When we go to the store, I employ a system of bribery to get the grocery shopping done without losing my smile. It's called: if you are good we'll get a treat. Original, I know. Last time the girls got a bonus for super good behavior we didn't get candy, or so tiny icecreams, or a movie from "the red box". We got six flaky, sprouting brown bulbs that looked like loser onions but promised to magically turn into paperwhites; white baby daffies Curly Sue has every expectation of being pink in spite of everything she's been told. And how can I resist that kind of optimism?
We took them home. We did the classic family home evening about faith. And planted them in a red, rectangular flower box brought in off the balcony. I'm usually a houseplant killer, but not these babies. They are getting down-right nurtured. They play in the girls windowsill during the day, and sleep on their dresser at night. And everytime we water them Lil' Blue Lou gently tucks them back snug in the dirt with a whispered "Pah, pah, pah, nigh-nigh-ee". Because apparently, everything that we're not currently holding in our hands is night-night.
Now, zoom out for a minute so you can catch the gist of the rest of our January: the Month of Ill. We have a bad relationship with her, a grudge that took root four years ago and has not been forgiven. January is our nemesis. She hates us in a sneaky, underhanded way. She's like a bad cop, filing all the right paperwork but threatening capital punishment over parking violations in dark interrogation rooms with no lawyer. She gets us sweating over nothing and we just can't trust 'er. I can't prove it, but it's definitely her fault we've been so. dang. sick. all year. All twenty-four days of it. I swear, there have been 80 gajillion vomiting episodes this month. It happens every year. January is death. Then February brings my birthday and Valentines and sometimes even a crocus or two. February is the good cop. The one that makes you feel like everything's gonna be okay, no matter what Officer Hellbound just told you. She promises to let you live. And she tells the truth.
But in the meantime, we've seen January in top form this week. Louie has been stealth vomiting and moving along with her life like nothing happened until she drops amazing bowel movements straight through her diaper and clothes to the carpet. And by amazing, I mean awesome like a stinky green flash flood. She's been trying to keep singing her song like my usual happy little blue bird but she's just not there. And poor Sue, she's been living on Motrin and Tylenol in an effort to beat down that raging fever of hers for good. It's been this or that since January One. They seem to just keep swapping symptoms. The Daddy got his own taste of it today. And I'm about toast.
Zoom back in and I'll tell you we went to the doctor, who told us it was "just another viral infection". And I felt oddly comforted by that. We are to hang in there. Keep fighting a good fight. And we have. Our house is a world of thermometers, pedialyte, laundry, clorox wipes, fussing ladies, popsicles, spinning heads, exhausted parents, playdough, crayons, and that blessed cartoon monkey Curious George.
And daffies. Through it all we water them everyday. Leave them to play in the sunshine. And give them their pat, pat, pats. They've been thriving. Today I noticed how deep the green of their little shoots is. The very color of life in a world that's turning a ghostly puce. I think the contrast of that vivacious green peeking out through a rich brown with a red border is so pleasant. It made me a promise today about survival, about being sunny in the middle of sludgy muck. It helped me keep my eyes open. And I love those green peepers for it. So I think we'll plant paperwhite daffies every January from now on. See if we can't soften the bad cop up a bit.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Somebody
Every once in a while I get hung up on the thought of Somebody. Who they are, what they look like, what their story is. I think about it every time I drive by an abandoned car on the freeway I wonder where they are, the Somebody that should be behind that wheel....where did they go? are they coming back? were they alone? did they leave all their stuff locked up in the trunk or pack it with them? did they stomp off towards the gas station or just start walking resignedly? I get distracted imagining the stories of those lonely automobiles. And one of these days when I get my act together, I'm gonna write down a collection of my little make believes....
