Day 755: In Praise of Three Year Old Boys

Today my son is three years old. I didn’t know if I would see him get to this age back a few weeks before his first birthday, when I was diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer. I’ll always be glad that we celebrated his birthday as normally as we could, and I’ll also always be glad that he won’t remember how emotionally wrecked I was at the time. I wrapped the presents, baked the cake, took pictures as he smashed it all over his face, cleaned him up when he vomited the cake out a few hours later. His first birthday was pretty routine, except for all that death lurking in the background.

But times have changed, our lives have changed, and boy, has he changed.

This year, he gets to have his first birthday party with friends. He’s a little ringleader, a child with way too much charisma for his own good, so I capped the party at 6 kids to make my life easier. I try not to think about the parties he’ll throw for himself when he’s older, like, in three years.

I really don’t know what to say about Augie. Everything that I can think of comes out in short phrases, small ideas really. I feel like I am yelling at him most of the time, trying to stop him from hurting himself or other people, trying to control that crazy little person and losing the battle. Sometimes, I get to talk to him normally, and I realize how much else is going on in that little brain besides deviousness and mayhem. I’m just not sure I usually get the chance to say it. So I’ll use this medium for that purpose, and say a few things to my son.

Augie, I want you to know that there was a time when I thought you would never speak, back when you were one and a half and I was in the middle of chemo. My guilt brought me to the point of near obsession on this point, and I had you evaluated by Easter Seals. You were a little slow on speech development, but on everything else you excelled—especially all of the social development milestones. In fact, I don’t think the counselors wanted to leave because you were so damn cute that they just wanted to play with you all day. I should have realized then that you already knew exactly how to wrap everyone around your finger. I also should have known that you were apparently saving up all your talking for the talking back you were about to start doing. And yet, it’s really hard to stay mad at you, even though you deserve for me to stay mad at you. How can you be mad at someone who is always, ALWAYS, singing? How long can you stay mad at a kid who has so much empathy, so much exuberance, so much joy? And how, I ask you, are we going to keep you safe and alive until you’re old enough to know better? Will you ever be old enough to know better?

You try me, kid. But I love you anyway. I need to document your preschool age nuttiness, lest you run us so ragged when you’re a teenager that we forget that we already knew what was coming. So, for the record, I have no idea how you learned to do the following, all before age three:

1. attempt to sneak out of the park with a bunch of girls a few years older than you, then, upon getting caught, shield them all with your arms and declare: “Look mommy, we weren’t doing nothing.”

2. Kiss me good night by grabbing the back of my head with one hand, my face with the other, and swooping in

3. Use your basic math skills to surmise that it will be 19 years until you can have a beer

4. Discipline yourself, by declaring that you will soon be going to the corner or to your room, because, clearly, you cannot avoid whatever misbehavior you are about to inflict on us

5. Convince teenage girls that you are “scared” of things so that they will let you sit on their laps

6. Put your hands up in the air and begin dancing and singing “All the single ladies” at the top of your lungs in the grocery store

7. invent games such as “crash,” that involve you sparring, running, and then crashing into your dad over and over again until you are just short of a head injury

8. retaliate against people for any minor infraction or moment of not getting your way through the use of homemade weapons, including shoes, toy cars, the garden hose, a jump rope, Kleenex boxes, and fruit

9. refuse to listen to almost anything we tell you to do, but follow your sister’s authoritarian rule like a good little soldier

10. attempt, unsuccessfully, to play your dad and I off of one another, lie about what the other parent said RIGHT IN FRONT OF US, and then grab one of us by the chin, turning the face towards you and asking again very emphatically for what you were just told you couldn’t have

11. make up long, complicated stories while looking through books, because you are jealous that your sister can read and you can’t

12. surprise me at every turn, asking if you can bring a rock to keep you busy when we go out, looking around during the annual breast cancer walk and declaring “gosh mom, there are lots of girls here,” or running into the room when you had just turned two, arms waving, shouting "GUYS! You won't believe this!"

13. play the piano as if you actually know how to play the piano, softly and carefully, pretending to read sheet music

14. observe keenly the differences in things, be it the number of doors on a car, meaning a coupe is meant for only 2 people – “that’s cool!”, or that freight trains don't run on the El tracks, or that families with dogs and cats have “both kinds of people”

15. have a sense of humor rich in physical comedy, but also understand the nuance of timing

16. love all animals so completely, when we have never had any pets

17. get so used to hearing your first and middle names (Augustine Jacob!!!) called out to you in exasperation that you have taken to calling me “Mommastine Jacob” as a joke

18. force me to learn to use phrases I never thought I’d utter once in regular rotation: “no more choke holds!” “do not sit on your sister’s head!” “where are your pants?” “where are your UNDERPANTS?” “that doesn’t belong anywhere near this house much less IN YOUR MOUTH!”

