The Soapy Fork Chronicles

This morning, as I stuffed a long-handled bristle brush down a metal straw I was washing for my eight-year old’s summer day camp cup, I had a flashback to the time I was asked to watch a friend’s kids while she worked a restaurant shift. Somehow, after twenty-ish years, I still remember these kids names. Kids I met, maybe twice?

Isabella and Lucas. 

I didn’t spend much time around kids in my teens or twenties. My friend, a self-proclaimed spiritual guru type, thought it would be “good for me” to spend time with her kids. Like watching her kids for free was a spiritual favor from her to me. It was kind of funny, like the spiritual and otherwise aspirant men who occasionally bought her cars and jewelry. But..I was curious, so I did it anyway. Maybe it would be good for me. 

This morning, as I pushed the pointy brush through the metal straw, my mind drifted to a well replayed memory. While I was babysitting, Isabella had gone to grab a fork from the sink to eat dinner with. So preoccupied was I by the thought it may be a dirty fork, I quickly took it from her and scrubbed it with a soapy sponge. Heaven forbid a child be exposed to germs on my watch. Satisfied with my mature oversight, I handed the fork back to her. She grimaced as she took her first bite. “It tastes like soap!” she cried.

How foolish I felt…maybe eating soap is more harmful than using a potentially dirty fork. I suddenly realized how little I knew about taking care of other people at that moment and felt strangely inept, yet accepting of who I was…and wasn’t. 

For some reason, I think of this moment in time on a somewhat regular basis. It’s a memory that replays during idle moments- usually while washing dishes. My brain must have stored it as some kind of formative experience. I’m sure it has played into my parenting through my thirties and now early forties. Balancing germ-a-phobia and an, at times, helicopter-mom-level desire to protect my kids from every possible danger with… “Just let me LIVE, Mom!” - a request I’ve heard more than a few times from my twelve-year old this summer. 

Another significant piece of this memory is that my friend was divorced and her kids were with her for the summer. That is why she needed help with them while she worked. Normally, Isabella and Lucas lived with their father in a different state. 

Do you know what? I secretly judged that, all the while realizing how un-spiritual it was of me to do so. I didn’t want to judge her situation, but I couldn’t help it. She must have done something wrong or be selfish or deficient in some way, I thought. How could a mother not have her kids with her?

I came by my ignorance as an early-twenty-something honestly. I knew next to nothing about marriage, divorce, child custody laws, court proceedings, parenting, or adulting in general.

So, it’s a tad ironic that I have come to learn firsthand of the many nuances and hurdles involved in shared parenting arrangements. Judge lest ye be judged, indeed. 

I didn’t know what I didn’t know. 

I didn’t know that I would one day have kids. 

I didn’t know that I would find myself in a situation where my firstborn would very early in her life become an every-other-weekend, holidays, and summer kid for me, despite me wanting all the time in the world with her. 

Adulthood has taught me a few things well.

There are many other factors at play than “want.”

Sometimes loving means letting go.

And to rinse soapy dishes thoroughly before handing them to children.