Precious Heathens

an essay.

written and illustrated by Liv Hardy.

*all children’s names have been changed

Jacob*

I’m wincing with my entire body. His piercing baby scream. Right in my ear, too. Forty minutes of howling. Of holding. Of swaying in circles. Of walking back and forth, room to room. No room in this house is cool. He’s sticky with sweat and tears. I sing all the songs I know. All the songs my parents sang to me.

I would kill to be stoned right now. My back is stiff from holding him. I’m aware of his bulk in the crux of my right arm. The shriek in my right ear. He’s exhausted. And what? It’s hot. Is that really all it takes to set him off? Yes. He’s helpless. How frustrating it must be— toothless, wordless. In my grasp. Resisting.

I try everything in my babysitter arsenal. Check his diaper. Read him a couple poems by Adrienne Rich (radical feminism has to start somewhere). Hum rhythmically. Hold him up to the gardenia bush outside his house. He howls louder with each attempt.

It’s time for a drive, my last resort. Where did your parents leave your car seat? He glares at me with steely blue eyes. Continues to howl. Well fuck you too. It’s not by the door. Not in the living room, the garage. At last I find it in the kitchen. Surrounded by boxes, some unpacked some not. The disarray unsettles me. Professor’s houses are often disastrous. Especially when they have kids.

I kneel, place him in the car seat. Pull his flailing arms through the straps. I’m sorry, alright? I rock the contraption by the handle. Heave him backwards through the screen door. All these days spent without two hands. He’s still howling. I’m still singing. To myself, at this point. It doesn’t soothe him.

I set the car seat on the driveway. It’s hotter this close to the pavement. I shake out my wrist, wipe sweat from my forearm. His howl is bludgeoning. Impossible.

I lean into the back seat. The heat is denser in here. Containment muffles the wails. But these car seat seat parts… Who designed this thing? All the straps with the metal hookie things. Or the plastic clippie things. Poorly designed piece of shit. Babies R Us. I shove my hand deep in the crack of the seat. the ass crack. It pinches. Grime, food, and who knows in my nail beds. Where’s the fucking bar to clip the clippie thing? God damn god damn this American garbage. Wait… Yes! YES. Alright. Is it tight? Safe? I yank at it. My car wobbles. Okay.

Load him in, shut the door. A baby in a hot car. But only for a moment. I can hear him through the window, yelping. Hoarse yelps now. I trot to the front seat. Like a sweaty idiot. I hesitate. A moment of peace at his expense. I brace myself for the noise. And the guilt. Three…two…one. I open the door to a rush of heat. The leather is scalding. *beep beep beep* The engine purrs, the AC gushes. First warm air, then cool. Finally. I reach back, lay my palm on his belly. His green striped onesie is drenched. Heaving.

I open my Spotify playlist called “Babybuttz”. The first notes of Herbie Hancock’s “Watermelon Man” envelop us. I notice I’m no longer singing. When did I stop?

His wails are now punctuated by sniffles. I turn my car around with a stuttering five point turn. The driveway is steep. Is it possible to drive gently? This will be a nightmare when he can ride a tricycle.

We pull out of the neighborhood and onto Route 9, a scenic two lane highway which twists through the Hudson Valley. We will head north until he’s deeply asleep. Then we will drive south. The dashboard clock reads 3:05. Two more hours of this. For twenty-five dollars. Minus gas money. Seemed like a good rate when I got the job. Now I wish I charged more. My ears ring with his screams.

The cool air feels artificial on my arms, a synthetic caress. We pass rows of sweltering trees. His cries ebb. Cooling off, cooling down. At a stop light I wipe tears from his cheek with my fingertip. His closed eyelids flutter.

……..

Infants are creaturely. Just potential and animal need. Lumps of breast milk often glob in the corners of Jacob’s lips. His legs are distorted and weak. His tender neck is full of creases. Grotesque. But I never forget his preciousness. Of my role as his surrogate. Caretaker of the first born child. Lest anything go wrong.

Like so many before me, I fell into childcare. One of the oldest professions. One of the noblest, in my opinion. Nanny. Mammy. Nona. But we are never mommy. Unlike many before me, I do it for the money, connections with parents in high places. And for the kids? I don’t know. I constantly waffle between affection and disgust for these young people.

Every human perfection, every flaw is illuminated in children. There is a strength in the potential of infancy. Jacob is unaware that he is weak. Ambitious in his desires. His body betrays his impulses. Four months old. Already acquainted with the grip of frustration. This is somehow endearing. Cute. Cuteness excuses dependency, frailty. In spite of myself, I don’t mind.

……..

George & Lewis

“ZAP ZAP ZAP!” He screams gleefully. My head pivots. Pain slices into my cheek. My hand flies to my face. “Fuhhhhh! Dude!” I yelp. Jeeeesus! You a demented little fucker. I fight the urge to curse aloud. Dazed, I look down. A nylon cord is coiled on the carpet. I can’t tell him how badly my cheek hurts. Pain is power, and he knows it. Five years old. Three feet tall. Martin Luther was right. There’s no such thing as innocence. “How the …heck did you do that?” I hold my voice steady but I feel my stare go cold.

