A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bath

Apparently, my dear children have both reached interesting stages of development, which combined, can make for the most ridiculous situations. Asher has hit the three's, which, in his case, is turning out to be worse that then two's with lots of whining, much upset over being told "no" (about anything, even having a whole banana versus a half) and a great need for mom (no doubt part of the battle between establishing independence and still needing to have many needs met by us parents). Harper will be 16 months old on October 1, and while her stage does not include the adolescent-like moodiness of a three year old, there is much noise and some frustration as she struggles with knowing she can communicate and move around but lacks some of the skill to achieve her self-imagined potential.

So Tuesday night, I made a valiant attempt to get both my children in the bath before bed and their respective stages collided. They were in desperate need of cleaning as I had forgotten the last time they had a bath (a few days) and both had been happily playing in the dirt-filled kiddie pool turned massive mud puddle in our backyard before dinner. I announced happily, as dinner was wrapping up, "After Harper finishes up, it's bath time." There were some protests from Asher because it wasn't his idea, but before I could get Harper out of his chair, Asher had removed his diaper (dinner's clothing included his diaper and socks as I had stripped him after the mud puddle fun). While Asher tromped around the house with the air of a triumphant, naked boy, I corralled Harper into the bathroom with some wipes to clean her poopy bottom before getting in the bath. With much squirming and protesting grunts from her, I finally had her clean but the bath mat was much the worse for wear.

Returning to the bathroom after tossing her diaper and washing my hands, I asked Asher to try to remove his socks. "Dare duck, Mom," he announced after tugging at them lightly while standing up. Urging him to try again, he replied, "Look, Mom, dare's poop on da floor." I peered into the small bathroom to discover a nicely laid, three inch turd on the floor and Asher still in his socks. Oh-so-calmly I replied, "So there is. Do you want to sit on your potty?" Asher, squatting close to his poop and peering at it so inquisitively, replied "What color is it, Mom?" Answering his question nonchalantly, I stuck one arm out to grab Harper as she made a mad toddler dash to join Asher and another arm out to pull his training potty into the bathroom. Harper squealed as I removed her from the site of this intriguing scene and carried her with me to get the child's gate. The children obviously needed to be locked up (or was that me? I would later wonder). Asher proudly sat on his potty, asking for a book and his helicopter. Harper screamed in great protest, grabbing the gate and attempting to keep it from going up as I struggled and finally succeded in getting the gate situtated in the bathroom doorway. I scooped up the poop with a plastic bag and went back to the kitchen for disinfecting wipes.

During my trips back and forth to the kitchen, Harper kept up a constant running, flapping and protest grunting routine, running between the bathroom and the kitchen, between me and Asher. She was, quite clearly, very offended at being locked out. On one of my returns to the bathroom, I found a nice puddle outside the gate where Harper had briefly stood nd attempted to pull Asher's hair. Back to the kitchen for a towel I went, followed quickly by a "phalump. " I turned to find Harper, having run after me with wet feet, sprawled on the floor. I picked her up and mopped the floor as I comforted her. Somewhere, deep inside, I realized that the situation was becoming critical. We weren't just talking messes here, we were talking bodily injury! Yet, I charged on.

Asher was done sitting, having produced nothing more for him to admire. I cleaned up any remnants on the bathroom floor and training potty and started to run the bath water. Back to the beginning of this scene, it was again time for Asher to take his socks off. I urged him to attempt this on his own. He obediently sat on the floor and started lightly tugging on the toe of one sock. Making no progress he complained loudly, "Can't do it, Momma. Help me." He shifted where he was sitting on the floor, and I tried to guide him in hooking his finger on the back of the sock and pulling it over his heel. My gentle instruction was met with, "Look, Mom. More poop. " Pause. "What color is it?" I had one child, one floor and one potty nicely cleaned but had neglected to clean the other child's bottom. "You've got to be kidding me," I said out loud, shut the water off and set Harper in the tub in less than an inch of water. "Don't touch it," I toldAsher and got him to stand up, away from the poop. "Why, Mom?" he answered. "What color is it?" he asked again. "Brown," I replied and headed back to the kitcehn for another disinfecting wipe.

As I come back into the bathroom, my dear girl was standing in the tub and then, quick as an oiled pig, "phalump," on her back, screaming. I dropped the cleaner, grabbed a towel and lifted Harper out to comfort her as I cleaned up the very last remnants on the floor and Asher. With almost hysterical laughter, what a feat this was.

