EDLM April 04, 2022
Typical morning. Snooze buttons from three phones that are not at all in sync. Everyone scrambling at the last minute, tripping over-excited dogs, digging through piles of clean laundry, locating shoes, cursing myself that I didn’t set the coffee maker last night, scrounging around to pack a decent lunch, checking backpack. How does this child not know where his Chromebook is? Yes, I brought it home. A furious search ensues. No, maybe I didn’t. Oh, wait. We were told to leave them at school—I think. We roll into the school lot late, my kid pulls his mask on. He’s still wearing one and is nearly the only kid to do so. It’s a little of being a product of two years of programming to be safe and a little bit of being a shy kid that has realized he can hide behind it.
I run home for lunch—greet my husband who is taking time off today. I eat and chat with him as I work on gluing legs onto a pink, cardboard axolotl. This is part of a grander scheme for a Minecraft birthday party for my son and niece, turning 11 and 10 respectfully. In December, they provided me with four pages of schematics, followed by a very animated presentation in our living room about said plans. I have numerous cardboard box animals, trees, houses, treasure chest, thrones, tunnels and even a “cake hunt’ to concoct. My house is full of cardboard boxes donated by friends. I figure this is one of the last ridiculous birthdays they will design as I watch them grow into this next stage, so I am committed. They’ve insisted on a room in the former Masonic temple. It’s this huge area with a stage, balcony, and beautiful frescoes on the wall. A very elegant setting for cardboard playsets and nerf gun wars. These kids are also strong project managers—when I causally mentioned I bought some plates and decorations my 10-year-old literally said to me “but you HAVE been reviewing the plans, right?”
I alternate all day between answering work and personal messages. A property closing for a rehab, helping my neighbors figure out what vaccinations they are missing, spreadsheets, checking on a sick friend, working on my part of a video shoot. Telling my coworkers about the strange weekend I had—slow head-on accident, Peter Pan at the Civic, a corgi birthday party for six dogs, and what my son refers to as the playhouse “heist”.
At school pick up, my child tells me he’s had a string of bad luck all day. It’s literally THE WORST DAY. The elusive Chromebook was indeed at school, but it hadn’t charged all weekend. He was pulled into “surprise” testing, and just before it finished, the device died. This caused him to miss lunch, which meant eating at recess, but he forgot his lunch box, so by the time he retrieved it, the class was headed back to the classroom. The shoes he wore were wrong from the gym. It cost him his reputation as one of the fastest 5th graders. However, he was given a donut for having been a student of the month, but he cannot tell me what quality earned this honor. This, I am learning, is what to expect from a tween brain: “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Also, you are now weird. Stop asking me things.” We swing through McDonald’s, and while waiting in the long line are made uncomfortable by a tiny spider on the inside of the windshield, that tries as if I might evict him gently out the window with a piece of paper, eludes us. At the window, before handing me the bag the employee repeats our order and adds “pretty basic” which makes me laugh.
On to the house…we fight through the welcoming committee of three dogs. We sort of part ways for a while, as I get back to working from home, the kid goes off to eat hamburgers and watch YouTube, bounce around in his room and play with dogs, and my husband goes to the gym.
Soon I am grabbing my coat, jumping in the car and driving a few blocks away. I had a message earlier from my friend, he is just learning English and it says “went to the market today” which I know actually means “go to the market today”. Our two languages are complex and the verb tenses are vastly different. But we manage. And honestly, his message is showing me he is extending his vocabulary. I wonder when I will be able to stop simplifying my English as his becomes more sophisticated. I’ve had to really reel-in how I speak/text. Think about what I want to say and how to throw out much of the “fuss” of English to be sure my point is understood.
Our family has what I can only describe as “strangers in the family” now. For the last three months, we have been helping an Afghan refugee family resettle. These are people who, given their circumstances, I wish I’d never had to meet but I am forever changed and my heart is fuller because I have. They are family. We love them. They have taught us so much about the world, and ourselves.
I get to the house at 5:00. The kids must know that I am coming because one is on the front porch calling my name jumping up and down and two more are slapping their hands on the windows and waving to me. I brought with me a strange mix of things. Four pages of food sight words, a vaccination record that I had given the school and needed to return and two bottles of nail polish for the four-year-old. I barely sit down before she’s already painted one hand herself and asks me to do the other. She then paints my nails while her parents pour over the sight words I’ve brought. They linger over specific fruits and vegetables, trying to enunciate the words clearly—they work so hard every day at this, which is so admirable.
On the TV there is a slapstick comedy in their language. I know so few words in their tongue that I don’t understand anything being said on the tv but we can all laugh at the physical comedy. I am given a can of peach juice, which I do not decline, because this is the holy month, they are fasting until sundown, and I feel it is even more important to accept what is offered. I show them the Mehndi henna that Mom painted on my hand on Saturday—It is fading but I treasure it.
