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I went to the drug store with my three-and-a-half-year-old son, Eddie, and when I threw some nail polish into my cart, my son said, “I want one.”

“Really? Um, okay,” I said. I knelt down on the floor and plucked several colors out of the display that I thought might appeal to him: pale yellow, light blue, and pastel green. “How about one of these?”

“This one, “ he said, sailing right over my color choices and lifting a bottle of pink out of the display.

“Oh, okay,” I said, a little surprised but thought, “Why not? Let’s be festive.” “Do you want a sparkly one, too? Maybe one of these?” I asked. I pointed to a bottle with red and green sparkles that reminded me of Christmas and another one with silver sparkles that seemed a good choice for New Year’s Eve.

“No. This one,” he said, again sidestepping my choices and picking the sparkly pink. I threw it in my cart.

When we got home, he asked me if I could paint his nails, and so I did, dismissing any thoughts I had about what this meant or what other people might say. I will never inhibit his fashion choices. Ever. For much of my life, people have commented, even mocked my sense of dress. “You’re not really going out like that, are you?” “Why is everything you wear so baggy?” “You look like a hobo.” I once wore a blonde wig similar to the pixie hairstyle Meg Ryan wore for years, and a woman on the subway turned to me, looked at my head and began laughing. I have a hard enough time trying to be me, issuing small displays of individuality, like a firefly, because to do anything larger makes me uncomfortable, so I’ve always applauded those who brave the chuckles and the sneers in order to be who they are – the fat woman on the beach who wears a bikini, the tone deaf man who does karaoke. I’ve silently vowed to encourage my son to be who he wants to be, regardless of the consequences.

When my husband got home from work, he gave Eddie a big hug and said, “Hey buddy.” He then looked down at my son’s fingers and said, “Pink nail polish?”

“Yep. That’s what he wanted,” I said, with a finality that said, “We’re not going to discuss this any further.”

That night, my husband’s friend, Frank, came over. “What the hell is on your nails?” he said when he saw my son.

“Mind your own,” I said.

The following day when I picked Eddie up from school, he said, “They asked me why I had nail polish.”

“Who asked you?”

“Layla and Kenzie and Lexie,” he said.

“And what did you say?” I asked.

“I said I liked it,” he said.

“Good for you,” I said.

When I told a friend about the way everyone was responding to my son’s pink nail polish, she told me about a video in which a man at an outdoor music event stands up and begins to dance. For a few minutes, he is the only one dancing, and he looks like a freak. People stare, but he is undeterred, which makes him look even stranger. A minute later, someone else stands up and joins him. Now there are two standing up dancing, and they look mildly odd but less so than when there was just one. Soon, a third man joins the two and begins dancing. Now, his dancing doesn’t look odd but rather like an option: some are sitting while others are dancing. A fourth person joins the crowd and then a fifth, sixth and seventh. Now, it’s a movement. More join, and it starts to become the norm. And the narrator says, “It took just one brave follower to turn a lone nut into a leader.”

The next day when I brought Eddie to school, I walked him into the class, and just before I turned to go, gave him a hug. As I stood there in the middle of his classroom, I paused for a moment and wanted to yell, “Now listen here. Eddie’s wearing nail polish and yes, it’s pink, and if any of you have a problem with that, you can take it up with ME.” But I didn’t say that, because I’m not allowed to, because a kid, particularly one with peculiar taste, is going to have to learn how to deal with his classmates’ comments on his own.

When I picked him up from school, we walked outside of the building, and he saw a friend from class.

“Eddie’s wearing pink nail polish,” the boy said to his mother. “That’s for girls!”

“Well, you like the color purple,” the boy’s mother said. She then turned to me and said, “It’s actually hard to find purple clothes for boys.”

Eddie and his classmate ran around outside for a while, and then the boy and his mother got into their car to go home. A couple of minutes later, I got a text from the boy’s mother.

“My son just told me he wants purple nail polish.”

And one brave follower raised his hand.

Sept. 30, 2014, Insects

I went to our local library this afternoon because I received a letter that said the “book on tape” I had borrowed was overdue and that I now owed the library $1.60. When we arrived, I was told my outstanding bill was not $1.60 but actually $18.00. That’s because on top of my overdue book fine, they said I owed them $16.40 for a book called “Insects,” which they claimed that I had returned damaged. They said a friend had returned the book and one of the pages was ripped. I was now required to purchase the book.

“That can’t be right,” I said.

“Go upstairs to the Children’s library and talk to Cheryl,” the woman at the front desk told me.

I was with my three-year-old son, and when the two of us arrived upstairs, I was happy to see that the person manning the desk was a soft-spoken Vietnamese woman who used to work at a shop in my town. She was gentle and kind and would surely understand my predicament.

“You need to speak to Cheryl,” she said when I told her why I was there. She pointed to an office across the way.

