Things I Will Remember

The things about today I will forget:

G waking up at 5:15am, per usual.

Struggling with the kids to get them dressed, only to have them soak their shoes and pants in the snow on the 10-yard walk from the front door to the car.

Waiting at the pediatrician's for over an hour with two hungry kids, the younger of which made such a spectacle that I couldn't decide whether to cry or run away.

The doctor telling me my son has a ruptured eardrum. I don't care if it's not as bad as it sounds. It sounds bad.

G whining incessantly for eight hours and refusing to take a nap.

Asking, then begging, then pleading, then yelling, and finally screaming to the kids to "Stop fighting! Stop wrestling! Share! Don't go out the door! Don't throw the flour!"

G tossing her used diaper onto the kitchen floor then running off in the other direction to hide, while H runs through the house with handfuls of plastic forks.

The things about today I will remember:

G throwing her arms into the air and shouting, "Yay Mommy! Yay Mommy!" after I gave her a potato chip.

H spontaneously giving me the most sincere smile I'd ever seen and saying, "You make me so happy."

You make me happy too.

My Conversation with Spring

I called her up the other morning.

Brrrrring.

Spring (in a groggy, sleepy voice): Yeesss?

Me: Oh I'm sorry, were you asleep?

Spring: Uh, yeah, it's January.

Me: Well it's time to get up. I need you.

Spring: What are you talking about? It's the middle of the night.

Me: Exactly. It's cold and dark and I need you now.

Spring: Can't a girl get some sleep?

Me: I'm sorry, but no. You need to get up, put on your best floral dress, and get your blossoming butt over here right now.

Spring: It doesn't work that way.

Me: I don't care, I'm desperate. And cold. (sobbing) So...very...cold.

Spring: Have you been drinking?

Me: Well what do you expect, I'm depressed!

Spring: There are things you can do, you know. Make a comforting soup. Call a cheerful friend. Read an entertaining book. I don't even mind if you cheat on me and buy some daffodils out-of-season.

Me: It's not the same and you know it. I beg of you.

Spring: You'll just have to be patient. Now if you'll excuse me, I need my beauty sleep.

Click.

You can't say I didn't try.

A Swinging Good Time

Many early childhood milestones are expected and predicted with reasonable accuracy. They're the ones you read about in What to Expect the First Year: rolling over, sitting up, crawling, walking, first words, etc. After about the 14th month of life, when new milestones slow down, you stop waiting and watching every movement. So when something new happens long after you've been paying attention, it's a beautiful thing.

One of these sunny days I took the kids out in the backyard to get some wiggles out. Harrison hopped on the playgym swing and started swinging, by himself. He leaned forward and back in overextended motions, but managed to lift himself higher and higher. Nowhere in the books does it say that at 55 months your child will swing by himself. This is HUGE.

If your idea of a good time is pushing a swing for half an hour, then maybe it sounds like I'm exaggerating. But if you'd rather be digging for worms with your teeth, then you'll understand my excitement.

Watching it happen before your eyes is positively thrilling. The swinging starts with barely perceptible movements, like the click-click of climbing to the peak of a roller coaster. The increments continue and show definite progress in the right direction; you're rolling over the coaster's peak and can see the precipice below. The swinging gets higher and faster and you can hardly believe what's happening; you're barreling down the coaster, letting out your giddiest scream. I whooped so loud I'm certain the playground three blocks away heard me.

It was one of those exhilarating moments that makes every day so worth it. Thanks, Harrison.

Pierre Robert

Cher Pierre,

I'm terribly sorry it has taken me so long to express my love for you. My mind has been elsewhere and I now realize the error of my judgement.

When I first saw you, you looked like all the others. You had no distinguishing marks, your dress was unoriginal, you didn't even smell pungent. Why should I have paid any attention?

I let you wait, day after day, which only allowed you to age that much more delicately. You were patient and kind. You did not sour, you did not grow bitter. Then finally, on a lonely night, I thought of you. Yes, the time was now. I needed you.

I held you for a moment and admired your creamy flesh beneath your wrap. Then I slowly undressed you, careful to keep your shape intact.

At first, I was too distracted to notice how incredible you were. So I tuned out the rest of the world and focused all my attention on your taste, texture and decadence.

It is hard to put into words the excellence that you were. Your masterfully subtle scent allowed the magnificence of your texture to reign. Buttery like no butter could be. Creamy like no cream could dream of. A veritable taste bud's fantasy.

