September 19, 2004
Zeke's first Kindermusik class of the quarter was on Friday. I took him to two classes last spring, because I found out about the class late, and then it went on summer hiatus. I spent the last several weeks of August and September trying to find a Columbus-area music class that I could take him to. It had to be one that met in the evenings, so that I could leave Stazi with Keith while I went to the class with Zeke. Unfortunately, the only classes I could find anywhere in the greater Columbus area met in the mornings. I guess they assume that everyone who wants to take their child to Kindermusik is a stay-at-home mom with only one child?
Anyway, after a few weeks of fruitless searching, I finally decided to go ahead and take him back to the Zanesville class, which met late enough in the evening that I could wait for Keith to get home from work, and still leave in enough time to get to the class with Zeke.
The first one was last night. The change in Zeke's behavior from the classes he attended last spring was really remarkable. Three months ago, all he wanted to do was run around the classroom. He wasn't interested in participating in the games or activities; he was just obsessed by the full-length mirrors that ran the length of all the walls. I had to really struggle to keep him even the slightest bit interested in the actual class.
This time around, there was a big difference. Zeke sang along with some of the songs, he really liked the parts where we played musical instruments, and in general he just kind of had fun participating. One of the more hilarious parts was when the leader would get out the boxes of jingle bells or scarves or whatever object the kids were all going to be using. Zeke would go over and get big handfuls of them and then pass them out to all the other kids and parents. Everyone thought that was pretty cute.
He did get a little distracted towards the end of the session, and wanted to run around and look at the mirrors instead of sing the goodbye song, but I figured that was okay. He does have the attention span of a two-year-old, after all.
Later that evening, I had a real moment of truth as a parent. I went back to Mom's house to pick Stazi up, and hung out there for about half an hour letting Zeke play with trains and chatting with Mom and so forth. Then I remembered that I needed to switch Stazi's car seat back out of Mom's car and into our car. So, blithely announcing that I'd be right back, I headed out to make the switch.
There are two problems with installing Stazi's carseat in our station wagon. One is that we have to install this locking clip thing on the seatbelt in order to get it in there securely. The other is that in order to thread the seatbelt through the car seat, you have to push it through an opening that is clearly not designed for human hands. In the process of attempting to get the seatbelt threaded, I mangled my hands pretty severely. Goddammit, I kept thinking, how come Keith can do this so easily? His hands are bigger than mine!
After many, many tries, I finally got the seatbelt threaded through, only to discover that I couldn't get it to latch closed with the locking clip installed. So I wrestled the locking clip off, readjusted the seatbelt, got it to latch, and then attempted to get the locking clip back on. This did not work. For technical reasons that I cannot fully describe without drawing a diagram, I had to undo the seatbelt, pull it back through the track, and start completely over.
The second time, I was able to latch it, and got the locking clip on, and I thought I was done. This is what led to my moment of truth.
I pushed on the carseat to make sure everything was secure. It wobbled a little. I pushed on it again. It wobbled a lot. It had maybe five or six inches of give in either direction. The manual says it should have no more than one.
I paused. I considered. I'd already spent about twenty minutes trying to install the carseat. I'd exercised some pretty colorful invective directed at the carseat. I'd bruised the crap out of my forearms and hands, which would turn a festive purple the next morning. I could just call it a night and count on the high probability that we would not be in an accident on the way home. I could tell Keith that he had to reinstall it the next morning. I could say that I had really given it my all and that that was the best I could do.
I thought. I thought hard.
And, with a sigh, I undid the locking clip, undid the seatbelt, and pulled it back through the track to start all over again. Ten more minutes of severe bruising later, it was all put back together. With a deep breath and a short prayer, I yanked on the carseat... and it moved about half an inch. I tugged harder. Half an inch. I rocked it back and forth as hard as I could. Half an inch!
It was a proud moment.
The next morning, Keith sympathized appropriately over my purple and black bruises, and then asked if I hadn't realized that you could lift up the seat cushion and pull the belt through the track that way?
No, I said. No, I hadn't realized that.
He patted my shoulder and then made me a sandwich, because I guess right about then I looked like I needed it.
Posted by Jan at September 19, 2004 12:54 AM