the pieces of my life

Minke whale and puffin on the menu

Gullfoss Waterfall

Helicopters over Reykjavik

Toto, I don’t think we’re in Boston anymore!

Hello, Iceland!

Off on another grand adventure! This time to…

Me: What’s today?

Eight Year Old: August 25, 2013, also known as my birthday.

Me: How do you know?

Eight Year Old: Because I know.

Me: What did you do for your birthday?

Eight Year Old: I went to the Southwick Zoo with my family.

Me: What do you like to do these days?

Eight Year Old: Dance. Play soccer. Sing. Eat junk food. Eat fruits and vegetables. Go to exciting places and travel.

Me: What kind of exciting places? Eight Year Old: Like the Galapagos Islands and the park and the zoo and when you’re lost in a another country and your parents don’t know what to do!

Me: Does that happen often?

Eight Year Old: Yeah! It does happen often, Mommy.

Me: I don’t remember getting lost.

Eight Year Old:You don’t? Like when we look at a map and you say, “What direction are we going in?” Wait, did you write that down? Oh God!

Me: What are your favorite places to go?

Eight Year Old: My favorite place where I like to go is the Galapagos Island. Like travel right?

Me: Anywhere.

Eight Year Old: School. Home. New York. Different continents and countries. Stuff like that.

Me: What are your favorite books?

Eight Year Old: I like the Dork Diary series, the American Girl books, Kylie Jean and Heidi Heckelbeck and I really like Drama and Smile, which are books by the same author.

Me: What do you like to listen to?

Eight Year Old: I like Selena Gomez. Lady Gaga. Rhianna. And Nicki Minaj. Oh and I also like Ke$ha.

Me: What do you like to watch?

Eight Year Old: I like to watch Lab Rats. Phineas and Ferb. Project Runway. Abby’s Ultimate Dance Competition. Dance Moms. Johnny Test. Brain Games. And Mad.

Me: Sounds like you have an irresponsible mom, letting you watch those reality shows.

Eight Year Old: No.

Me: It sounds like you have an irresponsible mom and a brother who controls the remote.

Eight Year Old: No and yes.

Me: What would you watch if you had your pick?

Eight Year Old: Johnny Test. Lab Rats. Brain Games. Abby’s Ultimate Dance Competition. And Dance Moms.

Me: So your brother makes you watch Mad and your mother makes you watch Project Runway?

Eight Year Old: No, I like Project Runway. And I do like Mad, but I wouldn’t watch it if he didn’t live because I wouldn’t know about it. But I still like the other ones.

Me: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Eight Year Old: A writer. About animals. Which I will work out with my friend because she wants to be a vet. [whispering] Which is Jasmine.

Me: What are your goals as an eight year old?

Eight Year Old: To not be scared of spiders. To maybe raise some money for a charity. And just relax over the year.

Me: Do you have problems relaxing?

Eight Year Old: No, it’s just sometimes I get scared about stuff.

Me: Like what?

Eight Year Old: Like roller coasters, which I’m still scared of. Even though there are some very small ones. They’re still pretty fast.

Me: What are you looking forward to in third grade?

Eight Year Old: Doing my biography report. Because I already know what to do it on. I’m doing it on [omitted].

Me: You want me to put that in there?

Eight Year Old: Yes!

Me: But I thought you wanted to keep it a secret.

Eight Year Old: Right! Thank you for reminding me. Don’t put it in.

Me: Any grand pronouncements?

Eight Year Old: No.

Me: No?

Eight Year Old: What do you mean for a grand pronouncement?

Me: I explain it every year.

Eight Year Old: What’s a pronouncement?

Me: Let’s look it up. Because apparently every year I’m not doing a good job of explaining it. [Look up the word on M-W.com.]

Eight Year Old: Oh. Strawberries are awesome!

Excellent. Happy birthday, Pie!

While the posting of pictures and blog entries is all fine and dandy for the camp to do, it turns me into an analytical mess while I try to detect every emotional nuance from the slight glimpses of my children I see in the photos.

Me: I NEED PICTURES!
Adam: i saw his head in one. and he’s standing on the beach in the swim photos (with no goggles)
Me: i saw that! what’s up with that? I packed him three pairs. where did you see his head? i missed his head. why isn’t he having friends?
Adam: actually I think he’s holding goggles in this one.
Me: oh, you’re right.
where’s his head?
why isn’t he talking with anyone?
is his head talking to anyone?
or at least smiling?
Adam: his head is in middle in this one: [link to photo]
he’s fine
Me: but his head isn’t talking!

