Garbage Truck Morning

Every Wednesday morning Sammy hears the garbage truck beeping and banging along our street. I never hear it until he runs to the front window and tosses back the blinds. Sometimes he ducks his head back under to find me and jabbers excitedly, pointing, then goes back to watching.

Sam also hears traffic helicopters thumping overhead and dogs barking in distant yards. “Woof,” he says, and cocks his head. I do not hear these sounds unless Sam draws my attention to them.

This morning I heard our van honk out on the driveway. This usually only happens when I hit the “lock” button twice on my key chain. After about 5 beeps, it occurred to me that Sam must have found my keys. Sure enough, I discovered him near the window punching the lock button over and over while the van tooted loudly for the enjoyment of the whole neighborhood. Because I threw out my back, I can’t bend over to Sam’s level so I held out my hand and said, “Sam, give me the keys.” Despite the enormous silence of the house, Sam was apparently unable to “hear” me. The van tooted again. “Sam, I happen to know that the hammer, anvil and stirrup bones inside your ears are perfect. So fork over the keys.” But Sam had become mysteriously deaf. Toot, toot went the van. At this moment Danny appeared and took the keys from Sam, who protested at an impressive decibel level.

Danny and I hear differently too. For a very long time, we could never hear each other apologize, though both of us claimed to do it regularly! Now whenever one of us feels we have apologized, we follow it up with, “Did you hear that I just apologized?” This way the other person has to pause and notice what their ears took in. We soon discovered that different words trigger the awareness that an apology has occurred. Danny simply needs to hear, “I’m sorry, it was my fault.” He zooms in on words that communicate personal responsibility. For me, such words are not very “loud.” Anyone can say “I’m sorry” after the fact. I need to hear how the grievance will not happen again. “Next time I will check the lock on the gate so the dog cannot get out” registers in my ears like a true apology.

Despite our age gap, Sam and I agree on hearing certain sounds though—like music. We are both also sensitive to the thump of Danny’s car door slamming in the driveway, and the jingle of his keys in the front door.

Even when Sam and I hear the same thing, we have different opinions about it. For example, one recent spring afternoon, a thunder clap rumbled down our street sending thrills up my spine. A few feet away, Sam’s calm face crumpled up like a wad of paper and he began to howl, his lower lip jutting out a mile.

At his age, Sam can hear an extraordinary 10 octaves. The thin membranes of his toddler eardrums mean he can capture frequencies between sixteen and 20,000 cycles per second. As humans age, their eardrums thicken and high frequency sounds don’t pass as easily between the miniature bones of the inner ear. Yet more significantly, aging can thicken the mind and render its ideas stale and brittle. This has the potential to reduce a person's "hearing" more than anything else. Sam, aged 28 months, hears the telephone ring two houses down, but he cannot hear me ask for the keys. Is this a symptom of aged eardrums or mind!?

Both Sam and I have perfect hearing, yet we can’t—or don’t—hear what the other hears. We tune in to different frequencies. Our dissimilar aural landscapes are mapped out less by the apparatus of our ears than by grids of meaning in our minds. What we hear is determined more by our worldview than the quivering hairs inside our cochleas. Our personalities and priorities act as a kind of zoom lens over the biological anatomy of our ears. It causes certain sounds to blur and others to jump into sharp relief.

There was a time when Sam’s entire world consisted of the soothing, surf-like thump of my heart. Afloat in the womb, my heartbeat was his first cradlesong. But I am less and less the only sound in Sam’s universe. At night I sing to him in Hausa and French so that his ears learn the tones and textures of other languages, but by day he is increasingly limited to the phonetics of English and Spanish. As the universe ladles out enormous helpings of noise into his eager ears, the thumping of my heart will become fainter and harder for him to perceive. This is bittersweet; but it can also be okay. It will be part of growing up (for both him and me).

What I hope for most is that he would be able to hear the most important sounds. I pray that even as his eardrums loose some of their extraordinary 10-octave range, that his mind and soul would only increase their range of perception. I hope that he will learn to hear whispers of grandeur in a stormy sky and shouts of joy in the common daysong of a North Carolina wren. I hope that he becomes fluent in the emotional dialects of music. I hope he learns to hush the Niagara of noise produced by cell phones and Ipods in order to create quiet cathedrals of inner worship. I hope the silent suffering of the poor becomes louder to him than the babble of advertisements and entitlement propoganda. I hope he develops a keen capacity for listening to nuance in relationships because such fine distinctions give dignity to others. I hope that amidst the broken cacophony of the world, he would learn to amplify justice and still ignorance. I hope that the thrill with which he now greets the garbage truck would grow into the delight of a lifetime of listening to the love of God.

