Oh God,
Thank you for Cheap, Flat, Frozen Pizzas
Found
in the freezer of our need.
Bless this most blessed lunch
and accept our grateful praise
for this humblest of
nourishments
Amen.
Moments sans Jack are very rare. In the shifting of titles (and really, the aughts are all about everybody getting new titles because the old ones are suddenly passe or incorrect…) “Mommy” has flown to the top. I’m a little shocked that I don’t mind that. Still. It’s good, once in a blue moon, to go out under just my first name.
Last week I grabbed the brass ring and found myself at a Q&A session with Lawrence Kasdan coupled with a screening of his genius The Big Chill.
Here’s the thing. I really, really like Big Chill and have since I first saw it. All my viewings have been on television screens via laser disc, VHS, or DVDs… when it came out I was too young to see it (or care about it– bunch of “old” people blathering on? No thanks) and by the time I fell in love with it (admittedly, through the most excellent soundtrack) it was only a rental experience. I like a lot of what Kasdan has produced (and I mean that in the “Look Ma! I made this!” kind of way and not the schmoozing Hollywood definition of the word) but I didn’t have Kasdan posters on my dorm room wall. A few years ago when I dallied with screenplay writing (blame Friend Wallis on that one) it was the idea of his Big Chill that I came back to in awe over and over. It’s a really, really tight script. Say what you will– maybe you don’t like the music or the cast (though I think you need your head examined on both counts) but you cannot deny that there isn’t a single, solitary “throw away” line in the whole run of it. Every tiny moment matters and builds either the plot tension or character.
So there we were– sans Jack– in a darkened theater with Kevin Kline a few stories tall and me in a raptured state that you really do pick up new things when it’s big the way it was meant to be. (I thought I knew it inside out… HA!) And then the added treat of hearing Kasdan himself speak. He seems somewhat laid back. Normal. But in a “I move in circles with BIG people” kind of way. He fielded questions from people more brave than I (and, in some cases, more stupid. Dear God. THINK about your question first…) in a polite and casual manner. (My personal favorite was the guy who asked, “Uh, Can I have your autograph?” He didn’t get it.) The audience was a mix of mostly nostalgic Boomers and a peppering of Film Students. (The latter were easy to pick out with their long, scraggly pony tails and goatees.) Our hopes that someone might approach to have his Darth Vader mask signed went unrequited. Maybe next time.
Partly it was the chance to see a favorite movie on a magnificently sized screen. Partly it was a chance to hear an admired writer speak. And partly it was a few hours of not being Mommy but being Terri. Whatever it was it was a good night.
(And the best part? Kissing a sleeping little Prince in his crib…)
I was a pretty good kid. Occasionally I mouthed off (yes, big shock, I know.) or didn’t do my chores– but, for the most part, I stayed on the straight and narrow.
My most frequent infractions came from having my nose stuck in a book. I read a lot. I didn’t really like playing outside (too buggy/muggy) and I was horribly inept at anything athletic… My sister used to “share” the backseat on car trips by telling me that my half was the floor well. (For years I didn’t have the slightest clue about how to get to our grandparents even though all 4 of them lived only a half hour away and within a mile of each other.) I curled up with the middle hump under my knees and went west with Laura. Our dinner tables were relaxed. We didn’t eat like wolves but my parents were more interested in asking us about our day then fussing about how we ate our soup. (In our house, incidentally, it was “big spoons” and “little spoons” or “table spoons” and “tea spoons.” We didn’t have a box of flatware– we had a drawer of a bakelite substance handled set.) One of the few rules I really remember (and then only because it was directed at me) was that I wasn’t allowed to bring a book to the table. They had a point– it was probably rude of me to go off floating in the pond with Anne and Diana or to the circus with Betsy while my sister recounted her latest success with the Farrah flip. Still… I might have only been seven or eight but I remember thinking, “well this is a dumb thing to ‘punish’ your kid for– reading…”
I’ve been thinking of those banned moments lately because, with Jack, it’s still tricky to get a lot of reading done. Between his schedule of play and meals and my schedule of work and keeping house I only read bits and pieces. I read a lot of magazines because they are short and I can pick them up and lay them down quickly.
