Freedom

By Julien Kane

The mother of a toddler stands just inside the doorway with an outstretched hand and a blue-striped diaper bag, once slung over her shoulder, now sliding down her arm towards her wrist.

She is trying to coax her little boy, dressed in jean shorts and a baseball jersey, into the coffee shop. "Come on, we'll get a treat. Do you want a cookie? Come on, come with Mommy," she says, trying to sound patient.

All she wants is to sit at a table that isn't in her kitchen, enjoy a cup of coffee that she can't set down only to rediscover an hour later -- ice cold and the color of a rubber band -- after she's dressed, played, and changed her morning away.

The child finally agrees to the invitation, shunning her hand, and running at high speed towards the other side of the room. She once again hoists the bulging bag, undoubtedly filled with twice as many toys, pacifiers, and books as she would ever need for this desperately-planned field trip. The mother calls out her son's name, anxious to discover if he's gotten in someone's way, or knocked something over. She knows where he is. She knows it all too well.

I sit with my cup of hot coffee, watching. I too know where my children are on this warm spring morning. My oldest, a boy, is in middle school, my daughter is in kindergarten. I have arrived at a place in my parenting journey where there is a little freedom, where every move does not necessarily have to be coerced or cajoled.

On a morning like this, I do not have to watch my son hide under a table, or crumble a cookie onto the floor and cry (loudly) that he wants another one. In those days, my coffee may have grown cold here, as hers probably will, or would have had to be tossed after only minutes when it became clear that it's time to leave.

It was worth a try, I would have thought -- at least he'll be tired and ready for his nap after lunch. I would have looked forward to a reasonable amount of time in the afternoon when I could catch up on laundry or read the morning paper. Maybe make another pot of coffee. Before I know it, he will awaken from his nap, his blond hair plastered to the side of his head drom the heat, his cheeks pink from sleep. He'll be smiling, wanting to play, wanting to go outside, wanting a cookie. Rejuvenated, I want to do it all with him.

I sit and think of those days as I watch this boy's small hand reach for the cookie his mother is offering. At this moment, I have the quiet that I thought I longed for. But somehow, the silence at my table seems deafening.