Scenes From a Mall: Daddy-Daughter Edition

The Natick Mall, in Natick, Mass., is a lonely place on a Sunday before noon. Though the mall is technically open, few of the stores have lifted their security gates, so while women peruse the early-functioning department stores, husbands—toting young children—wander the empty corridors.

That, at least, was my experience last week, and it was a strange one, leading Sasha around the mall and encountering, again and again, guys just like me—dads with toddler girls in tow. We interacted a bit, but not too much. I explained to one guy that Sasha’s helium balloon had come from Nordstrom’s children’s-shoes department. Then he said, “She’s really cute.”

How are you supposed to respond to this? I mean, besides by saying thank you? Am I supposed to say his daughter is really cute? I wanted to, but, well, she was just okay. Actually, she wasn’t cute at all, and for a moment I worried for her future in middle school, when not being cute at all really becomes a problem for some kids. So, I didn’t parrot his line.

Instead, Sasha and I kept wandering around, and eventually the stores began to open. On the second floor, they had these cool shopping cart–slash–animal-themed cars, and I dumped $5 into a machine to rent one. Sasha loves that kind of crap, and I pushed her around.

We went to the Lego store, where I listened to one dad tell his 5-year-old they were going to start doing more fun things at night than just playing videogames, and that the kid would have try to like these new things, although they would still play some videogames too.

Then we went to Pottery Barn Kids, where Sasha pretended to make pizza and ice cream on a toy oven. Another kid, maybe 4 years old, joined her, and together they made me many imaginary snacks. The other kid’s mother watched us for a while, then told me, in a vaguely Eastern European accent, “You’re terrific!” Apparently, the other kid’s father is a total asshole.

Sometime around 1pm, we met up with Jean and ate lunch in the food court. Shitty Asian noodles for the women—which they loved—and kinda shitty Indian food for me.

So, that’s the mall. A nice little midday experience for me, but as I watched everyone else there I began to understand that for them, this was routine. Those dads with their not-so-cute kids had to do this ALL THE TIME, and put up with the demands of their not-so-cute kids to ride in animal-shaped shopping carts and watch them throw Legos on the ground and refuse to eat shitty Asian noodles. This is their life—fun for me for a couple of hours, but an eternity in hell for those who’ve chosen the suburban path. New York may make child-rearing fucking impossible at times, but at least I don’t have to look forward to weekends at the mall.

A Dream of No Dreams

If only...

Last night was pretty much the worst bathtime ever. It was time for the twice-weekly shampooing of Sasha’s hair, and she was having none of it, taking multiple timeouts before finally agreeing to walk into the bathroom, disrobe, and be cleaned. Only, I made a mistake. After squirting some shampoo in her little hand, I made the mistake of putting some in my own hand and rubbing it into her hair. That set her off. She—not me—is the one who’s supposed to start the shampooing.

Soon we were struggling out in the hallway, me scrubbing her hair while she writhed on the floor, and then I had to carry her into the bathroom, lower her into the tub, and pour buckets of water over her head while she stood there silent with shock. Then she screamed some more.

And actually, this miserable resistance had started much earlier. When we pulled up to the front gate of my apartment building, Sasha refused to get off the bike. And obviously, I understood: She doesn’t want to go inside, doesn’t want a bath, doesn’t want a bottle of warm milk—all of these things together spell bedtime, which, as a toddler, she’s duty-bound to put off as long as possible.

Yesterday’s resistance, however, was different—more serious, more deeply felt. And in fact, on the bike ride home, Sasha had told me why she didn’t want to go home:

“I don’t want to dream,” she’d said from her Ibert kid’s seat between my handlebars.

Yes, Sasha—this sweet, wonderful, cute toddler—has nightmares. Often, she’ll wake up once or twice, usually before midnight, screaming and crying in terror, and I’ll rush into her room to comfort her with a hug and put her back down to sleep.

What are the nightmares about? She never says, but on Sunday, as we drove back to Brooklyn from Boston, we got a clue. It was mid-afternoon, and Sasha had fallen asleep in her car seat, when Jean and I suddenly heard her cry out.

“Daddy, please! Daddy! Please! Daddy, please!”

And then:

“Don’t go! Don’t go! Don’t go!”

