The Long Good-Bye

As I head into daycare to pick up Munch, I make sure that I have my phone, my keys, and that I don't need to pee--because this will not be a run-in, run-out situation.

Over the past several weeks, Munch has wanted more and more to "hang out" when I arrive at school. I wonder what other parents think of me as I sit on the rug in his room as Munch puts me in Circle Time and points at the ABCs poster and sings.

Most kids, when their parents arrive, run to them and then head for the door.

When I arrive, Munch smiles and hugs me, then tells me to go sit on the bench in the hallway, while he goes into "teacher mode," playing in his room and periodically sticking his head out of the door to make sure I'm still there. Eventually, I'll be invited in and we hang out in his room, sometimes for as long as 45 minutes, until it's time for his teacher to go home.

Most parents, when they arrive, swoop their kids into winter coats and hats and skedaddle with nary a look back, hardly a wave at the teacher. In and out. Gone. Places to be and things to do.

And I get that. Some nights, I too have places to be and things to do, not least of them being getting dinner done.

But more often the not, the place I'm whisking us off to be is home, and what does it matter if we get there a bit later than normal? Hubs usually doesn't get home until about 2 hours after I do. Thus, those 2 hours can seem like we're "on pause" waiting for Daddy and for the night to really begin (when, really, the night is nearly over, poor Daddy).

I don't mind the extended pickup. In fact, I'm grateful for it. I am not "offended" that Munch seems content to stay at daycare. I'm so relieved that he's comfortable and happy there. Putting him in daycare was an extremely difficult decision and transition for me, and the fact that he likes it is a blessing.

And, I see it as a way for Munchkin to share his day with me. He's bringing me into the world he inhabits for 8 hours a day. He's showing me how he spends his time and he's also "pretend playing" teacher. This is one of the most joyous aspects. He's "playing school " at school. He takes over his teacher's chair and she gives him the pointer she uses and he "teaches" us. The teacher even joins me on the floor as a "student."


I see this as "showing up" for him. It's a simple thing we do, but I think it fulfills something in him. And it definitely fulfills something in me as I get to hear him say "A is for apple, V is for violin" and sing the daily songs. He's growing up! And I'm getting a peak at all the things he's learning.

"Put Da Phone in Da Butt"

My son has always been drawn to my iPhone. It's amazing to me that while I still sometimes am amazed that I carry my entire life in my pocket, Munch will grow up with this as the norm, expected. He won't have to stand next to a rotary phone with a tangled cord in order to speak to someone. He will be able to talk to a friend while walking down the street, something that I never could have imagined when I was little.

I am hyper-aware of my tendency to "iPhone addiction." I am one of those who feel compelled to check my email each time I hear it ding, to check Twitter every few minutes, to always have my phone within reach. I work to put my phone out of sight as soon as I pick Munch up from daycare, but it doesn't always work out that way.

Last night, Munch showed that he too is hyper-aware of the phone's presence. As I scrolled through whatever inane information, he said, "Mommy put down da phone." He said the same thing to his daddy later on.

We listened.

I think we have to listen. That was Munch's way of telling me to refocus. To unplug from whatever it was that I just had to look at, to see what really mattered--my child. My real life. Munch is 2 years old. And he understood that I was distracted from him.

I'm not saying that we parents must always make our children the center of our attention. But I am a firm believer that, especially for us working parents, the moments of play time and quiet time with our children are precious and deserving of at least as much concentration we give to our precious screens.

And it's also a reminder that our kids are always watching. Later, Munch told me to "Put da phone in da butt." I almost died laughing--I always put my phone in my back pocket, and Munch was telling me in no uncertain terms to put it away where it belonged. In da butt.

"I Got It"

My dear Munch is nurturing his independent streak. I love seeing him gain confidence and do things on his own. He now helps with so much and you can see the pride he takes when he does something without help.

