Read me

I finished a book this weekend.

Go ahead. Read that sentence again. The half of you that know me well are thinking, “So? And?” but the other half are thinking, “Is this some kind of special accomplishment? Is she ‘challenged’ in some heretofor way we hadn’t known?”

Since Jack my reading has been severely curtailed. My small son is very impatient when I have a book in my face. “MOM-meeee!” he’ll cry with an exasperated tone.

This weekend we went Up North and I fell into a book. And into bed. It was delicious. JackRabbit and Robby amused themselves while I, the Mommy, read and read and read and read.

The book, by the way, was The Observations by Jane Harris. It’s not in the top tier of Best Books I’ve Ever Read. It’s somewhere in the lower middle actually… but it was lovely to have the time to read again.

I’ve missed it.

Not so Must See TV

Summer’s not exactly Sweeps Season… but we make do. So lately, this is what we’re watching…

1. Morgan Spurlock’s 30 Days series. Last night we pulled one off the TiVo– a LDS lady who opposes gay adoptions lived (for 30 days) with an Ann Arbor gay couple that adopted their four foster boys. Watching it on TiVo is nice because we can pause it to discuss. Most of the people on it are thoughtfully chosen– they aren’t the cardboard characters of most reality television casts… they still seem honest and earnest while they struggle through the experience.

2. John & Kate Plus 8 makes us feel a little better about our own family life– one small boy is infinitely easier than 6 small children and their high-strung twin sisters. Jack calls it “the baby show” and likes it, too.

3. I Survived a Japanese Game Show just started this week and we TiVo’d it just for kicks– and because Robby figured that some of his coworkers might tune in and it’d be watercooler fodder… It’s a pretty funny show in that the cast (the usual reality television characters) had no idea what kind of show they were going to be part of… they were flown to Japan where they live with a Mama-san and all their challenges are on a Japanese game show. If you’ve seen Japanese entertainment you know that the challenges are completely insane and complicated. But funny as all get out to watch.
[ISAJGS gave us a great idea for a reality show, by the way. Cast a group of people under the guise that they will win some cash pot. Then put them on an airplane and fly them to, say, Tokyo. Bus them to a Tokyo landmark and then announce that they will be flying to, say, Argentina. In Argentina take them to some local landmark and announce that they will be flying to... Ottawa. Keep this up until the contestants either drop out due to irritation with modern airline travel or they die of blood clots. The last person gets the cash pot. The key is that they don't get to experience anything in any of the countries other than the local airport and the bus to and from the landmark. Now THAT's good TV.]

4. Chris and Susan have us obsessed with Hell’s Kitchen. It’s a weekly event around here– we make dinner and watch. Even when Susan is in Illinois we call back and forth so it’s as though she’s with us, too. Don’t call us during HK because we won’t answer the phone. Unless you’re Susan. Then we will. (We will, however, refer to you as a “&%$*ing donkey!”)

5. Deadliest Catch still has us on the crab. We’re big fans of Sig, Jonathon, Phil,and the gang. We love seeing what Edgar’s reactions will be– or the guy that looks like our pal Pete (if Pete had lived a less academic life)– what Jake and his brother will do next. It’s a fun series.

6. I’ll admit I’m watching The Mole. I swore I wouldn’t without Anderson Cooper (delicious, him) but I couldn’t help it. Robby’s slept through all of them so far… but I’m sticking with it. It’s mostly for the challenges because I don’t have a clue as to who the mole is and never have… (Until you get down to the last two… but that’s a 50/50 shot.)

Rain

It’s raining cats and dogs outside. Noodles even.

The power’s blinked off twice… and Jack and I are having a swell time combating the gloom. We made gingerbread ladies. I iced on little daycaps and aprons… and we bit their heads off. (Jack likes his gingerbread ladies naked… no icing clothes.) And we set up the Thomas-the-Tank-Engine Tent. He managed to drag the poor doggie into it, too.

Maybe tomorrow we’ll hit the puddle circuit.

Father M’s Mission

Our pal RobM is moving away.

Just typing that makes me sad. Blue. Quiet like.

It’s not just a physical move. Like most of our friends he’s a long drive away as it is… Ours is not a relationship that is able to meet after work for a beer. Or a nice bagel for breakfast. We see each other here and there a few times a year. And it’s all good– because there is an ease to the catching up.

But now, this move, well, it’s a spiritual move, too. RobM is leaving our Museum field of facts and interpretation and entering seminary where he’ll be engrossed in faith and interpretation.

For RobM it’s another degree. He’s collected a few already. He’s a good student. He’s passionate about learning– about the studying of things. He has a restless heart that does not abide complacency. It has served him well to this point– taken him through the necessary under and over grad classes and courses. And it will take him well through seminary and into his new field.

We all puzzle over it. Trying to wrap our heads around this monumental shift in our world. It’s almost impossible not to imagine him where he is now let alone to picture his absence at our usual gatherings– conferences, New Year fetes, jam weekends… (And if ever there was a group that could use a nice spiritual guide… well– he’d have his work cut out for us. Why go to Nineveh when we’re all as blasphemous as we are???)

