Toddlers and Other Annoying People

"When the toddler does something
 and there are consequences for his action
 civilization begins."
~Alicia Lieberman~ 

Every day I look forward to correspondence from my incredibly wise, hilarious and gorgeous cousin. We check in with one another, reflect on experiences, current events, spirituality and creativity. It's cool if we laugh or if we cry. I think we're kindred spirits. You might think we're a little bit nuts. That's ok. I think we're cool with that, right cousin?

My cousin, a few years younger than I am  is single with no children. He has yet to enter into the secret brotherhood of fathers club.  Today, while my head was wrapped in foils at the salon, I received the very best email of my week thus far.

Today my cousin, (let's give him a false name here, just for the sake of not over-using the phrase, "my cousin"-let's call him Daniel), told me about his afternoon at a coffee shop.  He was enjoying his time out, but somewhat overwhelmed by the people around him. No, he's not anti-social, quite the opposite.

Saturday or Sunday mornings I enjoy my own special time at my own special coffee spot with my very own special copy of the Globe and Mail. I totally get what Daniel was saying about being ambivalent in the presence of the activity and noise of other people. During my weekend newspaper reading and coffee drinking session, I enjoy being surrounded by other people. I enjoy being surrounded by other people that is, if they behave in a way that I find unobtrusive. This means no talking too loudly, sitting too closely, and absolutely no requests to move a chair or heaven-forbid-I-have-to-get-out-the-touch-my-newspaper-and-die-look, ask to read a section of my paper.  I like my newspaper in order. I like to think that no one else's  grubby paws have oiled up the places my hands will touch. Ooga booga.

I like to eavesdrop on conversations if I choose, but not be forced to hear one because the volume is inappropriate. I like to nod or say a quick, "good morning" to whomever I sit next to.  I don't like feeling obligated to hear about what someone is reading, being asked what I'm reading, or if I'm enjoying the weather. I like the idea that we can gather in a public space without being obnoxious or be forced to interact. Interaction optional. Coffee, news, intellectual thought without interruption welcome. Ahhh....life ain't easy being an idealist.

Relating completely to to the conundrum of being around people but not having to engage with them, I was happy to be sitting in the salon with my tinfoil baking blond streaks broiling on my head, blissfully alone.  I laughed when I read his question; why on earth would people bring their toddlers to a Starbucks?!

Instantly my memory took me back to my own experience of "mom with toddler" at Starbucks. I remembered my son at that age, being dragged along Saturday morning for my morning coffee.  One of my friends from a previous life came to mind - a very sweet man who very generously offered an afternoon of babysitting when I was in a pinch for child care. He picked my wide-eyed kindergarten aged son up at school, and promptly took him to Starbucks.  My son, thinking the attention combined with a public outing was fabulous, took advantage of a then-not-yet-father, and ordered an orange flavoured soda just before lunch time.

Guess what happened next? Yep. You got it. My little angel spilled his orange soda.  My friend bought him another one, and decided against the toddler-in-public adventure and brought him home (hopped up on sugar). This same friend was kind enough to keep us company on a walk one evening.  Again we ended up at Starbucks. That was about a year before the soda incident, diapers and a spilled hot chocolate may have been involved, but I'm a bit foggy on the details. It could be the ammonia residue from my visit to the salon. I do know that my son's behaviour was akin to that of a baby raccoon, hiding under tables and swinging on the chair legs.

The short answer to why people take their children to Starbucks Daniel, is that being stuck at home with miniature, intellectually impaired people with no control over their id or ego can drive an adult insane. Also, parents of toddlers rise for the day at almost the same time university students come in for the evening. By the time we see these little people at the cafe, they've had breakfast, messed up the house, been grocery shopping, had snacks and a nap. Oh yah, another reason; taking them out in public is how you train toddlers to behave in a socially acceptable manner.