Novels are the worst. I can’t read them at all when Jack’s awake because I might get too absorbed in Harry’s latest Pottering to notice that Jack has learned to climb to the top of the bookcases. And maybe it’s because I’m literally grounded with being Jack’s Mommy but I’ve been reading (and rereading) travel books lately. The other day Jack sat on my lap while I read the book I’m reading about England. I read it in a silly bad Queen accent and kept his attention for a whole chapter. Quite an accomplishment.
I’ve written about this dilemna before… and I’m still not really complaining. If anything– especially lately– Jack’s been so entertaining that there isn’t a choice of whether to soak up him or sink into a nice tale. When he’s in school or at some organized sporting thing I’ll read then. For now I’ll keep a book in my bag for those found minutes when, errand running, he falls asleep in the car. (I do a lot of my reading in parking lots these days.) or, like tonight, when I’m waiting for my take-out order.
Thank God for the Caldecott books.
It never fails– when there is a Very Bad Jacky Day what follows is an Extraordinary Moment. This time it’s his sweet little kisses.
Jack’s been kissing for several months now. Sometimes they are faint brushes against your lower face. Other times they are drooly-chin exchanges of baby bacteria. Each are wonderful, of course… but some tend to get a little messy. For a while there he had a disturbing little habit of “kissing” towards us with an open, gaping mouth. He spends a lot of time with the dog so we’re just happy he doesn’t lick us.
He makes a very dramatic kissy face on command– his cheeks completely sucked into the gums and his face suddenly resembling a round headed fish.
We kiss Jack a lot. We kiss his toes and his belly and his neck until he squeals with giggling glee. I’ve been concious, very concious, that there will be a day that he won’t tolerate the kissing routine anymore… and I’ve made it a point to get them in while I can.
When Jack goes off to bed at night– and lately he is ready– we have a series of rituals… he gets hugs from his Dad and me and kisses and “Sleep Tights!”. Up the stairs he goes– sometimes with both of us in tow, or just one of us. In his room he gets a fresh diaper and clean jammies. He has lavender baby lotion that he likes smoothed on so that when he is settled into the crook of Robby’s arm to read stories he smells especially delicious. The first one or two books are somewhat inconsequential– Jack knows that the last book of the night is always Good Night Moon. When he is really tired he’ll point to it as though to say, “Get on with it, please, I’d like to go to bed.” We’ve read Jack Good Night Moon since we knew he was swimming in my belly. It never fails to lull him off to some happy place. (For that matter it works for us, too.) By the time we get to the second hushing lady he’s quieted and still. Robby tucks him into his crib and most nights he stays put. Before we go to sleep I steal in to check on him and replace the blankets he has inevitably kicked off (I like my feet sticking out, too) and whisper secrets.
Jack’s ended this week of up and down moods on a decidedly up swing. For two nights now he’s ended his day by running back towards us to give kisses. Real kisses. With pursed little lips and soft smacks. He thinks it’s wonderful. So do we.
I know that there will be many things he will imitate and learn from us that will curl my toes in rueing. But of these sweet kisses I am proud. And grateful.
Sweet dreams little Prince.
Jack had a beastly day yesterday. Scratch that. We had a beastly day yesterday.
I had an eye appointment that interfered with a morning nap for Jack (mistake number one). My mother went along to keep Jack company while I had my head examined. Or at least my eyes. She pushed Jack in his stroller around the connected shopping center and he fell asleep, no doubt lulled by the buzz around the sales at Kohls. He took a half hour snooze. Jack’s best naps average about an hour and 15 minutes. You do the math. Someday researchers will confirm that, in the case of many, half a nap is worse than no nap at all. In the meantime I’ll just add that to the lists of what could have been the dissertation for my Imaginary Masters.
We took Jack to lunch at Sam’s. Apparently, at Sam’s Club, you can only purchase a very large jug of milk. Not an individual serving. Good to know. I vetoed him sharing my Orange Fanta and poured bottled water into his little sippy cup. (Mistake number 18.) Jack looked at me as though I had betrayed his last nth of trust.
My sister had called at the beginning of our day to admit that she would be playing the Easter Bunny at the party where she worked. Armed with this information my mother and I planned our entire day around getting to my sister’s workplace at the appointed time she would be donning her big, furry head. Nothing short of an emergency room visit would have prevented us from such an opportunity to see my sister in such costume. Mom picked up carrots and made a lovely bouquet of them. I brought my now over tired 18 month old.
