A quick Google search for “second-time parents” yields numerous articles that generally suggest one major conclusion: second-time parents are less uptight.
Of course, Taylor and I knew of this universal trend before having Borealis. I figured that our participation in the overbearing first-time parent ritual was an inevitable eventuality, but Taylor had other plans. On his strong urging, we made a concerted effort to simply act like second-time parents, the first time around.
For the most part, we did a pretty good job [of being lazy parents]. We weren’t germaphobes. We didn’t catalog every developmental milestone. We didn’t buy extravagant baby clothes. (In fact, Borealis spent most of his first three months in the same three pairs of pajamas that Australis now over-wears.)
However, we did religiously adhere to one practice of first-time parenting: pediatric well visits. We never skipped a checkup! These appointments weren’t a waste of money (since we’ve hit our out-of-pocket maximum for the past two consecutive years), but they began to feel like a waste of time. After all, I could measure my child’s height, weight, and head circumference at home. (I don’t, but I could.)
More significantly, it wasn’t just a waste of my time — it was a waste of Taylor’s time. Like any overenthusiastic first-time parents, both my husband and I dutifully attended all of Bo’s well visits. These appointments amounted to entire workdays of lost productivity. When our son was little, the inefficiency was relatively acceptable. However, the frenetic pace of Taylor’s current project prevents him from taking time off work to hear that Australis is doing “just fine”. So, he doesn’t.
That is how I ended up carting both kids to the pediatricians on Monday morning, by myself. (I’m not bitter. Ok, I’m only a little bit bitter.)
At two months old, Australis was finally going to the pediatricians for the first time. Why such a long delay? Two reasons: 1) our birth center handled her two-day and two-week checkups (conveniently, at the same time as my two-day and two-week checkups), and 2) upon discovering that no vaccinations are given at the one-month checkup, Taylor simply scheduled Australis’s two-month checkup instead — clear evidence that we’re officially second-time parents.
Anyway. It was a Monday morning, so obviously we were late. I pulled into the parking lot at 9:33am, then began the involved process of removing everyone and everything from the car.
Get self out. Retrieve phone, wallet, and keys. Walk to right backseat. Remove diaper bag. Put on diaper bag. Remove infant carseat and immediately bruise hip. Walk to left backseat. Set down infant carseat. Receive proffered “car Legos” from Bo’s hand. Stow car Legos in door handle for later retrieval. Remove Bo from toddler carseat. Balance toddler on left hip and infant carseat on right hip. Kick car door closed. Walk at one mile per hour across parking lot. Ignore stares of passersby.
When we reached the medical complex, I asked Bo, “Do you want to walk?”
He shook his head, then yelled, “Dah!” for good measure.
Knowing better than to argue, I hobbled sideways through the front entryway, then to the pediatricians’ office (which is, thankfully, located on the first floor). Bo wriggled out of my grasp as I fought to open the door, and darted inside as soon as I succeeded.
“Wow, you’ve got your hands full!” the receptionist marveled.
I grimaced in what might have passed for a friendly manner, then set down the carseat and began to sign in. “Sorry we’re late. We’re here for Australis.”
“Oh, there’s no need for you to do that!” the receptionist assured me. Then, gesturing at a scrub-clad woman beside her, she explained, “Nan will just take you guys back now!”
“One of the perks of being late, I guess,” I said sardonically. “You don’t have to wait.”
Both women forced a laugh, and I appreciated their effort. I picked up the carseat and began to follow Nan into a brightly-lit hall of baby pictures and primary colors.
“Come on, Bo!” I called.
He looked up from the saltwater fish tank (which is, seemingly, a staple of all pediatricians’ offices). Upon discerning my direction of motion, he immediately burst into ugly, loud sobs. Like any good toddler, he threw himself dramatically to the ground in protest against his presumed plight.
“This appointment isn’t even for you,” I grumbled. Stooping, I caught hold of one of his hands, then dragged him remorselessly down the hall and into a checkup room.
Bo continued to cry aggressively as I removed Australis from her carseat and began to undress her. Nan idled awkwardly by the open door.
I reached into the diaper bag for my silver bullet. “Bo, do you want some fruit snacks?”
My son paused his tantrum long enough to examine my bribe. He snatched the proffered bag from my hand, then reluctantly followed me out of the checkup room.
Our little band trekked back to the measurement room, where Australis’s height, weight, and head circumference were taken and noted as being in the 75th, 50th, and 75th percentiles, respectively. By this point, Bo had realized that the appointment was not, in fact, for him, and had lapsed into sullen silence. He shuffled behind me as Nan lead us back to the checkup room.
Handing me a sheaf of papers, she instructed, “Go ahead and fill out the ASQ and the depression screening forms. I’ll be around in a second to collect those, and then Lena will be with you shortly afterwards.”
I extended one hand to take the stack of questionnaires, and the other to remove a pen from my son’s grasp. He was, apparently, just tall enough to reach atop the counter. I balanced Australis precariously between my knees.
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” I grumbled. I shuffled Australis to the crook of my left elbow and began to fill out the ASQ-3 form for my two month old.
Here’s the problem with the Ages and Stages Questionnaires: they are riddled with bizarre questions that — if you don’t know they’re coming — are nearly impossible to answer.
I paraphrased one question aloud. “When I move a toy back and forth about ten inches in front of her face, does my child follow the toy with her eyes?” I glanced up at Bo. “I don’t think I’ve ever done this. Have you?”
My son stared at me blankly.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” Eschewing the given answers — “yes”, “sometimes”, and “not yet” — I wrote, I don’t tease my child like this, then moved on to the next question.
Nan popped her head in, and Bo immediately bolted for the door.