The camp not only posts pictures, but it has a blog and a Facebook account, so I’m basically stalking the camp. I was reassured to see pictures of Pie playing hand games–the girl can’t be too unhappy if she’s teaching other kids her hand games. Although I did hear from the camp mom that there has been one bout of homesickness, although she seemed to recover fairly quickly.

We can send the kids e-mails, which the office prints out and delivers to them. They have no access to computers, so it’s a one-way communication. Finding stuff to write to them is difficult. How many creative ways can I write, “Mommy spent the day writing. And then I had drinks.” I’ve been bugging Adam to write so I don’t have to do it every day. Yesterday morning I asked him, “Did you write the kids this morning?”

He said, “I worked out this morning! I didn’t have time to write them!”

I reminded him, “You often work out when the kids are home. But this morning you didn’t have to cook breakfast, go upstairs while Pie got dressed, break up the fights, say no to the iPad, and all the other things you do in the morning that you tell me prevent you from doing other things.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Turns out, that stuff really doesn’t take up much time.”

At which point I made him write an e-mail. See? Even with the kids gone, I have to make someone do homework.

Refresh, refresh, refresh!!

I thought that by rationing out my gummy bears into a cute little bowl, it would prevent me from overdoing it on the candy. Turns out, I was wrong. But it’s okay, because with the kids gone, I’m not getting in enough steps on my pedometer (most steps were spent walking Pie to camp, walking Pie to Starbucks, walks with with Pie around the neighborhood, etc. Where was the boy? Playing Minecraft, of course), so the only steps I’m really getting now are those from the couch to the gummy bear drawer. And how does anyone figure there are 3.5 servings in a 5 ounce bag? That is simply wrong.

The kids made it off to camp with just about everything they needed. We had the predictable:
[Three weeks ago]
Me: Doodles, do your Shabbat shoes fit?
The boy: Yeah.
[Two weeks ago]
Me: Doodles, are you sure your Shabbat shoes fit?
The boy: Yeah.
[One week ago]
Me: Doodles, would you please try on your Shabbat shoes and make sure they fit?
The boy: They fit me, already! Leave me alone!
[Two days before we leave]
Me: Doodles, I am going to stand here and watch you. Try on your Shabbat shoes.
The boy: Mom! [Tries on shoes.] Hey! They’re too small!

We had the nervous:
Pie: With the counselors help me do my hair?
Me: Of course.
Pie: Will the counselors help me when I get a bug bite?
Me: Of course.
Pie: Will the counselors help me if I can’t cut my food?
Me: Of course.

We had the frantic:
Me: Where are all your shorts! Find your flashlight! No, I’m not buying you a new flashlight if you lost last year’s flashlight! You’ll just have to be in the dark! Bring me your Shabbat pants! No, not those, the ones that fit! What do you mean all of those shorts don’t feel right? WE HAVE TO PACK! I need to label how many pairs of socks? Screw that. Don’t lose your socks.

But we made it to camp. In case you’re wondering, the camp web site is not adding photos in 15 minute increments, but I am continually checking, just to make sure.

And the house is dead quiet. I’ve been able to read. Work on my novel. Eat gummy bears. No one is dancing to Selena Gomez in the kitchen. No one is begging for computer time. No one is demanding a trip to the Res.

Peace and quiet.

Man, do I miss them.

Doodles said, “When you die, you can leave more money to Pie, because I’m going to be a successful businessman or computer programmer and I won’t need it as much.”

And Pie responded to me, “Yeah, I’ll take all your money.”

Sometimes a conversation goes horribly awry. Horribly, horribly awry. And there’s nothing a mother can do.

Take today. This is one of those conversations that may cross the line of propriety, but it’s too good to not share.

This week is Teacher Appreciation Week. And I am co-chair of it at the kids’ elementary school. One of the things we do is have parents provide breakfast for the staff. We decorate the teachers’ lounge and make a pretty breakfast buffet for them. At the end of the day, I just make sure the room is tidy, things that need to be refrigerated are put away, and wrap up leftovers for the next day. Doodles walks himself home, but Pie tags along with me. In the lounge is a large bulletin board and on it is a horrifying-to-a-parent number of pictures of registered sex offenders in our town.

