My Day to Day

I have a cell phone! My own, working, signal-holding cell phone. This is big news. If you are scratching your head wondering about the number you have in your own contact list with my name next to it, here's the story: Michael and I gave in to the cell phone craze when we went on our road trip in 2003. We only got one phone to share between us, because quite frankly we considered it our home phone. After we returned, I stayed home most of the time with the kid(s) and Michael worked from home much of the time, so we just kept the one phone. But the first time I took a trip with the boys during Michael's summer camp season to visit my family (5 hours away), my family insisted that my cell phone'-less self get added onto their family plan. It was a generous offer and one that I appreciated very much. The problem was that their provider doesn't work for beans within blocks of my house. When I lost my cell phone in DC (at the same time I nearly lost Elias, so my cell phone didn't matter at all to me), I got a cheap refurbished one from a different carrier, and the signal strength seemed to change with the wind. "Oh shoot, the wind is blowing to the north today. I won't be able to use my phone." It made for a useless combination. So Michael and I decided it made sense for us to add another line to Michael's plan and just get me a phone that actually works and is compatible with my life, and works inside my house.

It came in the mail today, and I was (am) so happy. The thing that's funny is that I didn't realize when I ordered the phone the fact that became clear when I looked at it: It's the same exact phone Michael has. I guess great minds really do think alike. (Or at least cheap minds that look for the best reviews....)

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When I got home after work, I noticed the answering machine had a recorded message on it from an agency looking to speak to someone right away. I heard the familiar "We are attempting to collect a debt, and any information obtained will be used for that purpose." This was odd because Michael and I don't have any outstanding debts or unpaid balances that we knew about. I decided to call immediately, nervous that someone had charged something in our names or on our accounts. A nice woman answered the phone and asked for my name and account number. I told her I didn't have an account number and she asked for a phone number, which I gave her. She said they had been calling about a man, we'll call him Mr. William Jones. I was shocked. I clarified, "Mr. William Jones? Really?"

A while back, a Mr. Jones stole my wallet. He was my friend. He was also a smooth-talker and a liar, and a charmer and an addict. And he was the best man in my wedding. It was an odd relationship. Anyway, he had taken my wallet once while he was living in our house, along with a car, and disappeared for a few months. I cancelled everything except a gas card I'd forgotten about, but that had only come up to bite me once years and years ago. The really crazy thing about this call and hearing this man's name was the fact that my friend, Mr. Jones, had died somewhere around 2003. So I stopped gaping and reported this to the woman. "He's dead?" she asked. "Oh yes, quite dead," I answered. "I don't have a death certificate or anything, and I'm not a relative, but he is not going to be paying you back, I'm quite certain." The nice woman apologized and told me she would take my phone number off the list.

When I got off the phone and sat down to dinner, I gave Michael a brief summary of the conversation, and wondered out loud how they would have gotten my current phone number. Mr. Jones was not living when I moved out of Kensington and got this new number. Odd.

It was nearly the end of dinner when it occurred to me the previous owner of our house's name was William Jones. I'd always called him Bill, and he happened to have the same last name as my aforementioned friend. Only my friend's name was Daniel, not William. Daniel Jones. Only we always called him "Sonny." Holy crap, I'd just told the collections agency with all sincerity that William Jones was as dead as a doornail! I choked a little on my scallion pancake, and then Michael and I roared with laughter. And then I called the agency back.

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Last weekend our friends got married. This was a good thing. They had a wonderful "Quaker-style" ceremony that Michael and I attended together while we left the boys at home with the neighbor/ babysitter. (We didn't think they could have handled the silence.) After the ceremony, we returned home to retrieve the boys and take them with us to the more kid-friendly reception. We hadn't been gone long-- maybe a little more than an hour-- but we were surprised to find the boys perched in the basement, nearly 3/4 of the way through the Cars movie. The babysitter said, "Oh, they wanted to watch it." It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon and they were watching TV in the basement, and probably had been the entire time we were gone. Needless to say, neither reacted very well when we tried to entice them to get into their church clothes and get into the car with us when the movie wasn't over yet. Kindred reacted far more poorly than Elias. Kindred had a total and complete meltdown. He was screaming and wailing and throwing his church clothes violently back at us. We gave him a minute to himself and it didn't help. Nothing helped. It came down to disappointed Michael deciding to stay home with freak-out boy while Elias and I went off to the reception alone. Elias fell asleep hard about 5 minutes before I parked the car, so he was clingy and sensitive when we got inside. He would speak to no one but me. I was glad to be his confidant, and accepted the fact that I probably wouldn't get much adult time while I was there, nor would I get to enjoy many adult drinks.