“Still working on it,” I said without looking up, and Nan left before Bo could make his exit. Thus foiled, he went back to removing and reinserting the outlet covers.
After circling “yes” for the remaining developmental milestones, I moved on to the postpartum depression screening — another strangely-worded survey.
Again, I paraphrased a question aloud. “How often do you cry — never, almost never, a lot, or all the time? Shouldn’t one of the answers be, like, ‘sometimes’?”
I circled the sliver of space between “almost never” and “a lot”. Thankfully, the remaining questions were less polarized.
Nan poked her head around the door and flashed a smile as I handed her the completed forms. “Thanks! Lena will be with you in just a sec.”
Sure enough, our normal provider arrived a few minutes later. Lena, a pediatric nurse, is warm and personable — a stark contrast to the austere Dr. Ann (who appears in The Birth of Borealis, Part I). We quickly transferred our appointments to Lena after a positively frosty two-week checkup for Bo, as facilitated by the pediatrician. (Socially frosty, that is. Unfortunately, the office is always physically frosty, regardless of our provider.)
Lena beamed at Australis as she washed her hands. “What a cutie!”
“I know, isn’t she precious?” I gushed. “And she’s so sweet, too. She smiles all the time. Remember how Bo didn’t do the social smile until he was, like, four months old?”
Lena’s brow furrowed as she sat on a rolling chair. “Yeah, I seem to remember that he glowered all the time, right?”
I nodded. “For sure. And he’s still cranky!”
Lena examined something on her chart, then looked up. “Remind me of birthday?”
“February fifteenth,” I answered automatically. “So, you know, he’s coming up on two pretty soon.”
Lena listened patiently, then explained, “Yeah, I was actually asking about her. How do you pronounce her name again?”
“Oh, yeah, this appointment is for her, right?” I laughed. “Au– as in all, –stra– as in strap, and –lis as in list. Australis.”
Lena nodded, then said my daughter’s name perfectly. “Australis. Right, I remember now. Do you guys have a nickname picked out?”
I rolled my eyes, because seriously, *everyone* asks this question. I rattled off the explanation I typically give. “Yes and no. Taylor and I couldn’t agree on a nickname, so we mostly just call her by her full name.”
[Note: I am sure, dear reader, that you have noted this conspicuous lack of nominal truncation. Just know that if it has been a hassle to read, it has been even more of a hassle to type.]
I went on. “But, that’s not sustainable. I mean, ‘Australis’ is nine letters long, and not everyone can even say it right, so she definitely needs a nickname. Unfortunately, neither Taylor or I is willing to yield, so apparently, we’re just going to call her different things.”
“Such as?” Lena prompted.
I sighed. “I call her Aza, and Taylor calls her Alis.”
“Like ‘Alice in Wonderland’?”
“No, like the end of her name — A-L-I-S. So, you know, destined to be forever mispronounced. Just like her full name is. And honestly, I like the name Alis — although, I do think she’ll eventually hate us for spelling it that way. For me, though, it’s just too similar to ‘Bore-alis’, since I call Bo by his full name so often.”
I paused for a second, but when Lena didn’t interject, I continued my rant. “The problem is, since we don’t have a united front on what we want people to call her, everyone is just choosing their own favorite nickname, and half of my family has taken to calling her ‘Ali’, which I really don’t like.”
“Why?”
“Well, I guess they figure it’s basically a short version of ‘Alis’, which I would definitely prefer to ‘Ali’.”
Lena chuckled, then clarified, “Sorry, apparently I should be more clear when I ask questions. I meant, why don’t you like the name ‘Ali’?”
“Oh. Well, first of all, I just personally don’t like the name. More importantly, though, is that ‘Allison’ — and, correspondingly, the nickname ‘Allie’ — is a super Millennial name, which means that it’ll probably be really dated by the time Australis is in school. It’s like if I were named ‘Michelle’. ‘Michelle’ was ultra-popular for Gen X, but I know barely any Millennials with the name.”
“So you’re concerned that calling her Ali will make her seem prematurely aged?”
I laughed. “I know you’re teasing, but that’s basically the heart of it.”
Lena shrugged. “Well, I’m sure you guys will figure it out. Anyway, back to the matter at hand. When is her birthday? It looks like we don’t have her records from your birth center.”
“Ugh. Ok, I’ll call them later to get those transferred over. Her birthday is November 6th, so she’s two months old today.”
[Note: Obviously, it took me a quick minute to write this piece. That’s why I posted No Country for Young Dogs in the interim.]
Lena rolled her chair over and began examining my daughter. After a few minutes of poking and prodding, she concluded, “She looks great. How has it been having two kids? I know that, for a lot of our families, the transition is pretty rocky.”
I began to redress Australis in her jammies. “Yeah, we were kind of expecting it to be, like, earth-shattering. People kept telling us, ‘You know, having two isn’t twice as hard… it’s ten times as hard!’ Or a hundred, or a thousand. Everyone’s advice was pretty dire.”
“But it hasn’t been ten times as hard?”
I laughed. “Hardly! Oh, sorry, pardon the pun.”
Lena smirked, then gestured for me to continue.
“I mean, when she was first born, sure, it was really tough,” I admitted. “But mostly because the postpartum healing process is just like the longest thing ever. It was logistically challenging in that I physically could not carry both of my kids. Or even one of my kids, if it was that monster.”
Lena glanced over at my son, who was at that moment divesting my wallet of its contents. Grabbing a couple of tongue depressors, she suggested, “Here, maybe you should play with these instead.”
Bo, sensing Lena’s attention, looked up from my wallet and immediately took the depressors. The kid loves tools of any sort.