The past few days, he's started saying, "I got it," as he pushes my hand away to do whatever it is, whether it's opening videos on my iPhone or brushing his teeth or climbing into his carseat and helping to buckle it. "I got it." I hear much more behind it than a simple, "Hands off, I'm doing this myself."

I hear the existential, "Bitch please, I'm owning this. Don't trouble yourself. I got it." It's amazing.

For instance, the stairs. He now wants very little help going down the staircase. Sometimes, he'll reach for my hand, and of course I grasp it, but he doesn't always accept if I initiate. "I got it." And I hover a little ahead of him, clenching my teeth with each step, to see if he really does "got it," prepped for launch if he doesn't.

Same with that freaking ladder on the playground, remember that one? Now, he'll go to climb it and beyond saying, "I got it," he says, "No Mommy." He won't tolerate me even hovering close. And, last week, as Daddy hovered, with his hands cupped out ready to grasp, Munch did fall. Straight down through a rung at the top, onto his feet. By the grace of God, he didn't hit his chin. It freaked him out. He ran to me then, for a bit of comfort.

Now, as he goes forward with stuff on his own, he needs to learn that sometimes, he does need to ask for help. (Which he does, in the sweetest way, saying "Help you." As in, I always say, "I'll help you." Munch I think believes "helpyou" is one word.)

But, to me, indulging the independence, pushing boundaries and then reining in when necessary, is crucial. And it's something I struggle with to this day. I don't have an independent streak, at least not one that isn't also painted with anxiety and worry.

Case in point is the diving board. Growing up, I could swim like a fish, but I couldn't dive to save my life. I was on the summer swim team in 6th grade and I frog-flopped straight down off the blocks at the start of every race. The diving unit in Phys Ed nearly did me in--I may have even gotten a horrifying B in the class, if you can believe it.

I just couldn't dive. Diving required tucking one's chin to one's chest and jumping off, flying through the air and trusting that I could hit the water without looking at it. It felt out of control. I've done proper dives maybe three or four times in my life and remembering the sensation even now causes my heart to pound a little harder. It's free fall. Just for a few seconds, but it's there. The free fall is terrifying.

But, behind the terror, I can also feel the freedom. The diving free fall, done properly and without the belly smack I'm used to, is liberating. It's exhilarating. It's joyful and wonderful. It releases you from the burden of looking. The water is there, it will catch you. You just have to believe, you got it.

I love when Munch, even at 2, gets that look in his eye. I can practically hear him saying, "Chill, Ma. I got this. It's going to be fine."

I want to do the same. I want to approach life with the go-get-em spirit. With the diving free fall that is more about the journey to the water than the worry about the mechanics of getting there. I got it, I want to say to it all. I got it.

Journey vs. Destination

I've never been a "journey" person. And in my typical fashion, I've always derided myself for that. Being a journey person, to me, means you're "being," moving along with the flow of life with little anxiety as to where you're headed--you're enjoying the ride.

Being a destination person is more about the stress of WHEN WE WILL GET WHERE WE'RE GOING. It's about getting somewhere else as quickly as possible. It's about setting your sights on a point down the road, and tunnel-visioning for it. Not looking around to see what you're experiencing now--but urging forward and getting stressed when the destination remains out of reach.

Perhaps that means I'm goal-oriented, and that can be a good thing. But when your goal is a big one, something that takes long-term dedication and sustained drive--like losing weight or training for a 10K, for example--reflecting on and enjoying the journey is equally important as GETTING THERE.

Being a destination person sometimes means feeling deflated and floundering.

Being a journey person means saying I like who I am at this moment and I'm making progress and that's all I can ask of myself.

My dad has always been a journey person. When I was little, he would always choose the back roads to get anywhere in our rural corner of Michigan. When you've got a straight shot of highway and can drive 70mph, why oh why would you ever choose the winding two-lane road? I would sit in my seat, gritting my teeth, urging the car faster so we could GET THERE.

But, on the back roads, maybe you can see the river better.

