A few days ago, Joy was napping in our king-size bed, alone, with lights off and drapes closed. It was around 4 p.m., and some light was entering the room from the top of the drapes.
Joy was in the center of the bed on her back, with the duvet pulled up to her chest. I lay down next to her and pushed my right arm under her neck. I was on my side, facing her. And I took her right hand in my left. And I just lay there quietly, watching her. But Joy began to stir. Just a bit. Her eyes were still closed, but her mouth moved and her head turned from side to side. Then she was still.
A minute later, with eyes still closed, she raised her left arm and brushed the back of her hand against my chin. I typically have two or three days of stubble on my face, and that day was no different. She rubbed the back of her hand on my chin stubble, back and forth, for several seconds. She has done this before, and I have assumed that when she’s too tired to open her eyes (or when it’s dark), she uses this maneuver to determine who is holding her.
There’s only one person in her house who has facial hair, so she very quickly determined that Dad was holding her. If she had felt a smooth chin, there’s at least a 90 percent chance that Mom was holding her.
Joy fell back into a deep sleep for a few minutes. Then she was back to rubbing my chin. Dad is still holding me, she’s thinking. But she kept rubbing my chin, over and over. What is she thinking now? I wondered. Maybe: Hi, Dad, I like you holding me. Don’t you dare stop holding me. I will continue to rub your chin to make sure you are here. Or something like that.
Joy is a preschool student at Meadows Parkway in O’Fallon. The teachers love her. The bus drivers adore her. And Joy loves school. She is learning new ways to communicate. She is speaking new words at school, learning matching games, drawing, painting, making friends, and overall, she is getting a lot out of the experience.
Each day we receive a one-page report card from her teacher. It’s pretty simple. There is a multiple-choice section that reads: I had a …
“Great day”
“Good day”
“Okay day”
Joy’s report card almost always has “Great day” circled.
Then there is a checklist that reads: Today I did well with …
Following directions
Following my schedule
Working independently
Working in groups
Completing my classroom/school jobs
Again, Joy’s teacher almost always ticks off every box.
But one day last week, the teacher circled “Good day,” and most of the boxes in the checklist remained unchecked.
Uh-oh.
The teacher, though, helpfully left us a note about Joy’s behavior.
She wrote: “In a silly mood today, wanted to crawl under table and chairs instead of sitting w/ group, laughing and giggling the whole time.”
Thankfully, Joy had not bitten anyone. She hadn’t hit a classmate with a spatula. She hadn’t knocked over someone’s blocks. She wasn’t caught throwing her toys.
But clearly she had not followed the program. She’d refused to listen and obey the teacher. And I can empathize with that. When Joy goes into the front yard at home, she is seemingly unable/unwilling to stop any unwanted behavior, no matter how many times we say “STOP!”
In my mind, I can see Joy crawling under the group table, laughing loudly, daring anyone to get her to come out. I can visualize the teachers getting frustrated because Joy is keeping everyone from doing the group activity.
But I also know that Joy lives up to her name every day. There is nothing contrived about Joy. She loves exploring this tiny world that is her home, her neighborhood, her school, her family. Joy knows no fear, no danger, no worry, no hesitation, no boundaries, no hatred, no exclusion, no disability. At home we have rules, of course. I say “Stop!” and “Not now, Joy!” dozens of times a day. And not every day is a “Great day.” But Joy is determined to fill our lives with joy.
And at home, at least, I will never scold Joy for sitting under a table and giggling. In fact, she does this quite often. Just after a bath, she will often run to Deb’s desk and sit underneath, dripping on the floor and giggling. When I get down on my knees and approach her, she runs, laughing, to a closet or her bedroom. By the time I catch her, she is mostly dry.
So my checklist for Joy might read as follows: Today I did well with…
Following my heart
Getting Dad to follow my schedule
Working on being an independent girl
Snuggling Mom or Dad at naptime
Experiencing complete joy
With that list, Joy will get a perfect score every day.
Joy loves my iPhone. But is she amazed by this marvel of technological wizardry? Is she stunned that she can Facetime with an aunt who is six hundred miles away? Is she astonished that I can use GPS to find my way to Kat’s apartment in Chicago while 800 million other iPhone users are also navigating by GPS? Nope, nope, and nope.
So I wasn’t sure if she would be amazed at the sight of seventy hot-air balloons getting inflated with fire. But we decided to find out.
Last night I made my way to the eastern end of Forest Park using GPS, and then had two phone calls (with Deb and Peggy) before I met up with everyone to experience the annual Balloon Glow. We ended up around three hundred feet away from the balloons, but they were still impressively large.
