Joy to the Cry

At about age two, my daughter Adima began attaching the word “crying” to the end of her often fragmented sentences. It still puzzles me as to exactly how and why this came to be. My only theory is that during those first painful weeks when she was being dropped off at daycare, the teacher would often ask: “Why are you crying?” In true Adima fashion, she would toss the question back at the inquirer: “Why you crying?” The teacher would then fire back with a cheerful mantra: “No more crying…be happy!” And so it came to be that whenever Adima got upset, she would question and then console herself: “Why you crying? (insert: sniffling and moaning)” followed by “No more crying. Be happy!” Her tone would be a mixture of despair and cajoling. She would work her way through the emotions within about a minute before moving on to something else. This is one of many things I admired about my daughter at that stage.

Even before she started talking, Adima was remarkably self-sufficient, relatively speaking. In the middle of the night, if she awoke abruptly or stirred in her crib, she would raise her little body (often with eyes still closed) and smack the “on” button of a little musical toy that was attached to the railing. Although my husband and I have the lullaby medley permanently seared into our brains, the series of soothing tunes never failed to bring her back to dreamland. As she got older, Adima took to adjusting the volume to her taste or turning the light option on and off to her liking. Even after she turned three, my husband and I (who still used a monitor) could occasionally hear her rustling movements as she searched for that musical toy under her blankets and stuffed animals. Eventually, we would hear her smack that button and the sound of crickets, tree frogs, and a mellow instrumental version of “Five Little Ducks” would fill the air.

The Schnoody

The news of Adima’s arrival was a surprise to me and my partner, OG (at the time, still my boyfriend). We hadn’t planned on being parents at that particular time. We had recently purchased our first home together and within weeks, I had convinced him to allow me to adopt a shelter dog. OG, who had made it known to me that he never cared too much for such creatures, relented after I practically dragged him to the local shelter to meet a little six-month-old pit bull mix named “Shine.” He also relented because he loved me.

I remember how excited the volunteer was when she learned of my interest in the little dog that had been largely ignored in between the cages of two dogs that were just there as boarders. Perhaps he had been overlooked or perhaps it was the fact that his “pitbull-ness” overshadowed the other parts of his identity. But once I interacted with him, I loved him. And so the volunteer – who I would later discover was actually a neighbor – took Shine out into a large outdoor pen with a bench in the middle of it. At first, Shine ignored us and proceeded to sniff around, pee, and then gallop in celebration of his relative freedom. But as soon as he realized that others were present, he went over and gave OG a lick on his leg before proceeding to hurl his front paws into his lap for some petting. Poor OG really had no choice. I recall him stating something to the effect of, “he seems mellow enough.”

And so the process took place and within days, “Shine the dog” (later affectionately referred to as The Schoody) came home and quickly “claimed” the house (and us) -- in the cutest of ways, of course. We knew nothing of dog ownership and had not watched even one episode of The Dog Whisperer. Regardless, Shine created for us a little family (pre-Adima) and eventually a few years later, due to a job change on my part, OG became the main dog walker. He would never admit it outright but he bonded with Shine. The two of them shared in the joys of daily walks during which they got some exercise while escaping the stuffy confines of the house. They were the guys of the house and it was a special connection that made me smile quietly as I sometimes watched them from the window on the weekends.

Shine got mixed reviews from local residents. Some did the typical “cross the street” maneuver as we approached while others smiled and recognized in him the warmth, the playfulness, the sweetness of his spirit. There were times when I really felt for Shine, when I got emotional about how others perceived him. I wanted to show them what a lap dog he was, a big cuddle-bear, really. But I knew that doing so was not realistic, not possible, that many people would not care to know. At times, I thought of how difficult it is to deal with human judgments based on difference. I remember discussing this with a friend of mine who declared that that was part of the reason why she did not want to have kids – she felt that she would not be able to handle raising a child in such an environment. A small part of me understood but a bigger part of me knew that I would love and protect and defend a child with immeasurable fierceness. I continue to feel this way today.

