I REMEMBER JENNY – ON GOING THROUGH A DOOR
When Elizabeth was an infant and Jenny not quite two, the big-girl had a normal and special need to be close to mom, mostly when I was holding the baby. But because of the bundle in my arms, there was quite a blind spot created and seeing what was at my feet was not possible. I can’t count the number of times I took a step only to trip over Jenny and the three of us would land hurt and crying on the floor.
After the crash, I would first walk backwards to the nearest chair, hunching forward so I could see Jenny’s whereabouts. (I didn’t want to repeat the whole awful falling scenario.) Then I’d take them both into my arms and wipe tears, kiss faces and sing reassurances. This was no five-minute affair.
First they’d harmonize howling. Then they’d alternate between performing themselves and watching the other actress with keen interest. It became a talent search. When one’s breath would wear out, the other would show how much louder they could scream, how much redder their face could turn and how much longer they could last. While the one in the audience would be observing, they’d also be plotting exactly how they could show up the current starlit when she ran out of time. Some of the impressive devices were breaking out in rashes, no breathing, rolling eyes back into sockets, and falling asleep – but only momentarily least the other screamer interrupt the performance. These, let it be known, were not due to concussions. This same awful ritual was also observed for feed-me-first requests, etc. All the while, mom was making definite plans for a debut of her own promptly at 5:30 when dad would walk through the door and could fully appreciate it.
But what, you ask, has this to do with walking through doors?
Well, only a dozen or so of these falling episodes will convince a person of the sanity of walking backwards while hunched over double when carrying the baby from place to place to avoid the invisible and ominously quiet toddler trap.
One problem arose, however, the day when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror: I CANNOT DO THIS IN PUBLIC! Yes, I have yogurt in my hair and poopie under my nails. Yes, people still think I haven’t delivered this baby yet. But no, I must find a better way to walk in public. Enough is enough.
My double stroller was a life-saver in most situations. But there were those few up-the-stairs and left-stroller-in-the-car moments to contend with. Besides, hunching was becoming more natural than standing up straight at this point. Change was necessary.
Holding Elizabeth with diaper bag and purse one arm and holding Jenny’s hand was a great remedy until I was forced with carrying a package or (the worse) opening a door. This called for verbal commands on my part and obedience on hers (not to mention tootsie rolls in my pockets). So Jenny and I began some practice sessions.
The command (and I use that term loosely), “Go through the door where Mommy can see you and I’ll come in too and give you a tootsie roll,” was the only command that worked. But not too successfully. Because as soon as I’d hand one down, she’d open the door, fly back out, come back in and expect another…and another…and another. We’d be there till, you guessed it, ole mom ran out of tootsie rolls and resumed the hunch-back route.
New resolution – NO MORE CANDY. (Actually, it’s not new. I’ve made the same one each morning since the first tooth.) “She must go through the door on a verbal command,” I declared. Sound simple?
This is my approximate command on a good day. (I’m holding baby in one arm, opening door with the other, and remember, she is always in my blind spot – my Elizabeth was NOT petite!”)
“Jenny, be a good mother’s helper and go through the door so Mommy can come through too and we can hold hands again and have a happy time. (Pause.) Jenny, Mommy wishes she could hold you but baby can’t walk, only Jenny can walk and Mommy is so proud of Jenny. Please show me how to walk through the door so I can see what a big girl this Mommy has. (Pause.) Jenny, let’s teach baby about walking. When she learns how, Mommy won’t have to carry her. Jenny, are you there? JENNY!!!”
At this point, I hunch over and walk backwards through the door. Never does anyone offer to help. Always they stare. There’s just something about a woman with a newborn in her arms that brings out the heard of wolves’ mentality. You know, they only attack the antelopes or whatever that have been handicapped by injury or other weaknesses.
So there I’d be, red-faced, hunched over, folks staring and me, hoping my dress wasn’t hiked up too high from behind.
After awhile I began to create dialogue solely for the purpose of saving face or, if nothing else, trying to embarrass the on-lookers into going on about their own business. It sounded like this:
“Yes, Mommy does see the man staring at us.” “Don’t worry, honey, I’m sure that lady wouldn’t be staring—she just probably lost her contact lens and is inspecting our bodies to see if it fell onto us.” “Don’t be embarrassed, sweetie, that woman is going to stop staring in just a minute.”
The whole while, Jenny would be looking at me in amazement wondering what mom was talking about, or better yet, exactly who I was talking to. But it was useful for crowd dispersal.
Well, this was working fine until, as with every system, the one small detail changed and everything fell apart.
There was the day Jenny was invited to a birthday party. Hurry!! (For me!) I could run out and do a couple of errands with no hunching! Automatically, the “couple of errands” grew into a list the size of a stack of bills and I know that in order to get anywhere near finished I’d have to move into fourth gear.
The first hour and a half went great but was totally fast forward. I had 25 minutes left before returning to pick up Jenny. My harried mind didn’t bother to slow up when I encountered my first upstairs (no stroller) door of the afternoon.
By this time, my reflexes were way ahead of my mind (which was busily calculating the fastest route to the post office.) So, mind still plotting streets and avenues, norths and souths, my mouth went ahead like a recording as I held wide open the door:
“Jenny go through the door. Jenny, be a good helper.” Now the starers started to gather. “Don’t worry about the people, they just love a parade. Go through the door. Jenny, mom’s in a hurry. No honey, that man’s just staring cause he thinks you’re so pretty. Hurry now – through the door. NOW!”
By this time, I noticed even my polite insults weren’t effective but on I rattled:
“Mommy’s got to hurry to go pick up…oh.”
Needless to say even without being in the competition for reddest face for all those practice sessions, ole mom was crowned first place that afternoon. I skipped the post office, made an A-line to the baby store and invested my herded away mommy money for my next contraction – a back pack.
But that’s another story.