Love in Your Pocket

I was pushing Orlando on the swings.

He was constantly grumbling about my inadequate swing-pushing techniques — I was holding the chain too tight, and it was going too crooked, and I wasn't doing it high enough, and I stopped before he told me to stop.

He was becoming increasingly frustrated and so was I.

I was leaning down to talk to him about being flexible and working together when he banged his hand between the swing and the pole. A woman near us asked him if he was okay, and he stuck his tongue out at her.

My anger flared up. I apologized to the woman, and moved with Orlando to a more private spot, in the shade of the rocket ship. I told him, "It's not okay to stick out your tongue at that woman. She was just trying to be nice to you."

I was trying to talk gently, but to be honest, I wasn't surprised when he told me, "Mama! Mama! I am done listening to you!"

It's true... more often than not of late, I've had a flinty, disapproving tone against him. It wears even me out.

So I tried to be more gentle and said, "Remember our practices for a happy time at the park?" These practices were the litany of do's and don'ts, as in don't push over the little kids, don't run away into the street, remember to eat some food every once in a while, don't touch the cigarette butts... I thought now was a good time to bring them up, so I said, "Let's...."

But Orlando burst in with, "MAMA! MAMA! I AM DONE LISTENING!"

I sighed.

We could leave the park since he was clearly not centered and would probably keep acting out. I could keep trying to get through to him with words but it seemed unlikely that we'd connect — I couldn't quite let go of the judgment or coercion in my voice.

I stayed where I was and took another breath. I watched the other kids swinging, moving their small bodies across the grass, up and down the slides, and spinning fast upon the twirly seats.

I turned back to Orlando. I wanted to let him know I loved him and trusted him and was here to help him. Without thinking about what I was doing, I put my fingers in the chest pocket of his shirt, and said, "I know you don't want to talk about it right now, but here's a little love for later."

Then I stood up and walked back to the baby slide, where his little brother Mica was perched at the tippy top, but not before I saw the twinkle of wonder in Orlando's eye.

Love. In his pocket!

I saw him look inside his pocket, and then take out some of the love and rub it all over himself!

He sat in the shade of the rocket, and then came over to me and said he felt better now, and that he was ready to connect.

And later, back at home, when a hard edge of impatience crept into my voice over some inconsequential irritation, he told me, "Mama! Mama! Do you have your love?"

I had the urge to keep barreling through in my negativity — what do you mean, do I have my love?

And then just by asking myself this question, I knew the answer.

I told him, "Yeah, Orlando, I do." He climbed up on my lap and I said, "I do have my love."