This is the - last - one -

Okay, so I am guilty of not having fully explained what “the last one” really means to my daughter. I think it started with raisins. Adima has always loved raisins. In fact, her grandma “upped the ante” when she came to visit with a particular gift for her granddaughter: chocolate-covered raisins. Ah, the joy in both sets of eyes as they each popped one of those little morsels into their mouths (Total collapse of will power: See The Frog & Toad story called “Cookies”*). And another one and another one and then a couple more that were stuck to each other. Adima was giggling with excitement; she was beaming actually and so was grandma. It was one of those magical moments that was responsible for my delayed response. Suddenly, almost violently, I grabbed the tin container just as Adima’s little fingers had snatched another gooey treat. I held onto her quick hand, looked her in the eyes and declared: “This is the – last – one. Can you say it with me?” After a bit of a pause to process what we were both about to agree to, she and I declared together: “…Last one.” As soon as her hand was free, she popped the melting chocolate raisin into her mouth with glee, smeared her chocolate-covered palm on her shirt sleeve and grabbed the tin in search of another raisin. She couldn’t open it without help so she smiled at me, revealing brown-stained teeth and said: “Last one?”

Somehow the last raisin turned into the second-to-last (or the third-to-last) raisin. For quite some time, it was almost a joke when I would sternly declare: “Okay, Adima. But this is the last one.” It is particularly hard to “lay down the law” when it comes to green grapes – a personal favorite of mine. Of course, anything in excess is supposed to be “bad.” In this case, lots of raisins or green grapes would lead to “the big C” and that, in turn, became a major roadblock in the quest to acclimate Adima to the potty. However, I was reassured by my daughter that progress was being made -- in the case of her stuffed animal, Mr. Bug, that is…

Tinkle, Tinkle, Mr. Bug

All right, I admit it. I might have been a bit over-ambitious and pre-mature with the potty training. I like to try to blame the whole thing on poor “Uncle Dave” in California, whose gift for Adima’s second Christmas was an intimidating pink Princess potty and matching book titled, Big Girls Use The Potty. At this point, Adima was about eighteen months old. Dave is also a parent and has a girl who is a few years older than Adima so I thought he was sending a message. I set about putting the potty together, started reading the book to Adima, and gathered a wide array of stickers which would serve as “rewards.” I was playing it by the book, so to speak. The book, however, made no specific mention of when to start the training.

At first, Adima had a few successes on the “little” potty and the “big” potty. I puffed up my chest with pride and even went so far as to “document” the first “Number 2” success. Adima would focus intently on where to place her stickers on the potty seat. However, the older she got, the less frequently she seemed to go to the princess potty. Adima came to detest the sparkly pink “throne” and the overall process of sitting on it to do her business. Out of frustration, I started to verbally point out her lack of success to her– a big “no no” in the potty training process. As a result, Adima just succeeded in irritating me by closing the pink potty lid and then using the potty as a seat or a pedestal to stand upon. I sometimes caught her peeling the stickers off of the thing. The worst was when she would toss things into the pink bowl, tricking the battery operated mechanism into believing she had been “successful.” I would then be subjected to mocking little celebratory jingles: “ta dahh! TA DAAAH!”

Add to the mockery the fact that Adima’s favorite DVD for at least a year was “Elmo’s Potty Time.” I can’t remember how many times I had to listen to, “You’ll do it! You’ll use the paaaaaahtee!” and endure the image of Elmo pointing his furry finger, seemingly at me. And the teasing would extend to the very end of the program when Elmo would try to assure his viewers: “If you don’t use the potty now, don’t worry. One day you will.” And then I’m left with images of kids trying to tie their shoelaces or climb on the monkey bars or zip up their jackets. Uh, sorry, not the same as using the potty!! And those kids looked like they were five or six years old. My husband would pat me on the shoulder as tears streamed down my face: “She needs another six months.” And this is what he would assure me every six months.

To be honest, the frequent onset of “the big C” and the adult-sized “BM”s Adima often had were frightening for me (and probably her as well). My husband would repeatedly be subjected to my redundant rhetorical questions: “Why does no one warn you about the potty training? Why does no one say: ‘Congratulations on your pregnancy but be warned: potty training is a bitch’? Why don’t folks give new parents a heads-up?” And at my lowest point of despair and hopelessness, my daughter took a miniature-sized plastic pink potty seat that had come with a dolly that was supposed to be able to pee into it (another gift from Uncle Dave) and put her purple stuffed animal on it and encouraged him: “Tinkle tinkle, Mr. Bug. Tinkle tinkle in the potty!” Adima clearly got the whole potty thing. She simply wasn’t interested in getting involved with it at the time but she did know that it was something important to me.

