The Kiddie Cocktail

Scenes from out west

So, now that we are on the school calendar for the forseeable forever, we planned a trip out west for Spring Break. My mom was long overdue for a visit in Idaho, and we managed to roll in a road trip to Bend, OR to meet up with Seth's aunt, uncle, and cousin. I grew up out west, in New Mexico. But I have been in an urban area of some sort for a pretty long time now, and I totally have developed a city dweller's mistrust of vast, remote, open spaces with no cell service. WE COULD DIE OUT HERE AND THE COYOTES WOULDN'T EVEN FIND OUR BODIES. But isn't it gorgeous?

Toto, I don't think we're in Washington anymore.

*Edited to add what was my very favorite sign of the entire trip, sighted on the side of Rt. 20 about 30 miles outside of Bend: "BEETLE CLEANED SKULLS - TAXIDERMY."  Now, THAT is not something you see every day.

Route 20, the Central Oregon Highway. First we saw lots of cattle and horses, then we didn't even see those, so much. There are ah, not many places to stop along here, so plan your gas & bathroom stops wisely, and bring snacks.

 

 

 

Remote, y'all. But look at that sky, and those hills.

Our awesome road-tripper. Snoozing, feet up, still holding the iPad.

The road to Mt. Bachelor. This isn't even a particularly good snow year. Ridiculous.

Seth, outfitted to ski. Both of us ski, but this is the first time we'd ever skied together.

Me, looking a little squinty in the blowing snow. Despite that, there was plenty of fluff over good hardpack. I wish I could have skied longer that day, but I am old and don't ski at all as much as I used to, so my legs were BURNT after a half-day. Still, skiing made me want to move out west again, to big mountains.

Rock climbing at the High Desert Museum in Bend.

Collared lizard at the High Desert museum.

It's good to be three. You can fly in your PJs and no one bats an eye.

Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Happy New Year! Happy whatever OMG someone please hand me a drink and I need a nap

It's kinda been like that, this past month. Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.

Three! Three! THREEE! My girl is three! Three birthday parties, so very many cupcakes,  fun, sore feet, BIG GIRL. Then, Thanksgiving, which is just like Norman Rockwell but with a gaggle of New York Jews (Erwin Rockowitz?), plus MOAR BERFDAY on account of four of the five little kid cousins have November birthdays. Next came the worst, most horrific mucus-laden cold ever in the history of the world which attacked just before a 4-day cross-country work trip to sort of the middle of nowhere in Oregon. (Think I'm kidding? Look up Roseburg, OR.) Still, traveling alone with the world's worst cold was still 847 times easier than traveling anywhere with a small child. My snot and I got to read lots of books.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/2/11 6:24 PM Oh my god, my head is full of snot. I am utterly besnotted.

And I got to wear this:

Home to continue drowning in nasal secretions, and marking my days by the number of wet pants sent home with my allegedly potty-training child. Managed to get a Christmas tree.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/4/11 6:53 PM Tree decorated, football on, happy child, awesome dinner, glass of wine, Christmas tunes, a few moments to myself. This is Sunday.

Didn't manage to fully unpack.

I think she wants to go next time.

Then off on another work trip to the north shore of Lake Michigan in December (yes, I get to go to ALL THE HOT SPOTS). I also did this on the way (I blame the mucus):

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/12/11 5:40 PM I just realized I left my Kindle in an airplane seat back pocket. I fail at Kindle ownership. Dumbass.

Back home to a panic of ordering and addressing holiday cards and madly clicking through all of Amazon to order Christmas and Hanukkah presents for everyone. Plus a minute amount of actual going to a store and dealing with the other humans. And some burning questions about perfect holiday gifts.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/11/11 1:04 PM My husband is not allowed to come to IKEA without his phone ever again. This is a complete clüstërfückën.   Roberta (@DCZia) 12/14/11 9:33 AM Does everyone really want Vi@gra for Christmas? My e-mail spam would lead me to believe that they do.

Somewhere in here, this happened:

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/11/11 9:07 AM I may be forced to conclude that The Age Of The Nap is over. Shoot. Adieu. Sigh.

The multiple crazed calls to American's Lost and Found in Chicago actually paid off, and restored my faith in humanity. It was practically my very own Miracle on 34th Street.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/15/11 2:11 PM Thanks to several people Doing The Right Thing, American is Fed Exing my Kindle, and it will be back in my absent-minded paws tomorrow.

And holy crap, I don't even know what else, because it is all a blur of UPS Store trips, gift cards, ugly red sweaters at office parties, extra fees for rush shipping, address labels, wrapping paper, and ribbon, and I wished I were a brown paper package tied up with string, because then I could just LIE THERE under the tree and look at the pretty, pretty lights.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/9/11 9:08 PM My sweet Jewish husband just does not understand my desire to sit and look at my pretty Yule tree, bless his li'l Ashkenazi heart.

One of my best friends sent me this.

It's a Beyonce The Giant Metal Chicken magnet, in case you couldn't tell. Knock knock, motherfucker. Just read that Bloggess post. That will explain it all.

And then for some reason, we decided it was a good idea to have a party on December 23, because we weren't going anywhere. So we invited neighbors and friends and small children over. Drinks were drunk, much soup and cheese and chocolate was consumed, the adults chatted, the small children ran amuck, and a good time was had by all. And there was this:

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/18/11 9:12 AM My daughter gets the words "nipples" and "antlers" confused. Holiday hilarity ensues.

