Rescuing Julia Twice (17 page)

“Are you breast-feeding?” she asks.

Before I can answer, I notice a looming figure in the doorway. This must be Nancy, and though she is under five feet, she looks like a giant because she's carting a baby in a large knapsack. I greet her and lead her
to the couch where we are sitting. Jen, still feeding, says hello. Then Jen reaches into her cavernous bag and tosses toys and a large rubber ball onto the floor. It had never occurred to me to bring toys. Jason, still clutching his mother, entwining himself in her hair, is not interested in the little trucks or the puzzles, but Julia makes a beeline for the red and white rubber ball and snatches it. She throws it in front of her and chases it, again and again.

“Wow,” says Jen. “She's a powerhouse.”

Meanwhile, Nancy is unpacking her baby, Vera. Vera is thirteen months, two months older than Jason and Julia. Nancy hands her shoes to put on her feet, but Vera holds up the shoes to Nancy's face and Nancy puts them on for her. Immediately, Vera lunges for the ball in Julia's hands and snags it. Julia does not put up a fuss. She has no “that's mine” reflex. She just moves on to other toys strewn on the carpet. I watch this curiously, because we have not been around other babies that much. But I have noticed time and again that Julia never puts up a fight when another child takes something from her. On the other hand, I have never seen her commandeer something another child is holding or playing with.

Nancy, forty-seven, is an animated pixie. After our introduction, she jumps right into her story about having spent a month in Kazakhstan before she and her husband, Dennis, could bring Vera home. Like Ricky and I, she and her husband are older, first-time parents.

“So tell me about your experience in Russia,” she says, smiling at me, then at Julia.

I shift my attention to Jen, realizing I'd left her question about breastfeeding hanging.

“Julia is also adopted.” I say to her.

While I talk about our adventures in Siberia, Jason grows more animated, though at eleven months, he appears to be behind the two little girls. Jen says he's not walking yet. Vera is spinning around the room like a tornado. I recognize her manic energy. It's the same behavior I see in Julia, moving this way, then that, here and there, eyes darting, scrambling, climbing up, climbing down, unable to sit still. But there's one
difference. Although Julia takes off like a rocket into space and leaves me behind, Vera is like a planet circling a star. She's back at Nancy every few minutes, seeking attention. She clings to her. Doesn't let her speak. She puts her face right up close to Nancy's.

“Go on, Vera, go play with Julia.”

Vera runs to Julia with an impish grin and takes the remote Julia's examining in her hand. She tears off across the room with maniacal peals of laughter.

“It's okay,” I say to Nancy. “Julia will find something else to play with.”

Nancy looks surprised. I imagine she's accustomed to a mother getting up to console a child who's just had something snatched from her hand, but I know it won't faze Julia and it doesn't.

We spend the next hour getting to know one another. We agree to meet in a week's time in the park and to recruit other mothers and their babies. On my walk back home, I replay in my mind what I'd witnessed, as I always do when I'm around other mothers and their babies. While Jason sought his mother's attention in a passive way, Vera used all her energy and wiles to engage her mother relentlessly. In both cases, Jen and Nancy were distracted, constantly tending to their children. Julia is so self-contained, I'm less needed.

The playgroup sprouts like fungal mushrooms in a marshy meadow. By August, we have a dozen mothers and their babies, most around eleven months old. We meet once or twice a week in the playground or spread a quilt of mismatched blankets in the park where we while away long, hot summer days.

To the unknowing eye, Julia is not particularly different from other children—at least not on the surface. She is walking, she has as much hair and as many teeth. She is stringing together words to make sentences. But there's one glaring difference between Julia and the others: Vera and Jason and Jane and Jack express a range of moods and emotions.
On one day, a child is cranky or clingy; on another, he's perky, more exploratory. Julia has one consistent demeanor. She's always cheerful, exuberant, active. The mothers constantly remark that she's the happiest child they've ever encountered. She doesn't complain. She never throws a tantrum. I'd like to believe the mothers are thinking, “Wow, what is she doing right to have such an even-tempered, agreeable child?” But in my own dark moments, I wonder why my child
is
so robotic, so mechanical. Why she never seems to have a bad day. What does it all mean?

