several years ago, and again across Eastern Australia and New Zealand the October I was pregnant.

But most of the car’s contents are not mine at all. These things fuel others’ lives, satisfy others’ needs, and stir others’ souls. I am merely the vessel that facilitates these other lives, lending time and support while steering them in the right direction. Making sure my loved ones indeed have lives that are filled with their favorite things and activities.

Suddenly I hear voices and slamming doors, instructions and reminders. As I close the trunk and peer into the back seat, I now see a fuzzy blonde head rising up above the car seat. I hear the jingle of Eric’s keys and the whir of the electric seat moving down and back. I step away from the vehicle and onto the grass. And I wave as the blue Volvo glides slowly out of the driveway and turns onto the main road.

When it’s out of sight, I stretch my arms around my big load and carry it in the back door. But I don’t drop it in the middle of the family room floor where there is plenty of space to sort and fold and purge. Instead, I dump it in the middle of the guest bed, and shut the door, leaving all the sorting and folding and purging for another day. I walk through the family room past a hundred disheveled toys, through the kitchen past stacks of dirty dishes, and up the stairs to the back corner of the house where an old card table holds a small tote bag filled with fancy-edged scissors and glue, assorted brads and punches and eyelets. And where the weathered dresser on back wall contains a drawer full of paper.

At this table where my grandmother used to sew dresses for her three daughters, I am surrounded by nothing more than little scraps and memories. Some bold and bright. Others small and subtle. So I collect my favorite supplies, dust off my trimmer, and begin piecing myself back together, bit by fascinating bit.

Snapshots of the future

There you are. Shirtless and pajama-bottomed. Talking to Leah on the phone like you're both teenagers. You giggle. Then she giggles. I can hear her shrieks of glee through the line. You roll onto your back and kick your legs in the air as you shout, "When can I come over to your house?" The energy of youth that will someday be replaced by the fire of hormones emanates from you both. She starts to sing. You join in. And you are two peas in a pod, separated by 40 miles.

Becoming big

It’s been a busy week, and as I tuck Josh into bed tonight, I feel like I haven’t spent much one-on-one time with him. So I linger over our bedtime story, sing an extra song, and snuggle in next to him for a nightlight chat. We talk about his day. We talk about my day. We talk about tomorrow: where we’ll go, what we’ll do, what we have to look forward to.

Josh loves to look forward. He loves to know our schedule in advance so he can anticipate what’s next. He gets that from me. Now that he can tell time, he often wants to know not just what’s next but at what time. Then he glides into the kitchen in his sock feet every few minutes to check the green numbers on the oven, announcing them gleefully as they get closer and closer to his desired hour. He even counts down to bedtime because he can, having finally grasped the heartbeat of our days, the rhythm that guides our itinerary.

When it’s time for lights out, I roll over and squeeze him tight. I breathe in his little boy scent of grass and salt and dirt. And as I hold him, I am suddenly overcome by a sense of dread. Dread that he is growing up too fast. Dread that my days of slipping into bed with him and snuggling and talking and planning are numbered. Dread that all too soon he will simply call out, “Night, Mom!” from behind his closed door. And then one day, when I open that door, he will no longer be there at all.

I squeeze him tighter and rock him back and forth. “Will you stay my little four year old forever?” I sigh through my reverie.

“Nnnno,” he replies through giggles. It’s the same “No” I get when I ask if he lost any fingers or toes when the bomb exploded in his once-clean room.

“Please?” I cajole while rubbing his back and making exaggerated kissing noises on his neck.

“No,” he cries louder, in a gleeful, high-pitched voice.

“Pretty please?” I plead. “Don’t get any older. Just stay my snuggly little boy forever and ever.”

He is quiet for a moment. Then I hear it.

“No,” he says again, but this time it’s not playful or joyful or silly. It’s urgent. It’s panicked. It’s tearful.

I immediately look up and see his amusement has turned to anguish. His mouth is open wide. His eyes are full. And the harder he tries to hold back the tears, the more forceful his emotions. It’s the same cry I’ve seen on the rare occasion when I’ve startled him. The same cry I’ve seen when he nearly touches the hot burner and I scream, “Stop!” at the top of my lungs. It’s the same cry I’ve seen when I’ve scared him.

I am suddenly aware that I have just broken the cardinal rule of motherhood. I have put my needs ahead of his. I have weighed him down with my burdens instead of relieving him of his. I have asked him to do the impossible — for me — and in so doing, set him up for miserable failure.