We did Christmas/Yule on December 24, and had a great day at home, unwrapping presents, making beef bourgignone, and sipping wine in front of the fire.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/24/11 4:05 PM Christmas Eve dinner: beef borguignone. Using butter like my life depends on it.

We drove to New Jersey on Christmas Day and did Jewish Christmas, wherein my husband and I went to a movie, and then ate really good Chinese food with the family. More present overload on the 26th, with the annual family Hanukkah fest. More wine, bagels, lox, whitefish, present unwrapping, wine, fire, repeat. We drove home yesterday, the car bumper practically dragging on the Turnpike due to the load of the kid's loot, good grief. The four hour trip somehow took eight hours due to traffic, construction, rain, and I don't even know what.

Roberta (@DCZia) 12/27/11 6:47 PM Our 4 hour trip home to DC from NJ is at 7 hours and counting. How do I loathe thee, I95? Let me count the ways...

And now I'm sitting here in a stupor in my office, wishing I had just a teensy weensy bit more leave time, so I could still be on vacation. Because it all really has been uncommonly wonderful, if uncommonly busy. I'm happy, my kid is magnificent, and I am afloat in good cheer from the family and friends I am so lucky to have. Drink Sing we joyous all together, heedless of the wind and weather.

 

Halloween magic

As a kid, Halloween was one of those holidays that we lived for. The air was chilly and crisp, the decorations went up, we spent too much time trying to scare the living daylights out of each other and ourselves with scary stories and cobweb decorations and bloody monster masks. I could dress up as anything I wanted, be anything I wanted. The rules were suspended, and we got to wander around the neighborhood after dark, stay up late, ask friends and strangers for all the candy we could carry in our bags, and eat Hershey bars and Smarties for dinner.

I feel the same kind of anticipation and excitement now that Helene is old enough to understand some of the specialness of Halloween. I knew that I wouldn't get to choose her costume any more - my girl has her opinions now. So when I first asked her, a couple of months ago, what she wanted to be, she said, "witch!" She'd been a witch last year, and we had books about witches. I suggested other things: she could be a cowgirl like Jessie in Toy Story, a pirate, or an astronaut. She could be anything. No, a witch, she kept saying. I enlisted my mom's help on a costume; she bought one, e-mailed me a photo, and I showed it to Helene. "Do you like the witch costume that Grandma found for you?" "I want to be a ghost. YOU can be a witch." No matter how many times I asked, she insisted that she wanted to be a ghost. I showed her pictures of Halloween ghosts in story books, and ghost decorations, and each time she said, yes, she wanted to be a ghost, like that. My mom bailed us out again, made her a ghost costume, a sleeveless white tunic, and a white hood, with a gas-station style nametag that said "GHOST" in case it was not obvious.

Over October, we carved three different jack o'lanterns, visited two pumpkin patches, and bought numerous small and large pumpkins and gourds for decorations. Enamored with the pumpkins, Helene would insist on bringing some of them into the house from the front steps almost every time we came home. She saw little ghost lights at a neighbor's house, and my mom bought some for her. We carved the final jack o'lantern, hung all the lights, and arranged the pumpkins on the front steps.

Yesterday, Halloween morning, Helene kept asking "Is it Halloween? Is it Halloween?" Yes it is, sweetheart. But you have to wait until after school to wear your costume. "There's my ghost costume!" she said excitedly.

Seth went to pick her up at school. He texted me: "Warning! She says she wants to be a witch." Well, kid, it's a good thing that your mama and Grandma Wanda think of these things, because there just happens to be an emergency backup witch costume in your size hanging in the basement. Apparently, she was quite upset at any suggestion that she be a ghost. What changed her mind so completely, I will never know.

She seemed tired and a bit listless when I got home. We made sure she had a snack, to stave off hunger or candy-induced mania, and then tried to get her ready to trick or treat. Suddenly, she didn't want to go. She wanted to open the orange Play Doh instead. And I found myself threatening my child that we were about to go trick or treating without her, actually having to CONVINCE her to GO GET LOADS OF CANDY FROM PEOPLE. Enough mentions of candy seemed to do the trick, and we costumed her up, and set out for a trip around the block.

Last year, her first year, it was pretty magical. We went early, on a sunny and warm evening, with two other kids of the same vintage. They did it all themselves, climbing the steps, knocking on the doors, even saying thank you. She wore her costume, including the hat, the entire time. She walked almost the whole way herself, clutching her hard-earned candy bag.

This year, I think she was a bit tired. She kept asking to be carried, didn't want to go up all of the stairs. When her jack o'lantern treat bucket banged on each wrought iron step, she would cry out "OW!" on the pumpkin's battered behalf. We didn't make plans to go with any other kids, so there was no one to egg her on. Her imagination has also grown, and she finds things scary now that she didn't before. She was not prepared for adults in costumes, the pirates and soldiers and Cruella deVilles and witches that we saw around the block. We had to walk with her up to all of the houses. We made our circuit of the block, and she was done, asked to go home.

