Holding on

We cannot hold them. Our children. We cannot hold them tight enough. That terrible tsunami stole so many children from their parents’ arms and parents from their children’s hands. I know how tight I would have held my daughter. I hope those parents who lost children find some solace in the knowledge that their strongest grip was no match for the strength of that seismic wave.

I have been thinking a lot about holding Kate close. Today was her first day at Montessori school and she ran right into the teacher’s arms, forgetting to kiss me goodbye. I’m sure that next week when she realizes this is an every day gig, she’ll have some tears. But today she flew from me and started the beginning of a (hopefully) long life of leaving me and her dad behind.

On Sunday morning Kate and I were playing outside when she looked up at me and said “I miss Dada. I’m tired of Mama and me.”

I know exactly how she feels.

Peter’s hours are very long right now and often demand his weekends as well. I miss him too. I’m also tired of “Mama and me.” Actually, I’m more than tired, I’m exhausted. I keep reminding myself that we only get this time once. That soon she’ll be at school and playing with friends, and I’ll look back longingly on these endless hours of having to pretend I’m Flounder, the Little Mermaid’s best friend. But today, it feels like a very long time that I’ll be pleading, prodding, provoking and placating for hours every day. I want motherhood to be a joy, not a job, but some days it feels like the worst kind of drudgery.

I’d be lying if I wrote that I wasn’t envious of the freshness that Peter is able to bring to his parenting. He and Kate have magical adventures – filled with stories, games, weird food and new friends – in the very same places she and I have been dully plodding about all week. We go to the playground often, and very occasionally meet another kid who plays with us for a little while. Mostly we try to steer clear of the bad boys who mistreat their babysitters and take apart the swing-set, and the chic girls who don’t like anyone to touch their hair. (Kate is as annoyingly persistent as the most flame-obsessed moth when it comes to girls with long, silky hair and cool barrettes.) Peter goes to the same playground and meets the Brady Bunch. Some law-abiding, short-haired, family of five whose children all play with Kate and hug her when she has to go.

Peter and Kate’s relationship gives me great joy, and I am always thankful to have such a committed and loving partner in parenthood. But they seem to be having a lot more fun with fewer conflicts. I feel like the two of them are in one of those ads where the people always look so happy and frolicky, and I, the annoyed consumer, am left wondering why that same product doesn’t make me as happy as it makes them. I’d be lying if I wrote that I wasn’t envious of their new intensely close relationship.

Before Kate and I arrived in Hong Kong, while we were together for six weeks in California, I was the prince. Now Dada is Aladdin and I am the monkey. Abu. The sidekick. Since the joyful reunion with Dada, I’m no longer Shrek, I am Donkey. Some days I get to be one of the Fairy Godmothers from Sleeping Beauty, but if I don’t act fast and do something really magical, I am demoted to the role of the Owl. I used to have this shtick that worked really well. I told “Kate and Her Magic Ballet Slippers” stories. Every story had a lost or hungry animal that Kate saved by donning her magic ballet slippers and leaping through the air with the animal safely tucked in her tutu. Those stories are now as outré as Barney. All the really good stories come from Dada. And, infuriatingly, the man can spin a fantastic story at the drop of a hat. When it’s clear to Kate that I don’t know which story she is referring to,

Mama, can you tell the potato man story?
YOU DON’T KNOW THE POTATO MAN STORY?
Okay, do you know the suspicious hippo one?
What about the puppet-head mother who eats breakfast?

she sighs and wearily instructs me to tell a Barbie story. These are all the same and have to do with a gorgeous Barbie who lives in a castle and has lots of clothes and some magic ponies. It’s the infomercial of kiddie stories, and she can tell that I’m phoning it in….

The indignities don’t stop there. I often have to run through the house while “mice” nibble on my “tushie.” When I feel the first nibble, I have to scream in the exact high-pitched scream that made her howl with laughter the first time she “nibbled” on Dada’s tushie. “DO THE GOOD SCREAM, MAMA – THE GOOD SCREAM.” I can’t remember the repertoire. I can’t make the good boy noises. I’m just mama, the one who makes her wear a jacket and combs the knots out of her screaming head of curls. I recently showed Kate our wedding album because I know she likes brides. Lost in a nostalgic haze, I didn’t realize that she was getting quieter and quieter. Finally, she whacked the book shut. Seeing pictures of her father on every page just made her realize who was missing. “Where’s Dada?” she cried, “I just want to be with him….” And then she buried her head in his pillow like a love-struck teen.

This afternoon when Kate came running out of school, she grabbed me so hard I thought I would suffocate. She refused to leave my arms and spent the next 5 minutes pressing her forehead tight against mine as if she wanted to inhale me. What I clearly need to remember is that while I’m busy trying to balance Kate, and my work, and my own increasingly desperate needs, Peter doesn’t get any balance at all. His scale is constantly unbalanced. In this time of tragedy and loss, I will try to put my better, smarter self forward and realize how lucky I am to be able to hold my sweet girl so tight to me.