DC or bust

This piece, in a slightly altered form, originally appeared here.

Recently K and I decided to take our small tribe on a weekend getaway to Washington DC. The cherry blossoms were beginning to pop, and we were desperate for a change of scenery.

We weren’t at all dismayed when our journey down I-95 was stymied by uncountable stops– potty breaks, diaper breaks, nursing breaks, lunch breaks. Nor was I discouraged by having to convince Esmé that a long car ride was fun! while not blowing through my entire bag of surprise activities and snacks in the first two hours. All par for the course as far as I was concerned. This is the stuff family vacations are made of, no?

No, the serious soul searching occurred later. After we had checked into the hotel. After we just barely made it through dinner. After we had tucked everybody in, then settled in ourselves to watch a little TV(the emphasis is on watch, of course, because our sleep arrangements were such that mute was the only volume option) that a tiny shadow of doubt began to creep across my conscience. Are we having fun yet?

Esmé sounded the first wake up call with nightmare-induced screams that seemed to reverberate off every wall. Naturally Theo followed suit. He, I was able to nurse back into oblivion. She was trickier, so we had to invite Esmé into our bed where she proceeded to toss and turn and rake my calves with her surprisingly sharp toenails. I had no idea I had so neglected that aspect of her grooming and payback is, well, not conducive to sleep. Morning couldn’t come soon enough, and it didn’t until Theo took his turn sounding the wake-up call. As we once again resumed our respective roles resettling our brood, K and I both wondered out loud, and not without a touch of jealousy, what the occupants of the neighboring rooms would be receiving as compensation for our suffering.

And yet we managed to salvage our day, an ice-cold one at that, despite a serious case of the crankies on all our parts. We seized some photo ops, with smiles both forced and genuine. Tooled through some museums. All the while using snacks much like a lion tamer uses treats– as a reward, as an appeasement, as a bargaining tool. Even our children know enough not to bite the hand that feeds them… loot from Trader Joe’s. And so we even made it back to the hotel in time for a fun, pre-dinner dip in the pool. But while I observed E + T slogging through the day—truly enjoying themselves at some moments while clearly not at others ––I couldn’t help but still wonder if this was such a good idea. They are so little. And routine is everything for them. And here I am tossing it all out the window, throwing caution to the chilly DC wind all for my misguided belief that we could manage a little fun outside our comfort zone.

And so after a much better night of sleep—exhaustion has its benefits––we directed our car northward for the trip home. This leg was not only hindered by the usual stuff—see above––but traffic and misguided detours also played a role stretching the journey hours beyond our expectations and leaving me plenty of time to still doubt my judgment. Maybe this was too soon. Maybe next year we’ll be able to get out more, do more, have a life beyond Maplewood.

But then, mercifully, something pulled me out of my anxiety-driven inner dialogue: two great belly laughs erupting from the back seat. Theo was clutching Esmé's blanket with a smug, sly air of satisfaction. Reaching across to his car seat she tugged it free and quickly reclaimed it giggling all the way. No sooner was it back in her possession did Theo make his move again, yanking the blanket back to his side of the car resulting in peals of laughter from both. And suddenly I remembered. I remembered being holed up in the back of the car with my big sister. And just when it seemed like we’d never see life outside that Datsun, my sister would do something to break the monotony. Usually something silly. Whatever it was it made enduring the less glamorous parts of our travel better than bearable and forged in us a sense of solidarity that only those who are not in control of their destiny can share. We were only along for the ride, after all. We had no choice but to trust the people sitting up front. And it wasn’t always clear that they knew what they were doing. Giggling was likely our best option, too.

So they might not have gotten much out of Washington DC beyond the breakfast buffet and hotel pool. So it may take days, weeks even, to get them back on a proper schedule and in more bearable moods. But the thing that they’ve taken away from this mini experience is far more monumental than anything DC can offer. They’ve learned that their parents can and will wreck havoc on their lives, all in the name of family fun, and their best defense will always be each other.

History repeats itself

Last week I had one of those low moments in my career as a mother. It will go down as a day I will never forget, the memories of which will be cataloged according to the dewey decimal system of my mind right next to this one. Category: visits to the ER.

