Any Little Thing

The first day, it was, "Eliot will not join us at the table for activities. We need to work on that."

The second day, it was, "Eliot refuses to keep his shoes on, which caused several conflicts today."

The third day, it was, "Eliot is doing better. But his pants are too big and they keep falling down. He needs a belt or different pants."

Today, it was an actual "Come With Me, We Need to Talk" talk. Teacher begins. "Eliot is really having a hard time participating." Then, Teacher begins her list. Eliot will not accept help from adults. He will not acknowledge or listen when spoken to. He will only engage in activities that interest him, and does not, for example, want to clean up toys or sit down for crafts. Oh, and that cold that kept him out of school the first 2/3 of the week? His cough is awful and his nose is running, and he seems to be falling down a lot.

I creep up to the playground at preschool for pick-up time now, cringing like a whipped dog. School has only been going on for a little over two weeks, and already, I live in dread of what I will be told he is (I am) doing wrong. I don't hear Teacher offering other parents and kids anything but praise during those five minutes outside the gate. The munchkins come running, Teacher guides them out, beaming. "Great day today!" And "Oh, he was such a good little helper." And "Look at the sticker she got! She remembered something yellow today!"

Not Eliot. He comes racing to the gate, cheeks flushed and face lit up from the sheer joy of the monkey bars. Without fail, the teacher looks at me with an expression between pity and exhasperation. "Eliot had some trouble today." Of course he did.

Apparently, we need to follow through more effectively on what we tell Eliot is going to happen and the activities we plan. Like a good mom, I gulp back the impulse to enumerate every battle we are fighting in this particular arena. Instead, I ask what we should be doing better. Boy, Teacher is ready for that question. She starts ticking off her list on her fingers. "When you say something is going to happen, you make it happen." Talk to him about what's coming next, she tells me. Stick with things, she tells me. Structure, she tells me.

I hear her. Honest to God, I do. But what am I doing already? Time outs several times a day for ignoring my repeated direction. Clear consequences for every expectation. Wrangling over puzzles and coloring, cleanup and books. Every outing to the slide or dining hall is an endless stream of attempted negotiations, even when I am not negotiating. Am I too firm? Am I not firm enough? Do I cave too easily? Not offer good choices? Maybe I allow him too much independence. Maybe not enough.

Isn't this why we pay money we can barely afford to a preschool half an hour from home? How else will he swallow his spoonful of forced cooperation? As a small camp kid with no other small camp kids around, our little prince has had limited opportunities to function in the world of line-ups and sit-downs and hold-hands and wait-your-turns. It would be nice, as I stand outside the playground gate, to know that my son is getting better at being a member of a community. That he is a good kid in some way. Pick something about him, lady. Any little success will do. Please take a moment to tell me about that, too.

And it's One, Two, Three. . .

I tried to ignore the fact that it was Women's Weekend at Camp Chingachgook. Several times a year, our home camp hosts these fabulous retreat weekend for ladies only, complete with themed parties, boating, rock climbing, hiking, and arts and crafts. It's summer camp for grownups. In a cruel twist of fate, Toby inevitably has to work. With Eliot attached to my side, the best I can do is show up at the dining hall for mealtimes and listen with longing to the raucous female laughter while I negotiate carrots for french fries with a bull-headed toddler.


This weekend, I pretended I did not know that the sun was shining through the crisp morning onto Lake George, and that gaggles of women dipped paddles from kayaks or hiked in garrulous clusters up the trails past our house. I blocked out the knowledge that the weekend's theme was Woodstock, and that in the arts and crafts area, women were stringing glass and wooden beads to wear to the evening's love-child extravaganza. Toby had to head down to Wa Wa Segowea for a volunteer work weekend. Eliot and I made our own fun on Saturday morning, attending the Apple Festival at the Glens Falls Farmer's Market, sampling cider, jumping in the bounce house.


So, I was thrilled beyond measure when Irish Michael came knocking around 5:30 on Saturday. He announced he had a couple hours off, and I was free to be free. Michael is a burly, bearded fellow who likes to toss Eliot over his shoulder and bellow, "Come on, little man, we're going on an adventure." Eliot immediately began to climb his friend's sturdy trunk. I donned voluminous orange bell-bottoms and my mood ring and strolled on through the woods with nary a backward glance.


Dinner in the dining hall was some delightful combination of breaded fish and steak and almond-crusted green beans and heaps of young lettuces. I savored my carrot cake. I did not have to share a single crumb from my plate with anyone. I did not have to get up once to retrieve ketchup of a clean fork. All I needed to do was sit with my flower-bedecked new friends and talk about any old thing that struck my fancy. And not be interrupted.


After the lazy, delicious dinner, we wandered over to the Rotary Lodge for dancing. A woman who calls line dances at local Senior Centers had adapted her repertoire to the music of 1969. For a few precious moments, I forgot that somewhere else in camp, Eliot and and Irishman were donning deer antlers and stomping around in the woods. I grooved in a kind of giddy ignorance, kind rainbow sisters all around draped in love beads and crocheted accessories. We whooped and giggled in unison while doing the grapevine to Janis Joplin and Country Joe McDonald. Kick, stomp, kick, turn, Whoopee! We're all gonna die.