What Happened to Mommy's Back

Okay, so I royally threw out my back. I mean yelping-in-agony, pain-searing-down-my-leg, can’t-move-or-it-kills kind of back pain. It may have happened because of a teeny weeny 16-hour road trip to Michigan, but I’m not admitting that. It may also have something to do with being six months pregnant. Or it could be that I already had a weak lower back and possibly, inadvertently neglected to stretch or exercise like all the articles tell me to. But, as I said, I’m not 'fessing up to anything. What matters is that I was victimized by mind-melting pain that compares only to childbirth---except in labor there are nice people loitering about who will give you an epidural.

It had begun on a Tuesday and in the wee hours of Wednesday morning I made Danny call the office of our chiropractor, Dean O’Hare. The voice mail explained that the office didn’t open until 9. I could see that the universe was committed to my slow death. I made Danny riffle around for Dr. O’Hare’s cell number. We had it!! As Danny left a message, I decided that his voice was not desperate or urgent enough, so I glared at him. Nevertheless, a few minutes later, Dr. O’Hare called back.

“Going to die soon,” I panted into the phone. “Pain stabbing down my leg. Bottom of foot triggers excruciating agony.”

“Sounds like a full blown case of sciatica,” said Dean.

The word “sciatica” meant nothing to me. “Am six months pregnant. Will die soon. Help. Help.”

“The good news is, this isn’t hurting your baby at all.”

“Really?”

“Not at all.”

Birds chirped quietly outside.

“I haven’t used the bathroom in 10 hours." I resumed. "Cannot get up.”

“Now that you might want to take care of. That’s not so good for the baby. Is Danny there?”

“Yes.”

“Have him double bag some ice and put it under your lower back for 10 to 15 minutes every hour.”

“So you’re suggesting that into my volcano of torment I should toss an ice cube?” Actually, I didn’t say that. I thought that. But I was still being friendly because I harbored the hope that Dean might do house calls. "Ice,” I purred. "Good idea.”

“Can you move at all?”

“Not a bit. Can I take pain medication?”

“Not when you’re 6 months pregnant. Just Tylenol.”

Tylenol!!?? Molten anguish surged through my nervous system and he was suggesting Tylenol. “Certainly,” I purred again.

“If you can’t even stand without excruciating pain, there’s not a lot to do but wait it out with ice and rest. It will ease up. However, there’s a lot I could do for you in the office.”

The office, which was four miles away, could just as well have been four galaxies away. I wondered if my insurance covered helicopter transport. I hung up and stared at the ceiling. Then I whispered, “Honey, I have to pee. For the baby.”

Danny helped me out of bed, a sentence which is irritatingly easy to write. The actual act took at least 5 minutes and involved dozens of incremental shifts interspersed by yelps and groans. Then we hobbled together to the bathroom.

Later Danny filled a bag with ice and stuffed it under my back. I may have cussed a bit, the same way sailors cuss a bit, but eventually the ice was where the ice was supposed to be. I had the sensation of laying on a lump of sharp, burning rocks. But I inhaled deeply, willing peace into my body. With saint-like patience, I waited. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. No relief. I whimpered. My friend Tamara showed up. Sam's sitter showed up. Sigh.

An hour and a half later, Tamara and my husband had become my fan club and support group. Cajoling and cheering, they helped me once again to become vertical. Together we staggered towards the minivan the way soldiers do in war movies where the one in the middle is practically dead and the other two lug him forward while his boots drag a rut in the mud. I know how the guy in the middle feels.

At the door of the minivan, I released some adorable, ladylike bellows as they maneuvered my pain-wracked body into a kneeling position. To the casual observer, it may have looked like I had acquired a premature case of rigor mortis, but I felt like a circus contortionist folding into a matchbox.

After a 4-mile ride over what I can only believe were unpaved, speed-bump-overdosed, pot-holed roads, we arrived at Dr. O’Hare’s office.

