Tuesdays are kind of chill days here. We had a slow morning. He wanted to paint, so we worked together as he carefully organized so many steps of choosing his colors of paint from the atelier, moving one bottle from the front to reach the one behind it, carrying it to a stool, placing it down, handing me the paint tray to hold up as he pressed the pump one-two times to fill one section with green. Eight colors later, he selected his brush and a piece of white glossy paper and took it to the easel. He asked for a smock; I helped him put it on. He pointed out that it's different than putting on a coat because it goes over the front and closes in the back. He finished his first masterpiece. C was hungry for third breakfast, so my hands were full, but I nursed-and-walked to help him carry his painting to a spot on the table where it could dry. He then got his own second sheet of paper, hung it on the easel and painted some more. He selected prime locations to hang his dry-enough paintings. Then it was on to the next thing... And later off to playgroup. And then lunch. And a nap. And then to pick up his brother from school. And then home, where we had a special Rosh Chodesh Adar snack-time tradition--making (and eating) peanut butter playdough Hamentaschen. Then S asked for a banana. So did Y. S ate his banana. Y abandoned his. To be completely honest, I had a feeling that would happen...
And then he wanted to paint again. He wanted to use the large pallets of tempera cakes. S decided to join in as well. Cue the gathering of materials from the atelier, the filling of two glass jars with water, the selection of a brush and an art mat and a piece of paper. Both boys busily painted away at the table. C was ready for 4th lunch. S moved on from painting to building with some gears on the rug. And then some Peter Rabbit figurines we had out. So, of course, this immediately became an item of interest and hot demand for Y. There are 12 figurines, but he needed the one that was in his brother's hand, naturally. Cue the fighting and first time I lost my patience. "Why do you need to have the one toy that's in his hand and not the other 11?" S relented and gave the toy to Y who, of course, immediately lost interest in it and returned to his artwork.
And then I heard it. The sound of the jar of water falling and spilling behind me. So I went to the table, where sure enough a puddle was making its way in every direction, covering masterpieces that had been left to dry (the irony is not lost on me) and somewhat more irked, I helped him grab some rags and begin to dry the spill. "At least it's only water," I remarked, but my voice was nowhere near as accepting in tone as my choice of words may indicate. And that is when Y proceeded to lean over the table toward S's spot and knock over his jar of water, spilling it everywhere we had just dried plus a few feet further and on the cushion of the chair. And this time my voice was nowhere near a pleasant tone. I sent Y away from the table. He, feeling quite insulted and probably also somewhat startled, started his oral defense. He barked, I barked back. I barked, he barked louder. I sent him upstairs for us to take a break while I cleaned up Niagara Falls. From the top of the stairs, he gave his epic monologue:
"I'm not going to stay upstaiws! I'm going to come downstaiws! I didn't spill the watew, Mommy spilled watew! And you're not going to have any treats or Shabbos Party!"
Oh dear.
Once the table and the floor and three surrounding states had dried, it was time to dry Y's tears. I invited him to come back down if he felt ready.
"I do feel ready. Sowwy Mommy, I'm done being wude." he said, and got a large laminated paper play mat out to go with the Peter Rabbit figurines. He played with it for about a New York Minute and decided to pick up the mat and started crumpling it up. And I, in not so fine a moment, went ballistic. "What are you doing? Why are you being so rough with the toys? I'm so sad!"
And his face became about 17 feet long. His mouth turned all upside down. His little lower lip began to quiver. He looked down and in a quiet, trembling voice said "Mommy, I'm so sad, too."
Oh dear.
And I picked up that boy and his 17 foot long face. And I gave him the biggest longest most needed by both of us hug I could. His world travels around the sun at lightening speed and not only can his light-up shoes not keep up, we don't even know where they are right now. In fact, to be quite honest, my world was also spinning well above my speed limit. But what was the big rush? Tuesdays are kind of chill days. Back it up to the morning where I was thinking to myself that I am really acing this parenting thing today, letting him paint first thing in the morning. We're not in a hurry; we have all the time in the world. And it took him 20 minutes to prepare for an activity he stayed with for only 2 minutes after.
