The apology

Yesterday at a playgroup I apologized for Charlie.

It wasn't because he was trampling one of the other children, although when he spied the musical alligator on the table he trundled heedlessly over whatever might have been in his path in his mad rush to make that reptile waaaail, daddy-O.  (Charlie is the Bradley vehicle of the under-twos, an all-terrain baby, an ATB.)  And it wasn't because he pilfered another kid's snack, because the other kid was himself busy absconding with a third child's Fig Newtons — excuse me, organic fat-free Fig Newmans; how could I get that wrong? — so no harm, no foul.  And it wasn't because he bit someone; so far the only person Charlie's bitten is me.  (Woe betide the person who gets between Charlie and his finger paints, as I learned to my sorrow last night.)  No, I apologized for Charlie because he can't walk.

I do this a lot.  It's a bad habit and I have to stop.  We'll be in a gathering of other mothers and children, and invariably some 10-month-old will be standing, walking, and practically running a goddamn steeplechase, while Charlie, more than twice her age and easily twice her size, is taking no more than a single step away from the table, then sinking gracefully to his knees.

Because this is currently my issue, I am sensitive to it — almost certainly oversensitive, I know.  I believe the other mothers are noticing, and while I don't believe they're judging me, I think they're probably curious: Why is such a big kid lagging?  So when they ask Charlie's age, which is how conversations begin among parents of small children, I don't just say 20 months.  I react as though it were more than a simple conversational gambit, as if they'd left part of the real question unasked but expect me to answer it anyway.  I apologize.  "He's 20 months," I say, "but he was born 10 weeks early, so he's a little bit behind."

It reads like an explanation, but my tone makes it an apology.  And the other mothers nod and say, "Ohhhh" sympathetically, meaning That explains it but also Wow, that's heavy.  "That's pretty early," one of them usually says aloud.  And then, because I've made them uncomfortable and they are nice, tactful women, the conversation turns.  Later, because I am reasonably self-aware but also quite hard on myself, I end up berating myself on the way home afterward: Why in the hell do you do that?

I suspect it's because I need them to think I'm a good parent.  I need them to know that I recognize what's going on and that we're taking care of it.  Rather than have them think I'm ignorant, I leave them thinking I'm deeply socially awkward.  Way to make friends, Julie!

It's a bad habit for that reason, but also because of course there's really nothing to apologize for.  Fact: Charlie was born early.  Fact: He is remarkably healthy, with very few lingering effects of his prematurity.  Fact: He is well cared-for.  Fact: He is delightful and he makes my heart sing.  Fact: He can't walk yet.  Which of those facts requires me to seek absolution from strangers?

Before the end of the playgroup yesterday, the facilitator, who's new to the group, quietly approached me and said, "I'm an early interventionist.  I was wondering if there's anything you'd like to know about our program, or any way I can help."  And while I was dying just a little inside, because all I ever wanted for my boy's babyhood was that it be unremarkable, I was happy I could tell her we were already involved.  And that's why I shouldn't apologize.

If your child has issues that others might notice, how have you handled this?  Have you felt the urge to explain, or even, like me, to apologize?  How do you overcome that?  Because overcome it I shall; I just don't know how quite yet.

Posted by Julie at 11:27:33 AM in Charles in charge, Mama drama

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The apology

Yesterday at a playgroup I apologized for Charlie.

It wasn't because he was trampling one of the other children, although when he spied the musical alligator on the table he trundled heedlessly over whatever might have been in his path in his mad rush to make that reptile waaaail, daddy-O.  (Charlie is the Bradley vehicle of the under-twos, an all-terrain baby, an ATB.)  And it wasn't because he pilfered another kid's snack, because the other kid was himself busy absconding with a third child's Fig Newtons — excuse me, organic fat-free Fig Newmans; how could I get that wrong? — so no harm, no foul.  And it wasn't because he bit someone; so far the only person Charlie's bitten is me.  (Woe betide the person who gets between Charlie and his finger paints, as I learned to my sorrow last night.)  No, I apologized for Charlie because he can't walk.

I do this a lot.  It's a bad habit and I have to stop.  We'll be in a gathering of other mothers and children, and invariably some 10-month-old will be standing, walking, and practically running a goddamn steeplechase, while Charlie, more than twice her age and easily twice her size, is taking no more than a single step away from the table, then sinking gracefully to his knees.

Because this is currently my issue, I am sensitive to it — almost certainly oversensitive, I know.  I believe the other mothers are noticing, and while I don't believe they're judging me, I think they're probably curious: Why is such a big kid lagging?  So when they ask Charlie's age, which is how conversations begin among parents of small children, I don't just say 20 months.  I react as though it were more than a simple conversational gambit, as if they'd left part of the real question unasked but expect me to answer it anyway.  I apologize.  "He's 20 months," I say, "but he was born 10 weeks early, so he's a little bit behind."

It reads like an explanation, but my tone makes it an apology.  And the other mothers nod and say, "Ohhhh" sympathetically, meaning That explains it but also Wow, that's heavy.  "That's pretty early," one of them usually says aloud.  And then, because I've made them uncomfortable and they are nice, tactful women, the conversation turns.  Later, because I am reasonably self-aware but also quite hard on myself, I end up berating myself on the way home afterward: Why in the hell do you do that?

I suspect it's because I need them to think I'm a good parent.  I need them to know that I recognize what's going on and that we're taking care of it.  Rather than have them think I'm ignorant, I leave them thinking I'm deeply socially awkward.  Way to make friends, Julie!

It's a bad habit for that reason, but also because of course there's really nothing to apologize for.  Fact: Charlie was born early.  Fact: He is remarkably healthy, with very few lingering effects of his prematurity.  Fact: He is well cared-for.  Fact: He is delightful and he makes my heart sing.  Fact: He can't walk yet.  Which of those facts requires me to seek absolution from strangers?

Before the end of the playgroup yesterday, the facilitator, who's new to the group, quietly approached me and said, "I'm an early interventionist.  I was wondering if there's anything you'd like to know about our program, or any way I can help."  And while I was dying just a little inside, because all I ever wanted for my boy's babyhood was that it be unremarkable, I was happy I could tell her we were already involved.  And that's why I shouldn't apologize.

If your child has issues that others might notice, how have you handled this?  Have you felt the urge to explain, or even, like me, to apologize?  How do you overcome that?  Because overcome it I shall; I just don't know how quite yet.