Someone Else is Living Your Parisian Dream

With the boys in daycare full time, I now regularly have time for myself, after over 2.5 years. TWO!AND!A HALF!YEARS! Just in time, because as Léo waddles and toddles unsteadily, and as Max’s regular speed is ‘overdrive’, they’re like a race car on an oil slick. There are many accidents, bruises on the head, subsequent crying, calming down and cuddles. Max is not a bad kid, so I don’t like to have to calm him down, rather squash his energy. He needs to release it. Whereas Léo now seems to accept daycare - this is his first experience with the ‘collective’ - daycare is the place for Max. He must agree, because daily, at 5:30pm, he tells me that he’s not “ready to leave yet. Can you come in and play?” I get Léo early so that we can have our few hours of “Mama + Léo” time - personal time that he hasn’t had with me, previously. Max and I had lots of time together, fortunately, for his first 18 months. It seems that I’m constantly making up for last time with these two, and will begin to do so with the husband, this weekend!

Max is a blooming field of curiousity in the wind, with a thousand questions on how things work, why people feel the way they do, what am I doing? what are you doing? and why, why, why? A handful of times, I’ve had to shut down a barrage of ‘whys’ with an authorative, “Because I’m your mother.” That absolutely did not feel like a ‘win’ for me, even though it stopped the interrogation.

As he grows, gets wittier, sassier and more rebellious, I find that I need to improve my game also, as a mother. I read something that resonated with me; a reminder to think of the “end result” with each of my actions. For example, if you hold them too much, what is the possible end result? Against the advice of my family, I held Max constantly, as he was my only ‘job’ for a very long time, and he’s growing into a wonderfully adaptable, confident, easy going little boy. The end result, if these are correlated, is fantastic. With this example, I learned that unless safety is concerned, there’s advice to be considered, but novody is really ‘right’ but me, in raising my boys.

I do strive to be close to them. To be a source of their comfort. Their ’safe’ zone. I want all of this to be the end result. Whereas I normally lose my temper when Max..ohhhh…pushes Leo down or takes Leo’s doudou and runs off cackling like a mad man, leaving Leo crying and toddling after it - I’m trying to remember that he wants time with me, too, wants the attention, and that my angry approach is divisive; both for them, and for Max and me. In Max’s mind, it was always Mama and Max. When we’re alone - while Leo takes his naps, or during our coffee dates in the mornings - he is absolutely calm, perfectly happy to sit on my lap with a book, a puzzle or our blocks, or just to be held, “like a baby,” as he sometimes requests. I wrap him up tight as he snuggles down in my arms as we were when he truly was a tiny baby, and we enjoy the moment. And then he asks, “Am I a little baby now?” If that isn’t pure honesty…. None of the running in circles and screaming or looking for something (body) to knock down.

My husband gently reminded me yesterday, that Max needs me, too. It makes me think, sometimes, that as mature as he’s always been for such a young thing, that he was forced to be a big brother far before he was ready to give up his role as ‘baby.’ It makes me think of a time at a friend’s house, when Max was about 18 months old or so, when she asked us naively, “If you tell him not to touch the food on the coffee table, he won’t touch it, right?” She’s since had her own child, and I’m certain, knows better, but these are the reactions to his personality that he illicits.

I learning, though, that I can’t be a complacent mom. While I’m probably not horrible, I’m learning that I need to grow with my boys to meet their needs. He was up to his usual antics of harassing Leo, yesterday evening, when I asked him to go sit on his bed in the bedroom until I came. If we can’t play nicely together, then we need some space, I told him. I came to him 5 minutes later, and crawled into the cave (the lower bunk) and snuggled in next to him. Here, I decided to try my hand at some ‘emotion coaching’ though I wasn’t certain that he was ready to be on the receiving end; to ‘respond.’ Again, as I am every time I underestimate Max’s sense of awareness, I was mistaken.

“Do you know why you’re in here?” (First mistake. I should’ve just told him why he was there.) The in between was a blur and it didn’t follow the emotion coaching concept to the T, but the end result, 2 minutes later, was excellent.

“…… Is it that you don’t like it when I hold Leo?”

He answers, “Yes.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I want you to hold me, too.” And he crawls on top of me, and rests his face in my neck.

“Of course I’ll hold you. I’ll remember that you need me too. I forget sometimes because you’re such a big boy. But you need to use yours words to tell ME that you want to be held, and not hurt others.”

Later, in the living room where I’m again holding Leo on the sofa, sitting next to the husband, Max grabs his blankets and asks, “Can you hold me, too?” And there, we all snuggled in close.

