"Brother John, how are you, why are you sleeping?"

At 4:00 a.m I agreed to complete this. Brother John, here's to solidarity and subversiveness. And I hope to post your answers here, if you'll let me.

Childhood ambition - to marry rich

Fondest memory - riding my red Schwinn ten speed with my best friend Liz who also had a red Schwinn ten speed

Favorite soundtrack - I mostly don't like soundtracks

Favorite music - It changes constantly, but this is what I've been listening to a lot in the last year: Johnny Cash, The Pogues, The Magnetic Fields, Beck, Wilco, The Beatles, Elliott Smith, Yo La Tengo, David Gray, Radiohead, The Clash, Belle and Sebastian, The Velvet Underground, Iron & Wine, Neil Young, Billie Holiday, Thelonius Monk, Madonna, Woody Guthrie, fiddle player Martin Hayes

Favorite retreat - I like to get out to a good bar. Good bars sometimes have good music. Good bars offer a good time, most of the time. Good bars tolerate a lot, but not everything. Good bars can be walked to. Good bars don't take themselves too seriously. Good bars let people be.

The person who has impacted your life the most: It's a toss up between Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Margaret Sanger. My life would be altogether different without the fights of either of these women--one for suffrage and one for birth control. I also wouldn't be here if it weren't for my mother and father. And, without Tad, my life would be something else entirely, three children different.

Proudest moment: leaving the church of my upbringing and accepting that I can love my parents and disagree with them

Biggest challenge: leaving the church of my upbringing and accepting that I can love my parents and disagree with them. Also, knowing when enough is enough.

Describe the perfect day: I don't believe in perfect days. Perhaps I believe in perfect moments like I believe in love. There's a lot of sadness in the world. Then, there are a lot of people making themselves sad in the process of trying to be perfect or make perfection.

First job: that I got paid minimum wage for: Red's Frozen Yogurt and Ice Cream as a blender of candy, nuts, and fruits with frozen things

Biggest failure: failure to keep my house as clean as some people think it should be

Favorite movie: currently it's Donnie Darko for the classroom love/fear scene

Strongest trait: I'm opinionated. I can also be intuitive.

Favorite book: It changes frequently, but for now it's One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Talent(s) others say you have: People say that I'm creative. People say that I take good pictures. Someone once said that I'm a "great shootist." I liked that. It made me laugh.

Country of ancestor's origin: I'm a Euromutt, I think.

Favorite ancestor: I admire the women who came before I did. They had a lot to contend with. I wish that I could be more specific here, but I don't know them well enough.

Favorite scripture:

508

I'm ceded--I've stopped being Theirs--
The name They dropped upon my face
With water, in the country church
Is finished using, now,
And They can put it with my Dolls
My childhood, and the string of spools,
I've finished threading--too--

Baptized, before, without choice,
But this time, consciously, of Grace--
Unto supremest name--
Called to my Full--The Crescent dropped--
Existence's whole Arc, filled up,
With one small Diadem.

My second Rank--too small the first--
Crowned--Crowing--on my Father's breast--
A half unconscious Queen--
But this time--Adequate--Erect,
With Will to choose, or to reject,
And I choose, just a Crown--

--Emily Dickinson

Something that inspires you: moments of clarity--this could be sitting atop a toilet or atop a mountain, things of beauty and functionality, and the fierce love that I feel for my children

Something that fills me with dread: trying to answer most of these questions without hurting anyone. Or, thinking that I can answer them without hurting anyone.

Herein lies the Problem

Someone in my family sent this questionnaire for me to complete before Christmas. I'm not going to name names; I'm not harboring any anger or malice at the moment. However, this survey illustrates well the disconnect that I feel when it comes to my family. Do I answer it? Or don't I? Do I answer it truthfully? Or don't I? What will happen if I do? What will happen if I don't? It's a loaded gun here. And I'm not sure that I'm willing to fire. Though I might have an awfully good time writing about some of these. Dibs on the person who suggested that I send a naked picture of myself to the bishop (see below) asking that "this body be removed from the lists" to help me complete it.

