I’m too old for this, Part 2: Preschool November 17, 2011

Parenthood makes me realize how old I am, for lots of reasons. Plane rides are one thing, from the sheer physical and emotional exhaustion they elicit. The other thing that has made me feel much too old to be a parent is preschool. Unlike plane rides, preschool doesn’t make me feel too old because I feel like I had a fight with a boxing kangaroo and lost, but because it makes me feel like “Aren’t I supposed to be over this by now?” Because somehow, Darwin going to preschool makes me feel like I’m back in high school, or worse yet, middle school. I thought I was done with that, trying to fit in, hoping that the cool kids (er, parents) like me. But I’m not. I still find myself trying to insert myself into the “cool” group of parents, trying to look like I’m completely comfortable standing off to the side by myself like I’m at the Homecoming dance or something, of after I get home going over the things I’ve said and berating myself for inane conversations. How can I start a conversation with Wyatt’s dad, with his Asics shoes and his meticulously unshaven face, and his knit cap and his wife with the hipster glasses. He talks a lot with Anderson’s mom, and — not that she’s not super duper nice and all — but she’s not hipster at all. I wrack my brain trying to figure out how I can prove that I am worthy of their attentions, that I can talk about interesting things, use phrases like “Right on” and that I am desperately worried about music copyright for indie bands, or that I’m attending an all Steampunk new years eve and I knit my own punk kitten hats, or something.  Combing my hair before I leave the house may be a step in the right direction, but that seems like a lot of effort. You can imagine how mortified I was when Darwin started a fight with Wyatt (right in front of his dad!) over a mistaken jacket. Wyatt’s dad has never looked at me the same since. I had been consoling/congratulating myself with the fact that I was making good progress on befriending one of the only two Black families in preschool, Christian’s dad. I am so diverse and liberal! The envy of the other parents! Until yesterday, when I was chasing after Elijah and I saw that damn Wyatt’s dad talking to Christian’s dad. Dammit! He already has Anderson’s mom. Can’t he just leave me Christian’s dad? And why won’t he talk to me, anyway? It must be that fight Darwin got in with Wyatt. Can’t possibly be ME, right?

It’s amazing how quickly all these feelings come back, even after I thought I had conquered them many many years ago. I guess it’s just a microcosm of what we do every day, whether it be at work, at a party, on the bus, or wherever.  It’s just in those situations, we usually come into them with a proscribed “script” in some ways, dictated by your job, or whose party it is, or where you’re going on the bus. It’s rare, in this stage in my life, to be literally hanging out on the playground again. And all my insecurities come flooding back. I mean, I’m a grown up. I have friends – great friends. I don’t actually know if I want any more — but I want them to want ME. I really had thought I was over this, and was so glad, because who likes trying to be liked? And I was congratulating myself on getting over my insecurities so that I can give Darwin and Elijah all sorts of good advice on popularity (like the ubiquitous “It doesn’t matter.” My foot it doesn’t). Being on Facebook makes it seem like everyone was all hunky-dory together in high school — the super popular people are friending the outcasts left and right, as if they really were friends once upon a time. But in reality, the caste system that’s been in place from time immemorial was in place at our high school, too, and even though Missy Brewster might be friending me, it doesn’t mean she gave me a second look in math class. It also makes it easier to pretend that those days never happened, and that we’ve always been one big high school family, and it’s tempting to fall into that trap when I think about the advice I’ll give my boys. I realize that yes, I am more confident and more sure of who I am than I was in high school. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t care if people like me or not. Which, really, maybe means I’ll be able to talk to Darwin and Elijah about these things in a better way than I would if I were just one of those people who really didn’t care (who are always the people who are popular, in this ironic universe).

But for now, I think my best bet is Audrey’s parents. They’re Cardinals fans, but they seem like easy, comfortable (popular!) people, and who all-importantly have talked to me before. I’m totally in!

I’m too old for this, Part 1: Plane Rides November 17, 2011

Frankly, I’m too old for most of parenting. For horsey rides, chasing after tricycles, getting up and down off the floor. But 2 things lately have really made me feel like I’m just too old for all this: plane rides and preschool.

