Years ago, back when we had one child, an extended cable package and time together after said child was asleep, Mark and I used to watch Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, a makeover show starring five gay men who have clearly never spent any time with children. The Fab Five once made over the home of a couple with a one-year-old child. As I recall, the newly made over living room featured (as some sort of cruel joke on the parents) an open, glass-shelved entertainment center, with the CD/DVD collection conveniently housed at floor level.Now any parent with a child old enough and mobile enough to reach such an entertainment center can describe to you the carnage sure to ensue when you introduce a baby or toddler into the scene. So, needless to say, when the child arrived, the predictable happened: The beleagured mother tried to smile and say thank you while wrestling the squirming child, eager to destroy those pretty, shiny, eye-level boxes and discs. And Thom, the very person who designed this disaster-waiting-to-happen, stood rolling his eyes as the situation unfolded and whispering snidely to the camera, "Control your child!" (As if a firm "no" would suffice.) Of course, the child was just doing what he was supposed to do. And Mark and I laughed, because at that age (or, as evidenced by last week's fish tank incident, even beyond) there is no "control your child"; there is only "lock everything dangerous or precious the hell up and hope for the best."
I think of that "control your child" often when I'm out with my children, because I can hear people thinking it. My son is currently obsessed with things that go fast, so he has to go fast too. He does not walk, he runs: out of his bedroom in the morning, into his bedroom at night, out to the school bus, back into the house, through stores and public places. There is one place he does not run: parking lots. I try to park at the curb whenever I can, and when that's not possible, you'll know it if you see us: I am the one playing tug-o-war with my son's arm. He lurches forward, leaning almost horizontal to the ground, eyes closed and face scrunched in with straining, grunting with anger and frustration, moving his feet 1000 times per second, while I walk gripping his hand and leaning backward to counterbalance. My daughter walks serenely by my side.
When we reach the sidewalk, he's off, but not too far. Every ten feet or so, he'll stop and jog in place, looking back to make sure I'm there: his anxiety about crowded new places forming a little invisible leash back to me. Then he'll shoot off again. I'm thankful for the anxiety, because frankly, I'd be hard pressed to catch him, and would have to resort to yelling things like, "Hey, come back here and look at this Nintendo DS I bought for you!"
Yesterday, I took the kids out shopping with me (President's Day=two kids out of school) and we ended up in a seemingly interminable line. It took the kids a few seconds (and a few frustrated reminders from me) before they settled down. My son ran around and around me, orbiting like my own little moon, while my daughter stood still as a statue just in front of me. I wondered how many people were still uncomfortable, how many people were thinking "control your child!" I wondered if I was the only person there who saw two happy and well-behaved children, doing what they were supposed to be doing.
7 comments: