Mommy and Me (narrative nonfiction)

I held the Park District brochure tightly, scanning the index for Mommy and me classes that would interest, educate and calm my rambunctious just three year old Jeremy. As a teacher I embraced this opportunity to teach him social skills in a community of other three and four year olds. I was sure these classes would be my cure to his high tantrums and high energy gross motor destruction. Jeremy simply needed an outlet and this sports class was it.
Jeremy was active even when in utero. He was constantly kicking and moving and trying to be born too soon. Then six weeks after trying to stop his arrival we needed to rush it a little due to complications of gestational diabetes. After twelve hours of a pitocin drip meant to bring on contractions in an unnatural and terrifically painful way, the doctor had to run into the room with his gown barely covering his arms as Jeremy was born squirming and screaming. I marveled at this activity so newly born. His lung capacity was enormous as his skinny legs straightened and flailed. He rocked from side to side in his isolette so much I thought he would flop out like a fish from the safety of its tank, unaware of the dangers of freedom. He would not be contained.
Standing at the nursery glass marveling at all the tiny little bundles with only their faces exposed from their tight little papooses meant to soothe by wrapping their arms and legs tightly in a blanket, I saw my bundle. He was not contained by a blanket. Baby Serio seemed to have burst from it. The receiving blanket was under him and his ruddy crimson legs were again straight up in the air as he rocked his pelvis left to right hitting the sides of the isolette.
At just barely one Jeremy had not slowed down one bit but was just as active and excitable. He would run and try to jump over every crack in the sidewalk and his arms were held stiff in a toddler Frankenstein stance as a gutteral “GOOO” was uttered to anyone within sight; as if to say “Bring it on!” He would try to tackle us until he was in a giggling ball on the floor.
In public he would cup his hand in a wave as though he could catch a greeting from passersby like he clutched the kisses I blew to him. So delighted by his ability to communicate he would throw his head back and squeal with both hands in the air, offering sticky baby hellos to the constant grinning audience above him.
By two, his ability to entertain made the world a good crowd. Wherever we went he would ham it up and get the attention of everyone by goofing off with made up songs and dances. And grin they did at the laughing chubby toddler so happy to greet and play with anyone. The fine haired brown-eyed boy who would rather run and straighten his ankles to his tip-toes in a kind of half jump than walk by my side.
He had been deemed a “spirited child”, a typical second son to his quiet and patient brother, John, who egged on his antics and applauded his guffaws. I often wondered if Jeremy was John’s alter ego. What would our family be without him?
As a teacher the prospect of having “that kid” was daunting and almost a challenge to my education in child development. Why couldn’t I help to mold his behavior? While it was amusing and charming at times it was also obnoxious. How to choose?
By age three, park district Mommy and Me classes seemed the perfect opportunity to get him in line. A little tykes sports class fit him perfectly since the arts and crafts had not worked out well. At our first arts and crafts class we were to make puppets. Craft sticks that did look a lot like Popsicle sticks were on the plates with glue. When Jeremy knocked all the tissue paper to the floor and I was out of view picking it all up, he ate all the glue off of the plate and sticks. He then refused to leave the play area to join the song and then would not leave the kitchen to do the second craft. So many transitions in an hour long class!
Undaunted, we arrived at the sports class late because he’d insisted on taking the very long staircase one stair at a time. I struggled with him to remove his shoes before he entered the mat area to play. Free of his shoes and me, Jeremy ran to the play area to dive into the ball pit head first. He jumped out, stood on the edge and yelled, “CANNON FALL!” The fathers near the pit laughed until it was obvious he’d landed on one of their sons.
His teacher came with his sticker nametag and introduced herself. She was trained in early childhood development but this was her first class. She attempted to speak to Jeremy but he would not leave the maze and slide to acknowledge her. Strike one.
The lights were flickered to indicate a change in the schedule and we were to meet on the rug. Jeremy saw the sticker in my hand and began screaming before it neared his chest. I lifted his arms, tickled his pits and stuck it firmly on his back.
The fifteen three and four year olds on the rug were to follow their teacher in a series of stretches to get their bodies ready to exercise. Hmmm. Jeremy refused to stand and simply repeated loudly that he could not do it. His teacher would not be swayed and smiled brightly over him explaining, a little too loudly and with much enunciation, that they needed to stretch to get their muscles ready to work.
She stood on one leg and asked the class to pull their left foot of one leg up behind them to stretch their thighs. Hmmm. Two step directions and balancing on one leg to stretch three and four year old thighs, this would be interesting.
Jeremy stood at this and yelled, “Don’t do that!”
She asked with great concern raising her voice, “Why not?”
He answered simply, “You will pull your leg off!”
She was not amused. She gave me a look, furrowing her brow and spoke calmly,
“Jer-e-my , now you know that can’t happen.”
I thought, “No, he does not know that will not happen. He does not know that he is really not Obi Wan Kenobi. He doesn’t know that he can sleep without the light on and that he will eventually pee in the toilet more than once.
The other children who were much more obedient were not losing limbs. They were truly trying to follow her directions and falling slowly to the mats as they lost their balance. A complicated stretch when you are three and used to keeping two feet on the floor. The stretch became an amusing toddler domino.
Jeremy continued to refuse to do much asked of him. He instituted reverse psychology. Play on the rug you say? Okay, I will play in the kitchen. Sit at the table? Okay, I will slide. After each session I would leave exhausted and disheartened that he was not learning the manners and cooperation I’d hoped for.
The last straw came on Baseball Night. There were twelve students in class, most of them boys. The rules of baseball were reviewed and cones were set up for bases. I tried not to roll my eyes as I watched the teacher give directions to the kids on how to hit and run the bases. There was only one tee, but three bats. Bats in the hands of mostly boys told to wait patiently for their turn was going to be brutal. I pulled Jeremy toward the end of the line to get a good view of the impending may lay. Each child had a turn to practice batting off of the tee while the other two held their bats while waiting. Moms and Dads constantly reminded those not batting to hold their bats down. The teacher would then yell, ”Run to first, run!” Each child ran straight out the door. The first two were funny then it just became ridiculous and clear that her directions were too old for them. As Jeremy’s turn to hold a bat and just wait neared, I began to sweat.
“Ok, Jerm, we’re just going to practice holding the bat while your friends hit the ball and run out the door. Ok? Are you listening honey?” I asked kneeling beside him. “Look at Mommy.” I said while he stared at the plastic bat. “Look at Mommy. Jeremy…Jeremy!”
“Whaaat?” he shouted swinging the bat dangerously close to my head.
Jeremy’s turn came and he hit the tee so hard the plastic cap sailed across the room with the ball.
“Run. Run the bases!” his teacher shouted.
He rounded first and veered right straight to the play area and into the ball pit. “Cannonfall!”
On the schedule for next week was volleyball. Hmmm.
We never went back.

The Path

Shared Path

Their faces framed
In silver metal windows
Carried to us by
A bus shorter than most
Arrival greeted by a crowd
To assist
Smile
Squeeze a hand
Pat a head
Push a chair
A welcoming so grand
To a group
So small
Eager, anxious
Still known to bouts of fear
Tantrums,
Howling
Holding ones ears
To combat the sounds within
A path is somehow paved with people
Bodies of safety in a world
Too large
Too loud
Too crowded
Made suddenly smaller
More manageable
By a path of bodies
A place is carved on the path
For individuals
Plans made just for them
For what they need
Days are busy
Adjusted and smoothed
A life made right
Celebrated
Dismissal
Brings the same group
To smile
To hug
and
To let go