Townes starts school tomorrow. Four unbelievable words. What exactly did I suppose was going to happen? My easy, sensitive boy. He’s been melancholy lately. Not overwhelmingly so, but it’s there. Underneath everything, a bit of weight he carries with him.
He tells us with tears threatening to spill over, “I don’t want to get bigger. I want daddy to always pick me up and give me piggyback rides.” Tim tells him, “I will always pick you up and give you piggyback rides.” He says, “Mama, I know what will make you happy,” when he can see that I am sad. He runs to get Barry the Bear, who resides on Daisy’s big girl bed. Barry is the antidote for everything that ails Daisy and now, because he’s seen how well he works on her, he works for Townes too. He doesn’t work on mama, but Townes doesn’t know that.
I’ve ben trying to prepare him for preschool. I say to him, “Buddy. You’re going to have so much fun. You’re going to make so many friends.” “Please,” I whisper to myself. The closest this atheist heart has ever come to prayer. I feverishly hope it is fun and I wish him so many friends. My own solitary childhood lurks in memory. But I dream that T will be less complicated, not a worrier.
The other day we went to the Echo Park Playground and Daisy played with two little boys who had to have been four or five-years-old. She instigated a game and they sat in an odd little triangle, rolling a miniature soccer ball between them. Townes sat a few feet away from the action, alone. I’m always watching him. “Buddy, what’re you up to?” “Just playing, mom” is the standard response.
Sometimes when we go to “Old Sand” at Elysian Park and meet some new kids, Townes will suddenly assume the role of Activities Director, gently and enthusiastically encouraging a few to play whatever game he’s decided upon. It always surprises me. The younger ones stoically, almost grimly follow his lead (the business of learning to PLAY being a kind of work in it’s own right) while the older kids regard him with arch amusement (who is this little guy?), all half-grins and rosy, dirty cheeks. Most of the time they follow along anyway. The older kids usually have nothing much better to do.
I’ve had my heart broken before, but never like this. How can I already be mourning their departure? We have YEARS. I never understood people’s exhortations about staying childless. The ascetic “this world is not the world we envisioned for our hypothetical children so we chose to abstain, thanks.” The middle-aged man-boy, “I can’t have kids. I can barely take care of myself.” The glib, “I’m an aunt. Best birth control I ever used.” Now that I am on the other side of the street, there is only one reason that resonates. If someone now said to me, “I will not have children because I refuse to have my heart broken millimeter by millimeter for the next, oh rest of my life” I would clasp their hands to mine and give them a shaky, teary grin. That makes perfect sense. Yes. That happens. I now understand what my parents meant when they said to me so many times over the years, “we just want you to be happy.”I used to roll my eyes.
Now it feels raw. Every day. And the days are long. It ain’t easy living with little people. They’re vampires. There is superficial empathy, but we all know the truth. Daisy will sock Townes in the back and then immediately kiss him gently on the head when he starts to wail. T will scream, “Sorry!” gleefully after body checking his sister into the wall. It’s both blessing and curse. They need me all the time.
There are small, perfect moments and they come just when you need them. Our house is tiny and I frequently feel we have outgrown it. I vow never to have another gathering of friends for dinner while we wrangle with our postage stamp sized kitchen. T says to me the other day, “Mama our house is so BIG.” With awe. And just like that our house IS so big. I can say, “Townes who has the biggest eyes?” and he trains those outsized peepers on me and makes them comically enormous. Townes talks a lot about our family. “Mama, you and me and daisy and daddy are a family.” Sometimes he says this as he drifts off to sleep. When I have a hard day, he makes it better without doing a damn thing. He makes dealing with muggles palatable.
Last night I stood in the doorway and watched my tiny man splayed out in his little bed and had an epiphany. He’s enormous. When did that happen? He’s going to need a new bed and soon. He’s been playing soccer with the neighbors and he’s having growing pains in his legs at night. So, his body is betraying his toddler wish to forever stay "little." My heart breaks a little bit more. Because even this is a phase. Soon, he won't be able to grow up fast enough so he can get away from us and become his own person. And when he has that impulse we will know that we have done a good job. And my heart breaks a little more. He’s such a sweet little kid. My heart swells with pride. He asks such silly, inquisitive questions. He calls me “Mommy Shannon Elizabeth Marvin.” He can spell his own name. He is three-years-old. He starts school tomorrow. I’m already preparing myself to let him go.
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