But today I am less obsessed with who Somebody was. I am mostly grateful for what Somebody did. Like I was grateful that Somebody was carefree enough to jump on a piece of plastic and go flying down a snowy hill. 'Cause one way or another it led to our afternoon out with friends. The girls swooping and giggling and taking breaks on the playground until their cheeks were purple and we herded them into the car. I'm grateful somebody made it possible to record all kinds of information on compact discs. My honey and our girls are watching Curious George and eating apple snack as I type this. And I'm so glad Somebody messed around with heat and time and flour and yeast until it became a known fact that if you mix the right ingredients in the right way and wait, the warm, comforting smell of bread will fill the house before the genuine article fills your stomach. Because homemade bread is the culinary equivalent of a hot bubble bath. I'm grateful Somebody did all that leg work for all these good things. 'Cause I'm finding plenty to fill my days.
So thank you, Somebody. Maybe it'll be my turn someday.....
But today I am less obsessed with who Somebody was. I am mostly grateful for what Somebody did. Like I was grateful that Somebody was carefree enough to jump on a piece of plastic and go flying down a snowy hill. 'Cause one way or another it led to our afternoon out with friends. The girls swooping and giggling and taking breaks on the playground until their cheeks were purple and we herded them into the car. I'm grateful somebody made it possible to record all kinds of information on compact discs. My honey and our girls are watching Curious George and eating apple snack as I type this. And I'm so glad Somebody messed around with heat and time and flour and yeast until it became a known fact that if you mix the right ingredients in the right way and wait, the warm, comforting smell of bread will fill the house before the genuine article fills your stomach. Because homemade bread is the culinary equivalent of a hot bubble bath. I'm grateful Somebody did all that leg work for all these good things. 'Cause I'm finding plenty to fill my days.
So thank you, Somebody. Maybe it'll be my turn someday.....
Sunday, December 13, 2009
First Snow
Every Christmas, Handsome and I go to the Nutcracker at the Opera House. It's tradition. Just plan on it. Assume it. Look forward to it. And enjoy it. I love the Nutcracker. It's sweet. It's beautiful, playful, innocent. It's Christmas personified.
This year the day came and Lil' Miss Wiggles Louise woke up a fever fired mucous machine. She was green and toasted and in need of constant lovin'. And I hate leaving a baby like that. Then Daddy suggested that the monkey and I have a Mommy Date. And that idea went over BIG. Suzy Q was on her best behavior all day. She napped and shared and buttered us up. We put on her prettiest cream lace dress, ringlets slipping from her "ballerina ponytail", red lady-bug rain boots adding her signature bit of snazz, off we went to catch the train for a night of fancy fun in the city.
We ate oranges on the train and counted down the stops. We held hands on the street and looked at the city, all dressed up in twinkle lights for us. We always play eye-spy when we're on our way, and this evening, Curly spotted a great big neon snowflake suspended in the alley. Huge and sparkly and twinkling "Merry Christmas" in the dark.
In the opera house, she was my little lady. She had quick little chats with the ushers, about her dress, and Santa, and mostly her ladybugs. We settled into our seats and played eye-spy. Fancy ladies bedecked with flowers in the white molding. Fringed red curtains so luxurious I always feel like we could dive right in and swim in there. A silver moon against the black backdrop.
The lights flickered. The show began. And I watched, with my girl on my lap, whispering questions and promising to be brave as the Nutcracker battled the mouse king and whisked Clara off to visit the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Pink ladies and snow flakes and children spinning brightly colored parasols. Flowers and sweet little sheep. We guided each other through story; she reminding me to be patient with the little black lamb: "he was just a little behind".
It was crowded in the lobby afterward. Everyone was smooshed. Hot. Crowded. And apparently stuck. I was afraid that discomfort would bring the night to an upsetting, though quite age-appropriate end. I was working to avoid it. I loved every moment of this night with my girl. It was special to me. And I did not want it marred by a tantrum. Then I saw our salvation in the elegant arch of the window above. Snow. Falling softly, in great jolly fluffs. I pointed and whispered and my girl cried out "SNOW!" in that voice that only children have. You know the one. Melting and infectious. Benevolent as the smell of bacon beckoning you out of bed on a icy winter morning. Then we were outside in the final grand finale. The streets were covered, white batting wrapped over every harsh corner. She made me play. And I did not fight her.
The holidays are full of glitter and decor. Music and events and traditions. I love those things, but they are only context. They only matter when I've got Christmas inside of me. And Christmas for me is like a fire lit within. Every year I wait for it to catch, like a camper working with tinder. I never know what exactly will light my spark, it's different every time. But this year, it was little Curly's voice, reaching up to greet that soft first snow. Merry Christmas.
