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.