Adima is a clearer communicator than I often gave her credit for. At times, when she got into the position and I asked her, “is it coming?”, she literally responded by saying: “No. Not yet.” I was so set on having her make the quick adjustment that it only delayed things more. And when I looked into the eyes of that stuffed purple bug on that potty, he stared back at me as if to say: “What’s the hurry, mami?”

It’s My Potty, And I’ll Pee If I Want To

Okay, so when Adima turned three, she started to tell us when she had to go potty. My enthusiastic responses to her “waterfalls” have paid off but to be fair, I need to share the credit with Adima’s daycare center. Months before, I had attended an “Open House” with a friend, who was considering enrolling her son. One of the main discussions among the small group of parents in attendance was potty training. The teachers provided a small packet with potty training tips. Parents shared their frustrations and their embarrassing moments of tantrums and accidents in public places and I left the center feeling somewhat traumatized by their accounts.

I drove home and the potty training packet joined an impressive pile of random papers on the kitchen counter. Seasons changed, eggs hatched in the bird nest above our mailbox and somehow – by the grace of God – I came across the packet during a “spring cleaning” moment. Flipping through it, pondering whether it was going to make the cut or not, I came across the lyrics to three songs: “Pee I, Pee I Go,” “Tinkle Tinkle Little Star,” and “[Enter Your Child’s Name] Has a Potty Seat” (to be sung to the tune of “Mary Had A Little Lamb”). Initially, I rolled my eyes and almost laughed out loud. But Adima is very much into music; she loves instruments and she loves to sing.

The next morning, with my daughter sitting on the “big potty” and me sitting on the edge of the bathtub, I found myself crooning all three jingles. Adima giggled with glee and then it happened. Out came the “wee-wee”. Then I giggled with glee and said, “wow!” Adima concurred right away: “WOW!” Then, when I asked her if she was all done, she informed me: “More! More!” At first, I did not know if she meant more wee-wee or more singing. Both happened and we laughed together. When I felt a good achy feeling in my stomach muscles, I realized that it had been some time since I had laughed so much.

Shortly after that, I decided to further capitalize on Adima’s love for music, specifically doo wop songs, and created my own lyrics to the classic version of “It’s My Party,” sung by Lesley Gore.  Here and there, I even caught myself singing it to myself when I was on the thrown:

It’s my potty and I’ll pee if I want to,

pee if I want to,

pee if I want to

(da dum-dum-dum)

You would pee too if it happened to you!

Adima’s “Spidey” Senses

I know that mothers are supposed to have these super strong instincts when it comes to their offspring. A mother can supposedly interpret their baby’s various types of cries, hand motions, “coos” and other babblings – even their projectiles. And I buy it, I really do. But I never realized how much babies and toddlers themselves can sense – particularly what they can hear/distinguish. From the time Adima could start forming words, a curious pattern developed. First, you must know that OG & I crazily bought a “weekender” home up in the mountains of the Catskills. It was an estate sale and came with 3 acres so we were able to nab it for a good price. The idea was to use it during the summers as a place of refuge and relaxation. Sadly, we discovered that we had very few weekends available for such experiences…but that is another story altogether. Actually, I will probably share an anecdote or two about my experiences at some point, since it relates to the difficulties in adjusting to parenthood that both he and I faced. It was in that serene space that I was confronted with the realities of parenthood, the loss of freedom, the dependence, the weightiness of my responsibilities as a mother. But I digress…

So before we surrendered to the fact that frequent trips upstate - and my plans to remodel and decorate – were not realistic, we would pile ourselves (including Shine) into the Matrix and make the 1 hour and 40 minute trips up and down. Oftentimes, on the “ruckfahrt”, as we neared our primary home in Jersey, it would be very late. Knowing that we either had no food to quickly warm up or any energy to fix anything, we would grudgingly relent to the one fast food place in our area that was still open: Wendy’s. I’d like to point out that this was the time of paradise and bliss, the very brief and wondrous stage during which Adima would take long, uninterrupted naps as my husband and I got to discuss intimate and challenging issues in our relationship and beginning tenure as parents. It was a time I really appreciated, although I wonder if Adima was somehow able to process some of our conversations as she gently snored away. Either way, even though Adima is always adorable, she looked particularly so as she slept - seemingly deeply – snugly in her plush Graco seat.

