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By Mama Paloma, 19/04/2010 16:20

This morning, Addison was playing with his toy train. “Yeah, Percy,” he crowed (for some reason, the “Thomas” train pieces all have names), “Percy found a parking place!”

Now I realize that, to an outsider, this might seem odd. So, here’s a little context. We live in a part of Los Angeles that has, shall we say, issues with the proportion of vehicles to available real estate. It’s not a huge deal but does mean that, occasionally–okay, most of the time–one has to drive around for a few minutes to find a spot to park. This really isn’t a problem for most of us. For my mom, however, it is. Her fixation on parking started when she came to help out before AJ was born, through the five months she was here and picked right back up when she moved here permanently seven months ago. Parking drives her life. She doesn’t just complain after she has struggled to find a spot. She plans around finding a spot, anticipates the angst of spot-less-ness, avoids doing things that require her to move her car (and not just on street cleaning days, when street parking is halved).

She also drives AJ quite a bit.

Now, I find the Running Parking Commentary annoying. Of course, it can be a pain to drive around and around when all you want to do is get in the house and, say, pee. Or to find a space three blocks from the house when you have grocery bags with ice cream and a sleeping toddler in the back. Still, as I have noted to my mother on more than one occasion, this is where we live. The parking situation is not going to change. Putting energy into being frustrated about it every time you even think about using a car helps no one and ties up mind space that could be occupied by other, more meaningful things. But, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and so I find myself trying not to become obsessed with her parking obsession.

Of course, it is easy to see these kinds of foibles in others while our own obsessions and compulsions go unnoticed. These are the things that drive people quietly mad, consume our thoughts, drive our actions in subtle and insidious ways.

I don’t have any of these, of course. Or didn’t. Until I had a child. Kids are great mirrors. They blithely reflect what would otherwise go unnoticed in our characters and habits. Sometimes this is frightening and shameful and sad. Other times it is funny. Sometimes both. Like the way AJ says “Stop it, right now!” When I don’t do what he wants. When he does it it’s a little hilarious. Still, I have started hearing my own words, my own tone, and feeling pretty crappy about how I talk sometimes.

Last week, at the fire station, where we are regulars, he was allowed to sit up on the driver’s seat in the big fire engine. One of the firefighters was with AJ as  he asked about the controls and pretended to drive, giving his usual stream of conscious narration. I stood below and off to the side, not really paying much attention (like I said, this wasn’t the first time, I already have the cute photos). Suddenly, the firefighter laughed and turned to me. “He says he is finding a parking place,” he said, shaking his head. I rolled my eyes.

My son is obsessed with parking. He is also easily frustrated, frequently makes demands rudely, and clenches his jaw when angry. He is slightly compulsive about wiping the table after he eats and sorting his toys. This is what I notice. I am sure there are more things that I don’t. I hope that some of this is about him being two and not my being a really crappy example but I am realistic.

I just hope that I can be open enough about my shame and struggle against being owned by these flaws, teach him skills for noticing and gently correcting mistakes, show him that accountability is worth the effort.

And that life is more than a good parking place.

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By Mama Paloma, 08/04/2010 19:33

Many, many checklists/tips/suggestions are available for parents on this topic.  So, I  will skip those and get on to the meat of this piece. Which are the tips I have for other people who are traveling with/in the vicinity of a two year old. Some of these tips could be generalized to all people using a mode of transportation that puts them in close proximity to other people.

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I am writing this at something like thirty thousand feet, my sedated child awkwardly asleep in the seat next to me. He is sedated because, on the flight to our destination, he experienced fairly severe distress from pain in his ears. This was the first time this has happened. It was awful. Three full hours of him alternately crying and nursing. Made me very glad that I have kept up the nursing past age two. I know that freaks some people out but, seriously, it rocks. Nothing else can make a little guys ears feel better like mama’s ‘ba-bas.’ So get over it.

But I digress. For the trip back, I got the kid some Benadryl. First, the congestion that presumably caused his discomfort on round one of this trip has continued. Second, the return flight involves a stop in Las Vegas and is two, count them, two hours longer than the flight to Houston. Sigh. I know that it is further evidence of my horribleness as a mother that I even considered this in my decision to give my two-year-old  child a medication that has recently been re-classified as inappropriate for children under four. The real deal is that the pharmacist, who ultimately told me “Unfortunately, I can’t recommend that for a two-year-old,” also told me that Benadryl was the best option for  preventing the discomfort that had my baby in tears for the prior flight. My son has taken Benadryl before without a problem so I am rolling the dice and giving it to him again. He is, finally, sleeping soundly next to me, much to the relief of the passengers around us.

Which brings me to what I really want to talk about here. The passengers and flight attendants are relieved in great part due to the scene that preceded his sweet slumber. The kid was tired. The kid was antsy. We were hemmed into the window and center seat and there wasn’t space for him to lay down and sleep as he wanted. At some point in his efforts to settle down/express his frustration at the situation, he kicked my tray table up, dumping the contents of my full cup of juice into my bag below. Yes, folks, into my bag. Had I not invested the $12.99 at Target a few days ago to purchase a netbook sleeve, I would likely not be writing this little rant right now.

Now, my bad for having asked for the juice before he slept. Should have known our cramped quarters made that an unreasonable action. But, seriously, he had already nursed and I was thirsty.

All this could have been avoided had I done better on one thing. As the plane was loading, I got on and took a seat near the back, in an empty row. Now that AJ is over two years old, he has his own seat. It didn’t look like the flight was full and I was hopeful that we would have the row to ourselves so that he could actually lay down and sleep. We were settling in when a woman asked if the aisle seat was taken. I pointedly looked around, scanning for other rows she could fill, but answered honestly, ‘No.’ So she sat.

Hence, I did not have the extra table, out of reach of his tiny but surprisingly powerful feet, on which to put my drink. My son did not have space to stretch out without kicking something (which is stimulating enough to keep a two year old awake). I ended up with a bag full of cranberry juice and a hell of a bad attitude. I called an attendant who asked if I wanted another glass of juice. “No,” I told him, “I need something to clean this up.” He returned with about five paper towels. Great.

“Don’t worry about it, “ my helpful neighbor cooed, as I pushed the attendant call button for the third installment of paper towels, “don’t stress out.”

“Well,” I replied, “it is a little stressful travelling with a two year old.” Yep, I put the blame on my kid when what I wanted to say, what I should have said, was, “What is your problem? Who sits next to the mom with the kid when there are empty seats in two of the rows immediately across the aisle?”

Indeed, there were two seats, four happy travelers with an extra tray table between each pair, working and chatting and relaxing just across the aisle.

I was pissed and I was dealing with a huge mess in a small space and I talked to AJ like a mother never wants to talk to her child. In the presence of dozens of other adults. “Addison, SIT DOWN” I told him, as I desperately mopped juice off my netbook and camera. We struggled for ten minutes or so as I went through a stack of paper towels trying to soak it all up.

It sucked. I sucked. I was mean to my son and passive-aggressive with our row-mate. “We just need more space,” I muttered under my breath, refusing to look in her direction.

Finally, strapped into his seat belt, the Benadryl taking over, AJ crashed. Awkwardly, his head leaning to one side. I tried to prop it up with my jacket. I kissed his head, whispering, “I’m sorry.”

A few minutes later, I pushed the attendant button for what I hoped was the final time. One of the guys who had brought me part of the tree I had consumed in mop-up appeared. “Can I get a vodka cranberry? “ I asked. “Sure,” he replied, returning shortly with the requested beverage. “I’ll take care of this,” he said, “enjoy.”

My faith in humanity was restored. I love that man.