There should be a new name for something like you. For you are so much more than cheese. You began as a simple thank you gift from my husband, but became the love of my night.

Forever Yours,
Me

The Berger Flip-Off

There's a scene in season six of Sex and the City when Jack Berger (Carrie's boyfriend at the time) gives his answering machine two middle fingers while his ex-girlfriend is leaving a message on it. He lifts one hand, then the other and says, "Fuck you and FUCK you!"

When you're really mad at something, doing a Berger Flip-Off is about the most satisfying thing you can do. It makes you feel good because you've let off some steam, which sometimes only a Fuck can do. But it also makes you laugh because it's so dang funny. Try it sometime, it works.

This weekend while struggling with my awkward double stroller in the freezing, pouring rain, I did the Berger Flip-Off in the direction of the sky, careful to hide it from Harrison. It worked. I gave the rain a piece of my mind and went on with my cold, solo afternoon with the kids.

Don't get me wrong, I normally love the rain. It cleans the air, makes our beautiful city green, is an important part of the ecosystem, blah blah blah. But when you're a parent of two small children and you're laboring to get through January, it takes on a different meaning. It means we become progressively more insane the longer it rains.

But there just isn't much you can do. We have memberships to the Children's Museum, the Science Center, the Aquarium and the Museum of Flight, but none of them adequately replace a little kid's need to be outside. Kids don't care if it's cold. They don't even care if it's raining and cold. They're just glad to be outside instead of in a dark, stuffy house.

So after I cursed the rain I thought, if this isn't bothering the kids in the least, why am I letting it bother me so much? Why is it so hard for me follow their example when I need to the most? So that's what got me through the afternoon. A little attitude change and a Berger Flip-Off. You do what you need to do.

The Lazy River

The second-story view of the Lazy River is really the best view. From the ground floor, your view is obstructed by the black iron fence that runs the perimeter of the river. From the third floor, you're too far away to have that sense of tactile proximity that makes the river so tantalizing. But from the second floor, you're close enough to be hypnotized by the water as it swirls around in a counter-clockwise direction, meandering in a wavy oval around the man-made island.

Just one floor down, past the tennis courts, into the gate, and there you are.

You expect the water in the Lazy River to be cool, to give your body a mild shock. After all, that would follow every swimming pool experience you've ever had. However refreshing those pools were, the first few seconds were always a tad cooler than your skin was cozy with. Not so with the Lazy River.

Upon dipping your toes onto the first step, you're delightfully surprised that the water is somewhere between normal pool water and a hot tub. In fact it makes sense that the water isn't too cold because the purpose of the Lazy River is not to swim, but to drift. Lazily.

You ease into your large inner tube, careful not to get too much of your body wet. You don't want to feel a single chill from the gentle breeze that comes from moving along the water. You push off the concrete side with your big toe. The jet-propelled current floats you along, ever so gently.

You smell the desert air as you glide past the local flora that is symmetrically planted along the island. Some of the shrubs have bright fuchsia flowers, others are shades of green that shimmer in the sunlight.

You pass the hot tub nestled in the island, surrounded by small trees and chaise lounges. A young couple relaxes in the bubbles, chatting, holding cups with not-so-mysterious liquid inside. You're saving the hot tub for later, when you get chilly.

As your tube turns your face towards the sun, you close your eyes and keep them closed. You're still moving, but your eyes are closed. It feels a little reckless. It feels as though you're moving much faster than you really are. You take a peek with one eye to make sure no one is nearby that you could bump into. The coast is clear so you close the eye.

You feel the sun's warmth travel along your skin as you revolve like the earth. First on your nose, then on your left ear, then on the back of your neck, then on your right ear, and back to your nose. You open your eyes to observe the shadows of your head and strands of hair as they creep along the front of your legs when the sun is at your back. You just remembered the pleasure of slow-moving things.

The voice of Lily Allen sings faintly within the hidden stereo system as you pass an older man lounging in his chaise. You imagine that in the summer, the man's belly is a shade of crisp bronze, but so early in the year, his rounded paunch resembles the subtle golden brown of a raised calzone during its last minute in the oven.

Two boys, about 12-years-old, pass you by. They don't have inner tubes. Rather they like the feeling of swimming effortlessly yet speedily along the river. They've been doing this for almost two hours. Later you'll challenge them to a race.

Right before you're back at the steps, you pass under the small bridge that leads to the island. It's only a couple seconds of shade, but you can't wait to feel the sun again.

As Seal starts crooning through the speakers, you decide to stay in the Lazy River indefinitely. Because there's nowhere else you need to be.