Even when it comes time to leave the park, I simply say, “Julia, it's time to go,” and she pops herself in the stroller. I see other mothers spend twenty minutes negotiating with their child, and usually they must resort to a sugary treat to close the deal.

Today, like at every playdate, the broken and interrupted conversation revolves around parenting. Milestones. Diets. Sleeping schedules. The latest equipment. Extracurricular activities. Anxiety over nursery school admissions. Our group is spread on the grass. The children are feasting on Pirate's Booty and Cheerios, plunging their little hands into plastic containers some of the mothers have brought. Julia, in a rare moment, is on the blanket, sitting with her feet sticking out in front of her, chomping on what I assume are the snacks. But someone yells out, “Oh my God, she's choking!” I look up and her face is crimson. I grab her and pry open her mouth. There are blades of grass at the back of her throat. I put my fingers in her mouth and pull them out one at a time. She sputters and coughs.

“Here,” someone said. “Give her water.”

Julia takes the sippy cup and gulps hard. She looks up at the crowd of faces and then takes a few more sips of water. I hear someone say, “She's brave.”

I assume she said that because Julia never cried during or after the scare.

“She's okay,” someone else says.

“You okay, Julia?” another mother asks.

I hear a voice in my mind saying,
Go pick her up and embrace her.
But I don't because I know she's fine. I know in a moment she'll get back on her feet and start running around. I know that if I try to coddle
her, she'll reject me in front of the crowd. I survey the faces of the other mothers, feeling judged, though there's a good chance that nobody will give this incident a second thought except me.

“Make sure you keep those chips away from her,” I bark, abruptly pulling the bowl away from Julia. The three of us are sitting at an outdoor table at a Mexican restaurant. It's a beautiful early summer evening, but I'm still shaken from today's incident.

“What's the matter?” Ricky says

I tell him how Julia was eating grass, but I hadn't noticed until a playgroup mother pointed it out and how I got to her in time, but still…. As usual, he reacts calmly, saying children get up to mischief.

“I know, but I think other mothers and their children are so in tune with each other. I'm just afraid one day something will happen, and it will be too late for me to come to her aid.”

For once, Ricky does not gloss over my concerns with his eternal optimism. Instead, he grows quiet, contemplative.

It's hot today, and I wish I was at the beach, sitting on a lounge chair, reading a book, alone and not at Riverside Park standing at the edge of a sandbox-turned-urban swimming pool. Julia is always the first child in, and she romps and splashes with gusto. She likes to squash her bottom right against the nozzles of the sprinkler. Most children approach the fountains tentatively. From the corner of my eye, I notice Vera tugging a pail from another child. Nancy slices through the shin-deep water like a motorboat to quell the mayhem. They're at a distance so I can't hear the words, but I can see Nancy trying to reason with Vera to give the pail back to the boy and Vera is thrashing and flailing.

I watch the scene and wonder if Julia would be territorial and possessive if I were more like Nancy. If I had worn her on my back or in a
Snugli when she was younger, if I fussed over her constantly, if we slept in a family bed, would Julia be more prone to jealousy, rage, moodiness? Does her lack of these emotions signal a problem?

“Oh good, you're early,” I say to Jen. “The locker room's upstairs.”

Jen and I are taking a mommy-and-me swim class with Jason and Julia. In the locker room, I notice how Jen leaves Jason on the bench lying down, and she glides over to the locker to take out his swim trunks and a diaper. I watch this tableau in disbelief. She trusts him to remain on the bench until she returns, and he does. I picture mother ducks and their chicks and the natural order of things. I feel envy because it is never like that with Julia and me.

When in the pool, the water exercises force Julia to rely on me, which is good. She instinctively realizes she needs me to keep her safe and afloat, and she holds on and lets me guide her through the swimming exercises.

Back in the dressing room, we pull the wet suits off our toddlers and towel-dry them. Jason is drowsy; he's content to sit in his stroller and peck Cheerios. Julia is tooling around, heading for the toilet stall. Still dripping in my wet suit, I chase her.