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Last Tuesday, our nation elected its first African-American president. Django & I spent our election night banded together with a few other like-minded families. When eyes weren’t glued to toddlers they were glued to the television, watching nervously as the map of states got colored in, a red one here, two blue there. When the media finally called the race for Barack Obama, we all whooped and cheered. We clinked glasses of champagne and went home feeling hopeful. And, largely, I still do.
I’m incredibly lucky. I get to show Django these photos and tell him the story of how he was kissed by a man who went on to make history. Who knows, I may even be able to get my hands on some footage from our roundtable meeting back in January. With or without the extra visual aid, though, Django will know that his mama was there to speak for all low-income, single mamas. He will know I told President-Elect Obama that I honestly didn’t know how we would continue to make financial ends meet. And, largely, I still don’t. But that’s not why I sat in the dark of the parked car on election night, listening to Obama’s victory speech on the radio, crying quietly at the wheel while Django slept peacefully behind me.
I cried because Obama’s words were moving and because the moment was so momentous. But I also cried because I don’t know how to explain to Django why it took this long to put a person of color in the White House, or how much longer it might take before there will be a woman there, or a gay for heaven’s sake. I don’t know how to explain why so many voters in California want to keep his Uncle Jon from marrying the man he loves, or why so many also keep trying to take away the right of newly pregnant women – especially young ones – to decide when (or if) they are actually ready to take on the enormous responsibility of raising a child. In short, I don’t know how to teach Django to believe in American democracy, even – perhaps especially – when as far as it comes it still comes up short.
My friend Charly is a lovely guy with a family of his own
Yet for the sake of me & mine he worked his fingers to the bone
He came; he saw; he measured (twice) and reassured me it’d be ok
He chose the wood, cut it well, beveled and sanded all day
He brought it back, drilled and pounded, and even though it made him late
He stayed the extra hours it took to figure out how to install the gate
Bubba Mike helped with extra hands, priming and painting, too
Without them I don’t know what I’d do.
‘Cuz only now can toddlers safely play above here and below
But perilously up and down the stairs they cannot blithely go!
Like a flier on the high-trapeze waiting to be caught in mid-air, Django often spends much of his night rolling side-to-side, swinging his arms up and over his head, back arched, eyes – though closed – locked in line with his reaching hands. It’s not near as disruptive as you might think it would be in a bed-partner. It’s more like the tide. Now he’s leaning in; now he’s leaning out. And, well, I don’t do too much sleeping these days anyway, so it can lend a welcome ebb and flow to what is otherwise a rather monotonous insomnia.
I used to think Django was searching for me in his reachings, or at least the fresh supply of warm help-me-get-back-to-sleep milk I’ve come to represent. When he’d end up cuddling the pillow on the other side of the bed, I’d usually break into a smug sort of grin – equal parts tender humor and self-importance. Then, at some point, I realized he actually seemed to prefer the pillow. He’d turn to me, and then turn quickly away. Yet once “on” the pillow, he’d stroke it gently, nuzzle a little, and usually anchor himself with a grip. Talk about feeling rejected. Yipes.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m an important player in the Family Bed scene. Django loves for me to be there as he falls asleep, for sure. Though I’ve trained him out of nursing to sleep, per se, he’s developed other points of attachment instead – fingers on my watchband, toes on my belt, nose in my ear. Basically, wherever he can find to be in touch, he is. As I attempt to roll away, he always rolls toward.
He also thinks I make an excellent body pillow during those waves of wakefulness that threaten to break here and there throughout the night. I’ve given myself over to that job completely. Not only is it incredibly convenient to place the whole of him right on top of my chest and roll/rock/jostle him back & forth, in the hope of avoiding actually having to stand up and be a good nighttime parent, it’s also one of the things I enjoy most about us sharing a bed. In those moments, even if only for those moments his little limbs are stuck on me like a starfish, I am immediately transformed into the Rock of Gibraltar that I always wish to be.
I’ve recently and ambivalently discovered that Django’s love affair with the pillows has been an opportunistic one. Apparently they help him roll to his belly faster than I, and present less of an obstacle between he and the edge of the bed, which seems to call to him like a Siren – if you’ll forgive my thorough bludgeoning of the ocean metaphor. I’ve come downstairs on well more than one occasion now, having heard him make just a peep or two at the end of a sleep session, to find him already headed face-first off the edge of the bed. Heartstopping, let me tell you. And the extra seconds it takes to get through my own child-proofing gates are especially long seconds.
Aunt Jenny and Uncle Steve brought the hand-me-down crib. I know I should train Django to sleep in it, for safety’s sake. But I can’t, yet. I’m not developmentally ready for him to leave the Family Bed.