Even at four, he knows he cannot stop growing. He knows he will turn five and then six and then twelve and then twenty, and there’s nothing either one of us can do about it. And now he knows that when he does what he has no choice but to do, he will be somehow disappointing me.

“Oh sweetie,” I say, trying to channel my calmest maternal voice. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I was just being silly with you.”

He nods and wipes his nose with the back of his hand, but his distress is still palpable.

“I know you can’t stop growing. You’re going to be five and six and seven and eight someday. And you’re going to learn how to do so many things. And that’s good.”

He sniffles and then dissolves into the ugly cry again. “But someday, I’ll be big!”

He says “big” the same way I say “old” when I occasionally spot the translucent bags under my eyes, the slight puffening of my neck, and the lines of varying depths on my face and hands.

I gently brush his hair out of his eyes. “Yes. Someday you will be big. But thankfully, you will only get big a little bit at a time. It takes years and years. But when you finally are big, you’ll be ready. And I’ll be ready, too.”

He nods, and a hint of peace creeps back into his eyes.

“Really?” he asks.

“Really,” I quickly reply, hoping I have somehow wrestled my baggage off his small shoulders. Hoping I have replaced his fears with staunch reassurance and given him something to look forward to. And hoping against hope that what I told him is actually true.

Fantastic four

This is you. Today. On your fourth birthday.

This is you. In your birthday shirt. On your birthday bike. On your favorite day of the year.

I understand that each day is unique. Each day is special. Once lived, you can never get any particular day back. But on these most special days, I am more acutely aware that today is the only fourth birthday you will have. That today is the only fourth birthday I will get to help you celebrate.

How did I get here? How did I come to be staring through this lens at my four year old. I remember many of the milestones along the way. The momentous occasions. The achievements. Even the most despairing moments. But most of the 1,461 days in between are fuzzy.

I remember being pregnant and feeling you swimming and squirming around inside me.

I remember those first few days when you were a tiny newborn, and I was trying to figure out who you were as a little person and who I was as a mother.

I remember how special I felt in those early weeks when strangers would ask me how old you were and I could answer them in weeks.

I remember pinching your plump thighs. Running my hair across your face to make you laugh. Taking countless pictures of you with your toes in your mouth.

I remember watching you bounce and bounce in your Jump-a-roo. I remember chasing you around and around the kitchen island as you pushed your dump truck and giggled a deep belly laugh.

I remember recording your first words and then marveling as your vocabulary grew beyond what my little journal could hold.

I remember a few days when you pushed and pulled and twisted every boundary you met, while I chased after you, picking up broken pieces and stepping between you and peril — just in the nick of time.

I remember the delight and discovery of two, and the urgency and upheaval of three. I remember teaching you about opposites and metaphors and things that go together. I remember tantrums and turmoil and striking bargains to avoid meltdowns.

I remember your first smiles, your first steps, and your first day of preschool. I remember the first song you sang from beginning to end. I remember the look on your face the first time you tasted chocolate.

But I don't remember the millions of moments in between that stack all those milestones together. I can't recall off the top of my head how old you were when you stopped breastfeeding. I don't know exactly when you last sat in your baby swing or ate rice cereal or pooped in a diaper. These days it's even difficult to recall what our conversations were like when you didn't have any concept of time or when you weren't yet able to form full sentences. So many of your milestones are progressive that's it's difficult to rewind my memory precisely. To back up the counter to a particular point in time and recapture what we were like then. What life felt like at that specific moment.

But a montage of highlights rolls through my head like faded filmstrip footage on these special days. The scenes that connect then to now somehow align as I watch you ride your big boy bike down the block. And suddenly the in-between doesn't matter. What matters is You. Here. Today. In all your fabulous four-ness. And what matters is Me. Here. Today. Watching you. Cherishing you. And cheering you on as you take on the big stuff. First training wheels. Then two wheelers. Then whatever comes next.

Happy, happy, happy birthday, my Josheroo.


Those were the days
when we had childish dreams
We’d run through the house
chasing our cares away

Turn on the sprinklers
we’d roll in the evening grass
laughing until we cried

And I love the lovely years
No worries — no fears
Oh what a great life

— Fisher, "The Lovely Years"

Restless

I’m going to bed 15 minutes later than I planned. Actually, an hour and 15 minutes later than I planned. It seems everything takes longer than I think it will these days. I’m not sure where the time goes, this time I’m certainly not frittering away. But it just goes somehow. And as I sit at the edge of the guest bed tonight, I am again surprised that it’s so late.