Okay, now I'm ready for the year

I spent a wonderful few days away from home this past weekend. I started the trip feeling guilty that I was leaving my husband and kids for no other reason than a little R & R. Did I really do enough to deserve a vacation? Some days yes, other days not really. But that's not the only point.

Being away not only gives you lucid appreciation upon your return, but allows those you're away from the chance to breath without your help.

The kids were thrilled to see me last night, and I was delighted to see them. After only three days Harrison seemed to have matured three years. And Gigi had apparently earned a degree in English. They were all hugs and kisses. All charm.

But it wasn't simply the short passage of time that changed them. It was that Mommy wasn't there. The routine was changed. The vocabulary used was a little different (Gigi kept saying, "It's just gas." I don't say that). The snacks were slightly new. Maybe Robin, being the creative one, even dressed them in something other than jeans and a turtleneck. Change is good. Like most new experiences, it leads to growth. So having Mommy gone for a short time gave everyone a chance to experience something new and become a better person for it.

How do you like that for guilt-relieving rationalization?

And to top it off, Robin was the happiest of all to see me back. The house was immaculate, much cleaner than I'd left it. Everyone was bathed and fed and in a good mood. Any guilt that remained was gone, replaced by a fresh determination to get back to work, supporting my family in all the ways they need. What a great way to start the year.

Happy Birthday Love

Happy Birthday to my little essence of joy. After two years I still can't believe you're mine. Please be mine forever.

Lady Chatterley

When I picked up Sons and Lovers ten years ago, I knew only one thing about D.H. Lawrence: he wrote about sex. After reading about twenty-five pages, I discovered another thing about him: he wrote about coal miners. I lazily lost interest (just what was I expecting?), put the book on the shelf and forgot about the writer.

A couple weeks ago my friend Mick recommended Lady Chatterley, a French film based on the second version of another D.H.Lawrence novel, Lady Chatterley's Lover. Although the movie is almost three hours long, I thought surely a French film about sex wouldn't lose my interest, no matter what book it's based on. Over the course of three nights I savored this movie.

The story is about an aristocratic wife who has an affair with the gamekeeper who lives near her mansion. The story itself is beautiful, but the way it was shown in this version was enchanting. It unfolded ever so slowly, making full use of the countryside paradise where it was filmed.

The movie begins near the end of winter, when Constance (Lady Chatterley) first finds interest in the gamekeeper. As their relationship blossoms, the seasons change with it. Her walks through the French forest, complete with the sounds of gurgling water and chirping birds, are meditative. You just want to be there.

As if the feast of nature wasn't enough, we're given an absolutely charming love story played by equally adorable characters. Their respect for one another is complemented by their playfulness. Their time together is so honest and tender, you can't help cheering for them, hoping there's a happy ending. I even giggled a few times at their innocent dialogue. And since I'm trying to sell the movie, I'd like to add that there is some full frontity noodle, but it's very tactful, I promise.

With the weather here being what it is, and the cluttered rush of daily life, Lady Chatterley is a welcome respite. If you get bored, just finish watching it the next night. Or...I'm sure you'll think of something to pass the time.

What the Hell's a Caucus?

And why should we care about Iowa's?
I was annoyed with myself this morning because I had no idea what a caucus was and why the media was making such a big deal about it.

So I made a feeble attempt (in between taking apart and cleaning the puke off Gigi's car seat) to understand what a caucus was. There's a PDF you can open from this page that has a diagram about the Iowa Caucuses.
It did not help me.

Thankfully, my pal Hitchens wrote an article that not only gives some understanding, but criticizes the Iowa caucuses as "undemocratic."
Much more helpful.

Here was the most useful section for me:

It's only when you read an honest reporter like Dan Balz that you appreciate the depth and extent of the fraud that is being practiced on us all. "In a primary," as he put it, "voters quietly fill out their ballots and leave. In the caucuses, they are required to come and stay for several hours, and there are no secret ballots. In the presence of friends, neighbors and occasionally strangers, Iowa Democrats vote with their feet, by raising their hands and moving to different parts of the room to signify their support for one candidate or another.

This multi-step political dance is for the Democrats. The Republicans vote in one step by ballot or poll. So it seems the Republican results would be more accurate than the Democrats' results. Which should mean we can't take the whole thing very seriously, right? But should we still care because of the potential of its results affecting national opinion and predicting future outcomes?

Still a bit hazy for me. Correct me if I'm wrong.