When There's No Such Thing as Trying Too Hard

In the before times, my husband and I would go about our Sundays slowly, shuffling around the kitchen in our robes, brewing coffee, listening to the radio, frying up an extra strip of bacon for the dog.

In the now times, we have a toddler.

Our son doesn’t care that it’s the weekend. He doesn’t even know what a weekend is. He can’t appreciate the Lord’s day, which is a day of rest after bottomless mimosa brunch.

Fortunately, we live a scant few miles from the most kid-friendly coffee shop in all of suburbia. The shop is equal parts caffeine, homemade pastries, comfy seating, and toddler Thunderdome. Tucked discreetly next to a couch, near the far corner of the shop, is a wooden train table and bins filled with toy cars, blocks, and figurines. Near the lurid display of lemon tarts, pumpkin bundt cakes, and oversized cookies is a modest refrigerator stocked with low-fat string cheese, apple slices, and milk boxes.

Woe unto the businessman who tries to take a sales call during his coffee break; nothing can be heard above the din of frothing milk and the joyful thud of children pummeling each other with wooden toys.

For Shelby and me, scones and mugs of dark roast have taken the place of champagne cocktails and aspirin chasers. Like so many parents in our neighborhood, late Sunday mornings are spent at the coffee shop, where our kids can run amok while the adults commiserate. Even at my most socially awkward, I find it easy to strike up conversation with the other moms and dads nibbling muffins on the sly as they dole out carrot sticks to the little ones.

Last Sunday, the coffee shop was brimming. We were lucky to snag the last two-top, and right next to the play area. At the train table, a few preschool-aged boys were alternately maiming plastic pedestrians with a caboose and engaging a dinosaur in battle with a bulldozer. Pork Chop scrambled off of Shelby’s lap and joined the fray.

At the table to our left, a dad leaned back casually in his chair, a backpack, jackets, and hats stacked at his feet. He watched his two boys playing, occasionally piping up to say, “Colin, Joseph, please share.”

To the far right, a newish mom hovered over her daughter, a spindly babe crawling toward the bin of figurines.

And in the middle sat a mom and dad, their table littered with crumpled napkins, a leaking sippy cup, and empty plates. The dad wore a Steelers sweatshirt and scrolled through his smart phone, glancing up nervously every few seconds. The mom sat bolt upright and wore a smile that made my cheeks ache vicariously.

Smiling mom turned to the casual single dad, “I can’t believe how well they’re getting along! They’re just playing so nicely.” Then turning to her son, “Jack, aren’t you just having the best time with Colin and Joseph? Aren’t you having so much fun?”

In response, Jack, a fair-skinned boy with soft brown curls, snatched up a wooden railroad tie and used it to smack my son on the head. “We don’t like babies much,” he explained to my toddler.

“Careful now. Careful.” I said, just as his mom leapt up, pleading, “No hands, buddy! No hands!”

Jack turned slowly toward my voice. His pale eyes were fixed somewhere on the wall behind me. He dropped his weapon.

“It’s okay,” I mouthed to the smiling mom. Pork Chop had seen worse. Pork Chop had done worse. But the mom hurried over to crouch by my son’s side.

She stroked my son’s head tenderly, nervously. She glanced up at me. “How old?”

“Not quite two.”

“Would you look at those eyelashes! If I had lashes like those, I’d never need mascara. Oh, you’re just gonna be a heartbreaker when you grow up. Aren’t you?”

Abruptly, smiling mom turned toward new mom. “And how old is your little one?”

“Oh, Avery’s 10 months.”

“What a doll baby! And did you hear that, Jack? Her name is Avery! That’s what we were going to name you if you had been a girl. We love the name Avery. Love it. It’s our favorite girl name, isn’t it?”

Jack grabbed both Colin and Joseph by the neck, pulling them into a group hug. Then he squeezed until the boys turned red in the face. “Look how strong I am.”

“Hands, Jack! Hands to yourself!”

The new mom gaped briefly at the boys, then turned toward me from across the train table. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it. How old is your son?”

I opened my mouth to speak.

“Oh, he’s almost 2!” Jack’s mom swooped in, smiling, smiling, smiling with all her might.

I nodded and sat back in my seat. Shelby raised his coffee to his lips and covertly cocked his eyebrow at me. I shrugged.

“This place is just the best, isn’t it?” asked Jack’s mom. “Now that we’re homeschooling, it’s so nice to find a kid-friendly hangout. Lots of new buddies to meet!” Then she paused, cleared her throat, and dug into her purse. “The boys have just played so nicely together, haven’t they? So, so nice. Let’s just go ahead and set up a play date, right?” At that, she whipped out a stack of business cards, handing one to the single dad, who blinked and nodded in a gesture that conveyed both confusion and consent.

Shortly after, we took the last of our coffee to go and loaded Pork Chop back into his car seat.

At a red light, Shelby turned to me, “Well, she was intense, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Did you hear her answer for me? She was trying just a little too hard.”

I heard myself say it: “Trying.”

“Trying” ­— in all of its incarnations. “To make an effort.” "To test the quality of." “To be difficult.”

Like so many moms on the Internet, I’d just read the moving open letter "Dear Parent: About THAT Kid" by educator and blogger Amy Murray. I thought about the difficult kid, the oddball, the troublemaker. I thought about “THAT kid.” I thought about Jack’s mom, smiling like it was her job, turning a free-for-all into a bromance, trying so damn hard.

I turned back to Shelby, saying, "I think maybe . . . " but trailed off at first, unable to articulate why I suddenly felt ashamed.

What, I wondered, would compel a mom to carry business cards for play dates? 

I tried again. "I think maybe that kid must have a hard time making friends. A really hard time."

Shelby was quiet a moment. "I think you might be right."

"And if he can't make friends . . ." I said slowly, working out my thought as I spoke, "it must be pretty hard for her to make friends. I mean, if your kid is THAT kid, what do you do?"

You smile a lot. You print out business cards. You try and you try and you hope that, one Sunday morning over cappuccino and juice boxes, something clicks. That someone gets him, and by extension, gets you.  That someone picks your kid for his team. That your kid has a team. That someone — someone else — picks your kid.

In the backseat, Pork Chop flipped through a picture book. "Lemon? Lemon? Lemon?" he asked, pointing to a yellow fish.

"It's a fish, buddy. A fish."

"No! No!" Pause. "Lemon?"

To us, our son is perfect. He destroyed our lazy Sunday mornings. He is lovable. He cries when we make him wear socks. He is a wonder. He calls the baby monitor "Grandma." He is worthy.

I don't know if OUR kid will ever be THAT kid, but if that day comes, I'll be down at the coffee shop, smiling 'til it hurts.

Smiling until it hurts, I tell you.