Free Stepping by Nancy Thayer

worth some yearning soul’s while to buy seventeen bottles of real vanilla and drink it all right down. I had been standing in my tiny gray kitchen, thinking about vanilla and how I might easily start swigging it myself if I had it, given all this constant rain and gloom. Then the phone rang, and it was Stephen, and I sat at the table thinking, and now it’s time to get Adam and Lucy and feed them lunch.
    Perhaps parents wealthy enough to have nannies are able to get respect from their children. Perhaps even at four the children of the rich know enough to walk in politely when invited, curtsy and count to ten in French, then sit quietly and adoringly, knowingthat otherwise they wouldn’t get to see their parents at all. Perhaps the mother need say only, “The child whined, Nanny, take him away,” and the child would never, ever, whine again in his mother’s presence.
    But we’re not wealthy. I’ve got the Park Auntie on good mornings, but only until eleven-thirty. Then my children are mine again. It always makes my heart leap to see them, and I’d throw myself in front of a truck or moving train to save their lives, but I wish like crazy they’d respect me a bit more. They’re giving me an identity crisis.
    They don’t say, “Oh, look, here comes our darling mommy, who is so clever. She could be teaching at a university or writing a critical paper for a national literary review, but instead she’s here, full of smiles, to take care of us. Hi, there, you good ol’ mom!”
    No, they say, “You didn’t put Vaseline on my lips this morning and now they’re all chapped,” and, “I did poo-poo in my diaper; take it off, take it off NOW!” Or else they cry all the way home because on this early October morning I have dressed them in only an undershirt and turtleneck shirt and sweatshirt and underpants and woolen tights and rain pants and overcoat with hood and rubber boots and mittens and they were cold. The Park Auntie scolds me through a reluctant Finnish mother interpreter, tells me I must put three pairs of woolen socks on my daughter’s feet. My children do not say, “That’s okay, Mommy, you’ve got more important things to think about.” They snivel and whine all the way home. They judge me only by their comforts.
    Of course, they do not respect their father any more than they do me, which sometimes irritates me and sometimes makes me glad. If anything, they respect me more—no, not respect, they simply choose me more. My husband’s professional vita is over fifty pages long; mine is a page and a half. I suppose I could lengthen it by adding:
Diapers changed
14,600, 1973–1977
Boo-boos kissed
1,700, 1974–1977
Shoelaces tied
6,923, 1974–1977
Noses blown and wiped    
1,784, 1973–1977 *
    The funny thing is that Charlie actually feels offended and rejected when Lucy or Adam cries, “NO! I want Mommy to wipe my bum!” Some jobs, such as boo-boo kissing,are more rewarding than others, and I’m glad the children choose me. But I know their choice of me does not indicate respect. It’s simply a matter of habit. I am beginning to come to terms with the fact that my children will probably never know me , at least not for a long, long time. It’s in the nature of the beast. We all want someone there to take care of us all the time, and when we’re little we have to have it to survive, and we get it. There must have been days when Jesus cried, “Mommy, kiss my boo-boo!” and when Mary answered, “Okay, sweetie, come here and let me kiss it. And don’t play with the hammer anymore, okay? You’re giving me a headache.” And if God had bellowed, “ I’LL KISS YOUR BOO-BOO!,” Jesus would have whined, “No. Let Mommy do it.”
    I know all that now. I see it happen every day, I see Adam and Lucy treat Charlie in ways a man of his reputation shouldn’t have to stand, and feel them treat me in ways that make me want to scream. (Why does it drive them crazy, for example, when I go into the