Anyway, back to the food…as it is relevant to this windy narrative of mine. At this stage in our lives, OG and I were rather predictable when it came to fast food. Speaking only for myself, I always selected the same option for one simple reason: cowardice. My relatively weak stomach is rarely in the mood to experience or “take a chance” on something as unpredictable as a “baconator.” As for OG, I think he just likes routine, the idea that he knows what he is getting: a deviously delicious dose of a large amount of calories, followed by a fair amount of guilt. So just as we rounded the bend one fateful night and made ready to order, who should stir and awaken in the backseat but adorable Adima. Perhaps it was the reduced speed of the vehicle combined with the precise tilt as it turned the curb or maybe the faint whiff of false food in the air; we will never know for sure. But without fail, Adima would wake up each time. And on that first occasion, eyes half-closed, she would mumble “Wendy’s” and as OG rolled down the window, before we were even greeted, our child would blurt out: “Number Eight!” This would then happen consistently every time we decided on a late-night Wendy’s run.

Incidentally, I rarely pull up to a Wendy’s window (or any other fast food place, a topic I will save for a bit later) but we remain amazed at Adima’s ability to sense where she is. This has transferred to noticing certain streets, stores, and an ability to tell me when we are driving in an area that is near a place we have been before. For instance, when I took her to my hairdresser’s, she declared: “This is near Dr. Park’s office.” Dr. Park is my mother’s doctor and his office is just one town north of my hairdresser’s. Adima, I am convinced, has “spidey” senses.

“Carousels and Fairs and Zoos (and Automatic Flushers and Electric Dryers, Oh My!”

When Adima was two, she was enamored of carousels. She loved to look at the twinkling lights and listen to what I always perceived as very creepy music. She struggled with the difficult decision of selecting which horse or other animal she would ride on. She beamed and giggled for the entire four minutes and I could not help but join her. Those elated expressions are what kept the carousel business going strong for months. Adima received constant exposure to outdoor carousels, indoor carousels, and at year’s end – the piece de la resistance – a miniature carousel that YaYa (my mom) found at a local CVS for $19.99. We have numerous pictures of Adima in her “Santa’s helper” dress, staring at the little plastic horsies as they went round and round to the sound of slightly warped Christmas jingles. Life could not be better. The carousel was the ultimate motivator, the main character of all of the stories she made up, the perfect representation of all that was wonderful about Adima’s world. She loved music, she loved colors, she loved animals – she loved her some carousels.

Even more exciting than the CVS Christmas carousel -- that with each revolution seemed on the brink of breaking -- was the prospect of what Adima simply termed, “The Fair.” The little plastic carousel faded into the background as she was exposed to bright moving objects like “The Wacky Worm,” “The Frog Hopper,” and “The Flying Carousel” – a ride that I personally found a bit dizzying. If I didn’t have the photos and the video clips to prove it, I would not have believed that little toddling Adima had gone on ANY of those rides because alas, by age 4, the Fair apparently (and suddenly) became the worst place in the world. And the carousel was a source of utter horror.

The irony of all of this is that Adima – with razor sharp memory and keen sense of place – would consistently point out where the Fair would occur (The Meadowlands) as we whizzed along Route 3. She would announce it with such glee, with what I thought was pure excitement and anticipation.  But as the first day of the Fair approached, the anxiety seemed to grow at an exponential rate. Adima declared that she did not want to go; she emphatically stated that she was “not ready”. Not ready? My husband and I were baffled. YaYa and PaPa (my dad), God bless them, tried to ease their grandchild back into the “carousel zone” by taking her to a nice indoor one at the mall that she had loved. As Papa pulled into the parking lot, the crying began. It spiraled downward into wailing and bawling and kicking: “I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go!” Papa asked, “Why not, Adima?” Her response in between sobs was: “Because why.” And just so that my parents would be clear on the issue, she repeated this phrase for about ten minutes. Eventually, YaYa declared that she intended to go inside and ride the carousel. And she did. By herself. PaPa & Adima & I stayed in the car.

Every day, I tried to coax Adima to visit the Fair and go on a ride -- any ride would do. I explained to her that the Fair was only here for a little while and then it would be gone for a whole year. I showed her pictures of the rides she had gone on. I commented on how happy she looked, on what a wonderful smile she had, how much fun it had been. No dice. Then my poor husband tried to assist, thinking that a viewing of a few video clips might be a fun reminder for Adima. What a disaster. She erupted into frightening sobs and seemed almost terrorized. She refused to watch the video of her on the carousel.

