The Computer Screen Is Blurry
It is suddenly hitting me that my baby is going to be a big boy who is gone at school all day. My whole life is going to be rearranged as a result of this.
I'm shutting down the cookie-delivery portion of my baking business. It never made money, which was OK with me; I still enjoyed getting to try out new recipes, with Mr. C running the electric mixer at my side. I could justify the gas used driving downtown for deliveries once a week because Mr. C and I would then go to the Zoo or to visit friends or just stop at the grocery store. But, with him gone all day, there'll be no need -- or time -- for any of that.
If he doesn't get home until three, will we no longer spend our afternoons finding treasures at the thrift stores? How will we have time for playdates? Who will pick out yogurt with me?
And what about its impact on others: who'll help deliver Meals On Wheels? Who'll charm the tellers at the bank?
Part of me is worried because his absence means I have no excuse not to be working in the shop. I can just see the minutes and hours and days dragging on, doing something I'm interested in but never had a calling to do; under the direction of someone who's got 15 years experience on me and who is steadfast in his belief that there's only one right way to do this work . . . and it's not the way I'm doing it.
Bee tries to allay my fears, agreeing we can just work until 1 or 2, then have a few hours to ourselves until Mr. C gets home. He talks about watching movies in the middle of the day in winter, when it's too cold to work: cuddled by the fire, eating home-cooked pasta. But I'm just as terrified that we will give in to the laziness, starting work later and later every day; and each day will slide into the next with a blend of unproductivity, unfulfillment, and ennui . . . and that would be just as bad as a full day spent hunched uncomfortably over machines while blinking sawdust out of my eyes.
To add insult to injury, I think Mr. C is going to need glasses; his regular pediatrician has referred us to an ophthalmologist. I shouldn't be surprised: I've had glasses since I was 6, and my siblings have, too.
It's not as if -- to my recollection -- glasses were a bad thing: my first ones had little strawberries on the sides, and I thought they were adorable. But as soon as I could get into contacts, I did, because glasses change you: choosing the proper style was too big a challenge for me to handle. Just like the purse you carry, the glasses you wear make a statement about you.
When a new teacher or another parent looks at him, they'll first see "the kid with glasses" instead of Mr. C. You might think that's a ridiculous assumption, but think about the kid in Jerry Maguire: he's absolutely adorable and all, but the first thing you see is the glasses. And you immediately conclude (tell me you don't) that the child is a little more of a brainiac and perhaps a little more sensitive than his peers. This is a child who's more likely to join the chess club than the football team.
Well, screw you! My child is still forming himself; he hasn't-yet had enough experiences to know where he'll be most-comfortable, so don't start pigeon-holing him already!
Worse still, though, is the fear that I will see him differently. I remember the shock of seeing him clothed for the first time: after weeks of lying in only a diaper in an incubator at the NICU, he was turned instantly from a scrawny old soul into a big-cheeked baby, just by donning a onesie. I sort of hated the nurses for doing that to me that day: the clothes got in the way of me seeing my son. Will glasses do the same?
To his face, I tell him how fun it would be to pick out glasses. And we talk about how great it'll be to have school all day. And I know both things are good things; helpful things.
But I'll be sending my glasses-clad little boy off into the world to have a full day without me. I'll miss being a more-significant part of his day. Even though he's not there, he'll never stop being a significant part of mine.
Maybe that's the hardest part.
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