Name___________________________________ Date________________


Childhood ambition______________________________________________

Fondest memory________________________________________________

Favorite soundtrack______________________________________________

Favorite music__________________________________________________

Favorite retreat_________________________________________________

The person who has impacted your life most__________________________

Proudest moment_______________________________________________

Biggest challenge_______________________________________________

Describe the perfect day__________________________________________

First job_______________________________________________________

Biggest failure__________________________________________________

Favorite movie__________________________________________________

Strongest trait__________________________________________________

Favorite book__________________________________________________

Talent(s) others say you have______________________________________

Country of ancestor’s origin_______________________________________

Favorite ancestor_______________________________________________

Favorite scripture______________________________________________

Something that inspires you_______________________________________

Have a Wonderful Day

Hello.

Hello. Is this the Cunningham residence?

Yes. (in the tone I use when I'm about to be sold something by someone and like this: a yeee (lean on the e) s (enunciated)

This is Sister Peterson from the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. We are offering you something special. We'll send you a copy of our Ensign Magazine for free. Are you interested?

How did you get my number?

Aren't you a member?

If I were ever a member, I'm not anymore and could you please remove my name from any lists that you have?

Are you saying that you don't want the free magazine that I'm offering you?

I don't want to be rude, but people need to stop calling me. I don't want to receive these calls anymore. How do I remove my name?

Well.... (pause, pause). (Very helpful, very nice tone). There is an LDS church in your area. You could find the church and call the bishop.

Call the bishop?

Yes. Call the bishop.

(chuckle, chuckle) O.k then. Goodbye. (tone: As soon as I get off of the phone I'll look through the phonebook until I find a number for my local Mormon church. If I can't find a number I'll call information. I might have to make a few phone calls and talk with a few people about why I want my name removed. Then when I do find the bishop, the MAN who oversees my ward (geographical grouping of people), and if I make it this far without giving up, I'll talk with him about exactly why I don't want my name on any list anymore...but while I'm doing this I'll decide that Mormon people are so nice and that I miss hypocrisy and Jell-O and bad metaphors and God so much that I'll forget why I was calling in the first place and I'll return to the flock in time to have a Merry Christmas).

Goodbye. And have a wonderful day.

Who cares?

I usually shop at Market Basket in Danvers on Thursdays--while Cole is at preschool and Aidan is at school. I shop there because it is much cheaper than Shaw's. I drive out of town to a store where I negotiate narrow aisles filled with too much stuff. Every week. Or every other week. I get road rage and I want to ram into people with my cart because Market Basket is a busy place. I wait in line with the other people waiting in line, a collective sigh of resignation, a sigh that says, "You don't get something for nothing." But still I go. To save a dime. Actually, to save a lot of dimes.

Today I shopped at Shaw's. The store in the town where I live, the town where I spend most of my awake and asleep hours. I spent $137, much more than I usually spend for the same items at Market Basket. I bought bread and milk and eggs and butter and chicken and an Amaryllis growing kit and three chocolate peanut butter santas--3 for $1. I bought a few other things, my splurge buy a couple of packages of on-sale diapers, the kind I like best. But nothing really out of the ordinary.

I was in and out in about an hour. Today I bought time. I bought time to hold my baby, make silly-ass Christmas cards that only a crazy person would make. I bought time to sit at my computer and rant into it. I bought time to be out of my car and in my house, maybe knitting. I bought time to write about my time here--and either forget about this or write a letter about it to someone who cares.

Little She

"Spring will never be fall," says Aidan

One day flowers were dropping
from the sky
Spring is here
Spring will never be
Fall

Fuzz

In a funk. Of sorts. The fuzzy-headed kind where coffee doesn't help, but maybe crack would.

I want to read the Jane Jacobs book, but I'm tired.
I want to take photos, but I'm tired.
I want to talk to people, but I'm tired.
I want to write about my conversation with Ernie, but I'm tired.

Instead I play romper room and make playdough and playdough snakes with eyes and mouths that eat entire cities, trash trucks and all. We roll the trucks through to make tracks. Tracks and tracks.

Instead I sit with my daughter and read. Listen to her form letters. Invent words that might be right. She reads a line, "During the war," from a book that she chose from the school library, adaptation of Sleep Hollow. Earlier she asked what "Sysco" spelled as we sat in George's eating, talking. Wondering how to explain conglomerate.

Tonight we have a date to read The Snow Queen from a book given me by my grandmother. This afternoon we have a conference, the parent teacher kind.

