The Pleasure in Her Smile
Feb. 15th, 2011 01:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947 I am a child, I’ll last a while,
You can’t conceive
Of the pleasure in my smile.
You hold my hand,
Rough up my hair,
It’s lots of fun
To have you there.
God gave to you,
Now, you give to me,
I’d like to know
What you learned.
The sky is blue
And so is the sea.
What is the color,
When black is burned?
What is the color?
(I Am A Child – Neil Young, 1968)
“She’s been really good, Dad,” Prisa said sadly, reaching out to place her little finger in Sarah’s tiny grasp. “She slept for 8 hours last night and we fed her at 6 o’clock. She’s been up since then, and should take a nap again before eating.”
I nodded at her words, while looking down and longing to pick up the tiny infant who seemed ready to nod off right there. Instead I gave Prisa my full attention, as she directed me to the kitchen. For the first time since I started babysitting Sarah, Prisa was giving me an incredibly precise and detailed childcare orientation. She described and demonstrated the location and sequential arrangement of the feeding bottles in the fridge, the formula cans in the cupboard, and sterilized pacifiers on the counter. She gave me a synopsis of Sarah’s eating schedule, her exercise routines, and her changing habits. She even showed me where to put the used bottles and nipples.
“Should I return the empty bottles in the same left to right order as I found them in the fridge?” I asked.
“Are you mocking me, Dad?” Prisa accused, giving me a sideways glance.
“No chula,” I replied, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I was just kidding.” Seeing that Sarah was wide-awake, I swooped down and picked her up. The action saved me from mentioning that I thought Prisa was behaving oddly that morning.
“Well, since you insist on carrying her,” Prisa teased, “I’ll go take my shower and then Joe and I will be leaving”.
I hadn’t been to their house for about 2 weeks – not since Joe began his Christmas vacation and was helping in the full-time care of their daughter during Prisa’s maternity leave. This would be the first time I was babysitting Sarah alone. During the second and third week of Prisa’s leave, I had come by to help her with house chores and cleaning while she recuperated from surgery and concentrated on the baby. Those visits gave me the chance to learn Sarah’s infant care routines and procedures, and practice them under my daughter’s watchful eyes. Today would be my first solo effort. It would be just Sarah and me - on our own for about 5 or 6 hours. I was quite excited and pleased with the prospect. The occasion gave me a chance to help the new parents, and to test my competence of caring for Sarah, but I also had a selfish motive. With 7-week old Sarah, I wanted to re-experience those ephemeral moments of wonder that come from seeing, smelling, touching, and holding a tiny infant while caring for them. When Toñito and Prisa were in college, I was struck by the notion that I hadn’t paid enough attention while their fleeting moments of infancy passed away too soon. I feared that I had been more attentive to the developmental benchmarks they were reaching, instead of relishing each moment with them: Were they sleeping through the night? Were they fixing and tracking objects with their eyes? Were they lifting their heads and holding them erect? Were they turning over and making coherent sounds? I remembered Kathy and I applauding and celebrating each developmental milestone, but I wondered if in our haste to see them progress we had failed to truly savor the elusively brief time that they were newborns and infants, just weeks distant from their original, pre-sensory state. Caring for Sarah gave me one more chance to experience those moments, and to be completely present with her.
Once Joe and Prisa departed, I assumed my grandpa, super-nanny role and got to work. I carefully bottle-fed Sarah at 8:30, but she only finished one ounce before burping and nodding off to sleep on my shoulder. Then, instead of putting her down, I adjusted a pillow to support my elbow and held her while she slept. I could just twist my head enough to study every detail of her wispy, strawberry blonde hair, her rosy cheeks, and her pursed lips as she breathed in and out, in soothing rhythm. Occasionally the tiny bundle elicited a languid sigh of contentment, followed by a whisper of a smile. This was one of those wondrous moments I wanted to savor again, but her blissful slumber was too contagious, and slowly my eyelids grew heavier as my own breathing synchronized with hers. I floated in that twilight state between dreaming and consciousnesses until her sudden movements awoke me, and I noted that she had slept for 30 minutes. I changed her damp diaper and fed her the rest of the bottle. After a good, loud burp, I carried Sarah through the rooms of the house, inspecting bookcases and video racks, and then placed her on the jungle gym floor mat. Sitting next to her, I watched her kicking her legs, extending her tiny fingers, and making random noises and facial expressions while taking photos. I loved it, even though I discovered that a photographer couldn’t really experience the moment with a viewfinder in his eye. But if I was patient, I could perhaps record a fabulous look or expression that might give her parents a timeless memory in the future. The photo session ended when Sarah spat up a glob of her formula over her neck and shirt from all her exertions, and I had to carry her to her room and change her diaper and wardrobe. Just as I was buttoning the back of her new tunic I heard a knock on the door.
“Oh crap,” I muttered to myself, “visitors. I’m coming!” I called out, fumbling to finish the last button and place Sarah in her crib. Leaning toward the doorway, I strained to hear some acknowledgement of my response. Instead I heard the door opening, followed by Prisa’s voice.
“Dad, it’s just us,” she said, sheepishly, as she and Joe walked through the living room. “We decided to take a break and see how Sarah was doing.” Her voice sounded strained and childlike, and her eyes were swollen and red. “I just wanted to hold Sarah one more time before going to the next infant care place on our list.”
I was babysitting so Prisa and Joe could visit potential infant care facilities for Sarah. This had been the issue I had danced around and avoided discussing with Prisa and Joe since Sarah’s birth in November. They were both Catholic high school teachers, and a single salary could never support a wife and baby at home. During the faraway days of her early pregnancy, Prisa and Joe had discussed this topic with us and other married friends, and concluded that professional infant care was their only choice. I had quickly volunteered to help by making the trip from Canoga Park to North Torrance two days a week and babysitting Sarah at home. However deciding on professional day care and actually choosing one were two different things – especially after spending 8 weeks of 24 hours a day caring and bonding with her newborn baby. Anticipating the pains of separation, Kathy had been the one person strongly pressing Prisa and Joe to begin investigating early. Finally, over the weekend they had compiled a list of 8 local facilities, and today they were speaking to the owners and inspecting the facilities.
“How did it go, honey?” I asked, watching Prisa walk to crib and bend down to pick up her baby.
“Not good, Dad,” she said, cradling Sarah in the hollow of her arm and bending down to kiss her. “I lost it after the third place we saw. Joe was having a hard time too, so I didn’t feel too bad”.
“Hi Tony,” Joe said, entering the baby’s room, with an embarrassed look. He bent down and gave Sarah a kiss on the forehead.
“I figured we needed a Sarah-fix,” Prisa continued, hoisting Sarah onto her shoulder. “I just had to see and hold her for awhile before going on.” While cooing and swaying with Sarah, I watched mutely as Joe joined the embracing circle of mother and child.
“So tell me what happened,” I prompted, realizing for the first time that I had kept myself happily busy and distracted with Sarah all morning, and at arm’s length from the emotional turmoil of her parents. I felt guilty and helpless by my inability to advise or console them at this moment. I had nothing to say. I simply patted Prisa’s arm and listed to her story.
“They weren’t bad,” Prisa began a tale that went something like this. The businesses were simply cold, clean, and commercial, but without a sense of family and loving attention. The first establishment was a Montessori school with a combined daycare and pre-school, but Prisa was more impressed with their pre-school environment and activities than the nursery. The second school was a little better. It was newer, with plenty of room and a growing infant clientele and an adult staff who seemed alert and interested. However by the time they arrived at their third appointment, the crushing reality of having to deliver their baby to one of these institutions set in. Prisa found it hard to concentrate on the manager’s recitation of services with the incessant crying of an infant in the background. The wailing was like a piercing dagger to her heart. She had visions of Sarah’s tiny tears and yelps of distress being callously dismissed as willfulness that needed disciplinary training.
“That’s when I lost it,” Prisa concluded. She turned away from the woman and whispered to Joe that she needed to go home and hold Sarah.
“Everything will be fine, Prisa,” I promised, patting her arm again. “Everything will work out for you and Joe.”