I do not abide parents who use the excuse, "He/She's only 5", in response to their child picking at common dishes on a table with their fingers or not being able to use utensils.  This is lazy parenting. All parents must go through the humiliation of publicly socializing their toddlers, so they're not socially obtuse children, just (as I'm now finding out) as all parents must go through the humiliation of publicly re-socializing their teens so they don't become socially obtuse adults.

Believe it or not, I now feel nostalgic for the days when my son's head was just at the right height for patting when we bellied up to the barista bar.

When I see little ones tagging along with mom or dad on Saturday morning, or any other time for that matter, I'm filled with nostalgia.  I remember how the soft pudgy hand felt in my own, how my own son loved being able to choose his very own drink, and most of all, how his wide-eyed wonder at the world had the power to change my own perception.

I didn't have the luxury of reading my much cherished Saturday Globe and Mail in those days, but I'd give up my paper if I could have just one more day with my son, pudgy little legs dangling from the chair he struggled to climb up on, calling me mommy, and asking "why" about everything.

Instead of dreading the company of small children in social spaces now, (after all, toddlers are messy, noisy and unpredictable) I am completely entertained by them. As a matter of fact, that's one of the only things that can tear my attention away from Russell Smith's tongue-in-cheek men's fashion column. Toddlers package up the gift of  of young-mommy-memories now. Who knew that such annoying people could come bearing such priceless gifts? Maybe this weekend I'll talk to the guy who's always eyeing "my business" section. Just sayin'.

To Baby or Not to Baby

I much prefer visiting the gynaecologist than the dentist. I dread seeing the gynaecologist, so you can guess how I feel about the dentist. With the dentist, there’s the pre-emptory small talk, and ongoing natter between the assistant and dentist about weekend plans and weekends at the cottage. Pul-eeze. At least with the gynaecologist, there’s no small talk and forced casualness. You know what’s going to happen. You’re wearing paper, and let’s face it, there’s not a whole lot of conversation that’s appropriate, other than, “Ok. That’s it. I’ll leave and you can put your clothes back on.”

I have been a regular with my “lady” specialist for years, with a history of surgeries and problems as long as my arm. At 19 I was told I wouldn’t be able to have children. Last night I just celebrated my child’s 11th birthday. I have been told through the years that if I’m thinking of having any more children, I need to do it NOW. As a teenager, the idea of having children was something I welcomed even less than a visit to the dentist. It was only after I fell in love and got married that I wanted a child. It was like a switch flipped, and all of a sudden, I wanted children, lots of children. I have dreamt of having a big country house with a huge harvest table where my children and grandchildren would gather for Sunday dinners, holidays, to do homework and come to that kitchen and table, knowing it as a safe, comforting place. When I divorced, as much as my marriage, I grieved all the dreams I had of having a family that could gather me up like snuggling into a warm duvet.

Since then, I have worked, gone to school, and most importantly raised my one and only child. For years I thought, “don’t worry Trish, you’ll meet the right guy one day, and have more kids. You’ll fix all the mistakes you made the first time, and have a great life and family.” It’s been a decade, and I’m still hoping to meet that special person to share my life with. My gynaecological clock has been ticking, and now I think it’s tocked.

My last visit to the gynaecologist felt different. It was as if I had turned a corner in my life and could breathe a little more deeply again. You see, my visits are usually emotional ones. I’m there because something is wrong. Something isn’t working the way it should be, which has always made me feel like I’m not working the way I should be, that I’m somehow not whole because during these prime years of life I haven’t walked around with my proud pregnant belly sticking out that says, I am loved, and I’m loving, and I’m capable of performing the greatest miracle on earth .

The specialist that I go to see has his office in a hospital. The white walls, old granite floors, worn waiting room chairs and seven year old magazines give it all a clinical feel. You are there to be examined. The feeling of wanting another child, and the new life that would represent pushed its way to the conscious surface every time I had an appointment. With watery eyes I would watch the pregnant women walk in, beaming and smiling, holding the hand of their partner or giving those coy little angel smile to the proud grandmother’s to be who would accompany them to the appointments. I sat alone. No mother, no husband, hiding behind worn pages of old housekeeping magazines, feeling like an abandoned car. Tears welled up, and I was relieved when I was finally ushered into the examining room and handed the paper gown.

