Amicitia

A few months ago, Dad recalled hearing a traditional definition of a new parent: " A new parent is someone who can sleep anywhere, at any time, for any length of time."

Well, how does a parked car on the north side of Colorado Avenue, at about 1:25 p.m., sound? Good enough, yesterday, for both me and Cleo; after visiting with L. during her lunch hour, we both passed out in the Prius - Cleo for a good 40 minutes, and I for a pleasant 25, which ended when I awoke to the rhythm of her tiny snores and to the voices of construction workers in a nearby lawn.

Is a joint snooze in a car bad parenting? Probably, probably - but I take solace in Tim Hilton's observation, in "In Tandem," that "Nobody can be an interesting parent all the time." I try to offer, when I'm watching Cleo, a relatively diverse course of activities. But sometimes, dammit, you just need to sleep. Especially after the clocks are rolled back, and your unaware baby is suddenly rising at 5 in the dark morning, rather than 6.

But here's what struck me about the nap afterwards. I've found myself in similar circumstances - that is, coming to in a car, groggy and unalone - only a few times in my life: with an old college friend near Urbino, in 1993, for example, or with my brother, in an Oregon parking lot, in 1998. In each case, it's been with someone I've known for years, and the rather squalid aspect of trying to grab some Zs with legs scrunched under the dashboard has thus been offset by the sense that all is forgiven, from the start. No, it's not luxury; but friendships don't always demand luxury.

Could I call Cleo, then, a friend? She had no say in the situation, of course - but at the same time she certainly seemed content, as she sawed twigs in the back of the car. And while all parents want the best for their children, sometimes, maybe, the best is simply answering what's needed with what's at hand. That's what friends do, after all, as a matter of course. Even as they iron the kinks out of their necks.