Cheryl, an overweight woman with frizzy hair, was inside the office talking on the phone. I sent my son over to the play area, which had Lego’s and an activity table, and I stood outside Cheryl’s door, not too close as to hover but close enough to see when she was off the phone. As I waited, I rehearsed what I was going to say. While I’m the kind of person who feels guilty about things I haven’t even done, I found it implausible that my son would have ripped the book. Babies do things like that. My son is nearly four years old. Besides, there was no way I was going to pay $18 for a book about bugs.bugs

“Cheryl?” I said meekly, when she put down the phone. She swung her chair around to face me. “ “My name is Caren, and I was told I owe $18 for a book that was torn. I can’t believe that—“

“Let me take a look,” she said, rising from her chair and walking over to the computer at the front desk where the kind, gentle Vietnamese woman had brought up the details of my crime on the computer screen and was now pointing at it, accusingly, with a bony little finger. Some ally she turned out to be.

“Yes, it says you had a friend return the book with a rip in it,” Cheryl said, and deftly swerved her chair around to grab the book off a shelf behind her and opened it to the vandalized page.

I ran my finger across the page. It was a photo of a patch of moss-covered ground that was covered with dozens of lady bugs. The caption read, “Lots of ladybugs are good for the garden. They eat other insects that damage the plants.”

“I just can’t believe we ripped that book,” I said. “I have no recollection of that having happened.”

“Well, I’m not sure what to say. When your friend returned the book, it had a rip in it.” It was the second time someone alluded to the fact that a friend had returned the book, insinuating that I had ripped the book and then tried to hide my crime by having someone else return the damaged product.

“I really have no recollection of anyone ripping that page. I mean, I’m the one who would have read the book to my son, and he would have torn the page in front of me, and I don’t remember that ever happening,” I said. “Maybe it was like that when I took it out.”

I took the torn out piece of a page and lay it down next to the piece that was still in the book, trying to put it back together.

“There’s no way we would have let you take out a book like that, with a page torn out. There’s even a piece missing,” she said, pointing to the gap at the top of the page, proof that even a good cellophane taping job couldn’t have brought the book back to its original condition.ladybugs

“I don’t know what else to say. I simply don’t remember my son tearing that page,” I said.

“You had to have seen the page was like this when you were reading the book. You couldn’t even have read this page without noticing,” she said, lifting the page out.

“I don’t even know that we read the book,” I said. “I took out four insect books that day.”

I was sure I sounded like the man in court who says, “My dog can’t have bitten that woman. He doesn’t bite. And that’s not my dog. And anyway, I don’t even have a dog.”

“I’m sorry. It’s our policy that if a book is returned damaged, you have to buy it,” she said.

I did some quick mental calculus and saw that I was simply not going to win. It was her word against mine, and if I refused to pay, I wouldn’t be allowed to use the library anymore. I felt aggrieved because here, as in all relationships, the scale was tipped in her favor for one reason only: I needed the library more than they needed me.

“16.40?” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out a crumpled $20 bill. “That’s a lot of money for a thin book about bugs.”

“Non-fiction books are always more expensive,” she said.

That’s stupid, I thought. It takes less thought for someone to write a book that’s true than one in which they have to make stuff up. Besides, it was as thin as a wafer.

I took my change and walked over to my son in the play area. Leaning down, I whispered, “Hey, buddy. Do you remember ripping this book?” I showed him the book.

“Yeah,” he said matter of factly. “Why, what were you trying to do?”

“What do you mean?”

“What did that lady say to you?”

“She said you ripped the book,” I said.

Just then, my son starts banging together two Lego pieces that were shaped like animals. He knocked them against each other so hard, I thought for sure the leg was going to come off the giraffe.

“Hey, hey, stop,” I said, peaking over at the front desk to see if Cheryl was looking. I remembered all the times we’d come here in the past and had been yelled at by various people sitting at that desk, for making too much noise, or because my son was jumping off the wood cube into the mesh playpen that’s filled with stuffed animals. She was never going to believe our innocence, no matter how compelling an argument I could have made.

As we walked out into the parking lot, I asked my son, “Do you really remember ripping that page?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Really?” I said, still not believing it.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Which page?” I asked.

“The bug page,” he said. “I thought I could make a paper airplane.”

September 11, 2014, Footprints

I repost this essay I wrote every September 11. I don’t see why this year should be any different…

I

Change rarely visits Bialystoker Street. Every morning, men in black hats make their way to the Bialystoker synagogue for morning prayer. About an hour later, women wearing wigs and black stockings emerge from their apartments, pushing baby carriages with two or three other children in tow. The little boys wear yarmulkes. The girls have patent leather shoes.

So it surprised me to see that the bench outside my old apartment building was no longer there. It was a standard-issue bench with solid-concrete sides and wood slats painted parks-department green. The whole row of them was gone. Poof. Vanished. The only thing that remained was a couple of indentations on the sidewalk.

II

My father complained over dinner about how my mother had this terrible habit of using the word “she” twice in one sentence, when she was referring to two different people.

“I’m constantly having to ask her, ‘She, who?’ my father said, and then turning to my mother, he said, ‘You can’t say “she” twice in one sentence and think I’ll know who you mean.’”

“Eddie, will you stop criticizing me? Enough,” my mother said, throwing her fork down on the table.

