Dylan Stafford

Originally published February 25, 2009

Jack is 22 months old today. It’s just before midnight and I should be in bed. I have to work tomorrow.

Why do I want to write? Because I’m afraid I might miss life, and writing is one way to catch it, to catch life.

We sang a 22-month-old-Happy-Birthday to Jack this morning. It was in the middle of dressing him for school. His nighttime clothes were off, and he had a long-sleeved, white undershirt. When we sing to him, he gets curious and stops his normal dressing struggles and watches us. “And many more…”

We finish our song and he smiles. Thanks mommy and daddy, you can sing for me anytime. That’s what I think he’s thinking.

I hug his little body after we finish. He’s big and little at the same time.  He’s big for his age, long and tall. He’s big compared to the other children at his daycare, and getting bigger all the time. But, he’s still little. He’s still my little Jack. My hands go almost all the way around his rib cage. His wrists are slender.

We went back to school today after staying home Monday, the actual sick day, and Tuesday, the required 24-hour buffer day after symptoms subside. Outside his classroom, he squealed with delight. Then he ran away from the door and made circles out in the play yard. It took me three tries to get him to come through the door and into his classroom.

He loves his daycare friends. We say the names of his classmates in the car as we drive.

“Who are you going to see at school today?” I ask.

He says “Aki”, his name for Alexandra.

“And who else?”

“Mimi,” he replies.

“And who else?”

“Nina,” he answers, his name for Elena.

We go through the names of his classmates and teachers. He’ll interrupt periodically to point out a passing bus, and its color.

“Bus! Red-a!”

“Bus, Geen.”

“Bus, Bue.”

Green has no R. Blue has no L. Red has two syllables.

When we’re in the yard, as he’s running in circles and not going into his classroom, I’m mostly seeing him from behind.  He’s always running away from me.

There’s so much joy in his running. It is baby boy running. It is all bouncy. It makes me smile watching him. Even though I’ve missed two days of work, and I have that nervous feeling I need to get to the office, I slow down and enjoy his joy.

How long does will that childhood joy come so freely? When do we slow down and stop bouncing? When does life start to outweigh our bounce?

We had our parent teacher conference today. Tamika is his primary teacher. We meet once a quarter. She’s had her own child, who is now 4 months old, since we started working with her. I realize after the conference is over that I didn’t ask about her son. I’m embarrassed.

She’s at her job, taking care of our son, while we go to our jobs. Who is taking care of her child while she cares for Jackson?

Tamika says that Jack is smart. I perk up at that part. I always thought smart was good, but one of the joys of being almost 40 is that some of those old ideas start to morph.

We also talk about him being social. I am much more interested in him being social than in him being smart. You have to deal with people in life, and I’m thrilled watching him grow as a little social being.

Jack makes sure other kids get food served to them. He wants others to play “pretend doggy” with him. He shares imaginary food with the animals in his bedtime books. I imagine he can do great in life, if he’s aware of people around him.

Tamika says his language is exploding. We see this too. He’s a parrot, repeating back the last word of an adult sentence. She warns that this is the time to start monitoring our word choice around him. Uh oh, I think.

Yesterday, I heard the first three-word string.

“Take-a-bath,” he said.

Those were his first three words in a row. Up to now, “Bath” has always been a single word, accompanied by the sign language signal for bath which is an open hand circling the chest, and bath was never spoken, but rather whispered. After dinner, or during dinner if he got bored and wanted to leave, he would look at us, circle his hand on his chest and whisper bath in an airy, breathy way. But yesterday morning, “Take-a-bath,” blurted out with no whisper and no sign language.

Tamika tells us in our parent conference that he’s a champion in the bathroom.

“He can come right into the bathroom, pull down his pants, pull down his diaper and either pee in the urinal or sit on the potty. He still needs help to get a new diaper back on, but once it’s on, he will go and wash his hands on his own at the sink without prompting.”

I’m potty-proud like he aced his SAT exam.

We are told we can continue to work on boundaries and limit setting. What we teach now will become a pattern that will go through childhood, the teen years and beyond. I appreciate the advice but start worrying, what if we don’t teach the right rules…

Are the guidelines for adults as clear as the guidelines for Jack that we are hearing? There’s that book “All I Really Need to Know I learned in Kindergarten.” Maybe I should re-read it and apply it to my life.

She tells us the importance of making-a-plan, communicating the plan, and then sticking to the plan. Again, this is sheer brilliance. Yes, I think it will help me with Jack, but I’m also pondering the profound impact that would have in all areas of my life if I could do that: plan, share, and deliver. How much calmer could my life be?

Jack is learning about quiet and loud. Tamika thinks he knows the difference. He has a loud voice, and he knows when he is using it. But also, sometimes, he’s very unaware that he is loud. When he wakes up from nap time, he wants the other children to wake up too and looks around and starts to talk to the other, still sleeping, classmates. “Aki Wake.” “Nina Wake.” Tamika has to calm him and ask him to whisper and wait and let the others sleep.

I’m on the back porch tonight, typing. There is a bathroom back here has a leaking showerhead. I hear the pitter patter of the water dripping, and the occasional croaking from the drain as a little pond of water pools up and then lets loose and gurgles away.

How long will it take me to call a plumber? One more thing to manage. Like doing our taxes is one more thing. Like replacing the headlight lamp on Marisa’s car is one more thing. Like I’m going to New Jersey this weekend to see my best friend Humberto turn 40 and I don’t have a gift. One more, one more thing.

But Jack is in the moment. He goes from one activity to the next. Tamika pointed out that is why kids can remember so much, their head isn’t full of all the one-more-things that distract us as adults.

I saw a faculty member’s office today with clear table tops and Japanese garden tranquility. How do people achieve that sort of cleanliness and order? It is beyond me. My life is in bags and piles and there are cracker crumbs sprinkled over all of it. My laptop is missing keys and my camera has a smudged lens, both thanks to my ever-active boy Jack.

That is one reason I am write.

Black and white words on a page is clean. There is just black and there is just white. It isn’t complicated. It isn’t one more thing. Rather it is one thing, and it gets done sitting here, drippy shower distractions and all.

Writing is where I get to be bouncy.

Writing is where time gets to stand still. It is where I get to tell the universe thank you that I get to be married to my wife (She hasn’t dumped me!)  It’s where I get to tell the universe “thank you” for the gift of a 22-month-old son.

Today is Ash Wednesday, the kickoff to Lent. I’ve barely been Catholic two years, but I still managed to forget Ash Wednesday. With the Jack’s fever we missed Mass this weekend and celebrating Lent fell out. But I saw colleagues with ash crosses on their foreheads today at work and I realized that today is the start of Lent.

What can I give up for Lent? What can I let go of?

Jesus asked, “Why do you worry over many things?” That is my favorite part of Christianity.

I give up worry. I give up worry. I give up worry.

Thank you, God, for today, for Marisa and Jack and all of it. Thank you for the bouncy walk. Thank you for busses, be they Red-a or Bue or Geen. Thank you for all of it.

Good night Jackson.

Amen.