As for plane rides, we recently (and by “we”, I mean the 2 boys and I) flew to my parents’, taking 2 planes with a connection in Charlotte. Traveling with 2 active boys would wear out Bruce Jenner at his peak (before the whole Kardashian thing). Given, it could have been a whole lot worse — I had gotten some ingenious invention called a “Trunki” from the fabulous Melissa & Doug, which went a long way towards containment in the airports. It’s a child’s suitcase that you can pull, ride on, or push. Darwin loved it, and it made him feel like he was independent, but he was still attached. Of course, he pretended it was a train. But good heavens. Two boys, two carryon bags, one kid suitcase to pull, and one giant rolling suitcase to check. Plus trying to eat a meal somewhere on our layover, get diapers changed, and keep track of these two kids. To make matters worse, the airline had put us on different reservations, so Darwin was sitting in completely seats that Elijah and I were. I called before we left, and the reservation agent told me he could only help me with out last flight, Charlotte-Chicago. His “help” ended up putting us in adjacent seats, but on COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FLIGHTS. Not as helpful as one would hope. So, just when we thought we were out of the woods, about to board our last flight to get home, we were told we would have to talk to a different gate agent and try to find a vacant seat on an “completely full” flight. Luckily, airlines lie like a rug, and “completely full” means “except for the seats we’re saving for our airline employee friends.” So, we got on the flight, and the lovely woman who was supposed to be in seat 25F, next to the window, switched to 13B, in the middle squeezed between who knows who. I bought her a drink. On our fight out of Chicago, the gentleman beside us threw up in his airsick bag as soon as we started to taxi. Ah, I remember those days of flying with a hangover. Thinking that was the worst that flying could ever be. Ha ha. As I told him, he got lucky because, as a mother of 2, I’m not phased by pretty much any manner of bodily excretions.

Then, when we arrived in Chicago (again, silly me, thinking we were out of the woods — home at last!), I let my guard down. Immediately, Darwin sensed my weakness, and that plus hours of being cooped up on a plane came to a head, and he was off like a shot. Running through the airport, adults turning their heads, craning necks to see where the irresponsible parent was who was letting her kid run rampant through the hallways. He made random turns, ran into people, almost got run over by baggage cart. I’m sure calls to child and family services were made — if not when they saw him running unattended, then when they saw me struggling behind him, pushing a stroller, lugging two bags, pulling a blueberry plastic suitcase with green horns and saying (not so much under my breath) “fucking kids. Goddamnit. Fucking kids” over and over. When he was finally rounded up, we had to get to where Joe had parked the car, which involved getting to baggage claim and adding the giant rolling suitcase to our load, then finding “elevator center number 1.” Sounded promising, elevator center 1. Better than elevator center 473 or something. But of course, it was not. We exited the airport at elevator center 4. Elevator center 1 was at the other end of the building, and around a corner. So on we lugged. We almost made it by all the moving walkways (which we couldn’t ride because a) we had a stroller which isn’t allowed, and b) I don’t know that we’d fit, frankly). But the last one was just too tempting. Darwin darted away, and hopped on (of course going in the opposite direction), and luckily did what we all want to do every time we see one of those things — ran along it in the wrong direction and jumped off. It’s hard to be mad when he’s doing something that we all wish we could do. But it’s also hard to NOT be mad when you’ve been traveling for 11 hours and you are so. Close. To. Home. At least it was better than in Charlotte, where he got on the walkway going in the opposite direction, and a total stranger saw it and had to lift him up over the handrail and deposit him with me. We finally found the car, not without a fairly psychotic phone call to Joe (you should see the visual voicemail transcript) and frightening a few passers by. But we made it.

Lest you think that Darwin was the only troublemaker, Elijah had his fair share, too, but he’s just not big enough yet to really make trouble, and I can overpower him more easily. He’s also easier to distract with bright lights, as well as sleepier. So he did sleep a fair amount of the time on each plane ride (until on one flight, Darwin had to use the bathroom, and there is just no way I can help Darwin take off his pants, hold a sleeping baby, and not get pee everywhere in a little airline bathroom. Sigh), and he stayed strapped into his stroller in the airports taking everything in. Some squirming, some crying, but not as much as I had feared. The main issues with him were when containment was unavailable, like when we had to leave the stroller at gate check and when we picked it up. Then, unfolding the stroller, keeping track of Darwin, making sure the diaper bag didn’t spill out all over the tarmac, and not dropping on Elijah on his head were all challenges.

Darwin keeps asking when we’re going to fly on another plane. I tell him when he invents a time machine and we can do it when I’m 25 years old again. I’m just too old for this!