“My blaster throws laser beams,” he says solemnly. He brandishes a cardboard tube. Anything can be a weapon. His calculating eyes are partially obscured by a mop of blond, wavy hair. Did he hit me on purpose? It’s possible. I suppose I don’t care. Should I pretend to? He’s proud. Any apology I elicit will be empty. Besides, I’d rather he hit me than his brother.

He’s eager to show me the mechanics of his blaster. He scurries over to pick up the cord. He then retrieves a lego from the other side of the playroom. He races everywhere. Constantly begs me to time him. All elbows and knees and urgency. He shows me how to fasten the string to the lego and feeds it through the tube. He whacks the tube against his forearm. The string goes flying. Whips into the far wall. It’s a good sound.

“You try!” So I do. And I fail. The rope flops, doesn’t fly. Pathetic. Did I fail on purpose? I want to try again and really use my strength, to challenge him. Challenge myself. Shrugging, I diffuse my impulses. He cackles.

I am aware of his dormant maleness. Could he be, too? He’s recently abandoned his gold shoes in favor of blue ones with Batman on the front.

“Do you know why only I can throw it like that?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Because I’m a wizard.”

“Prove it,” I say. With too much hostility. My cheek stinging.

“No! You’re not a wizard. You’re a liar,” his younger brother accuses. Pants-less. Squatting in the corner… Pissing?

God dammit. I squat next to him. “Bud, where are your pants?” His tiny bare ass hovers over two coin-sized patches of liquid. The amount dogs squirt into favorable bushes. The experiment of a temperamental potty trainer. The cord smacks against the far wall. He’s studying his genitals intently. I get his attention by taking his hand. His fingers coil around my thumb.

“Where is the appropriate place to pee?” I ask.

His gaze is direct. Shameless. “In the potty.”

The cord hits the wall. Harder. I glance. It’s tied to an action figure. “Next time, tell me when you have to potty. I’ll take you to the bathroom, but you have to control yourself until then.”

He nods. We rise to look for his pants. He doesn’t let go of my thumb.

….….

Cords, tubes. Tubes, cords. The subtle penetrations of playtime. George and Lewis are at what Rousseau describes as the “Age of Sensation”. Tactile. Impulsive. Exploratory. Shrewd. Children of the natural world, yet to become citizens. These boys rarely feel sorry. They covet violence. Respect inhibition. I see all their choices as metaphors.

Our relationship is still cordial. I’ve been watching them for just a couple of months. We hold hands, but we don’t embrace. They only sit on my lap if I’m reading. We constantly scrutinize each other. Test the boundaries of what’s appropriate. It takes time to earn the trust of intelligent children. I monitor my expectations.

……..

There are maybe 8 children at the park. I’m learning their names from listening to their mothers. Every day they stand in a clump of mommies. Shoulder to shoulder, talking parenthood. They say careful more than other words. Maybe more than the names of their children. I sit near them in the grass. The mommies never acknowledge me. They probably don’t know I’m observing them as well as the kids. I like it this way. The mommies are afraid of:

Walking up the slide backwards.

Sticks.

Two children on one swing.

Jumping off things after climbing up them.

Games involving closed eyes.

I also caution against these things. I don’t want the mommies to think I’m lazy. Or dangerous. Besides, kids are both. They choose either the most convenient path or the most reckless one.

Still, the language of caution is new to me. And playground mommies make me doubt myself. Careful is how they say “I love you”. Careful is the feeling of parenthood in their throats. For me careful is a pact. A testament to all-organic food. Never allowing a child under seven out of my eyesight. Saying “express yourself” as much as humanly possible. Forgoing time-out. Forbidding pretend guns. And that “pew pew” sound effect. Careful binds me to a neoliberal, eco-friendly, helicopter 21st century child-rearing philosophy. Every child comes with an unspoken list of terms and conditions.

A clang and a yelp reverberate across the playground. I’m certain it’s Lewis before I turn my head. I trot over to his sobbing form, unsure what I’ll find. Move calmly. If he senses panic he’ll sob harder. I pull him into my arms. He grasps me with his arms and legs. “What happened, babe?”

“I was climbing… then I fell… and my mouth….” He stammers. His lip is raw and bloody. He frees one hand to paw at it in explanation. Then shoves his hand back into my armpit.

I hold him tightly. Bury my nose in the part of his hair. He smells fresh. Like butter and clover and something indistinguishable. I inhale deeply. Let him feel the rise and fall of my chest. Sway him in circles. His breathing begins to even. “I’m ready to play again” he announces. I set him down, and he runs to the other children.

He shows them the blood on his hand, planted confidently in his rain boots. There is a sudden surge of love in my throat.\