Back Seat Drivers

Photo: Jon Curnow

 

When I was learning how to drive, my mother would sit in the passenger seat, tilt her tensed torso straight back and press her useless foot into the floor mat. "Break!"  she would say anxiously. She'd fully extend her right leg and caution me, "Break!  BREAK!" My eyes rolled at her so many times, I'm surprised they never did "get stuck like that."

You see, I understand backseat drivers. Back seat uneven bar-ers, however, I had not been familiar with; until last night's Olympic Games. Aly Raisman, your typical American teenager (if you consider a teenage Olympic gymnast typical) may have qualified to compete for the gold last night, but it is her parents who stole the show.

If you missed their performance, you can watch it here: http://gawker.com/5930003/you-have-to-watch-us-gymnast-aly-raismans-hilarious-parents-react-to-her-bar-routine

Being mortified by your parents is par for the childhood course. My Dad was famous for intentionally turning me crimson with embarrassment.  He'd pass gas just to get my goat. By the time I was 16, I would apologize to waitresses in advance of our meals. I would invite friends over with lengthy warnings of cheesy teasing and puns ahead. But never, ever ... ever, did my parents pull a Raisman.

I was watching their bizarre bleacher behavior last night, thinking, NO NBC! STOP! DON'T SHOW THIS! ALY WILL DIE!! CUT AWAY! CUT TO CHINESE GIRLS VAULTING!! PLEASE STOP. 

I felt for poor Aly, who in that moment had no idea that her parents were mortifying her internationally.

Moments later, after Aly was selected to compete in the "All Around" competition, the cameras cut back to her folks. They were sobbing. No longer bobbing awkwardly in unison, the Raismans were overjoyed. They were sweaty and worn out from the stress of the stands, but their child had just wowed the world, and they were there to see it happen. What a moment.

The Raismans are bound to be razzed about their Olympic moment for years to come, but they don't strike me as the kind of people who will really mind. Their daughter is clearly at the wheel ... they're just back seat driving. No matter how embarrassing.

Confessions of a Campy Mom

It's July 24th and I miss camp.  

There was something about the sound of the bus wheels, slowing on the gravel of that circular driveway, that induced pure joy.  Hundreds of wide-eyed girls and wild-child boys would bound off the buses and listen for their name to be called by impossibly cool counselors with accents and clipboards.  Sitting on my trunk, waiting to hear my cabin assignment, I would whisper secret prayers to God that I'd be placed with my besties and that Apple Jacks would be available for breakfast. 

My tween-age definition of happiness was those first nights at summer camp, lying awake on top bunks, the smell of Tinkerbell nail polish and Off (with deet) in the air, the sound of whispers between friends for life.   

In the sixth grade I learned the word "utopia."  The teacher defined it and I thought, "Oh, sure.   That's camp."

Today's a perfect camp day.  I wish I could run down the hill and put my buddy tag on the waterfront board.  I would pick windsurfing as my activity and then after, I would swim out to the raft and lay out with no fear of skin cancer or age spots.  During rest time I'd write my best friend at home a letter, telling her I was in love.  I'd choose playwriting as my afternoon activity and write something pithy for my friends and I to star in.  I'd walk by the stables and sneeze 3 times.  Maybe I'd check out candle-making.  I'd tye-dye a pillow case in a spiral pattern.  I'd wear my friend's peasant blouse for dinner and put my finger to my nose to avoid clearing the table.   I'd sing full out.  I'd hold hands with a boy during evening snack and disappear into the starry woods for peanut butter bar flavored kissing.  We'd probably break up in the morning. 

Utopia.

When you're 14 years old at summer camp, your primary concern is who you'll sit with at lunch.  The weight of future adult summers, sans summer camp, doesn't register.  There's not a moment during color war, when you think to yourself, "One day I'll be 36 and running errands instead of ... running."  When you're 14 years old at summer camp, you are fully present.  Loving every mosquito riddled moment.  Your future self seems implausible, so you remain a developmentally appropriate narcissist and eat as many Saturday morning cinnamon rolls as possible, with no thought to your future thighs.  Being 14 years old at summer camp is a luxury.

My kids are in day camp now.  They're too young to sleep away.  But one day, I hope to send them somewhere buggy.  Somewhere without a TV or Wi-Fi.  Somewhere they can step on a snail on their way into the lake for swimming lessons.  Somewhere they can have as many roasted marshmallows as they can fit on their stick.   I hope they send me letters that say "Dear Mom, Camp is awesome.  Gotta Go."  I hope they'll cry and cry on the very last day because they'll miss their truest friends too much.   

