It all started with a Cheerio on the floor.
Like a rogue wheel off a truck, one Cheerio had rolled away from my firstborn's highchair and somehow, somehow found its way into my bathroom, the one place of serenity I had left in a house covered in toys, swaddled in noise.
Oh how I loved him--you know the feeling. His serious face coupled with a comedic, constant drool from teething. Those chubby baby cheeks that begged to be squeezed. I could not kiss him enough. But what once was a house of calm respite after the storm of the day became, with the birth of the first child, a storm all its own of baby fury, colic, impromptu vomiting, and some weird-ass thing called Fifth disease that's totally freaky and perfectly harmless. Like all parents, I was thrust instantly into a world for which I was totally unprepared. The more mellow among us thrive in these conditions. I do not.
So it was that the straw broke the camel's back. One day I had run to the bathroom to pee (children love to start screaming/falling down/poking fingers in light sockets the minute Mom has to relieve herself, so new mothers learn quickly to pee like WWI soldiers in the trenches). Rushing as always, I looked down, and there it was. One lone Cheerio on the tile. Tiny and round, a mocking testament that nowhere was quiet, no boundary stood firm. How in the holy hell did it get there? Oh, why ask? Why not Cheerios in the bathroom and sippy cups in the fireplace? How about a bra in the oven and a wallet in the bathtub? This was the new normal, and I snapped like a twig.
Parenthood takes some getting used to. Ever notice how you hear babies crying in the grocery store, but their parents don't? We learn to tune that stuff out precisely because of such Cheerio incidents. We give up order, balance, and routine and surrender to chaos. We can distinguish between 7 types of screams to know which ones merit our attention and which we can ignore even as the color drains out of your face thinking poor Timmy's bloodcurdling cry will be his last. No, poor Timmy is fine. He just can't find his sippy cup. It's in the fireplace.
Again, some parents roll with these changes like...well...like a Cheerio across a house, apparently. Others of us freeze in the shock and awe. But here is my theory. We all have a magic age or stage for which we are best suited in parenting. Anyone who knew me 14 years ago can tell you that the baby years were not mine, as much as I utterly adored my little pumpkins. It was all so new and unfamiliar and scary. Bathing a newborn in the sink? Are you kidding me? Aren't there 18 ways he could drown? And for those of us who need our sleep more than we need air, forget about it. Lack of serious REM time turns us into Cheerio-dreading zombies for a few years.
But for me, as they've gotten older, it has gotten easier. Even in the teen years. Yes, yes, mine are only approaching those years. No one is driving yet so I know I'm tempting fate by saying this, but here's the difference--Language. Blessed, blessed language. I could talk till I was blue in the face about the dangers of stairs, but that didn't stop #1 son from putting #2 son in a cardboard moving box and trying to slide him down the basement steps. However, now (and I know you're going to laugh here), we can reason together.
What?! Reason with a teenager? Sure. Or at least try. "Dudes, if I find Cheerios all over the bathroom floor, you'll lose your cell phone. Capice?" The clarity of that equation is as stunning as the situation is unlikely. Now obviously the stakes are much higher at this age. Cheerios are nothing compared to drugs, alcohol, teen pregnancy, or an affinity for "Jersey Shore." But at least I have a fighting chance with words. Or that's how I see it, because this feels more like my magic mama age. I miss them as babies, but how I love them as pre-teens and teens. We can laugh and joke and mock bad TV. We can talk things out. No doubt many times words will fail, but then again we all sleep in till noon on the weekends. Jackpot.
