Today I spent about two hours with my son practicing the concept of open and closed. I didn’t set out with a lesson plan and a syllabus. Once my son discovered the old makeup I was throwing away I did what any mother would do and turned it into a learning opportunity. I took the shiny black compact from his tiny little hands, flipped the lid and said “Open.” He was fascinated that there was something in there that he couldn’t see before. Then I snapped it shut and said “Closed.” Predictably, this caused a miniature meltdown until the lid flipped up and I again said “Open.”
From the powder compact, we moved on to the bottle of lotion. From the lotion, we went to the jack in the box. I could tell he’d gotten the hang of this concept because he brought me several toys that could be opened or closed in different ways including a book and a sippy cup. All afternoon we played, my son teetering on the edge of toddler hysteria because open is clearly much more fun than closed.
Then he brought me a new bag of diapers. “Oh-peh.” He tells me as he starts removing a diaper. “No, no.” I told him, “Once this is opened it cannot be closed again.” I proceed to try and explain in toddler terms why it’s a physical impossibility to cram a full pack of diapers back in the bag once they’ve been pulled out. “Oh-PEH!” He insists and nonplused by my explanation, he pulls the diaper all the way out. “Fine.” I agree, “Open.” And I sit and watch in parental fascination as he pulls the diapers out one by one until the bag was empty.
Then he tried to put them back. “Ohs.” He says, trying unsuccessfully to shove a diaper through the narrow plastic opening in the bag. “OHS!!!” He shouts at me as yet another diaper doesn’t fit through the hole. I toss my hands in the air in a universal gesture of hell-if-I-know. He repeats the gesture, dropping bag and diapers and disintegrating into a world class tantrum of floor thrashing, kicking, and screaming incoherently. I realize the only way to fix this is a baby-reboot.
On the way up the stairs, son in arms, I think of a different conversation, one I’d had earlier in the summer. How bad is she? I wanted to know. She’s saving the bath water. I’m told. What? I am shocked and can think of nothing else to say. And she thinks the neighbors are spying on her. I hear this but I cannot believe it. I need to see her to make sure she’s fine. But when I’m there, in her living room, I barely recognize the woman in front of me and it’s clear that she’s not fine. I’d like for you to leave. She tells me and in an uncharacteristic display of vulnerability she adds, I just can’t handle it right now. And she gets up and goes into her bedroom and shuts the door. I look to her husband for guidance. Should I stay or leave? What would be better? And I see his eyes turn misty. My heart shatters into a million pieces for this man who is watching his wife slip away from his reach. This woman who one year ago nursed me back to health, lifted my son for me each and every time when I couldn’t, helped feed and care for us until I was recovered, and without whom I don’t know what I would have done. This dear, dear woman who seemed so sure and so strong…
I tucked my wailing son into bed and went back to the disaster area he created in my living room. I sighed heavily and sat down, thinking again of her as I looked out at the mess. Then...One by one...I began the impossible task of trying to fit all the diapers back in the bag.