19. become serious and introspective in an instant, and say something profound that leaves us in shock and wondering who you really are

20. ingrain yourself in everyone’s brain. College kids who used to babysit for you visit you on breaks. Everyone asks about you. You make friends everywhere you go. Teenagers and senior citizens alike seem to think you’re fun for a party. A month or so ago, I was talking to a friend about some of your crazy antics. She has known you since you were born, back when you refused to open your eyes for two months and all you did was nurse and sleep. She adores you, as most people do. She told me that we were in for some real trouble starting in about ten years. And then she said, you know, it’s going to be so much fun, watching him grow up, seeing what he does, how he turns out.

And that’s the truth. I plan to be there to see it for myself. If fate doesn’t allow that, well, you have definitely made sure I wouldn’t be bored in this life. And even though I don’t really believe in this kind of thing, a part of me does believe that you’ve been here before, and apparently you learned a few things about how to have a good time your last time around. Thank you for reminding me.

Happy birthday, kiddo. I love you.

Day 679: On Joy

“Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing." William Shakespeare

Yesterday, I did something typical of me, one of those things that probably makes me ineligible for motherhood awards, if they made those.

I stole my daughter’s jump rope.

Here we are, in the ides of March (oh how different life is than at this time last year), and yesterday it was 80 degrees. In Chicago. I left work early because I was too restless in my windowless office, found the only pair of shorts that hadn’t been put away for the winter (some workout shorts that barely cover my behind) and a tshirt and took a walk. Then I picked up the kids and they played in the backyard; Lenny was excited to show me her newly-learned jump rope moves. And I just couldn’t help myself. I told her to help Augie blow bubbles, and I took the rope to use myself.

It’s been at least 25 years since I’ve jumped rope. I do not have anything approaching an addictive personality, and yet I think I was addicted to jumping rope as a child. I couldn’t do double dutch—well, I never really tried—but I could literally jump rope for three or four hours without stopping. I mean, my mom would have to call me in to remind me to eat or go to the bathroom. I didn’t see the point in taking a break. I weighed 45 pounds in the 4th grade, so you can imagine how little I was at age 6 or 7 at the height of my jump roping prowess. Why, you might ask, did I do this?

I just loved it, with an irrational love that could’ve probably physically injured me considering the intensity with which I loved it.

That’s a love I thought I had lost. When I first started going to the gym regularly, back in late 2007, we would jump rope sometimes during strength training classes and doing it for 30 seconds would kick my ass. Instead of just feeling frustrated or weak, this made me feel like I had lost a part of myself. So yesterday when I stole the rope, I didn’t know if I could do it at all. I have issues with high-intensity workouts due to my hips (probably the reason I don’t remember jumping rope at all after my car accident), and this rope was made for a child, not someone like me with 5-foot long legs, so there were two more problems. Oh well, I just kind of literally took candy from my own baby so I guess I’d better eat it, right?

And I started by jumping, then skipping, only stopping when I got tripped up by the too-short rope. The kids counted for me. Lenny realized what I was doing and declared a jump rope contest was in order. I said fine, you’re on, thinking to myself, it’s been like 28 years but I’ve totally got this. I didn’t want to give the rope back to her when it was her turn. I realized I could actually teach her correct jump rope form and I started trying to remember all the rhymes we used back in the day. I told Gabe later that I wanted to find a correctly-sized rope, since it was such good exercise, even if I only did it for a few minutes a day. I imagined myself stealing away to the back patio or even jumping on our front porch in the spring. I mentioned the cardiovascular benefits, how I must be able to do it easily now because of spinning, I sat there and heard this stuff spewing out of my mouth about how great jumping rope is for you.

What a load of crap. Jumping rope might be healthy, sure. But mostly it is so much damn fun you don’t even care how idiotic you look using a pink glittered rope when you are 36 years old and you don’t even realize you’re hungry or that you only got three hours of sleep the night before. It’s fun to count, and hear the slap of the rope or the whir in the air as you go faster.

So that’s when I had this jumping rope epiphany.

You know how everyone talks about the magic of childhood, the way that you feel things so intensely when you’re young, the way the small things are such a marvel the first time you experience them, the way teenagers just want to live, dance, fuck, experience their bodies? You know how we all lament how that gets lost and think we can only experience these joys again vicariously, through our children?

Well not me. That focus on the small things, that childish joy, that’s me, and it’s always been me to some extent, and maybe that is one of the only things that makes me who I am. Cancer did not give that to me. Maybe epilepsy did, or near-paralysis, or something else. Who knows?

