Before I had kids but while pregnant with my first, I took a nephew I was babysitting to the park. There I was introduced to Parent Small Talk: the conversations temporary comrades-in-swing-pushing will strike up.
These conversations nearly always start the same way: “How old is s/he?”
If one comrade’s child is reasonably close in age to the other’s — or if there’s another connection, say a sibling of about the same age
A rose. OK, not. But is it any less beautiful?
- the next question is always: “What’s her/his name?”
With a rapport thus established, the conversation may veer in any number of directions, but the unspoken ground rule is that kids remain the subject. Parents almost never insert themselves into these chats, not even to introduce each other. Appalled at how these parents appeared to willingly surrender their identities, I returned from that park visit and vowed to my husband I would always ask other comrade swing-pushers their names.
Like most vows made in indignation, my commitment has waned. As my two kids entered daycare, I even accepted being greeted, “Hi, Owen’s mom.” Given my ambivalence over the “Mrs.” title and having a different last name than my first, it was just an easier way to deal with two- and three-year-olds.
But I hadn’t realized that I myself had adopted this habit until today, the last day of preschool. I’m the drop-off parent. Since school began last September, I’ve found myself on almost the exact same arrival schedule as two other dads. So greeting them has become part of the routine. Today, as I wished one a good summer, I was stunned to realize, I don’t know his name. He’s Will’s dad. After nine months of crossing paths twice weekly, that’s my only handle.
The other guy is Sam and Betsy’s dad. I did know his name once - we were also in swimming lessons together a couple years ago - but heck if I can remember it. I also thought he was a pharmacist, because I saw him wearing a pharmacy logo shirt back at the beginning of the year. Yesterday when we had a longer conversation, I found out he’s actually an accountant. Reality sends another perception reeling.
But when I think more about it, what further insight would their names give me? Let’s call Will’s dad John and Sam and Betsy’s dad Joe. I already know John and Joe are good dads. John had a funny routine he used in the winter when peeling off Will’s layers — seeing the cooperation he got, I even cribbed a bit of it. Joe bikes with his kids like we have been lately. One day when Betsy was upset about something I saw him being very kind and tender to her.
Like me, at Christmas time, John thought he missed the opportunity to buy a teacher gift, and ‘fessed up, finding out he wasn’t too late, after all. Joe knows Owen’s name and says hello to him. They both seem to be good guys, doing their best with this whole parenting thing. Just like me.
Hard to admit though it is, maybe my lesson this school year is that in some roles, in some circumstances, names aren’t that integral to identity, after all.
PS - Good to be posting again after being MIA in May. I’ll have more to say about May at a later date.