Okay so perhaps one might be thinking: so the kid does not like carousels and rides; just avoid them and move on. Love of fairs is not a prerequisite for entrance into Kindergarten or necessary in order to become a well-rounded person.  Us new parents couldn’t seem to see it that way; we were wandering aimlessly through the thick forest of uncertainty and worry: What if Adima has “a condition”? What if this worsens and affects her ability to socialize and interact in public? And it seemed as though our thoughts were “thunk” into existence because the fears seemed to multiply.

Adima tried with all of her might to avoid public bathrooms because of the electric dryers and the automatic flushers. Eventually, she also decided that zoos were terrifying and would cry upon entering, cry on and off once inside, and then just as we got ready to leave, cry yet again. In her defense, one of the zoos did have a carousel and so that memory seemed to carry over to any zoo we tried to go to. My friends were patient and understanding as they pushed their baby strollers ahead of me and my wailing preschooler. I thought to myself: Am I the only one going through this? I knew the answer but I still posed the question over and over because during those moments, I was the only one. Everyone else was having a good time. From my perspective, no other kids Adima’s age were crying or carrying on. Would it not be possible to take Adima out to any public places? Was she doomed not to enjoy these pleasurable moments out of fear? Where did the fear come from? I felt helpless and miserable because she was so distraught and I soon joined her in that emotional place.

My husband and I had Adima’s ears tested; all was fine in the canals. We turned to each other, to family, to the internet, to Adima’s teacher, and then to the pediatrician for help. Of course, no one offered us “a solution” or “a clear explanation” of what was happening to Adima. The best response seemed to hone in on “ultra-sensitivity to sounds” and “over-stimulation.” In many cases, Adima did cover her ears and remark on loud sounds. But it was not consistent. Sometimes, we’d be walking and a motorcycle will whiz by and she would cry and cover her ears and keep them covered long after the vehicle had disappeared. But on another morning, we’d be in the car and a big diesel truck would pass by. And with the windows open and the truck right beside us, Adima didn’t cover her ears.

As a parent going out with Adima into the world, I had no way of knowing when and how she would respond to what she saw and experienced around her. I did my best to press forward to attempt to gradually desensitize her to certain sounds that she did not like. For instance, when she behaved “nicely”, I sometimes treated her to an Italian ice at our favorite spot in Lyndhurst: Mazur’s. She practiced politely placing her order at the window. Then we would sit down in front of the bakery, facing the busy Ridge Road where it was guaranteed that at least three motorcycles would pass by. Little by little, Adima became less reactionary. I taught her a semi-true mantra to repeat when she hears the sounds and starts to get agitated or scared. We often said it together: “Noises are all around us and then they go away.”

Let me be clear: I can understand many of my daughter’s fears. A few moments ago, I took a break from typing at the local overpriced coffee shop to use the bathroom and I swear I jumped a little as the “Xcelerator” dryer almost succeeded in pulling the skin off of my hands. I have tried to put myself in Adima’s position, to imagine her little developing brain and all that it has to process. I try to imagine what kinds of confusing and contrary messages she receives from people, places, images, objects, and sounds around her. It is a lot to take in. But at the same time, there needs to be that balance between empathy/caring and authority/nudging. And there is no book with “the answer” as to how to establish and maintain such a balance.

I keep returning to two words: patience and faith. I need to find more of both. There are times when I need to step away from Adima, if only for a couple of hours. I come back and see her face and I smile and give her a hug and move on. But there are other times, times when I feel ashamed of the thoughts that weave their way into my head as she is screaming and flailing her arms and refusing to listen. Or when I am stern with her and her response is to practically laugh in my face. At such times, I have to restrain myself and my mantra to myself is: “She is only four. She is only four. She is only four.” Oh, and then there was that airplane ride home from a two week trip to Germany when that mantra flew out the window & was replaced with: “I am that parent who cannot control their child.” And it was one of the most frightening experiences of my life.

