Nibbles

Imagine life as a two or three year old. Your world view is eye level with table tops and adult knees. No one explains the rules until you make a mistake and then they expect you to remember it the next time. Your fingers drop spoons, spill juice and can't pull on a sock. When you speak, no one understands except your parents and even they often miss the point. Asking for a cookie can become downright aggravating. You ‘toddle’ when you walk on unsteady legs making skinned knees a daily occurrence. On top of that, you have to remember to say ‘potty’ about ten times a day or you wet your pants. Here's a true story of that challenging time for both of us.

Nibbles

Four flights up to this tot lot program at Hull House Center is impossible, I think as I hoist my nearly two year old son Matt onto my left hip and begin the climb. Today is a glum, gray freezing day.  A friend suggested this place as a great rainy day alternative to the park.  In three months, Matt will be a big brother and I envision us prisoners held captive by this new baby.  Today feels like one of our last days as a twosome. 

I catch my breath on the first landing and shift Matt to my other hip. I could be home with a second cup of coffee, I think as I untie Matt’s scarf and loosen the hood of his red snowsuit.  His tangled hair is matted flat to the scalp, neck damp, cheeks rusty.  He struggles against me as I climb higher.  On the second landing, I put him down and lean against the railing.

“C’mon, Matt.  You’re going to love it.  Lots of toys and children to play with.” 

        

Matt looks up at me for an instant, then down at his feet and focuses on the step ahead.  On the third landing we are both panting and sweating.  I take off Matt’s scarf, snowsuit and boots, wrapping them into a bundle.  The stairwell is narrow, the air thin, and I cannot think of a more inconvenient place or way to support mothers, young children and babies.

        

“Only one more flight, sweetie.  Mommy can’t carry you now, but you can make it.” 

        

I wrap my scarf around the package tucked under my right arm.  Matt’s hand feels like a huge marshmallow in mine.  We pull each other up the last flight and open the double doors to what was once the ballroom of a north side mansion.  The dented and scratched parquet floor is all that remains of an earlier elegance.  The walls have been painted an off white as have the pillars and chipped filigree carved ceiling.  I try to imagine sun flashing through the huge windows. 

A dozen children are sprinkled among tricycles, blocks, puzzles, slides and games.  Echoes and booms surround us. Three women lean against the wall, chatting.  A fourth kneels down to wipe a runny nose, then stares out a frosty streaked window.  A semi-circle of folding chairs is perched at the side of the room.  Two young girls in blue jeans, sweatshirts and braids seated at one end of the otherwise empty chairs whisper and laugh, their backs turned to the room.   Piles of boots sit in puddles.  Coats and jackets are scattered on chairs and piled on craft tables.

        

“Isn’t this great?” I say.

Matt looks at me, twists his mouth up at the corner and trots off into the confusion.  I search for a familiar face as I drop to a chair, pile our coats next to me and take a wheezy breath, but no one I know is here.  So this is it, I think.  Should have brought a book, I wish.  Is there a water fountain somewhere, I wonder? And from deep within the murmurs, rumblings, shrieks and calls, I hear the scream of fear and pain reserved for tigers and lions.  Six mothers leap forward en masse and see a child extend his arm, wail and sob. Behind him, I see Matt steady the handle of a Big Wheel Bike. With one leg poised over the seat, Matt glances back at the chaos behind him.  Now the three-year-old is screaming, pointing at Matt, sobbing.

        

I feel the blood rush to my head and a sharp jolt hit my stomach as I bolt forward.  My boots leave tiny puddles and my pants have slipped over my belly.  I cannot look at the faces of the women rubbing the back and kissing the wound of the ‘good’ child.  Instead, I focus on his hand.  A dental impression of twelve small teeth is clearly visible on his hand and between the circle, blue flesh has already risen a full inch.  I feel my stomach lurch.

        

“I’m so sorry.  That’s horrible.  It’ll be okay I think.”  No blood, thank god.  I whisk Matt off the bike and tuck him under my left arm.

“How could you bite that child?  You are a bad boy.  You hurt him.  Did you hear him scream?  That was a bad thing to do.  We are never coming back here, do you hear?” 

Someone says, “Good!”  I don’t look back to find out who it is.  In two strides I have our coats and boots under my right arm and am out the door.  I do not stop on the

landings to breathe.  Matt hangs like a dishrag while I rail at him from the fourth to the first floor.

        

“Biting is bad.  You can bite food – bite a toy – but not a person, not a little boy.  Ask when you want something.  NO BITE!”

I stuff Matt back into his snowsuit roughly, tie the scarf too tight, slam his feet into his boots and grab one mittened hand.  We march to the car.  I am moving fast and Matt’s feet alternately stumble and fly.  Within minutes Matt is strapped to his seat, silently watching me.  As I ease myself behind the steering wheel, I turn to give Matt one more `bad boy’ chide and am caught by his eyes, reminding me that the rules are complicated and I am the teacher.

Matt, in his toddler heyday, 1969