It might have been any old day. But it wasn’t. My father was dying of esophageal cancer. As a last ditch effort, he’d signed up for a clinical trial at Memorial Sloan Kettering that had a 66-percent success rate. But we were told that morning that he was among the unlucky 34 percent. His cancer was spreading, and he was out of the program. My father was going back to his home in Florida to die.

“Let’s get some munchies,” he said as we walked back to my parents’ hotel. Despite carrying around coffee cakes, pretzels and little cans of apple sauce to nibble on in between meals, my father’s 185-pound frame was down to 128 pounds.

“Everything’s closed,” I said.

We were sitting in a restaurant on 36th Street and Sixth Avenue, so close to the Empire State Building that if it fell, it would hit us. Things like that mattered that day. It was September 11, 2001. There was an eerie quiet in Midtown. Sixth Avenue was nearly empty but for a lone man in a sweatshirt walking down the street with a video camera. At the corner of 35th Street, a homeless man and a man in a suit stood next to each other, watching the news on a television set that was resting on top of a garbage pail. Police tape blocked pedestrians from walking on 34th Street as armed men in uniform walked bomb-sniffing dogs back and forth in front of the Empire State Building.

I dropped my parents off at their hotel and walked to Pennsylvania Station, hoping a store along the arcade would be open. It was 8 p.m. and hundreds of commuters were standing near the board that listed train departures. They were stranded when the entrances and exits to Manhattan were sealed.

My parents were among the stranded. They had come into Manhattan from Long Island for chemotherapy and were on a subway heading to the hospital when the second plane hit. Subway service was suspended, and my parents were forced out of the train at Times Square. They walked all the way to the hospital on the East Side only to find chemotherapy was canceled, but my father was given his CAT scan results. The tumors had not shrunk. They had grown. Dejected, my parents tried to hail a taxi back to Penn Station but every cab was occupied. They eventually bribed a taxi driver, who already had a passenger inside, while he was sitting at a traffic light. They made their way back to Penn Station only to find that the train service to Long Island was suspended, so they orbited the station, trying hotel after hotel until they finally found a vacancy.

I found a store that was open and bought a bag of sugar-coated nuts, M&Ms, potato chips and two toothbrushes. When I returned to their hotel room, my parents were sitting up in bed, watching CNN. They invited me to spend the night. The three of us squeezed into one bed with me sandwiched between them.

“What are you scratching?” my mother asked.

“I think my cat gave me fleas,” I said.

“Go take a shower,” my father said abruptly.

I stood in the shower and thought about a banker I once interviewed for a story in World Trade Center 7 and how that building was no longer there. I thought about my siblings and wondered if any of them ever had fleas. I wondered if I would ever feel my father’s approval or if that void was so deep that even a thousand loving gestures wouldn’t plug the hole.

When I got out of the shower, I climbed back into bed with my parents. I tossed and turned for about an hour on account of my father’s snoring.

“He’s been doing that since he got sick,” my mother whispered. It was something else about him I didn’t know.

The following day, my parents were able to get back to Long Island, and for the next several days, they sat on a couch in my aunt’s house watching CNN. In the footage, the towers are up. The towers fall down. The puff of smoke. The towers are up. The towers fall down. The puff of smoke. The news showed young people lighting candles in Union Square. Mothers and fathers and husbands and wives were wandering the streets, holding up photos of their loved ones in front of the television cameras or taping their pictures to utility poles. At the time, it seemed appropriate. A week later, it was clear an entire city had been in denial.

My parents returned to Florida at the end of September. I followed them down there about a week later. For two months, I researched cures for cancer. I joined a message board for people with esophageal cancer. I investigated the various treatments, proven and unproven. I bought a used book called Cancer Therapy: The Independent Consumer’s Guide to Non-Toxic Treatment & Prevention. I ignored thoughts about why the person who bought the book no longer needed it. I couldn’t convince my father to get acupuncture. He didn’t like needles. But I talked him into seeing a Chinese medicine doctor in a nearby strip mall. The doctor’s face was black and white.

“What was wrong with his skin?” my father asked as we left the doctor’s office.

“I don’t know. Something with his pigmentation.”

“If he can’t fix his own skin …”

“Dad. I know,” I said.

I went to Whole Foods Market almost every day to buy whole wheat pasta, organic vegetables and wheat grass. Blueberries were filled with antioxidants. A cup of raspberries a day contained enough elegiac acid to inhibit the growth of cancer cells. I made my father a concoction of cottage cheese, banana and flax seed oil every morning because a doctor in Germany had fed it to people who were near-death, and it had brought them back to life. I put a prohibition on sugar because I’d read that cancer loves sugar. I went through my parents’ cupboards and pulled out every box of soup, every bag of candy, every can of sauce that contained sugar and put them in boxes that I stacked in the corner of the dining room. One night, I heard my father rummaging through the boxes.

“What are you doing back there?” I said.

A small body emerged from the darkness holding a little can of fruit cocktail.

“I just wanted to take it upstairs with me,” he said.

He looked at me like he was in trouble.

“Oh, just take it,” I said.