Eventually I was able to sneak away from Elias briefly, leaving him in the good care of our friend Anna. Elias decided she was his new best friend. He followed her everywhere and searched desperately for her when she went out of his sight lines. He ate cake with her, watched for trains out the windows, ran his short fingers through her hair and ran his toy cars over her face. He was enthralled.

Anna is a dancer, and when she announced to Elias that she wanted to go and dance, he faithfully followed her. But when he got to the crowded dance floor, he wouldn't move a muscle. Not a bop, not a toe tap. I motioned to her to spin around, and that was the magic key. Once Elias knew spinning was an optional dance move, he was off! He danced non-stop through seven songs. He even kept dancing when Anna left for a drink. He pulled off his shoes and socks and went right back onto the dance floor. He was brilliant. Even when it was well past his bedtime, I knew there was no way I was going to be able to pull him away without causing a show-stopping scene, so I let him dance it out. Fortunately, the venue was nearing it's closing time, so music didn't last forever. After the last song played, and after Elias had eaten all of the ice out of Brooke's water glass, I walked hand in hand with my sweaty dressed-up son back out to the car and headed for home. All the way back, Elias sat in his carseat calling, "Miss Aaaaaannnnnnnaaaaa! Misss Aannnnnnaaaaaaaa!" I told him quietly that Anna wasn't with us. "Where is she?" he asked. "She's probably going home," I answered. "To our house?" he asked. "No, honey, to her house." He would start up again. "Missss Aaaaannnnnaaaaa!" Eventually I explained that he didn't need to yell because she couldn't hear him. Anna wasn't in the car with us.

He considered this for a moment, then he said simply, "We should turn back."

The best news for your readers in light of this story is twofold: 1) Michael, my dear husband, has started blogging again with some regularity, so you should go read his stories on the day to day with the boys, and 2) He has a fantastic video of Elias cutting a rug taken by Uncle Jamie on his latest post. Go and see it when you have a few minutes. I'm sure you will want to watch it more than once.

Tidbits

I'm grateful that I am not generally one of those people who frightens easily in the night. For instance, when I woke up because I felt something on my back, I did not freak out and start swinging and screaming, unlike my husband might. (We will get a a husband-shrieking story in a minute.) Instead I laid still with my eyes open and thought, what could this be? If I had turned and aimed a punch, Elias would have been out cold on the floor. But as it was, he was only trying to wake me gently by lightly scratching my lower back in a small circling motion. He had had a bad dream, and he was thirsty.

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Kindred recently, while I was sitting on the floor next to him, turned, put both hands on my cheeks, looked into my eyes and breathed out, "I love your face."

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Music plays a big part of my time spent with the children. Usually my iPod is on shuffle on the "Kids' Music" playlist. There is a plethora of songs on my kid's playlist-- anything from Sesame Street, Sandra Boynton and the Little People to Woody Guthrie, Elizabeth Mitchell, Dan Zanes, REM, Peggy Lee and wordless lullabies. Elias is much more apt to sing along loudly and follow the directions the songs give "If you're happy and you know it cover your eyes," than Kindred is. There is a song that was remade by Dan Zanes that has a bunch of kids singing, "I don't waaaaaaaant your millions, Mister. I don't waaaaaant your diamond ring. All I waaaaaaant is the right to live, Mister. Give me baaaaack my job again." Kindred's take on the lyrics are remarkably different:

"I don't waaaaant your million sisters," he wails.

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Elias has a few favorite songs, one of which is Three Little Birds-- the Bob Marley and the Wailers version. Elizabeth Mitchell has covered this song on one of her albums, and although it is enough to make Michael visibly gag (it's not that bad, but it's not that good either), Elias shouts delightfully, "It's the gonna be alright song!"