In the background were the trees of Forest Park, the skyscrapers along Kingshighway, and the sun setting over Missouri in the southwest.
Suddenly, as the brilliant, vibrant colors of the sunset began to fade into beautiful pastels, the balloon pilots began blasting fire into their balloons, creating a mesmerizing display of color. The balloons remained tethered to the ground, but it was something to see.
Joy enjoyed the blasts of fire and color, but I think she mostly enjoyed mingling with the other kids around us. She played catch with some slightly older kids, wandered into a semicircle of lawn chairs where a family was having dinner, and ran in front of a golf cart that had to brake suddenly.
Aunt Ashley played with Joy while Peggy filmed. I followed Joy as she wandered farther and farther away from home base.
A preteen girl came up to Deb and said, “Does Joy have Down syndrome?”
“Yes, she does.”
“My name is Lilly Kate, and I have autism spectrum disorder. I love kids with special needs!”
Lilly and the other children were very sweet to Joy. Joy, of course, was happy to be able play with so many other kids.
Then it was time to head back to Peggy’s house. We began our walk toward Lindell and the Central West End. As we exited the park, I said to Peggy, “Where are you parked?”
“At my house.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” (My car was at the Hi-Pointe Theater. Long story.)
We wandered down Kingshighway to Maryland to Euclid, past busy restaurants, gorgeous homes and apartment buildings, ice cream parlors… and made it back. I had walked over five miles over the past two hours. Joy was fine. She was in the stroller.
The Forest Park balloons launched this morning for a one-hour race. I didn’t witness that. But I think I can imagine what it was like. I have Joy, and she’s the fire that makes me lighter than air.
First, full disclosure: I am not a car mechanic. I almost never open the hood of my car. I know the difference between the front of the car and the back of the car. I know how to add gas and change the oil. If I have a slow leak in a tire, I often add some Fix-A-Flat (which apparently is not good for the tire pressure sensors). But when I do have a flat tire, I can put on the spare within six minutes.
My dad taught me how to change a tire when I was fifteen. And I have used this skill dozens of times, usually for a neighbor or friend. Because I’ve known how to change a tire since I was a kid, it always surprises me when people say they have no idea how to change a tire. “I need to call AAA,” they typically say.
One neighbor came to my door recently and asked me if I would drive her to Auto Zone to get some Fix-A-Flat. When I asked about the spare tire, she told me that she didn’t have a spare. I said, “Did you check your spare tire well?”
“What?” she said.
“Let’s open the trunk,” I said. And the spare tire was there, under the carpeting, along with all the necessary tools.
“Oh my god,” she said. “I’ve got a spare!”
Two weeks ago, I changed a tire for my mother-in-law. She had been three blocks away from our house when it went flat. She didn’t want to bother me but didn’t know what else to do.
I said, “Betsy, put on the emergency brake, and I will put on the spare in five minutes. Easy peasy.”
It was easy. Loosen lug nuts. Raise tire off the ground. Flat tire off. I then put on the compact spare and added the lug nuts. I lowered the car to the ground before tightening the lug nuts all the way. I put all my weight on the tire iron wrench for each nut. Then I stood on the wrench to make sure they were tight.
Deb said, “Why are you tightening them so much?”
I said, “Peggy will never speak to me again if this wheel falls off.”
“What about me? Aren’t you afraid I would never speak to you again?”
“Well,” I said, “I think you, like, legally have to speak to me. And you are the one telling me not to tighten them so much. So when the wheel flies off, she’s also not speaking to you.”
Betsy soon drove off safely and got a set of new tires a few days later.
There are so many hazards on the road—potholes, crazy and inattentive drivers, construction, lack of signs (or too many signs), and golf carts on the road being driven by kids. I worry about Deb and Joy every day. Deb is very much a soccer mom. Except it’s not soccer, it’s volleyball, tennis, track and field, high school stuff, the gym, the mall, Cane’s Chicken, Sports Park, Forest Park, orthodontist, nail salon, and a dozen other places.
We have good cars, good tires, and newer car seats, but we are never 100% safe.
My biggest rule at our house is: Exterior doors must be closed at all times. Once Joy is outside, she can and will run to the street in less than five seconds. Front door to street is 33 feet. Fortunately, we are not on a busy street anymore. When we lived on Big Bend, the only time you could safely cross the street was from 3 a.m. to 4 a.m. Now, at the new house, my guess is that during the day a car passes by about once every two minutes.
So…
Tighten lug nuts = Booshie is safe = Peggy will speak to you.
Keep doors closed = Joy is safe = Mike will not kick your ass.