Children arrive. Then they go. Then they come again and leave trails of books upstairs so that I know who has been there. Goodnight Moon. And another copy of Goodnight Moon. Runaway Bunny. The Mitten. Snowy Day. And another copy of Snowy Day in organized fashion, on the blue rug. This makes me laugh and I leave the books there because I want to be reminded, reminded of the people I love and that young is not forever.

A lot can change in a year

For Laura

Rummaging through a drawer full of junk I found a hand-colored card made by Laura when the kids were in the three's class. Valentine's Day. Coming across it unexpectedly made me miss her in a way that I couldn't if I'd known her better. An incomplete miss, but a miss nonetheless. And exacerbated by a sighting of the ex, this morning, in front of Scroo Cooking. The boys at St. Mel's now, him driving and dropping, but hard to shake the memory of her pajama-wearing drops and pickups at preschool. Hard to shake the memory of her disgust with her ex.

Thinking about the day that I went to her house, the way she covered Lisa with a blanket, brought her a warm mug of tea. We talked about the coldness of the bathroom floor in the morning, an old house, insulation stuffed by her to improve a situation. I think about what I might have said or done if I'd known that she was dying. I hope nothing much differently because people need to be able to get out from under the weight of death, to feel that they can be, without being too much.

About a month after she died I drove by her house, a forlorn looking assortment of toys and stuff in front. I don't know what I thought I'd see. Kids playing. Friends stopping by. Laura.

The point is that I think about her, more than I think about a lot of people. I think about what's gone, and I think about what's still here. Her clothes, being photographed to sell on ebay. Her house, empty, but not entirely. Her boys. Her essence. It's her essence that interests me. The surreal way that a person stays in the world, even after they are gone. Why some people matter more than others. How to keep. And how to let go.

Riding

The past isn't supposed to matter too much. So I've been told and read.

Be present.

Mindless, I mean mindful.

Seems, though, that it hobo rides the rails. Past mingles with present mingles with future in cocktail-party fashion.

A face becomes more than a face. A joke, a cosmic dig.

I'm riding then spinning. Hurtling, then hurling. Fast forward memory.

Forward and for word.

Noticing Today

We drive to Manchester. By the Sea, that is, and there's a white Honda CRV in the parking lot. The car a year or two old and out drops a man at a nearby trashcan. Picks through. Finds a bag of something. Chips. Or donuts. He hobbles to the car. And gets in. Drives 50 feet to the next can. I'm watching. And he notices. Episode of Six Feet Under lingering, the one where David gets carjacked, so I lock my door cuz I saw it on t.v. Johnny Cash on the radio sounding human and vulnerable, but I can't place the cover.

He picks up a quarter, or a nickel, from the ground and holds it up, smiling. I smile back. He keeps looking. Through the trash. Then a cop pulls up. Looks at me. Looks around. Starts eating a bagel. Cops eat bagels. I hold up my ice coffee, a kind of cheers, or salute. The CRV man drives to the next can. The wind blows. The leaves blow and fall. Cole and I stare at the empty park in front of us. We stare. And we stare. And we stare.

Simply Knitting

October and finding comfort in knitting with soft yarns--Debbie Bliss, Cashmerino and Knit Picks, Andean Silk. I have been knitting. And knitting. And knitting. Finished cabled baby sweater, City Hall packed with people listening to Noam Chomsky. Knit squares for Amanda's blanket--one cabled, one striped--in the car on the way to a wedding, at the park, on the stone stairs, sitting, as Thea naps, Cole digs. Knitting and talking. Knitting and listening. I have knit almost four little hats for almost four little people--Egyptian-like cats, fair isle patterns, squares, stripes. Colors. In love with color. Addicted to the pass of the yarn through and between needles. Circular. Straight. Doesn't matter.

I never used to knit, knitting a throwback to a stereotyped girlhood. Though it was crochet that I was supposed to learn. I've finally come around, found my knitting groove where sitting down with yarn feels like taking paint to canvas. I have found comfort in functionality and the warmth of the yarn and the beauty of an expertly if not lovingly crafted stitch.

