Goat's Adventures Abroad

This piece originally appeared in the lovely but now shuttered publication, Mothers Always Write, in 2014. Dropping Atticus at college earlier this week—at Bowdoin, where this story is set—brought it to mind. When I returned home from drop-off, I discovered Goat on my bed, left for me by my son.

It was nighttime by the time we arrived in Brunswick, and I wasn’t feeling well.  Achy, dizzy, not myself.  By sheer force of will, I had managed the flight from Paris to Newark, Newark to Portland, the drive from Portland to Brunswick, where we would see our daughter, Cordelia, as Antigone in Anouilh’s Antigone the next night.  We ate dinner with her director, a lovely man, whose affection for our daughter and respect for our ten-year old son, Atticus, impressed me.  Atticus liked him, too, though jet lag got him, and he fell asleep on an ottoman.  Finally, back in the Inn, my husband, son and I tumbled into bed. In the night I woke with an “Uh oh feeling.”

Where is Goat?

Goat, whose formal name is Elijah Vanilla Crème Goat, traveled to London and Paris with us over Spring Break, seeing the sights and offering a friendly ear to a boy who was not so sure about unfamiliar places.  I remembered stuffing him into Atticus’ backpack when we left London, but suddenly, I have no memory of packing him  early this morning, when, groggy, we left our miniature hotel room in Paris.  I clambered out of bed and use my Itty Bitty Book light to locate the backpack, which I unzip quietly.  I felt around.  No white fur.  No Goat.  As I feared.  Goat had stayed in Paris.

I felt like crying.  “Bad mother,” I punished myself, despite the fact that my son was ten and perfectly capable of looking after his things.  Except that we left Paris at 4 a.m.  None of us was firing on all pistons. 

What to do? What to do? I knew Atticus will be crushed.  He was too old to accept a new Goat, a trick I tried once when he was three and his beloved Tubby had been mislaid.  When the original, a pale green hippo with pink paws, was discovered, we had Tubby One and Tubby Two. 

Goat is the last.  Atticus and I have talked about this—he has always loved stuffed animals—animals ring his bed—penguins, dogs, rabbits.  He sleeps with Goat and a small bear called Capitan—one of the characters from Commedia del’Arte. His sisters—ever so much older—have matching bears with Commedia names, too—Smeraldina and Columbine---the hazards of a theatre family—even our animals get names from Shakespeare or mythology. Goat, named entirely by Atticus was the last new acquisition to my son’s menagerie. 

“Enough,” I said, irritated, last fall.  “There are too many stuffed animals in this room, on this bed. No more animals.”

My exasperation, I know, is tied up in Atticus’ pleasure in remaining a little boy—by his own admission, he worries about getting older, is reluctant to grow up, to take on school work, to show how competent he is.  And a piece of me empathizes with his fear.  It’s nice to be cared for, to have few obligations, to have a Mom and Dad who swoop in to fix things.  I explain that his reading by himself doesn’t mean I won’t read to him, that his managing his homework independently doesn’t mean we’ll throw him to the wolves—the year has been a struggle.  He sees his sisters working hard in college; me, working hard as the Head of the School on whose property we live but which he, being a boy, had to leave before Kindergarten.   He sees his Dad working hard as a math teacher at my school. He feels exiled.  He hates that he is so much younger than his sisters, hates having to do much that does not involve the Disney Channel.  Too much of his life is spent in front of a screen, escaping and untended by older parents, who are too busy coping to remember to entertain him or to hold him accountable. I know some of Atticus’ resistance is because he feels less than…he doesn’t believe he is capable, and though I can say it all day long, he needs to feel inside himself that he can manage, be successful.  Effort and persistence, key aspects of growth mindset, have not yet taken root, so I fuss at him, a nagging mom, who loves him so much, but wants him to step up.  His father, calmer, worries privately, to me or to his sisters, noting on the soccer field that Atticus gets tired and stands, hoping the ball will come his way.  We want to allow him to be who he is.  We want him to be more.  It’s a wicked cycle. 

Last fall, we went shopping for a baby gift, and Atticus spied Goat in a lovely boutique.

“Look, Mom.  He’s so great.  He looks distinguished. Look at his beard.”

“No,” I said firmly.  “We agreed.  No more animals.” 

Sadly, Atticus muttered, “I don’t have any goats,” but reluctantly returned Goat to the shelf.

But secretly, in a mixed messages mothering move, I snuck back and purchased Goat, hiding him from Atticus. I tucked him into the top of my boy’s stocking, so he was joyfully discovered on Christmas morning.  We named him that night as Atticus solemnly contemplated the animal he knew would be the last stuffed companion to come into the house. 

“He looks like the little blue cups of half and half I drink at First Watch, Vanilla Crème.”

“Okay, anything else?  Want to call him Vanilla Crème Brulee?” I ask. Names matter. And I love Crème Brulee.

“Nope.  Elijah.  Elijah Vanilla Crème.”

“With Goat as his last name?” 

