Doing it right

Somehow Eli learned the song about the days of the week. This one:

He likes to sing it at the top of his lungs as we stroll to school in the mornings. Except he invariably skips Thursday.

"Sunday Monday, Tuesday Wednesday, Friday Saturday!" he'll shout. Then he'll turn around to ask me: "Did I do it right?"

"Buddy, you skipped Thursday," I'll say. So he'll try again: "Sunday Monday, Thursday Wednesday, Friday Saturday! Did I do it right?"

"That time you said Thursday instead of Tuesday and then you still left out Thursday."

...you get the idea.

I love this routine with him. Not just because it's cute, but because it's easy. "Did I do it right?" is a simple question to answer when we're talking about the days of the week. Eli knows it, too, which is why he enjoys asking me like we're both in on the joke. "Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Friday Saturday! Did I do it right?"

If only Eli knew how many times I ask myself that same question, without being at all certain of the answer. After every meltdown, every negotiation, every outing that goes awry, I wish there was someone I could turn to and ask, "Did I do it right?"

This spring, Eli was spending the day with my good friend when she called to tell me that he had hit his head and it wouldn't stop bleeding. I didn't panic, but what I did was worse: I froze. Should she take him to our pediatrician? Or to pediatric urgent care? Would they see him if he wasn't accompanied by a parent? What about insurance? Should she wait until I got home? But what good was I going to be?

Was I doing it right? And who was going to tell me if I wasn't?

Sometimes it feels like I'm making dozens of decisions in a day. Should I let him eat this granola bar before school? Will he ever let me leave the room if I lay here in his bed for an extra five minutes? Am I ruining his teeth if I don't take away his pacifier? Am I ruining his hygiene habits if I let him watch Peppa Pig while brushing his teeth? Actually, isn't it time we started brushing teeth in the morning too? Why am I so concerned about his teeth when they're all going to fall out anyway?

Am I doing it right?

Phil would say these worries are good problems. After all, even the idea of being able to worry about whether or not I'm doing it right is a luxury. My kid always has enough to eat (even if he chooses not to eat it, or only eats the cheese and pasta out of it, or demands dessert to go along with it) and appropriate clothes to wear (even if he refuses to put them on, or take them off, or insists that he can't possibly pull them up himself).

But when Eli was a baby, somehow my concerns seemed more urgent, more immediate. Will he get sick if I give him this formula that's been sitting out for more than three hours? Do I need to call the doctor for this fever? What in the name of all that is good am I going to do if he does not take a nap?! I didn't worry about damaging his psyche because, well, he didn't really have much of a psyche, just more of a burning desire to eat every three hours and never, ever go to sleep.

But now that we've survived infancy, I don't worry so much about his health or his nap schedule as much as the kind of person he'll turn out to be. If I refuse to give in to his stalling at bedtime, does he learn that I've set limits, or does he learn that I'm inflexible even when he needs me? If I let him hang on to that pacifier forever, am I respecting his autonomy or just babying him? What decisions can I make that will help him become kind, curious, responsible? Am I doing it right?

Last night I was lying in bed with Eli when he whispered that he had a secret to tell me "at the very end." After I sang him his nighttime song, he snuggled in close to me. "I'll tell you the secret after you smile," he said, and I obliged. He reached up and adjusted his pacifier, his breath warm against my neck. "The secret is..."

I expected the secret to be "I love you," and I would have loved it. But what I got was even better. "The secret is: You're the mommy," he whispered breathily.

I laughed. "I'm the mommy? That's the secret?" I said. Then I had a sobering thought: I'm the mommy. I'm the mommy!

That's not a secret, but it is a gift. I am the mommy. I don't know if I'm doing it right. But I am doing it.

This morning, I took Eli for a run, which is my favorite thing to do with him in the morning before school. I tucked him into his jogging stroller with his fleece whale blanket and fortified him with a Trader Joe's granola bar — his new favorite treat. It seemed like it might be drizzly, so instead of our normal route we ran over to Burns Street to see the "spooky houses" decorated for Halloween. We ooohed at the ghosts and spiders and pumpkins and then we flew through the darkness back across Queens Boulevard. When we got home Eli jumped out of his stroller and hugged me tightly around the legs.

"I really love you," he said, sounding mildly surprised to be admitting it. Another secret. Another gift. And I didn't have to ask if I was doing it right.