A few weeks ago Thea was given a blanket put together by women with whom I knit. Each woman knit one or two or three or four 10 X 10 squares. The result, a blanket that I use, warm weight on my body as nights become cooler, a blanket that I wrap my daughter in, one that she will grow with, that she can ask about when she has the words. That's the thing about knitting. For Thea, the words can wait. They will wait. The history. The reasons. Ireland. Islands. Women spinning. Men knitting. Women knitting. Portugal. Peru. To name some. Sometimes, I slowly learn, there isn't need to say anything. The words can be kept, carried, sometimes concealed. Not for the bad of things, but for the good of things. The blanket. Thea. The history. Writing words for Thea. For the good of things.

To read Kim's article about the resurgence of knitting and what Amanda and others have to say about it, go here.

Preview

A Cinderella

Neither Aidan nor the North Shore Music Theater has been entirely bought out by Princesses, Inc. Yet.

Orange embellishments made by Cole.

First Day

She's a kindergartner now.

Birthdays

Tomorrow my girl will be five. And Monday my boy will be three.

I have put together a small gift for her to wake up to, part of it a handwritten note that says, "Happy 5th Birthday Aidan" placed above a row of waving paper dolls that she cut out and clothed this afternoon. A few months ago she wouldn't scissor them herself for fear of cutting off their fingers, but today she has done it. Quietly and confidently. Fingers unscathed. One's in a red and white polka dot dress. One's in a pink dress. One's in a greenish blue dress. Clothes have been attached with several pieces of tape. And the best part about the girls, the sparkle hippy flower stickers embellishing their dresses, large flower extending from the "queenie's" head like a hat.

Earlier Cole and I drove home from Target. In the truck. He told me that he liked sitting next to me, and finally alone, no siblings to compete for his mother's attention. I tried to teach him the words to "Ring of Fire" so that he'd sing it with me. The Social Distortion version. But he preferred to move his head and shoulders in a mosh pit kind of way instead of to sing, slightly impeded by the straps of his car seat. So I danced with him, glad for his company, lump-in-throat sad that I have not been able to spend more time with just him.

And yesterday morning I found the two of them eating apples, sitting in beach chairs that they'd pulled into the open doorway. They'd done this while I'd been busy with the baby, on their own this deliberate enjoyment of juicy apples and dry summer sun. They are growing and becoming and I am trying to watch. I am trying to remember to watch.

I hear gentle noises coming through the speaker of the baby monitor. The turning of his body. A car passing by our window, soft, faraway sound. The baby is in the room, sleeping and I try to remember a time when she wasn't with us, the essence of her already imprinted, even without the memories.

All of it seems right. At this time it seems right. The growing. The becoming. The struggle of it. And my love for them. Especially.

Ode to Dustbuster

To love a plastic thing
noisy as diesel
when suctioning
potting soil stuck
to a boy's leg
and then
to the rug
crackery crumbs
in folds of sofa
rice eaten with fingers
at supper
bugs in various states
of decay
black, beady and withered
corn muffin
backmost seat
of new car
sand
in the creases
of her baby bucket

Adjustable nozzle
turn knob for release
tap, tap
suck, suck
18 volts of
sweet cordless pleasure
busting dust
eating
up a list
of things to do
a list
mother's
forever long
doing, doing
list.

Final Days

The final days consist of things that I do and do not want to remember. Reliance on a body pillow that does not feel as much like a person as it should. Duct tape on a sandal to prevent chafing because indeed there is swelling and shoes worn every day for 30 days are wet. Sitting in rain, two pregnant women, too stubborn or too smart to move. And laughing about it--before the discomfort of wet clothes pasted to pregnant belly and breasts becomes noticeable. Too much PBS, or anything, for my children. "Uglies" party with people and food and a gaggle of children and candy and sirens and politicians and bagpipes and Beano Band and marching bands and three year olds dancing like Britney "Spearses." Apparently I snubbed Kerry Healy--but not on purpose--nine months of pregnancy an excuse for my suspicion of the friendly pol smile and handshake. And I'll remember Brazilians and Italians and anyfan taking to the streets of Gloucester. Horns and flags and World Cup excitement.

A little rain. Some sun. A lot of sand. Ice cubes. Yes, ice cubes. More like ice shards. Bubbly things to drink. And drive-through. Cold coffee, granules of sugar being sucked through a straw. Tums--smooth, not chalky. You've helped me through.