And I hope, when they're 36 and summer rolls around and they're taking out the trash and going to work and mowing the lawn, they can have a day like I'm having today.  A day where they look out their window, see the sun's reflection on the rustling leaves, and miss camp.

Getting Played

There comes a point in every parent/toddler conflict, when the child gets the upper hand.   His two+  years of manipulation experience begin to pay off and he makes a seemingly spontaneous pointed comment with an adorable speech impediment that stops you dead in your tracks.  Just when you were counting to three (or else), you look into those sparkly crocodile tear filled eyes, lose your ground, soften the stern look in your eyes, and give in.

If this has happened to you, chances are, you've been played.

Pajama Power Struggle

(a short bedtime play)

by Sandy Rustin

Little Boy:  I don't want to get dressed here.  I want to get dressed over there.

He runs to a undisclosed location.

Mom:  (masking irritation) Where are you?

Appearing with a sheepish smile.

Little Boy:  Ta-Da! 

He runs again.

Mom:  It's time for you to put on your pajamas.  C'mon.  I want to see you cooperate.

Little Boy:  I want Daddy to do it.

Mom:  You said you wanted me to do it.

Little Boy:  I want Daddy to do it.

Mom:  (Calling off)  Honey ... Can you come do pajamas?  He wants you.

Dad appears in the doorway. 

Dad:  Can I talk to you for a minute?

Mom and Dad disappear into the bathroom.  It is unknown what the child is doing during this time, but chances are whatever it is, it is not good.

Dad:  He doesn't get to act like this.  When we ask him to do something, he needs to do it.  No negotiation.  We have to hold our ground, or he's going to think he can keep doing this every night.  We make the rules.

Mom:  (sigh)  You're right, you're right.  Ok. 

They emerge from the bathroom unified.  Team Parents.  FYI, a tower of Mom's shoes has been created.

Dad:  Mom is putting your pajamas on tonight.

Little Boy:  No.  You are.

Dad:  That's not a nice way to talk. 

Little Boy:  I don't want Mommy, I want you. 

Mommy rolls her eyes.

Dad:  Tonight, Mommy is putting on your pajamas.  There's no more arguing.

Little Boy trembles lip and makes his eyes look 14 times bigger than usual.  He fills his eyes with sweet tears.

Little Boy:  But Daddy, I missed you.

Dad:  What?

Little Boy:  We went on an airplane and you stayed at work and now we are home and I missed you and I want you to put on my pajamas. 

Beat. 

Dad:  (drastic tone of voice shift) You missed me, Buddy?

Little Boy nods adorably.

Dad:  Aww.  (glances at Mom apologetically) Well  ...  I guess  ... ok.  I can put on your pajamas for you.  I missed you too.

Big Hug. 

Dad:  Alright, c'mon let's do it.

Beat.  A squeal.  Little Boy runs to an undisclosed location.  While laughing.

Dad looks at Mom.

Mom:  You sir, just got played.

Mom exits.  Dad remains shlumped in the doorway.

Black Out. (Well, there's a night light).

We have the best of intentions to stand firm against these little people with huge control issues.  But, sometimes their strategies are so effective, we succumb to their perfected skills and become a mockery to our spouses. 

They're talented.  So buck up cause parenthood makes us suckers.

The good news is, before you know it they'll be putting on their own pajamas.   The bad news is, one day they'll want the keys to your car.

Ushers and Seagulls

"So, what's your favorite part of parenthood?"  say people who find out I wrote a show about parenthood.  

I should have an outstanding answer to this question.  It should roll off the tip of my tongue.  But images of soft baby toes, smells of curly sleeping heads, and sounds of wavy little boy laughter get tangled in my thoughts and I say something benign like, "oh all of it," which isn't true at all.  There are plenty of un-favorite parts.  Wrestling a toddler to the floor in an effort to cut his fingernails would be at the top of my un-favorite list.

When I was teaching drama to kindergartners many years ago, a mentor advised me never to ask small children "what's your favorite part?" but rather to ask "what part do you remember most?"  He felt it was a too much pressure for a child to determine one moment as the best moment of an experience.   However, to be asked to simply remember the experience allowed the child to naturally conjure up the moments that mattered most.  I have always liked this system.

When my older son was three years old I decided that for my birthday, I wanted to take to him to his first Broadway show.  I wanted the experience all to myself.  I wanted to see his face light up as the conductor struck up the band.  I wanted to hear his little gasp as the curtain rose.  I wanted my lap to be the lap he jumped to if a chandelier came crashing down or something.   We dressed up and I parted his hair to one side.  We held hands on the subway and I picked him up at the box office window so he could be the one to get the tickets.  We got our playbills and were shown to our seats. 