Pie, of course, is fascinated. “Why are there all those pictures of the men up there?”

I try, in my least scary way, to explain what a sex offender is. How sex is something for grown-ups, but very, very rarely, a grown-up will try to do something sexual with a child and that it’s illegal and those grown-ups go to jail, and when they get out, they become registered sex offenders and they can’t be near a school. We talked about how it’s not okay to touch a child’s private parts and how it’s not okay for a grown-up to try and do sexual things with a child.

“How come it’s only men up there?”

I explain that sex offenders tend to be men. And we talked about how it’s never okay for anyone–male or female, grown-up or child–to touch her in certain places and if anyone does that she should tell a grown-up right away, even if the person said it was a secret and even if the person said she’d get in trouble. I promised her she’d never, ever get in trouble for this, but only the other person would. And I patted myself on the back for a successful reinforcement in a non-scary way about bodies being private.

And then the conversation turned.

“So what do you mean by sexual?”

“Making love,” I explained.

“Like kissing?”

“Yes, kissing. But also more than that. Touching. Putting the p*nis in the v*gina.”

“Oh, like what you and Daddy did those two times to make me and Doodles!”

I carefully explained that people do that not just to make babies. That people make love because it feels good and it’s something they enjoy doing. That it doesn’t necessarily mean babies will be made.

“But how come you don’t get more babies?”

And again I explain how a doctor can help you not make babies. And she wanted details. About me. And how I don’t make more babies. And I provided her with some bare bone details, being as vague as I could.

“So,” she said, “you won’t make babies! You said, ‘Doctor, no more babies for me!'”

“Yes,” I told her.

“So now you and Daddy make love constantly!”

And I couldn’t think of a single child friendly reply. So I just started laughing. Maniacally.

Someday, when she has a seven-year-old child who won’t sleep through the night I will show her this post. Smugly.

My husband is taunting me with pictures on Facebook of elegant dining rooms and lingering dinners. He texted me a photo of the snacks at one of his meetings: a bucket–yes, a bucket–of gummy bears. He went to bed last night with no one kicking him in the ribs.

I–oh, wait a minute. I just stepped in a pile of Kix lying on the floor and have made a huge mess. What was I going to say? Whatever it was, suffice it to note that I am not having the elegant time of my husband, who has been swept off for the week for a conference in Berlin.

But alas it is not all bad here. Well, the sobs from the girl about missing Daddy, the boy’s refusal to practice his viola, and the insult-to-injury early release day today notwithstanding, things are going just hunky dory.

For starters, I’ve learned my daughter will not only live with me her entire life, but I shall have the privilege of chauffeuring her until the end of my days. In the car, we had this discussion:

The girl: When Doodles goes on his retreat this weekend, I get to be alone with you and Daddy!
Me: Yes, you do.
The girl: Doodles, you had two years alone with Mommy and Daddy.
The boy: Huh?
Me: Yep. Before you were born, Doodles.
The boy: Oh.
Me: But, Pie, you’ll have two years alone with us when your brother goes away to college.
The boy: But I want to go to M.I.T., so I won’t be going away.
Me: Even if you do get to go to M.I.T., you’re going to want to live on campus.
The boy: I can do that?
Me: Yes. It’s part of the college experience, moving out of the house, living with friends. It’s something you’ll be ready to do by the time you go to college.
The boy: Okay.
The girl: Not me! I’m not going to college because I don’t ever want to leave home!
Me: You may find you feel differently when you’re 17.
The girl: No way! I just won’t go to college.
Me: Well, if you feel that way, we are in a major college town and there are plenty of schools you can go to and still live at home. Heck, there’s a college just 15 minutes away.
The girl: And you’ll drive me to class?
Me: Uh, no. You’ll drive yourself to class.
The girl: No way! I’m not going to college unless you’re driving me to classes!

Let’s re-visit this blog post in 2023, shall we?

In the meantime, I’m getting a decent amount of editing done on my novel, and I’m feeling good about the changes I’m making. And I just had a short-short accepted for publication in the Sierra Nevada Review, which is always an exciting thing. And I know I have a big bag of gummies coming to me at the end of the week (are you paying attention, Adam?).

Back to writing. Gotta get as much done as I can before I’m expected back behind the wheel. Ta ta!

