Peter Parker

Last night, my husband left me and our 3-year old daughter at home while he went to get house supplies. (as I expected, this trip also yielded a great many non-essentials that he decided he wanted such as an air filter and a new set of knives, but that's a topic for another blog).

Being left at home on crutches with a busy and stubborn 3-year old wasn't something I relished, but it was better than making him schlep her to the store. So I assured him it would be ok and that I could call a neighbor if for some reason things got out of hand. Our delightfully intelligent daughter is the bossy type, given to very loud temper tantrums (complete with head-banging) if things don't go her way so I decided to avoid potential disaster by simply doing whatever she wanted.

It was early evening in the summer and she wanted to go outside. I'm always careful these days to make sure that she's in front of me when we're moving about. I learned this lesson on my first day home when I nearly fell because my left crutch didn't move when I expected it to. Looking down, I found that she had a hold of it to "help" me. Thanks darling. After you.

Outside we went, her leading the way and turning around at regular intervals to make sure I was still coming. "You're slow, Mommy" she said. Yes, indeed I am. Don't remind me. It was the time of evening when birds are making their last furious efforts to find something to eat and a place to roost. It seemed they were everywhere overhead calling to one another and flitting from tree to tree. We spent some time pointing them out. One particularly large robin landed on the grass and eyed us warily before poking around in the grass. "There's a Robin!!" my daughter exclaimed. "Yep, what do you think he's doing?", I asked "he's just hanging out", she replied. Fair enough. So were we.

Next she wanted me to go into her play house. I explained that there was no way I could fold myself in there as I had in the past, but I was willing to sit next to the house and play with her. I winced and waited for the tantrum. Instead, she readily agreed and even pulled the patio chair closer as I hobbled over. "Give me your phone", she barks, one pale little hand outstretched and the other on her hip. Reluctantly, I gave it up while she explained that she was going to put it inside the house "for safekeeping". She puttered around the house for a while, making me food, taking me to school, etc. All those domestic things with which she's so familiar.

Then she wanted to return to the back steps. "I'm Peter Parker" she announced, "And you're Aunt Mae". Apparently my daughter has been watching Spider Man with her younger brother. She then took off across the expanse of lawn, little legs pumping, to show me how fast she is. Birds and domestic affairs were forgotten while she showed off her prowess in such feats at running, forward rolls, jumping off the wall of the flower beds, and kicking bad guys (many of these activities seemed to be better suited to Spider Man than his alter-ego, but I remembered the head banging and decided to keep such thoughts to myself).

Least you think that this blog entry is about the adorable antics of my youngest child, let me get to the point. I've realized over the last 11 days that life can go at a variety of paces.My typical pace is full speed ahead with hands full and head planning what I'm going to do next. My new pace is a hell of a lot slower. I carry nothing unless it can fit in my little fanny pack. I have done exactly two household chores since I got home from the hospital. I tried to make my bed but eventually gave up. So this day, caring for my daughter meant sitting on the back steps and exclaiming my appreciation for her running speed, her jumping height, and her forward rolling excellence. There was really nothing else I could do. And in that time I learned that that's really all Jarrah wanted from me. My attention. She doesn't care if my bed is made or the kitchen is messy. She doesn't mind that my office desk looks like a tornado hit it or that my bathroom mirror is splattered and dusty. She wants to be Peter Parker and she wants me to be Aunt Mae. And so Peter and Aunt Mae enjoyed the summer evening. We watched planes fly overhead and listed to the birds as they engaged in their conversations. I may be slow, but in that moment, I was everything my daughter needed. And that was enough.