You might think I’m nuts or that I’m just saying this to make myself sound somehow more positive than I am. Don’t get me wrong—this not so sunny personality hasn’t changed. I’m a cynical person. I’ve been a grown-up, all responsible and working hard, since I was about 11. Someone once told me I was “ultra-sane,” and I really didn’t know how to take that, but I knew it meant that logic and reason are defining aspects of my sense of self, for better or worse.

But that joy, that marvel, that wonder, has always been with me. A teenager I know who is a freshman in college laughed at me the other day when I said “you know what, I don’t GO to the park,” explaining why Gabe always takes the kids over there. My mom was the same way—I swear we only went to the park with our friends and their parents, because she just looked at us like we’d lost our minds if we made the suggestion that she come along. I can’t vouch for her, but I’ll tell you why I hate going to the park:

It’s boring. As a parent, I am supposed to watch my kids while they play. I push Augie on the swing because his stubborn ass refuses to learn how to pump his legs (a skill Lenny mastered remarkably early, by 2 and a half). Augie doesn’t even try—he knows some older girl will think he’s cute and take pity on him when I walk away after five minutes, and he will get pushed. The thing is, it’s boring to me, because I WANT TO BE THE ONE SWINGING. And I can’t—because it’s rude of me to take up a swing when there are so many kids around. Because then I can’t keep an eye on my own children, especially the younger one who is crazy and always trying to escape. I want to play, and I can’t, so it pisses me off and I feel bored so I stay home and listen to music really loud and dance around the house (apparently Gabe and the kids sometimes spy on me while I do this). Now, Gabe does play at the park. He throws five kids on his back and swings them around, and they jump all over him and he plays shark attack and does cartwheels and pull-ups on the monkey bars. I don’t actually have any desire to do any of those things. I want to do what I did as a kid:

I want to play by myself.

What a shitty thing for a mom to say! I am supposed to just marvel at my children’s joy. Every time one of them gleefully yells “look mom! Look what I can do!” and I see one of them figuring out how to jump rope, or throwing a balloon in the air, or jumping for no reason, or swimming on their own, or pulling on their own pants, I am happy for them, of course. But a little part of me is also thinking “me too! Look at me! look at what my body can do!” I just don’t have anyone to say that to, and if I did say it, I would sound insane. When Augie joyfully looks at his round belly or barges into the bathroom when I’m in the shower, opens the curtain and says “mom! You have a booty!,” I alternately laugh or tell him to get the hell out of here. But somewhere inside I think me too! Look at this! The last time I went into Victoria’s Secret and a saleslady asked me if I wanted something with “lots of support” (is that the way to politely ask a small-breasted grown woman if she wants a padded bra?), I answered without thinking: “no, I’m pretty happy with what I’ve got left,” and that answer was so honest and true that I didn’t realize why she looked at me funny.

So what I’ve learned, rather than how to not feel the newness of everything and the strangeness, the mystery, of my own body, is how to lie about it. How much easier it is, in the end, to pretend that I can’t go to the park because there’s housework to do (with Ke$ha on the radio), how much simpler it is to say that I go to the gym because I would like to survive cancer, or because it’s healthy, or even because I’m vain. How much easier it is to say that I lift weights because it is good for my metabolism.

Let’s break down why Katy loves the workouts she loves. I love spinning, and I love strength training or pilates in the gym or studio. There are two reasons I love these things that other workouts don’t necessarily provide: loud music, and a mirror.

I’ve tried to explain the music part. I could literally be happy for days with nothing but myself and some loud fun songs to jam to; I’m like a teenager that way. It’s never lost its appeal. It’s even better when the music’s so loud you can’t hear yourself think, because honestly, I think so much, thoughts are flying in my brain in such rapid succession, that I just want to scream shut the fuck up to my own gray matter, but I can’t, so I just find a good playlist and TURN IT UP. Or they can do that for me at the gym. The mirror is just as important to me. I only wear short shorts and tank tops at the gym now. The reason could be the equivalent of trying to squeeze into jeans that are too small: if I see myself I will figure out what I need to improve on this body. Or, the reason could be that I am narcissistic and I like to look at myself. Or it could be because I have finally, after almost two years, regained all of the sweat glands that chemo killed in me, and I actually get hot and drippy in the gym, so I try not to wear much. Or…

I could admit that it’s because I have this lifelong complicated relationship with my body, wherein I feel somewhat separated from myself. I have warred with my body so much, and every day I wake up and am surprised. Surprised about what? Well, the waking up part, for one. The way I can tell my feet to go one in front of the other and they comply. The way my crazy-thinking brain works. It hasn’t, after all, always been thus. I like to see my muscles in the mirror, my kind of borderline too-big biceps and my strong legs and even my somewhat sculpted shoulders. And I don’t give a rat’s ass how that sounds. I just think to myself, look, that works, that’s strong even, look how fast and crazy you are when you sprint on the bike.