“There you go!” Lena encouraged. Then, as an afterthought, she added, “I like his outfit, by the way.”
Bo stopped examining the tongue depressors and instead looked down at his fuzzy, black-and-white costume. He enthusiastically grunted, “Mm!”
“Yes, Bo, that is what a cow says,” I affirmed. “Moooooo.”
“Mm!” he repeated.
“Close enough.” I turned back to Lena. “Yeah, we were running late to this appointment, so I really didn’t have time to argue with him when he picked that out. My mom bought him that outfit.”
Lena shrugged. “I like it. Picking out their own clothes is an opportunity for toddlers to start exploring their individuality.”
I sighed. (Apparently, it was a morning for sighing.) “Oh, I’m all for him exploring his individuality… but I just prefer that it happens on days that we don’t have to go out in public.”
Lena laughed.
Returning to our discussion, I continued, “Anyway, back to what I was saying about having two kids. I mean, it’s definitely harder to have two than to have one, but it’s not ten times as hard. I don’t even think it’s twice as hard. Probably more like, I don’t know, one-point-four times as hard. Like, my life now is hardly different than it was four months ago.”
Lena’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? She’s that much easier?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I genuinely feel that way. Bo never met the medical definition for having colic, but he definitely met the emotional definition.”
“As in, you just felt like he was crying all the time?”
I nodded. “But she cries way less. And when she does, it’s usually because she needs something — like she’s hungry, or uncomfortable, or lonely, or whatever. When Bo cried, it always felt like it was a personal attack. Like, he wanted me to know that I wasn’t a good enough mother for him. Well, not that that’s actually what he thought, but that’s what it felt like.”
I paused in my monologue. Lena said nothing, so I lamely concluded, “I don’t know. I just feel like neither of us was ready for the other one. Like, he wasn’t ready to be parented by me, and I wasn’t ready to parent him.”
Lena nodded. “Do you still feel that way?”
“No!” I said quickly. Then, after a second, I amended, “Well, almost never. We get along much better now. God taught me a lot of patience through his babyhood.”
“Well, I am glad to hear that,” Lena said. “You certainly seem more relaxed this time around.”
Lena smiled at me, then turned her scrutiny on my son once again. He had discovered that, if he stood on tiptoe, he could open the top drawer in the cabinet and deposit his tongue depressors inside.
Lena retrieved his erstwhile toys and marveled, ”Wow, you are just a little busy bee!”
“Eh-dah!” Bo shouted.
Lena glanced at me for a translation.
I shrugged. “That’s one of his repeated sounds, but we have no idea what it means.” Then, before she could ask, I continued, “He’s been evaluated by a speech pathologist, and she recommended that we get him into regular therapy in the next month or so — assuming he doesn’t magically start speaking before then.”
Lena nodded, then addressed Bo again. “You just don’t want to talk, huh? Got more important things to do?”
My son leveled a glare at the pediatric nurse, and I imagined that he was thinking, Wow, quick on the uptake, huh?
Lena didn’t perceive Bo’s sardonic retort, but she did notice his meticulous attention to detail as he now attempted to balance one of the tongue depressors on the edge of the countertop.
I sighed again. “You know, the older he gets, the more I lose hope that he will be anything but an engineer.”
“Oh, there’s no doubt of that. He’ll be an engineer for sure.”
And there it was: the death knell of my last hope that Borealis might not become a dweeb — er, engineer — like his father. I was strongly and uncomfortably reminded of the Dilbert clip in which the titular character is diagnosed with “The Knack” and sentenced to life as an engineer. (If you have not seen this clip, it is absolutely worth watching.)
Recovering from my brief speechlessness, I muttered, “Um… yeah, you know, that’s not exactly what I want to hear.”
Lena looked up again. “Wait, weren’t you an engineer?”
“No, I graduated from Mines, but it was a mistake. I should have majored in English instead.”
Lena winced. “What an unfortunate and costly mistake!”
“Truer words have never been spoken,” I agreed. “Thankfully, though, I had my dad’s G.I. Bill, so the cost was exclusively in dignity and lifespan. Mines aged me a decade in four years. It’s like the presidency.”
Lena laughed as she rose to leave. “And now you have two kids! It’s basically like you just skipped ahead in life.”
“Yeah, great.”
Lena slipped out the door, then poked her head back through to say, “Nan will be right back with the vaccines. I’ll see you guys next month for his two-year!”
“Bye,” I replied to a now-closed door.
A minute later, Nan entered with a tray of vaccines. I held a half-dressed Australis on my lap while Bo continued to play with the tongue depressors. Nan swabbed both of Australis’s thighs, then readied a terrifyingly long needle. I swayed involuntarily.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nan assured me blithely. “It doesn’t go in the whole way.”
“I’m not sure that makes it much better,” I muttered. I realized I had seized Australis in a death grip, and with an effort of will, I relaxed my hold again.
I averted my eyes and impotently shushed my daughter as Nan administered the three vaccines. Bo stared solemnly at his screaming sister, and I thought I detected a glimmer of empathy in his gaze.
After affixing three bandaids in place, Nan asked, “Would you like some Tylenol for her?”
“Yes, please.” I had immediately stuck Australis on the boob after her vaccines. While she was no longer screaming hysterically, I was still eager to nip her muscle soreness — and therefore, her crankiness — in the bud.
Nan disappeared briefly and reappeared with a dosage of Tylenol. Australis swallowed all of it, then regurgitated half of it.
“Oh well!” I chirped as I handed the empty syringe back to Nan.
As she left, she instructed, “Take as much time as you need to nurse her. There’s no rush for you to leave.”
After the door swung shut, I turned to Borealis and quipped, “Maybe she’s not in a rush, but I sure am!”
