Me and Mabel: Good Thieves, Bad Influences

I am trying to surround my child with “good influ- ences.” Mostly to make up for the bad influence that I sometimes consider myself to be. And this has me thinking about two things: One is choosing a new day care. I am looking for a new place to take the Fox, since I had to fire the last place for letting him play in traffic. One day a week, which is what I think I can cover on my starting freelancer moola. Basically, I’d like a place that’s too far from home to hear the screaming, too close for me to miss the sirens. I’d like a gal about my age who is good with frogs and will teach Forest not to push his peers and bite the dogs. I want this time so that I can write and I want this time so that I can get a little perspective. You see, I’ve found that, when I spend WAY too much time mothering, I start to fall into a little mind trap that I call: Perfect love equals perfect kids.

I know this is horseshit. But influence is a two way street, and when I run out of ideas for ending the hurling of the hummus, when I am not writing and no one is sleeping through the night, I am susceptible to negative influences. I know there is no such thing as perfect, except in fairy tales. And except this morning, when the Fox ran up to me with the book “Saints Alive! A Cattle Drive” about two cows named Mabel and Molly stealing their farmer’s truck. He carries this book to me, saying “Moo!” and settles his butt into the cup of my inner thighs, tucks his hair under my chin. No such thing as perfect except this.

But, I read these books to him and I wonder, which brings us to thing number two on the list of influences: We have the cows stealing the truck. We have “Goodnight, Owl” wherein the squirrels and sparrows and sundry other animals keep owl awake all day. Owls waits until everyone is asleep and screeches them all awake. We have a book about how dinosaurs clean their rooms, but the vastest bit is on the order of “Does a dinosaur stuff all his teddy bears under his bed? Does he put dirty pjs behind the door and throw wet towels onto the floor?” Okay, the answer is no, obviously. “A dinosaur doesn’t, he does all his chores.” But these books are right up there with the toilet training manual that shows the potty as a hat. If his nerves are wiring up right now like Lance Armstrong on the final leg of the Tour, if his little synapses are springing like steroid-laced-sunflowers, (no offense, Lance) does he need these ideas? I ask you. I mean, of the three, he’s got the wet-towel-dinosaur and the midnight-screeching-owl down. And, as a woman who taught herself to drive at fourteen by stealing the truck and taking it out on the highway, I don’t doubt he’s got a cattle drive in him. But he also picks flowers, holds them out to me. He turns the taps on the gas stove when I am not looking so that I come home a house that is one matchshy of an inferno. But he helps me unload the dishwasher. I am a writer. I am a writer. I need to play these words like Yo-Yo Ma need to play the cello, even if I am closer to the third seat in the high school band. I am a writer. But look here. Look at this child who says “Snuggle” and “No!” with equal fervor. He is becoming. All around him, the visible world leaves an invisible impression.

This is how it is to be a mother. There is no capital “M.” I am a mother like I am a writer, like I am, every night between 7:30 and 8, a dishwasher. I carry all of me into it. I try harder with Forest than I do with the dishes. But I am still me. Impatient, creative, laughing, sarcastic, restless, friendly, alone. I try to leave sarcastic at the door. The truth is, I wouldn’t give care of Forest over to almost anyone I know. Including me. And I need time. He is, in my mind, a native tree frog in a city pond, sensitive and changeable. Or he was. Until he started biting the dogs.

Speaking of negative influences.

He does this thing when he is mad. He takes his Mr. Jekyl potion and gives me this look. This hairy eyeball. His eyelids sort of flatten out and he bares his teeth, he puts prune pits into his pupils. He says, “I hate you” with a look. And I, if I am not too sleepless and have written lately, I sing “the wheels on the bus go round and round.” And they do. And, mostly, whether I am perfect or not, he gets on board.