You're Picking Up the Wrong Kid

Parents’ professions rub off on their kids. The piano playing dad has a kid with a great ear. The carpenter mom has a kid who likes to build. Our two year old narrates his actions. He is amazingly creative, connected, and playful. Today he opened his National Geographic for Kids magazine and, seeing a deep water fish that looked like a piece of flattened tire whispered, “Wow! This is beautiful! So, I’m getting soft and quiet.” Obviously, this is the child of two theatre people. Not only is he linking this villainous fish to our shared humanity, he’s making him accessible to other audience members (me) by varying volume. Joy and wonder make my son an extraordinarily articulate little being. So much so, that the other day while he was telling a detailed story, I reached for my phone to dial Ellen Degeneres, who finds kids who do cool stuff and make us feel happy, but then sad again because we were not a child prodigy who knew the world’s country’s capitals and National Park square footages.

Before I could dial, I looked up and saw that Solly had purposefully nudged the baby and she was toppling. Toppling! Baby toppling! There is something primal that happens when you see a baby topple. 

I’m pretty sure this is why it was young parents who probably designed portrait mode for iPhones. The rest of the world gets fuzzy and the toppling baby becomes the focus so that, like the golden snitch, you can literally fly through the air and catch her. A baby’s body, luckily, is meant to go from seated to toppled - flexible and soft with lots of padding.

I immediately forgot that my two year old is barely out of babyhood himself and saw him as some mean, irresponsible 34 year old who let his emotions get the best of him so he went ahead and toppled a baby. How could he?! He knows 20 numbers! He can sort of put on shoes! He can spell Mickey Mouse (due to debilitating song repetition)! I pick up my toppled baby, who at this point is eating a fuzz off the carpet and is actually kind of happy to have been toppled because now she’s also closer to a lint covered apple slice. I pick up the baby because it’s instinct to go for smaller toppled beings than bigger topplers. Also, in the vein of kids picking up parents’ professions, hasn’t Solly noticed that we’re not just storytellers, we’re teachers too? And teachers don’t topple their students, they listen and guide! Listen and guide, Solly!

“Solly, you pushed Maya,” I say in my best teacher firm but not out of control voice.

“I know.”

“Why’d you push her, buddy?”

“She was on my racetrack.”

“Remember you can call for Mama’s help if she’s - 

“You’re on my racetrack too.”

FYI: Everything is a racetrack so always assume you’re on one and be ready to get off at a moment’s notice.

“Solly, Maya is a little and she -”

“I’m sorry, how can I help?” he says (phrase credit, Daniel Tiger show) in the most insincere but laughably accurate apology voice.

I realize the baby I’m holding throughout this conversation has pooped and we do need to move on. 

“Say I’m sorry to Maya and I think she’d like a hug”

“Sorry Maya…” he says with the kind of no touch hug you’d give a porcupine. Though I have to give him credit for his space object work.

I put Maya down in her playpen and Solly went on playing.

In my therapy call later, I asked how you get your older kid to not topple your baby? She’s raised about 10 children. She said a friend once told her “you’re picking up the wrong child” when this happened to two of her young children. It’s the older child who really needs the arms and the love because he’s the one feeling all the feelings - one of which is being displaced by this bow wearing smily baby that, as of now, has only transferred attention away from him when he used to have it all. Huh. 

The next time a Solly initiated topple happened, I did a quick glance to make sure Maya was fine, then scooped up my older child and sat him on my lap facing me for a heart to heart. We are very emotion conscious parents due to our personalities and professions. Solly liked the scooping, but then saw my face prepare for a talk about feelings and said, “I’m okay Mama - sorry Maya I will help by giving a hug, I want down now.” I hid my laughter. I mean, I guess it kind of worked?

I turned to look out the window, closing my eyes for a second and imagining something different than what I knew I’d see when they opened. Leafless trees, gray sky, and a crumpled pool in the neighbor's yard. What do you do with a pool in winter? Solly has this little pool of feelings - all of the kinds - and when nobody is warm and shines on him in the cold ones - it leaks out and gets covered with leaves just like my neighbor’s small quarantine pool that now stands like a hollow “good times” shell of summer 2020. Side note, Solly is still all the lovely things too even though he occasionally topples the baby. He’s two. And he’s trying so hard in a time where he doesn’t get to see any other kids or go do any experiences outside of our apartment. 

Also, what do I do with the beautiful little pool of creative longings and social connections I crave during this winter of a pandemic that’s turning into a year? What do you do with that pool in winter? Just let that bright blue siding peek out from under the brown grass and tell it to hang in there till June? Drag it into the house and spot clean it in the sink and stuff it in a crawl space? Throw it away? Figure out a way to get it to California?

The more I wish the pool to be standing, shining in a warm sun, the more I’m disappointed. Since I’m not two, and there’s nobody to scoop me when I topple it’s up to me to figure it out (with support from Rob and friends). What do you do with a pool in winter? … Maybe there’s a different way to deal with water. Like baths. Or drinking a lot of tea. Or ice skating. I don’t know. I think it also has something to do with changing my expectations. But this is hard when that sparkling water in the sunshine is the constant comparison to the cold, sadder feelings. I haven’t figured it out yet. Yesterday Solly let Maya hold his car. This was groundbreaking. A small drink of water. I am very thankful for my smiley resilient 8 month old, and my tender trying two year old.