Ponderings at the PO

Yesterday, I was sitting on the concrete at the postal house for our apartment complex while Mal tried confidently to open several mailboxes with our van key.

First of all, he knows which mail box is ours. He runs right up to it as soon as we get down the hill. Secondly, I hand him the key ring with the correct key in position, and without fail, he looks around until he finds the van key and tries that. Thirdly, he gets angry when I finally "help" him by putting the correct key in.

So I was giving him time to try out his theory on as many of the other boxes as he wanted. I'm getting over being sick, and feeling better yesterday was great, but it also allowed me to truly realize how exhausted I am. I didn't mind at all taking a seat and letting him have fun. We usually spend fifteen minutes or so down and the mail house, anyway. More, if lots of people come to check mail. Mal's like the welcome wagon down there.

As I was looking into the woods beside the post boxes, I considered my daughter, a quarter mile away, in her room, possibly still asleep, though I'd awakened her as she requested earlier in the day. And it hit me: Mal will not remember that we used to spend almost an hour a day walking down to the mailbox, looking at dogs, trying to learn not to touch cars that don't belong to us, happily opening empty parcel boxes that have already been unlocked and playing with the spring in the door.

He won't remember the hours I spend sitting in his floor reading to him, playing the air organ, making up silly games, generating the kinds of noises that usually have Daphne closing her door so she doesn't have to try to listen to her music over our nonsense.

He will have no recollection that he cracked open an egg yesterday, and it got all over the counter, so I put the mixing bowl under the lip of the counter and scooped it in; or that I let him try again, and managed to shove the shell over the bowl just as the egg spilled out that time. Or that I was trying to rush him out the door to get my meds because I could not breathe, just as he grabbed the coffee decanter and spilled (fortunately cold) coffee all down his front, and over the counter, cabinet doors, and floor. OR that I was trying to do something he wanted to and hadn't realized he'd shaken my drink, so it exploded all over his bedroom floor when I tried to catch a quick gulp before we did his thing. Or that, unlike many many other times, I actually remained calm and in good humor for each of those incidents, cleaning quickly and moving on without drama.

When Mal's Daphne's age, he might not know that I used to sit in the car with him for five or ten minutes each time before we went anywhere, just to let him play around in the car and decide for himself to get into the car seat. Daphne doesn't remember it. I could tell her, but it wouldn't matter to her today.

So why do I do it?

Why do I kiss Mal and tell him I love him every time he wakes me up because he wants to nurse? Why do I stop and let him take his time even when I'm cold or I really want to sit down or I genuinely have to go to the bathroom? Why do I let him try things that stress me out and make more work for myself? Why do I try any harder than I absolutely have to to keep him alive and functional?

The most simple answer is that I love my kids and genuinely enjoy being around them. I can't think of a way I'd rather spend my time... well, usually, anyway.

But beyond that, I think it's because I want to lay a foundation for them that the world is an interesting place, and that the way that they are in that world is good. Thinking about it over the long term, I'm not always the best at this. I want my kids to grow up believing that they're exactly who they're supposed to be, and that it's a delightful thing. I know I've come short on many occasions. But I hope that's their foundation.

Also, I'd be lying if I didn't admit to hoping that it will have a long-term payoff in good relationships with both of them as they grow up and become whoever it is they're supposed to be. That'd be great. Even if neither of them remembers how exhausted I was and just assume that I've always had the life of leisure they'll notice when they're older and I don't have to be quite as hands-on.

Will Mal remember this?

Probably about as much as D remembers this (which is to say not at all).