“Up In The Clouds”

When OG informed me – with as much certainty as a man who likes to say “Possibly Maybe” to things could muster – that he would not be going to Germany with me and Adima, I played it down like it was cool. “It’s cool,” I said nonchalantly. I wanted you along but it’s all good. I got this. It will be an adventure. “Adventure” is not really expressive of all that I endured. Some of what I experienced with 4 year old Adima was understandable. She rejected almost all food except for items like “Gummy Bears,” “Mini Milch” ice cream, Smarties (sort of like M&Ms), Kneckerbrot (Wasa Flat Crunchy Bread things), “pommes’ (french fries) without ketchup, and “Noodeln” (spaghetti pasta, but without sauce). Of course, having anticipated this, I packed several snack foods for the flight over and for the days that she and I were on our own.

Adima, of course, took some time to adjust to the different foods so there were a lot of trips to the bathroom that were unsuccessful. In all honesty, I joined in this frustration regarding my own digestion – an issue I have always dealt with during my numerous summer trips to Germany. My Oma would always direct my mom to shove several prunes down my mouth. After that unpleasant experience, I would be given cup after cup of tea and then water. And then everyone would wait…Adima had it a bit easier. She has a tougher tummy and she runs around a lot more than I did/do, so she made the transition in good time.

But the food issue was minor compared to other basics things that we take for granted in our daily lives in whatever home space we occupy. For Adima, bathrooms in Germany were strange and overwhelming places. There were loud noises, the flushers were different. The water and soap felt different. She abhorred the automatic toilets and dryers and she absolutely feared this one particular shower at the studio apartment of my mom’s long-time friend. Adima and I stayed there for a period of time that seemed to have no end. Just picture the largest rubber band in the world – Guinness Book of World Records type rubber band. Then stretch that sucker out, stretch it out as far as it can go. Got the image? So that week was a bit longer than that.

So what’s up with the shower? What’s the big deal? The shower was in fact, tubular in nature -- to maximize the minimal space of the bathroom. And of course, “green behind the ears mommy” tried to coax Adima into the shower, then nudged her in, then took a break and talked to her. But my voice was soon raised and my patience was all used up. I was exhausted from taking care of her on my own in the town where my mother had grown up. I felt alone and discouraged and frustrated. It had been almost three days and Adima had refused to enter the shower to be properly cleaned. Forcing my daughter to confront the tubular shower was a low point in my life as a parent. For some reason, I felt so determined that she should go in. Poor Adima, in her bright pink shower cap, tears streaming down her face, began to yell and scream and the more I would direct her to get in, the more she would sob and squeal. I sank to the floor and began to cry myself. It was starting to occur to me that I was utterly exhausted from the recent events and that I felt overwhelmed and ill-equipped and alone in all of it. I had stopped worrying about whether the next door neighbor would call the cops (which I truly felt would happen). I surrendered and the two of us sat there on the floor until we calmed down. I then informed Adima that she did not have to use the shower but that she could watch me as I took mine, to see that it was not scary. Before our stay was up, Adima had stepped into the shower. She even ended up obsessively opening and closing the clear tubular doors, one on each side, smiling to herself: “I did it!”

All right, so I survived that one…barely.  For other incidents, particularly in public places, soothing words and endless bribes of gummy bears and gummy berries and gummy worms and gummy froggies were needed. The foreignness of her surroundings extended to places like train stations. Even though Adima absolutely loves trains, she would enter the main hall of a station and begin to panic. She would cry and attempt to shift into reverse: “I don’t want to. I don’t want to!” This occurred in Solingen, as my brother and his wife looked on helplessly. My brother kept saying every couple of minutes, “This isn’t going to work.” “Maybe I should drive you guys up” (for three plus hours!). I told him to give her a few minutes. I bought the tickets from the machine which was a cause of additional horror in Adima’s mind. We somehow made it to the platform as Adima continued to wail with genuine fear, as confused folks tried not to stare (and failed at it, miserably). I did my best to ignore the gawking but my thoughts were: Is my child the only little person to act in this way? Is there some German strategy to shut down the tantrum with quickness?