I remembered that our neighbor across the street had specifically told us to come by. She's older, and I knew she'd lived in that house for a long time. She didn't have any decorations up, but was ready for us with a big bowl of candy. She gave Helene more candy than strictly necessary, and we started to talk. She told me how much she loves children, and seeing them in the neighborhood. She's lived in that house since she was eight years old, inherited it from her parents. Seth and Helene wandered off, but I kept talking. She wants to have all the kids over when the weather gets warm again, make ice cream in the back yard. I told her that sounded amazing. She told me (to my surprise) that there used to be a streetcar on our street, and she used to take it up to the Mt. Pleasant neighborhood.  She told me how the block used to be, with so many families and children, all over at each other's houses. And then there were some bad times, when people moved away, and there was crime, and no children. "But now, I get to see it a second time, all the children in the neighborhood," she said, as we watched groups of costumed kids laughing in the coming twilight. I could have talked to her forever, listening to the stories and the history of my street. I told her that I hoped we would talk again soon.

We headed home, turned on our lights and decorations, took off Helene's costume, turned up some Halloween tunes and got ready to hand out candy. We let Helene eat a fair amount of candy, but not too much. Then, the knocks came at the door, and handing out candy turned out to be the hit of the night. She wanted to hold the bowl, and dole out candy carefully into each waiting bag. We ended up sitting out on the front steps with glasses of wine, waiting for more kids to climb the steps. "What is she? What is he?" Helene asked of each costume, as she hand-picked special candy for each fireman, Wolverine, train engineer, Green Lantern, butterfly and princess. She delighted in looking at the costumes, at giving the candy out, at saying "Happy Halloween!"

Finally she started to fade, getting clumsy and weepy and indecisive with exhaustion, and we knew we had to turn out the lights and lock the door, because she would not let us hand out candy without her. She was sound asleep before I finished singing to her.

It wasn't what I'd imagined for her third Halloween. I thought she would be more interested in trick or treating. I wanted it to be as charming and new as it was last year. But the truth is that she wore her costume for less than an hour, that she had an unsightly fat lip and scrape on her chin from a fall on Sunday, that trick or treating was not the highlight, that we should have gone earlier when there was more light, that we should have gone with some other kids, and that she was a little scared by the whole thing. As a parent, it's hard to lower your expectations sometimes, and to not want so much for your kid's childhood to be exactly like yours, or exactly like some perfect imagining, because it's not going to be. It's hard to open up, and experience that magic that you're seeking in some other way than what you're looking for.

We had some moments last night that still give me high hopes for future magical Halloweens. We sat on our front porch and talked to all of our neighbors that came by, people that we got to know just a little bit better last night. Helene continued to be entranced by our lights and jack o'lanterns glowing in the cool October night, going down the steps periodically to examine them. The streetlamp across from us flickered eerily on and off, lending instant spookiness to the trickling parade of trick or treaters down our street. I got to know one special neighbor better, a piece of living history. And Helene delighted in making other kids happy giving them those tantalizing sweets in shiny foil packages, our porch light transforming them into mysterious, sparkling treasure, for just this one magic night.

Lessons learned

This is what I learned this weekend:

1) Do not, under any circumstances, give a small child a rather large cup of fantastic, intensely flavored, delicious, double dark chocolate gelato in the time between dinner and bedtime. You will regret it and want to call in an exorcist. Because what you might have forgotten about chocolate is that it has caffeine in it. I am sure that the lovely, intense dark chocolate gelato had, ah, more than the usual amount of caffeine than regular old chocolate ice cream. Your child weighs 27 pounds soaking wet. There could be some math involved here with grams of caffeine per pound of body weight, but it is not necessary, because res ipsa loquitor: the thing speaks for itself. Specifically, the thing ran almost all of the half mile home from the gelato shop. Then, when the thing was put to bed, it yelled, wailed, howled, begged, screeched, pleaded, thrashed, and kicked to be let out of bed. For an hour and a half. And then the thing also woke up at 1:00. 4:00 and 5:30 am, until the thing was hauled into Mama and Papa's bed in the faint hope of everyone getting more sleep.

The answer to this is obviously to administer the chocolate gelato at breakfast, when there is ample time for its effects to wear off before bed.

2) When hiding child bribery/Halloween candy, put it in a safe hiding place, where your children and husband will not find it. However, do not put it in so safe a place so that you completely out-think your own dumb-ass self, and then you cannot find the candy when it is desperately needed for life-saving bribery purposes. The same thing goes for hiding precious jewelry when going out of town. Popular places to hide such jewelry from the odd house thief are in a shoe box, or the toe of a winter boot.

The candy finally turned up stashed inside the corner cabinet tucked inside the salad spinner. The pearl necklace has not made a reappearance. I'm wondering if there are things like truffle pigs that could sniff out pearls?

3) Apples in your house are approximately 837 times larger and more numerous than they appear on the farm. Pick-your-own fruit places are fun weekend family outings. You get to be outdoors, where city children can run around a farm, pick apples, and see that they really do grow on trees and Mama was not making that crazy shit up. You're issued a basket, and you can take a wheelbarrow if you like, which is handy for hauling apple baskets, small children, etc. up and down the rows of apple trees. The sky is blue, the sun is shining, you're with good friends, the children have got the hang of this apple picking thing and are happily putting apples into baskets, and eating one here and there. You go up and down the rows, just getting a few of each kind that you want to try: Fuji, Honeycrisp, Jonagold. Your bucket doesn't look that full. You pet the farm animals, have a picnic, bag up your apples, and pay $12 for the privilege of hauling them home. You plan to make an apple pie for tonight, and imagine that will take care of a good number of the apples. When you carry the bag of apples inside, it seems much larger than it did on the farm or in the trunk of the car. The apples seem to have multiplied. Exponentially. You pick out six good looking pie candidates, and make your pie. The pie crust barely fits over the pile of apple slices in the pie pan. You wrestle the top crust into place, put it in the oven, and go back to inspect the sack of apples. It does not appear smaller since you removed six for the pie. You suspect it is actually larger. You realize that you also already had apples in the fridge, from the farmer's market, and that you are supposed to get more apples on Tuesday from your CSA.

