A new road had been built by-passing the old fort or Native American ruin (I couldn't decipher which it was at first). Unfortunately, somehow I ended up taking the old disused road that ran right along the old place. Part of that road was blocked by a piece of overhang that had once shadowed the front of the ruin and which was now standing perpendicular to the lie of the dirt road. This was simple to get by, and I went swiftly around it.
I didn't stop to examine the place or go in, and I don't know why. I am always drawn like a magnet to anything that reeks of age and abandoned civilization. Here, I only noticed as I drove past that the building materials had crusted into a darkish grey color, almost black, and that the building was essentially a rectangle.
After or just slightly before passing the fort - for so it must have been, being composed of discolored wood - I decided to carry my car in the palm of my hand to make the going easier. I trusted my two legs more on the uncertain terrain.
The scenery opened up, and the landscape was like so many desert environs I've seen. I walked through the sandy soil until I reached an impressive canyon quite abruptly. I gazed across it; I did not look down. Nevertheless, I knew a river lived and moved there at the bottom of its astounding depth; I could hear it.
There was no bridge.
There must have been at one time for the dirt track resumed on the opposite side of the canyon. Stupid old road. Why had I gotten lost? And the sight of this old place was decidedly lonely and eerie.
I spun around and quickly retreated. Not the way I had come but along the back of the fort, and suddenly I was accosted by water. So much water. It was shedding off of huge boulders to my side and rushing through a gorge that lay in front of me. I'd have to get across this water that had sprung up all around the ruin. The way home would not, could not, be the way I'd come. Still, the gorge was not too steep-sided. I could jump from boulder to boulder down through it and to the other side. I tensed my body for the leap, and then I spotted something below in the churning pool. It was gliding through, its long body a pale soothing green in color. My desperation increased at the sight of it, though; that crocodile was going to make the going more treacherous - deadly perhaps.
A few seconds inward debate helped me to conclude that this strange creature in an alien environment would indeed try to eat me if I splashed through that pool. Who knew how hungry it was, and that water had to be very cold. I felt that this fact would make it more aggressive somehow.
I went along a narrow ledge of rock behind the fort and jumped across the gorge to some higher boulders. My mind fast-forwarded this part, so I could get swiftly by that thing that I feared. And then I walked and walked. I came to a Catholic Church that was just concluding mass. People were streaming out the doors of the small church. I wondered at this a second and then turned to find the ranger's station for the ruin I had just journeyed through.
I went directly up to the woman there and said without preamble, "There's a crocodile in the waters by that old fort."
"A crocodile?" she repeated lamely. "I don't think so."
"Oh, yes, there is," I told her. "You better get rid of it before somebody gets hurt."
"Okay, well I guess..."
"Maybe it was somebody's exotic pet, and they let it loose there," I concluded for her.
Finally she seemed to accept that I spoke truth.
"Okay," she said, tossing her tightly braided hair back over her shoulder. "I'll tell someone and we'll get it out of there."
I nodded, satisfied....
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
Pretty Little Daffodils
Yesterday evening I knelt by the ground purring, "There you are, my sweet little babies! You sweet little things, you! You are here!"
No, I'm not an old spinster cooing to her twenty beloved cats as they slink about her feet. I was petting daffodil buds.
Ana joined in the the petting and the purring, and Berto said in exasperation, "Oh, come on! Now you're teaching her to do that?"
But they really were so lovely. And soft. New, too-their velvety green buds only recently shot up from the earth. Anyway, at first I didn't see them when I went looking, so my joy was intensified when I scraped away the thatch of dry bermuda grass and found them less than two inches from the ground.
They will grow quickly and bloom soon, the first harbingers of warmer weather to come - which doesn't mean much where I live, granted, but its the memories I relish! - yes, the associations with a relatively small plot of land in Middle Tennessee.
On that plot of land in Tennessee, my childhood home, the beautiful crowns of bright yellow would appear by the hundreds in the yard beneath the Walnut trees in February and March. If one felt like taking a chilly stroll by the creek, they were there, too, between the spring and the main stream. For a little girl this, the earth's first offering of flowers for the year, held pure joy.
My sister Annie and I would pick dozens of daffodils and bring them inside the house to perch on the window sills, shelves and tables in all manner of jars and vases. It was sunshine for our home before real spring had even yet arrived. And when they had languished, both in their vases and out in the lawn and our immediate world, we had the knowledge that their cousins would shortly follow all through the warmer months - the tiger lilys by the culvert near the creek, the regal irises at the curve of the driveway, the black-eyed susans down the whole length of the lane and the honeysuckle languidly draping the fence near the field gate. I can see them all and smell them all still. It is very easy to recall the joy the sight of these beautiful flowers gave me as a little girl.
That is why I was purring to my daffodil buds entrenched in the harsh desert soil of my backyard. I am so grateful each year to greet them in this climate. to recapture the joy they instilled in me long ago with every new year. Alas, I believe they are the only thing I have planted around my home that has survived. And that is truly a gift of nature, for when I first put them in the ground, it was done on a lark, really, because they appeared to be dead. It is now their third year of rebirth.
This year, I will plant more. Many more. In a small way I will try to reproduce that beautiful southern yard bursting with brilliant yellow in the year's infancy. Imagine all the sweet little velvety buds of green each January! And I have no doubt I will purr to them all.
No, I'm not an old spinster cooing to her twenty beloved cats as they slink about her feet. I was petting daffodil buds.
Ana joined in the the petting and the purring, and Berto said in exasperation, "Oh, come on! Now you're teaching her to do that?"
But they really were so lovely. And soft. New, too-their velvety green buds only recently shot up from the earth. Anyway, at first I didn't see them when I went looking, so my joy was intensified when I scraped away the thatch of dry bermuda grass and found them less than two inches from the ground.
They will grow quickly and bloom soon, the first harbingers of warmer weather to come - which doesn't mean much where I live, granted, but its the memories I relish! - yes, the associations with a relatively small plot of land in Middle Tennessee.
On that plot of land in Tennessee, my childhood home, the beautiful crowns of bright yellow would appear by the hundreds in the yard beneath the Walnut trees in February and March. If one felt like taking a chilly stroll by the creek, they were there, too, between the spring and the main stream. For a little girl this, the earth's first offering of flowers for the year, held pure joy.