For much of the fall, my parents would go to chemotherapy during the day while I’d stay at home, cooking meals from a Whole Foods cookbook. The woman who wrote the book had cured her own leukemia with a macrobiotic diet and now had a cooking show on PBS. One afternoon, I decorated the dining room with pumpkins and squash, and twig wreaths covered with leaves from outside. I strung orange lights across the doorway and lit about a dozen candles. I wanted to watch my father’s eyes light up as he walked in. I wanted to save his life so he would love me.

My father had a piece of paper taped to the side of his desk listing the things he would do after his recovery. Go to Bristol, Tennessee, for a NASCAR race. Join the Boca Pointe board of trustees. Check out the new BMW M3. Visit the kids up North, starting with Caren and Ellen on Long Island, then Richie in Massachusetts and finally Steven in Rochester. He called it his victory tour. Nothing was ever crossed off the list. In July, the doctors had given him six months to live. He died in five.

III

I stood on Bialystoker Street and watched two boys play basketball through the chain-link fence. The block was so far east in Manhattan’s Lower East Side that the roadway leading to the Williamsburg Bridge at that point was already aloft. I stood under the road, looking up at the cars going across the bridge. A subway train went by. A jogger bobbed up and down in the caged-in pedestrian pathway that ran along the outside of the span. As my eyes watched him move across the bridge, everything else seemed to fall away, the screeching of the subway, the honking of the car horns. Time seemed to go in slow motion, like when your eyes follow a single snowflake or raindrop as it falls to the ground.

I walked across the street and sat down on the curb opposite where the bench used to be. I thought of a night back in March of 2001, a month after my father’s cancer was first diagnosed. I had called him on my cell phone from 14th Street, and the two of us talked as I walked the 17 blocks to my apartment on the Lower East Side. As we chatted away, it began to snow. It was a crisp winter night, and by the time I reached my apartment, the ground was white. I sat down on the bench.footprintssnow1

“Now that you have cancer, do you find it harder or easier to live in the moment?” I asked.

I wondered if having a finite amount of time would make him want to live each day more fully, or if he was so obsessed with the prospect of dying that it was impossible to think of anything else.

He paused, and said, “It’s harder.”

But then he told me a story about how he had been dancing at a wedding with my mother the weekend before, and for a single moment as they stood on the dance floor, he felt truly content. He was in the moment at that moment, and it felt close to bliss, he said.

As I sat on the curb and looked at the spot where the bench had been, the image of that night in March came back to me. It was the night my father walked me home, and we danced as the snow fell around us.

We’re toilet training my three-year-old son, Eddie, and this morning, I took a new potty out for a test drive. Our third, to be exact. We figure if the child is not taking to the toilet, there must be something wrong with the potty.

“This one was Grayson’s potty! And Vincent made pee pee in it when he was here,” I said, as if knowing all of his friends had urinated in it would make it more enticing.

This potty seat is too hard.

This potty seat is too hard.

My son sat on the new potty, and as I read him a book about Big Bird and the Snuffleupagus going camping, he kept lifting his butt off the seat to readjust. I noticed he had a red circle on his buttocks.

“You sure you don’t want to use your old potty?” I asked.

“No. This is good,” he says, as he lifts himself up briefly and sits down again.

After we read for a few minutes, I put him in the bath and asked him if he wanted his usual banana and chocolate shake, or if he wanted pancakes.

“Pancakes. With blueberries and chocolate chips,” he said.

“Okay. Then I’m going to run downstairs just to get them started,” I said.

I knew that by offering pancakes, we might be late for school. When we’re late, it means the side door, which is closer to his classroom, has already been shut and you have to use the front door, which is on the other side of the building. I also had a yoga class starting at 9:15 a.m., and I didn’t want to miss too much of it. I ran downstairs to throw the pancake ingredients together and noticed my husband had put all of the ingredients for a shake into the blender: the frozen banana, strawberries, chocolate syrup, Nutella, peanut butter, and the Flintstone’s vitamin we sneak into the mix. All I had to do was press the button. I paused, knowing my son would be disappointed but also knowing it would save me a lot of time. I then pressed the button, and the shake was made. As I walked back upstairs, I thought about how I was going to break the news to Eddie about the shake. As I walked back into the bathroom, I decided to tell him the truth.

Daddy did it.

Daddy did it.

“I was fully prepared to make you the pancakes you wanted, but daddy had already made your shake,” I said. And in case he didn’t hear it, I said it again. “Daddy did it.”

“Nooooooo! I don’t want a shake!” he screeched. “I don’t like shake!”

The truth is, the child has every right to hate shakes. He’s had one almost every morning for the last year. It’s no wonder he doesn’t like them anymore. I was actually surprised he’d lasted this long. But I didn’t want to throw the shake out. It seemed a waste. And I didn’t want to drink it. I had yoga. And of course I knew that giving him a shake, rather than pancakes, made it more likely we’d be on time to school.

But I looked at my son, who was now weeping. A lot of parents at that point might think their child was being manipulative. Me, I saw my child in pain, and I just wanted to make it stop. I tried to assuage him, saying something I’d read in a parenting book: “I know you must feel disappointed.” My empathy did nothing. Nor did telling him it would be the last shake he’d ever have to drink. I knew lecturing him on the ills of waste and the virtues of recycling and conscious consumption wouldn’t have any affect. It barely has an effect on adults. Instead, I said, “Fine. I’ll make you pancakes.”