Mom shows me the things she’s made just in the last few days—she’s a very talented seamstress. She points out that she likes the pattern of my dress. On the way out, the door to the “market” she has her husband tell me she will sew a dress for me which is really wonderful. As I hug her, he jokes “20-30 dollars”. She says chides him and looks at me and smiles “no no dollars. Gift.”
All four kids go along with us to the” Walmart”—their term, which is endearing and honestly not wrong. On the way, I have Diplo Revolution on Sirius (my kid likes it) and they crank it up.
These trips are hours long. We have to discuss price, quality, and what things just…well…are. We have to communicate with google translate, pantomime, and the few common words we share. And it is always exhausting and delightful. Our small army meanders through the superstore, we buy kitchen tongs, some clothes, and food. The routine at the market of answering questions about vegetables. As is customary, we exchange our mother-words for the items. One thing that is a given, and today is no different– I get asked if things have “sugar” meaning sweet. That is very important to know and very sweet is very important. And if this pizza is hilal. Cheese pizzas are hilal and it takes me repeating that several times about the vast amount of pizza choices to ensure it’s okay for them to eat.
The kids want to scan things on the checkout which is a bit chaotic, and I have to help with cards, pins and prices. We load up and head home.
At the house, the kids dutifully help carry in the haul. Our new family is hospitable unlike anyone I’ve ever encountered. When I say that I cannot stay for the amazing food that is being prepared, there is an insistence that I take something “to go” for my husband, myself and our son. Quickly mom has packed a container of a spicy chickpea concoction, three Mt Dews, and a bag of chips. Then the children hand me three jumbo marshmallows, and one tiny chocolate donut. It’s not lost on me that they have nothing and yet they won’t let me leave without something. I eat three marshmallows and a donut on my way to pick up food for my own family. Shamefully McDonald’s AGAIN. Later my son regrets that suggestion, telling me it was a “moment of panic” when he made the call.
At home, I bring in the food, and we try to sit down to eat. My child is mad he can’t retreat to his fortress of solitude upstairs and complains bitterly about having to eat at the table. I understand that he’s a kid and just being petulant—but I’m hungry and tired. My sandwich takes the brunt of my frustration, as it is not what I had ordered. I slam its clamshell container closed and curse it, while my child resentfully nibbles on his hamburger, head hanging low. My husband is exasperated by this drama but tries to navigate cheerfully through tween eye rolls and my irrational sandwich anger by offering up part of his meal to me and making small talk. I punish my sandwich by feeding it to the dogs later.
My spouse gravitates toward his computer—finishing some volunteer work and playing a game. I spend time building a Minecraft fox. My son joins me in the home office/studio as I work. He is in the shirt he wore today but now has traded his pants for swim trunks. He lays on the settee across from the worktable like it’s a psychiatrist’s couch and just riffs about his bad day. This morphs somehow into a rant about the government. This is not unusual for him-he has strong feelings for a 10-year-old—and, as of late he has been studying the American Revolution. He’s fixated on taxation and money. He stares at the ceiling and tells me “the government is a greedy son of a bitch”. I let that go. He goes on to tell me he thinks no one should need to have money for food, water or shelter. He says “you just pay to live and then you die”. Like any dutiful mother, whether or not I agree with this assessment, I look at the time and say “I think you’re tired. Are you tired?” He stares at the ceiling and says “yeah. I’m tired. I am tired of this world being the way it is”. To some degree, he has always, always, since he could talk been this way, but I can’t help but think he is also the product of the muck we have been drudging through the last few years. Civil unrest, COVID, wars, coming to know our new family and what they’ve been through, and well, just being of the age where you start to see the world for what it is. Perhaps this is why the building of elaborate child party sets is a mission for me. It is the last vestige of innocence– the Last Great Distraction.
I try to challenge him as he lays on the settee: “instead of what you want to be when you grow up, maybe think about what change you want to make and how you will do it”. He ignores what I felt was a stellar parenting moment and goes on to tell me why one of our dogs would make a better President than any human. He states his case: he is polite, he won’t build walls, or argue and he is a very good boy. Plus, he won’t cut military spending (???) This is the transition point from an angry young man back to a little boy. So from there, he asks for some popcorn before bed. I “test it” before giving him the bowl., as I always do, while he gleefully protests. He shares it with the dogs, then settles in, wrapping himself in the faux fur leopard print coat he’s lately confiscated from me. I don’t argue about brushing teeth or washing face. I just let him drift to sleep.
I go back to working on the fox and chatting with my husband who has come up to the office. He puts on Murderville and we laugh and talk as I finish up the fox. I tell him about the conversation with the kid. I look at Facebook and see a “memory” from several years ago. It’s a quote from Seneca: “All cruelty springs from weakness”. I think of what a zinger that would’ve been earlier tonight during the angry dinner.
As I crawl into bed, pushing dogs into a position that will allow me to sleep, I think about marshmallows, chips and Mt Dew, fading henna, fading childhood, what’s next in my plans as I build the Last Great Distraction, and, whether I like it or not about how my child and I are beginning to speak the same language.