My sister Annie and I would pick dozens of daffodils and bring them inside the house to perch on the window sills, shelves and tables in all manner of jars and vases. It was sunshine for our home before real spring had even yet arrived. And when they had languished, both in their vases and out in the lawn and our immediate world, we had the knowledge that their cousins would shortly follow all through the warmer months - the tiger lilys by the culvert near the creek, the regal irises at the curve of the driveway, the black-eyed susans down the whole length of the lane and the honeysuckle languidly draping the fence near the field gate. I can see them all and smell them all still. It is very easy to recall the joy the sight of these beautiful flowers gave me as a little girl.
That is why I was purring to my daffodil buds entrenched in the harsh desert soil of my backyard. I am so grateful each year to greet them in this climate. to recapture the joy they instilled in me long ago with every new year. Alas, I believe they are the only thing I have planted around my home that has survived. And that is truly a gift of nature, for when I first put them in the ground, it was done on a lark, really, because they appeared to be dead. It is now their third year of rebirth.
This year, I will plant more. Many more. In a small way I will try to reproduce that beautiful southern yard bursting with brilliant yellow in the year's infancy. Imagine all the sweet little velvety buds of green each January! And I have no doubt I will purr to them all.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Snard's My Name, Getting a Learnin's My Game (Wish It Weren't)
Once when I was an adolescent, I sat on the couch watching TV and being poked. Mercilessly. By my big brother.
He was using his finger like the force of the Jedi to poke me every few seconds in my side. Being non-confrontational, I just squirmed and kept up a steady chorus of, "Stop, Nate. Just Stop. Stop it! Please stop. Don't Poke me! Stop it NATE!"
After several minutes of this chorus, my mom, who was making dinner at the time, finally decided to do something about the ruckus coming from the other room.
She yelled out in frustration, "Hillary! Be quiet! Gracious sake's, I can't even concentrate in here!"
A slow triumphant grin overspread my brother's face. Snard: 0 big brother: 1
I'm the snard, of course. That was my brother's special invented name for me while we were growing up. I once kept a little notebook to copy down words I didn't know from books I was reading. I'd look up the words and write the definition in the notebook. Natie snatched it from me once and wrote S-n-a-r-d: little sister named Hillary who's in constant need of a learnin.
Nate's propensity for poking people in order to "learn" them was the reason why on all family car trips I was forced to sit between him and Annie. Annie couldn't stand to be touched, and Nate had an urge to poke and harass his fellow passengers. The end result? Annie continually told me over hundreds of miles to, "Move your elbow, Hillary! Are you tapping your foot? Stop touching me!" Then she'd shove me Nate's way, and he'd poke me several times with a diabolical grin on his face. At which point I'd hunker toward Annie's side of the car again, and she'd begin her litany of complaints about the disposition of my limbs before pushing me back to the official "Learner" for a lesson. Frankly, I'm just glad I survived to tell the tale, though I have no doubt that at every rest stop, I emerged from the car wide-eyed and quivering like a jackrabbit ready to flee a predator - two predators actually.
Don't get me wrong. Despite the learnins, Nate and I were buddies. Heck, somebody had to be the little brother he was so wrongfully denied, the gullible one willing to play deer and hunter with dangerous weapons homemade from sticks and rubber bands.
And I tried hard to be that little brother for the big brother I loved like a super hero, but there were definite signs that I was but a girl (or snard) at heart. For instance, on warm summer days Nate and I would line up our army men with careful precision in the rich dirt of the garden. Our troops properly deployed, we attempted to devastate each other's armies with large dirt clods we flung across the several feet separating us. I made the girly mistake of taking aim at the tiny green soldiers at ground level; Nate had the more effective strategy of flinging the dirt clods with little pebbles in them toward the opposing general (that would be me). With every "ouch....hey!" elicited from me by such brutal tactics, I am confident Natie was simply trying to teach me a valuable lesson for later in life. Honestly, though, twenty-some-odd years later, I still can't figure out what that lesson was.
Then there was that little mix-up with me about my GI Joe named Lightfoot. I loved him because he was yellow, my favorite color, and because I thought he was named after the Canadian folk singer, Gordon Lightfoot, whose music my dad loved and practically reared us on. It never occurred to me to think he was called Lightfoot as in "fleet-footed", so I took to calling him Gordon. I loved that GI Joe like no other. He was the only one that was officially mine, anyway - the one I played with in all those straw and twig forts Nate and I built beneath the walnut trees. But a tragic problem developed with his "fleet-footed" legs. They kept falling off at the knee. My dad attempted to glue them back on several times, but it never lasted. I finally decided we needed to have a funeral for Gordon, and so we did and buried him near the garden. I have no doubt Nate was mumbling, "snard!", under his breath the whole entire time.
Nate and I eventually gave up those pastimes as well as our creek side wars with micro machines to move on to more exciting games. When we got older we liked to pretend fence, though the risk of serious injury with our pretend fencing was akin to that involved with the real deal - without the protective armor. We tried having sword fights with wimpy plastic coke bottles, but the "POP! POP!" noise every time we made contact was very irritating and the tiny little lips of the bottles made for very poor gripping. So we raided Mom and Dad's closet where there were literally dozens of white, metal curtain rods. I have no clue why they were there; there certainly weren't that many windows in our home. I can only think that if a black market for curtain rods existed, Mom was involved somehow - possibly the ring leader. Of course she forbade us on several occasions to sword fight with her curtain rods. I'm sad to say we were delinquent and didn't listen. Eventually, every single rod in our home, saving those with curtains attached, ended up badly dented and bent from our fierce brother/sister fencing matches.
The strong urge I have to take fencing lessons as an adult can be attributed to the fact that I never beat my brother in our rod fights. Our last duel ended with me backed into a corner by the front door, desperately cutting my rod across the space in front of me in an attempt to stave off Natie's onslaughts as he came at me laughing with eyes blazing. I think he forgot I was just a snard in that moment instead of a real brother. Mom and Dad were out grocery shopping, so I had no contingency plan. I believe I just kept weakly crying "Uncle! Mercy!" until the fateful moment when Nate's weapon smashed against my index finger, and I yelped. As the appendage turned all red and blue, a frantic look of concern took hold of Natie's features; the invincible curtain rod warrior vanished.
"Are you okay? Are you okay?" he kept repeating as he followed me to the bathroom and watched me wash it in cold water.
When I finally mumbled, "I'm fine. I guess..." he promptly added, "Good. Whew! Now, quick! - go to bed before Mom and Dad get home!"