Finally, finally, with all the bottoms cleaned, the usually neglected bathroom floor clean enough to serve a meal on, Asher's stubborn socks off, both kids were happily playing in the bath tub. It's so funny what goes through our head during these moments - questions about what is the best cleaner to use, where the cleaner is, how best to lock up a child, whether the next best step in a series of critical moments is to set my baby girl in a bit of water, lug her around with me or let her indulge her curiosity and why I chose the first option. There is much here about life, but, most importantly to me, how critical it is to be in the moment, to watch my children's developing abilities and figure out - even with the heat of disbelieving frustration and hysteria - how to react when everything starts to fall apart.

September's Caterpillars

I was reading in bed Monday night, finishing the third book in a series about a teenage girl who falls in love with a vampire (a nice vampire, of course. Who knew? A fun read - The Twilight Series by Stephanie Meyer). The end of the third book was sad, and I was somewhat ruffled. And then, all of a sudden, I was really ruffled, sobbing heavily. Ten days into September, this contentious month ambushed me. Tuesday was one of those days where I had to concentrate most of the day on holding myself together because the slightest breeze would blow away my leaves.

As much as I want to chalk it up to the book, to a theme of struggling with love and loving like your life depends on it, to missing Michael (he's out of town, and this is the first time I've missed his presence in some time), to fatigue, I had to admit it was more than that. Ten years ago, I attended a conference, which was in most regards quite useless and scary (scary in the overly conservative, Christian way), the speaker talked about our life cycles. When we experience good or bad things in our lives, those times of the year may echo that experience in later years. Perhaps it's really a mark on our soul and energy. Perhaps our unconscious is triggered by dates or weather or how the light looks at certain times of the year. Perhaps our memories are linked strongly to the calendar. In any case, September is one of those times of year for me.

Six years ago, I was turning on the radio in our apartment after a walk in Riverside Park in Manhattan with Michael on a beautiful early fall day when the events of 9/11 happened. I wasn't at the Trade Center (Michael was the day before). I didn't know anyone who was killed (though, working in Manhattan, it was one degree of separation, and many days I could hear at work, "Did you hear from her/him yet?"). I did see people and cars covered with the dust, have my school and work closed down for security, saw bus stops and walls covered with missing persons flyers and make shift alters under those flyers. I attended a staff meeting of all college staff and listened to one of the maintenance workers talk about his friends who died at the Trade Center, friends he used to work with there. Michael and I went to a peace rally with friends in Union Square, a quiet (in NYC) gathering. We carved messages on a large piece of metal, and, when it was dark, walked as far south as we could go before the street closures. We could see the continuing smoke, lit yellow by the search lights. For many weeks after 9/11, the subway trains were strangely quiet, the riders carefully tucked into their thoughts and grief. There was tangible grief for concrete individuals and for something ethereal, a sense that something in our lives had ended.

Closely following those events, I spiraled into a depression, the first symptom of which was an inability to read (which, if you know me, is unheard of - I HAVE to read). My depression lasted through the end of my graduate work, a move to Alabama, a month of living with in-laws, a move to Mississippi, a temp job at WorldCom (aka corporate hell), a job search and starting a new job until I started medication. For months, I pulled myself up by my boot strings.

Three years ago on September 17, my sister's boyfriend, Tim Griffith, was murdered. I was nine months pregnant, and my mom called our house. There was something funny in her voice, a forced calm, and she asked to talk to Michael. She told him the news, afraid to tell me. Tim had gone to a Giants' baseball game, his first night out after getting off house arrest, a young man sober after struggling with a drug addiction. He and his friends were walking back to their car after the game, and Tim brushed a car parked on the street. A group of young men got out of the car, and attacked Tim and his friends. Tim died at the hospital from a stab wound. My sister was at a horse show in southern California. Less than a week later, my sister returned from Iraq, relieving an enormous weight and a year of jumping when the phone rang at strange hours. It was bittersweet. My dear nephew, who had lived with us, become a surrogate son, rearranged our childless married lives would return to his mother shortly.

One year ago on September 2, my Executive Director's son died in a swimming accident. Things between Michael and me really started to fall apart, and I grieved for my boss alone when I heard the news at church. I took off my wedding ring that month.

There are two huge, bright, anchoring events that occurred on September 23, 2004 - my beautiful son was born - and September 24, 2005 - I found out I was pregnant with Harper the day after finishing a half marathon.

So it is that the date and memory of September 11, 2001 brings up intense memories of Manhattan on that day and an all too public representation of the trials of September and of the beginning of six years when life, a reconstructed life full of adventure and love and discovery, slowly started to be eaten away like a poplar set upon by leaf-eating caterpillars. Infestations usually aren't fatal, but successive years of attack can weaken a tree enough to kill it; and, certainly, ignoring the caterpillars, letting them move in without protest, finding small cracks to hide in from storms is a faster way to go. Somehow, I have to help these caterpillars methamorphose and fly away so the leaves can regrow. So September can be a time for fall, recovery and leaves full of fire.