When Katie was 2 and a half (and 3, and 4, and 5), whenever we would drop her off at school (or anywhere, really, where she was going to be without us for awhile), she had to go through a somewhat elaborate goodbye routine with me and Geoff. First a kiss on the lips, then an Eskimo kiss, then a "noggin" (a mild - preferably! - forehead bump, then a hug. It's the same routine we go through every night when we tuck her in bed. We all got very good at doing it quickly, but we always did it. Most of the time, I loved our little routine, and even felt a little bit proud of our strange ritual (the care providers often let out an "aww" the first few times they saw it).
But sometimes, especially when she was very young and we were leaving her at day care, she would ask us to do it two or three times. So we did. I do remember more than one time, though - times when she would ask us to go through the ritual four or five or even six times - feeling frustrated and irritated about the repeat performances. I started to feel like I was being taken advantage of, or as if she were only asking us to do it again to see how many times she could get us to do it. Sometimes I'd growl angrily at her, "this is the last! time!" and she would nod, and then I'd leave the room. I don't think I ever stormed out, exactly, but when that happened, I sure felt stormy inside. I felt trapped and claustrophobic, but then I also felt guilty for feeling that way. And if she cried when I left, with or without the repeated ritual, I'd feel like my heart was breaking. I'd tell her goodbye, smile at her, tell her I'd see her that afternoon. And then I would walk out of the room and cry a little bit to myself. I hated to leave her unhappy.
I don't walk her to the door or the classroom anymore - instead we drive through the drop-off line, and when we get to the door, I make sure she has her backpack and her lunch if she's taking one, and I tell her to have a good day, and I tell her that I love her. She tells me she loves me too, and she gets out, and she walks into school without a backward glance. She's not unwilling, yet, to go through the ritual - this morning I asked her for a kiss, because while she's at school I will be leaving to go out of town, and won't be back until tomorrow, and she willingly leaned forward, automatically leaning even farther forward to rub noses with me after she'd given me a kiss. One of these days, though, I am afraid we won't ever do our little goodbye routine anymore. Maybe we'll forget how it goes, even (let's see, when did the eskimo kiss come in? wait, what about noggin?!).
I told her yesterday that I'd be leaving today and wouldn't be back until tomorrow. She asked where I was going (Chicago) and why (to take photos of Erin), and whether she could come with me. I said no. She didn't ask again. When I reminded her this morning that I wouldn't be here when she got home from school, she nodded and said ok. She is not upset. She's just fine.
And although I know that this is a good thing - this is how I would like her to be - happy with either parent (and quite happy with grandparents or a babysitter, for awhile, without either parent around at all), there was a part of me that was half-wishing, as I drove home from dropping her off, that she'd been just a little more sorry that she wasn't going to get to see me for over 24 hours.
This is how it goes, right? The push and the pull of parenthood. I want her to need me, but not too much. I want her to miss me, but not too much. I want her to do things without me, but not too often. I want her to grow up, but not too fast.
We talk a lot - Geoff and I - about how a saying that we've heard over and over, and how true we find it - that they childhood is made up of the longest days and the shortest years. For all the days that drag by, and for all the bedtimes when I literally can't wait for them to be in bed so that I can take a break from their intense neediness (and I do mean literally, sometimes - there are occasional days when something snaps and I go give myself a timeout, lying quietly in my bed, talking myself down from the ledge, while Geoff continues the bedtime routine), the years are going by so, so fast. Wasn't it only last week that we got married? Wasn't it only a few days ago that Katie was born? When did Annabel stop being a tiny baby?
Annabel is now 2 and a half, the age Katie was when Katie started day care, and her neediness reminds me of how Katie used to be. Annabel pushes me away one minute and clamors, weeping, for me the next. If mommy is home, she requires that only mommy may tuck her in. Sometimes when I drop her off at preschool, she clings to me and starts to cry, wanting hug after hug, and I can tell that the neediness will never end on its own. I hug her and tell her goodbye and that I love her, and one of the teachers picks her up or holds her hand, and I leave. I know that she will stop crying a few seconds after I'm gone (I have even witnessed that for myself once or twice, through the window in the door to the room), but even so, as soon as I walk outside, where no one can see me, I cry a little bit. I cry because I hate to see her sad, of course, but I think it's more than that. It's for the way she needs me now, and for the way I am teaching her that she will be ok without me, and for the way, someday soon, she will wave at me and walk into her classroom without a backward glance for me.
I want them to grow up, but not too fast. (Someday, sooner than I think, I am going to miss them so much.)
I teared up reading this very personal post. I feel the same way a lot of times (boy - 7, girl - 3). I want to smother them with love, but I like to see them go to bed on time so that I can have a much needed break. My son and I have a routine as well, and sometimes I feel myself getting irritated with the length of time it can take at bedtime. Some days when I shut his door after the long routine, I'm so tired and happy to shut the door. And, sometimes, I shut the door while he is in mid-sentence and I feel bad.
But, as you say, the years go by so fast and I know I'm going to be sad when he stops the routine. I try to remind myself of that fact.
I like your thought: the days are long and the years are short. That is so true. I don't want the years to slip by, but certainly, some days I'm glad they are over. tania
Posted by: Tania D | December 18, 2010 at 02:08 PM
Perspective is hard to keep in the heat of the moment. Regrets seem almost impossible to avoid. I have found myself growling at my kids when enough is past enough, knowing full and well my frustration is really with my own lack of control. ... Of them as well as myself.
This really does sum it all up, though. This push and pull is our predicament as human beings. Thanks for the reminder.
Posted by: toyfoto | December 22, 2010 at 06:15 PM