Good old memories of childhood - busted fingers, pop guns and playing fort together in the old chicken coup! Still, we must all do our duty of growing up, so we can change and have the next generation of snards. Soon you find you have to get to know your siblings anew as mature individuals. I confess that since my brother Nate and I live so far apart from each other, I am jealous of the friends and co-workers who must know the adult Nate so much better than I do simply because they are able to spend a greater quantity of time with him. Ah, but I do know they have never built a GI Joe fort with him in the grass, or made tracks with micro-machines in the soft dirt by a creek, or engaged with him in sword fights with Mom's curtain rods. At least, I seriously doubt they have. So, I'm content, because for a large part of my childhood, I got to be my brother's little brother, and that doesn't change no matter how little we see each other now or how great the miles grow between us. After all, I'll always be a snard. At least to him.
He was using his finger like the force of the Jedi to poke me every few seconds in my side. Being non-confrontational, I just squirmed and kept up a steady chorus of, "Stop, Nate. Just Stop. Stop it! Please stop. Don't Poke me! Stop it NATE!"
After several minutes of this chorus, my mom, who was making dinner at the time, finally decided to do something about the ruckus coming from the other room.
She yelled out in frustration, "Hillary! Be quiet! Gracious sake's, I can't even concentrate in here!"
A slow triumphant grin overspread my brother's face. Snard: 0 big brother: 1
I'm the snard, of course. That was my brother's special invented name for me while we were growing up. I once kept a little notebook to copy down words I didn't know from books I was reading. I'd look up the words and write the definition in the notebook. Natie snatched it from me once and wrote S-n-a-r-d: little sister named Hillary who's in constant need of a learnin.
Nate's propensity for poking people in order to "learn" them was the reason why on all family car trips I was forced to sit between him and Annie. Annie couldn't stand to be touched, and Nate had an urge to poke and harass his fellow passengers. The end result? Annie continually told me over hundreds of miles to, "Move your elbow, Hillary! Are you tapping your foot? Stop touching me!" Then she'd shove me Nate's way, and he'd poke me several times with a diabolical grin on his face. At which point I'd hunker toward Annie's side of the car again, and she'd begin her litany of complaints about the disposition of my limbs before pushing me back to the official "Learner" for a lesson. Frankly, I'm just glad I survived to tell the tale, though I have no doubt that at every rest stop, I emerged from the car wide-eyed and quivering like a jackrabbit ready to flee a predator - two predators actually.
Don't get me wrong. Despite the learnins, Nate and I were buddies. Heck, somebody had to be the little brother he was so wrongfully denied, the gullible one willing to play deer and hunter with dangerous weapons homemade from sticks and rubber bands.
And I tried hard to be that little brother for the big brother I loved like a super hero, but there were definite signs that I was but a girl (or snard) at heart. For instance, on warm summer days Nate and I would line up our army men with careful precision in the rich dirt of the garden. Our troops properly deployed, we attempted to devastate each other's armies with large dirt clods we flung across the several feet separating us. I made the girly mistake of taking aim at the tiny green soldiers at ground level; Nate had the more effective strategy of flinging the dirt clods with little pebbles in them toward the opposing general (that would be me). With every "ouch....hey!" elicited from me by such brutal tactics, I am confident Natie was simply trying to teach me a valuable lesson for later in life. Honestly, though, twenty-some-odd years later, I still can't figure out what that lesson was.
Then there was that little mix-up with me about my GI Joe named Lightfoot. I loved him because he was yellow, my favorite color, and because I thought he was named after the Canadian folk singer, Gordon Lightfoot, whose music my dad loved and practically reared us on. It never occurred to me to think he was called Lightfoot as in "fleet-footed", so I took to calling him Gordon. I loved that GI Joe like no other. He was the only one that was officially mine, anyway - the one I played with in all those straw and twig forts Nate and I built beneath the walnut trees. But a tragic problem developed with his "fleet-footed" legs. They kept falling off at the knee. My dad attempted to glue them back on several times, but it never lasted. I finally decided we needed to have a funeral for Gordon, and so we did and buried him near the garden. I have no doubt Nate was mumbling, "snard!", under his breath the whole entire time.
Nate and I eventually gave up those pastimes as well as our creek side wars with micro machines to move on to more exciting games. When we got older we liked to pretend fence, though the risk of serious injury with our pretend fencing was akin to that involved with the real deal - without the protective armor. We tried having sword fights with wimpy plastic coke bottles, but the "POP! POP!" noise every time we made contact was very irritating and the tiny little lips of the bottles made for very poor gripping. So we raided Mom and Dad's closet where there were literally dozens of white, metal curtain rods. I have no clue why they were there; there certainly weren't that many windows in our home. I can only think that if a black market for curtain rods existed, Mom was involved somehow - possibly the ring leader. Of course she forbade us on several occasions to sword fight with her curtain rods. I'm sad to say we were delinquent and didn't listen. Eventually, every single rod in our home, saving those with curtains attached, ended up badly dented and bent from our fierce brother/sister fencing matches.
The strong urge I have to take fencing lessons as an adult can be attributed to the fact that I never beat my brother in our rod fights. Our last duel ended with me backed into a corner by the front door, desperately cutting my rod across the space in front of me in an attempt to stave off Natie's onslaughts as he came at me laughing with eyes blazing. I think he forgot I was just a snard in that moment instead of a real brother. Mom and Dad were out grocery shopping, so I had no contingency plan. I believe I just kept weakly crying "Uncle! Mercy!" until the fateful moment when Nate's weapon smashed against my index finger, and I yelped. As the appendage turned all red and blue, a frantic look of concern took hold of Natie's features; the invincible curtain rod warrior vanished.
"Are you okay? Are you okay?" he kept repeating as he followed me to the bathroom and watched me wash it in cold water.
When I finally mumbled, "I'm fine. I guess..." he promptly added, "Good. Whew! Now, quick! - go to bed before Mom and Dad get home!"
Good old memories of childhood - busted fingers, pop guns and playing fort together in the old chicken coup! Still, we must all do our duty of growing up, so we can change and have the next generation of snards. Soon you find you have to get to know your siblings anew as mature individuals. I confess that since my brother Nate and I live so far apart from each other, I am jealous of the friends and co-workers who must know the adult Nate so much better than I do simply because they are able to spend a greater quantity of time with him. Ah, but I do know they have never built a GI Joe fort with him in the grass, or made tracks with micro-machines in the soft dirt by a creek, or engaged with him in sword fights with Mom's curtain rods. At least, I seriously doubt they have. So, I'm content, because for a large part of my childhood, I got to be my brother's little brother, and that doesn't change no matter how little we see each other now or how great the miles grow between us. After all, I'll always be a snard. At least to him.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
A Loving Daughter
Amendment: In this post, I write about telling my children it was possible that they might live until 3010. Upon reflection, I realize that human beings do not actually live to be a thousand years old. I was of course thinking 2110. But it was an honest mistake. I think.