Our journey out of the checkup room and back to the car was relatively uneventful. I replaced Australis’s carseat in its base, then strapped Bo back into his own seat and handed him his car Legos. Then, I finally discovered what I had forgotten that morning.
I had been feeling pretty good up until that point. Both of my children were wearing clothes. (Granted, those clothes were pajamas and a cow costume, but still.) We had been on-time-ish to our appointment. I had even remembered to bring fruit snacks for Bo. What I hadn’t remembered, though, were the wheels for Australis’s stroller.
Like most infant carseats these days, ours converts into a stroller with the addition of a wheeled base. This transformation allows for a seamless transition between car and store, since the infant need not be removed from her seat.
Sound convenient? It is — aside from the absurd size and shape of our wheeled base. I rarely leave it in my trunk because it renders the back half of my car useless. In fact, it was the obviously empty trunk that alerted me to my mistake.
“Ughhhhhhhh!” I griped. I wanted to complain, so as I started the car, I called my mom.
“Hey, what’s up?” she answered.
“Hey, I want some advice.”
“For sure. What about?”
I sighed. “Ok, so remember how we’re going to that Epiphany feast tonight?” (A couple from our Bible study decided to host a meal in honor of Epiphany — the revelation of Christ to the Gentiles.)
My mom paused, then hedged, “Let’s assume that I do?”
I laughed. “Well, I offered to help with setup, since Henrietta is eight months pregnant, but she said she doesn’t get home until four, and the dinner starts at six, so I would have to come up during that window in order to, you know, actually be of any help.”
“But the boy normally naps until at least five, right?”
I nodded, although of course she couldn’t see it. “Exactly. I was hoping to bring the kids to the mall and force Bo to walk so that maybe he’d nap early.”
“But…?”
“But I forgot the fricking wheels!”
“The what?”
“The wheels, to turn Aza’s carseat into a stroller!”
“Oh yeah. Are they just at home?”
“Yeah, but we pass the mall on the way home. It’s such a waste of driving!”
(If you’ve read Cool for the Summer, you may recall my strong aversion to driving anymore than is absolutely necessary.)
Incidentally, my mother *also* hates driving anymore than is absolutely necessary. “Ah. Yes, I understand how that’s really frustrating. You know how I love killing birds.”
I groaned. “Yeah, and this is the opposite of killing two birds with one stone. This is killing one bird with two stones.“
“Ha ha. Could you have him walk around the neighborhood instead?”
I checked the car’s temperature readout. “No, it’s thirty-three degrees right now, and it’s super windy, so it feels lots colder.”
“Would she let you front carry her?”
“I don’t think so. Also, that hurts my back if I do it for longer than, like, ten minutes.”
“Well, it kinda sounds like you should just go home and get the wheels, then.”
“Do you think so? Even though it’s super inefficient?”
“Yeah, and don’t feel bad. It happens to me all the time.”
“Thanks. Wish me luck.”
“I will. Love you!”
“Love you too!”
I hung up and went back to driving in moody silence — a silence that was quickly broken.
“Ah-hi!” Bo called from the backseat.
“I’m sorry, buddy, I don’t know what that means. Are you saying ‘hi’?”
<silence>
“Are you saying something else?”
<silence>
“Ok buddy, I’m going to listen to my audiobook, then, ok?”
<silence>
The drive home ended up being pretty pleasant. Bo quietly entertained himself, and Australis slept. When we got home, I left the car idling while I dashed inside to grab the wheels. Bo silently judged me as I struggled to shove the contraption into my almost-too-small trunk.
I returned to the driver’s seat, then announced, “Alrighty, now we’re off to the mall!”
<silence>
I have a long and complicated history with the Colorado Mills Mall, some of which is detailed in Cool for the Summer. Thankfully, the new year brought with it a dramatic reduction in the mall’s population, which has alleviated — but not entirely eliminated — my frustration with Mills.
As usual, we parked outside of Entry 4 1/2. I effortlessly transformed the infant carseat into an infant stroller. The process was *so* effortless, in fact, that Australis woke up and glared at me in annoyance.
“Sorry, little girl,” I muttered. The irritation melted from her face, and she flashed me a gummy grin.
After conquering the stroller, I wrangled Bo out of his carseat and back onto my hip. “Alright buddy, it’s time to get you worn out!”
I battled through the icy wind to the entrance, at which point I set Bo down. He slipped through the open door and took off running down the entryway. He stopped after about twenty yards and turned to assess our progress. (Truly, he’s a family man at heart.)
To my son’s dismay, Australis and I had barely crossed the threshold. Upon this realization, Borealis broadened his stance and thrust out an open hand toward us, for all the world appearing as though he was attempting to summon us using the Force.
“We’re coming!” I laughed.
I pushed Australis’s stroller down the hall and out into the mall proper. Bo walked a little ahead of us and kept glancing back to make sure I hadn’t strayed.
As usual, we turned left to head toward the Mars Outpost. However, we were dismayed to find the play area abandoned and wrapped in plastic. There was a rather funereal aura about the desolate park, as though it had been draped with a pall rather than with drop cloths. A lonesome sign provided little information regarding the anticipated maintenance schedule.
“Oh, sorry buddy, the play area isn’t feeling good today,” I murmured to a wide-eyed Bo. “Hopefully it feels better next time, huh?”
My son nodded slightly but couldn’t tear his eyes from the eery sight. We crept by the play area in silence and, once past it, quickly put some distance between ourselves and the gloomy scene.
As we walked, Australis’s eyelids grew ever heavier. The vaccines were clearly affecting her alertness — or lack thereof.
“Your baby sister’s pretty tired,” I commented.