Because Max has always been pretty mellow, an early speaker thus he didn’t have to cry or whine much for what he needed, etc. and with his old soul eyes, he’s always seemed to be more of a little boy to me, than a baby. More often than not, I forget that he’s still small and needs his Mama. How humbling it was, and what a lesson for me, that he just came out and told me what he needed from me, when I gave him the opportunity.

Hopefully, we’re on our way to understanding the other’s needs. That Max still needs me. That he understands that Leo needs me. That I need to divide my time and affections more equally, as my big boy really sometimes wants his turn to be small, too.

“Tu dois pas me laisse tout seule comme ca,” Max called from the balcony, where he was concentrating on eating his popsicle.   The words were a bit like white noise in my head as I read, and didn’t register. My husband laughed and asked whether I’d heard that.”You shouldn’t leave me alone out here like this,” he said.  My husband and I had retreated to the living room - the other side of the glass door and less than 5 feet away - leaving him on the chair, to finish his treat.  As his parents, everything that he says is amazing to us, not because his statements are so profound, but because of their timing and context. Because in addition to really speaking and forming his own sentences, he lifts exact sentences that he’s heard from us in the past, manipulates them a little and regurgitates them in context.  I’ve told him countless times, “(I need to bathe Léo and) I can’t leave you out here alone like this.”Listening to Max’s progress has been surreal, if that’s possible. He began speaking fairly early  first in english and, shortly after, added french to his repertoire when his grandfather began to spend time with him on a regular basis. From english words in a food context… MORE, APPLE, NANANA (or banana), his french influence emerged in the form of Frenglish words or maybe just one: Ap-pomme.  As his only constant English speaking source - it’s on the rare occasion that he hears any english since we don’t watch much TV - I was concerned that his English wouldn’t be up to par; that it would be broken, accented or that he would prefer to speak in French, with me included; the usual behavior when your exposure to a ‘minority’ language is scarce. That he speaks english 100% of the time with me (to date), lends some reassurance that we’ll maintain our ‘connection.’  That things won’t be left unsaid as he grows older, to the extent that he’s willing to communicate with me, when those times come.  That our primary languages will be on par; that we will have the means to communicate and express to one another.While there is a clear preference for French - he speaks to strangers, other children at the park, family and friends in French, even when he initiates - he knows to speak to me directly or indirectly in English.  While he’s speaking with my husband in French, when I ask what they’re talking about, he tells me in full sentences. In English. With Anglophones, I might tell him to speak to them in English, adding,  ”the way you speak with Mama.”  I’m not sure that he understands the true concept of speaking two languages, though it’s clear to us that he’s aware of speaking differently with me. The mechanics of bilingualism - or the non-mechanics as it seems to be in multilinguals that are born into it - is nothing short of fascinating and amazing. And I say non-mechanic because it comes naturally; it’s not a skill that’s honed consciously. My mom once wrote to me (in a not so nice way) that as soon as I began to speak, I was arguing, protesting and questioning.  Max is no different, as tells us what he wants and doesn’t want.   Je ne veux pas manger! Je ne veux pas dormir! Je’n suis pas fatiguer! Je veus jouet avec…. Je veux sortir! I don’t want to eat! I don’t want to sleep! I’m not tired! I want to play ball….balloon…bubbles….I want to go out! I want to ride my bicycle! I want cookies. I don’t like rice. Screeeech.Pull the needle off the record. Whoa. What? You don’t like rice?   My writing in French is horrible, but you all get my drift.  In any other context, to expect full bilingualism from a child may seem a bit monster-mom’ish.  In our context, it’s important, as we’re a multicultural family. To add a personal spin to this, one of my prominent fears is an inability to communicate effectively with my boys as they get older.As Max’s only input in English, we’re experiencing progress beyond our expectations, since bilingual infants are expected to speak later than ‘normal.’  As Léo will have a very influential French input in Max, I can’t help but to wonder how his linguistic path will differ.     