Wednesday of last week when I walked in to get my kids from school and take their teachers late Christmas offerings of fudge and gift cards, Analisa's teacher stopped me.
"Ana wrote something really special in her journal," she said, her hand on her heart. "You have to read it. I made a copy and sent it home. It's in her folder."
"Oh, wonderful," I said. "I can't wait to see it. Thank you."
"It's very special," she continued. "You have a very special little girl. I would keep it to show to her when she's older. Ana's going to make a great teenager."
This last statement took me aback and made me stutter as I thanked her again. Does any parent expect to hear someone forecast that their child will be a great teenager? Does such a thing exist?
Now granted, Analisa is an easy child, a very loving and sensitive child. Let me illustrate this with a little story.
I was playing memory with Ella the other day for the...I don't know - millionth time, maybe. She was beating me again. Every time she went to turn over a second card, confident in her match, I'd mumble, "I don't think..." But, of course, she'd get it, and her matches were something like two to my one. Looking for the bright side, I said to Matthew, "I hope all these Memory matches help me stave off Alzheimer's when I'm old." (Never mind the fact that a three-year-old was already beating me in my current exercises of remembering.)
"Mama..." said Ana in a chiding tone, but I didn't hear her because her Papa was making a joke.
"Oh, then, you'd better stop right now!" he said.
I turned around to glare in his direction. "Are you saying you want me to get Alzheimer's in my old age?" I asked. "Fine. That's fine. When I do I'm going to start dating other people!"
"Mama..." said Anie again as her Papa laughed. "You know I don't like you guys talking about when you're old."
"I know, Ana," I replied quietly, thinking back to our little conversation on New Year's Eve.
It was about 8:30pm on December 31st. We had just finished reading another chapter of Nancy Drew: The Secret in the Old Clock. We read Nancy Drew every night now - Analisa, Berto and me. Through these second readings with my kids I'm reliving my youth and all the excitement of my first mystery stories for which my love has yet to dim. Anyhow, I closed the book and said to the kids, "That's the last Nancy Drew we're ever going to read in 2010. Tonight's New Year's Eve. Tomorrow it'll be January of a new year."
"3010?" asked Ana.
"Berto!" I said in a warning tone as he began to snicker. Then I turned to Ana. "No, it'll be 2011, right? Because the second number changes, not the first."
"Yeah, you and I probably won't even be alive in 3010, Ana," said Berto with a sneer.
I don't like kids talking about their future demise; it's unseemly.
"You could be," I said. "It's possible. People can live to be that old."
Ana's eyes grew wide and misty. I should have seen the next question swimming in those sensitive pools.
"Is there a possibility you and Papa will still be alive?" she asked with a catch in her voice.
I couldn't think. It was too much pressure to come up with a safe, comforting answer. I said, "Uhhhhh...."
Ana started to cry pitifully.
"Oh, Ana!" I said. "It's okay." I wanted to shrug and say, These things happen! But that didn't seem to be what was needed.
"Look," I said. "If we're all good people, and we help others, and we do what we know our Creator expects of us, we'll live again. Like my Grandmama; I'm going to see her again, because she was a good person."
Ana just kept crying. I wrapped her up in a hug. "Anyway, Jesus may come back before then, right? And when he does come back, he'll call our names, so it's like we're sleeping really - waiting for him."
When the rivulets continued to flow, I took her to see her Papa.
"What are you crying about?" he asked in typical man response. Once I told him, however, he folded her onto his lap with an, "Oh, Ana!" and gave me a look, a twinkle in his eyes. We both know how sensitive our little girl is.
"I don't want you and Mama to get old!" she cried.
He soothed her and held her, and I wrapped it up by saying, "Ana, just remember what Jesus said. It's one of the first Bible verses a kid ever learns. It was one of my favorite when I was a child...For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son. That whosoever believes in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life." I was proud for remembering that verse at a moment when it was needed. I said gently, "That sums it all up, and that's why it will be like sleeping, as long as we're good people, okay?"
She was quietly sniffling at that point, and it only took a few more minutes before she was at last ready to part from us to go to sleep on the last evening of 2010. But first she had to give her Papa and me at least five super-squeeze hugs each, the kind that leave bruises on our ribs and foretell her future as a female weight-lifting champion.
"Ana...she is so loving," Matthew said to me when she had gone to bed.
"Yes, she is," I replied.
It was only a few days after that conversation that her teacher told me of the journal entry. It was as beautiful as she said it would be, and here it is:
Wednesday of last week when I walked in to get my kids from school and take their teachers late Christmas offerings of fudge and gift cards, Analisa's teacher stopped me.
"Ana wrote something really special in her journal," she said, her hand on her heart. "You have to read it. I made a copy and sent it home. It's in her folder."
"Oh, wonderful," I said. "I can't wait to see it. Thank you."
"It's very special," she continued. "You have a very special little girl. I would keep it to show to her when she's older. Ana's going to make a great teenager."
This last statement took me aback and made me stutter as I thanked her again. Does any parent expect to hear someone forecast that their child will be a great teenager? Does such a thing exist?
Now granted, Analisa is an easy child, a very loving and sensitive child. Let me illustrate this with a little story.
I was playing memory with Ella the other day for the...I don't know - millionth time, maybe. She was beating me again. Every time she went to turn over a second card, confident in her match, I'd mumble, "I don't think..." But, of course, she'd get it, and her matches were something like two to my one. Looking for the bright side, I said to Matthew, "I hope all these Memory matches help me stave off Alzheimer's when I'm old." (Never mind the fact that a three-year-old was already beating me in my current exercises of remembering.)
"Mama..." said Ana in a chiding tone, but I didn't hear her because her Papa was making a joke.
"Oh, then, you'd better stop right now!" he said.
I turned around to glare in his direction. "Are you saying you want me to get Alzheimer's in my old age?" I asked. "Fine. That's fine. When I do I'm going to start dating other people!"
"Mama..." said Anie again as her Papa laughed. "You know I don't like you guys talking about when you're old."
"I know, Ana," I replied quietly, thinking back to our little conversation on New Year's Eve.