When was your last period? Do you have any children? How old are they? How many pregnancies have you had? ...The standard questions before you put your legs up and your head back, wishing it was all over. The two most annoying things I’ve ever seen during my many visits to the gynaecologist’s office are pictures on the ceiling above the examining table (believe me, pictures of snow capped mountains and spring meadows are not going to make me forget what’s going on down there), and oven mitts on the stirrups. Oven mitts!? Really a little less patronizing – pul-eeze!

So, during my last visit, I skipped the haute couture gown papier, and oven mitted stirrups and went right into his office. I thought maybe he was firing me. After all, he’s there to help women. I was faulty. I mean I feel like a woman, I look like a woman, hell, I even enjoy being a woman, but let’s face it, my plumbing had become passé. As I sat down expecting my pink slip, my doctor began an actual conversation with me. He talked, I listened. I talked, he listened. Ladies who may be reading this take note; he listens. If you feel, as I have felt a few times that your specialist is not listening, fire them, and find one who cares about what you’re saying about your body.

“Are you trying to have children,” he asked looking up from the results of my last lab work. “I’m trying really hard right now NOT to get pregnant”, I replied with a little chuckle. You see, I’d just finished up an atrocious relationship and the idea of reproducing made a little chill go through me. “I’m not trying to have children,” I said, getting over how hilarious I think I am,”but I don’t want to write off the idea completely yet.” You see, I still have this push pull feeling of, yes, I want another baby, and oh gawd no! I can’t imagine raising another three year old.

I had been struggling with whether to commit to having a relationship that would be healthy enough to nurture another child, or deciding that I indeed did not want to have another baby. The struggle reminded me off an Anne Morris quote on a Starbucks coffee cup, “The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic , from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.” As a young twenty-something, I had promised myself that I would be finished having my children at 30. When I turned 30, almost five years after my divorce, with a six year old, I decided I would give myself another five years before I decided that I wouldn’t have more kids.

So there I was. 35 years old, still not committed either way to having, or not having another child, on the verge of being fired by my baby doctor. I was exhausted from vacillating between the two options. Despite my dream of having a family, I was getting tired. Tired of carrying a hope that now seemed hopeless. I was starting to dream of other things. Carrying on with, my hobbies, travelling, having a relationship where reproduction wasn’t in the spotlight. That had begun to look like a great place to invest my hopes after years of relationships that would not result in a happy, mommy and daddy home for a child.

Hearing my non-committal answer, my doctor, gentle-yet-to-the-point, said, “If you want to have more children, do it now.” He emphasized “now”, like the word was a flashing neon sign. Now?! I thought. Now? The idea of it made me laugh. There is no way (flashing neon sign emphasis here) that I was going to get pregnant NOW!

Like the first sip of a lemony gin and tonic on a hot afternoon, the reality of my reproductive potential flowed over me. Now? Now. Wow. No way.

What a great way to commit one way or the other. No more babies. I mean, how quickly can you go from first date to proud parents? With the right birth control and the right Cava or Champagne, I can honestly say it would take me at least a few years. In a few years my child will be driving, getting ready to move away to university and the idea of having midnight feedings and potty training makes me shiver. I do not want to do that. Not at this stage. Five years ago – sure. But now? Anyone who knows me would tell you that it will NEVER happen.

I am still sad I don’t have more children. I will always wish I had crafted my path a bit differently, that luck in love would have found me. On the other hand, I am grateful for my one, healthy, happy child. Grateful I’ve been able to provide a stable home and lots of love.

Commitment is indeed liberating. Sometimes we just need a little more perspective before we commit to the right things.