This year the day came and Lil' Miss Wiggles Louise woke up a fever fired mucous machine. She was green and toasted and in need of constant lovin'. And I hate leaving a baby like that. Then Daddy suggested that the monkey and I have a Mommy Date. And that idea went over BIG. Suzy Q was on her best behavior all day. She napped and shared and buttered us up. We put on her prettiest cream lace dress, ringlets slipping from her "ballerina ponytail", red lady-bug rain boots adding her signature bit of snazz, off we went to catch the train for a night of fancy fun in the city.
We ate oranges on the train and counted down the stops. We held hands on the street and looked at the city, all dressed up in twinkle lights for us. We always play eye-spy when we're on our way, and this evening, Curly spotted a great big neon snowflake suspended in the alley. Huge and sparkly and twinkling "Merry Christmas" in the dark.
In the opera house, she was my little lady. She had quick little chats with the ushers, about her dress, and Santa, and mostly her ladybugs. We settled into our seats and played eye-spy. Fancy ladies bedecked with flowers in the white molding. Fringed red curtains so luxurious I always feel like we could dive right in and swim in there. A silver moon against the black backdrop.
The lights flickered. The show began. And I watched, with my girl on my lap, whispering questions and promising to be brave as the Nutcracker battled the mouse king and whisked Clara off to visit the land of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Pink ladies and snow flakes and children spinning brightly colored parasols. Flowers and sweet little sheep. We guided each other through story; she reminding me to be patient with the little black lamb: "he was just a little behind".
It was crowded in the lobby afterward. Everyone was smooshed. Hot. Crowded. And apparently stuck. I was afraid that discomfort would bring the night to an upsetting, though quite age-appropriate end. I was working to avoid it. I loved every moment of this night with my girl. It was special to me. And I did not want it marred by a tantrum. Then I saw our salvation in the elegant arch of the window above. Snow. Falling softly, in great jolly fluffs. I pointed and whispered and my girl cried out "SNOW!" in that voice that only children have. You know the one. Melting and infectious. Benevolent as the smell of bacon beckoning you out of bed on a icy winter morning. Then we were outside in the final grand finale. The streets were covered, white batting wrapped over every harsh corner. She made me play. And I did not fight her.
The holidays are full of glitter and decor. Music and events and traditions. I love those things, but they are only context. They only matter when I've got Christmas inside of me. And Christmas for me is like a fire lit within. Every year I wait for it to catch, like a camper working with tinder. I never know what exactly will light my spark, it's different every time. But this year, it was little Curly's voice, reaching up to greet that soft first snow. Merry Christmas.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Second Star to the Right
We love the park. The girls would be happy if everyday I simply packed them in the stroller and took them to the playground. Gloom or shine. All. Day. Every. Day. And they would slide and chase and climb. But most of all they would swing. They are expert swingers, those two. Sugar Blue is never ready to get out. You can see her savoring the flavor of the air on her cheeks, ingesting it like honey and letting it amplify all that is sweet. She lounges and smiles. Takes advantage of the opportunity to see the world upside down. Giggles and shines. And always wishes for more.
And Curly. Curly, Curly, Curly Sue. She has mastered the art of swinging. She extracts every ounce of fun there is to be had in two chains and a plastic seat. She's an expert at the twist and spin, underdogs and superman style. But her specialty is the classic set up, back straight, face lit. Pumping her legs or coasting, floating. She flies, lets the breeze swirl her curls like a mane around her face. The motion seems to lift her to a secret place, a Never Never Land tailored uniquely to her. She packs the rhythm in her pockets like pixie dust, saves it for later. I think swinging is her happy thought.
I introduced her to the spider strategy not long ago. I slid between the chain links and lifted her on my lap. Then four legs pumped, two shorter, two longer. A gleeful squeal escaped Louise as we swung like a pendulum, gently gaining altitude with each bend in our joints. Wind kissed my cheekbones, whispered in my ear and I looked at my first little girl, already far past the second star to the right and circling the mermaid lagoon. I was transported, Wendy led by Peter Pan's perfect charm. The moment passed, warm and slow as amber syrup from a pitcher. Lately, that's my happy thought.