“Yes, but I might call him Goat for short.”

“Sounds sensible.” 

Often, after I read to him at night, Atticus, my philosopher, offers me his musings. This night, he says:

“Sometimes Christmas is hard, Mom.  I look forward to it for so long, but then the girls don’t even want to do anything.”

“Well, we went to the Annie movie.”

“Yea, I guess it was okay.”

“I agree.  It was medium.”

“But you gave me Goat, Mom.  That was pretty great.” 

“I’m glad.  It's fun to have surprises sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he says, drowsy.

Theirs was not a long relationship, but one that mattered.

At 2 a.m. from my bed in chilly Brunswick, I did not have the heart to wake my husband, who was finally in deep slumber.  Fretting, I email Lili, a former student, who lives in Paris.  We had been with her the night before.  She lives in the Marais across from the Pompidou, and Atticus, suspicious of Paris because it felt darker and drearier than London—possibly because it rained most of the time we were there—loved her.  He even ate the savory crepes her fiancé prepared—it had been a magical final evening.

“Don't laugh.  Could you call the Odeon St. Germain and see if they found Goat, Atticus’ lovey?  I think he slipped down between the beds.  He’s white, so I think I just missed him.”

In moments, she wrote back.  “They have him!”

I thanked her extravagantly. 

Relieved, I give into illness and jet lag and went back to sleep.  In the morning, Atticus poked me gently, at the side of my bed, eyes brimming.

“Mom, I can’t find Goat.”

“Honey, he decided to take an extra day in Paris.  He wanted to visit the Pompidou.  Lili is sending him home tomorrow.”

“He stayed in Paris?”  Atticus is incredulous, disbelieving.

“Yep.  He liked the crepes.”

“You’re teasing. Did we forget him?”

“What’s going on?” my husband asked groggily.

“We lost Goat,” Atticus quavered.

“We didn’t lose him,” I explained to Seth. “We know where he is. Lili has him and she is sending him tomorrow.” 

Seth asks, “You talked to Lili?  It’s 7:00 a.m.?”

“I know.  Email.”  Seth rolled over.  Atticus, soothed, went back to his I-pad.

Crisis averted.  Atticus was okay.  I was ill but much better than I had been at 2:00 in the morning. I was grateful that Lili saved the day. My mother- guilt was assuaged. 

Later, Lili sent a photo of Goat to reassure Atticus.  She wrote “Totally my pleasure to be walking around Paris with an adorable stuffed goat. The French word for a child's sacred stuffed animal is "doudou" and they take these things very seriously - the hotel staff was sincerely concerned / protective / relieved.”  Lucky Atticus, to have misplaced a lovey in a land that values a child’s relationship with a stuffed toy.

We saw Antigone.  Cordelia was exceptional—fiery, vulnerable, authentic. Five minutes in, Atticus’s head drooped onto my shoulder.  He snored softly.  I tried to rouse him, but he was too tired.  We are a pair—one over-tired boy, one sick mother. Only my husband, Seth, seemed in tact, alert, unscathed by jet lag.  His experience working abroad served him well; he travels light and adapts fast. 

The next morning, Cordelia bustled into our room at the inn, administering Source Water, chosen for electrolytes, scolding me about dehydration, patiently watching her brother’s magic tricks from the kit he acquired at Hamley’s in London, the highlight of his trip.  A few days later, we left for Cleveland.  Lili assured us that Goat is en route, and about a week later, he arrived.  Atticus worried that he may have been harmed, squashed as he was into the padded envelope, but a quick shake and he was uncrumpled. 

That night, once again, Atticus clutched Goat next to him in bed. 

“I liked London, Mom.  I didn’t like Paris.  I like home best.”

His eyelids fluttered, lashes resting finally.  I look at his silky dark hair, the round curve of his cheek.  He needs to leave his little boy self at his own pace, not at mine. Goat may need to keep him company on the way. He is my own Peter Pan, my own Dorothy, refusing to grow up at any one’s time table, but his own, realizing, after his travels, that there no place like home.

Still, sitting by the bed, I think that he is also Jackie Paper to my Puff. “Painted wings and giant strings make way for other toys.  Little boys grow up in a blink, when we are not watching. Seth and I, after the daily care of children for so decades, will wonder at the house’s quiet, at our lack of tasks to accomplish.  I breathe in his lingering little-boy-ness, the need he has for his mother.

Watching him sleep, finally, I know the day will come when he no longer will cuddle goat.  Even now, he is changing, struggling.  And I, like Atticus, am struggling, too, with the knowledge that there will a come a time—in fact, there must come a time—when I can’t fix whatever is awry; even now, I feel a little guilty.  I’m a school-teacher who reminds parents often that we hobble our children when we try to assuage every bump.  But tonight, I forgive myself, knowing that soon he will not need or want me to unravel all the snags.  

It is easy to get Goat back; other losses along the way are harder to bear.  We manage.  We move forward.

Sweet dreams, Atticus.  Sweet dreams, Goat.  Welcome home.