It was her first pregnancy. I couldn't wait to be with my friend Jenny and celebrate the new little life who was doing somersaults in her belly. “I’m warning you,” she wrote before her visit. “I’m big. REALLY BIG.”
The day before she arrived, my children and I went shopping. Each of us chose something for the baby. Little Levis, a fleece blanket, a package of socks, a teething toy. My ever-practical eldest bought a package of diapers. I refrained from indulging my sense of humor and buying other things that would surely come in handy as the baby grew. Cheerios. Under-eye concealer. Barney videos. Stain remover. Coffee.
Jenny was a little over seven months pregnant when she and her husband arrived. She looked pregnant the way characters on TV shows look pregnant: it looked like she had a basketball tucked under her shirt. During our impromptu baby shower, my daughters seemed unable to control the urge to lean up against and pet Jenny’s big belly. They talked to it, felt it kick, and made predictions about its sex. We drank sparkling grape juice and toasted the new baby and, a few days later, waved good-bye.
When their baby son was 18 months old, Jenny and her husband visited again. I had seen him only in pictures over the last year and a half. From newborn to toddler, an infancy in fast-forward. Now he could say “hello” (he talks!), move about (he walks!), and insist on playing catch with my kids (he has interests!). My daughters, then 4 and 6, chased after Jenny’s son. They carried him up and down the stairs, cheered when he banged out a toddler melody on the piano, and pushed him on the swings.
Like all four of my children did at his age, Jenny’s son took a wicked delight in throwing food. Jenny’s first line of response was very familiar to me: she firmly explained that “We don’t throw food.” He regarded her with a calm gaze and gathered up another little handful of Cheerios. She crouched down next to the table, as I have done hundreds of times, and cleaned up the mess. Then, just as she stood up, another handful went flying down.
Over the few days they were with us, I watched her patiently go through this ritual a number of times. She reprimanded him. She put him in “time out.” She took away his plates of food. It reminded me of how wearying it can be to raise a toddler. But most of the time, as I watched this, I had to work to suppress a smile. It was true, he was defying his mother as he gleefully threw Cheerios, bits of cheese, or sliced grapes onto the floor. But he was so…cute. His golden curls. His wide blue eyes. His mischievous laugh. I felt like an indulgent grandmother. Wasn’t he funny to keep teasing her? Wasn’t he clever to pause between handfuls of Cheerios and, only after she had cleaned up the last bit, did his hand come down – boom!
Of course, it's not cute when it's your child. Your chest tightens. You feel a wave of irritation and weariness. You think, "Will this child ever learn to behave himself?” and “How will this defiance translate into adolescence? Will he steal cars? Skip school? Break windows? Clearly, he’s readying himself for a life of crime.”
Then, one day, miraculously, it's over...perhaps because he finds other ways to get a rise out of you. Or maybe because he now accepts that “we” don’t throw food. Or maybe he’s just hungry and it’s more interesting to eat an actual bowl of cereal. With milk poured over it. And a spoon! Now, five years later, my kids often serve their own cereal in the mornings. If I could have seen a snapshot of them -- just once -- chatting over breakfast, loading dishes into the dishwasher, putting away the milk, would it have made me more patient, less anxious and maybe even capable of smiling when I was crouching there, day after day, wiping up thrown food?
I seriously doubt it.
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