Mother's Day in the Neighborhood

One of the things we excitedly told people about the house we bought on our three-day househunting trip to Asheville last summer was how many children lived on the block. "The Boy will have kids to play with!" we enthused, no doubt steeped in sun-flecked memories of our own childhoods running wild on the streets in the days when parents didn't worry about things like pedophiles and bike helmets.

There are more than a few moments when, however, my enthusiasm for living on a street with lots of kids freaks me out.

Who is this woman who sees it as a plus that small children can be heard calling to each other in the early evening hours of a spring night? Can it be me ooh-ing over a little girl's tutu and aah-ing over a little boy's Speed Racer promo car from "Mickey Donald's"? And do I really want to be here in ten or twelve years when they become teenagers driving cars?

Oh yeah. One of those teenagers will be mine. Which quite changes everything. And, yes, makes me like living on this block and talking to four-year-olds about the cookies they ate in school today.

I began to truly appreciate the world of which I am now a part on Mother's Day.

Normally, I'd think Mother's Day was all about me since I am, you know, the mother. But that morning I didn't much feel like being the center of attention. Call it the crappy weather. Call it the reminder that I will be getting up at 6:30 on Sunday mornings for a long, long time to come. Or, if you will, attempt to psychoanalyze what my problem is with being the one getting the special treatment for a day. The thing is, I just wasn't feeling too excited about going out for a big celebration in Asheville. It was cold and rainy and I have been dreaming of the beach lately, either because the weather is turning warm or because it is disappointing me in a deep, personal way by repeatedly turning cold again.

The Boy wasn't being much of a Mother's Day gift either. Cute as ever, of course, but with a runny nose that occasionally slid into bouts of inconsolable crying over some shortcoming of mine like giving him the wrong spoon after plopping some yogurt in his bowl at breakfast. Then again, maybe I was the one not being much of a Mother's Day gift. At any rate, he was ready for an early nap and I was ready to watch a movie with Hubby, who wisely drew the blinds just in case the sun came out and I lost the ability to watch a movie in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.

I was, to be honest, more than a little distracted when, sure enough, half an hour into the movie I noticed a sliver of bright light at the bottom of one of the blinds. I tried to ignore it, but my toes started to twitch in tribute to my own mother who, could she see me, would surely give me a "What are you doing inside on a beautiful day?" for old times sake. I was almost glad when, far earlier than we'd expected, we heard The Boy's cries of indignation at awakening to find himself -- offense of offenses -- in his crib.

It was still well within the range of respectable lunch times, the sun was shining, and I somehow managed to come up with a restaurant I wanted to go to for lunch. So off we headed.

We walked in the door to find one of The Boy's friends from school having lunch with his parents. In fact, I had had a nice chat with his mother a couple days earlier, when I craftily volunteered to devote my "Mitzvah Hours" to sitting with a bunch of napping toddlers while their teachers headed off for a Teacher Appreciation lunch. "Mitzvah Hours" is a euphemism for mandatory volunteer work at The Boy's school. "Is it a mitzvah if someone makes you do it?" Hubby asked me. I waved away the question as one that would only make me resent the obligation more.

But, as it turned out, the whole volunteer thing was great. We volunteer moms sat and chatted for an hour an a half, and I came away feeling like maybe, ahead in the distance, I might be headed toward the faint sounds of a social life.

Here, on Mother's Day, at the Sunnyside Cafe, was my proof that I was. Cool family, cool restaurant. Made me feel kind of cool myself, despite my joy at living on a block full of little kids and their detritus. At this point, Asheville, for all the pros and cons of a small town, was feeling like a good place to celebrate Mother's Day.

But great as it was to watch The Boy and his school friend kick their legs with the joy of recognizing each other, the moment when it hit me that not only am I a mother, but I have a SON came later, at home.

The sun had firmly established itself by then, so we headed out to the front yard to blow the bubbles that so fascinate The Boy. "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" he yells when he spots them spinning along the length of the front porch. He even blew one of his own that day, the pleasure of which I decided far outweighed the danger from all the soap he swallowed the many, many times he put the wand in his mouth instead of blowing on it.

Then our neighbors came out to work on their yard, and their four-year-old boy, Matthew, headed over to our fence.

Matthew had shown remarkable interest in The Boy once before, when we and his parents bumped into each other at the park around the corner. At the time, I had chocked up a four-year-old's tolerance for a sixteen-month-old to boredom and the possibilities offered by a sandbox. After all, a four-year-old can't possibly fathom why it is that a sixteen-month-old has so little to say, nor why he is still kind of wobbly on his feet. Although I doubt he minds when his young friend eats sand.

But, as a four-year-old will do, Matthew saw nothing the least bit unusual about being friends with his little neighbor. The world at that age has the wonderful in-the-moment quality that renders such things as playing with a sixteen-month-old much less of a big deal than the fact that you can steer the Speed Racer car.

When Matthew was distracted from demonstrating this feature, as four-year-olds frequently are, The Boy picked up the yellow Speed Racer car from the sidewalk and examined it intently. Hmm. Big boys play with these. Must be good stuff.

Matthew returned looking for his car. "The Boy has it," I informed him. I turned to my son. "Can you give Matthew his car back?" I asked without much hope for success.

But he did. My boy walked to Matthew, hand outstretched, and handed him his Speed Racer car, and suddenly Mother's Day meant something new. No longer was being a mother just about thrilling with every newly discovered word and eating breakfast in my pj's because my son insists on eating his sloppily in my lap. It wasn't solely about my relationship with my little boy. It was about my little boy being just that -- a boy walking after his friend as they explored the yard next door.

"Sit on your bottom!" I called as Matthew and The Boy approached some steps. Matthew looked up at me like someone who knows to listen to a mother, and, after a moment The Boy did as I suggested. But for a few seconds before he did, he was poised at the top of the stairs with Matthew holding his hand as if to help him down.

And in that perfect tableau I saw that one of the joys of being a mother is watching your child learn to navigate the world, not with you, but with a friend.