Léo’s little smiles are nothing short of heartwarming. He buries his face in my shoulder if you look at him, hiding the first small moon of a shy, bright smile. While Max’s eyes and smiles, from the age of 3 months, were flirtatious, Léo’s seems genuine, lit also by his eyes. While the brothers are so different in coloring and morphology, the way that the use their eyes to punctuate their emotions is the same.  He’s a big boy, prone to rage when he hasn’t eaten, or when something is taken away. Usually by Max. A fast crawler, he’s our new mopper. I do vacuum several times a day, one big job in the morning, and lots of little jobs with the handheld during the day.  He is enthusiastic. An enthusiastic eater. Enthusiastic in the bathtub. Enthusiastic crawler. Enthusiastic disputer.  Enthusiastic rambler. An enthusiastic, deep, hearty and contagious laugher, bringing music to my ears, especially in harmony with Max.  And let’s not forget, an Enthusiastic crier, too.  In addition to the eyes, the boys share a spirit.    One of the fun things about children is surely the simple conversations we hold, the context in which they present topics, and especially their timing.  Max is quite the talker, adding “too” to almost everything as an afterthought with a nod of confirmation.  ”Mama is going to eat oatmeal.  Too.”  He’s also quite the contrarian, and that makes me want to wring his neck more often than I’d REALLY like to admit to the Internet.  ”I will not sit down to eat! Ok. How about like this? Like this? Like this?” as he shifts positions over and again.  ”No! I not coming!” “No! No bath!” But he always comes willingly after his outbursts. He always bathes willing. Eventually sits willingly.  To offset these tests of patience during the day - and I do know that he’s exercising he’s will and testing us, he lets slip some sweet words.  Too.  I heard the loud crinkle of a bag from Max’s room last night, my ghetto alarm indicating that he’d rolled off of his bed.  There’s plenty of cushioning, so I wasn’t concerned that he’d hurt himself; more than he would cry in surprise if he woke and realized what happened.  Too late. There were no cries, but he met me in the hallway rubbing his eyes as he came to find me as he often does at night. I scooped him up, asking, “Did you fall from your bed?” Now back in bed, and already rolling over toward the wall, he sleepily replied, “Yeah. I fall and Mama come to get Maxou. Too. “Mama’s always going to come get Maxou,” I told the dark room.

I’ll be missing the weddings of two of my favorite people this month.  You know the ones; we don’t speak to often, but they’re always in my thoughts. Really. Always.  The friends that bring a smile that make you send off that little note.  ”I was thinking of you and wondered what you’re up to.”  I didn’t know that one, a somewhat eccentric, brilliant, successful, and quiet artist, a friend who’s a few years older, whom I met when I was 18 years old, was in a relationship until I received a request for our address. How special that made me feel, this far away, to be on the list of someone whose list is sure to be very, very short.  I was not surprised that I didn’t know. He’s just that kind of guy. Our friendship, like it always has been since those days, is ours.  We just are, and he allows me to just be in the small world that is our friendship.  

Another friend, in contrast, is the one whose wedding promises to be a huge affair; a party that will outdo all parties with a large network of eclectic friends drawn by sincerity, openness, genuine and tangible love for life and display of love for those in his world. How flattering, too, to be included in this circle because he loves you, or he doesn’t. Simply.  We met long ago, in our early twenties, in what he describes as ‘clandestine’ ways. Someone who is true and loyal to himself and his loved ones, has finally found his woman. Finally.  And their love is….tangible.  They are beautiful.  They electrify.  They pop. You’d feel it if you saw it.

I feel it in my stomach, the disappointment of missing these celebrations, grand in two very different ways. Two eclectic men of the world who have been elusive in love. Or perhaps it’s that love has eluded them while selecting for them the perfect moment to present their perfect woman.

*     *     *     *     *

 One of my best friends is going through what must be a difficult time with her little boy. She handles it with the grace of ….. a mother who loves her child.  What is stronger than this?  With the patience of moss on a tree, a soft and resilient protective layer over rough patches.  I want be there to give her support, hugs and laughs. Lots of laughs and comraderie.  I want to be there to love her child, to have him grow with my own boys.  To pay her back for everything that she has unknowingly given me, that has made me a better person.  She’s beautiful, for her demeanor, her grace, and her ability to laugh. Always the laughs. I see the faces and hear the voices that she makes, as she animates anecdotes of something that has happened. 

I’m in a long distance relationships with so many loved and admired good friends, with my history and past. They are my distant present.  

Boiling hot water rolled off the counter and onto a small part of my belly this morning, and I jumped back in surprise and pain. I went for the ice pack when the stinging started a minute later, and the husband said not to, which I now clearmindedly dispute - now that the pain has dissipated to a mere discomfort.  At the time, though, I agreed and continued to let the heat cook my belly.  Always the quick thinker on my feet, I said to Max, “Blow on my belly, Max! It stings!”  Max responded emphatically.  “NO! It is NOT a balloon!” I wanted to give him a little hug.