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Two boys stand at the potty, crossing streams (I think that's what males call it). Kindred says to Elias, "I'm taller than you, Elias, My penis is taller than yours."

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For Mother's Day, Michael's parents sent me a little package that had a number of hygiene items in it-- mostly fun and foofy stuff like face cream and fancy soap. There was a flower-shaped green sponge (you should click the link just because the commercial will make you chuckle. We should all be so happy in the shower) in there that's tagline says something like "A home spa treatment for your feet." Oooooh, now that's what I'm talking about. I tucked it away in the vanity for a special occasion. Yesterday Michael mentioned to me that his feet hurt. Here's my opportunity!" I thought. I offered to give us a "home spa treatment for our feet." He looked at me warily, then said, "Sure, why not?" I probably giggled and clapped, but my memory on that part isn't clear. We put the kids to bed, then I set myself on the edge of the tub, barefoot, and Michael sat on the toilet with his feet dangling over the tub. I sampled the sponge out on my left foot first and found the result delightful. Ahhhh.... My version of heaven. Michael wiggled his toes at me and I gingerly took his foot in my hands, wet the sponge, and touched it to his heel to begin my scrub-down. He laughed out loud, a belly-shaking laugh. I ignored him and kept on going, working on the callous parts of his foot. Elias entered the bathroom, having to pee, and curiously took in the event. He stood next to Michael in the dimply-lit bathroom when I ventured onto the apparently more sensitive parts of Michael's foot.

Michael straight-up screamed like a child. A loud child. After bedtime.

Elias jumped 3 miles out of his skin, turned and slapped Michael's thigh with all his might. Hoo-wee he was so mad! Michael just kept laughing and laughing.

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Me and the boys went to the park one day after work and left Daddy at home to finish dinner. While I practiced pitching the ball to Kindred (so he could hit it 100 feet with his wiffle bat), Elias drove around the kiddo-sized driving course on his tricycle. At one point he stopped nearby and got off the bike. He approached me. When he got close enough he informed me, "I'm going on a trip. But I need some money." He stuck his hand out, waiting.

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Baseball has become a major theme in our home lately. If I don't hear, "Mama, can you throw the ball to me?" 800 times in a single day, it hasn't been a complete day. Elias gets bored easily, but Kindred can bat for hours. And he hits like a champ. We had practiced in the park behind where I work last week and the maintenance man who had been watching us through the window made certain to pull me aside and tell me without any wavering or uncertainty (and that's saying something because this man is the most gentle, unassuming man I've possibly ever met) that I needed to always have someone working with that boy of mine because he's going to be famous someday.



I wanted to take Elias' picture while he sat on the bed reading yesterday. He kept doing this funny thing with his hands. When I asked him what he was doing, he didn't say a word. He just stood up and showed me more clearly what he was doing:





Oh, right. The baseball stance. You've got it too, kid. Just like your big brother.

The Wisdom of the Mudders

It is the springtime. Rain falls, flowers bloom, allergies flare up (even for Kindred, poor guy), and our family visits my family in western PA. Usually our visit somehow coincides with both my brother Caleb's birthday as well as Mother's Day. (Elias repeated throughout the day on Sunday, delightfully, "Happy Mudders Day Mommy!") This year we had our little celebration of both events together with my parents, my brothers, Great Aunt Martha who is 87, and my paternal Grandmother (we call her Gram) who is 95. Aunt Martha is in a wheelchair when she feels too worn out to use her walker, and is staying (temporarily) in a care facility. Gram, on the other hand, although she doesn't go out as often as she used to and she's pretty tiny, is still pretty spunky and active. She doesn't hold back on sharing her perspective with anyone. I suppose she has earned the right.