The end is near. And I'm ready.

Everywhere

She was everywhere. In "Dona Nobis" and "Amen, Amen." The beauty of Mount Adnah in June. The elegant urn. "Adventurer, antiquarian, artist." "Mother to Alexander and Theodore." And "Live simply."

Hard to watch the boys, 5 and 8 and wearing funeral attire and holding cards and flowers, spoon their mother's ashes onto the burial plot. Easier to watch Will run to Theo after the service to engage in kid conversation. Children need support from their friends, too. Wondering why death has to be the way that it is, here, in this country. Enough then to be comforted by the children being children. And thinking, still, about the words on the back of the printed program. Thinking about the words. Thinking about her.

Together

And
Now that we
have come to the end
of this time and place
my friend
how shall we spend
the future

We cannot ever be
sure
of the times ahead
but
let it always
be said
We were very together
then
When
it mattered.

-Ja Jahannes

Looking forward, looking back

10 years ago today
35 weeks today
5 years next month

Really Absurd?

I first read Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez about 15 years ago and upon finishing, immediately added it to my list of favorite books. At the time, I was a 21-year-old woman with a freshly purchased literature degree flitting about, falling in love, sometimes. I'd call myself then a woman romanced by romance, though not too stupidly, and, mostly naive to the inner workings of love and happiness and marriage and life. I thought it was kind of sweet how Florentino waited "fifty-one years, nine months, and four days" for Juvenal Urbino, Fermina's husband, to die so that he could again pursue her.

But this time through I am different--10 years of marriage (this Thursday) and almost three children into it different. The young, flighty, excited woman of before is a present reader, but much more critical. The characters, then, not so sweet, and my sympathies fewer. And as I read I find myself looking not for romance, but for absurdity--if to mock it, briefly and to laugh. For example, one of my favorite parts 150 pages into the reread is the part where Florentino Ariza unsuspectingly makes a whore of the Widow Nazaret (close to Nazareth?). It is strangely absurd and absurdly believable that Florentino, who wants desperately to give his love to Fermina and only Fermina, tries to teach this pent up woman how to fornicate.

"With all his perseverance, he tried to teach her the tricks he had seen others perform through the peepholes in the transient hotel, along with the theoretical formulations preached by Lotario Thugut on his nights of debauchery...The lessons were to no avail. The truth is that she was a fearless apprentice but lacked all talent for guided fornication. She never understood the charm of serenity in bed, never had a moment of invention and her orgasms were inopportune and epidermic: an uninspired lay...Little by little, listening to her sleep, he pieced together the navigation chart of her dreams and sailed among the countless islands of her secret life. In this way he learned that she did not want to marry him, but did feel joined to his life because of her immense gratitude to him for having corrupted her. She often said to him: "'I adore you because you made me a whore.'"

This passage, the passionless but real but absurd relationship that Florentino and the widow have, Florentino's notebooks recording 622 of his "long-term liaisons," delight me in a way that is perhaps disturbing. And perhaps I should reflect on why and how I came to this rereading of one of my favorite books--this delight in the absurd, or, delight in the realness of the absurdity. But something that I've learned, maybe with time, is that sometimes in this age of supposed self reflection, it can be best not to analyze to the point of absurdity. There are things that do not need explaining--and for me--my delightfully absurd rereading of Love in the Time of Cholera is one of those things.

They Might Be Giants NSA ringtone

Thinking about this for my ringtone.

So I took a few photos of the Olson walk. Actually, I took a hundred photos of the Olson walk. And I liked about 28 of them enough to post here. Thank you to organizers, participators, Charles Olson for a full weekend--starting with Michael Rumaker reading at The Bookstore on Friday and ending with Gerrit Lansing reading at Fitz Henry Lane on Sunday not forgetting the panel of folks at MIT and the Ferrini film in between.

Outside

We got outside today. To talk about politics and do headstands. And isn't Lucy's cat the coolest? There's only one answer to this question. Answer carefully. Penalties for wrong answers.

Mum

Being a mother. Straightforward. And then not so.

Easy enough to understand when two children, Sunday morning, climb onto our bed, move in close for warmth. Easy to love the smoothness of their skin, their silky hair, their giggles and squeaky morning voices whispering, or yelling, "Happy Mother's Day," and "I love you."