You slice up an apple to accompany dinner. The small child refuses both the apple and the apple pie. You sigh, look up recipes for applesauce, store the apples in a cool, dark corner of the basement, and wonder if apples would go as fast as doughnuts if you put them in the kitchen at your office.

So, this happened

The Olive went to preschool. PRESCHOOL.

 
 
 
 
 
 
PRESCHOOL.

There have been some tears. Not an excessive amount. She is in a fantastic small Montessori program where she will get to do eighty seven thousand intellectually and physically stimulating and nurturing things. Her teacher, Ms. Lindeman, is an absolute genius child wrangler. I have seen her in action, and I am so not worthy.

It's funny. I'm all over-wrought about her being away from me all day. But, um, duh, she's ALREADY been away from me all day for two years (and how, how, how has it been that long? WTF, time??). But...but...it was at our house, with our nanny, who coddled and loved and spoiled her, and she slept in her own bed, and....Then this devolves into a bad guilt spiral of "maybe she should just go part time...she's so little....and we'll patch together some childcare....and I will quit my job and stay home with her more...and....and...and...." It's dawning on me that we are never, ever going to be able to really let go of our children, are we?

She's ready. She is. On the first full day, yesterday, she napped just fine on her own little cot with her nap mat. Yesterday, when I got her, she didn't want to leave at first because she was listening to a book. But then, it hit her full on that mama was there, and she came out sobbing for me, the relief and need just washing over her. She asks us several times, just to MAKE SURE, that Mama will come get her from school? She talks in an awed kind of voice about Ms. Lindeman, and her eyes get big, and her face lights up with expectation.

She has cried a little bit at home before she goes, and I can see she is trying not to, trying to be my big, strong brave girl as I tell her she is. She cries when she gets there, but she goes in the room, finds a book, some blocks. Ms. Lindeman told us that yesterday was her "coming out day" when she finally abandoned the book corner to explore all the other activities in the room, discovering the wider world.

But still, when I pick her up at the end of the day, she will hurl herself at me, and I will hold her, and we will end our day, going home, still needing each other.

Wherein you may question my feminist street cred

Our nanny Yvonne is getting married on Saturday. It's kind of last minute, she admitted. She could not contain her grin or the light in her eyes. The groom is a friend from her church that she has been dating for some time. He's joining the Navy, which means he will be shipping out soon, to who knows where for who knows how long. They decided to get married before that happened. They just got the marriage license yesterday.

It was going to be a small affair, just the two of them downtown at a justice of the peace. But his mother and their church community decided they needed a bigger celebration, and everyone is chipping in to put it on for them on Saturday. They have the church, people are cooking, invites are coming by word of mouth. Yvonne invited us. 

Unfortunately, we won't be able to go, as we will be on Martha's Vineyard with Seth's family. But we will give them a thoughtful card and a check. It's our standard wedding gift. It's always the right color, the right size, everyone can always use it, and no one ever returns it.  

The happiness has made Yvonne simply alight. I am genuinely happy for her. She deserves something good in the most profound of ways. I hope and cross my fingers that this is the right thing, a great thing, and that it lasts (and lasts). "The boys are happy too!" she says, talking of her five and seven year old boys, sweet boys that the Olive adores. "That's the most important thing," we agree.

I am happy and hopeful and strangely relieved. Yvonne's life is not easy. She is a single mother of two young boys. We do the best we can by her. We pay her well, try to treat her fairly, and we try to help. We've driven her to appointments with various social welfare agencies as she tries to sort out the conundrum of procedures and benefits with surly, jaded city employees. So her children can get subsidized food, daycare, and medical care. We've referred her to the DC Bar pro bono clinic, to help her sort out a tangle of immigration and family law issues that has prevented her from taking her sons back to visit her home on the Carribbean island of St. Vincent. When Yvonne's employment with us ceases in September, we have realized that we would still do anything we could to help her, and we hope she will ask us for help if she needs it.

I have never thought that everyone "needs" to get married or "should" get married, nor do I think of marriage as an end-all, be-all solution to anything. I absolutely think that women need to know how to be independent and take care of themselves, and that they should never be 100% dependent on someone else. You just never know what is going to happen.

I know Yvonne can take care of herself and her boys; she's done it for almost all of their lives, with little to no help from their father, who lives in St. Vincent, or from other family members, because they aren't any better off than she is. I think there are times that she did not eat, but I know her boys always did. She knows how to save money, how to take advantage of social welfare programs. She's done the best she can, and it has been eye-opening to see how hard it is to be a working single mother.

