Joan Bauer's Journal

Here Comes the Bride

"If you stop sucking your thumb..." I said to my daughter twenty-five years ago.  She sucked her thumb harder and held onto her koala puppet Qantas and another toy koala named Laurie.  Jean said they were engaged.  She looked at me knowingly.  I had to come up with a serious offer to get her to release that thumb.  "Then," I said, "I will make Laurie a bride's dress and she and Qantas can get married."  "He needs a tuxedo," Jean said.  "Deal."  Out came the thumb.  Permanently.  Now came the dilemma.  I am so not a sewer.  It took me an entire year to finish my apron in 7th grade Home Ec.  I got a fan letter from a reader who said her grandmother thought she'd been my home ec teacher.  I wrote back and said, please tell your grandma I'm sorry.

I struggled with that bridal gown because Laurie was a mechanical koala who sang when you pressed her stomach, and had a big head.  "She needs a veil," Jean said.  I tried to point out that lots of brides didn't have veils, but Jean was resolute.  "And flowers."  It was either my greatest moment as a mother, or one of my most desperate.  I found little dried flowers and wrapped them into a bouquet, I hand-sewed the white dress and put lace around the sleeves.  I made Qantas a very dapper snap-on tuxedo tie while Jean began gathering all her stuffed animals for the ceremony.  And you know these guest lists always get out of control.  Then there was the reception to think about.  Finally, all the arrangements were as good as they were going to get. Qantas and Laurie stood in front of either a kangaroo, moose, or rabbit stuffie (I can't remember which was the minister), who I had say, "I now pronounce you man and wife.  You may kiss the bride."  Jean made a face and had them hug instead.  It was a very moving ceremony.  We had punch and cookies and after all the guests had left, I lay down on the couch, closed my eyes, and  Jean said, "Let's do it again."  "Believe me," I told her, "it took."  

Qantas and Laurie are in a Zip-loc bag in the back of our closet still in their wedding attire.  I came upon them the other day.  The years haven't been easy on them, but they were great and noble toys, worked hard at their relationship, and were, above all, awfully good sports.  

In the Company of Children

I was walking through the playground near my house when it beckoned to me. The swing, that is. I was never a climbing across monkey bars kind of kid, but a swing was one of life's great inventions. I looked around -- I was alone. I walked to the swing, plopped down and pushed off, slowly at first. But it didn't take long before I was stretching my legs to get maximum height and throwing back my head to feel the freedom of it all. I felt ageless, weightless, fully energized, and so happy. A woman with a toddler walked past toward the baby swing. She was smiling at me, but I felt awkward now. The toddler was eyeing me strangely.  I did a hard foot stop, got off the swing, feeling silly. That's when I saw the sign:

ONLY ADULTS  IN THE COMPANY OF CHILDREN ARE PERMITTED ON THE PLAYGROUND

It went on to mention that adults weren't to use the equipment either. I slumped off, all my glee gone, a rejected, misunderstood middle-aged swinger. I wanted to say to someone, look, I write for children. Well, not little children, exactly, but lots of my readers can't drive yet.  I'm always in the company of kids, metaphorically speaking.

And then I thought about what Jesus said: "Unless you become as a little child you cannot enter the kingdom of heaven." What distinguishes childhood anyway? Things like trust and love and not being so worried about what other people think. Kids have the capacity to fully embrace mystery; the sweet forgetfulness to make up instantly after a fight; the ferocious focus to catch fireflies.

I thought about my inner child and how I needed to listen to her more. She was talking deep: "Joan, do something fun. Get a cupcake." I obeyed instantly and when I got home holding my moist red velvet cupcake, another thought came to me -- put out your Easter egg collection.  I wasn't going to do it this year-- I've been traveling so much, I had so much work to do, but I got the eggs out that I've collected for thirty-some years -- the ones from Africa, Sweden, Croatia. I put them in a clear bowl on my table and stepped back so satisfied as new life surged through me. I've got to listen more.