It was about 8:30pm on December 31st. We had just finished reading another chapter of Nancy Drew: The Secret in the Old Clock. We read Nancy Drew every night now - Analisa, Berto and me. Through these second readings with my kids I'm reliving my youth and all the excitement of my first mystery stories for which my love has yet to dim. Anyhow, I closed the book and said to the kids, "That's the last Nancy Drew we're ever going to read in 2010. Tonight's New Year's Eve. Tomorrow it'll be January of a new year."
"3010?" asked Ana.
"Berto!" I said in a warning tone as he began to snicker. Then I turned to Ana. "No, it'll be 2011, right? Because the second number changes, not the first."
"Yeah, you and I probably won't even be alive in 3010, Ana," said Berto with a sneer.
I don't like kids talking about their future demise; it's unseemly.
"You could be," I said. "It's possible. People can live to be that old."
Ana's eyes grew wide and misty. I should have seen the next question swimming in those sensitive pools.
"Is there a possibility you and Papa will still be alive?" she asked with a catch in her voice.
I couldn't think. It was too much pressure to come up with a safe, comforting answer. I said, "Uhhhhh...."
Ana started to cry pitifully.
"Oh, Ana!" I said. "It's okay." I wanted to shrug and say, These things happen! But that didn't seem to be what was needed.
"Look," I said. "If we're all good people, and we help others, and we do what we know our Creator expects of us, we'll live again. Like my Grandmama; I'm going to see her again, because she was a good person."
Ana just kept crying. I wrapped her up in a hug. "Anyway, Jesus may come back before then, right? And when he does come back, he'll call our names, so it's like we're sleeping really - waiting for him."
When the rivulets continued to flow, I took her to see her Papa.
"What are you crying about?" he asked in typical man response. Once I told him, however, he folded her onto his lap with an, "Oh, Ana!" and gave me a look, a twinkle in his eyes. We both know how sensitive our little girl is.
"I don't want you and Mama to get old!" she cried.
He soothed her and held her, and I wrapped it up by saying, "Ana, just remember what Jesus said. It's one of the first Bible verses a kid ever learns. It was one of my favorite when I was a child...For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten son. That whosoever believes in him, should not perish, but have everlasting life." I was proud for remembering that verse at a moment when it was needed. I said gently, "That sums it all up, and that's why it will be like sleeping, as long as we're good people, okay?"
She was quietly sniffling at that point, and it only took a few more minutes before she was at last ready to part from us to go to sleep on the last evening of 2010. But first she had to give her Papa and me at least five super-squeeze hugs each, the kind that leave bruises on our ribs and foretell her future as a female weight-lifting champion.
"Ana...she is so loving," Matthew said to me when she had gone to bed.
"Yes, she is," I replied.
It was only a few days after that conversation that her teacher told me of the journal entry. It was as beautiful as she said it would be, and here it is:
Friday, January 7, 2011
Potty Times, Nap Times...Good Times
Every day, at least six times a day, I hear my preschooler bellow through the house in a most obnoxious way.
"I'M DOOOONE!" she hollers.
She's in the bathroom, and it is never a convenient moment. "Of course you are," I mumble under my breath before yelling back, "I'LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE! I'm in the middle of something here!"
And it's true. I am always in the middle of changing a diaper, fixing a meal, switching laundry, loading dishes, or feeding a baby. Eventually, I must suspend my work, however, and trudge down the hall to take care of her Royal Princess of the Porcelain Palace.
And my littlest, Danny Sammy, won't sleep like he should right now. According to pediatric sleep experts, he is supposed to need 14 hours of sleep, more than half of the 24 hours in a day. Hah! I am convinced this is a fib invented by pediatricians to keep us desperate for their advice. It is a fib just slightly better than the one circulated by doctors about potty training: the one in which they tell you to simply put your toddler or preschooler in a T-shirt and cotton underpants and let them rove your home diaper-free while giving them only water to drink. Your child will have a few accidents (just a few) before figuring out that they really don't like being wet, and the kid will use the potty henceforth (at which point rainbows should magically appear in your home while Beethoven's Fifth Symphony plays).
Let me tell you what really happens, because I've tried this "shotgun" method on three different children, and baby, it backfires. You put your kid in the shirt and special underpants, you give them water even though they're whining for juice, and then you watch and wait for them to cry about being wet. After about an hour, you start splashing through the puddles. That's right. Because they could care less that they're pee-peeing all over the house like miscreant little puppies. I tried this method for two days straight with my oldest, and I cleaned up roughly enough pee-pee to start a koi pond in the backyard.
And the sleep myth is just the same. Has to be, because if babies really needed that much sleep...I mean if they really did...wouldn't they be wanting...in fact, begging to go down for nap/bedtime? Getting you up four to six times a night, wouldn't they just nurse or take the bottle, touch your face and hair and then go peacefully back in their cribs as if to say, Just checking to make sure you're still here Mama. But this is not the way it is for me and my Danny Sammy. He wakes up, has his nurse, pops off in irritation and begins to behave like the Incredible Hulk - arcing his back, thrashing his arms around and growling deep in his throat as if he were going to suddenly burst out of his footie sleeper and start sporting green skin before jumping through the window to go rip a neighbor's car apart. He behaves like this for well over an hour every night while I attempt to bounce, rock, nurse or lie down with him.
And nap times. Huh. Well, I could get him down for a decent nap, I suppose, if I could suspend all sudden noise in our home and had a soundproof plexiglass box in which to put my preschooler with rations of juice and crackers and enough finger paint and play dough to keep her amused for two hours. But these things are impossible...unless you know where I can find a child-friendly plexiglass box? (No? Well, I was just kidding!) And no matter what I do for Ella Belle - turn on the television, give her cookies and muffins, provide her with pounds of play dough or modeling clay, she will without a doubt end up in the hall outside Danny Sam's room with boredom on her mind and a smirk on her face as she slowly increases the amount of noise she's making. I stare pointedly at her and push my finger hard against my mouth, trying my darndest to channel enough miming energy to drive her from the vicinity of the designated baby nap area, but I'm helpless to stop the inevitable. If I yell at her to go away or be quiet, I'll be disturbing Danny Sam myself and only feel more angst-ridden when he aborts his nurse and twists his head with wide-open eyes to examine the activities of big sister.
I know I'm supposed to thank God for the precious time I get to spend with my little ones, and I do! I do! I do! I do! I doooo! Even when I'm trying to push my fingers through my eyelids in frustration. But sometimes a stay-at-home Mom lives on the edge - the edge of sanity, that is. For instance, when, after many minutes of orchestrating ridiculous maneuvers and making plenty of goofy noises and faces, you find yourself pointing at your baby and cackling because you managed to trick him into taking a bite of baby food, well...you know the pressure has gotten to you, my friend.
