Caught Unawares

May 2012

Georgie

Saturday brought to our attention a deficit in diapers. We had flirted for months with potty-training our 3-year-old Freddy, but our position in life had been unpredictable. We wanted to train him in a stable environment. The act of using the bathroom is one of separation and perceived sacrifice to a toddler. It is frightening to do their business into a black hole.

Finally in a home with a more stable income we had the opportunity to train. All we needed was a catalyst. That Saturday, with three diapers left, and two bums to cover it was potty training time.

We put the big kid pants on the toddler and checked with him every 20 minutes for several days. He knew what to do, how to do it, and when. With a gentle push he succeeded, quickly. Within two days he was repelled by the idea of wearing a diaper. He insisted on his "unawares."

It became something new, exciting, and rewarding. He officially became a big boy. The pride on his still-so-baby-face was one of the most precious things I have ever seen.

I look into those ice-blue eyes, protuberant but handsome in his well-proportioned face, and a memory comes back to me. He is in the bath playing with a navy blue bucket. His head is still small enough to fit in it. He wears it and giggles at himself. He beckons me down and, in that jerky baby way removes the bucket from his head and attempts to put it on mine. I help him subtly, letting him do most of the work. He smiles and splashes, happy with his work.

As memories go, associative and interlinked I am taken to another instance where little Freddy was in a mode of discovery. He was placing his beloved panda on his head, trying his hardest to toddle on without dropping it. I kneeled to his level and caught panda as he fell. I handed it back. He grinned and put panda on my head. I showed him how to balance the panda and walk. Laughing and reaching for panda he laughed and said, "DADA!"

We are at a park, playing on the equipment. I try to get him to come down the slide, but he will not be convinced. Ever the independent child he climbs away from me, daring me to chase. I launch into the structure and knock my own hat off. Freddy, giggling, picks it up and does his best to put it on my head. After a few failures he takes off his own, a blue Spongebob number, and attempts to fit it on my skull.

"Justin," calls Rachel, breaking my reverie, "Will you change George?"

Georgie, my youngest boy is 17 months old. He has full, brown eyes, dark hair, eyelashes that could kill, an ample adornment of adorable, and smells up the house as if there were no cover on his bottom. He has my full focus as I change his foul diaper. I smile and tickle him, make Daddy noises, and the most contorted, but comforting faces possible.

While I am bundling up my brown-eyed angel I feel Freddy fitting something on my head. I smile and continue getting Georgie strapped. Freddy is laughing as he pulls the thing down over my head. His laugh graduates into hilarity, and it occurs to me he has achieved something in this moment. I finish changing the baby boy and look at Freddy, who is bent in half with laughter.

"What did you put on my head?" I ask, the answer already in my mind.
He runs out of giggles, and with a big, shaky breath points at my head and says, "Unawares!"
Sure enough I'm sporting a small pair of Batman undies on my brow. I am pleased this event coincides with my flashbacks, it makes it all the more precious.

That, may I add, is my most memorable of moment of being caught "unawares."

Bathwater

Freddy splashes in his bathwater. His tiny hands slap the surface sending droplets everywhere. A healthy puddle threatens to crawl into the adjacent room. He stops and smiles at me.

            At seven months he’s a big kid – 20 pounds and 30 inches long. He looks at me with round, blue eyes and an adorable smile. It is open-mouthed and all gums. I smile back at him just as his attention diverts to the suds and the dozen toys floating around him. He picks up a rubber duck with his chubby little digits and sucks on the bill.

            I experience a moment of envy.

            I am sorry to say that it is not the first time.

            I wish I was tiny again. I remember my baths, or maybe the comfortable feelings they evoked. When I was an infant I know I was loved and protected. I don’t know if Mom put me in a full-size bathtub at his age, but I know I was never bored. I too, sat in a lake of toys.

            As I grew, my baths evolved. The change in bathtub scenery involved two things – new tubs, of course, and new toys.

            Somewhere in my progression from infant to toddler the toys changed. The edges became sharper, the masculinity started to take shape, and interests began to be realized. In essence I was playing with action figures and boats in lieu of squeaky toys and teething links.

            I don’t know when it happened. Between being a kid and maturing into a teen the toys were put away and never pulled out again. I still remember their last resting place beneath the sink. I wonder what Mom did with them.

            Despite the years I never lost my love for baths. Blame that on an affinity for relaxing and escaping.

           

            In an instant my right pant leg is soaked. Freddy has just broken his own record. It’s the biggest splash yet. All I can do is laugh.

            He laughs back.

            We are both giggling at each other.

            He is laughing because I am. I am laughing at the fact that until four months ago my baths had been toy-free for well over a decade. Now I can’t help but step on a rubber duck, or a squeaky toy when I get in the tub.

            I rub my son’s head. He loves that. He has a skull like granite; hard and, if he follows the Haxby trend, impenetrable.

            I wonder how Freddy’s bathwater will evolve. I think I will record it for him. The days when his rubber ducks go out and a truck, or boat, or an ATV comes in I will write it down.

            I think he is a truck kid.

            He squeals suddenly and goes back to the business of exporting water from the tub to the floor. I hand him a duck and put a towel down to battle the flood.

            He’s having such a good time I can expect to sit here another twenty minutes. I don’t mind. He’ll play, he’ll talk, he’ll sing and splash and abruptly, he’ll be done. He’ll rub those beautiful baby eyes with his fists and complain to me. I’ll interpret that it’s time for a bottle and a nap.

            Often he’ll be asleep before I finish cleaning up, so I never say anything like, “I’ll see you in a minute!”

            I just tell him I love him.

            I look at my little boy playing in the bathtub. I wish for him to take advantage of these early years. I wish for him to be this happy all his life. When that little tongue of his finally gets itself around the English language it will be time to start chipping away at childhood and teach him responsibility. The time for accountability will soon follow.

            Then he will be grown.

            He latches onto my leg. He wants to stand up.

            He struggles and grunts. Standing there he looks at me.

            “Dad,” he says.

            I smile. It falters.        

            Time to get out.

            Time to grow up.

            The bathwater settles and cools, as if removing life from it takes its warmth. In my arms I can feel that the boy carries it with him.

            That gives me hope.