Thanksgiving

A snowman called "Georgia"

I overheard my sister once, in a quiery about her growing girls, respond that this was her “favorite age”– she has said that at each stage of their childhood. Each new phase passing along new adventures and new advantages so that she never really mourned the loss of the old phase.

When I overheard her Jack was a tiny babe. He was nestled in the crook of my arm and I thought, “Oh! but how, how could anything be as wonderful as this?”

Four year old Jack is darn near perfect.

Last week was his little preschool’s Grandparents Feast where he was sufficiently feted over by his Grumpa, his GrandLady, and his AunT (who stood in for his Momma in France). Our holiday table now has a wobbly little paper turkey with feathers and featues glued carefully on by Jack. (He loves to glue.) And on Tuesday, fighting the cabin fever that came about by way of all of us being sick, Jack and I escaped to the afternoon movie. We watched Madagascar 2  and shared a ginormous and full-priced popcorn (who knew that Tuesday is Bring-Your-Own-Container day???) He’s a good movie date. He’s still small enough to sit on my lap without impeding my view.

This weekend we’ve come up to The Lake where a blanket of perfectly sticky snow allowed Jack and his Daddy to make a magnificent Snowman. His name is Georgia, if you’re interested.

Last night, after a huge Thanksgiving Feast that left 13 people dazedly fat and happy (Jack, no. 14, ate Fruit Loops), the smallest pilgrim was ready for bed. Dressed in his footie jammies and yummy smelling from his bath, he snuggled up against me and whispered, “Mommy. I love you most more.”

Four year olds whisper about as subtlely as a Belle Tire ad. The addition of the “most more” comes from a little thing he and I do where I say, “I love you, Jacky” and he responds, “I love you, too, Mommy” and then it’s a matter of “I love you more/I love you most/I love you most more/I love you most most” and on and on until we give up for giggling.

And then it was on to playing spider. We make little spider hands and sing “Itsy Bitsy Spider” which segues into a weird little adventure for Mommy Spider and Baby Spider or Jack Spider where they eat breakfast, get dressed, go to school (enter Mrs. Brown Teacher Spider), and run errands… Jack delights endlessly in the Spiders going to the Doctor Spider because, inevitably, the little spider will need “pokies” in his legs and that will set Jack off on either acting very brave or crying out on his little arachnoid alter-ego’s behalf.

Because we aren’t at home– but in the great white north for the Thanksgiving weekend, we are, Robby, Jack, Philbin, and I, in one big bed. The little spider game is indicative of this rare treat– and I am, at the end of a really great Thanksgiving, most grateful for this little exchange between my too-quickly growing son and me.

I’d freeze him at Four Years Old forever except that I’d hate to miss out on what Four And a Half and Five bring.

My sister, for one brief shining moment is right. Yikes.

Where’s my check, Tom Bergeron?

Jack is having his first sick day.

After last night’s tossing and turning and punching and kicking (he manages to get both Robby and I at the same time so that Robby is groaning, “Uhhhmnf!” While I’m moaning, “Ow! My eye!”)– he wasn’t in any better shape then when he’d gone to bed (the first time).

There’s an inherent pressure amongst the preschool parents… and an unspoken understanding that one of the Big Taboos is sending your sick kid… Jack was flushed with no fever but with running nose and hacking, phlegmy cough and watery eyes. I called his school and told his teacher Jack wouldn’t be in today. Then called my supervisor and texted my boss (because, of course, today would be a day I was supposed to meet with them both).

Now Jack’s in comfy sweats while I’m still in a bathrobe and we’re both staying in. The living room looks like a bookstore exploded (assuming that said bookstore also sells wooden pretend food and little cars).

The highlight (I hope) of the day came with our comedy routine in the kitchen… My boss had called and while he was on one phone, the other phone rang. I’m trying to move across the kitchen to see who it is when Jack and Philbin come barreling through and run into me. I trip and, in a vain attempt at not crushing my small son or smaller dog, grab the freezer door handle. The door swings open, knocks me in the head on the way down where I land on the Jack (the pup escapes, barely). I don’t know what hurts more– my head? my elbow? my knee? Jack bursts into tears (the trauma of his mother hurtling out of the heavens toward him will, no doubt, come up in therapy down the road) and I cry, too… because I’m laughing. I hang up on Boss while the answering machine kicks in at some extreme volume to alert me that the caller has hung up.

Somehow the glamour of a sick day when I’m NOT sick is lost in Jack’s running nose, my new bruises, and the thought of having to put the living room back together at some point.

That Jack is trying to kill me isn’t lost on me, either.

In the pre wee smas

It’s finally quiet in my little house tonight.

Jack has a hacking cough. It’s phlegmy sounding. He coughs until he gags. He even puts out his little hand as though he might catch anything that flies out… but, thankfully, tonight at least he’s not thrown up. Poor baby has finally fallen asleep with his Daddy in the recliner.

I’ve stayed up listening to Robby snoring and Jack wheezing and tried to concentrate on the pile of projects that have accumulated at work this month.

Outside it’s blustery and cold and Novembery. (Gales and Gordon Lightfoot and all that.)