Later, as I watched Sarah gently sleeping in her play n’ fold, after Prisa and Joe and left for lunch and the remainder of their appointments, I was left with my private thoughts over these events, and what I had said, and not said. Prisa would be returning to work soon, and she and Joe had to place their infant daughter in the hands of a licensed caregiver for three mornings and afternoons a week. This was a fact for which there was no other option. Oddly, I first found myself thinking of this situation as a principal. Prisa was an excellent teacher, and a classroom goes into a state of suspended animation when a valued teacher goes on leave. Students and administrators never really engage emotionally or educationally with temporary replacements, treating them, for the most part, with polite indifference and a lack of commitment. As a principal, I had tolerated maternity leaves and made the best of them, helping the substitutes adjust, and assuring the students that their real teacher would return soon. I found that excellent teachers never suffered any major problems when returning to work after the birth of their babies, and there was only joy and relief on the part of the students and staff that welcomed them back. The reunion was an economic necessity for the mother, and an instructional boon to the students and school. If every pregnant teacher were to stay at home after the birth of their baby, schools would never recover from the instructional loss. Professionally, I always chose to ignore the emotional pain of separation between a mother and her new baby, and emphasized the joy and relief of the teacher’s return. I knew that Prisa’s principal and students felt the same way, but I kept these thoughts to myself. Prisa and Joe were both fine teachers and they knew of the familial ties between teacher and student, and teacher and school. Instead I wondered about what things I could mention to Prisa and Joe.
Childcare was one decision Kathy and I never had to make. We chose to try living on my income, knowing that Kathy could always return to work as a teacher if we failed. Luckily we were able to maintain this situation for the first ten years of parenthood, until Toñito and Prisa were in the 5th and 3rd grade. Joe and Prisa didn’t have that choice. How will Prisa feel about going back to work? Bereft at first, is my guess. For the first few days, she will probably feel she’s abandoning Sarah Kate to the hands of strangers. She and Joe will also suffer a large dose of recurring guilt whenever the subject of daycare arises. I wish I could allay those feelings and doubts for them, but I knew they were standard parenting responses for tough choices that have no guarantees of success. Kathy and I have felt guilt, doubts, and fears, many times over the years as we struggled to make the right choices for our children. Caring for children, and making choices for them is the hardest part of a marriage – but also the most rewarding.
I believe that Kathy and I have done a fairly good job with marriage and raising children (knocking on wood as I write this). After our first two years, we concluded that for our marriage to work, it needed to be a loving and honest partnership, in which we made consensual decisions for situations we faced together. We learned to make choices we could both live with and fully support, realizing that if things did not work out the way we planned, they could always be reworked and changed. This was matrimonial problem solving, and problem solving was a fluid, evolving process. However, when Toñito and Prisa came onto the scene, this process changed. We discovered that parenting choices were different. Oh, we continued using the same partnership tools in discussing plans, solving problems, and dealing with family situations, but child-rearing choices couldn’t be shrugged off as miscalculations and then readjusted. Children were different. Every year of their lives called for new issues and different decisions: What friends should they have? When should they begin and what pre-school should they attend? In what sports and activities should they participate? We didn’t know if the choices we made for Toñito and Prisa, and the actions we took were “successful” for many years. Even today, Kathy and I have a long list of parenting choices we made that we are still unsure of, and some we even regret. Our only defense is the belief that our choices were guided by love, and, at the time, we were both convinced it was the right thing to do. I also believe that our greatest moments of parental awareness came from loving our children while making difficult choices, especially when they were totally dependent on us as infants. Prisa and Joe halted their childcare inspection duties to hurry home so they could see, hold, and carry Sarah Kathleen. They were totally present in that encircling moment of love, and they maintained their metaphysical connection with Sarah when they departed to continue their task. That wondrous bond of love will never fail – but it will change over time, as children become older, more independent, and begin making choices for themselves.
My first babysitting day ended as I described to Prisa what we had done – Sarah ate and slept, and I fed, watched, and carried her. I also promised to give her copies of the photos I took of them that day. I thought the images were important.
