Every so often, my daughter breaks into tears about leaving her dogs behind. It’s only been ten months since our family fell apart, and some of the wounds are still fresher than I’d like to admit. Quite often her sadness will start out as something else, like getting mad at me. One evening, about 5 o’clock, Coco starting talking tursely with the nanny and her brother and me. Then, she began assaulting our dining chair. Hmmmmm…I thought. I bet this is not about the chair. When we sat down to eat, IT all came out. Whenever that “all-encompassing” job description is written for mothers, it must include - emotional sponge. I can see it now on my resume:

October 2000 - present: Emotional Sponge. From the birth of my daughter until present, I have grown large pours in my soul to absorb, process, and assimilate every feeling felt by every household member, which includes nannies, husbands and ex-husbands, and other children I occasionally care for.

Because mothers are there - even if they’re working moms - when we’re on the job at home or away (ever witness the flood of phone calls mothers get at work?) - all tears, anger, fright, fear, disappointment, confusion, joy, and boredom (the list is too long to name here) are directed towards the mother figure.

You seem a little angry Coco. Did something happen at school? I asked her. She squished up her face as though she’d just looked into the sun. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

Mommy, I miss Buddha! Why can’t we have Buddha?

The tears opened wide. There’s not much I could say. And every time this happens, I’ve learned it’s better to not act directly on the subject and start looking for Golden Retrievers in the Want Ads. Thus, I become a spong. I listen without trying to judge; without getting angry myself because I’d rather be eating in peace. She went on and on about how she missed her pets. When the tears ebbed, I saw a chance to steer the conversation over the hump. I made her laugh about something, and she used her skirt to dry some of those tears.

One time, I opened my mouth during one of those “sponge” moments. A moment I’m paying for to this day. When my daughter was in the midst of a tantrum at two years old, I opened my mouth and agreed to take home the stray guinea pig cradled in the vet’s hand. There’s no doubt cavies are cute (the more scientific term for us piggy owners), but all these creatures, from dog on down, poop. If it wasn’t for the pooping, I’d be thrilled with the little critters. But since they deposit their minerals in every corner of the house, they don’t come out of their cage often. But this night, I agreed to a “running of the guinea pigs” to help ease this pain about her dogs.

Addison was of course thrilled. He scooted around trying to catch them. He started out petting the animals, but after awhile got a little too excited and began picking them up by their hairs. When they got tired, we snuggled them up into a towel. Guinea pigs can live from 3 to seven years. Of course mine will most likely live until their thirty. It’s quite a price to pay for being a sponge and not knowing when to keep my mouth shut. So, I clean the cages and feed them a few times a day….wait a minute…did they get fed this morning??….sorry, I’ve got to run!

Amidst even quite times, there’s always something there to remind me of how quickly brightness can turn a little dark. I promised an evening out with the kids. My daughter was giddy with joy. Addison only knew he was going to get in the car - one of his most favorite things in the world. After packing up our gear and managing not to get too wet as we loaded and unloaded our group into the shopping center, we walked around and even had the delight of meeting some good friends.

Coco’s “buy-me-something” mode was subdued, and she was thrilled with a notebook she got to pick out. We walked past bored vendors hanging around outside their store as business was slow. All the female clerks know Addison since he comes to this mall about two or three times a week to play on the dinosaur park play set. He flirted with all the women and blew them kisses. He has a way of driving women wild. Our meal was acceptable and no one spilled much of anything.

We bought a few other things and head for home at the late hour of 6:30 p.m. My garage is skinny and getting in and out takes a lot of traffic management in order to open doors and unload children from the back of a two-seater car. Addison is learning to get out of his car seat and walk over to me so I can lift him out. He stood at the door and played peek-a-boo with the nanny and Coco as they stood in single file down the slender slip of space between the car and the wall. I picked up Addison and pressed my back against the wall to shut the door. I looked down and saw Addison’s foot caught in the door.

Emergency management with children requires the ability to subdue panic and proceed with intelligence, speed, clarity, and calmness. Easy? No. I don’t know why I have this particular talent - it’s not really one I can put on my resume.

Hobbies and talents:

In case of office emergencies - ranging from paper cuts to falls on slippery ceramic to heart attacks - I can attend to the sick and the injured with a the expedience of a paramedic and just the right mix of a mom.

But this I can do. I’ve tended to dying dogs, sprained backs, raging fevers, and major surgeries. For some reason, I just don’t panic. I’m sure the trait comes from my mother. She grew up on a farm where life shows it’s cycles without sparing us our feelings. And she’s lived through a lot with that same matter-of-fact temporment. I knew, without looking, that Addison’s foot was caught in door. When the language caught up to my tongue I yelled:

His foot’s in the door!

Before I finished speaking, I had the door open. Our giddy moment was over as he screamed in pain.

Addison’s legs hang from his body when he’s held. He often goes without shoes. If he had had them on, I’d have never been able to shut the door on it. I carried Addison to a chair, and I held him as he cried that distinct cry of: Man this really hurts! A cry that is much different than: I’m tired. Or, I’m mad. The good thing about Addison’s softer muscle tissue is that his foot bent with the car door like a Cabbage Patch Doll’s would. I could tell the door hadn’t caught that big bone across the top of the foot. He’d be left with a bruise, but no bones were broken.

In just thirty minutes, Addison was laughing and playing with his sister. He downed some coconut water while listening to his favorite High Five song. As the nanny and I marveled at his recovery, he knew we were talking about his feet. He pointed them, in harmony as if to say: Yup. I’m just fine. And with that the darkness turned light again.