I got Eddie dressed, though I left off his diaper and pants as part of our new potty training regimen. Breakfast is prime pooping time, and in the potty training book I’m reading, they recommend going diaper free as often as you can. The theory, I guess, is that the child is not likely to poop or pee on the floor – much – so they’ll begin to notice that sensation of having to go to the bathroom – and may even ask you to take them there. We need him to notice that sensation because our current stage of potty training isn’t fruitful: we put Eddie on the potty, to practice, when he doesn’t have to go, and when he does have to go, he’s nowhere near the potty. And he does nothing to get himself closer to one. And why should he? With a diaper on, he can poop anywhere.

I escorted Eddie downstairs in just his shirt, while I carried his diaper, a pair of pants, and his shoes and socks. As we headed to the kitchen to have breakfast, he ran ahead while I stopped in the living room to put something into my knapsack. Eddie suddenly came out of the kitchen and said, “Mommy, I have a birthday present for you.” For a split second, I thought, “There’s no way he just peed on the floor and is calling it a birthday present. No way.” I walked into the kitchen, and there on the floor was a huge puddle of pee.

“Really?” I said. “Really?”

I'll fix your Christmas tree up there, and then I'll bring it back here.

I’ll fix your Christmas tree up there, and then I’ll bring it back here.

My first thought was, “I don’t have time for this! We’re already late.” Because you don’t just clean up pee with a paper towel, not pee and not in a kitchen. You use a scrubbing brush and soap because you at least want to give yourself the illusion that you could eat off your kitchen floor. This is going to be time-consuming, not what I needed when I’m already running late and volunteered to make pancakes. I must have had that look that the Grinch had when little Cindy Lou Who came out of her room and said, “But why, Santee Claus, why are you taking our Christmas tree?” and the Grinch rubbed his stubbly little chin and said, “There’s a light on this tree that won’t light on one side. So I’m taking it home to my workshop, my dear. I’ll fix it up there. Then I’ll bring it back here.” I looked up at my son, and before I could stop myself, I said, “Well, that’s it. No time to make pancakes now.”

I knew what I was doing: I was using my son’s minor indiscretion to get out of doing something I didn’t want to do anyway. Now that’s manipulation. And I told my son that next time he has to pee, blah blah potty, blah blah lesson, blah blah consequences to his actions, blah blah his fault. I felt like a heel but continued to seize the opportunity. He wailed. “I want pancakes! I don’t want shake!” As I’m cleaning up his urine, he’s just standing there, his face red, tears streaming down his cheeks, and all I keep thinking is I just wish the morning was longer and yoga was later, so I could just give this kid what he wants, and he’ll be happy, and I won’t have to see him cry. But there was a part of me that thought, he needs to take a lesson here, and I can’t give in to him every time he cries, because then he’ll know all he has to do is cry, and I’ll give him what he wants – which is basically pretty accurate.

And then he said one of the worst things he could have said: “I want my daddy.” I don’t know how I looked at him, but it must have been with deep seated sadness because he added, “…and my mommy.” I hugged him and kept telling him it will be the last shake he ever has to drink, and that he just shouldn’t pee on the floor, and that I’ll make him pancakes when he comes home from school.

Huh-yah!

Huh-yah!

He wound up drinking part of the shake, and I took him to school, but when we got to his classroom, I could see his eyes still looked puffy and red from crying. When Eddie ran off to get the Ironman costume out of the costume box, I whispered to his teacher, “Eddie may be a little sensitive this morning. We had an incident with the potty training, and he’s still a little raw.”

And with that, I burst into tears. I told her everything that happened, and what I did, and how I felt bad, and she told me to buy him plastic underwear and pick my battles.

“A lot of the boys in here aren’t toilet trained yet,” she said.

I stood there in his classroom for a while, helping my son get into his Ironman costume and then standing next to him as one of his classmates, dressed at Thor, came over and leapt into the air, and thrusting a fist out in front of him, shouted, “Huh-yah! Huh-yah!” I hoped that by standing there, my son might forgive me for all the indiscretions I’d already made and was likely to make in the future.

“I don’t want to skate,” my three-year old son said, kicking the tip of his skate blade against the rubber flooring.

“Why? I thought you liked skating?” I said.

“It’s boring,” my son said, boldly.

Skating is boring

Skating is boring

I had an English teacher in high school, a short little man with an effeminate lisp, who, when students would proclaim something was boring, would say, “Bored people are boring.’ At the time, I thought he was being wise, even helpful, saying that if you were bored, it had something to do with what was inside you and that you could change it. In retrospect, I think he was just annoyed with the arrogance of youth, and he was just calling us “boring” out of spite.

I wasn’t going to call my son boring, but I was getting annoyed. I’d enrolled him in ice skating lessons two months ago after we’d gone skating with friends, and he’d enjoyed it. I wanted him to be involved in some activity, any activity, not so he could go to the Olympics or an intramural hockey team but so he could have a feeling of achievement. He has knock knees and doesn’t run very fast, and I see it frustrates him. I wanted to show him that sometimes people aren’t good at one thing but they’re good at another. I was giving him something to be good at.

