Rip Currents

What is hitting me in the face with the force of a semi-truck is the fact that Hadley is growing up. Third grade is not Kindergarten. Third grade is showing hints of a stage that I am not feeling ready for.

Like all the stages, the getting them to sleep stage, the learning how to walk stage, the potty training stage, it is hard to navigate. Specifically because it is hard to tell what Hadley is ready for. Sometimes I think she understands something, but it turns out she doesn’t. Hadley is rolling her eyes and testing out sarcasm, but she doesn’t always use it in the right spots. There’s so much to explain to her.

Take, for example, the day Hadley, Harper, and I strolled through Target. We passed the PJ/underwear section and Hadley took note of the posters of the models above the merchandise.

“Mom,” she said grabbing my arm so I’d stop. “Did those girls know their picture was being taken?”

“Yes, they knew,” I said.

“So, they just put on their Superbuns and said, ‘Take my picture?'” (No, I have not told Hadley and Harper the proper term, and yes I am the worst mother in the world.)

There are a lot of ways to respond to Hadley’s bafflement. I could have explained advertising to her. Or modeling. But I get so side-tracked at Target and for this kind of conversation, I need all my capabilities. I can see myself beginning to explain this fact of life to Hadley, whole-heartedly yet rationally, and then pausing mid sentence because, “Look at those adorable pajama pants! I need them. Or, Ooooo! Turquoise tights with rhinestones?!?!  Of COURSE I need those, too!” So instead, I just said, “Yes, they put on Superbuns and said, ‘Take my picture.'”

I know I’m treading scary, shifting waters. I know I’m swimming near the rip current, and I have no idea what I’ll do when it takes me away from shore.  Here’s another example:

The three of us spend some time in the National Portrait Gallery a few weeks ago.  Hadley points out all the naked people. With the eye of a marksman, she points out all the exposed private parts of each sculpture and painting in every single room we walk into.

“They knew they had no clothes on, right Mom?” Hadley says, giggling uncontrollably. “They said, ‘Look!  I have no pants on! Paint me!'”

“I don’t know if that’s exactly how it happened, Hadley,” I say, giving forth a little more effort then I did at Target. (Apparently, I’m not as easily distracted in a museum.) I begin to explain that this is art, for crying out loud, but she is off running to the next naked person, showing Harper and the other two kids we went with what she’s found.  It’s a proud moment for me.

Nakedness and all that comes with it is so difficult for me to know how to handle with my kids, so I make Jesse do it.  He’s ordered all sorts of books with titles like, Amazing Me! and he reads them to the girls while I stand in the other room and laugh because I’m apparently 8 years old, too.

I have not read these books, but I figure that since Jesse is a scientist, and a thorough one at that, he’s covered all the basics using these books.  Clearly, Hadley and Harper know everything there is to know and my work is done.

I learned in the bathroom at the National Portrait Gallery that this is not the case.  We’re at the sink washing our hands because yes, every time we go to the bathroom, even if we “are only here to try” as Harper always says, we wash our hands. Every time. Yes, every time.  Turn the damn faucet on.

“Mom, look, there’s a diaper machine in here, except it’s for adults,” Hadley says. “Why do adults need diapers?”

“Do I need soap, Mommy, since all I did was try but nothing came out?” Harper asks.

“Yes, Harper, you need soap. Please put soap on your hands,” I say and in the same breath say to Hadley, “Those aren’t diapers, those are pads.”

“Like pads of paper?” Harper asks, scrubbing her hands.  She has so much soap on them it looks like shaving cream.

“That’s good, Harper. Go ahead and rinse.”

“What are pads?” Hadley asks.

“They’re for your period.” I say.

“What?” Hadley looks at me blankly.

“You know,” I say, “when the egg doesn’t fertilize?” And I can’t believe I’m doing this but I’m pointing to where I believe my fallopian tubes are and I SWEAR Jesse read this part in Amazing Me! Didn’t he? Didn’t he read about the menstrual cycle?

“I thought a period is what you use at the end of a sentence,” Harper yells over the hand dryer so everyone in the museum including the sculptures can hear.

“No,” I sigh. “It’s not.”

“Well, what is it?” Hadley asks, fiddling with the dispenser on the machine and looking at me. “What happens?”

So over the hand dryer I explain what a period is. It wasn’t so bad. At least, Hadley and Harper seemed fine with all of it. I felt a little shaky.

Jesse texts me a few minutes later asking me how my day is going. Here’s how the conversation goes:

Me: We are at the Portrait Museum. Also, I told Hadley about periods because I thought she knew. Probably gonna have nightmares tonight.

Jesse: Periods just came up in a random conversation?

Me: We were in the bathroom and she wanted a quarter for a diaper.

Jesse: What is she going to do with a diaper?

This is proof that there is no way to have a rational conversation about this subject. You’re reading a conversation between a guy who got his PhD at Notre Dame and a gal who thinks ALL DAY LONG how to use words to express herself and the two of them have been swept away on the rip current that I’m pretty sure is going to take us way out to sea.

I don’t answer Jesse’s question. Instead, I send him pictures of our day:

Jesse texts back, “Looks like you are having a fun time.”

“We are,” I respond, and I remember that the trick to surviving the rip current is to not try to swim against it. Stay calm, that’s the first rule. Try and float, and hopefully it’ll drop you from its wake and those ferocious waves will take you back to shore.