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Larkin

Posted February 4, 2009

remember back when Ed Koch, that irascible loudmouth, was mayor of New York, and at public gatherings he'd ask his audience, "So, how am I doing?" This was early in his administration, when things were going well. Later, when he felt beleaguered, he stopped asking.

Molly and I joke about this. Three years into our administration, we feel beleaguered most of the time. We're behind on work, and the house is a mess, and the refrigerator is empty, which unfortunately also discloses how filthy it is, and we've averaged five hours of sleep a night for the past X weeks, and Larkin is doing that spastic, rigid-body outrage thing on the living room floor because one of us dared to turn down the volume on the Arlo Guthrie children's stories CD that she had cranked up to airport-runway decibel levels, as outside an all-day blizzard rages on, so we can't go anywhere but are trapped here forever, the three of us in our reenactment of Sartre's No Exit. And at some point either Molly or I looks at the other and says, "So, how're we doing?"

We laugh, pathetically, the kind of laughter that is pure self-pity.

I'm writing this because Valentine's Day is coming up. For parents of toddlers, Valentine's Day can be a trial. You're taunted by memories of years ago, when you strategized, found the perfectly-chosen gift, made reservations for a three-hour dinner at an aspirational restaurant, and the whole thing had a plan and a slow build-up and deft unveiling and lavish, luxurious culmination, with lots of sparkling conversation along the way. Now conversation is more like, Hey, did you forget to get Larkin's turkey dogs at the store today?

Here's the question: How to maintain something resembling romance, when the daily grind of family life continually wears it down? There's no time, no space. Given how disorganized our life feels, it's stunning to realize how ruthlessly it is actually dictated by efficiency. Molly's and my morning routine with Larkin, for instance, is about as variable as an auto assembly line, and any deviation by either of us causes a glitch (and wins a frown from the other.) Does this take a toll on spontaneity? You bet. As a famous writer wrote, Habit is the great deadener. Yet here we are. You know how when you don't flip your mattress every few months, it develops these two little depressions, these shallow pockets, where your bodies go? It's your little slot. That's what our lives feel like these days.

In addition, this is an uncertain moment for us financially, as for many families. When Molly went part-time last fall, we lost our health insurance, and we're paying out of pocket, to the tune of $15K a year, to cover it. My freelance writing income is down, too. Money pressure affects a marriage, and romance in particular. Your options are curtailed; ease is replaced by worry. Go out for a nice Valentine's Day dinner and a movie? Well, sure, but... with the sitter, that's going to come to $200 or more. And how's Larkin's college 529 doing?

What Molly and I really need is to go somewhere -- a four-day midwinter getaway, without the girl. But where to leave her? One of the crushing disadvantages of being an older parent is that your own parents are either too old, too far away, or too dead to take care of your child. When we have to leave our bulldog Bert, there's a terrific kennel for him near our neighborhood, called Planet Bark. Can someone come up with a Planet Lark?

Until they do, we'll remain at home, contending with Larkin's ever-sharpening skill as a conversation monopolizer. Our pediatrician remarked during her recent checkup that she is "precociously verbal." "That's because she gets a lot of practice," I said. "My wife and I, however, are becoming mute." Lately, when Molly and I try to talk, Larkin does whatever she can to stop it -- spraying machine-gun rounds of "excuse me, exCUSE me!!!", or beating on the table and chanting like a savage from Lord of the Flies.

"It's not your turn, honey," Molly says. "Daddy needs a turn to talk." But by the time we have excavated a small space for my utterance, I've forgotten what the topic was. Forget about it, I say. Lets just wait until she's asleep.

For a grown man there are few feelings more unsatisfying than your own petulance at being outtalked by your child. But -- since this is about Valentine's Day -- here is one of them. It has to do with another thing Larkin seems bent on preventing, along with parental talking. Not to be too explicit about this, but the girl seems to have special supersensitive radar set to detect any amorous parental intention anywhere in the house, anytime day or night. Thus, in the potentially romantic stillness before dawn, should I dare to try my charms on Molly, no sooner have I turned toward her in bed than we are stopped by a passion-deadening yelp from down the hall: Hey guys -- come and get me! This has happened so often, we just laugh. What are we supposed to do? Hire a sitter and go to a motel?

For her part, Larkin seems to believe in some kind of immaculate conception. "Who made you?" I ask her sometimes. "Did Mommy and Daddy make you?"

"No," she says, "I made myself. I drawed myself with a pencil, like Harold."

I can't help laughing. The sensuous replaced by the hilarious. That's a good working definition for the state of the union right now.