It took some cajoling and repetition, but I convinced Eddie to rejoin his class on the ice. He made his way over to them holding on to the wall. He hadn’t needed to hold the wall since early on in his lessons, and it surprised me. I wondered if he was saying he was bored because he was afraid. Maybe that is how we learn a skill — not linearly but in a series of loops, where just when someone is about to move forward two steps, they go back one-and-a-half steps out of fear.

The skating teacher tried to pry Eddie off the wall, but he held his grip. She then backed away and held her hands out, asking him to skate toward her. He was reluctant at first but slowly let go of the wall and began marching in her direction, slowly, arms out like an airplane, knees bent, just as he’d been taught. She backed up a bit, and he moved toward her again, but he then fell on his butt. Bam! He looked over toward me.

"I'm just watching!"

“I’m just watching!”

“Everybody falls,” I said.

The teacher helped him up, but I knew he wasn’t happy about it. He began skating toward me. He was done.

The class only had two children in it, and Eddie was one of them. The other was a two-and-a-half year old named Zachery. As Eddie skated away from the class, Zachery stood on the ice in a big black helmet, his skates bowing out to the sides, yelling, “Eh-dee! Eh-dee! Eh-dee!” I thought, if anything is going to get my son to rejoin his class, it’s this kid. He really, really wanted Eddie to come back. But no chance. Eddie turned around and walked away on his skates, leaving Zachery screaming his name across the ice for a solid five minutes while my son stood at the edge of the rink, kicking his skate blade against the wall, and I stood in the opening where he would get out.

“Stay on the ice until the lesson is over. I don’t want you to come off yet,” I said.

“But I don’t like ice skating. I want to go home,” he said.

“You’re not coming off the ice until your lesson is over,” I said. “When your cousin, Cade, wants to skate with you, you’re not going to be able to skate. When Uncle Steven wants to skate with you, you’re not going to be able to. Is that what you want?”

I must sound like such an asshole, I thought. One of the other mothers who had been standing next to me, watching her own child skate in another class, turned and walked away. There’s a fine line between scoffing and giving someone privacy.

A really stubborn piece of lineoleum

A really stubborn piece of lineoleum

As Eddie continued to stand at the entrance to the ice, I turned around and walked away, thinking maybe if he couldn’t see me, he might go over and rejoin his class.

The instructor was not his regular teacher. She did not seem to have anything invested in the lesson – nor did she know my son and how in every other class he skated fine. I wished she would skate over and get my son, or at least look in our direction, but I think she was happy to just be teaching one little kid rather than two, who were at different levels anyway.

I inched a little farther away from the rink, near the benches where we put on my son’s skates and out of his field of vision. I was still hoping he would go back to his class, but he just stood there. He knew I was still in the vicinity, even if he couldn’t see me. I decided to take it a step further. I walked right in front of him and said, “Go back to your class. It’s over in five minutes. Go on. Go,” and I walked out the door that leads into the hallway.

I stood outside the doorway to the rink for several minutes. Through a window in the door, I could see through to the ice. I could see my son’s helmet and his two hands on the glass barrier that surrounded the rink as he just stood there. It was one of those parenting moments where I had no idea, whatsoever, what I was doing and whether it was the right – or a very wrong – approach. It was potentially a pivotal moment in my son’s life that will either have helped him through some block or created one for which he’ll seek therapy. Regardless, I’d already started something, and if I was going to move forward in the direction I’d chosen, it didn’t help to just stand there staring at him through the glass. Either I was committed to this silly exercise or I wasn’t. I turned my back to the ice and started to watch two rink employees trying to lift sheets of linoleum tile with a pry bar so that they could replace them with the more traditional rubber tiles that fit together like puzzle pieces. The two men had gotten halfway across the floor but were stuck on one particular tile. They hit the pry bar several times with a hammer, to wedge it further under the tile, but every time they would then try to peel the tile upward and off the floor, it wouldn’t budge.

“This one is never, ever going to come up,” said the younger of the two men, clearly frustrated.

I turned around and walked back into the rink. My son was still standing at the entrance to the ice.

“Go out there,” I said, pointing to his class. “Go on.”

“I’m just watching,” he said and turned around and started to walk on his skates slowly toward the group. As he got closer to them, I could see the teacher turn around and talk to him. I then heard my son’s voice across the ice. “I’m just watching.” As the instructor tried to engage him in the lesson, he yelled, “I’m just watching!”

He stood in the middle of the ice for a few minutes and then headed back toward me. Small as it was, he’d made an effort. If I pushed him anymore, I thought I might wind up doing some long term damage. It would certainly make it harder to bring him back for his lesson next week.

As we left the rink, I saw that the two workmen were finally able to pry off the stubborn piece of linoleum and were now halfway done getting off the old floor. I wondered if maybe the learning process isn’t like loops but rather like clearing a clog in a plumbing pipe. Some will see a block and quit while others will keep slamming into it, like a battering ram, until they break through. I hope my son turns out to be the latter. Because like Oedipus, you can’t change fate. I’d sent my son to skating lessons to give him a feeling of achievement, and inadvertently, I’d fostered his sense of failure.