Difficult. Thinking about a friend far away. In Korea. Separated from her children. Not knowing when she'll be close to them. And another friend, mother of two young boys, sick with cancer. Sick to think about the children living full time with the man who has been needlessly trying to gain custody of the children--three wives into it. Thinking about a mother's thoughts as she lies in a hospital bed, dying. The difficult--no--agonizing--aspects of being a mother for these women.

Often it isn't buttercups and happiness and moonshine. There are decisions to be made, hard ones. There is loss. There is the pain of fierce love.

But most of us wouldn't have it differently, the being a mother, being a parent. It balances, challenges, rewards us in ways that we cannot understand, sometimes, but for the feeling of it. The little things, then, beautiful and simple as being surprised by a small plant with pink flowers, a note card with colorful scribbles, a thank you. These gifts after a particularly long weekend of husband away with work, an achy, pregnant back, and rain. These gifts meaningful beyond my limited comprehension of the way things are and the way things should be.

Izabella

Inventory

Have a cold but I'm eating strawberry icecream anyway. Something to bite into. Strawberries. Clothes don't fit. Elastic band waist thingy won't stay up, shirts too short to cover belly. A week since my grandmother died. Still wishing for goodbye that didn't come with seeing her tiny, lifeless person in those clothes, hearing hymns, listening to talk of the other side.

Thursday news. Friday flight. Saturday funeral. Spanish Fork burial. Second cousin, 10 children. Sunday knitting while others go to church. Monday flight. Week's worth of laundry and cleaning. Behind. Too tired to care. Wednesday glucose test. Three hours of needle poking, not eating, sugar drinking, waiting, knitting. Shaking then sleeping. Negative results. Thursday for bill paying and grocery shopping. Sun on Friday. Caught a cold, midnight, steam, shower with two year old. Awake eating ice, solving number puzzles. Orange goldfish crackers to plastic bowl, then to bed. Excavator under pillow. Go to sleep thinking about the doctor and his wife--not the baby and the photographer and those dreams.

Weaving ends in, then out. Tank top finished. On. Stripes beneath. She's out to buy flowers.

Laundry. Needing to do laundry. Laundry. Laundry. But writing instead.

Sweet and sassy haircut

Back when people tucked their shirts in

There

I am knitting with cotton. It is soft between my fingers. As I knit, my work becomes heavier, less like yarn and more like something to wear, a weighty circle of knitted rows. Soft colors--pink, coral, white and green. Not colors that I would have chosen, but pleasing enough.

An e-mail says that she's not doing well, disoriented, roaming a place that is not her own, falling. She said that she would never leave that house--and she meant it. She's not eating or drinking or sleeping. The note says that they're sorry that she can't recognize us now, that John went to see her last week and that she recognized him. And that is something—for my grandmother and for John.

Grandparents grow old. Grandparents die. We wish for it to happen quickly, without the suffering, but how often is that? Most unlike my 90+-year-old great-grandfather with wooden leg pressed firmly to the floor announcing to Stella that he would be dying in a day or two. Two nights later he died in his sleep, entertaining his great grandchildren with stories and guitar at home one day, not alive the next. There wasn't the waiting, the wondering, the wishing that somehow it could be different. He went. And that was that.

We attended a burial on Saturday. Oak Grove Cemetery in Gloucester. Catholic burial. Short and probably what she would have wanted, but void of the essence of her, learning details from family later. Never knew that she cut and curled her own hair, explaining the length and the straightness at the end. Never knew that she accumulated--over how many years?-- $1400 in cash at the bottom of her dresser drawer. Bridge money? Or Cape Ann Savings Bank money? Or splurge money? Never knew that she had a fur coat that she didn't wear, that she strongly disliked the name McElligott, her maiden name, a name that we had been considering as a middle for our next born.

I talk to my children about death. Aidan, age four, says, "When a person dies they can't do things anymore and we can't see them." She makes it simple and is satisfied. Cole, age two, wants to know if he'll die when he gets sick. "I was dying last week," he says. I talk about how people get older, how their bodies stop working as well as they used to--and then the inevitable questions, "Do only old, sick people die? Will you die? Will I die?"