Deb recently started watching the series on Freevee. She wants me to watch it, too. I’ve seen episodes from Season 1 and some scenes from later seasons. After watching Season 1, Episode 4, I said, “Meh.”
While watching the first four episodes from Season 1, I didn’t laugh out loud. But I’m told by reliable sources that later seasons are wonderful. Okay. But I said to Deb, “If there are episodes where the homophobic townies are bullying or menacing the pansexual characters, I don’t want to watch. It’s been done.”
Deb said, “There is zero violence against LGBTQ characters on the show. The people of the town are very accepting of everyone.”
Alrightythen. I will watch more episodes. And to be honest, I am intrigued by the premise of the show because in the early spring of 1979, Mom, Doug, and I found ourselves living in a motel.
You see, in 1978, my mom got engaged to be married (husband #2). She sold her house in South City in the fall. Got married around the same time. Moved us to High Ridge to live with her new husband. Then she got scared. Got separated. Moved us into a motel in Sunset Hills while the husband (soon to be ex-husband) was at work. We stayed around a month until Mom could scrape together enough money to get an apartment and some beds and dressers. The apartment was on Weil St. in South City, and we were right back into our old school district. We went back to Southwest High School.
The motel wasn’t that interesting. (There certainly was no front desk clerk like Stevie.) But I know what it’s like to have a house one day and be living in a motel the next. And I know what it’s like to be happier living in a motel than in the nicest house on Skyline Drive.
Since Joy came into our lives, we have lived in three different houses. I am aware that the current house can be cluttered, untidy, too hot on the first floor, too cold in the basement. Our furniture does not match, and many of the towels are different colors. The garage is unorganized and full of stuff. The doorknobs need to be replaced. The kitchen flooring is twenty-five-year-old laminate. I don’t weedwack often enough. I don’t own a summer house in Utah. But guess who doesn’t care about those things. Joy doesn’t.
Joy is completely happy with the house. She’ll take a teal towel or the gray one. She loves Aldi donuts and Aldi orange juice. What she thinks is important is love and affection. She loves kisses and hugs and laughter and stroller rides. She is as happy playing in her four-foot pool shaped like a turtle as she is jumping into an Olympic-size pool.
There is nothing contrived about Joy. She always lets us know what she likes and doesn’t like. She likes watching ABBA sing “Dancing Queen” on the iMac. She does not like Lawrence O’Donnell. She likes playing outside; hates coming back in.
“Joy, do you want a stroller ride?” I say. “Yeah,” she says, clapping.
“Joy, can you give Dad the iPhone?” “AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” (That’s a no.)
Wednesday was Joy’s second day on the bus, so I made sure I was home by four to see her exit the bus. Joy’s bus ride was so long that she was napping when it pulled up to our driveway. Mary grabbed her phone and started filming. The driver opened the folding door and the monitor released Joy’s seatbelt, and she hopped down the stairs and into my arms and promptly laid her head on my shoulder. Meanwhile Mom grabbed her school-bus-themed backpack and chatted with the driver.
Deb and I had dinner plans with my brother and sister-in-law, and so we headed to Chesterfield’s 54th Street Grill at 5:45 p.m. We brought Joy along. However, within a minute Joy had run into the bar, so I dragged her out. When we were seated, Joy tried climbing over us, apparently to go back to the bar. So Deb picked her up and said, “I’m taking Joy to my mom’s. I’ll be back in ten to fifteen minutes.”
Doug and Chrissy and I had drinks while Deb dropped Joy off at Booshie’s (aka Besty’s). When Deb returned, we ordered dinner. (I always get the Rattlesnake Pasta and a margarita.) We had a fantastic dinner and got to hear about Paige and Alex and the dogs and Doug and Chrissy’s upcoming cruise.
Two hours later we picked up Joy at Booshie’s. Booshie had taken Joy to the park and had a half dozen videos of Joy having a blast on the swings. After the park, they went back to the condo and had dinner. Joy then had a bath and probably ice cream. Joy loved every second. So, thank you, Booshie! After looking at the videos several times, I think it’s clear that these two love each other so much.
The Time Traveler’s Wife is a great book, and the movie is good, too. I liked both. But the last scene in the movie (which isn’t in the book) is stuck in my head. And it has recently made me think about why it affected me so much when I saw the movie.
In the last scene, which is just over three minutes, Henry travels into the future, the meadow, and sees his daughter Alba, now age nine. (Henry dies when Alba is five.) Alba immediately sends her friends Max and Rosa to run to the house to get her mom.
Henry spends one minute and twenty seconds with Alba, telling her the story of how he met Clare. Clare runs through the meadow and into Henry’s arms and spends 59 seconds with him before he goes.
