Son Sestina

Mornings with Boys

At 5:17am, from behind the leftover nighttime, a voice

squeaks, “Mom.” I blink my eyes, and put out a hand

“I can’t find my slippers,” he explains, as if cold feet

woke him up. “Climb in with me,” I say and pull him into

my blankets. His knees poke my stomach, his body

folds into mine and the warmth is a wall. The clink of cars

near my cheek, tiny lead-based paint hot wheel cars

snuck into bed with the special, whispering voice 

narrating their adventures. I roll away, my body 

turning from their games. He makes them talk, his hands

dancing them in the air above the blanket, cars into 

planes into buddies. And then he's out. Running feet

into the hall and down the stairs. I put my feet 

down first and look for slippers, stepping on a car

and recoiling. Already a day of toys turning into

weapons. Shower curtain pulled back, my hand

turns on the hot water, waiting for the steam. My body

hasn’t breathed yet. I step in gingerly, feeling like a body

of water drowning. The water so hot it’s cold stabs my feet

and I lean around the stream to adjust, my hand

catching the heat. Counting the attacks – first the cars,

then the water, next comes the tiny, fat fingers and voice

pulling back the curtain: “Momma.” I dip my head into

water. “Momma?” comes again with a diapered bottom into

the bath. His hair is curling, his toes are soapy, and his body

fits between my legs. I pump shampoo and a downstairs voice

asks, “Is Sullivan with you?” Below me he stomps his feet,

splashing and popping bubbles, then squatting and making car

noises. “Yes,” I call, scratching my scalp and rinsing my hands.

 “Dat,” he says and I try to look through the soap, his hand

pointing at me. And before I can stop it, a soapy finger into

my belly button. I fold in, calf hitting the spout, the day’s car

nage amassing. The reminder of “This is not my body”

since it was inhabited by others. I watch the soap around my feet,

gather my calm and attempt to use my kindest mother voice.

With my hands I lift him out, the weight of his almost two-year-old body

pulls me into the day. He retracts his legs leaving no feet

to stand on. Henry runs in with wooden cars, Sully grounded by his voice. 

Grown Up Friends

I've never been that good at making friends. I had 30 kids in my K-8th grade classrooms and half of us were there the whole time. I spent weekends with my cousins and family. I'm pretty bad at small talk. Networking and mingling are like death sentences. There are a couple from high school who I still talk to. I connected with some folks in college, but have only stayed in touch (like actual in touch, not just Facebook in touch) with a few. I did a pretty good job after my divorce and had this lovely little network of friends and coworkers... and then I moved. So I send letters to Michigan and San Diego and Spokane and Los Angeles. But I don't see them every day. And I miss them.

I've been making an effort this year to make some grown up friends. It's an ongoing joke in our office about my quest to not be anti-social. I have great co-workers, but there's only three of us and one is moving back to Wisconsin in a couple weeks. Plus I waiver back and forth on the appropriateness of being the boss and boundaries and things that probably aren't relevant, but are just another thing for me to feel guilty about.

Then there's the problem of people with kids. It's not that we mean to be assholes to people without them, but when you go to dinner with people who have kids and all the kids are there, you aren't expected to pay attention to everything that's said because your son is under the table chewing on a cardboard coaster while ripping his shoes and socks off. It's not that people without kids can't be understanding, but it's a lot to ask of anyone.

I joined a committee at Henry's school and tried to act friendly. I haven't really figured out how to take it outside the meetings. We've met awesome people at his school's auction the last two years when we've shared a table. My follow through is lacking though. When people say, "We should get together." I assume it's the obligatory response to "nice meeting you." Maybe it's a self esteem issue, although it's not like I'm wondering why someone would want to hang out with me. But I make them work pretty damn hard to make it happen.

After meeting one couple in November, we finally got together in April after she persisted. We had brunch at our house, their son (who's in Henry's class) played with ours. They were expecting a second child (have since had her) and are from away from Maine. It was good conversation, felt pretty easy, lots of laughing, and the kids got along. But then it's like waiting to see if they had a good time, too. Even though they said they did.

 It's like when I took Henry to soccer his second week (the first week was kind of a bust) and he refused to play. He said he didn't know anyone. I pointed out how many kids were out there alone without a group of friends and how he could introduce himself. He plastered his body against my legs and begged to go home. I didn't force him to play, but I did make him stay the whole time and by the end of it he ventured onto the field. And now, by week four, he participates easily and has his friendship hopes pinned on one girl.

The difference is, I need to do a better job of showing up for practice. Of making an effort. Making adult friends is a weird mirror for my state of mind. If this is something I want, why am I making it so difficult? Especially when I'm meeting great people. As an introvert, I'm always looking to make best friends - few, but deep friends. But I should probably hang out with people to figure that out. The quest continues...