When we picked her up from her house, Gram talked the entire way to my parents' house (at least 20 minutes) about her church and how unhappy she is there with the pastor, specifically how he wants to get rid of the traditions and replace them with more modern ideas of how to do church. She ranted about how he got rid of the pulpit because, she reasons, he thinks it obstructed the congregations' view of him and he feels too important to be hidden behind any type of structure. She was upset that the pastor is advocating to build a new church building equipped with a gym. She asserts that the fellowship hall that exists is completely sufficient for games and sports. For example, there is already a dart board on one of the walls. At one point in the conversation, when she was talking about the worship time, she turned around in her seat and informed us, "They call it gospel rock. Gospel. Rock." She paused for emphasis. She was incredulous. But she flatly refuses to leave and go to a more traditional church because she has gone there her whole life and she is the oldest living church member. Although I find it somewhat amusing, I respect her stance and her insistence that the old ways not be allowed to be callously discarded. And I respect her even more when she gets to the point near the end of her rant where she sighs and says, "The problem is probably mostly with me, not anyone else." She is strong and stands on principle, but she is not beyond self-reflection.

However, the best Gram-moment came later on in the evening, long after she'd coached Aunt Martha on how to do exercises with her legs while sitting down, and following our rendition of "Happy Birthday" to Caleb who turned 22. Cake was being passed around and the noise level was low. Someone recalled their own younger years, citing an event that happened when they were 15. Then Gram spoke. "Caleb, can you remember back to those years?" The room quieted in anticipation and respect for the matriarch's words of wisdom, love and support. Gram continued. "Do you ever think about how you wasted them? Well, you're a man now. You have to take some responsibility...." She went on for a minute, ending after she encouraged Caleb to "just think positive." Oh man, it was hilarious.

So I am going to end myself with this picture from Michael's trip to Florida which I also think is hilarious.

I'd Rather Be Stargazing

But it is raining. No stars. It is nearly 5:15am. I am awake, and have been since around 2am when Kindred came into my room quietly wailing about his nose running. He climbed into bed, fell asleep on my chest, and stayed there until an hour later when he rolled over into the crook of my elbow and continued to rest.

I was not resting. I was trying to figure out how to get comfortable in all of the 5 inches that remained on my side of our double bed. I never figured it out, and exited the bed with Kindred taking up then all of the remaining available space while I took an extra pillow to the office. But I still was not, am not, ready to rest. I mean, I'm ready. I'm probably a little delusional. (I just had a conversation with a big moth flying around the bathroom, imploring it to not fly anywhere near my head while I was stuck on the toilet, unable to adequately run or duck.) But up until this very minute, I wasn't sure I could actually fall back to sleep. But as the yawn escapes from my mouth, I am realizing it's time to give sleep a shot. (See? I'm sleepy! I just started the last three sentences with "but"! Hooray!) So instead of sharing endless ramblings about the biggest moth I have ever seen that was on the back of my bedroom door in a house I was staying in in Utah while the owners vacationed who had two large dalmations who lived in the basement that had access to the back yard through a sliding glass door that they never closed but there was no door separating the basement from the rest of the house so I had to chase out not only the huge moth, but also a bat and a few frogs during the span of the time that I stayed there, and come to think of it, I think I left the moth there, opened the window and left for work and it was gone when I came home, (pause for breath), I will lie down. Good, um, morning ?

Thees is the Pot of the Sheow....

While getting ready for bed tonight, Kindred announced in a sing-song voice, as much to himself than to anyone else, "Thees is the pot of the Sheow where Kindred comes out and kicks Tuna!" and with that, launched his teddy bear across the room with his foot.


I laughed at him, and that's when he repeated, more show-like, "Thees is the pot of the sheow when when Kindred comes out and puts his haaaands into his paaaaants and pulls them up to his boobies!"







Elias, imitating as he must, tried his own antics. Only he went the opposite route:






Then he got it right. "This is the show!" he called out....

Accomplishment

Kindred is learning so much. It amazes me all the time. We (the whole family) went to a festival on Saturday where there was a kids recycled art display and an area where children could grab some recyclable items and make some sort of fun thing with them. Kindred got some pink paper and some eyeballs. He asked me to glue the eyeballs on his paper, and I, armed with gluestick, made dots in the places he pointed and he stuck them. Later, while I was helping Elias (as much as he would let me), Kindred requested a marker. I handed him one, and the next time I looked down at his art...