And Curly. Curly, Curly, Curly Sue. She has mastered the art of swinging. She extracts every ounce of fun there is to be had in two chains and a plastic seat. She's an expert at the twist and spin, underdogs and superman style. But her specialty is the classic set up, back straight, face lit. Pumping her legs or coasting, floating. She flies, lets the breeze swirl her curls like a mane around her face. The motion seems to lift her to a secret place, a Never Never Land tailored uniquely to her. She packs the rhythm in her pockets like pixie dust, saves it for later. I think swinging is her happy thought.
I introduced her to the spider strategy not long ago. I slid between the chain links and lifted her on my lap. Then four legs pumped, two shorter, two longer. A gleeful squeal escaped Louise as we swung like a pendulum, gently gaining altitude with each bend in our joints. Wind kissed my cheekbones, whispered in my ear and I looked at my first little girl, already far past the second star to the right and circling the mermaid lagoon. I was transported, Wendy led by Peter Pan's perfect charm. The moment passed, warm and slow as amber syrup from a pitcher. Lately, that's my happy thought.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
It's Mahk!
Coming out of the grocery store our purple rocket shopping cart was hijacked by a kindly helper who introduced himself as "Mahk!" in heavy Bostonian English. Smiling, he informed me that he would be taking care of us today. I'm usually one to avoid this type of help, but not even I could resist the childlike joy in this man's face. Pushing my groceries was his Christmas morning. I yielded girls and groceries into the supervised care of this down-syndrome hero, feeling strangely special to receive his attention. Then he zoomed the girls to our car, even made sound effects. He loaded all the groceries into the trunk, took note of all our names, and generally made a gentleman of himself. I put Curly in the car to get herself started on the seatbelt process while I grabbed baby Louise. I heard Suzie slam the door behind her and Mark rushed over, to play. I heard quacking and giggles. I felt secure in taking my time getting Sweetie Blue out of the rocket and into her seat. A soft hand reached over the shotgun headrest, quack-quack-quacking around. Looking for my curly little love. It's MAHK!!! He appeared with black eyes shining. He was delighted. She was delighted. We were delighted. He stuck around for one more round of "Who is this Duck?". Then off he went to save the day of some other customer who had no idea they were in need.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Freestyle
A few weeks ago I took the girls to an arts festival while Daddy studied. In a word it was awesome. "Punkins" of every color, free face painting, all kinds of fine pictures for sale, and a kids tent settled next to the hugest subwoofers I've ever seen, or heard. You could paint a pumpkin for two bucks; so I bought two and let Curly style both while Bobalouise lovingly identified every other gourd in the joint...when she wasn't busy hooting with the band on her kazoo. Before the hour had passed Suzie had produced pumpkins so very Pollock meets Rothko and Bugs had been there to help all volunteers understand that pumpkins are amazing in that they are round, orange, and quite easily fallen off of. I scribbled initials in our signature pink and started herding them toward the door. We made a small detour to get the stinker's face painted; then I exited to the sunshine with one Sweetface a bouquet of flowers, and the other greatly troubled by the mess on her sister's cheeks.
The pumpkins were still wet and we had energy to burn so I suggested they dance in the grassy sunshine while our prizes dried. This was wildly successful! The band did cover after cover of everything from Cotton Eye Joe to Michael Jackson through the years. And the girls were busting a move. Little Lou bounced in wide circles across the lawn. Slightly oblivious, and totally delighted. Sweet Sue, she was a blur. Light glinting off golden curls, ice blue polka dot skirt casting shadows on the dying grass. Twirling, leaping, posing for dramatic effect. Song after song after song. I couldn't keep my eyes off her, she was so fun to watch.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found an old woman, purple sweatsuit hanging on her fragile frame, the fuzzy hair of a much loved teddy bear, eyes deep with purpose. She asked me if Curly had dance classes, encouraged me to get her some, discussed the lifelong benefits of music in one's life. Curly could tell she'd been noticed and gave her performance everything she had. I enjoyed it. This woman was sweet, sincere, kind, passionate. And soon I could tell she was tired. Her daughter came to guide her back to her folding chair but not before our patron made me promise to foster the arts in my home. I think she may have had some difficulty with short term memory, we replayed the conversation three times more. But she was right about everything. And we had fun.