We had all sorts of plans for tonight– work and niece Maddie’s play and potentially the midnight showing of Twilight (for me anyway) but instead we’ve bunkered down with soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and a miserable little JackRabbit.

And now, hopefully, some sleep for us all.

Happy Anniversary Robby!

Today’s our anniversary. Fourteen years ago we were married in a relatively simple ceremony and a roomful of friends and family to wish us well.

It was a good day.

Then we went off on our Honeymoon which was a grand adventure. We went to Alaska. In November. We seemed to be the only non-residents there at the time and got quite a reception everywhere we went. It was fun.

Then– when we were brand new– we couldn’t imagine that every anniversary wouldn’t be as magical as our wedding day. We imagined years ahead of champagne corks popping.

Today has been somewhat ordinary and a little extraordinary. I got to “be the Mommy” in Jack’s class today. So my morning was spent with tempura paint and little scissors and happy little four year olds. They’re nice kids. I like being with them. The Mommy Helpers are minor celebrities in their world. It’s fun being a rockstar for the day.

While I was tidying up their little tables after snack (bananas and graham crackers and juice boxes if you’re curious) a delivery man brought in a bouquet of daisies and a mylar balloon wishing me a Happy Anniversary. The other Mommy Helper and Jack’s teacher agreed that I have a good husband.

AunT took Jack and I to lunch at McDonalds. The new Madagascar toys are in– so it was a fun lunch. And the nice men with the tall ladders have come to do our eavestroughs so, also, a good thing. Tonight is Jack’s little choir practice and dinner at church (hamburger gravy on mashed potatoes. Again– yay).

No champagne in sight but there was theme music this morning by way of my sister and nieces singing, “Happy Anniversary!” as the Flintstones did.

And isn’t this what the goal was 14 years ago? The two of us still happy. Still Us. Under our own roof and with the JackRabbit?

Happy Anniversary Boy!

The internet shouldn’t be accessible to crazy people

Okay. I’ve given you all a day to absorb it. Now get over it. It’s no longer about who you voted for or who you didn’t it’s about moving forward.

Yesterday I overheard a conversation that I still don’t know what to do with… two older people horrified that Barack Obama was elected president. The woman said things like, “I read on the internet where he’s going to take all the young black boys off the street and put them in uniforms and have them patrol the city streets like an army! They’ll go after all of us!”

No. I didn’t make this up.

The man said he wasn’t surprised. And added that he’s been telling everyone he knows to make sure they get their social security as soon as they can because the cut they’ll take in pay is better than nothing and now “they’ll get all our money!” By they it was clear he meant black people.

Again. Didn’t make this up.

“You know that there won’t be any of us one day! I read on the internet that by 2040 there won’t be any white people!”

“How could people be so stupid as to believe all his lies? The people that voted for him just don’t want to work– and he’ll let them just sit there while the rest of us do!”

It went on. And on. I was frozen to the spot unable to react. My mind was reeling with what I could say or what I should say and what I wanted to say. Their venom scared me so that I didn’t say anything.

And then– and this is the kicker… a little black girl walked in and the man adopted the voice you use with very small children– and cooed over her pretty hair. WHAT?

The people I overheard, I hope, are the extreme example. But there are lots of people grumbling. The facts, however, remain the same– Barack Obama is our president-elect. America gives us the right to disagree and to protest but it also charges us with the responsibility of all those freedoms. It would be nice if all the passionate energy of the campaign could now be channeled into a, “What can I do?” attitude.

It’s good to have someone in the White House that didn’t come up through a privileged dynastic system. It’s nice to think of small children in nation’s greatest home– and a president who will be keenly aware of how important education is. It’s good to have a huge investment into the country’s future made by the 18-24 demographic that came out in droves to vote. It’s very good that all children can believe, “You could grow up to be president if you want!”

And it would be really, really good if people could realize that the race is over– a winner emerged– and that, in a place where we all get to cast a vote and choose without fear of retribution, we all won.

Maybe the crazy lady will read THIS on the internet.

I voted

I walked to the polls yesterday. It was a beautiful Fall day here– lovely, big yellow leaves wafting down and unseasonably mild weather.

I didn’t take Jack to the polls. I should have– should have held his little hand and shown him the process… but really, in our town, the process isn’t very exciting. There aren’t any curtained booths– just cubicle-like dividers as though you are keeping your neighbor from copying your third grade math test. And there aren’t any neat machines with levers or touch screens– we have to fill in little bubbles with a black marker attached by string. The most exciting part is probably the machine that sucks in your ballot at the end…

I left Jack at his grandparents.

All morning the news reports warned of long lines and delays so I came prepared. I carried a book with me and relished the idea of an hour or two of uninterrupted reading.

Turns out our polling place was entirely too darned efficient. Extra quasi-booths had been set up and extra volunteers were in place. It took me longer to fill out my little card then it did to wait in line. My book wasn’t ever cracked open. Sigh.

And now, almost 24 hours later, with the results in I wonder why we have this long period of limbo. I’d hate to be George Bush now (or any sitting president)… I know that president-elects have lots to do. Cabinets have to be formed and plans made but do they need 3 months?