But, thank God, it's worth it. It's worth it when your baby crawls up to you as you're sitting on the ground and lays his head on your lap and smiles. It's worth it when, after months of jealousy and insecurity in relation to baby Danny, Ella makes her little brother giggle in the car on the way home and then says confidently, "Mama, Daniel's my friend."
"I'M DOOOONE!" she hollers.
She's in the bathroom, and it is never a convenient moment. "Of course you are," I mumble under my breath before yelling back, "I'LL BE THERE IN A MINUTE! I'm in the middle of something here!"
And it's true. I am always in the middle of changing a diaper, fixing a meal, switching laundry, loading dishes, or feeding a baby. Eventually, I must suspend my work, however, and trudge down the hall to take care of her Royal Princess of the Porcelain Palace.
And my littlest, Danny Sammy, won't sleep like he should right now. According to pediatric sleep experts, he is supposed to need 14 hours of sleep, more than half of the 24 hours in a day. Hah! I am convinced this is a fib invented by pediatricians to keep us desperate for their advice. It is a fib just slightly better than the one circulated by doctors about potty training: the one in which they tell you to simply put your toddler or preschooler in a T-shirt and cotton underpants and let them rove your home diaper-free while giving them only water to drink. Your child will have a few accidents (just a few) before figuring out that they really don't like being wet, and the kid will use the potty henceforth (at which point rainbows should magically appear in your home while Beethoven's Fifth Symphony plays).
Let me tell you what really happens, because I've tried this "shotgun" method on three different children, and baby, it backfires. You put your kid in the shirt and special underpants, you give them water even though they're whining for juice, and then you watch and wait for them to cry about being wet. After about an hour, you start splashing through the puddles. That's right. Because they could care less that they're pee-peeing all over the house like miscreant little puppies. I tried this method for two days straight with my oldest, and I cleaned up roughly enough pee-pee to start a koi pond in the backyard.
And the sleep myth is just the same. Has to be, because if babies really needed that much sleep...I mean if they really did...wouldn't they be wanting...in fact, begging to go down for nap/bedtime? Getting you up four to six times a night, wouldn't they just nurse or take the bottle, touch your face and hair and then go peacefully back in their cribs as if to say, Just checking to make sure you're still here Mama. But this is not the way it is for me and my Danny Sammy. He wakes up, has his nurse, pops off in irritation and begins to behave like the Incredible Hulk - arcing his back, thrashing his arms around and growling deep in his throat as if he were going to suddenly burst out of his footie sleeper and start sporting green skin before jumping through the window to go rip a neighbor's car apart. He behaves like this for well over an hour every night while I attempt to bounce, rock, nurse or lie down with him.
And nap times. Huh. Well, I could get him down for a decent nap, I suppose, if I could suspend all sudden noise in our home and had a soundproof plexiglass box in which to put my preschooler with rations of juice and crackers and enough finger paint and play dough to keep her amused for two hours. But these things are impossible...unless you know where I can find a child-friendly plexiglass box? (No? Well, I was just kidding!) And no matter what I do for Ella Belle - turn on the television, give her cookies and muffins, provide her with pounds of play dough or modeling clay, she will without a doubt end up in the hall outside Danny Sam's room with boredom on her mind and a smirk on her face as she slowly increases the amount of noise she's making. I stare pointedly at her and push my finger hard against my mouth, trying my darndest to channel enough miming energy to drive her from the vicinity of the designated baby nap area, but I'm helpless to stop the inevitable. If I yell at her to go away or be quiet, I'll be disturbing Danny Sam myself and only feel more angst-ridden when he aborts his nurse and twists his head with wide-open eyes to examine the activities of big sister.
I know I'm supposed to thank God for the precious time I get to spend with my little ones, and I do! I do! I do! I do! I doooo! Even when I'm trying to push my fingers through my eyelids in frustration. But sometimes a stay-at-home Mom lives on the edge - the edge of sanity, that is. For instance, when, after many minutes of orchestrating ridiculous maneuvers and making plenty of goofy noises and faces, you find yourself pointing at your baby and cackling because you managed to trick him into taking a bite of baby food, well...you know the pressure has gotten to you, my friend.
But, thank God, it's worth it. It's worth it when your baby crawls up to you as you're sitting on the ground and lays his head on your lap and smiles. It's worth it when, after months of jealousy and insecurity in relation to baby Danny, Ella makes her little brother giggle in the car on the way home and then says confidently, "Mama, Daniel's my friend."
Monday, January 3, 2011
Neener-Neener-Neener
Our family was pulling off the street that led to the Phoenix Zoo's annual Zoolights holiday extravaganza. It was just a bit after 6:30pm, and a couple of our kids were sniffling noisily in the backseat from disappointment. We saw an enormous parade of cars waiting to turn down the street that led to the parking lot of the zoo while off-duty policemen watched from the dirt grade by the intersection. Hahaha! Little did the people in those cars realize what they were about to find - an absolutely enormous parking lot completely awash in roving vehicles circling more than a dozen filled-to-capacity lanes like a pack of desperate hyenas - all of them hungry for kettle corn and lights synchronized to blaring Christmas tunes.
After mistakenly trying to locate a space for our own vehicle at the tardy hour of 6:15pm (Zoolights began at 6pm), we were forced to give up hope of gaining entrance to a magical world of lit giraffes and bedecked desert trees where aforementioned kettle corn is sold to vulnerable families every twenty feet. As we were leaving, I craned my neck to look at all the poor saps entering the fray of aggressive drivers.
"Look at all those cars, " I said to cheer up the kids. "They're trying to get in, too, and they're not going to find a parking space, either." Then I said aside to Matthew, "We should have known better than to come the day after Christmas. Everybody's looking for something festive to do, so they can hang on to the holidays. 'Oh, what can we do? What can we do? Wah-ha....Zoolights!' "
"Exactly," said Matthew in a tone I know well. He lifted his eyebrows and made an exaggerated gesture with the hand he could spare from the steering wheel and mocked, "Mwah-ha...Zoolights!"
"Mwah-ha-ha...Zoolights!" I echoed, giggling at the zaniness.
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| Mwah-ha-ha.....Zoolights! |
(That went on for a while.) Meanwhile Ella Boo whimpered in her car seat and Berto growled at our audacity in making fun of such a dire disappointment.
I wrapped it all up when I laughed as only one can laugh at finding others in the same predicament as oneself and said to Matthew, "Perfect time for a drive-by neener-neener, though." He smiled, but my dad would have laughed outright.
