Compromises

Really, if you asked me to count up the truly trying aspects of fatherhood thus far, I don't think I'd be able to - and I think L. would agree, in relation to motherhood - offer a response capable of generating much sympathy. Sure, there was the Era of Inconsolable Crying, during Cleo's very first month - but she was so small, and so docile, and so clearly cared for, that even her loudest wails were hardly heart-rending. In the same vein, her frequent cries and sudden needs, in the middle of her first hundred nights, were sometimes disorienting and sometimes exhausting, but they were also par for the course. And while one might add, I suppose, momentary difficulties - the ongoing attempt, on a flight to Los Angeles, to grab the hair of a stranger in the seat in front of us; the silent screams, pregnant with accusations of betrayal, at the doctor's office after a tiny shot - but they've always been only momentary, and hardly insurmountable. Cleo's been, on the whole, an easy kid.

Which is why we're a bit flummoxed at the moment. Now four days into the Experiment with Foreign Daycare, we don't seem to be making any strides. The first morning was more or less what we expected: initial curiosity, and a sudden, tearful breakdown when we told her that we were leaving. Since then, though, we've lost the element of surprise, and the crying is now also anticipatory. She still shows signs of that incredible toddler gameness: she wanders out to the car, climbs in, and sits in her car seat long before we're even ready. But that only heightens the effect of her subsequent request: Daddy Cleo play school? Well, sure, sweetie, I can stay for a few minutes. But then I need to go to work. And that's when her eyes become wet.

Work, you ask? Really? And you're right: in fact, I don't really have to work here; that's L. who's on the job (and currently in Johannesburg, shepherding her group of JHU students on various tours of the city and nearby parks). That said, it's not as though I'm completely aimless; I have a fat Arabic textbook that I'd hoped to master while abroad, and I've got a conference abstract to write by the time we return. And so, as so often in the lives of working parents, it's a question of balancing what I see as my needs against her needs.

Needless to say, attempting such a balancing act is inevitably a losing proposition. Do you give her an hour of company for every one that you give yourself? Or double that ratio? Do you tell yourself that she's fine, and simply try not to worry about it? (One look at the townships can quickly reassure you: her daycare is the lap of luxury by the standards of the urban poor). Or do you simply jettison your own plans, and pledge to spend as much time as possible with her?

The problem is that there's no right answer - especially in response to a crying, upset child. And so you resort to other strategies that can never satisfy you or her, but that must be timeless steps in the dance of parenthood. You tell her, truthfully, that you'll take her to a farm after you pick her up from school - even as you wince at the quiet insinuation that school is to be endured, rather than enjoyed. You ask, meaningfully, if she's made any friends at school - only to find that the mention of the word school elicits a sad sniffle. You think about buying her ridiculous, lavish gifts - but realize that such a tact quickly begets even greater problems. And, of course, you cry after you leave her, and then you wind up blogging about that cry.

What's best? I don't know. But this morning felt like a reasonable, and possible tenable solution: I simply gave myself over to Arabic, as fully as I can. Drills, charts, DVDs, translation, exercises: for three hours, I worked and worked, through five cups of tea and coffee. Kalimat, kalimat, wa kalimat. And then I walked to the library, and to a nearby children's play complex, to scout out possible sites for the future hours that I will get to spend with Cleo.

None of it keeps me from crying, when I think about her. And I'm sure it hasn't prevented any tears on her end, either. But such an approach reminds me, at least, that she's hardly alone. For don't we all have to muster, regularly, courage and energy in approaching our lives? At school, in the library; in Baltimore, in Cape Town: we feel left alone, and then, eventually, we realize that we're no such thing.