Yet I am hopeful, relieved and grateful that she is getting married. There will be someone else to help her. Maybe they can move, so she can get out of that apartment where the heat seems to be perpetually on too high, and the carpet is unspeakably old and stained. If he is in the Navy, and she's his wife....the military will take care of her and her boys. It may not be the fanciest health care in the world, but the military health services are nothing to sneeze at, and can be amazingly innovative. It just means (I hope) more stability for her and her boys, more opportunity, more help, more hope. I just want her life to be easier, because she deserves it, this woman with the radiant smile that cares for our daughter and helps us every single day.

Father's Day

We still haven't scattered my father's ashes. They sit on a shelf in a closet in my mother's house, right next to the wine rack (he would have liked that), in twin copper-colored squarish metal containers, "suitable for scattering," as the funeral home guy told us. My father died suddenly, nearly six years ago, on September 18, 2005, barely two weeks before Seth and I got married.

Way back in the hot Boston summer of 1998, I was madly, frantically drowning in studying for the Massachusetts bar exam. Father's Day came and went without my notice, without my ever giving it one thought, absorbed as I was by Commercial Paper! Constitutional Law! and how I knew absolutely not one damn thing about Family Law!, let alone in Massachusetts. It wasn't until I was home for Christmas that year that my mother chastised me about forgetting Father's Day. "You can never do that again. I know he doesn't say anything, but you really hurt his feelings. He would never say anything. Just never forget Father's Day again." I was utterly shocked, taken aback. I mumbled something about the bar exam, thinking my parents really didn't understand how all-absorbing that process is. What I know now is that I didn't understand anything at all about being a parent.

I dutifully never forgot Father's Day again, knowing that it did mean something to my dad, even if I didn't understand, really, dismissing it as another Hallmark holiday. It was hard to imagine my father caring about anything like that. He never cared about clothes, or movies, or books. If it wasn't fact, he had no interest. Except for cartoons. They weren't pretending to be real, so he could love those, especially Warner Bros. and especially Wile E. Coyote. He always rooted for the coyote, even as he chuckled at his perpetual misfortunes. My father also never talked about anything so slippery as feeeelings, my god no. Such a thing would simply be impossible. I knew when he was mad, because the word "apoplectic" was made for my dad, as he turned red with anger, barely able to speak, and yeah, I was grounded for the rest of my life. I knew when he was proud of me, because he just beamed, his wide grin irrepressible. But anything more subtle would be merely a guess on anyone's part.

My father was the most pragmatic of pragmatists, and it extended to death. "If they'd let you, I'd tell you to just leave my body out in the woods for the animals." He was a wildlife biologist by trade, a hunter and fisherman and outdoorsman since he could walk. I don't think he believed in gods or a God, but he revered and respected the inevitable power of nature. The mountain ranges of New Mexico, the high desert grasslands, the muddy braids of southwest rivers, those were his church and chapel. Once you were dead, that was it, just a body, and you should be put to good use feeding animals and soil, the cycle of nature. He did like the idea of reincarnation, because he'd want to be a bird of prey, a hawk or an eagle, sharp-eyed, soaring.

What we didn't have in words, we had in actions. Hours we spent together on horseback, in all weather, in the days of fewer fences, traversing the high pinon plateaus and canyons around Santa Fe. He'd tell me the name of every shrub and cactus and bird, open rusty gates with his Game & Fish keys and my grandfather's old railroad keys, and make me lead the way home so I would never be lost.

We knew my father wanted to be cremated. A coffin, a cemetary, a headstone felt like a waste of time and space and money to him, just for a discarded shell. We never wanted to put him in an urn on a mantel. It would be like caging one of those birds of prey he loved so much; there would be no point to it. My father was happiest outdoors, roaming, getting dirty, spotting wildlife, marveling in the wilderness and the ever-changing sky. He had tales from his boyhood in Albuquerque that were astonishing: of floating the flood-stage Rio Grande on some homemade, ramshackle raft; of hunting before school and being kicked out for smelling like skunk; of roaming the Sandia foothills with an endless string of pet dogs with sturdy names like "Ol' Blackie" and "Ol' Rascal."

I felt strongly that I had to return him to New Mexico, to the place of his birth, where he lived for most of his life, to the rocks and trees and sky. My mother thought she might want to scatter some ashes at a deep blue mountain lake in Idaho, where they went fishing often, and close to where they'd lived outside of Boise since 2000. So, at one of those surreal junctures of life, where you just cannot believe you are doing this horrible thing, we selected two containers for his ashes at the funeral home. They cost an appalling amount. We did briefly consider five-pound coffee cans, a la The Big Lebowski. My father would have approved; it would have been practical, and cheap. He would have rolled his eyes at the fuss we did make - a military color guard, a short memorial service. I didn't know how to get his body illegally out into the wilderness, Edward Abbey-style, so I settled for ashes to scatter.

We still haven't scattered my father's ashes. Life has intervened, with weddings and plans and travel and babies and work, and it has been hard to find the time, arrange the logistics, to get both me and my father's ashes to New Mexico. Do I fly up to Idaho and get them? Fed Ex them? Can you do that? I don't even know. When I think about his ashes, unscattered, I get very anxious, because I want to return him home, to the state where he was born, to the wilderness he loved. But I don't think about it that often, and there his ashes still sit, in the dark cool of the closet.