Borealis looked up sharply at the mention of his sister. I honestly think he might have forgotten that we had her with us. However, once reminded, he quickly recalled how much he loves his baby sister — and, more importantly, how much he loves pushing his baby sister around.
Bo scooted his way in between me and the stroller, then began to push against the edge of the carseat. Noting that I was still propelling the apparatus using the actual stroller handle, Bo glared up at me and shouted, “Dah!”
“Ok! I’ll stop pushing,” I lied. I leaned out of Bo’s line-of-sight and continued to gently drive the stroller.
It took my son at least five seconds to catch on to my duplicity — but when he did, he snapped, “Dah! Dah!” with even more vehemence than before.
“Ok! Ok!” I laughed. “I’ll let you do it.”
And so I did. There was just one problem: my kid’s not a good driver. (I mean, it’s not like I set a great example.) So, mere moments after I surrendered control of the stroller, Bo’s amateurish steering sent it slowly careening into a wall.
I took a picture because, like I said, the impending crash was pretty low-speed. (Kind of like the one in The Story That Started It All.)
After colliding with the wall, Bo successfully reversed out of the situation, then continued pushing the stroller along the quiet mall thoroughfare. I was exceedingly grateful for the relative absence of pedestrians. Only a week earlier, Bo would have been steering into holiday shoppers, too.
Then, about halfway through Neighborhood 5, Bo abandoned the stroller and blithely ambled onward alone.
“Um, hey, don’t you feel like you’re forgetting something?” I asked.
Nonplussed, Bo turned around and gazed at me innocently.
“Your sister?”
Bo hesitantly eyed the stroller. You would never guess that he had confidently piloted the craft mere moments before.
I relented quickly. “Fine, I’ll just push it.”
Bo nodded at me once, then turned around and continued toward Neighborhood 1.
Here’s the thing about walking around the mall with a toddler: there’s a surprising amount of standing involved.
It always seems like Borealis wants to investigate every display in the mall. (Wait, that’s not entirely true — he wants to investigate every human-free display in the mall. He avoids salespeople like the plague.) We stop at every gumball stand, every claw machine, and every coin funnel.
Thankfully, Bo is unaware that I could use quarters to activate the first two of these displays. Therefore, rather than asking me for coins, he methodically checks the outlet of each gumball machine and rattles the joystick of each claw game. To the best of my son’s knowledge, Mommy is unable to make either of these contraptions work.
In contrast, Bo is fully aware that coin funnels take, well, coins. (I blame Taylor for this knowledge.) Since I can no longer plead innocence, every funnel sends me searching my pockets for change.
Here’s the problem: I don’t always have change. (Or pockets, for that matter.) Unfortunately, the coin funnel doesn’t take credit cards, and Bo doesn’t take excuses.
It doesn’t matter how many times I plead, “Bo, I don’t have any coins! You know I don’t carry cash!” He’s like a persistent (but thankfully nonviolent) mugger. Deaf to my protests, he simply points to the funnel with a clear message: Coin. Now.
And so it was this day as well. Bo ran to the coin funnel and looked at me. “Eh-yah!”
“I’m sorry, baby, but I don’t have a coin.”
“Eh-yah!”
“Seriously, Borealis, I don’t have one.”
“Eh-yah!”
“Fine. I’ll do my best.”
I glanced around and spied what I sought: a stand of gumball machines. I wheeled the stroller over to the accompanying bill-exchanger. (Unusually, I had a dollar bill with me.)
Alas, the exchange machine was out of order. I attempted to insert my dollar, but it appeared that the device wasn’t even on. So, it was time for Plan B. Reluctantly, I got down on hands and knees to peer beneath the stand.
For once, I was in luck. A shiny quarter gleamed on the floor, just barely within reach. I turned my face to the side, flattened my shoulders against the ground, and extended my arm under the gumball machines.
[Note: This position carried with it the added benefit of advertising my derrière to any casual passerby.]
I just managed to catch the quarter with a fingertip. After sliding the coin towards myself, I palmed it, got to my feet, and said, “Oh… hi!”
A wide-eyed three-year-old stood about five feet away, raptly watching my emergence from beneath the gumball machines. Behind her stood a woman in her mid-fifties. I immediately noticed the woman’s spiffy Coach purse, which may have further highlighted the mall-carpet-dust on my knees and upper body.
I awkwardly held up the quarter. “Do you want to watch the coin… thing…?”
The woman smiled a very friendly smile and turned to the girl. “What do you think, Emi? Do you want to watch?”
The child nodded silently, and the woman picked her up and walked over near Bo, who was himself nearly purple with impatience. He looked at me pointedly, then attempted to shimmy up the slick side of the funnel’s outer casing.
“Give me a sec, bud,” I grumbled. I pulled the stroller back to the small group, then hefted my toddler atop the boxy structure. Bo gazed at me expectantly.
I nodded. “Ok, we’re doing to do this three times, alright? Here’s one!”
I set the quarter at the top of the ramp and released. The poorly-calibrated ramp sent the coin careening wildly to the edge of the funnel, then back across toward the other edge. Bo and Emi stared on impassively. I let this unpredictable elliptical orbit continue until the quarter was about a foot from the center, at which point I snatched it from the jaws of charity.
Repositioning the quarter, I announced, “Here’s two!” This iteration played out in nearly the same way as had the first.
For the final run, I handed Bo the coin. “Last time!” Then, pointing to the top of the ramp, I instructed, “Put the coin up here, then let go.”
Bo nodded, then positioned the coin at the bottom of the ramp and released. Without the extra potential energy, the quarter slid straight into the funnel’s outlet with nary a revolution.