Dad would have understood the joy of imagining myself rolling down the window, balancing half my body outside the car, and yelling into a blow horn with relish, "Neener-neener-neener! No parking at the zoo! Neener-neener-neener! No Zoolights for you!" Then with great exhilaration jerking myself back inside the car, chucking the blow horn into the back of the van out of sight and tapping my finger gleefully on the little button that rolls up the car window while laughing in an unseemly manner at the ridiculous plight of my fellow human beings.
It's all a pipe dream, though, because somehow I never think to pick up a blow horn for just such occasions.
But just the concept of the drive-by neener-neener has brought me occasional mirth ever since an early morning ride to my grandfather's church on a lonely stretch of freeway between Boise and New Plymouth, Idaho when I was still a teenager. There was construction on the highway, and Dad and I were very worried we'd be late; traffic was so tortuously slow. After making a chorus of disgruntled noises and vainly looking for something to distract us on the radio, we did make it to church just a few minutes late. I slid into a pew as Dad prepared to teach Bible Study.
On the return trip to Boise, Dad and I gazed across the brush between the divided highway to the two lanes of traffic opposite. Cars were nose to bumper, creeping slower than slugs. Dad and I got to thinkin' in the silly way we do when we're together.
"Don't you wish we had a blow horn, so we could call out, 'Neener-neener-neener!' to all those other drivers," Dad said with a chuckle.
I laughed. "It'd be a drive-by neener-neener!"
"Sure," said Dad, and imitating a news reporter, "There was a drive-by neener-neener on the highway today. Several witnesses attested to the savagery of it. Unfortunately, the culprits were never apprehended. The blow horn was never found!"
We laughed a good long time at our own silly joke as we made a smooth commute home and sped passed the clogged cars on the opposite side of the highway.
Of course, I've never heard of a drive-by neener-neener actually taking place. Do I like to think that other people have been tempted by the opportunity to rub life's sticky situations into the faces of their fellow human beings in such a completely obnoxious and juvenile way? Oh, sure. But have I ever heard of the brave individual who actually took the blow by the horn? Sadly, no.
And I should face it: I'd probably never have the courage to do it myself. But I did find the courage to venture with Matthew and the kids back out to Zoolights. This time we arrived a good twenty minutes before it even opened and waited in lines outside the gates while a zoo worker walked up and down shouting at patrons, "There are five lines, people! So figure out which line you're in! Is it the two on the left, the one in the middle or the two on the right? C'mon!"
When the gates opened, we went to member services for a couple of free tickets, because we're members and therefore extraordinarily special. We still had to pay for three more tickets, of course, but then we got to by-pass people giving us dirty looks as they waited in their five lines to purchase their regular tickets from the regular ticket booths.
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| Saguaros |
Inside we compulsively bought kettle corn at the nearest vendor. Then as we walked we encountered a magical world of small lit stands of saguaro cacti, multiple species of monkey made from lights, and a glowing orb of pulsing light suspended over the zoo lake. Then we sat to ooh and ahh over a loud light display set to the melody of the Nutcracker suite and the voice of good old Bing singing White Christmas.
Afterwords we went to gaze at the lazy Komodo Dragons. Then the girls rode the carousel because I had for once succeeded in convincing their Papa to be serendipitous. Meanwhile Berto got to listen to the Ohio State marching band who were in town for the Insight Bowl. After the girls got off the carousel, we stood to the side as the players, cheerleaders and band members passed close by, and Berto, his face alight and eyes wide, got to see all the amazing instruments a college marching band plays at the games.
"What would I play?" he mused.
"Did you see all the drums?" said his papa.
"No, the tuba," I said enthusiastically, and as I spoke my fond wish that Berto would someday be in collegiate marching band grew a little stronger. "I can definitely see you doing that," I told him.
"And you get to go to all the games," said Matthew.
Before we left the zoo, we went down the desert trail, saw some peccarys, and searched in vain for the coyote. I also got this awesome picture of a display of simulated rabbits.
We left with warm feelings rekindled for the Phoenix Zoo. But we had to hustle all the kids into the car and throw the stroller in the back with all due haste because there were at least ten cars waiting for our parking space and the chance to see an animal refuge all aglow. I would have cupped my hands and shouted a hasty, "Neener-neener!" before jumping in the van to snicker into my sleeve, but I didn't want to destroy the Christmas mood that, thanks to a beautiful zoo transformed into a glowing evening oasis, still thrived on that cool desert night.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
The Elusive Bunny Shop and a Poisoned Doughnut
We went downtown yesterday. Just me and four roving outlaws out for a good time in the sweet desert weather. We were on a grand expedition...in search of a bunny shop.
You know - stuffed bunnies dressed in cute little outfits? No, I don't really like those. What am I - five? But, I mean, I do like rabbits. They're graceful, quick little creatures, and I've always loved them. I had read about this new shop in my local paper and was eager to investigate a shop devoted to all things rabbit - for Easter gifts for the kids, of course.
We parked at the library and headed out. Berto pushed Danny in the stroller, and it was my esteemed job to shout at various intervals, "Everybody hold hands!" at which point it's usually my custom to begin singing, "People around the world - join hands! Start a love train. Love train!" while doing an electric slide-like line dance. Mostly, I do this to embarrass Matthew, though, and since he wasn't with us, the idea of drawing attention to our family didn't even occur to me.
Not that we needed help with that. People usually notice a procession of one woman followed by a bunch of little kids. Particularly if that woman is shouting at every little side-street intersection, "Stop! Are you looking for cars? I didn't think so! Look both ways. Now go!", and then running with her gaggle of kids, loping along sideways with arms extended around their moving figures as if that could somehow protect them from oncoming vehicles.
We went up and down the major streets of our small downtown. We went into a gift shop that sells souvenirs from Arizona made by actual people living in Arizona. A novel idea! I bought a book on the history of my adopted state to support the new shop. Then we circled around to the alley where people park, thinking the shop might be hidden in an unlikely place. Ana was nervous on the narrow street.
"Don't cars come down here?" she asked several times to remind me of the danger. Then she said, "I'm going to be over here, Mama."
She climbed a low wall by some dinky buildings, clear of the street. Climbing walls is contagious with children, so Berto and Ella quickly fell in line.
After circling streets we'd already trod, we stopped at the green park in the center of downtown in order to take a picture of our city's Christmas tree. It's made of tumbleweeds, and I wanted to capture it on film before they take it down or it blows away bit by bit.