A congestion demon has invaded Eric’s head and chest, so I volunteered to sleep downstairs. A likely fruitless effort to avoid yet another virus. I run my hand over the cold cotton sheets with blue flowers and decide to sleep in a long-sleeved nightshirt.

I’m not used to sleeping alone. So I flank both sides with extra pillows and even stick one between my feet to stimulate warmth and help me forget I’m all by myself. I curl up on my right side, hugging a pillow with my left arm and closing my eyes tightly.

It feels so good to finally rest. I have been working late the last two nights — chasing adjectives and commas, SKU numbers and prices around black and white pages until way past my bedtime — and tonight I am so tired.

I snuggle in and start thinking about tomorrow’s to-do list, reminding myself of errands and phone calls. Then my mind drifts to the show I was watching just before I went to bed — the one I used to quiet the revving in my head after finally meeting my deadline. Then I’m suddenly thinking about a childhood friend who lost her sister last week due to a grave medical error. I grip the pillow tighter and clench my teeth. I am so tired. Why won’t my mind shut up?

I look at the clock. A half-hour has passed. I decide to roll over and try a trick my grandmother taught me when she would visit from Kentucky and sleep in my trundle bed. “Count exhales,” she would say when I couldn’t get to sleep. “It quiets the mind.” So I inhale deeply and exhale slowly. One. Again. Two. Again. Three. But then I start obsessing about the rate of my breathing, speeding it up and then slowing it down until I’ve forgotten to count altogether. I suddenly realize that I’m not getting enough air no matter how fast I breathe, and as I sit up, I notice my legs are ice-cold.

It’s now after midnight. I decide to put my sweatpants back on along with a pair of fuzzy socks, and while doing so, I notice the familiar pain in my right hip that came on with pregnancy and forgot to leave after the baby was born. So I reluctantly get up, pad across the family room floor, and pull the bottle of ibuprofen out of the pantry.

As I walk back into the guest room, I try to avoid looking at the empty closet with uneven stacks of boxes spilling out, the bits of Christmas decorations and file folders peeking out from haphazard piles. I ignore the clutter-hater in the back of my mind as it berates my lack of organizational skills. I remind myself that the next time I have a couple of spare hours when I’m not working, mothering, cleaning, grocery shopping, cooking, throwing a birthday party, loading or unloading the dishwasher, or driving Josh to this or that practice I will finally go through this mess. I will throw things away, donate to the needy, and pack up the few treasured items into a neatly labeled Rubbermaid container. Yes, as soon as I have a couple of hours to spare.

Before I get back in bed, I decide to put on a sweatshirt as well. I know I’ll wake up sweaty in an hour (if I ever get to sleep), but at this point, I’m willing to try anything that might help me find dreamland. As I slip back under the covers, I remember reading somewhere that the part of the brain that enables imagination also enables dreams. So I curl up and try to imagine myself in my favorite place doing my favorite thing.

The problem is, I don’t know where that is. You’d think that with as much time as I spend some days thinking about where I’d rather be that this exercise would be a no-brainer. But I’m stumped. So I start guessing. How about back on the peaceful beach in Hawaii on a clear day? Nope. That’s not working. How about sitting at the kitchen table crafting something beautiful? Uh-uh. OK. Let’s think smaller. How about watching Josh laugh with reckless abandon? While that does make my heart smile, it doesn’t spawn any actual dreaming. I finally give myself permission to take a mental vacation, and I can’t figure out where to go. I’ve got nothing.

As I roll around and bemoan my complete inability to sleep, I suddenly realize my ultimate fantasy. Where I want to be most at this very moment is asleep. It’s so simple I can’t believe I missed it. So I assume my favorite cuddled-up position and decide to try to imagine myself sleeping — arms and legs sprawled out, hair smashed into my pillow, deep loud breaths flowing through my nose. I think about that warm tingly feeling I get as I’m falling asleep. I imagine weightless limbs. I picture my peaceful frame cozy and motionless. And then I think about…nothing.

I don’t consciously realize it, but I am no longer awake. And I won’t figure it out until two hours later when Josh wakes up screaming for no apparent reason, and I am roused from my deeply needed sleep to rub his legs and hand him tissues and quiet him back to sleep.

At which point, I will be restless once more.