On Sunday, Father's Day, it seemed that all of my friends were posting these lovely, funny, sentimental and heartfelt words about their fathers and husbands, and I kind of wanted to. But I also didn't, and couldn't, because it aches that he is missing, and that my beautiful daughter will never know him, but for photographs and stories. I didn't want to publicize that pain. Her birthday falls just four days after his, both Scorpios. She is like him, in her stubbornnes, her curiosity. On Sunday, I listened to her screams of laughter, as she did a video chat with Seth's parents, and I am always so grateful for these other two wonderful fathers that we have in our lives. But I still want to say "it's not fair" like a small child when Grandpa Bob can only exist in a photo.

Nearly six years ago, when we got the proofs of our wedding photos back, I looked and them and sobbed. About how they weren't good enough, about how I should have had the photographer take photos of me and my bridesmaids on the lawn, not in the house, about how I wanted something different. I cried about those photos for days. Of course, it wasn't about the photos. They were stunning, gorgeous, amazing. It was about what was missing, about what could not be in them: my father. Our wedding was perfect; it really was. Yet forever, and always, when I remember that amazing day, there is always a shadow of sadness that takes me by surprise, and I furrow my brow until I remember. My dad. He was supposed to be there, and he wasn't.

I struggle with how to bring him to life for Helene. She is still little now; and can only point to a photo and say it's Grandpa Bob, without really understanding who he is and how he fits into our lives. Like my father, I want things to be useful, have purpose. Those ashes are still on that shelf because I haven't figured it out yet. Helene hasn't been to New Mexico, to the place of my father's birth, the place of my birth. In my head, I see us, she and I, hiking somewhere in the northern New Mexico wilderness. I have a backpack on, my father's ashes inside, perhaps in a five-pound coffee can. I hear myself telling her stories as we walk, all about my father, as we look for the right place, deep in the mountains, under an endless expanse of sky.

Dialogue

"OK, get your shoes on. It's time to go to gymnastics so you can show Grandma all your tricks! Where are your Crocs?"

"I don't want Gwamma to come. I want Papa to come."

***

"Will she get upset if I come?"

"She doesn't get to make all the choices. She needs to know that she has no choice in some things. Come if you want to come. Don't come if you don't want to come. I can't make decisions for any more people."

"Well, you let her choose a lot of other things."

"What are you saying? What does that mean? Are you saying we spoil her? Because I really don't think we do."

"I'm just saying you give her a lot of choices."

***

"I think my visiting has just caused more stress for you."

"This is the way my life is. All the time. It doesn't matter. I would be exhausted and sick and stressed if you weren't here, This is just the way it is."

***

"You need to take care of yourself. Or you're going to get really sick, something serious."

"How? There is no time. There is nothing else that I can do. I'm fine. Just leave me alone. You don't understand."

***

"It doesn't cause me more stress for you to be here. I want you to come. I want you to visit. I want Helene to know you.  I hope you'll come back for her birthday."

"We'll see."

***

"We're going home to eat lunch. Papa should be back from the airport."

"And Gwamma. I want to eat lunch with Papa and Gwamma."

The sweet indulgence of ordinary days

Even though this is my third(!!) one, Mother's Day sneaks up on me. I forget that I'm one of those mother-type people now, too. So I didn't have any great expectations about Mother's Day, and we didn't make any big plans.

I could not have asked for anything more out of my weekend and my Mother's Day. We had amazing weather, to start with. Sunny and 70+ all weekend, with a few spring showers just at the end of dinner last night. I'm a fragile desert flower; sun makes me beyond happy. The small child was uncommonly pleasant all weekend long. Seriously delightful (except perhaps when trying to get her to nap).

Saturday brought me a toddler-free morning- errands without one in tow are sheer bliss. I was able to find everything I needed for my planned gardening at our awesome neighborhood hardware and garden stores, sparing me a much-dreaded trip to a big box store. (Home Depot just makes me cry. It does.) On a whim, I threw some wee garden tools for the Olive into my basket. On another whim, I stopped into a new coffee house for cappucino and a croissant. Just because I felt like it; and it felt so indulgent - me, alone, just sitting, for no reason other than that I felt like it.

I got home right after Seth and the Olive, and we went right to work gardening. She loved it. Loved it! For the first time, she really, truly helped instead of just "helped." I got her to fill a bucket with potting soil over and over, and bring it to me to put on newly transplanted day lilies. She helped me scratch up the dirt to prep it for sinking new stepping stones. She took her own watering can and watered all of the new plants. She was enamoured with every worm that I dug up and then sent wriggling back into the dark, rich loam, and we had to dig a few extra holes to look for more worms. I've dreamt of this day, when I could be out there with her, working, laughing and getting dirty.

 
 

We broke for lunch, attempted a nap (fail!), and then headed out to a first birthday party for the daughter of friends we don't get to see very often (win!). It was one of those fantastic parties, where you have a great time from beginning to end, where you feel gregarious and witty and meet new people, where you realize your kid is old enough to run around with a lot less supervision, where you just sit outside with a drink in your hand for hours, and talk and laugh. My only error was a failed execution of the proper water-to-food-to-wine ratio, which left me a leetle smidge more tipsy than I wanted to be, and gave me a bad night's sleep.

The Olive made up for it, though. She slept until past 7:15 on Mother's Day morning. This is utterly unheard of. She's usually up and talking a million miles an hour by 6:15; I'm usually awake before that, waiting to hear her wake and call me. For the first time in years, I got to lie in bed and read before anyone else was awake, one of my favorite indulgent pleasures.