He’s not dead, of course– not physically or to us. But gathering together will be just that much more difficult. And I’ll miss taking his presence for granted.

This weekend we swooped in (not even nearly the whole clan of us because it’s the High Season for most everyone so it’s nearly impossible, on a mid-June Saturday to be, all of us, under one roof) and quietly gathered for a burst of camraderie to tide us over till we meet again. The instruments came out, the bottles were opened, the usual and stupid humor commenced. The long afternoon stretched into evening. After a while there were five us in a circle with a banjo, a cigar box guitar, a guitar, a bass, and an autoharp. We passed them one to the left so that none of us were with the right instrument. You’d take the instrument handed to you and look it over– gingerly play a little… then, in time, pass it along to the left again. For RobM and Dan and Chris it was a matter of ease. They’d pick out the chords they knew. For Sarah and I it was a game. We’d awkwardly hold the guitars and strum messily or pluck at the bass with our smaller fingers. RobM ended up with my autoharp and I his banjo. A monkey can play an autoharp well enough. RobM is no monkey. His fingers fly over the fiddle or banjo with ease and assurance. Still, RobM was polite enough not to break into the autoharp solo-version of Wildwood Flower… Meanwhile I plucked the strings of his banjo and was delighted at the sound I made. RobM showed me the two other chords I’d need for 75% of our repertoire and I was pleased that I could pick out a semblance of Rye Cove. It made me giddy really. (I’d like to say that I picked it up easily and was suddenly one with the banjo– but it’s much more accurate if I report that at least they’d all had enough beer to dull their senses… and, in that way, no one told me to “Just stop it for the love of Pete..!” And I played away, happily, oblivious… and completely content regardless of the dischordancy.)

Some 24 hours + later and I am sad. Blue. Quiet like. My pal RobM is moving away… and it might be a long time before I am in the room with his banjo music coiling its way around the walls. I’ll miss that sound and the distinctive RobM laugh that is the most manly giggle we all know.

Thank God for email.

Father Figures

In church today our pastor talked about fathers and fatherlike figures. I found my mind wandering a little in the second half of the sermon to my Dad and the 25 Father’s Days I had with him. It’s not many, really.

My Friend, Wally, is a father figure. He’s a good one. But we, he and I, have a complicated friendship– much like a good father. Over the years he has been teacher, foe, mentor, friend, father, Santa, fellow book enthusiast, poet, Southern representative, editor, cheerleader, advisor, critic, and spiritual guide.

That’s a lot out of one person. And he makes a mean pot of grits. And perfectly fried eggs. And properly brewed tea. All very important. The other bonuses come in the shapes of his gentle wife, Katie; his excellent sense of party themes; and his utter glee at occasionally coloring way outside of the lines.

It was Wally that brought Prairie Home Companion, Annie Dillard, and gray ink into my world. Wally gave me this blog. And it’s Wally that continuely pushes me a little bit further ahead each time I see him.

He has his own brood to wish him well today and fete him with Father’s Day sentiments… Two generations now to eat up his famous brunch feasts and laugh at his stories. (The one about the trailer passing him and Katie on the highway is a personal favorite.)

But in this little corner of his world he also has me saying Thank you. (And yes, I did eventually come around to hear the rest of the sermon, too.)

Catch-up

Lately I’ve had several experiences of trying to catch up people as to what I’ve/they’ve been doing…

A few weeks ago it was an old boyfriend. It was such an awkward reunion. We struggled politely through it. Later it dawned on me– in the intervening (nearly 20) years I’d let bygones be bygones– and remembered him fondly. Whereas, I suspect, what is still in the forefront of his brain is how things ended. I can’t say whether that’s the difference in our gender or if it’s specific to our personalities. Still, it makes me sad. I wish him well and should have been glad to hear of his grown-up life now.

And then an email popped up from an old college friend that reappears every five years or so. Each time we have the laborious task of wading through the lost years of details. In the end we banter and joke as though we are still 20 years old– with the added benefit of the additional years and experiences.

Jack’s existence has me a little out of the rest of the world’s trajectory. Most of my days are spent with him so a few friendships have gone dormant. (And a few have probably quietly faded away, too…) I miss those women and men that I don’t get to see very often– and I’m grateful that they still keep a place for me and particularly grateful for those that have also cleared room for my little son. Luckily, the gaps aren’t too long and are somewhat easily filled.

And then there are the Big Catch Ups that are coming this summer– high school and camp reunions that should be a hoot. I liked the girl I was then and it will be fun to see her again– and the folks she knew. Some of them, I suspect, will have grown into very nice people. I think people that shun reunions do so because they are afraid they’ll find that they themselves are what they don’t want to remember– though they’ll blame it on their classmates.

Every World’s a Stage

Jack has this way of refusing that is excrutiatingly funny– he’ll throw his head back, close his eyes and tighten his chin. The drama of it all is perfectly wrought. He smiles a little when he does it– like a miniature Harvey Korman (rest in peace Comedy genius!).

Today it was, “do you want some more cereal?” that prompted the little ham. Tomorrow it might be, “do you want help with that shoe?”