The first time I saw The Lion King on Broadway, Oprah was in the audience.  She stood up and waved with a closed palm to the crowd at intermission and I was very excited about it.

The second time I saw The Lion King, my son was in the audience.  I was way more excited the second time.

The show was magical.  Life sized puppets came streaming down the aisles and I was certain I was changing my son's life forever.  The instrumental introduction of live theatre felt monumental. 

I remember the black patent leather shoes and scoop necked blue and white smocked dress I wore the day that Annie exploded onto the stage and blew my mind for all eternity.  That day in the theatre, sitting between my mom and grandmother, shaped my future.  What would this day, this moment of watching wild animals come to life through the grace of stage illusion, do for my child? 

Here was the conversation after the show:

Me:  What part do you remember most?!

My Little Boy: The ushers.

Me:  What?  The lions?

My Little Boy:  No.  The ushers.  They have uniforms and flashlights and they know where every single seat is.  I like the ushers.

Beat.  Silence as mother and son exeunt.

Yesterday, I was reminded of ushers.  My younger son, now  three, sat beside me atop the Chicago Ferris Wheel.  Towering above the glistening  lake and the city that raised me, I snuggled him tightly and pointed out the landmarks below.  When we were walking back to the car, I asked him what he remembered most about his view from the sky.   "That bird," he said pointing at a seagull passing by and I squeezed his hand a little tighter.

A splashy Broadway sensation.  A view of the world.  Children come back to you with ushers and seagulls.  I think that is the beauty of parenthood.   I hope that's what I'll remember.  

The Duck Hunt

As a young child edges towards the title of "big kid," nap time reaches new heights of preciousness to the parent. 

While the napper desperately tries to avoid the subject altogether, the nap administrator enforces the event with bribes and serious sounding vocal tones.   It is a precarious dance of lullabies and threats until long-lashed eyelids succumb to the lure of a room with well installed black out shades.

Everything must be in perfect harmony for a nap cusp-ish child to drift into slumber.   One cannot afford a single misstep or the whole affair could end before it even begins; ensuring a nightmare afternoon filled with tears at drops of buckets and whatnot. 

This is why, I am The Duck Hunter.

Duck is dingy yellow.  He smells like saliva and strawberries.  He's slightly damp most of the time.  He is the key to my salvation.

We have an oft broken rule in our home.  DUCK MAY NOT LEAVE THE BEDROOM.  If this rule were adhered to, I would have another, less gruesome title.  Something like, "Sweet Mommy That Kisses Me Night Night and Sings Pretty."  But, somehow between breakfast and lunch, Duck, perhaps of his own volition, makes his way into nooks and crannies around our home, forcing me to become a huntress.

The journey upstairs for naptime is one fraught with tension.  Negotiations begin long before the actual event.  Quantity of books, temperature of milk, usage of the toilet: these are all topics that arise.  But the quest for Duck is a daily pursuit that today, nearly threw me over the edge.

I spent 61 minutes - a record - searching for Duck.  After checking the obvious spots, I began to search the less conspicuous areas where Duck has been known to pop up.  I looked in:

·         The garage

·         The kitchen cabinets

·         Behind the fish tank

·         In the wine rack

·         In the bath tub

·         In the dog's bed

All the while, my son, consistently appeared out of bed every 3-5 minutes with an resounding chorus of "I need duck" until I actually closed my eyes, took a breath and said out loud, "Now if I were Duck, where would I be?" 

I  knew I was unbearably close to the nap time window closing and the rest of the day being a blur of rubbing eyes and whining when an image flashed before my eyes.  A shock of blonde curls and a gross, sick, disgusting, makes me wanna puke scrub brush from the powder room.  Hadn't I fussed at him earlier?  Called out a distracted "put that back right now" while making turkey sandwiches? 

As I recollect the moment, I walk passionately to the bathroom closet.  I open the never locked, but now locked  (I smell victory!) door.  THERE IS DUCK.  On the bottom shelf, tucked up against the vile scrub brush.

Exhaustion has overtaken my child.  I find him doing downward dog and singing ABC's (just up to J) on repeat in his bedroom.  Triumphant, I hold Duck (Olympic medal style) above my head as I enter his room.     

60 seconds later my child is sound asleep.

Duck and I have a tempestuous relationship.  And yet, I just can't quit him.  The call of the hunt is simply too strong.