Thursday, June 09, 2005
Cats and Dogs
Last week Max began summer camp at St. Luke's, his first school. The second day he resisted going to camp because he didn't want to participate in the 90 minute naptime. I offered to pick him up after lunchtime, but before nap. We had a deal. At the end of the day, as we walked to the car together, Max assessed his day at camp: "This was the perfect amount of time, mommy. Yesterday was too long, but today was just right."
As the afternoon wore on, Max unleashed his full destructive powers on the household. Repeatedly, he pestered Boo until he cried. He broke a hinge on an antique chest. He refused to get in the bathtub and then refused to get out. And so it went for several hours. When Max becomes this uncooperative, it can only mean one thing: he's gone way past tired. I told him as much and sent him to bed. He was asleep within seconds. It was 6:15.
Taking such drastic measures always comes with a price, and I knew exactly how I would pay. Max would be awake at 3 a.m, and so would I. I couldn't have been more precise if I'd set my alarm clock.
Occasionally, Max will wake me to ask for milk or to use the bathroom, but it's been months since he wanted to start his day in the middle of the night. And it's been months since I've crawled into bed next to him, hoping to coax him back to sleep. From this familiar vantage point, what I first noticed was how much maturing Max has done. I remember with agitation how Max would carry on a stream-of-consciousness monologue at full volumn, or dislodge toys in his closet by climbing the shelves, or thrash about in bed like a fish without oxygen. But not this morning.
Max rubbed my back, and I reciprocated. We pressed our noses and foreheads together, which made us both laugh. I kissed his face all over, and he answered with a smile. Occasionally, he whispered to himself or to me. And eventually, after a couple of hours, we slept.
I could have been irritated, but I wasn't. I'm more mindful lately that there are only so many short years when I get to touch Max with relative impunity. (And to remind me that that day is coming, Max will sometimes admonish me when I plant a smooch on the top of his head: "No kisses, mommy!") Some days, considering this reality is almost more than I can bear. Can I can store the delicious memories of enough caresses and kisses to last a lifetime? I guess Max isn't the only one who might need a little more skin.
I recently commented to my friend, Angela, how much I'll miss these moments when the boys and I begin to redraw the physical boundaries between us. The boys will want more privacy, or I'll hesitate before I offer an affectionate gesture in public. Angela understands, because her boys are now 14 and 12. She's crossing this threshold now with her younger son; the older one is already on the other side.
Angela tried to comfort me with an analogy. When your children are little, she said, they're like dogs. You can pet them on your terms, and they gratefully absorb your affection whenever and wherever it occurs. But as kids reach adolescence, they become like cats: you must touch them on their terms. By paying attention, you'll learn how and when they'll permit you to enter their space.
Am I reassured? Maybe. Just a little. But not very much. After all, I've always been more of a dog person.
As the afternoon wore on, Max unleashed his full destructive powers on the household. Repeatedly, he pestered Boo until he cried. He broke a hinge on an antique chest. He refused to get in the bathtub and then refused to get out. And so it went for several hours. When Max becomes this uncooperative, it can only mean one thing: he's gone way past tired. I told him as much and sent him to bed. He was asleep within seconds. It was 6:15.
Taking such drastic measures always comes with a price, and I knew exactly how I would pay. Max would be awake at 3 a.m, and so would I. I couldn't have been more precise if I'd set my alarm clock.
Occasionally, Max will wake me to ask for milk or to use the bathroom, but it's been months since he wanted to start his day in the middle of the night. And it's been months since I've crawled into bed next to him, hoping to coax him back to sleep. From this familiar vantage point, what I first noticed was how much maturing Max has done. I remember with agitation how Max would carry on a stream-of-consciousness monologue at full volumn, or dislodge toys in his closet by climbing the shelves, or thrash about in bed like a fish without oxygen. But not this morning.
Max rubbed my back, and I reciprocated. We pressed our noses and foreheads together, which made us both laugh. I kissed his face all over, and he answered with a smile. Occasionally, he whispered to himself or to me. And eventually, after a couple of hours, we slept.
I could have been irritated, but I wasn't. I'm more mindful lately that there are only so many short years when I get to touch Max with relative impunity. (And to remind me that that day is coming, Max will sometimes admonish me when I plant a smooch on the top of his head: "No kisses, mommy!") Some days, considering this reality is almost more than I can bear. Can I can store the delicious memories of enough caresses and kisses to last a lifetime? I guess Max isn't the only one who might need a little more skin.
I recently commented to my friend, Angela, how much I'll miss these moments when the boys and I begin to redraw the physical boundaries between us. The boys will want more privacy, or I'll hesitate before I offer an affectionate gesture in public. Angela understands, because her boys are now 14 and 12. She's crossing this threshold now with her younger son; the older one is already on the other side.
Angela tried to comfort me with an analogy. When your children are little, she said, they're like dogs. You can pet them on your terms, and they gratefully absorb your affection whenever and wherever it occurs. But as kids reach adolescence, they become like cats: you must touch them on their terms. By paying attention, you'll learn how and when they'll permit you to enter their space.
Am I reassured? Maybe. Just a little. But not very much. After all, I've always been more of a dog person.
1 Comments:
Perhaps when Max and Reed reach the cat phase, they'll be like our cats. While the gatitos do not come running when we walk in the door, each of them comes around at least a couple of times each day for petting and snuggling.
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