Jack, my first, he was a dream baby. He never cried. He ate whatever we gave him. He took a pacifier. All that dream baby stuff – he mastered it. He was master dream baby. And I attributed his master dream babyness to my master best mom in the worldness. "Of course, he's a good baby because I'm such a good mom." I never said that out loud, but I always thought it when we were around other non dream babies. "Oh, I'm sorry non dream baby. You have master dream baby potential, but your mom just doesn't know what I know." Because, well, let's be honest, it's all about me, right?
Then I had Evelyn. She ruined my master-ness. She was master rude baby. She was so off-putting to the nurses in the hospital that they actually snickered when we left and wished me "good luck with that one." What had I done? How had I gone wrong? Because, remember, it's all about me?
Evelyn used to toddle around during playdates with her mouth open. I guess it was more convenient that way so when she went in to take a bite out of someone, she just had to bear down instead of open and then close again. I was so embarrassed. How could my child have cannibalistic tendencies?
If Jack was a perfect reflection of my perfect parenting skills – because that's what I thought kids were – then what was Evelyn? Did she mean I was a bad mom? Did she mean I was doing something wrong?
For years I've fought this battle – how much of my kids' crazy do I take ownership of? And on the flip side, how much of the good stuff do I pat myself on the back for? It makes every move, every decision, every circumstance loaded with pressure.
I just spent the last four days in the Bahamas. I met some of the most amazing people on my trip, but one woman, one mama, stands out in particular. Her name is Kate. Kate is 46. She's British, which automatically makes everything she says a thousand times funnier, wittier and smarter. She's a wife to Curtis, a super cool ex-Marine turned U.S. Customs and Border Protection mission specialist guy (Jack Bauer stuff). She's a mama to CJ and Jack. And I'm sure she's a ton of other fabulous things. But I mostly saw her in the mom role. And I just had to find a way to write about her.
I met her son Jack, who is 8, before I met Kate. I didn't really meet him so much as I just watched him run around the pool laughing and smiling and shrieking and shaking rubber snakes. He was so energetic and loud and funny. But not in your average 8-year-old boy sort of way. Jack has Autism. So the way he plays and talks and loves is unique. Some people smiled, some stared, some whispered, some looked startled and some just turned away.
Now meet Kate.
Kate loooooooves Jack. Right away she started telling us about his autism and the funny ways it had been presenting on their trip – his obsession with the color orange and his excitement over the fact that they had found candy corn on the island; his daily, nonstop, minute by minute desire to go to Redmonds, their grocery store at home and get a cookie. "Mom, cookie, go to Redmonds, cookie, red cookie, blue cookie, cookie, Redmonds, go to Redmonds." (Reminder, she's telling us all this in a British accent. Way funnier.)
Kate doesn't work outside the home because she can't find a job that will be flexible enough to give her a day off when Jack is having a meltdown. Kate throws carnivals for hundreds of people in her backyard with ponies – like real, live ponies, people. She has raised $50,000 for Autism Speaks. CJ, Jack's older brother, adores Jack and is so playful and lovey (something I'm sure Kate had a part in fostering!). And when Jack says to her for the 50th time in 50 seconds, "Mom, go to the beach, beach, beach, Mom, go to the beach." She kisses his head, rubs his hair and pushes him away to go run around.
And what else is so great about Kate is that Jack totally gets on her nerves and she isn't afraid, self-conscious or embarrassed to show it or shout it (with a drink in her hand, might I add). "Go away, Jack." "Out of my face, Jack." "Quiet, Jack." "Enough, Jack." "Stop it now, Jack."
When Jack is screaming and people are staring, Kate doesn't seem to care (Not the kind of not caring where she just ignores his crazy, but the kind where she's not looking around to see what anyone else thinks of Jack's outburst). When Jack is standing too close to someone at the pool bar or almost whipping someone with his rubber snake or eating the food off his plate with his hands and subsequently dropping a bunch on the ground, Kate isn't cringing. It's like she's totally free of the "this kid is a reflection of me and if he doesn't act just right, it's all on me" thing.
I watched in awe, with envy, really. Kate wasn't tallying up what Jack did that was good or bad that day – what his decisions around the pool meant for his future, what they indicated about her parenting style or her personhood. She just enjoyed Jack and was annoyed by Jack and laughed at Jack in every new moment.
I'm not saying Kate never has minutes or days or weeks of second-guessing, doubting, crying, analyzing. But I would characterize her as free. Can you imagine? What if we were that free? Free from over-thinking? Free from second-guessing? Free from dissecting the whys of every action our children take? Free to just be in every new moment to love fully, laugh fully, be frustrated fully and then to move on freely and fully to the next new moment.
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