Every morning as I lie in bed and hear my three-year-old son begin to rustle in his crib, I vow that today, I will get down on my hands and knees and play with him. Soon, he’ll be going to school, making friends and playing soccer and video games, and at that point, he won’t want to play with me. And then I’ll miss him and feel regret. So when he says, “Mommy, will you play with me?” I vow to say, “Yes,” and grab one of his trucks or Thomas the Tank Engine and drive it around his ringed track saying “Chuggah, chuggah, choo choo. I’m a useful engine!”

The spaceship we don't fly

The spaceship we don’t fly

And yet every afternoon, as my son drives his cars on the floor right next to me or runs his trains around the track, I not only fail to make good on my vow, I’m barely in the room. Instead, I keep checking my email, thinking about stories I want to pitch, essays I want to write and sometimes taking notes for my parenting blog on raising a toddler — except I spend more time writing about raising him than actually raising him.

“Mommy, who are you talking to?” my son says, as I whisper into my tape recorder to remind myself how when he had his hands covering his eyes yesterday at the playground, I thought he was crying when it turns out he was only playing hide-and-seek.

“I’m, um, talking to myself. I’m trying to remind myself of the funny thing you just did,” I’ll say.

The trucks we don't drive

The trucks we don’t drive

I realize this is bizarre, given that he doesn’t understand what a tape recorder is, what a memory is, and why his mommy no longer has one.

I know I should savor this time with my son, like a peppermint, but I can’t help myself. If I’ve experienced something noteworthy, I want to write about it. And so I walk that tightrope all writers must walk: to live in the moment in order to experience life or to come out of the moment in order to write about it. So when my son does something funny or interesting or smart, my default reflex is to reach for my pen instead of my son.

Sometimes I can’t write it down fast enough, so I scribble on my hand, the back of coupons, inside book jackets – sometimes even library books – or I’ll grab my iPhone and type a note or record a phrase. But when it’s time to turn these experiences, notes and recordings into prose, I fall asleep, and all those pearls of wisdom just fade away like penning a great poem and then leaving it out in the rain. And then the next day comes, when I hear my son rustling, I vow to play with him, and then spend half the day taking notes on what it’s like to half play with him, and the cycle begins anew.

I’m not just distracted from playing with him because I’m a writer. I’m distracted because I’m struggling with the fact that I’m no longer working full time. I had my son at 47 so I’ve spent the last three decades building a career as a journalist, but since I had him, I’ve cut my workload and my paycheck by a third – not to mention the fact that his needs and moods and demands and incessant chatter has destroyed my ability to focus. Stories take five times longer to write, naptime dictates when I can schedule interviews. Worse, I now have severe mommy-brain and can no longer hold a thought for more than a minute. The instant my son interrupts me, which happens all day long, my focus runs off the track like a Thomas train.

My husband’s job, however, has changed little. Except for coming home early one night a week so I can go to yoga, his work hours and job title remain the same, though his office wall is now covered with photos of our son.

The crafts we don't do.

The crafts we don’t do

There’s a lot of talk about this social dynamic: couple has child, man keeps career, woman watches hers unravel, at least until the child goes to school. First, there were books and articles about how women can have it all: motherhood and a career. Then everyone admitted women really can’t have it all. And there are cries of sexism and how something has to change. I agree it’s sexist, but at the same time, I’m a beneficiary. I’m glad it’s acceptable for me to put half my career on hold while I spend time with my son in his formative years. My husband could have said he wanted to stay home while I continued to work full time, but he didn’t, and it’s not just because he earns twice what I do and his workplace is less flexible. It’s because underneath it all, despite our liberal beliefs and cosmopolitan sensibilities, like old wallpaper you might find underneath plaster, we still believed boys go to work and girls stay home. And I feel lucky for that. I get to be with my son in these delicious but fleeting formative years. If I could only stop working long enough to enjoy it.

This morning, when I went into my son’s room, I said, “I want to play with you.” My son looked surprised but broke out into a big wide smile and hugged me. His response warmed me so deeply, I thought, “This is it. This is what it’s all about. It’s not about awards or accolades or money. It’s about this. Loving and being loved. Wanting and being wanted.” The experience was so moving, I grabbed a notebook to jot it all down.

February 8, 2014 The Circus

My three-year old son, Eddie, has had a love affair with super heroes for more than a year now. Batman and Superman top the list. Whenever anyone asked him what he wanted for Christmas, he’d say, “BatmanZoopaman,” as if it were one word. The fact that he meant any kind of doll, car, game, shirt, sticker or book related to BatmanZoopaman was implicit.caren's camera jan 21 2014 596

So it didn’t surprise me that when I took him to a small circus at a local high school gymnasium, he looked right past the stage and the red, yellow and blue curtains, didn’t even see the tightropes strung overhead or the huge stage lights indicating something important was about to happen, and ran right to the row of concession stands and shrieked, “Batman!”

“We haven’t even sat down yet,” I said, lugging a knapsack on my back and a food bag and diaper bag over each shoulder.