And so, I think, what would I give (what would anyone give) to have a minute or two with someone who is gone (and by “gone” I don’t necessarily mean deceased). Maybe I’d go back to Kat’s third birthday party or Emily’s high school graduation or Mom’s house on the day after Thanksgiving or Talladega with Dad.
Early this morning I handed my phone to Joy (who was whining and bouncing on my back) so she could watch reels on YouTube. I then lay back down and closed my eyes. Because it was freakin’ 6:45 a.m. Suddenly I opened my eyes. I rolled out of bed and got dressed. And I searched for Joy. She was in the basement watching some annoying thirty-second videos by a Tik-Tok’er named Okanutie.
“Joy, please give me the phone. Let’s go up and get breakfast.” She handed me the phone, and I put it in my pocket.
Instead of Cheerios and screentime, Joy and I had mini donuts and milk and made funny faces. She does this imitation game in which I have to do exactly what she does—hand gestures, sticking a finger in her mouth while making funny noises, peek-a-boo poses, etc. And she laughed so hard that I laughed. After her bath, she lay on our king size bed and gave me something like thirty kisses. And I was smiling so wide that my mouth hurt. And right then, at 8:30 a.m., I realized that those two minutes of kisses were going to be the best two minutes of my day.
I can’t go back to Kat’s third birthday party. I can’t even go back to this morning and have breakfast with Dr. Kat on her thirty-first birthday. But I can turn away from distractions (especially the iPhone) and give Joy and Deb and others my presence. I can: Sit next to Joy when she plays. Open up the Play-Doh and help her make balls and Play-Doh rope. Go to the pool with Deb and Joy and actually get in the pool. Make Joy’s favorite smoothies and drink them on the back porch. Put a dozen bath toys in the tub and watch Joy have a blast.
I can stop writing this blog entry, close the laptop, and pick up the girls from school.
So on Thursday, I came home from the library at 2 p.m. I read an article from the AARP newsletter, “8 Things to Do After 50 to Help You Live Longer” (as far as I can tell, I’m not doing any of those things), I took my Metamucil, and then I helped get Joy ready for the preschool open house at Meadows Parkway.
It was crazy. So crowded. Morning families, afternoon families, and full-day families all there to meet teachers and drop off supplies.
Joy knew exactly where to go. Her teacher, Ms. Dana, was her teacher last year. Joy played in the pretend kitchen with the pretend cookware, and then she knocked over some blocks that had been carefully stacked by a blond four-year-old girl, who pointed at Joy and said to her thirtysomething mom, “She knocked over my blocks.” Yes. Yes, she did. Maybe you should read “The Three Little Pigs.”
Meadows Parkway installed new playground equipment over the summer, so we had to see that. Joy did the jungle gym, slides, ladders, the merry-go-cycle, monkey bars, balance beam, climbing wall, the tube, and eighteen other fun things.
After forty-five minutes, I told Deb, “I’m going to get the car and pull it around. Grab her in three minutes and carry her to the car.”
Joy screamed all the way to the car.
Joy had had so much fun that she fell asleep in the hallway when we got home.
I flew from St. Louis to Albuquerque on July 28. Deb and Joy had dropped me off at the Southwest terminal at 6:30 a.m.
I was in group B11. Not bad. I got an aisle seat. We landed at 10:55 a.m.
In ABQ, I proceeded to the Hertz counter.
Agent: Next!
Me: Hi, I have a reservation.
Agent: Last name, please.
Me: McConnell.
Agent: I’ve got it right here, Mr. McConnell. You reserved a minivan. A Pacifica. [Pause; agent types at his terminal] Would you be interested in upgrading to a GMC Yukon? It has more room…
Me: I’m good. The minivan gets better gas mileage.
Agent: That’s true. But unfortunately we do not have any minivans on the lot at this time. I’m sure some will be returned later today.
Me: I guess I’ll take the Yukon.
Agent: Excellent. The upgrade will be at no charge, of course.
Me: Have you seen the Seinfeld episode where Jerry and Elaine are in line to rent a car?
Agent: Ha. Yes.
Me: And Jerry says, I made a reservation for a mid-size blah blah… and the agent says, I’m sorry, we have no mid-size available at the moment. And Jerry says, I don’t understand, I made a reservation. And the agents says, Yes, but we ran out of cars.
Agent: Yes, that’s funny.
Me: And Jerry says, But the reservation keeps the car here. That’s why you have the reservation. And the agent says, I know why we have reservations. Then Jerry says, I don’t think you do. If you did, I’d have a car. You know how to take the reservation, you just don’t know how to HOLD the reservation and that’s really the most important part of the reservation, the holding.