Three-and-a-half-year-olds, it turns out, are very good at saying (or exemplifying) “No!” When is it that we lose that? Is it the lack of empathy on his part that makes it so easy to be completely self-serving in his refusals? As selfish as I am I’m still very aware of trying not to hurt anyone’s feelings. I try to find something nice to say if I can. (Though it still comes easily to me to say something quick and sharp and mean. Then I feel terrible.)

Jack is completely in his own little world. That will change this fall when he goes off to school… he’ll learn to take turns and share in a more concrete way. (He does those things now, limitedly, when we are in Music Class or Gymnastics– but it’s in tiny, controlled groups and Mommy is there to distract him.) He’ll develop empathy and, albeit, an elementary, social conscious. He won’t ever get away the things he does now in his Only Child Universe. (”Lonely child,” says my niece Keegan.) And he’ll lose some of the dramatic chops that we find so enchanting– other kids will laugh or encourage his hammy bits– on the other side of next year he’ll be a different kid because of it.

In the meantime, Sir Laurence Olivier has his audience here– the Daddy and the Mommy and the Little Black Dog. Every curtain call, every act, every intermission… we’re here waiting to see what he’ll do next.

He’s got top billing you know.

Old Mean Guy and the Wee

Last night we took Jack to a “for all ages family event”… that’s how it was billed. For all ages. All ages.

When we arrived Robby, Jack, and I were the only ones under 55 in the room. Seriously. Forty-five other people all over 55. (And most of them hadn’t seen their 50s for a good 20 years…)

The event was a musical lecture– a performance sprinkled with interactives and instruments and singing. We chose seats in the last row where Jacky could play with his little cars on the floor. While we waited for things to begin I reminded Jack that we had to be “very good listeners and very polite.” He nodded gravely and put his finger to his lips in the classic “shhhh” motion. And then went back to pushing his cars back and forth.

And that’s when the Old Mean Guy turned around to glare at our boy. Our sweet boy who was, for once, behaving perfectly. The lecture hadn’t started yet– the performer was still in the hallway chatting with the event coordinator. My son was quietly pushing his little cars around the floor and Old Mean Guy looks like he’s going to stroke out.

It reminds me of those people that freak out during the previews of movies… Robby and I once went to a showing of Dr. Zhivago where a tiny, angry Russian man stood up and announced, “There must be silence!” before whacking a woman on the head who crinkled her candy wrapper. BEFORE THE MOVIE STARTED.

We ignored Old Mean Guy. The performer entered the arena and took a sip of water. Jack’s little car went down his imaginary road and Old Mean Guy turned to glare again.

It occurred to me that perhaps Jack was making some noise only detectable by a hearing aid… some dog-like pitch that our ears couldn’t detect… Still, I was annoyed at this man’s reaction.

Five minutes into the performance Jack’s little car (silent to most of us non-superheros) once again caused Old Mean Guy to turn around in his chair. This time he was exaggerated and deliberate. His entire body exuded the idea that “my entire experience is being ruined because there is a small child in the room, albeit a small child that is behaving perfectly…” I looked at Robby who sighed and scooped up Jack to take him out. Jack, for his part, was indignantly surprised, “I don’t want to go!,” he cried. He burst into tears not understanding why he was being ejected when he’d been so good. I stayed to take the pictures I needed for work then slipped out, too.

It’s a dilemna. I have a healthy respect for older people… and a good amount of patience for small children who are still learning their way. I may have made the wrong choice in taking out Jack– honestly, I’m not sure. The dark side of me realized that in all probability Jack will have many more opportunities for cheesey musical lecture performances like this– Mean Old Guy will probably be dead in the next five years.

Sooner if there’s a small kid in the room.

Cookie Salad Days

I’m mourning a little this week– our last days of pre-PreSchool are ending. This time next year all this unstructured, unscheduled time will seem impossibly long ago.

It makes me wonder where these nearly four years have gone off to?

In the meantime… we’re relishing our freedom. Today we ran errands all morning and it wasn’t until our last stop, the grocery store, that I realized we hadn’t eaten anything yet. Oops. I forgot to feed my little son. Add this to my list of indiscretions. Anyhoo– back here at the ranch we played with his cars, made Chef Boyardee pizza (delicious), and read a little. When he wakes up from his nap the plan is to have mugs of milk and the cookies we found at the store– “Color cookies!” (they have m&ms…) and then the big hoorah! for Daddy’s reappearance.

I’m looking forward to his going to pre-school next year– it’s going to be good for him to get in there with other kids. His teacher will be able to unlock things for him that I can’t. It’ll be neat to see his little mind expand with new concepts.

But I’ll miss these days of “What shall we do next, little man?”

What kind of glass is it?

I can’t ever figure out if I am a “glass half empty” or “glass half full” type of person. Just when I think I’m one then something happens to make me think that I’m the other.

I have tried, conciously, the past few years to be more positive then negative. I try to avoid spending time with negative people… or at least limit my exposure. It’s too easy to fall into a nasty pattern.

Maybe I’m a pessimistic Optimist? or an optimistic Pessimist?

Or maybe I just need to go to Crate & Barrel and pick out a new glass.