But by 7:40, we were outside in our pajamas, on another beautiful day. I got some coffee for my wine-muddled head, the Olive and I searched the car for her missing shoe (found!) and my iPhone (found, but at my friend's house in Maryland from the night before. Oops.), drew with chalk on the deck, shared a banana, and pondered the rest of our day.

We ended up having a casual breakfast at Pound, the new coffeehouse I'd been to on Saturday. Their patio was surprisingly deserted, so we had it all to ourselves to share egg and cheese paninis, sip espresso, climb on and off the metal benches a hundred times, and watch the birds and squirrels in the tree canopy above us. Next, a trip to a favorite playground in hopes of encouraging an afternoon nap. The Olive can climb up the ramp of the slide by herself now, a trick she's been wanting to master since she could walk, watching the big kids and trying it over and over again. There was also plenty of running and jumping, because dang, that kid can run. Fast, and often.

 

Our next stop was Eastern Market, where my girl picked out a bouquet of pink snapdragons for me. She picked them for the color; what she doesn't know is that they look like the ones my mother used to grow in our garden in Santa Fe. A little grocery shopping for the week, some tastes of apple at the farmer's market, and back home for lunch. I got the patio umbrella out, brought the food outside, so we didn't have to go inside just yet.

That one glass of wine too many caught up to me at naptime, and Seth got the Olive to sleep by taking her for a ride in the car, then eased her back into the house and into her bed, while I got to lounge in bed and try to doze for a couple of hours. It was enough so that I was ready again for my girl when she woke from her nap and called for me. We had snacks, played with Play Doh, then (of course) back outside again for more digging and gardening, and some wandering around the block to pick up every stick. We had the luxury of nowhere to be and nothing to do, because my husband was cooking me dinner. I love to cook, but it wears on you when you do it all the time, and you have to feed small people who cannot wait to eat at 8:30 pm and would prefer macaroni to blanquette de veau. Having someone else (anyone!) cook a meal for me feels like the ultimate indulgence these days.

We ate outside again, drinking in the weather and the cool white wine, watching the Olive slurp spaghetti, taste the veal piccatta, shovel in creamed spinach (!), and eat her body weight in watermelon. It started to rain just at the end of dinner, but we stayed out there anyhow, under the umbrella, getting just a little damp in the passing showers. I got to play with my girl some more, and then break the news to her that our lovely day was over, and it was time to go upstairs for bath and bed.

I am always both a little relieved and a little sad when I have put my girl to bed at the end of the day. Relieved, because man, she's two and can be quite exhausting; but sad, because I miss her company. The sadness is always more pronounced on a Sunday night, because the weekend and my time of having her greedily to myself is over. The working day looms.

Exhausted, but satisfied, I went to bed and put off the reality of Sunday night with one more indulgence: my new Kindle. Holy shit, my husband (and daughter, nominally) got me a KINDLE for Mother's Day. The big Kindle, with the 9.75 inch screen and the 3G. I still can't believe it. We just did an iPad hand-me-down - Seth's mom got a new one, she gave Seth her old one, and I got Seth's. I was chugging along quite happily with the Kindle app. Even if I did covet the non-reflective, high-contrast, real book look of the Kindle, I was only going to drool at them online and not actually buy one.

 

You know why he said he got it for me? "Because you like to sit outside on the deck at Martha's Vineyard and read. And you can't read with the iPad outside. I know how much you like to do that." I still don't know what to say, and I haven't thanked him enough. I am grateful and humbled for this sweet man who somehow loves me so, in all my prickly and temperamental glory.

The Kindle is, of course, AMAZING (3,500 books! In my hand!). But the best gift this weekend was simply time. Just enough time to myself. Relaxed time with all three of us. Easy, easy lovely time with my girl. Who is ever more fun to be, as we talk and truly do things together now. The ordinary indulgence of time - there is never enough.

Drained

Bad blogger, I know. It's just been a hell of a month, and I haven't been able to drum up the wherewithal to post.

It started with our girls' weekend in March, a weekend in Vermont with my three best friends. A weekend where we could manage to all be in the same place at the same time. J and B, already within an hour of each other, in Vermont and Massachusetts. T, visiting from Utah, doing a guest teaching project at her highschool alma mater, Holderness. And me, able to wrangle a weekend alone, leaving my girl with her papa and grandparents, leaving her overnight for the first time ever.

It was supposed to be a weekend full of old friendships and remembering, laughter and wine, and great food, and maybe manicures and spas, and sleeping in, and staying up late, and talking, talking, talking, because nothing is like all of us together, synapses in synch, talking. We tried our best, but it wasn't to be. We were dropped in the middle of J's tangled divorce from our good friend F. We stayed at their house, as they swapped time there with their three boys. They can't be in the same place. She's moving out. We tried to bridge the horrible, the awkward, to project our love to J and F, but it was hard, so hard, as we saw the pieces coming apart in front of us, wrenching our guts and our hearts. We dissected it, talked about other things. We did laugh, we did talk, we did enjoy good wine. But it was exhausting, with the crackle of hurt and anger in the air all around us, where there used to be love. It was amazing to see my friends, and wonderful for the four of us to be together, as we so rarely are, but it was so hard. Instead of leaving rejuvenated, I left drained, emotionally exhausted.