“I want Batman, Mommy. Mommy, I want Batman,” my son kept saying.

I wanted to first find the couple we were supposed to meet there. They had a daughter, Meara, who was just a little older than Eddie. But more, I wanted to find a seat so I could put down my coat and my gear. But I knew there was no point. Either I was going to get Batman immediately, or I was going to suffer an endless stream of “I want, I want” until the item of his desire was in his hands. I walked over to the nearest concession stand and bought an inflatable Batman. I also bought my son a popcorn, even though he didn’t ask for it.

We walked over to the bleachers and quickly found our friends. Eddie and I sat down on a bench near them, but before long, he and Meara were running on the gym floor, playing in a valley created by a gap in the bleachers. Eddie was waving his Batman around, pretending he was flying, while Meara was swinging around a glow-in-the-dark sword.

Soon the gym lights went out, the stage lights went on, and the show began. There was a family that rode around on bicycles and unicycles, followed by a contortionist, a girl who could keep 20 hula hoops aloft as she wiggled her chest and hips, and a man covered in brown tubing that moved back and forth across the stage like a slinky.

As I watched the acts, I would glance over at my son, who seemed more interested in the glow-in-the-dark sword his friend, Meara, was holding. Just then, the lights went out and all the children who had glow-in-the-dark swords began waving them.

“Mommy, I want a sword,” Eddie said.

“I already bought you a Batman,” I said. “You can’t have both.”

“But I want a sword,” he said.

“Listen, you could have had a sword or a Batman, and you wanted Batman,” I said.

“I want a sword, Mommy. I don’t want Batman,” he said.

“You don’t want Batman?”

“I want a sword,” he said.

“You’re telling me you don’t want the Batman anymore?” I asked.

“I don’t want Batman. I want a sword,” he said.

I knew there would be no peace until I gave him what he wanted.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I want a sword, Mommy,” he said.

I grabbed the Batman and walked back to the same concession stand from which I’d bought the Batman and, doll in hand, sheepishly asked the woman if she would exchange it for a sword. I thought I would have to explain why I had chosen so hastily and that I was sorry and wouldn’t do it again, but she snatched the doll from my hand and replaced it with a glow stick, as if she’d done it before. I thought I might get some change, given that the Batman was $10 and clearly a much more sophisticated toy, but she didn’t give me any, making me think, “Of course she was happy to switch the items. She made out on the deal.” I walked back to my seat with the $10 glow stick.

My son’s eyes lit up. He grabbed it from my hand.caren's camera jan 21 2014 598

“Thank you?” I said.

“Thank you, Mommy.”

He began brandishing it and play fighting with Meara, and I knew I had made the right choice.

The gymnasium lights came back on, and there was a lengthy intermission, where some of the circus celebrities came out and members of the audience could have photos taken with them. Meara had her photo taken with two women who were scantily clad and what clothing they did have on was covered in feathers, making them seem more fitting for an act in Vegas than a small-town circus. Soon, the lights went out and the second act began.

About halfway through, a young boy walked by our row of bleachers carrying a Batman doll. My son turned to me and said, “I want Batman.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked.

“Mommy, I want Batman,” he says, and leans in toward me and gives me a hug.

“Sorry, dude, you got a sword now,” I said.

“But I want Batman,” he said.

“Then you chose unwisely,” I said.

I knew he didn’t know what I meant, but he seemed to take it in for a moment. He then responded, “I want Batman.”

“Nope,” I said.

“Mommy,” he said. “May I please have a Batman?” he says, using the phraseology I’ve been trying to get him to say. He was pulling out all the stops.

“Sorry,” I said.

He began to cry.

“Oh. My. God,” I said.

I imagined going back to the woman at the concession stand and asking her if she would give me the Batman back and her laughing at me. I then imagined a bird’s eye view of myself, where my son is pulling me by the nose first one way, and then the other, and then back again. I simply could not give in. This was not a behavior I wanted to reinforce.

“No!” I said.

It only made him cry harder. Now his nose was starting to run.

I turned to my friends who were seated next to us.

“Okay, reality check. What would you do?” I asked them.

“Um, I would get him the Batman,” the husband said quietly, so my son couldn’t hear. I turned to his wife. She nodded her head in agreement.

“Dammit,” I said. Oddly, it was actually what I wanted to hear. I hated to see my son cry, and I wanted to give him what he wanted, not because it would make him stop crying but because it would make him happy, if only for a moment.

I walked back to the woman at the concession and asked if I could have the Batman back. She made the exchange without saying a word.

As I walked back to our seats, I could see my son’s eyes light up, and I knew I had made the right decision. So he chose unwisely, I thought. I’ve made plenty of bad decisions. I couldn’t help but fear I was opening up some door that would now be hard to close, that I’d shown him some sign of weakness that he could now exploit. But he was smiling now, and that made me smile.

As we watched the remainder of the circus, my son held the Batman doll on his lap like it was a child. When the lights came on, he turned the doll around to face us. The two of us sat for a moment, staring at the doll. It was a funny looking Batman, with a flat face and squinty eyes.

My son looked up at me and said, “I’m afraid of Batman.”

I pretended not to hear him.

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