The Baby's Just a Little Bigger

Last summer, as I hovered over Eliot and tried to keep him from roasting himself in an active campfire or falling head-first into the creek, a number of people told me, "He'll be easier next year." I watched three- and four-year olds sitting quietly, playing with game-boys or scribbling in coloring books, and ached for easier.

This summer, he wasn't. We would stroll on down to the Fort Ann Beach with sand toys and sunglasses. That's me, forever hopeful. While other kids Eliot's age plopped down with shovels and set to work constructing castles and coves, Eliot wanted to run into the water. And out. And in and out. Around the edges. Near the road. He wanted to practice swimming. And throw stuff. And climb. On me. I would gaze longingly at the other mothers sprawled out on their towels reading cheap paperbacks and keeping a lazy eye on their docile children while Eliot turned crazy circles in the water, hollering, "We are doing ballet, mommy!"

Then, over Labor Day Weekend, we went down to Virginia for the annual pilgrimage to the grandparents' suburban oasis. Backyard pool, old friends, a Panera just eight minutes away. That first sunny afternoon, we wandered out back with Gramma Genie. I prepared myself for hovering around the concrete edges of the chlorinated abyss, nagging Eliot to walk. Don't splash. Keep back.

But Eliot surprised me. He hung back, all on his own. He took care when dipping in his toes, sitting all the way down near the steps. He lay flat on his belly to splash a plastic boat in the water. He walked. He swerved wide around the deep parts.

This was a two-for-one developmental windfall. My little boy acquired the ability to measure risk at the same moment he figured out how to amuse himself. I found myself sitting in a lawn chair drinking a Fresca and carrying on a conversation with my own mother. For a long time. With minimul requests for help. Okay, so I still had to give him a time-out for throwing in rocks, and had to yank him back when the net he was using to fish out a noodle knocked him off balance, but still. I was a woman to be envied. I could have finished a popsicle between one "help, please" and the next.

I'm beginning to understand that Eliot can actually do more than he lets on. I'm sure he finds it more satisfying to keep his on-call entertainment service hopping for him. What if he can actually pedal his trike just fine over the dirt road, and he only grunts in frustration because he knows it will get him a free push? What if he actually can soap and lather and rinse and dry his own hands well enough to keep him from getting swine flu? What if I'm the sucker, becaue I'm letting him act two when he is just weeks away from being three?

Today, on the ride home from the playground, this child in the back seat asked me, "Are those the mountains, mommy?" He was pointing across the lake at the greenish streak of trees. I reminded him that the mountains are all around us. "Can we go up in them?" He asked.

"Absolutely," I said. Rather vaguely.

"How? How would we go up in them? Would we take a helicopter?"

As much fun as that would be, I explained about the roads that go into mountains, and the trails, and how we have done some hiking with him in the past. Mostly with the jog stroller. To waterfalls.

"Can we go into the mountains today?"

Okay, so it was almost lunchtime, the kid was inches from sleep as I tried to beat the nap home, I had to get the dog walked before turkey and tootbrushing, and I didn't feel like wrestling the jog stroller on my own. So, sure, we'll go, baby, later, tomorrow, sometime.

But after Eliot woke up from his nap (and I from mine), I asked him if he still wanted to go up in the mountains.

"Sure!" He perked right up. Began looking for his boots.

We took the jog stroller up to the fork in the trail. I parked it. I told him that we were going to hike up the mountain. Together. And he was going to walk all the way to the top. He only asked once to stay in the stroller, and twice to be carried. I ignored both requests, unstrapped him, and started walking. So did he. With no lollipop or bouncy-house or bag of potato chips waiting at the top, he walked. With his only motivation being the mountain itself, its presence all around and above him, he walked. Without me cajoling or threatening or even reminding him to stay on the trail, my little boy walked. One rock, one root, one steep step at a time. Up, up, up. Up around the switchback. Up to the ridge. And, when we arrived at a point I figured was up enough to be the summit, Eliot wanted to go on. All the way to the big rock. The one that looks over a big slice of Lake George.

He did it. He hiked all the way up the mountain, to the lookout on the sun-warmed rock of Stewart's Ledges. Stayed up there, lazing with me and staring up at clouds. Not falling off. Then, with only two or three whines, he hiked all the way back down. On his own two feet. His two, growing, big-boy, almost-three-year-old feet.

"You did it, buddy!" I gave him a squeeze, a high five, a bottle of water. "You hiked all the way up and back down! You hiked up a mountain, kiddo." I gushed and wowed and sang down the trail.

As we arrived home, he called out, "Let's do it again!"

Well, that's one thing you can be sure of, little man. Hikes are in your future. Next time, no stroller at all. Now I know. You're tougher than you let on. So just get ready.