Jack has a love/hate relationship with the pantheons of American holiday culture. Santa was a bust this year. An earlier trip to a mall with an Easter Bunny had Jack carefully circling said rabbit… he managed a few gingerly pats to the rabbit’s fuzzy legs all the while keeping his eyes on Mr. Cottontail lest he need to make a break for it. Aunt Trish, in half rabbit dress (body, mitts, and feet but headless) greeted Jack who thought her paws wonderful. She lowered the head on while he watched and (the rest of us holding our breaths) his fears seemed to be gone. It was Aunt Trish in the goofy fur and giant head. We snapped photos and marveled.
And then (Mistake number 168) he had to share Aunt Trish. Apparently the little daycare children and old people wanted their time with their Easter Bunny. Jack was not amused. He threw himself down on the floor and screamed. We picked him up and he head butted us and screamed. We made for another room where he went limp (Future Greenpeace Protester?) and screamed.
My mother is now in the lead for sainthood. John Paul and Mother Theresa can wait. She sat with angry Jack while I went to mock my sister the bunny. (It’s in the rules that the Easter Bunny can’t sucker punch you no matter what you say.) Growing up the way we did we’re pretty sure that you go straight to hell when it’s 3:00 on Good Friday and you’re dressed as the Easter Bunny. Not positive– but pretty sure.
I couldn’t take Jack home. I couldn’t give Jack a pacifier or snack or drink… Everything I needed was locked in my sister’s office and so we waited out Jack’s bad mood and my sister hip hip hoppitying. In the elevator she took off her head to expose her real head– now bright red with the heat. Or maybe a foreshadowing of hell. We aren’t sure.
At home Jack was beyond taking a nap. He was overtired and cranky and hot. Rob found us this way when he came home an hour later– sitting in the big chair with me holding Jack tight enough so that he couldn’t thrash both of us wanting to rest. We cancelled our plans for dinner out and to finish a project we’d planned to finish and ordered a pizza. Going to Good Friday service was out of the question.
So Friday was not good at all. Today, however is looking us considerably.
All week I’ve had, as a personal soundtrack, the Brady Kids singing “When It’s Time to Change” in my head.
At the end of this month I’ll flip over another calendar year… and it can’t come soon enough. The theme of this year has been Big Changes (Good, Bad, and Middling) Initiated By Other People That Effect Terri’s World. That may sound like a selfish world view… but it’s my world view. Mine. All mine.
In the last 12 months: my mother has remarried and moved to another continent; my sister has gone about reinventing herself (thank God it’s not the ’60s. I would have typed that she’s gone on a quest to find herself.); my father-in-law retired; one of my bestest pals has gone and fallen in love; my son learned to walk (and run); Katie Couric announced her traitorous move to the Eye; DJ Tony’s leaving Ellen; my secret June Carter Cash fantasy came true; my favorite restaurant in the whole world closed up shop for good; and now– for the latest big one (and it’s a doozy)– my beloved boss is leaving for greener pastures.
The thing is that while I’m not the center of the universe (okay– I am– but let’s not quibble) the orbits of every above still tends to effect the tides in Terri’s World. I’m old enough to know that change is inevitable and that some change (see Jack walking) is wonderful and meet. But even the good changes are a bit much when stacked on top of one another. And don’t get me started on the bad ones.
Sha la la la la la la indeed, Peter Brady… Sha la la la la.
My mother the Semi-Patriot has returned back to the MotherLand for a few weeks. In France they’re rioting. I like to think it’s because she’s here and not there but they keep going on and on about it being about working conditions.
Working conditions. This from the land of 5 weeks of paid, government mandated vacation. I’ve seen Les Miserables I know how it all works. I just wish that CNN would show the storming students when they break into song. All we get here is the same goofy leader with his red headband and the nifty water cannon the police keep dragging out.
And I love that, despite having to delay her departure from French soil by 24 hours while the striking French smoked cigarettes and murmered into their wine tumblers, she flew home on the wings of a British flight. First Class. She had a little bed. Of course she didn’t want to waste any precious time sleeping on an overseas first class flight… Not when smartly attired British stewardesses plied her with tea and scones and treats.
Jack is delighted to have Momma back. He’s run through most of his new tricks for her entertainment and plays with his new little french shoes and boots and sandals as though they are little toys. I suspect his sweet nature may have been coaxed on a bit by the boxes of his favorite little french cookies?