Seeing your body work is another kind of joy, especially when you never really get used to it or expect it. Perhaps this is the reason I’m no good at competitive sports. I am just not at all goal-oriented with fitness. For me, it’s all about my relationship with my body, not in trying to accomplish something or win. For me, the accomplishment is in my working body itself. Seeing health where there was once sickness, seeing strength where there was once atrophy, or hell, just keeping going when a lot of people can’t do that anymore—that’s it, that’s what I’m trying to do.

I was talking to the gym manager at work about the gyms where the goal is to beat your previous score, to see if you can beat the person next to you at the workout. She said that wasn’t her style and I had to agree. She was cracking up when I said, yeah, if I wasn’t able to do something as well as someone else, I’d be all punching their arm and saying “good job! Good for you,” not giving a shit about my own performance. I guess that’s the reason I won the sportsmanship award for every sport I ever played, but also why I gave up competitive sports early. I loved basketball almost as much as jumping rope, but I quit playing on teams when I was around 12. I saw how much it mattered to the other girls (and boys, when I played on co-ed teams—a terrible idea in the 80s, one that I believe ruined many aspiring female athletes’ self-esteem, as we were taller and better and sat on the bench anyway), how they were practically killing themselves over losing, how much anger and drive they had. And all I would think was, isn’t it something that I’m an 11 year old girl and I can make a half court shot? Isn’t it cool to shoot fifty free throws in a row and only miss five? Isn’t dribbling just fun? I had to admit I could do those things at home, and save the winning and losing for someone who cared.

The things I love about fitness are the same things I love as a sports spectator. I love football when I can see some guy ducking and sparring and running faster than anyone else. I was so pissed at Priest Holmes when he bulked up and couldn’t fly down the field anymore. I would root against my own team to watch him work that short, crazy body. During baseball season, I could watch the same replay of a triple over and over. I love to catch the balk before the ump does. I can’t stand professional basketball because everyone travels and everyone is freakishly tall and no one kills themselves flying into the bench to save a ball the way they do in college or high school.

I like to see bodies work, even on tv. So, after going out for a quick dinner last night, Gabe and I rented Footloose from the Redbox. He fell asleep about halfway through, but I actually watched the whole thing and found it surprisingly entertaining, except for the fact that the lead characters seemed CRAZY old to be in high school. I love to watch people who can dance, since I’m not good at it myself (living room antics disregarded). But then something weird happened. I found myself getting really emotional. Don’t laugh—remember, Ren’s mother is dead, done in by leukemia. I swear to God every movie over the last year has featured a dead mother, and cancer is usually the culprit. Also remember that I still have issues with teenagers, particularly teenage boys, because it’s hard for me to think I might not be there to see my kids reach that age. When Ren made the big speech about how one day, the teenagers would be like the adults in the room, full of worry, but now was their time to live, to dance and act like idiots, I thought damn.

I never grew up, did I?.

I have always worried, even as a child. That didn’t change with age or parenthood. I’ve always been pretty self-composed as well, able to fit into most situations, able to keep my cool most of the time. But I have also been almost selfish in my desire to still act like it’s my time. As I said, even while reveling in my kids’ joy over some activity that is new to them, I always think “me too.” This affects our family in substantive ways, this admittedly self-centered characteristic of mine. When we go to the lake house, I swim, and Gabe makes sand castles with the kids. I float and ignore everyone else. When I eat, it’s like there’s never been food before this meal. My interest in sex is in the pleasure, not the spiritual connection, though I get that too.

I don’t know what to make of this. I really don’t know what this says about me, but it doesn’t seem good. I don’t know that it can be helped either, not after so many years. Last night, after the movie ended, I was teary-eyed, a sensation I still hate and that feels alien to me, and I woke Gabe up and told him we should go to bed. It was 12:30 and I normally get up a little after 5. In bed I told him why I had been emotional, and I started crying again. I said I wanted to live to see the kids be teenagers. He said of course you will. I said, well, if not, I know they will still enjoy themselves. That made me cry more, and it made Gabe cry too. So we were crying and feeling sad and I wanted to feel better.

So that’s what we did, we made each other feel better, and then it was 2 in the morning, and I set the alarm for 6:30 because I knew I’d be unable to get up 3 hours later. Sometimes you just want to feel your body working, the closeness of another person’s body, the joy and wonder that is at the essence of your life. Sometimes it works, and life seems closer than death, your flesh seems more real than the dust of your bones. And for some people, it’s like that all the time, and our little restless bodies can’t stay still, or sleep, and we can’t remember when it wasn’t this way. It wasn’t cancer that brought me this, in fact it was cancer that tried to take this away, and succeeded for a time.

But I’m back. And Lenny found another jump rope in the house—one that’s just my size. I’m telling you, I’ve got this. Maybe someone should teach me how to double-dutch.