Caught in the rain

You must know by now, readers, that I’m not a Hallmark-moments, chicken-soup-for-the-mother’s-soul kind of person. Its not that I’m against living in the moment and being grateful for the little things – on the contrary, I think it’s commendable. I just don’t usually have it in me.

But the great thing about life on earth is that every so often we end up surprising ourselves. Which happened to me just yesterday.

Primo’s been having a tough time going to school lately, and I’ve been taking extra measures to help him feel more comfortable saying goodbye at drop-off. One of these measures is bald-faced bribery. When he flatly told me yesterday that he was NOT going to school, “end of discussion,” I told him that if he did, I’d get him this Ed Emberely Halloween drawing book he’s been wanting. I promised I’d have it for him at pick-up. I’m very serious about keeping my promises to the kids, so there I was at pick-up, perky as can be, with the book in hand.

As it turned out, the book backfired. He was so excited about it that he ended up crying and miserable because his drawings didn’t look exactly like Ed Emberely’s. Then I tried to draw the pictures for him and he ended up crying because MY drawings didn’t look right. The entire meltdown happened on a bench in front of his school, with Seconda pressing buttons on a nearby ATM machine, petting ferocious-looking dogs without my permission and playing dangerously close to traffic.

It was clear that I was in for a long, awful afternoon with unhappy son and untamable daughter and I was pretty pissed about the prospect. In an effort to turn things around, I tried to take the kids to the playground but sad sack Primo refused to walk because “stuff” kept getting in his Crocs and this was very disquieting to him.

Furthermore, he informed me, I was being “selfish.”

He hastened to explain himself when he saw the look of disbelief flicker across my face.

“First you brought me this book I wanted after school," he started.

“Yes, I did.”

“That was nice.”

“Yes it was.”

“Then you drew pictures for me.”

“Yes, yes, that was nice, too.”

“And now you want to take me to the playground,” he concluded, having done a lousy job, in my opinion, of defending his position.

“Yes, I do want to take you to the playground,” I said, trying to manage my frustration and failing, “Because it is a BEAUTIFUL day and I want you to run around and have fun and leave me alone and be happy, LIKE A KID IS SUPPOSED TO DO!”

He grumpily conceded, and we, very slowly, walked to the playground. By the time we got there, the beautiful day was not so beautiful. In fact, it didn’t even look like day anymore. In fact, it was dark as Hades.

“It’s NIGHT,” Seconda noted.

“It looks like nighttime but it’s not night yet,” Primo corrected.

Raindrops had begun to fall. We could feel them. It didn’t just look like rain was coming. The rain had started. But it had taken us a flipping hour to get the playground, and we had done it, by God, we’d made it there, and nothing was going to make me turn around.

The kids played for about two minutes while the last, foolhardy caregivers fled with their charges in tow. We were the only people in the playground and it had become so dark, as Primo put it, it looked like we were “in a forest of darkness.”

And then it started to pour. A biblical rainfall that leaves you wondering if there’s an ark somewhere you could hitch a ride on.

A quick assessment of the stroller confirmed that there was no rain cover, no rain jackets, no umbrella, nothing in the way of deluge protection. And that’s when my Hallmark moment happened.

“Fuck it,” I thought.

“IT’S RAINING!!!!!”” I threw my head back and shouted.

“IT’S POURING!!!!” Primo sang

“DA OLD MAN IS ---- SNORING!!!!!!” Seconda brought it home.

Incredible sheets of water fell out of the sky so that within a minute we were sopping. The more it rained, the louder we sang.

“Let’s run to the awning!” Primo shouted.

“AWNING-HOPPING!” I yelled.

“HOPPING HOPPING HOPPING!” Sec shrieked.

“I AM WEEEEEEEEET!” yelled my son, laughing so hard he could hardly speak.

And we went on like this all the way home, yelling and whopping and laughing and loving the rain and life and each other. Especially each other.

When we got home, we peeled off our dripping clothes, wrapped ourselves in towels, and curled up on the couch to read a long book.

Turns out it wasn’t such an awful afternoon after all.

Blessings

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Over the weekend my cousin gave a shot-out to my blog via her facebook status which read, “I’ll never have kids if I keep reading my cousin’s blog.” I thought this was great. In fact, I consider what the kids and I provide as a valuable service to my not-yet-parent friends. The effect of an afternoon with us is something akin to that of the Scared Straight program in which troubled teens get sent to juvi boot camp to get a taste of what life in the clink is really like. In the case of Scared Straight, the experience serves, one would hope, as a deterrent. In our case, it’s about managing expectations.

Since I was the very first of my friends to have kids (having two kids under 30 in Park Slope is basically babies having babies), I didn’t know what the hell I was doing or what the hell it would be like. I sort of thought the whole pregnancy and childbirth would be a cross between She’s Having a Baby and Nine Months and I guessed that when I had the kid, it would be like a Pampers commercial with some Full House thrown in. I am not an idiot. I just hadn’t spent time with people rearing young children. Well, let me qualify. I taught at day cares and summer camps and tutored kids and was an instructor at clown class. In fact, I’ve always sought out the small fries because they are smart and unsullied and inquisitive and open to joy. We understand each other. 

But –- spoiler alert -- teaching clown class is not the same as being a parent. I have been dwarfed by the sheer weight of the worry, the guilt, the pain I feel when they are ill or unhappy (pretty much a default setting at 2 and 4 years old). I have been ravaged by the sleeplessness which never seems to end, shocked and discouraged by the limitations of my patience and energy and generosity, enraged at how willing the kids are to bring me to my limits. I am often estranged from my husband. I blame him for things that aren’t his fault because there’s no one else to blame. To say parenting is hard is almost an insult. Driving a stick shift is hard. Parenting is impossible.

But, if you were to spend an afternoon with us, this wouldn’t be your takeaway. (Or at least, I hope not, for the sake of perpetuating the human species). Because you couldn’t help but discern, and quite powerfully, I think, that these children are a blessing which words cannot encompass. And I don’t mean “blessing” in the vague sense of something really cool or neat or nice. I mean, I get down on my old-before-their-time, broken-down knees and I thank God Almighty for the gift of these children, a gift I could never deserve.

My son told me last night that he loves me more than the sky. He called me into his room before he went to sleep and he said, “I am full of so much love, Mommy. I am so full of love, I love you more than the sky.” Then he went to sleep curled up in a ball with his blanket tangled around him and his sister slept in the crib beside him, with her wispy hair in her eyes and smelling of citrus, and both of their chests rose and fell, rose and fell and I actually thought I would have a heart attack if the good feeling didn’t dissipate. So much love, indeed.

So to all the non-parents out there, let me dissuade you from believing people like my cousin’s friends who replied to her facebook post, “OH NO! Don’t listen to her! Having kids is great! We travel, we go out ouce a week, we have so much fun!!!!!!!!”

First of all, dear readers, never take the advice of anyone who uses more than one exclamation point, unless it is me quoting my children, or they are being sarcastic.

Here’s the point. Parenting is not “fun,” and you don’t “still” do anything the way you used to do it. But it has the very real possibly of bringing your life into Technicolor.

Before this adventure of motherhood, I had fun galore, I traveled a ton, I was a happy, fulfilled woman with a career and friends and a soul mate. But looking back, it feels like I was all in sepia. I have never laughed so hard, or cried so hard, or prayed so hard or felt so fully at peace. If that deters you from having kids, well, at least you’ve been fully informed.