Wherever She Goes(2)

I don’t know how other parents do it. I honestly do not. They sit. They chat. They answer emails. They read books. And somehow, their children survive.

Motherhood does not come naturally to me. My own mother died when I was very young, and my father never remarried. I grew up on a string of army bases, cared for by whoever happened to be available. So when Paul and I decided to have a baby, I knew I needed to prepare. I did—with endless classes and books. Then Charlotte came along, and I felt as if I’d walked into a math exam after cramming for history.

When I used to confess my fears to Paul, he’d hug me and say, “You’re doing awesome, Bree. Your daughter is bright and happy and healthy. What more could you want?”

What more could I want? To feel like I’d achieved that. Not like Charlotte managed to be all that in spite of me. Because of Paul.

Now I’m damned sure that when it comes time for a court to decide custody, Paul is not going to tell the judge that I’m “doing awesome.”

So no more floundering. No more muddling through. No more being the “quirky” parent. I must be the most normal mom possible. That means I need to learn how.

Observe and assimilate.

When we head to the swings, I try to just stand behind Charlotte and push her, like other parents. That isn’t what she wants, though. She wants me to swing beside her and see who can go highest.

Paul doesn’t swing with Charlotte or climb the slide or hang from the rings. The very image makes me smile. Nor, however, would he be on a bench reading the paper or checking his phone. He stands close, keeping a watchful eye, ready to jump in if she needs him. And that’s fine with Charlotte, who never asks or expects him to join in. Joining in is for Mommy.

I remember when I’d bring her back from the park with grass-stained knees and dirt-streaked face and hair that looked as if she stepped out of a wind tunnel.

“Someone had fun today,” Paul would say.

“She skinned her knee again. I’m sorry. I don’t know how that happens.”

He laughs. “Because she’s a little cyclone when she’s with you. She knows Daddy can’t keep up.” He swings her into his arms. “Did you have fun, sweetheart?” he asks, as they walk away, Charlotte babbling a mile a minute.

If I fretted later, he’d say, “She had fun. That’s what matters, Bree. Skinned knees heal. It’s good to see her active.”

Does he still think that? Or does he remember those skinned knees and see them as a sign that I hadn’t watched our daughter closely enough?

“Mommy, jump!”

I react without thinking, swinging high and then jumping. I hit the ground in a crouch, and as I bounce to my feet, her gales of laughter ring out.

“Mommy, catch!”

Again, I turn on autopilot, my arms fly up as Charlotte launches herself from the swing.

I do catch her.

I always do.

Always, always, always.

This is what I want to be for you, baby. The mother who will always catch you. The mother who knows what dangers you face, and will be there to stop them. To fix the problems, even when I cause them myself.

“Is it time for tea?” I ask as I set her on the ground.

“Yes!”

As we drink our apple juice and munch cookies, I watch the parents in the playground, analyzing how far they let their kids run without giving chase, what they allow their children to do without interfering.

I gaze longingly at the groups of chatting parents. As much as I love playing with my child, I feel like I should be there, getting the support and answers I need. I’ve done all the things that parenting blogs recommend for meeting others—join mom-tot groups, hang around at the playground, just put yourself out there!—but I always feel like I used to when I switched schools midterm. The cliques had already formed, those doors slammed shut.

When I first had Charlotte, I tried joining the suburban mommies in our neighborhood, but their life experience was a million miles from mine. They seemed to sense my “otherness,” like a bevy of swans with a goose intent on sneaking into their ranks. As invitations to playdates dried up—and my own were refused—I saw myself condemning Charlotte to the same kind of life. An outsider by association.

That changed after I left. Apparently, the mommies who didn’t have time for me had plenty of it for my poor abandoned child and her doting single daddy.

As I gaze across the playground, I notice another woman by herself. She’s with a little boy near a patch of forest, maybe twenty feet away. They’re playing a hiding game, where one of them tucks away a small object and the other finds it.

At first, I think the woman must be a sitter or older sister. I’m thirty, and she looks nearly a decade younger, the boy maybe five. But then he gives a delighted shriek, saying, “Found it, Mama! That was a good spot.”

They both seem to be enjoying the game, and I take note. Charlotte would love it, and it’s definitely a more dignified way of playing with my child.

Speaking of dignity, when we finish our tea, Charlotte wants to do cartwheels. I try to just help her, but she insists I demonstrate. I do a double, ending up by the woods, and as I thump down, the little boy says, “Whoa, did you see that, Mama?”

“Very cool,” his mother says, with a careful smile. “You must have been a cheerleader.”

I laugh. “Not exactly. But thanks.”