Parenthood

Bad Scare


I found my daughter with a jump rope wrapped around her neck Saturday evening. Rob,  Jordan and I were enjoying a late supper in the dining room and Katy was supposedly watching television in the living room. I had heard her cough minutes before but dismissed it as she had been stuffy and still coughing a bit from a cold. It was the silence that followed in those minutes that jump-started the feeling that something was not right and sent me to check. I found her sitting on the couch in tears and terror. She had wrapped the rope around her neck several times and attempted to tie it, thank God she cannot tie her shoes yet, and was attempting to free herself but was only managing to pull the rope tighter. It is interesting how detached and task -oriented you become when faced with a crisis. I realized quickly I couldn’t untie the tangles and began to unloop instead. By the time Rob got to us I had her free but for the coils of rope that were caught in her curls. He quickly undid those and put the rope up on a shelf in the entryway to the house as I assessed her neck and soothed her.

She had frightened herself quite badly but at that moment I was still too concerned with checking for any burns or bruising and making certain that she was breathing properly which isn’t an easy thing to ascertain in a crying preschooler. It wasn’t until later when I had her in bed and asleep that the full impact of the event hit me, and I was more than glad to curl up on the same couch with Rob and receive my strokes and reassurance.

The nest morning she was fine and the fright over though hopefully the lesson learned is not forgotten. The fright is not so much gone for me. Since her father died, I have been…. well….over-protective…but understandably so, I think. I do need to learn to let her take those steps towards independence without always fearing the worst, and it is moments like Saturday evening which make that much harder. I can’t really protect her from anything. I know that. But hopefully I will be near enough to provide whatever rescue and snuggles that I can.

Mary with Katy Grace, Meanwhile Jesus was locked in a Cabinet


There is a statue of the Blessed Mother in the cemetery where Will is buried. My daughter Katy is quite taken with it. We have to  visit Mary, and the statue of Jesus though she is not as enamored of it, every time we go. Earlier last week, she noticed that Mary was stepping on a snake. Crushing it really beneath her bare feet. When she asked me why I explained (correctly I hope) that the snake represented all the evil of the world and that Mary was stomping it out. Katy considered this for a few moments before remarking, “Poor snake.”

 

The child’s take on religion is always interesting and sometimes insightful. I remember when I was preparing to receive my first communion that I was terrified of chewing the host because I took the “became flesh” thing quite literally and was worried about what the outcome of “biting” Jesus might be. Consequently I was always having to stick a finger in my mouth to dislodge a dry stuck wafer.

 

My nephew, Luke referred to the priest as “the King” when he was younger because of the vestments that priests wear for mass, and so naturally the church became a castle. Katy began to point out “castles” as a result of her cousin’s influence, and she still calls stained glass windows “Jesus glass” wherever it is.

 

My sister and Luke attended the Saturday night mass with her brother and sister-in-law’s family this past weekend in Webster City. As many Catholic churches now do, there is a children’s nursery provided for parents with children too young to sit through a whole mass. My dad rolls his eyes when he hears about this. Even if there had been such a thing when we kids were young, he would never have availed himself of it. He can remember hours of church time, in Latin no less, and his old school ways wouldn’t have permitted such coddling of his children. Catholicism is learned on one’s knees primarily and over many hours.  Luke and his cousin, Noah,  decided to slip out of the nursery and explore the nearby hallways which led to the discovery of a cabinet with writing on it, and  Jesus locked inside. How they came to the conclusion that the son of God was trapped in a cabinet in the basement of a church in Iowa is open to speculation because even after listening to a rather breathless explanation from the two I am uncertain still, but  it will have  to remain a mystery as something in the cabinet (Jesus no doubt) began banging on the door to be let out sending the two boys running for the stairs to find their parents. Although my sister and Phil and Kim seemed amused by the incident, no one volunteered any further information about what might have actually happened or who, if anyone, went to investigate? 

 

While we were strolling through the cemetery after visiting Mary and posing for the photo-op, Katy noticed another grave with a smaller statue of Mary and another statue that she assumed was Jesus. We wandered over to investigate as I thought it might have been St. Joseph, Mary’s spouse, but it turned out to be St. Francis of Assisi (the birds give it away if you fail to recognize the Franciscan bowl haircut). I seldom think much about my knowledge of what amounts to trivia about Catholicism, but I did note my dear love’s bemused expression. Though his mother is Catholic, his father vetoed the idea of raising him or his siblings in any belief system. I find it interesting that nearly everyone who I know who have been raised in such a manner (and this is admittedly a small number) have turned out to be some of the kindest and most accepting people I have ever met.

 

Our brushes with Catholicism, or any “church”, remind me that I need to began consolidating my thoughts on the subject of the universe and its creator. Sigh, as if I didn’t have enough to do these days.

 

Being a Single Mom


"Under the horse chestnut tree", 1 p...

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I have never pretended that I ever wanted to parent on my own. As a matter of fact when I turned 31, I actually spent a few months comtemplating  single parenthood. Not because it was becoming a trendy thing, but because I really couldn’t imagine not having a child of my own. I came to the conclusion though that it was too daunting a task and much too unfair to a child to go it alone. 

 

Imagine my surprise when the fates went ahead and made a single mom of me anyway.

 

It isn’t that I am not good at it. I am commended right and left for what a wonderful child I have, but I often wonder if they are merely saying that and the unspoken part of the sentence is “for not having a father..” Because the truth is that my little girl is headstrong and spoiled. I have been too distracted and too tired and just too grief-stricken to hold the lines that needed holding as often as they should have been held.

 

Case in point is that she still sleeps with me. She has slept with me almost from the beginning. I am assured by other two parent families that children do sleep with their parents. It is more common than the majority let on and that eventually they all sleep on their own.

 

I feel like a failure nonetheless.

 

Neither I nor any of my siblings ever slept with our parents in their bed. Their bedroom as a matter of fact was strictly off-limits. I have memories of hovering in the doorway to their room and asking to be allowed in. Even in the middle of the night. Even if I was ill. I never even tried to broach the door if I had a bad dream. I would just pull the covers over my head and grip them tightly to prevent whatever monster I had dreamt of from gaining entry.

 

I bring this up only because I worry that this bad habit I have left to its own devices will become more of an issue once the summer comes and we are in Canada with Rob. He is patient when it comes to my parenting skills, but he is far and away the expert. It must take quite a toll on his inner Virgo to tactfully approach subjects concerning my daughter. 

 

We had a semi-conversation about sleeping arrangements tonight on the phone, and although he brought up nothing I hadn’t already thought about, I still felt bad afterwards because I know firsthand that no one was ever meant to do this by themselves.

 

I wonder more often than not who she would be if there had been two of us raising her.