So we are on the platform and I begin talking to Adima in a normal voice, describing all of the interesting things I see around me, how cool the train station is, just like Thomas the Tank Engine. I grab Adima’s stuffed “Baby Pooh” animal and show him all that there is to see. Adima begins to repeat my words and asks for Baby Pooh back; I oblige her. She gives him a hug while still clasping my leg and crying. And then it happens. A train goes by on one of the outer platform; I believe it was an ICE train (the fastest in Germany at the time) and Adima stopped crying and pointed to the train and declared, with much excitement: “Look mommy! A train!” And a few minutes later, by the grace of God, another train came in and she seemed even more excited. The crying was over; the fear had dissipated. A few minutes later, our train pulled in. I gave my brother and his wife quick kisses, grabbed Adima’s hand and lugged the stroller and other clunky bags and items with me. The train was crowded so we did not get to sit in a nice seat by the window. Instead, we were in the first inner compartment where there are fold out seats. A passenger moved over so that Adima & I could sit together. We managed to have enough time to wave to my brother and his wife as the train very quietly pulled out of the station. Perhaps that was the key – most German trains are almost eerily quiet and I remain convinced that much of Adima’s anxiety has always been linked to noise sensitivity, albeit somewhat selective noise-sensitivity.

During times like that, I really missed OG but I also felt as though I was okay, that I could do this mommy thing, and that it was my determination and my faith in my daughter that got us from the entrance of the train station to the platform to the inside compartment of the train.

Based on that response to a German mode of transportation, I was very hesitant when my brother suggested a day trip to the island of Borkum. They would drive up to Emden & pick us up from the studio apartment. We would then drive the short distance to the docks where a Catamaran would transport us to the vacation island destination over the course of 45 minutes. Days before, I told Adima about the trip and explained about the boat. I told her that it might be a bit noisy but that we could stay at the front and look out the window. It would be fun and there would be snacks and she could watch her favorite “bubble guppies” episodes over and over to pass the time.

The day of the trip arrived and as we waited in the little terminal, Adima seemed fine – just a bit tired and impatient. As we boarded, she gave the local greeting of “Moin Moin” to one of the skippers and I knew it would be okay. Turns out, Adima didn’t even turn on her portable DVD player (which would end up slowly “dying” due to an influx of sand from our day at the beach). She was more interested in opening and closing the tray in back of the seat in front of her. She was more interested in looking out of the window. She was way more interested in the little snack shop area at the back where I was suckered into buying her some overpriced pretzel sticks. She talked animatedly to anyone who would listen. She even eventually ventured to the upper back level once the catamaran was traveling at top speed. She giggled as the wind slapped us and the spray of the waves sprinkled us. She looked at birds gliding above the water and strained in an effort to see fishies or dolphins or mermaids. No success there.  Meanwhile, I remained the uneasy one as I sensed the sway of the boat and suppressed coughs from the smokers huddled in one corner.

Upon arrival, the adventure continued as “Uncle Al” lifted Adima onto the Bimbel Bahn (a trolley of sorts) which transported us to the center of the island – walking distance from the beaches. Adima would spend hours playing in the waves with my sister-in-law and then building oddly shaped castles in the sand with Uncle Al; it was during this time that I actually got to experience Germany without Adima. I walked the streets, bought an overpriced little beach towel that said “Borkum” on it and returned almost an hour later with drinks for everyone. And during that infinitesimally short time (relatively speaking, that is), I managed to worry about Adima in the water, overly ambitious and explorative Adima in the company of my sister-in-law who has no kids. I worried about my brother falling asleep on the blanket as his wife swam out and Adima wandered off to look for a shell for her sand-castle. These worries were, of course, ridiculous but I couldn’t shake them. And so I hustled back. And Adima was beaming, sand all stuck to her cheeks and in her hair. If she had been in charge, we would have stayed there another day (or two).

Today, when I speak of going to the beach, Adima asks if we can go to Borkum. Financial circumstances do not allow for that but even if they had, I am not sure I would have gone for it. And the reason had everything to do with our descent into Newark and Adima’s absolute refusal to wear her seat belt.