...this is what I saw:


I'm sorry it is sideways. I don't know why my computer won't recognize that I have turned it. He wrote his whole name, and the number 4. I just stood there with my mouth gaping open. He grinned at me, and immediately said, "C'mon, I have to show my dad."

Ever since we have been back from our vacation, Elias has added something new to his dinnertime prayer. At the part where he gives thanks for everyone at the table, he now looks around and says, "Thankyou for MommyandDaddyyeshere." In case that isn't clear, he's saying "Thank you for Mommy and Daddy yes here" and he nods his head up and down as though he needs to reassure himself and God that his parents are in fact at the table with him.


Elias' vocabulary has grown immeasurably in the past months, but he still gets a few things all wrong. The most notable error, and the one we have been least inclined to correct is when he asks for something in this way: "Are you push my chair in pah-leese?" or "Are you help me get down?" "Are you show me a video on your com-puh-yooter?" "Are you read this book to me?" Today was the first time I encouraged him to say "Will you...?" or "Can you...?"

Here's him trying to balance on a baseball helmet.

Pieces of Life

Elias sometimes gets into what I call "Whisper mode." He doesn't speak aloud, only in whispers. And most times it is for no apparent reason, but just because he feels like it. Of course, when he whispers, everyone else around him whispers because it feels so awkward to use a full voice around such a quiet sound. Whisper mode can last for hours.

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Kindred and I were snuggling up in bed at sleeping time and I was rubbing his back. He sighed and remarked, sort of blissed-out, "I love when you do that, Mom." Then he told me all the places I could rub that he loves: his shoulders, his elbows, his head, not his bum or legs, but his feet? Oh yes, he loves that too. I told him I also love to have my feet rubbed, and after a minute he said, "Mom, I will rub your feet when I get five." I asked why he couldn't do it now, and he, somewhat exasperated, replied, "I caaaann't now because I'm too little. But when I get five I will be big and I will rub your feet. I will also push the grocery cart."

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Elias has turned into quite the little snuggler. I am so enjoying my relationship with him right now. He will sit with me and snuggle up or just plant a kiss on my face when I'm not expecting it at all. He asks for my help or my company while doing things he, merely a few weeks ago, would get enraged if you tried to offer assistance because he wanted so fiercely to do everything "MY SELLLLLLFFF!" He is a counter and can make it almost all the way up to 30 (he skips thirteen and fifteen but gets every other number in the right sequence). He loves to color and build things with blocks and work on puzzles. And last night, he read "Go, Dog, Go!" to Kindred and me.

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There's almost always music on when I'm downstairs hanging with the kids. Usually we listen to my "Kids' Playlist" on shuffle. On the playlist there are some classical songs and lullaby songs mixed in with all the other music with words. Although they aren't great dancing tunes, I like to allow some time for calm in the midst of some of the more upbeat offerings. When one such classical song came on recently during lunch, I asked the boys to listen to the music and tell me what they think the composer was thinking about when he wrote the song. Elias immediately said, "Sharks." (He's a little obsessed right now.) Kindred thought for a moment, and then he said, "I think it's about a man who likes a girl, but she doesn't like him so she went away, and he's sad." I gaped at him for a minute, and then I remembered that when the boys ride in the car with their father who likes to listen to the CD he calls "Mike's Mad Melodramatic Mix of 80's Metal Music", the question, "Daddy, what's this song about?" has been raised more than once. I guess Kindred was just answering in the only way he knew how.

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When I was saying goodnight to Elias, he made up 8 different kinds of kisses for us to give each other, and he gave them names: The Moon Kiss, the Circle Kiss, the Thomas Kiss.....

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Kindred saw the picture I'd posted of the two of them from Easter morning and pointed out, "Look! There's Kindred and Elias hugging each other with our church clothes on!"

Spring's strangeness

Spring is supposed to be about new life forming, bursting forth. New life from the cold lifeless winter. And it is, and it does. The radishes are pushing through the hard earth, and the snap peas are already sending out tendrils to greet the sunshine that peeks out around the rainy days here and there.