Bo looked up in surprise. I imagine that my expression mirrored his.
“All done!” I concluded impotently.
Bo nodded again, then clambered down to the ground.
Emi’s Adult had also set down her charge. I couldn’t decide if she was the girl’s nanny or grandmother. The woman’s demeanor and age suggested that she couldn’t be her mother.
Emi, for her part, was quite interested in my son — and honestly, I understood where she was coming from. It’s not everyday that you see such a blonde, pale cow.
“I like his outfit!” enthused Emi’s Adult. She spoke with a slight South American accent.
I shrugged lamely. “Thanks. He picked it out himself.”
“It is very good for children to be able to dress themselves. It gives them the opportunity to express their personalities.”
I chuckled a bit. “Yes, well, this kid loves to express himself.”
Emi’s Adult smiled with a twinkle in her eye. “I like it!”
And, apparently, Emi did too. After giving Bo a thorough once-over — more like a twice- or thrice-over, actually — Emi seemed to decide that she did, in fact, want to be friends with the short ruminant standing before her. So, she stepped forward and reached suddenly for Bo’s hand.
Bo, for his part, was having none of it. He pulled his right hand out of Emi’s grasp and hid it behind his back. Then, he hid the left one there too, for good measure.
“Oh, sweetie, he doesn’t want to hold your hand,” Emi’s Adult explained.
“He’s shy,” I added, which is mostly true. I mean, “antisocial” and “shy” are synonyms, right?
Emi was clearly displeased with Bo’s rejection. She made another grab for his hand, but he quickly skittered out of her reach. The girl scrunched her features into a dramatic scowl that — coincidentally — perfectly matched Bo’s expression.
Emi’s Adult laughed, then admonished, “You have to be nice, because he’s littler than you.”
Indeed, Borealis stood maybe two or three inches shorter than his female counterpart, but I was pretty certain that he could take her in a fair fight. Regardless, Emi lessened the intensity of her friendship campaign and instead resumed her trek around the mall. After a moment, my son did the same. Emi’s Adult and I followed.
Few things in my mommy life are as intriguing as is watching my son around other children. Usually, he maintains a careful indifference. Sometimes, he bullies another child into submission (as he did in No Country for Young Dogs). And, rarely, he attempts to make friends.
Here’s the thing — because he attempts friendship so infrequently, he’s really not very good at it. Like any stereotypical engineer, he mostly just stares and waits for the other person to make the first move… and the second move… and all the other moves too.
This afternoon was no exception. As Borealis and Emi meandered in a mostly-forward direction, my son kept aiming *not subtle* stares at the girl. Each time Emi noticed Bo’s attention, she would veer into his path and attempt to grab his hand. The intimacy of the moment would be too much for Bo, and he would scamper away once more.
Occasionally, one of the youngsters would stop to inspect something — usually a gumball stand or claw machine. Almost immediately, the other would curtail forward progress until the first resumed walking. After a while, it was clear that Bo considered Emi to be his companion — even though he still wouldn’t hold her hand.
Emi’s Adult and I followed a similar pattern of irregular starts and stops. Sometimes we spoke to the kids. Sometimes we spoke to each other. Either way, it was nice to have mature company at the mall for once.
We continued in that manner past Entry 1 and to the coffee stand that “proudly serve[s] Starbucks”.
[Note: Since this establishment accepts neither the Starbucks app nor Starbucks gift cards, I would propose that Starbucks does not, in fact, proudly serve the coffee stand — only the other way around.]
Back in the day (i.e. Holiday 2015), I was a frequent patron of this coffee stand. It was under different branding and still served my favorite chai (Bhakti). But, that was years ago — before I was married, and before I had kids. Now, I rarely splurge on my coffee stand cravings.
However, I always splurge on Bo’s cravings. So, when he handed me a bag of barbecue-flavored kettle chips, I immediately whipped out a card and made the purchase.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the shocked expression of Emi’s Adult. My first instinct was to whirl around and yell, “Don’t judge me!”, but instead, I loudly told the barista, “He’s such a picky eater that I pretty much always buy whatever he asks for!”
The barista shot me a confused look. “Um, ok.”
I cheesed and chirped, “Thanks! Have a great day.”
Turning back to my son, I opened and handed him the bag of chips. As we walked away, the barista mumbled, “Yeah, you too.”
Borealis immediately began to demolish the chips, which gave me some comfort. I’m forever concerned that he isn’t eating enough substantial food. Admittedly, potato chips are pretty carb-y, but at least they’re full of unsaturated fats, too. It was a food decision I would make (and have made) again.
But, my approach to feeding toddlers is not shared by all caretakers, and certainly not by my walking companion. When Emi reached for a treat of her own, her guardian swiftly disabused the girl of any notion that she might expect the same sort of easy victory. “No, Emi, those foods are not good for you, and you had a big breakfast.”
Still feeling the need to explain myself, I muttered, “Yeah, he barely ate breakfast, and then we went to the doctor’s for her appointment….”
I trailed off as Emi broke away from our group and dashed back toward the coffee stand. Her caretaker circled back to — presumably — refuse once more to purchase Starbucks-branded treats. And, that was the last we saw of them.
I had assumed that the pair would catch up with us after resolving once-and-for-all the snack debate. However, after a few minutes, during which Borealis and I continually threw glances over our shoulders, I was surprised to still see no sign of our erstwhile companions.
Eventually, Bo and I mutually decided to go look for Emi and Emi’s Adult. We walked all the way back to the false Starbucks, but our comrades had disappeared. I think they might have returned to a toy store in which Emi had shown some earlier interest — but really, I can’t be sure. I know they didn’t owe us anything, but I wished they had said goodbye.