The pumpkins were still wet and we had energy to burn so I suggested they dance in the grassy sunshine while our prizes dried. This was wildly successful! The band did cover after cover of everything from Cotton Eye Joe to Michael Jackson through the years. And the girls were busting a move. Little Lou bounced in wide circles across the lawn. Slightly oblivious, and totally delighted. Sweet Sue, she was a blur. Light glinting off golden curls, ice blue polka dot skirt casting shadows on the dying grass. Twirling, leaping, posing for dramatic effect. Song after song after song. I couldn't keep my eyes off her, she was so fun to watch.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. Turning, I found an old woman, purple sweatsuit hanging on her fragile frame, the fuzzy hair of a much loved teddy bear, eyes deep with purpose. She asked me if Curly had dance classes, encouraged me to get her some, discussed the lifelong benefits of music in one's life. Curly could tell she'd been noticed and gave her performance everything she had. I enjoyed it. This woman was sweet, sincere, kind, passionate. And soon I could tell she was tired. Her daughter came to guide her back to her folding chair but not before our patron made me promise to foster the arts in my home. I think she may have had some difficulty with short term memory, we replayed the conversation three times more. But she was right about everything. And we had fun.
2:19:10
Six months ago I set a goal. One that I thought was pretty big. And one that was pretty much just for me. I wanted to run a half marathon: 13 miles. I picked one that friends had run; a hilly but beautiful course in New Hampshire, very comfortable for family spectators, and with the promise of fresh orchard produce at the end. Six months went by. Flew by. We kept up with life. Hubby studied for the boards, I trained as much as possible. Then Saturday arrived, beautiful. We got up early, ate breakfast, packed snacks and entertainment for two little munchkins, and trekked up there. I picked up my d-tag and I stretched in the port-a-potty line. Kuni got settled with the girls somewhere. Then hundreds of us slipped into line. And I ran, we ran, up and down, past flashes of crimson and gold peeking out from the green under a sky of Easter egg blue. The air was clean and gently warm, it was a day designed for running.
I loved it. All two hours, nineteen minutes, ten seconds of it. I'm amazed at the human body. I love how my muscles remembered how to do this, even though it was more than I'd ever done before. I love the camaraderie of running; I love the support I feel from the other contenders, how we push each other, make each other work, make each other better. I love the circus of a race, it's a buffet for the eye and ear what with the furry man, the horse woman, the power granny, and the lone hilltop bagpipe serenader. I love the metaphor it is for life: so much putting one foot in front of the other, how the hardest days are the most important ones to finish, the great, subtle rewards of consistency. I loved seeing my favorites waving at the finish. And I'll definitely do it again. I'll do it again for the smell of the air in the woods, for the time spent alone with my thoughts in a crowd. I'll do again to give my soul a chance to keep pace with my feet. I'll do it again to stay who I am, and improve it. But more than anything, I'll do it again, 'cause it made me happy. :)
I loved it. All two hours, nineteen minutes, ten seconds of it. I'm amazed at the human body. I love how my muscles remembered how to do this, even though it was more than I'd ever done before. I love the camaraderie of running; I love the support I feel from the other contenders, how we push each other, make each other work, make each other better. I love the circus of a race, it's a buffet for the eye and ear what with the furry man, the horse woman, the power granny, and the lone hilltop bagpipe serenader. I love the metaphor it is for life: so much putting one foot in front of the other, how the hardest days are the most important ones to finish, the great, subtle rewards of consistency. I loved seeing my favorites waving at the finish. And I'll definitely do it again. I'll do it again for the smell of the air in the woods, for the time spent alone with my thoughts in a crowd. I'll do again to give my soul a chance to keep pace with my feet. I'll do it again to stay who I am, and improve it. But more than anything, I'll do it again, 'cause it made me happy. :)
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