But then there's the death that sneaks in while the sun shines on. And it seems a strange juxtaposition. To feel a little bit of hollow and panic when the day is bright outside and all you should be feeling is joy and inspiration.

A co-worker, one of the 5 social workers in my office went in to the hospital Wednesday with pneumonia. On Friday morning, she died. She was 60.

On Thursday I called a client, one of my favorites, who reminded me often of the relationship, the good parts of the relationship, that I had with Sonny Jenkins. He didn't answer his phone. And when he had not called back on Friday, I knew something had happened to him. He always called back. So when I got a message from his sister on Monday, I already knew what she was going to tell me. He had also died on Friday. He was the same age as my father, 64.

And I've this week discovered the online journal of a woman Michael and I met on our road trip who, although she is only in her early 30s, has had a double mastectomy and is going through chemo for breast cancer.

And the rain pours hard again outside now, banging on the windows and skylights and making a mad rush for our basement, and I have to remember that somehow the spring storms also bring goodness, later.

He Poses

There are times when Elias refuses to acknowledge that it's time for photo-taking. He will either avoid looking at the camera entirely, or he will sit still and stoic, looking like he'd just lost something dear to his heart. But then there are other times when he wants, no demands, that I take his picture. And he tells me what to focus on. "Take pitcher of my eyes." "Now my chin." Etc.






(The one above is his head, below is his hair.) (Duh.)





Back, lips, fingers and cheek. Respectively.

Anniversary trip, Part 2

We ventured out on our own on Monday morning, and our first order of business was to get our tire fixed so that we weren't driving around on a donut for the rest of the trip. So we got it patched, and the rental company covered the cost. Great. From Concord, New Hamphire, we ran off to Maine (in the rain) and stopped for 2 days in Portland. (When we arrived there and stopped for gas, we heard the tire hissing again, so we ended up swapping out the whole car.) The weather was mostly lousy and Portland is a weird little city, but we stayed in a lovely Inn that we completely enjoyed, and we spent some time in the Art Museum, ate lots of diverse foods and walked around along the coast.

I snuggled up with a statue of a man who advocated using words instead of swords to fight.

Here's the hot guy I decided to spend my life with.

And again, here's the hot guy I decided to spend the rest of my life with.....

We saw many, many, many lighthouses in our travels. We walked out to this one, and it was farther away than it looked.

Our next stop was Belfast, Maine, a sleepy little "artsy" town with a hotel with a pool. We ate lobster, saw a movie in a neat old theater, and met a woman who co-owned an art gallery (and had just returned from her honeymoon in New Zealand). This was the view from our hotel room.


The next and final stop was, as Michael likes to call it, the "City of our Love," Auburn, ME. (Ask me to tell you all about it if you are curious. Bottom line is it's where we kissed for the first time, thus starting the saga that would become "us." Wait. I'm pretty sure that saga had already started. Anyway...) So he took us there to relive the old times. Auburn is an old mill town on a river where all of the mills have shut down. An odd place, frankly, but a neat spot. Michael managed to find a small pub where they serve vegan dishes and local beer and wine and who have live jazz during happy hour. We were really excited to get there. (It's called "She Doesn't Like Guthries.") So we went and settled into our seats with a good view of the stage area and waited. And waited. And kept waiting, listening to the jazz CD being piped through the speakers. Eventually we overheard that the band had thought the gig was for the next weekend. Oops. Nevertheless, Michael and I really enjoyed our time there. He tried some of the best beer I have ever tasted, and I thoroughly enjoyed the local wine selection. See?

This is the reason for all the mills:

And finally, our grand finale was going to see The Producers in Manchester, at the Palace Theater (New Hampshire's largest theater). Ironically, Michael had discovered by chance that a friend of a friend who lived around the corner from us once was playing the lead in the show! So although we had to run out before curtain because our plane was getting ready to leave (can anyone tell us how it ends?), it was fabulous to see our friend on stage, playing his heart out. It was a great ending to a great trip. But the greatest moment of the day was getting home to see:


Countless thanks to everyone who made our trip both possible and fun! Grandparents, I'd say we owe ya one, but honestly, I'm guessing you all don't feel like it was an unbearable burden... =)