I was loath to backtrack any further than the coffee shop, so I told Bo, “Emi had to go home, so it’s time for us to keep walking.” Thankfully, he put up little resistance to my announcement, and we continued into Neighborhood 2.
It’s always weird to walk past Victoria’s Secret. Recently-renovated and devoid of my old coworkers, the store hardly resembles my former place of employment. Even still, the site carries with it an assortment of memories and emotions — some good, and some bad. At the very least, it was where the majority of my college-era female friendships lived out their relational arcs. I haven’t worked there in nearly four years, but my associated feelings are still pretty strong.
Recently, however, my discomfort with the store has risen to a new level. Borealis, eager to show off his socio-emotional development, has taken to pointing at the Victoria’s Secret window advertisements and shrieking, “Dee!”, prompting me to hurry him past the storefront while averting my eyes and shielding his.
[Note: The scant attire of the Victoria’s Secret Angels never bothered me when I worked there — even when, while visiting me at work, my then-fiancé walked past full-scale pictures of women with curves in the right places and none in the wrong places. It is humorous that I’ve only become disgusted with the company’s advertisements since having a son.]
On the other side of the Land of Bras and Panties, I aggressively herded Bo past the central food court and back into the main thoroughfare of the mall. When he looked up with pleading eyes, I pointed to the bag of chips still clutched in his grubby fist. “Eat those before you expect me to buy you any more expensive mall food.”
Bo startled at the realization that his bag was still half-full. He immediately began snacking again, intermittently wiping orange-dusted hands on his costume. At least he was wearing white.
About halfway through the neighborhood, Bo spotted the ubiquitous mall train.
“Deeeeee! Dah-eeeee!” he shrieked with unadulterated toddler delight.
The conductor waved at us because — well, because he sees us all the time, even if we’ve never spoken. I think he assumes it’s only a matter of time before I’ll give in to Bo’s unambiguous desire to ride the train. That would explain why he always slows the vehicle and stares at us as he drives past.
Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll cave. However, I know that if I relent once, then I’ll undoubtedly give in again — and again, and again, and again. Honestly, I’m just not prepared for the financial crisis that will ensue if I have to pay for a train ride every time we’re at the mall.
So, I did what any miserly parent would do in my place: I made hard eye contact with the conductor, pointed at the train, and enthused, “Yes, Bo, that’s a train! Now wave bye-bye to the train!”
Bo reluctantly watched the vehicle head toward Neighborhood 1, then belatedly waved farewell.
I shoved down a twinge of guilt and redirected my son back toward Neighborhood 3.
Wikipedia defines a “dead mall” or “ghost mall” as “a shopping mall with a high vacancy rate or a low consumer traffic level”.
Dead malls exist across America, but that definition *does not* describe the Colorado Mills Mall.
I’m not entirely sure why, but Mills is always slammed. I think a major reason for its popularity is that it’s a great place to walk, since the internal layout is a one-mile-perimeter rectangle. Consequently, numerous walkers (myself included) use the mall as a convenient, free, climate-controlled indoor track — which is to say, the mall is never empty, even on weekday mornings. Mills definitely isn’t a dead mall — with the glaring exception of Neighborhood 3.
Neighborhood 3 is about as dead as it gets, but it wasn’t always that way. When I was in college, few storefronts were vacant. Then, a catastrophic hailstorm swept through Lakewood in May 2017, demolishing the roof and costing untold millions in property damage and lost revenue. (In fact, the storm was later named as Colorado’s costliest catastrophe.) The entire mall shut down for months, and when it reopened, some stores didn’t want to come back. In most neighborhoods, the vacant storefronts were eventually replaced with new establishments, and the mall was soon back to normal-ish.
Not so in Neighborhood 3. One of the large restaurants failed to reopen, and its prolonged absence gave — or rather, gives — the area an abandoned air. Slowly, more and more stores moved out of Neighborhood 3 and into more prosperous zones. It’s urban decay: mall edition.
Now, the remaining stores in the area convey a sense that they are cowering — as though, even on the sunniest mornings, these establishments are hiding in a gloomy alley, just waiting to be discovered and chucked out of the mall for good. I can’t be sure, but I think there are also fewer skylights in Neighborhood 3 than there are in the other neighborhoods. The region always feels dim and slightly spooky. Even the walkers hasten through this stretch of desolation.
And yet, it should not surprise you that this is Bo’s favorite place to loiter. Two activities provide concrete reasons for this preference. One is a corn hole set that can’t seem to hang on to all of its beanbags. At the time of this writing, one purple and two green beanbags still exist within the vicinity of the corn holes. Not surprisingly, the beanbags are unimaginably grimy, so this day, I gently steered Bo away from the corn hole set and toward his other favorite activity: the oversized Connect Four game.
Now, obviously Borealis doesn’t actually know how to play Connect Four. However, he *does* know how to slot the palm-sized disks into the large plywood game matrix. (He does unintentionally connect four every once and again.) After all the game pieces are dropped into the board, Bo removes the bottom and lets them spill out onto the floor. Once I replace the bottom, the process begins again.
This activity is ideal for my son because it satisfies both his engineering need for orderly creation and his puerile need for utter destruction. Seemingly, every rendition is as satisfying as the last, which means that often, we hang out by the Connect Four game for [relatively] long stretches of time.
And so it was this day. After disposing of his now-empty chip bag, Bo quickly became engrossed in the cycle of formation/annihilation, so I took the opportunity to remove Australis from her stroller. I nursed her as Bo played, periodically leaning over to reset the game matrix for him.