That is play. That is the life of the child. Think about it: what do you hear on the preschool playground? "Pretend you are a cat. And there are 3 kittens. And they have to go to bed, but they are scared of the dark. And the mother cat tucks them in but they keep getting out of their beds and then the mother cat is gone. And they don't know where she is. The mother cat is going to get food, but they won't know she was getting food until she gets back." Meanwhile, one kid goes over to the gravel pit and grabs some rocks that will be props for food. Another is making the beds for the little kittens in the grass and still one more is over by the water table gathering buckets for dishes. The entire time is spent setting up the stage and narration for a show that never actually takes place. And this goes on through the entirety of a year.
When is this story going to begin? you start to wonder... When will they start playing? I mean, walking a classroom of 12 kids to the playground, you already have a line of 4 fully embodied cats, one dog, a dragon, 3 mice, 2 Batmans and one kid licking the wall. They are already in character, they are already looking behind them, bumping into the dragon ahead of them, talking about how they are going to play when they get outside. But the play never happens. Or does it?
Setting the stage at this stage is the show. It is the coming attractions. It is the performance. It is the final act. It is the bloopers at the end as the credits roll. It's a pace and a space we adults have lost touch with. And perhaps the nostalgia leaves us with a feeling of wistfulness or even jealousy. But it comes out as frustration. Pent up, boiling over frustration. Because they can't just talk about the cat and move on. They have to be the cat in every sense of the word, until they are rubbing against your leg, purring and clawing the couch. And then they are not the cat. Now they are a dog. Or a dragon. Batman. Or a mouse. Or licking the damn wall.
Life in early childhood is a full body experience in every sense of the word. And water is going to spill. Everywhere. You're lucky if that's all that spills everywhere. But water can be picked up. A lip hanging so low it falls off the map cannot always be picked up as easily. I mean, you can try reeling that thing in, rolling it up like a scroll and then it hits you: he wasn't crumpling the stupid play mat, he was trying to roll it up. Like a scroll. But I was still stuck on the two jars of water and the Peter Rabbit Wars and maybe a little annoyed by the Top of the Stairs Epic Monologue and also a little hangry and tired...
And that is the difference between Y and me. We are a lot alike. But he still lives his world in every moment. And in that, when he came back down and said he was "sowwy for being wude," he forgot and forgave completely. I was still carrying two spilling jars of water, a tiny rabbit in a dusty brown jacket and clogs, and a laminated poster of several garden scenes. And now also a little bit of guilt. So when my husband got home, I sent myself upstairs, with a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with overpriced maple syrup from a tiny tin can and I didn't come down until I was done being wude.
So what if today I am a little bit more like Y? What if I put a lot of thought and intention into setting the stage as carefully as I can? And what if I immerse in the experience completely but only for a second? And what if I happen to spill a jar or two of water? No biggie, it's only water. Even I can remember that day I spilled a coffee yogurt I took independently from the refrigerator without asking and my mom lost her &S^#. It wasn't the yogurt, it was the 9,468,207 things I'd already done before that and also probably she was hangry and tired and needed a stack of chocolate chip pancakes with overpriced maple syrup from a tiny tin can. But I remember it because I genuinely didn't know I wasn't supposed to be taking that yogurt from the fridge so the reaction felt out of place and severe. It was the day I realized you can spill one to many things in one day. It is also probably the day I internalized that once you reach that point of saturation, there's no point in even trying. Maybe tomorrow...
But not my Y. He is the epitome of trying again. And in that, he is my teacher. My kids have taught me more about being my authentic self than anyone or anything in the world. I may have lost my patience three times, but it can be recovered. Maybe I just need some light up shoes to be able to find it...
Happy Playing!
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