Our home is filled with many frightening things. There are monsters, big and small, and apparently many ghosts. I am not sure exactly when they all got here — maybe they’ve always been here — but suddenly they are everywhere. That is, according to our two-and-a-half year-old son.
Lately the monsters and ghosts have been jolting our little guy awake in the middle of the night. At about 3 a.m. we hear him calling for us.
For many years I have moved it from one rental house to the next, accepting the extra costs of hiring special piano movers. It’s a beautiful bulky piece of furniture, and in Toronto-sized rentals, it never really fit in. But, throughout the years of enduring small spaces, my piano survived — including one very close call.
With the arrival of a baby, you can expect to receive mountain loads of teeny, tiny onesies and seemingly nifty gadgets that too often end up collecting dust. When I was expecting our son almost two years ago now, my heart melted over the many cute little things kindly given to us from friends and family, but as time moved on, I realized how unnecessary many of these baby goodies proved to be. Some of them were hardly used, others remained unused.
What I really want to do is talk to my mom. You’d think by now I would be used to it, the not calling or talking, the not eating meals together.
But I am never quite there. Never quite over it.
Distraction has settled into my days recently. It was there last night, too, in the middle of it. It isn’t omnipresent, though it is persistent and appears whenever life is weighing heavily on my mind.
And I realize what is troubling me as I sit down unable to write what I am meant to write—I need to talk to my mom.
We can’t please toddlers for a pretty simple reason: they can be impossible to please.
At just two years old, our son is a mighty force to be reckoned with. He is sweet, so, so sweet, and loving, and kind. He is generous with hugs (I want a big hug, mommy, he frequently asks), and he has me wrapped around his soft little finger.
I am silly putty, molding clay, Play-Doh, a pliable form that bends to the will of this boy of mine with the bright, energetic eyes and the dimpled cheeks I kiss dozens of times daily. He too is an irrational beast of a thing.
Let’s see if any of this sounds familiar—you once rocked heels fiercer than Beyoncé and could swap a demure, daytime walk for a sassy nighttime strut in a snap. You had your choice of several snazzy purses, which you matched to your accessory stash like a pro.
It’s a chaotic scene — a flurry of fun and sun and heartbreak. There is wonderment and wandering and heart-wrenching moments of uncertainty and bewilderment.
Travel, I couldn’t get enough of it, along with noisy bars, booze, bad boyfriends, live music, and adrenaline-igniting adventures, such as glacier climbing, scaling rock faces, and jumping out of airplanes, for instance.