I am thinking about how to say goodbye. From here. 2300 miles away. I'm thinking about the time my brother and I visited their house in California, the one that she didn't want to leave. Went to four amusement parks in four days--Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm, Universal Studios, Magic Mountain--I realize now, a labor of love on their part. My grandfather was alive then. He couldn't go on all of the rides because he'd had a heart attack at 40. But it didn't matter because he was there with us, laughing, panning for gold, eating the famous fried chicken and raspberry jam wearing that white cap of his, the one that he always wore to cover his disappearing or disappeared hair, my grandmother's hair perfect, same chocolaty brown color for as long as I have known her.

I want to see her. I think. I want to look into her eyes for recognition--of my memories. I want to hold her hand. I want to sit next to her and knit, tell her about the cotton yarn, the coldness of spring in Massachusetts, about the pansies that I will buy and plant in a bright, blue pot and place on our stone steps. I want to tell her about my babies, about the one who isn't born yet. I want to thank her for all of the cards and the dollar bills that she has sent and to tell her that I agree that "you can still buy something for a dollar." I want to say goodbye. And it's not about regret. It's not about wishing that I had said or had done--it's about being there, with her, before there is nothing left. It's about growing old, about death, about the realness of both. But mostly it's about love. I want to be there with her because she's my grandmother and I love her.

Last night, among other things that I may write about later, I came home to this.

Hope the photos make a couple of people laugh.

Totally, like, you know, pagan

Speaking Once of Regret

I want to be the man
smoking a pipe
as he drives
along Railroad Ave.
past Shaws
that bastard
he loves to hate

A 92-year-old woman
dies
on Easter
and the earth blooms Hyacinth
shudders and
remembers
that I was a woman
once
body as perfect
as an egg
as fresh and as delicate
too,

a regret
not to turn
your blood
to flower
when I could

Anything You Want to Be

One of Cole's favorite videotapes is called Richard Scarry's Best Busy People Video Ever, a tall title if you ask me. Anybody who claims to be the best at anything, even if they are the best, is inviting all kinds of comments, some welcome and some, perhaps, unwelcome. I admit that I'm looking for a little something to poke fun at here. After all this is a CHILDREN'S video production.

The scene opens in Ms. (Ms. Honey is liberated) Honey's grade school classroom and quickly moves to the playground where children (pigs, goats, bears, etc.) are at recess discussing what they might be when they grow up. One dreams about becoming a baker, another a truck-driving delivery person, another a farmer, another a travel agent and the most heart-warming part (to this heart) comes at the end when one little animal tells Ms. Honey that he wants to become a teacher.

The whole thing is kind of cute and fairly benign and it's something that I can actually stand listening to--that is until I hear the closing song. It goes something like this:

You can be anything you want to be
Just look around and you will see
It's a busy world and there's lots to do
And this busy world needs all of you.

The first time I heard this song, it didn't much bother me. But then, about the four hundredth time through, I got to thinking. Some kids can't be anything that they want to. Maybe their public school education will prevent them from becoming President of the United States. Or the fact that they watch television programs that have a line running through them because their parents can't afford cable. Or the fact that they watch television at all. Or their lack of complete exposure to Disney princesses. Or maybe Aidan can't become president because she's a girl. Or because, somehow, she doesn't fit in. Or maybe other children can't become what they want to be because society only accepts a certain kind, a certain color. Only certain kinds of kids can go on to "be anything they want to" and what if my kid isn't that certain kind of kid. The song started grating on me and before I knew what had happened, I had created my own lyrics to sing along when the closing credits arrived.

They go something like this:

You can be anything you want to be
If you have lots of mo-on-ey
If you're not Black or Hispanic or a Woman (there are others, I know, but I could only fit three)
You can find a high-paying job without even looking.

Every time I sang my lyrics to MYSELF, albeit loudly, I chuckled and patted myself on the back for a job well done. Until...

the day that I heard Cole singing MY lyrics instead of the originally recorded lyrics.

His lyrics went something like this:

You can be anything you want to be
If you are having money
Black, Hissspanic, Woman
without even looking.