Maybe you'll see a field full of deer.

Maybe you'll stumble upon something you weren't even looking for, something that would blur past as you try to get around the semi before your exit.

Having a kid is turning me into a journey person. Take our recent 450-mile drive to Michigan. I've been making this drive since I was 18 years old and went to college in Pennsylvania. And before I became a mother, I had it down to a science.

Drive 10 miles over the limit and you can do it in about 7 hours. Pee breaks are swift and hurried. Meals are eaten in the car, even by the driver, never EVER sitting in a restaurant. Leave whenever--be that 7am or 7pm. Only deviate from the customary route in extreme situations, like an accident shutting down the Turnpike.

Pedal to the metal. Get there as quickly as possible.

This was the first long, long drive Munch has made in a front-facing car seat. And he loves his car seat. Some days, after work, he'll want to just drive around. He loves riding. And we are lucky. He didn't cry almost at all on the way to Michigan or on the way back. He just rode. He pointed out semis, the diamonds on their rears where the "warning" signs go. He pointed out the moon when the sun set. He drank milk and ate cereal bars and looked at his nursery rhyme book and kicked off his shoe a thousand times and just chilled.

With Munch in the car, we stop for long stretches. At one rest area, he sat as good as can be (when he usually refuses to sit in restaurants) and ate apples and chicken nuggets and fries and then he ran laps around the near-empty space, laughing and having a great time. We stopped for over an hour that time.

And my instinct is still to look at the clock, calculate how much time we've lost, grit my teeth that we haven't made it to X or Y milestone yet.

But then, I turn my mind to the time we gained. That time in the rest area was so much fun. Munch kept pointing at Auntie Ann's pretzels and saying "heart." He squealed as I chased him around. He pooped, a big deal on a long trip. It was relaxing to stop. It refueled him and us. He stretched his legs and burned some energy. He readied himself for the next leg, and enjoyed every mile of it.

And that's the biggest perk of being a journey person. You enjoy every mile of it. Having a kid has given me a grand appreciation of the passage of time. And now that I can hardly remember the sound of Munch's newborn cries, or the baldness of his head until he was past a year old, or the way he babbled before talking, now that I want DESPERATELY to slow the journey down, I no longer long for the destination. I no longer wish away a week to get to the weekend or a month to get to a vacation or three years to get to a new house.

I slow down. I breathe. I listen to Munch saying "Mommy, come 'ere." I laugh when he whistles. I walk slowly, as he stops frequently to check out the stroller. I hold his hand as he points out the moon, always there, watching over our journey.

I put the destination out of my mind. This is where I want to be.

Puddle Jumpin

My son loves water of all kinds--whether it's a fountain splash park at Disney or a small backyard pool, this kid gravitates toward water and has to be IN IT if he sees it. Even "ucky allo" (yucky water), which he finds pooled at the bottom of a slide after a shower.

Run-of-the-mill puddles are no different. If it's raining out, I know that we won't be able to leave the house without a full-on desperate attempt to streak for the puddles and do a little one-two-three dance step in each one.

As adults, we generally avoid the puddles, both in our parking lots and in our lives. Puddles are messy. They make our feet wet. They are an inconvenience. We could do without puddles.

Yesterday afternoon, Munch and I sought out the puddles. It had rained off and on for a couple days, so the ground was wet, but not soaked. Puddles were there, but not plentiful. We had to look. And Munch seemed to know this was a search and discover mission, rather than a jump into everything mission.

Munch pointed at a puddle, sometimes so far away or small that it took me a moment to see it. Then we ran for it, enjoyed it for a moment, and then he pulled my hand to find the next one. We went throughout the parking lot, finding puddles and eliciting delight at every one.

My son teaches me that some things that I may find hum-drum, like puddles, are actually wondrous, if I just take a moment to enjoy them, if I forget about sneakers that will need to be dried or cold socks soaking my feet.

Today, look for the puddles. And hop in one.