***

And then it seems like it's been one thing after another, and I just can't quite recover from any of it, all of it. Colds, allergies, me feeling terrible and tired and going to bed early. I can't sleep in anymore - I am permanently stuck on Eastern Toddler Daylight Time, wide awake at 6am, listening for my girl to wake up and call for me. I can't nap, even when she naps, unless someone else has full responsiblity for her. I am always half-listening, ready to be there when she wakes, when she needs me.

I had several nights where I just couldn't sleep either, for no good reason. Where 4am and I were becoming all too familiar friends. I wasn't worried or stressed particularly. Just awake. And then I'd start thinking about the book I was reading (Girl With The Dragon Tattoo - really effing good) or whether Bernstein was the other journalist with Woodward, or were those the Broadway writers? No, that was Leonard and Bernstein....yeah, really fucking useful stuff at 4am.

***

I applied for a job, did the first round interview, then panicked, then withdrew my application. It was in-house, for a supervisory job in my office. I felt like I had to apply, and one of my bosses came by my office no less than four times to tell me to apply. Because he thought I'd be a good boss. And I might be. Someday. Just not now. Now, I don't want that at all. I want less responsibility, frankly, not more. If I could work less, I would. If I could go part-time, I would. But it isn't an option. So I'm going to take my bare eight hours a day, the flexibility, the fact I could do this job mostly in my sleep (and I probably sometimes have), so I can scoot out of here every day as quick as possible with no regrets to be home with my girl. But still. It is hard to choose to not be ambitious.

***

The weather has been maddening. We get one 80 degree day, followed by one back in the 50's. Too much rain and wind. I am desperate for sun, for warmth, for summer. For fewer clothes, and water and the ease of just going outside to entertain the girl.

***

I have tired of having another child who is not mine in my house at least three days a week. We share our nanny with another family, and their daughter is at our house with the Olive. I'm sure she is a perfectly nice child. But I only see it when she bullies our girl in a ploy to get attention as all the parents arrive, when she bites my daughter on the finger right in front of me. And I hear from the nanny and find the evidence of this girl throwing her lunch all over my kitchen when she doesn't like it. She also chose to smear the contents of the training potty over our basement bathroom last week. I know children do these things. Except it isn't MY child trashing my house; it's someone else's child, and I'm tired of scraping her applesauce off of my ceiling and walls. It's only until August, then they both go to preschool, another stressor looming in my anxiety closet.

***

We went to New Jersey last weekend, for an early Passover celebration with Seth's family. These weekends are normally lots of fun, and I look forward to having extra adults to entertain the Olive, while I sneak in some book reading and lounging around, and maybe even lunch out. Again, it wasn't to be.

When we got there, we went to visit Great Grandpa Max, who is 94, sharp as a tack, and recovering from a bout of pneumonia in a nursing facility before he can move back to his own apartment. I hate anything...medical. Hate it, viscerally. You can dress it up like a first-rate hotel, and I still feel such an immediate horror when I see the hospital beds, the medical equipment, smell those smells. It took everything I had not to run out of there, and to stop and visit with Max, who is wonderful and a wonder, asking us to plan for birthday no. 95, next March. Max has always been strong and healthy and sharp, but he has gotten frailer in the past few years. He is doing fine after this pneumonia, but we may not have him for much longer, and I am so much sadder and more afraid of this possibility than I thought I would be. Max became part of my family five and a half years ago, on a clear October day. He is a great-grandfather to thirteen, including my Olive, and I selfishly want him around longer, please.

We bid farewell to Max, went back to Seth's parents' house for our favorite Chinese takeout, so much better than what we can get in DC. I ate too much, went to bed too full, and woke up less than an hour later to the Olive crying for me from the next room. As soon as I walked in, I knew what had happened. That acrid smell, her sticky pajamas. Crap. It would be a long night. I called for Seth, who tossed everything in the wash and covered our bed with acres of towels to prepare for the onslaught. I suddenly felt lightheaded, and sat down before I could pass out, holding the sick Olive. This was not good.

But we survived the night. It wasn't as bad as the last time the Olive got a stomach bug, and she was surprisingly lively by midmorning. She napped; I tried to. We made it to the family seder, made bearable only when Seth's cousin's husband Eric brought me a large glass of cabernet. Eric understands me. We made it home after a long drive on Sunday, and the Olive was amazingly good in the car, with a little help from the iPad. And no one threw up. At least not until the stomach bug felled me on Monday. I knew it was bad when i was lying on my office floor at work, unsure if I would be able to get up.

So, I've eaten nothing but Gatorade and saltines this week. I've spent both too much time lying in bed and not enough. I'm still exhausted. I'm behind at work. I actually cancelled an eye doctor appointment today so I can do work. The weather went from 84 yesterday afternoon to 54 this morning. The Olive has been in an ungodly willful state of mind, where she doesn't just say "No!" when she doesn't want to do something, she screeches it at a volume of eleven in a voice that sounds like a baby Nazgul. And she woke up with a runny nose this morning. I almost cried as I dragged my still-sick self to work, leaving my maybe-getting-sick girl who wanted me to hold her, almost cried from the weight of one more thing and the guilt.

***

I can't remember not being tired. The weekend is coming, but it's not so much like a break, because there is still a child to amuse, laundry to do, people to feed. I don't really want a babysitter so I can go out to dinner. I want a day where I can just lie around the house, read books, nap, drink wine in the middle of the day, nap some more, not cook, have other people feed me. What is that called? Because I need it.