blogthecat

How to Give Your One-Year-Old Nightmares

1. Take him to the Stanley Park little farm for kids right before feeding time for the animals
2. Park him in front of a big sheep just before it starts braying
3. Nearly pee when said sheep gets entire farmyard rioting for food—goats, llamas, geese, cows, and especially cocks—which makes one-year-old and indeed all children present cry
4. Whisk him away to the safe haven of the birds and bunnies, and meet irate and hideous-looking male turkey, aka “the gobbler"
5. Run for your lives back the way you came, which is unfortunately right past the still-unfed sheep who by now looks deranged and monstrous
6. Decide to take detour because poor mommy didn’t get a chance to stroke the goats—and isn’t this all about me anyway?
7. Reluctantly abandon goats and take one-year-old one final time—for good measure—past sheep and out exit doors
8. Ask him repeatedly on trip home what various animals sound like, forgetting that "Baaaa" might not be a perfect association just now

Bad parenting 101.

Bring on the cheese

Who are you? Who who, who who?

Today I walked into our neighborhood coffee shop, Phoscao, a little lighter than usual. It was a nanny day, and for once I didn’t have Oliver strapped to me or in the stroller in front of me. I anticipated owners Kin and Kam’s disappointed reaction upon seeing me so unencumbered, but they still managed a smile. While they made my coffee, I scanned the shop to see if anyone I knew was there, and sure enough a couple of moms I talk to at the playground had taken over the back bench with their babes.

“Hi Chandra! Hi Amy!” I said, approaching their table and dodging their little ones who were scrambling about on the floor.

Blank stares.

I stepped closer, imagining there must be sun in their eyes or that I was too far away. Nope—nothing.

For some reason, I adopted a querying tone: “I’m Oliver’s mom? Kiley?”

Bright smiles of comprehension: “Oh yes, yes! Kiley! Kiley, how's it going? Where's Oliver?”

From then on, the conversation was smooth. But it was a bit stunning to not be recognized by people you chat with a couple of times a week—sometimes about quite personal things. I realized, not for the first time, but more viscerally than I had before, that I am incomplete, even a stranger, without Oliver to these moms. Our babies are our shorthand, our reason for speaking at all.

Later in the day I headed over to the park with Oliver and saw Chandra again. She smiled widely this time.

“Hi Oliver! How are you?" she asked, bending down to his eye level.

“Fine!” I answered for him. And that was that. And it’s okay, it really is … I do it, too, I’m sure … but it’s still weird.