Mr. Mom

So yesterday was L's first full day back at work, which meant that it was also my first full day as a child care provider - which meant, in turn, that I now had yet another thing in common with a character played by Michael Keaton (see also: Bruce Wayne's wolfish smile and the deep impact of the 1986 World Series on Nicky Rogan). I was home alone with the little one.

And that was, for the most part, pretty darned nice. On a wonderfully autumnal day, I took Cleo for a walk; we bought a loaf of bread, and peered down at the river. Like a Parisian romance, no? But then there were other pleasures, too: Cleo smiling and wiggling in the bath, and snoring for a good half hour while snoozing like an overfed pasha in my lap in the afternoon. And the potential problems largely failed to materialize; she ate well from the bottle, rode in relative peace when we went to pick up L. at the end of her work day, and she wrote no scathing remarks in a diary, as far as I could tell, about the fact that we dressed her in a silly fuzzy outfit covered with castles.

Sounds easy enough, yes? But even a relatively straightforward day with the baby, it turns out, can be pretty tiring. That's not news to, say, the thousands of single mothers in Brazil who read this blog on a daily basis (Ola, malta! Muito obrigado...), but it did surprise me. I mean, how hard can it be to change a few diapers, twirl the mobile, and jabber away while trying to prepare lunch with one hand?

Well, here's how hard: in a fun little essay on DoubleX, Katie Roiph, the mother of a 6-week-old, noted that "The other day it emerged that I lack the intellectual wherewithal to set a table: It was just a little too challenging to hold the number of people at dinner in my head on the walk from the kitchen to the deck." Surely that's hyperbole, I thought. But then I was the one, at about 2 p.m., taking a big swig of what I thought was water, but was actually the baking powder solution that I'd used to clean Cleo's neck rash. Mmmm good.

But, still, the day rolls by (In fact, as Roiph points out, it rolls by in its own way: one lives like a farmer, attuned to larger patterns, rather than to conventional increments of time. The sun turns; the diapers need changing). And so, at about 6, with L. home after a day at work, it was time for me to earn my keep, and to teach a 3-hour class on art criticism. That's fine; I love the subject, and a packed room of students always comes with a built-in energy that can sustain one. I hadn't reckoned, however, on how odd the transition to the classroom would be. While leading a discussion on description, I was wondering, at the same time, if Cleo was asleep. And ideas that I'd found really engaging in the abstract several months ago (should art critics actively avoid any friendships with artists whom they review? a.k.a the Dore Ashton rule) now felt, well, merely abstract. Such ideas, you know, don't sleep on your lap.

So here's the main idea: in becoming a parent, one obviously changes, and takes on a new role. That's clear to me every time an unfamiliar woman in the grocery store approaches to comment on Cleo's socks. But its full meaning only occurred to me last night: the role of parenthood alters ones other roles, as well. I was one type of teacher before; now, somehow, I'm another - and I don't simply mean a tired and easily distracted one. Rather, one's basic center of gravity, as a person, is altered. And so is one's balance, as a result. It takes time, clearly, to relearn the steps that used to be easy. But it took time to learn to take steps for the first time, as well.