“It’s A Long Way Down”

This one is painful to relay. The signs were clear, really but there was no choice. We had to get home and this was the only way, right? Unless we traveled by ship, as my mom did back in back in 1968 when she came to America on board the “Henriette Wilhemine Schulte”, loaded with Volkswagens. That trip took 11 long days, with rough seas in the English Channel. So that was not an option…

Okay, so the first sign of impending doom was pretty clear – it was black, actually. The screen on the portable DVD player that had been my life-saver for a significant portion of the trip went black – no images were to be seen. No more bubble guppies. No more Diego or Dora. No more Elmo. Even the CD that had lulled Adima to sleep was not to be heard since the cute pink “safety noise reduction” flower headphones were utterly ineffective at full volume. After Adima’s multiple anxiety-ridden trips to the bathroom, her refusal to eat any food item other than my waning supply of snacks, and her hours of restless squirming and re-re-adjustments of the neck roll against my arm & shoulder, the pilot finally announced the final descent into Newark. He, of course, instructed all passengers to move their seats into the upright position and fasten their seat belts. This should not have registered as an unfamiliar set of actions in Adima’s mind. We had done this before. And yet, this time, she refused. She refused to put that seat belt on. The refusal turned into a tantrum and then into an utter breakdown. As I struggled with her (and my own fatigue), Adima’s voice got louder, her crying turned to screaming. She resisted me as though I was a stranger, as though her life was in danger.  A nearby passenger tried to help by offering her a piece of gum. No success. I tried speaking to her calmly. No success. I raised my voice a little to be firm. No success. I almost yelled but felt that I might be perceived as abusive so I toned it down with a swiftness. No success. I offered her a snack. No success. I threatened her (If you don’t sit still so I can put your seat belt on, we will never travel together again! I whispered sternly) but she was beyond even hearing anything that I was saying. While all of this occurred, I was shocked to observe that not one flight attendant came to check on the situation, much less assist me. It still confounds me to this day.

And so how is it that we made it? That we were able to land with no incident? Was Adima sedated? Did she faint? Did a good Samaritan offer her a magical toy that paralyzed her with joy long enough for me to click her in securely?

No.

Yours truly had to use her whole body to restrain her daughter whose seat belt was never securely fastened for those long 17 minutes of the descent. My arm became Adima’s seat belt and she continuously cried and carried on until the scraping of the wheels on the tarmac. Afterwards, I sat in my seat, sweat pouring from my brow, not able to fully comprehend what had happened. One or two passengers looked at me in horror but one person seemed to sympathize. She spoke to Adima and told her that she should “never do that to mommy again.” It remains one of the scariest and most embarrassing incidents of my life.

I recall waiting on a ridiculously long customs line after that. The two of us were both exhausted. Adima sat on her “baby pooh” suitcase and I would have to nudge her every time the line moved. I was too spent to even give her a speech about what had happened, about the danger. More than that, I was too tired to wrestle with the profound sense of failure I felt as a parent. I had become that person on the plane, that person that you look at and just shake your head at. And I don’t even fully understand how or why it all happened.

When the automatic doors finally parted and I saw my family waiting for us, I must have looked horrible based on their facial expressions. I could feel the stretch of dried tears on my cheeks.  I surrendered Adima to daddy, YaYa, and PaPa. I don’t remember saying much. In fact, I don’t think I spoke for a couple of minutes. That experience made it painfully clear that I was handling a lot and that I needed my husband to help out more, to share in the fear and uncertainty of those seemingly helpless moments in the clouds.

“I’m Getting Tired of This”

One day, OG dropped off Adima at preschool and she was dragging along, procrastinating in the car and so on. OG asked her what was wrong. Wasn’t she excited to join her little friends at school? She just shrugged as she grudgingly pressed the red button, releasing her from her increasingly confining car seat.

As Adima entered the classroom, the teacher greeted her with a smile. Adima turned to her daddy and declared: “I’m getting tired of this.”

Ok then. Communication 100% clear that morning. Adima was bored. The routines were uninteresting. She knew the drill. No Christmas carousels, no pony rides, no sandy beaches here. Just styrofoam bowls half-filled with Cheerios and canned pineapple cubes waiting for her at the little communal table. It is so often said that kids, actually all humans, are creatures of habit but I suppose Adima had moved on to the next level in her mind. OG and I had discussed the possibility of moving her to another school after discovering that one of the teachers didn’t know how to spell (a subject for another time). There was also a very high employee turnover rate, in part due to lack of appropriate compensation. But we had considered the move before Adima’s comment. Ultimately, doing so seemed more trouble than it was worth, especially since Adima would soon be transitioning to the walking-distance local elementary school for Kindergarten. And so Adima stayed where she was and I tried to manage my wildly fluctuating levels of guilt over “depositing” my daughter into a facility that did not bring joy to her heart. And truth be told, when I thought of the monthly tuition bills, I had to agree with Adima: “I’m getting tired of this.”