It was hard for me to hear what I was hearing. I didn't know whether to be proud or horrified. Tad chose to be horrified and asked that I not sing this version to my two-year-old. And I? I continue to be a little proud and a little horrified. My son may be on his way to understanding social injustice. But then, based on his version of the lyrics, he may just be repeating what he's heard. That's it. Repeating my inane lyrics. Inane to him anyway. I maintain that there is injustice in this world, plenty of it, but when is it appropriate for a parent to teach this to her child? I think that this lesson, one of many lessons that fall into the injustice category, may need to wait beyond the age of two.

And until he's ready for my, our tutelage on this subject, I've reverted to singing the original lyrics, the ones about being able to be anything you want to be no matter. I'm also hoping that he doesn't belt out my well-intentioned but garbled lyrics at the coffee shop or in the library, his two favorite 'quiet' places to loudly sing. I'd rather not have to explain to people I know and don't know how 'money, Blacks, Hispanics, Women' and 'not looking' came to be in a song that my two-year-old is singing.

Going to be O.K.

Thank you to the people who read yesterday's post and called and such. Turns out that it is going to be o.k. and that hearing so does help. Turns out, too, that pregnancy hormones can make a girl weepier than usual and that maybe I shouldn't post when I haven't slept. But sometimes a mother's got to get a thing or two off of her chest and sometimes the internet is the best place to do this. And for those readers who may be thinking that I regularly post at 4 a.m., I'm here to assure you that something's screwy with Blogger. I may be neurotic in several areas, but early morning posting while my kids are sleeping, this is not one of them. I wait until at least 7 a.m. to post, PBS a fine option for children at this time.

And for a little levity, take a look at her. This girl's having a bad lip day and still trying to sell cell phones. Undaunted? Courageous? Clueless? Improved?

You decide.

Hats off to JC for spotting her.

Turns Out

Turns out that the preschool teacher is concerned about Aidan's shyness. Painful shyness.
Turns out that her lack of participation in group, not wanting eyes to be on her is the shyness.
Turns out that as a teacher I am rethinking the word participate, when kids do or don't, what it means to be an observer.
Turns out that I didn't know much about the 'shyness', this not her way at home, with most people we know.
Turns out that she likes school, talks about school and is engaged in school--as an observer.
Turns out that I'm rewondering about kindergarten next year, the size of the school, the ride on the bus, her age.
Turns out that I've called principals for change of district forms, added our name to a list.
Turns out that I've called teachers, parents who have shy kids, kids young for their grade.
Turns out that I'm terrified of being at home with three small children.
Turns out that money is an issue.
Turns out that mental health is an issue.
Turns out that I can't sleep.
Turns out that I am as worried and neurotic as I thought.
Turns out that this might be my way of understanding my child's pain and sadness, of showing love. Fierce love.
Turns out that "It will be o.k." doesn't help.
Turns out that I'm not prepared for this.
Turns out that I wonder when I will be.

Of Hooligans, Shenanigans and Monkeys

I'm sure that this is 'tired' and has already been said, covered, done, but when I first read Howard Kaloogian's name I read it Kahooligan, similar in sound to shenanigan, a favorite word of my grandmother, the combination of the two words leading me to picture this Kahooligan fellow pulling shenanigans. This before I knew anything about the phony Iraq photo posted at his website or his youthfully (wannabe) cruel and brutish ways. Every time I see his name, my brain automatically transposes the letters. And because I continue to struggle with the correct pronunciation of his name, I think that I'll stick with Kahooligan, even if it is slightly on the flattering side of things.

As an aside, after reading The Sneetches and Other Stories by Dr. Seuss at least a thousand times, I realized for the first time the other day, thanks to Tad, that McMonkey McBean is McMonkey with an M. I had been reading it as McConkey with a C. This is a backwards case of the above mentioning, the name that I subconsciously invented less fitting than the name that already existed. Don't fuck with Dr. Seuss when it comes to name invention--he's the master. It then makes sense for me to consciously switch my pronunciation of this name as McMonkey is a bit of a shady character in Sneetches, reminding me some of Kahooligan. Not that I have anything against monkeys or hooligans.

So how does Kahooligan Shenanigan McMonkey McBean sound? This is a name that I think that I can remember therefore making the short list of names for my third born child.

Amaryllis in bloom. Snowdrops in the backyard. Crocuses alongside the house. Kids outside. And there's enough of me to share with the people I love.