Agent: Do you want insurance on the Yukon, Mr. McConnell?
Me. No. I’m good.
Agent: Okay. Just sign here. [I sign.] Now, walk right out those doors, and then go to the right. The Yukon is in space 355.
—
I drove to Kat’s apartment in a brand-new Yukon, and we spent the weekend cleaning the apartment and selling furniture. Kat and I then filled up the Yukon and her car with the rest of her belongings.
On Monday morning, Kat defended her dissertation (and passed), and then Dr. Kat and I spent three days driving to Chicago. We ran into very little construction or delays. We stayed at a hotel in Oklahoma City, then the next night stayed at home in St. Louis.
In Chicago, we pulled up to a beautifully maintained four-story apartment building in the center of the charming Hermosa neighborhood. The building is at least 100 years old. Original doors, trim, and moldings. Gorgeous hardwood floors. Steam heat. (But no A/C.)
We unpacked the cars. Shopped at Walmart. Assembled some furniture. We went to a Mexican place for dinner, and in the morning went to an upscale diner called Rise and Shine that had the most amazing bread pudding French toast.
And then I headed back to St. Louis.
I pulled into the Hertz parking lot in St. Louis at 6:09 p.m. Thursday. Mileage: 1,767 miles. I typically drive 7,000 miles a year. So 1,700 miles is huge for me.
But the time went by in a flash. Each day, in fact, seems to go by faster than the last. It seems like just yesterday that I would lie down and read Lemony Snicket books to Kat or Horton Hears a Who to Emily. But it wasn’t yesterday. It was twenty years ago. It seems like yesterday that I held a four-year-old in my arms and got huge hugs and three dozen kisses. Well, actually, that was yesterday.
I read recently that 75 percent of the time we spend with our kids is before they turn twelve. Ninety percent of our time together is before age eighteen. Those are scary, depressing numbers. But someone calculated those numbers so that we can change them.
My iPhone stopped working a week ago. The touchscreen, which has been cracked for about year, is no longer operating. I took it to UBreakWeFix, but a replacement screen did not fix the problem. I went to AT&T and purchased a new phone, but the staff said they could not set it up if the old phone was not working. I’ve also forgotten my AppleID password, and resetting it kind of requires that the old phone work.
During my first day phone-less, I was furious. I wanted my phone to work NOW. I tried to set up the new iPhone myself. Fail. I tried to reset my AppleID. Fail.
Later that day, my credit card was declined at Aldi, so I called BofA from Deb’s phone. “Hello, I’m trying to find out why my credit card is being declined…”
“Sir, we can’t help you unless you call from the phone on file.”
My blood pressure instantly went through the roof. “Really? Well, that phone is broken. I’m calling from my wife’s phone. What if I told you my mother’s maiden name, or my birth date, the make and model of my first car, my social security number, the name of my first pet, or the name of my best friend from eighth grade?”
“Sir, I can’t even access your file unless you call from a phone number on file. You need to add this phone to your profile.”
I hung up.
Deb and Joy decided to steer a wide berth of Dad for the rest of the day.
But it’s been a week now with no phone. And I feel good. Yes, I need my phone back. I need the Zelle app, as well as the phone call feature, my contacts, voicemail, clock, alarms, calendar, camera and photos, email, texts, PayPal, PNC, GPS, Google, Facebook Marketplace, iTunes, Instacart, and YouTube for Joy.
Joy wakes up at 7 a.m. most mornings and heads to my phone for her early-morning screen time (YouTube reels). She was irritated last Friday when she woke up and there was no phone on Daddy’s nightstand. So she climbed into our bed and cuddled with me and fell back to sleep. She has repeated this ritual almost every day. I love it.
I’ve started wondering if there is way to live without the iPhone. Ed Sheeran does it. Arnold Schwarzenegger does it. Can a freelance copy editor do it? Probably not. I need to check email at least every two hours. I need to receive phone calls (I don’t call anyone), and I need texting. Or I think I do.
My screentime reports say I spend an average of 4.5 hours a day on the phone (some of that is Joy). What could I accomplish if I had an extra 4.5 hours every day?
I lived without a mobile phone for 41 years. I didn’t do the smartphone thing until 2012. Yes, I had a flip phone until the summer of 2012. When I get my phone working (tomorrow, I think), I need to turn it off more often. And I need to keep it off my nightstand, because: cuddling with Joy.
We all need to learn to live without the iPhone. Because as you may know, in all postapocalyptic scenarios, cell phone service stops everywhere.
Joy Elizabeth 