Um, heartbreaking a little? For a Daddy who’s always going somewhere—it’s my job, after all—this was crushing, but at least I began to understand the kid a bit better.

The frustrating thing is that there isn’t all that much I can do about it. When she wakes up in terror, I’m always there for her, reassuring her that everything is okay, and I give her a big hug, and then everything is okay. But now that she knows what kind of scary dreams might face her as she goes down to bed… I mean, I can explain to her that the nightmares aren’t real, that she can always just wake up, but how much of that will a two-and-a-half-year-old understand?

Let’s just hope tonight goes okay. And tomorrow night.

Dubious Milestone no. 53: Bilingualism

What does this say? Ask Sasha.

As even casual readers of this blog know, Jean and I have been trying to bring Sasha up speaking both English and Chinese. The kid, now 2 and a half, has been going to a bilingual preschool, watching Dora and Spongebob in Chinese, and listening to children’s songs in Chinese.

For a long time, it didn’t seem to be working all that well—or at least, that’s what Jean would tell me. Sasha was speaking English 90 percent of the time, and occasionally even refusing to speak Chinese. When she did say something in Mandarin, it was rarely an original sentence, just a word or phrase she’d heard once and was repeating. Sure, she understood quite a lot of Chinese, but hearing and speaking are very different skills.

The plus side of this was that my Chinese skills were better than hers, and I did often speak to her in Chinese, to tell her to sit down, or take a bite of food, or ask simple questions like, “Who farted?” (“Sasha farted,” she’d coyly answer.) At her school, the teachers and administrators found my Chinese ability amusing—even though I’m terrible at it, I’m probably better than most of the other non-Chinese dads there.

But last Friday, while we were on vacation, Sasha started telling me a story—one of those long, complicated, nonsensical tales that only other toddlers can follow—and she did it in Chinese. I soon realized that it wasn’t just her shaky narration that was the problem, it was the language. She was saying words I simply didn’t recognize, and won’t be able to unless I improve my own language abilities. Which might happen as Sasha grows up and learns more. Or it might not. But at least now I know where I stand, language-wise: I speak Chinese as well as a 2-and-a-half-year-old.

Nanny and the Ex-Wife: the showdown (or just the introduction)

My custody arrangement for JP includes the provision that his mother and I cooperate on hiring anyone who will provide care for him. His mother lives very close to her parents, which means if she needs after school help, she can get it for free. Not that I have any complaint about that, but I also have no control over it. My parents can’t provide the same service, so, for example, we’ve hired a nanny for Ellie.

Under the custody arrangement, say I wanted to step out to the store for a second while the nanny and JP are in the house. It could be considered that the nanny, in those five minutes, was providing care for JP. I would therefore have to let his mother interview, and possibly even approve, this person who I hired to look after my other child. Needless to say I don’t want this.

From the start, then, our nanny has spent no time alone with JP. This has caused some tension, I think. JP immediately understood that the nanny was not there for him–unlike most guests to the house, she wouldn’t be roped into games, or reading him books, or any of the other things he likes. He isn’t mean to the nanny, exactly, just a little cool, as a result.

A couple of weeks ago, I forgot to take money out of the bank to pay the nanny on a Friday. I had JP in the house, Tomoko wasn’t around, and the nanny needed to go pick up her own children from daycare. I decided, in the interest of speed, to leave JP in the house with her and rush to the bank for the money.

I was on the street pedaling my bike for a grand total of two minutes when my ex wife passed me in her car, going the other way. Ten minutes after that, on my home, I received a text message from her stating that if the nanny was watching JP then she would like to conduct an interview and see what she thought. I told her no (although those weren’t the words I used).

Today, though, I had a change of heart. She is going to drop JP off at my house this evening before I get home. She will, then, get to meet our nanny. My understanding is that introductions will be made, but the bodyscan (my ex carries this sort of equipment with her everywhere) will be postponed for another day.

Here’s my thinking: the nanny doesn’t take care of JP because we don’t pay her to do so. Her job, and she does it well, is to take care of Ellie. Does that mean she can’t spend five minutes alone with JP during the very short period of time when we’re all in the house together (she usually leaves when I get home)? I think not. If, by introducing them, I can short-circuit later conflict–giving the dog my ex a bone–then I can only benefit.