As I nursed, I looked around. From where I sat, I could see no fewer than six vacant storefronts along the hundred-yard stretch of mall. Unfortunately, the seating area and Connect Four setup did little to dispel the bleak atmosphere. I was eager to hasten onward to Neighborhood 4.
After nursing, I changed my daughter’s diaper and replaced her in the carseat. Then, sniffing the air, I announced, “And now it’s time to change your diaper, smelly boy!”
Borealis turned and gave me a devious smirk — one that clearly communicated, I do what I want!
Sure enough, Bo leapt out of reach and hid behind the game board.
“Nice try,” I scoffed as I reached over and snagged him under the arms. I hefted him up and onto the changing pad, which was still open on the bench.
As I stripped off the bottom half of the cow costume, Bo voiced his displeasure with a loud — but not particularly impassioned — yell. The few passersby glanced our way, but it was clear that my son wasn’t *actually* upset. His complaint was like this: “Ahhhhhhhhhh. Ahhhhhhhhhhh.” I think he just wanted to remind me that he held the power to attract even more attention.
“Yes, yes, I know you’re annoyed,” I muttered. “I’m sorry, bud, this poopie is not coming off very easily.”
Indeed, Bo’s excrement was both stinky and sticky — but at least it was better than that time he ate a pint of blackberries and a Crayola glitter dot. (Both are, thankfully, non-toxic.) The next day, his bowel movement had been jet-black and studded with orange glitter. Now *that* had been a ten-wipe diaper change.
Eventually, Bo’s bottom was clean enough for a fresh diaper and a return to his fully-dressed bovine glory. I packed up the diaper bag and declared, “It’s time for us to get out of here.”
Bo looked up from the game and shot me another mischievous grin.
“Not this time,” I said, and grabbed him around the waist. He squawked indignantly as I carried him toward Neighborhood 4. “Mommy’s tired. It’s time to go home.”
Our march through Neighborhood 4 is always a blur. By the time we leave Neighborhood 3, I’m so desperate to get back to the car that I end up half-carrying, half-cattle-prodding my son through the final stretch.
On the day of this tale, I set Bo down shortly after turning the corner onto the long stretch of mall that would bring us back to Entry 4 1/2. If I squinted, I could just make out the pastel planets hanging above the Mars Outpost.
“Come on, Bo, let’s go home, baby.”
Bo looked at me askance, then ducked inside a Marvel-themed photo booth.
“How do you still have so much energy!?” I groaned.
Bo cocked an eyebrow and pointed to the card reader. Even ignorant of what the photo booth might do, he still requested that I spend my money there.
I braked the stroller and rested against it for a few seconds. Then, summoning my inner schoolteacher, I said, “Borealis, we are not going to do that today.” Or ever. “Now, do you want to walk, or do you want me to carry you?”
My son seemed to consider his options. After a moment, he trotted over, threw up his arms, and leaned against my legs. I scooped him up and onto my left hip, which was developing a rug burn from prolonged use as a toddler chair.
Bo calmly rode in my arms until we reached the food court again. Then, he wriggled out of my grasp and dashed over to the stand of ride-on animals. He looked at me hopefully — as though I might actually rent one for him.
Plot twist: I didn’t. Instead, we circled the stand several times while the proprietor became increasingly more annoyed. Bo pointed to each animal, then looked at me expectantly. I, in turn, did my best to name each creature.
Some identifications were easy. “Tiger. Unicorn. Giraffe.” But, some were not so easy. “Purple-flame-gorilla. Bunny-kangaroo-dog. Jaguar-hippopotamus.” Bo nodded agreeably at each pronouncement, regardless of the absurdity of my guess.
I was fed up by the third round of “Name That Chimera”, so I grabbed Bo from behind and hoisted him back onto my hip. He glared at me, but resettled into his spot without complaint.
Slightly out-of-breath, I informed him, “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy has to carry you back to the car or else Mommy will die.”
Bo’s eyes widened abruptly at the hyperbole.
Laughing, I explained, “I won’t actually die. I was just kidding. But I’m really eager to get home.”
Bo seemed to understand this, because he let me carry him past the food court, past the gumball stands, and past all the storefronts whose identities I’ve never bothered to learn. At the end of what felt like a five-mile tempo run, I finally reached my destination: Entry 4 1/2.
Still carrying Bo, I pushed outside with an awkward backwards shimmy while dragging the stroller. The door banging closed against the carseat, and I was glad that Australis was asleep. Frankly, I envied her.
I managed to get the kids back in the car, then wrestled with the stroller wheels until I could just get my trunk closed. Hey — a win’s a win.
I collapsed into the driver’s seat and rested my head against the steering wheel for a minute of silent prayer. Dear God, please help me be the kind of parent that You are.
Not surprisingly, my momentary peace was soon interrupted by Borealis.
“Huh, huh, hu-uh!” he whined.
I sat back up and looked in the rearview mirror. The wheel had left a thick red bar across my forehead. I couldn’t see my son, but I reached back to ruffle his hair.
“You’re right, Buddy-alis. It’s time to go home.”
I put the car in drive and started to roll through the parking lot.
“After all, Epiphany awaits!”
Epilogue: It may not surprise you to discover that all my work was in vain. While Borealis did indeed nap early, I realized during his snooze that I had made a terrible miscalculation: my car doesn’t have snow tires, and our Epiphany hosts live at the bottom of a steep hill that ices over for much of the winter.
While we did make it that night, we were so late as to be useless in terms of helping with setup. And how did we get there, you might ask? Amazingly, in Taylor’s tiny, two-door Hyundai Tiburon. Equipped with studded tires as it is, it has somehow become our snow-and-ice car.
Stay tuned for a GoFundMe campaign to equip my car with snow tires!
(Kidding. Mostly.)