“Hi Tina,” I mumbled. Tina was sitting in a chair. Effortlessly. Bitter feelings puddled in my heart. “Hi Amy,” I added. Through a blur of pain I noted that Amy was actually standing. Others were walking about the office. Clearly the world was mocking my newfound condition as an invalid.

But an hour later, after lots of assuring words, a few adjustments, massage, and grasping a jar of chirogesic cream, I felt comforted. Also, the baby was kicking vigorously. Relief.

I kneeled all the way home again, the roads having become miraculously paved during the past hour. My OB prescribed some sturdy pain meds, and I slept all day. I awoke only to grumble, get more ice, grumble, take a pill and grumble, in that order, except there was actually more grumbling.

That night was filled with dreams of pain drenched in aromas of icy-hot cream, followed in the morning by another epic journey over treacherous roads to the chiropractor’s office. This time Dean tried to show Danny how to gently massage my lower back and hip. Danny looked on dutifully, nodding. “Do this for her at home,” Dean instructed.

“Got it,” said Danny.

But Danny didn’t get it. At home, he wrenched and poked, asking tentatively if I felt better. I would have felt better if he’d driven over me with a riding mower. He was quickly re-assigned to his former duties of ice-fetcher and bathroom-assistant.

For the next days, the women at Dr. O’Hare’s office were fabulous. They greeted me enthusiastically every morning and gave me ultrasound massages. They exclaimed at how much better I looked than the first day and told stories about flushing their husband’s expensive salt-water fish down the toilet. I tried not to laugh because even if laughter is the best medicine, it was astonishingly painful. But I had to admit, I was feeling better. My in-laws sent a basket of flowers. My husband waited on my hand and foot. Yet as the weekend neared, another dilemma surfaced…

A childhood friend was getting married, and the wedding was to be held an hour and a half away in South Carolina. I was still kneeling on my trips to the chiropractor. Sitting in a chair was an Olympic feat for which I was still in training. The 16-hour road trip to Michigan had just about killed me. How could I drive an hour and a half away? At the same time, how could I let a stupid little nerve in the base of my spine sabotage me!!!

After much careful thought, I realized that things were not as grim as they seemed. I just had to improvise. All I would need was a driver (Danny seemed available), my son’s crib mattress, a neck support pillow, a pillow to put between my knees, an ice pack, extra ice in a cooler, one little pain pill, and a two year old for a peanut gallery. Honestly, it was a piece of cake.

Okay, so I winced at stoplights and clung to Sam's arm rest at sharp turns. BUT… I did clean out the trash from under his seat since I had unprecedented access to it. And I chatted lots with Sam, retrieving his dropped trucks and cheerios. I also made Danny park in discreet places so no one would see me lumber backwards out of the van.

The wedding was fabulous. Childhood friends flew in from everywhere. My sciatic nerve protested a couple of times, but mostly behaved itself. I felt elated.

Today marks exactly one week since my frantic pre-dawn calls to Dr. O’Hare. At ten o’clock this morning I drove myself to my appointment over smooth roads lined with blooming dogwoods.

“Hi Tina,” I said cheerfully. “Isn’t the weather great?”

“Oh, I love it,” she said. “Some people get depressed on these overcast days. But I love the deep purple clouds.”

“Sometimes a brilliant ray of sun will stab through the banks of rain clouds. It’s spectacular,” I exclaimed.

“Hm, hmm." She passed me my paperwork. "Room One.”

“Thanks,” I said, and limped to Room One.

Meditations on Eating a Banana

Eating a banana is not as straightforward as one might think. Sam certainly has no pre-conceived notions about how to perform this act of fruit consumption—an act which takes place in billions of homes around the globe daily.

Back in the day when Sam was a baby, he got mashed up bananas to eat. This was because he only had gums and a tongue. Later he grew teeth and figured out some cool chewing moves, so he got bananas cut into little chunks. He grabbed these with fat baby fists and stuffed them into his mouth. As time progressed, he even got a plastic fork to stab the banana chunks.

Last week for the first time, it occurred to me to give him a whole banana. I turned down the peel in three strips, the way monkeys eat bananas in cartoons. Sam took to this new banana presentation with enthusiasm. He ate down to where the peel was still attached to the banana, then started digging with his tongue and fingers to pry out the rest. I showed him how to pull the peel back even further. He studied what I had done, but it took him a while to work it out for himself.