The girl [singing]: I want more mango. I want more mango!
Me: Bring me your plate.
The girl: Wow, cutting mango looks hard.
Me: It is a little hard.
The girl: That’s why I don’t want to grow up. I don’t want to have to cut my own mango.
Me: That sounds like a good reason.
The girl: Do you think I should just live you when I grow up? So you can cut my mango for me?

On Sunday, Pie and Jasmine were making friendship bracelets in the kitchen while I was reading a book in the family room. I wasn’t paying too much attention, but I heard them say something about “fat” and “thin” so I perked my ears up. I missed that conversation completely, but I did hear this exchange:

Pie: When we grow up, we’ll have wrinkles.
Jasmine: Yeah, like your mom.
Pie: My mom doesn’t have wrinkles! Well, I guess she does.

Way to stand up for your mom, Pie!

And this was after Pie and I were reading Rebecca and the Movies together. It’s a story about the American Girl Rebecca Rubin, who lived in New York in 1914. She’s the daughter of immigrants, trying to lead an assimilated Jewish life amidst the goyim.

In the opening of the book, Rebecca is listening to a phonograph at the candy store with her friend. There’s a picture:

Which led to a conversation:
Pie: Mom, you played records when you were little, right?
Me: Yep.
Pie: So you just put the plastic on the machine?
Me: Uh huh.
Pie: So did your record player look just like Rebecca Rubin’s record player?

Yes, sweetie. My Victrola was a hand-cranked machine that I used to listen to the newest Irving Berlin tune. Oh that Irving Berlin! He was so divine!

Of course, the reality of it is really the same to her. Irving Berlin and the truth–the first single I purchased was “Run Joey Run,” which is a hell of a lot more embarrassing than anything that came up in the 1910s–are close enough in her mind: They’re both ancient music.

This week I received my e-mail from Amazon: “Free MP3 Versions of CDs You’ve Bought!” Amazon’s new program searches your order history for CDs so you can download the MP3s. It’s a virtual walk down memory lane. Or in this case, a listen. Upstairs, in the dark recesses of a closet, I have all my CDs. I haven’t looked at most of them for years. So getting this visual of songs 1) reminded me how much music I have that I really enjoy but don’t listen to anymore and 2) brought me back to a different era of my life. My heaviest CD purchases happened when I worked at Amazon, right after it launched the music store. I had about three years of heavy CD purchases. All the various periods of my Seattle years lay before me: my chanteuse phase (Diana Krall, Edith Piaf, Karrin Allyson); my world music phase (Manu Negra, Youssou N’Dour); my hip chick phase (Belle and Sebastian, April March), to name but a few. Over 1,000 songs were added, reminding me of Seattle bars, ex-boyfriends, rain. That song list is a history of my life in Seattle. And I realized, nothing makes you feel older than seeing the music you used to listen to. Phil Collins and I’m in twelfth grade, catching rides at lunch to the Hoagie Hut. Mazzy Star and I’m in my illegal apartment on 10th Street in Alphabet City. Fun Lovin’ Criminals and Adam and I just started dating. I played some clips from the various songs until Doodles ran screaming from the room. Although it doesn’t take much any more to make the boy run screaming.

Last week Pie, Doodles, and I were driving, and while at a stop light, a group of girls slowly walked by.
“Hey, isn’t that H?” I asked.
The boy said, “Nope.”
“No, I’m pretty sure that’s her. You know who I mean. The sister of M. You know, M from Cub Scouts.”
“That’s not her.” The boy was certain.
“I really think it’s her. Hey! Look! There’s their mom! It is H!”
“It’s not them, Mom!” Doodles protested.
“What are you talking about? Of course it’s them!” I’m looking right at them and can clearly see who it is.
“Just don’t stop. Please! It’s mortifying!”
“Mortifying? You’ll be mortified if I speak to them?”
“Yes!”
“It doesn’t mortify you when I speak to other people.”
“Yes, it does,” he told me. “I just don’t tell you.”
And I thought, “Ah, we’ve now come to this,” and I flashed back to my father mortifying me by speaking to my friends. My father only had to suggest speaking to my friends for me to want to crawl into a hole with my humiliation. The torch has been passed. I am now old enough that I mortify my son.

The universe (or at least my kids) is trying to send me a message. I’m old. My music belongs on a Victrola. And it’s time I start using wrinkle cream.