It was Wednesday. Wednesdays have recently become date night here at TLGH. To sort of balance things out with K's travel, we have hired a babysitter and established a semi-regular routine of weekly dinners out just the two of us. Consequently Wednesdays can be a little hectic. I need to have the kids fed, bathed and PJ-ed by 6:30 so that I can then have Theo nursed and settled in his crib before the babysitter arrives at 7. Any number of things can stymie our progress and something almost always does. But this last Wednesday was going smoothly. Esmé and Theo ate well and efficiently. Having a dinner that's wrapped up in 30 minutes or so is not the norm for us. Meals can be slow affairs. Mostly thanks to Esmé. She's a social eater and loves to talk and regale me, and her entourage of imaginary friends, with stories. Occasionally she'll pause to take a bite. And though I enjoy listening to her, once Theo's fussing starts to take the form of food chucking I'm ready for dinner to be a wrap. And so this particular dinner went well. Esmé went upstairs ahead of us because she needed to go potty. I started to straighten up the toys while Theo trailed behind me, undoing much of my work. Seeing the futility of my cause, I scooped him up and headed upstairs. As is my habit,I plopped Theo down on the floor of our bedroom and then started back to the hallway to close the gate that barricades our staircase. En route, Esmé called my name. Somewhat dramatically she implored me to close the bathroom door in the name of privacy, "Please Mommy, I don't want Theo to come in!" she urged. Shaking my head and laughing to myself, I closed the door. "Click" went the door. "Check" went my mental checklist and in my mind the task at hand was complete. I started picking up toys and collecting PJs. Onto the next thing.

I was standing in Esmé's room when I heard it. Heard the awful, never to be forgotten sound of a tiny body bounding down a full flight of hardwood stairs. Landing finally at the bottom with a piercing scream and cry. I don't remember descending those stairs myself. I do remember seeing his splayed body and contorted, beet red face in full cry.

My first thought was that maybe I shouldn't move him. Maybe his back was broken. But then I could see he was moving his arms and legs, and my mommy instinct was too powerful to resist, I just had to pick him up, hold him in my arms and start somehow to make it all better.

Then I wondered if I should call 9-1-1. Though he was hysterical, I took solace in his cries. It seemed to me that a crying baby under these circumstances was better than a silent one. I called Kris instead. He told me he was almost home, already in our neighbor's car. He told me to hold tight. Meanwhile Esmé, still on the potty, was crying and calling out. She knew something happened. She knew Mommy was upset. Theo was hurt. But she was paralyzed with fear and confusion. I kept calling to her that Theo fell down the stairs, that Mommy needed to take care of him that I needed her to be a big girl and clean herself up and get herself off the potty.

"But why, Mommy, why did Theo fall down?" she cried.

"Because Mommy messed up. Mommy made a mistake," in my angst I responded.

"But why did you mess up, Mommy, why?"

"I don't know, baby. I don't know. Because Mommies mess up sometimes"

I offered Theo to nurse, and he readily latched settling immediately as I finally started to cry myself. Kristopher arrived home with our neighbor, Tara, who was prepared to stay with Esmé until the babysitter arrived. Meanwhile we raced off to the ER.

Theo passed the physical examination with flying colors, and we both breathed a sigh of relief with this first hurdle behind us. The ER pediatrician told us that if Theo were 3 years old, he'd send us all home right then and there. But since he wasn't, he also recommended a CT scan to be extra sure. We didn't hesitate. A wheelchair delivered Theo and me to radiology where I had to pull on a lead apron while Theo was swaddled in a lead blanket. He cried a little, the only time throughout the entire ER visit, as they strapped him in for the scan. I remained with him, holding his chin steady per the radiologist's instructions. The apparatus whirred and hummed around his tiny little skull while his eyes locked with mine. It was over very quickly and the hour the radiologist estimated for the results was more like a half hour, thankfully. And it was good. Everything as it should be. I am so grateful.

And there isn't a single bruise on his perfect little body. Not a scratch nor a welt. Esmé has taken to asking me if I've closed the gate when we're upstairs– something I really do appreciate– and has even gone so far as to close Theo in the bedroom as an extra measure of precaution as I go to secure the gate.

Theo really does seem none the worse for it. Though I know I won't ever be quite the same. But as I replay those awful moments, kicking myself every time, I also try to focus on his resilience. He's a tough little cookie, and he's going to need to be in this calamitous world. And so will I.