Today, I gave him a large banana and told Danny to watch. In a few seconds, Sam had peeled the whole thing and was holding it sideways, eating it up and down like corn on the cob.

I began to think about how some day, Sam will learn from repeated observation the “normal” way to eat bananas. He will also become more picky about getting banana all over his hands and choose to hold the clean peel. But for now, he can eat a banana any way he likes. He can also wear different shoes on each foot, or run around Lowes millwork department with no pants on. He can “read” his books upside down, make his dinosaur fly or his dolphin hop along the floor. He can put my lipstick on his cheek and Danny’s deodorant on his belly. He can eat dog food and feed his carrots to the dog.

Eventually though, it will be good to learn certain things, like that water belongs in sinks, tubs and cups, not on floors or in laundry baskets. Slowly the vast life curriculum of safety, health, manners, and thoughtfulness towards others will kick in. His unself-conscious actions will be replaced by a self awareness that may be both good and bad---a widening of his capacity to function appropriately in society, and a narrowing of his unedited curiosity. For now, he lives in a space of exploration and experimentation.

To get to observe it from such intimate proximity is breathtaking.

Insurance Exam

Daddy and Sam study for the North Carolina Property & Casualty Insurance exam:

Reading in Bed

Sam loves to jump on our bed. The other day he was jumping while I was in the bathroom. It had been too quiet for too long, so I peeked in to see what was up. Sam had pulled back the covers and made himself at home among the pillows. He was fussing to get his surroundings just so. First he pulled the bedspread up to his neck, then decided against this and folded it down, patting it with great care.

"Would you like some books?" I asked. I went and got some, which happened to be a children's Bible, a book on potty training, and a book called Guess How Much I Love You. He inspected each of these with interest. Then I brought the tissue box and put it next to him. (He has been imitating me using tissues.) He was very pleased with this and pulled out 5 tissues one by one. He scrunched them up against his nose and passed them to me to throw away. Then he went back to his books.

Babysitter for Sam

So we needed a sitter on Thursday night. Responsible moms put lots of care and organization into finding and training their childcare. They are appropriately picky, anxious, and thorough. My plan was not marked by these features, and as the day wore on towards evening, I began to feel more and more like an utterly lousy parent. Where was my double-checked strategy involving an experienced sitter, lengthy safety instructions, a typed out schedule, and extra phone numbers? Was I being careless with my son?? ack!

My plan was to take Sam over to the Montagnard family’s apartment, who are my refugee friends that I visit. Despite language and cultural barriers, we would leave him there. Sam knows the place and the kids. However, I’ve never just walked away and left him there.

Thirty minutes before Danny and I were supposed to be at a restaurant, we showed up at the 3-bedroom apartment where 9 of them live. A mere 99 children were bouncing off the walls. Sam immediately disappeared into the fray. I explained to the oldest girl, Han, how to use this stuff I'd brought for her skin. By the look in her eyes, you would have thought I'd delivered a Porsche. On the spur of the moment, I decided to use Danny as a model for how to use cotton balls and moisturizer. Streams of giggles emanated from behind couches and corners. Having a real American white man in their home was clearly awe-inspiring and had changed the dynamic. But when he submitted to women's facial rituals, the squeals and gasps went through the roof. (Danny was a good sport.)

Then I explained the new word "babysitting" and they stared back at me with blank faces. Danny asked if 10 p.m. would be okay and inquired when they went to bed. Han shrugged and said with a very shy smile, “Nine, ten, or eleven.” Still uncertain, we waved bye-bye to Sam, who glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder and went back to tackling another boy.

Three hours later we returned. The population had dwindled to a mere 7 children and the atmosphere was hushed and sweet with the beautiful staccato texture of their language. Sam was drinking their apple juice in their kitchen and did not run to me. (This always mortifies me as a mom.) He eyed us suspiciously as if we were about to kidnap him and drag him home, which is true. Eventually Danny had to pick him up to get him to come. This made the kids laugh and exclaim to each other and to us, "Sam like us! Sam like us!" I said, "Sam like you too!"

Maybe I am not always a lousy mom. Maybe .00001% of the time, I might even arrange a fun, safe babysitting for Sam.