Shockingly beautiful, isn't it?
We went into the historical golf resort next with our shoddy stroller. There I politely requested the concierge to direct us to the new bunny shop where the owner sews and sells stuffed bunnies and their clothing. It's an awkward question to ask, but I was woman enough to admit the child in me. After twenty minutes on the computer, the gentleman still had no clue even when given the address, so we exited the resort hastily before Ella could break a tabletop ornament, topple their fancy tree or jump on the sleek furniture.
We gazed across the next street, the last hope. Nope. No bunnies. Just an Italian eatery and a questionable sushi outfit, so we made our pilgrimage back across the major thoroughfare and started the long return walk to the library past bubbling fountains with deep stone pools around which I watched Ella Belle like a hawk. Danny Sam just sat like a little angel in the stroller, enjoying the scenery as we skirted an office building, by-passed a smelly gazebo and the city's museum of local history before finally entering the library where we purchased some cold refreshment in its gift shop, asking the lady there if she knew where the bunny shop was.
"I wonder if its south of here across from the NY sub place? Or down by the Better Than Sex Cafe?" she added, trying to lower her voice around the kids. "They sell the best cake there. I haven't been there in ages. But, anyway, if you find the bunny place, let me know. It sounds like it'd be right up my alley."
Once the kids had checked out their books, we were back outside. As they were trotting on the low wall in the courtyard (of course), I said casually, "Mama's just going to drive south a ways and see if I can spot that place. Then we'll head home."
"No let's walk!" they all began to chorus. "Please!"
I admire their lust for exercise, but I was the one walking in heeled boots. To be honest, I was tuckered out.
"Aren't you guys tired?" I asked hopefully.
"No!"
"I think we should drive," I said as if negotiating with reasonable adults. "Some of us haven't gone p-o-t-t-y in a while."
I spelled it out so the littlest outlaw wouldn't get the idea suddenly that she had a bathroom emergency. The power of suggestion means everything with kids when you're talking about something you don't want them to do. On the other hand, if its something you really want them to do, words are meaningless; you'd better have candy.
"Who needs to go?" said Berto. "I can wait!"
Telling words. I should have marched them all back into the library to the restrooms. Or to the car. Instead I thought, They want exercise. Exercise is good. I could use more exercise. We're having a good time. We could walk.
The thing I forgot is that when you're having a good time with kids, you should thank the sweet heavens for that blessing, lock the memory in your heart for old age, and quickly put an end to the festivities, because things have nowhere to go but south.
And south we went. After heading west again away from the library, we turned south at the major intersection, and I strained my eyes to every little shop across the street looking for rabbits adorned in flowing dresses or men's overalls.
Berto began seeing bathrooms everywhere.
"Is that a bathroom?" he said. And a few moments later, "Do you think they have a bathroom in there?"
"I thought you said you didn't need to go," I said in exasperation.
"What?" he said defensively. Then with shifty eyes and sulky voice, "I can wait."
We reached a gas station. We went in. Not that I was going to ask the punky teenagers there where the "bunny shop" was. I thought they might have some snacks; we hadn't eaten in a few hours.
"Oh, look. They have bathrooms," said Berto casually.
Nothing quite freezes a mother's heart like the idea of taking her children into a gas station bathroom. And four at once!
"I thought you said you could wait," I said weakly, noting that the restroom doors said the facilities were only for clients. I never knew gas stations had clients. I thought they only had customers; makes you wonder what their side business is.
"Oh, alright. Let's go."
But then I saw a guy open the men's restroom door with a key. Now, usually a key makes one feel privileged, gives one a sense of ownership. Here's the keys to your new car. I'm picking up the keys to my timeshare today. Don't forget the hotel key. Oh, damn! Left my work keys at home!
Gas station restroom keys make you feel desperate. Common. A little seedy. Germy.
"Can I have the key to the women's restroom?" I asked the teenager in charge.
He looked me over.
"Sure. It's right there."
The bathroom wasn't too bad. Everyone took their turn, and we made as clean an exit from that den of germiness as we could, including opening the door with paper towels. But I couldn't save myself from the key; it had to be returned. Thank God I'd brought that sanitizer on our long pilgrimage in search of the non-existent bunny shop.
We picked out snacks. Our options were nuts, chips, candy or doughnuts. The healthy nuts were out, because of Berto's allergies. I knew we shouldn't get anything. We'd already had treats of chocolate, marshmallows and pie at home, but we'd done all that walking, after all. And why does one exercise if not to reward oneself with junk? Besides, those doughnuts looked good.
Three donuts and a box of candy, please.
We're going to find a quiet place to enjoy our snack, " I said to the kids once in the clean sunshine again. Berto pointed out a city bus terminal hopefully. "No!" I said immediately.
I gave the bunny shop a last ditch effort by asking some ladies emerging from a car if they might know where it was.
They looked around vaguely. "Is it there?" they asked each other. "Maybe by the fish and chips place? Down by the market area with that realtor's office? No..in that little house, maybe?"
I gave up and moved on. I was tired. My suede boots were dusty, and Ella wanted a piggy back ride. So I gave her one, but she had to push my backpack purse out of the way. I hobbled along pushing the stroller with a preschooler hanging on like a chimpanzee to my shoulders. It didn't last long. Ella wanted to climb the public art. We passed the new city hall - again. The old town family Mexican food place - again. We finally turned on the street with the library, and I told everyone to halt. We sat on some benches in the shade outside a closed breakfast eatery and pulled out our snacks.
I took a bite of my chosen doughnut. It was nasty. Never buy gas station doughnuts in the afternoon, I told myself. But I took another bite to make sure my taste buds weren't foolin'. Wow, it really was bad! I turned the pastry around to test the other end of it. Maybe it was only the one side. No, it was horrible at both ends, and now I was beginning to think it was poisoned. Okay, I have a good imagination, but I thought I tasted anti-freeze. It seemed probable that I was going to end up on the evening news as a warning to others about buying doughnuts after 3pm on a weekday; I just hoped I wouldn't die before the segment aired.
Ah, well. Might as well enjoy my last moments. So I moved on to eating Ella's; she was too busy playing on the sidewalk, anyway.
Then Ana began to admonish me gently.
"Well, Mama, I do love you," she began. "Even though I don't think this was the healthiest snack."
I glared at her with chocolate frosting on my mouth.
"It's just that, well...we already had treats today...."
"I know, Ana. But we were hungry. We've been getting lots of exercise, and those were our choices. We'll do better tomorrow."
She gave me a shrug and a hug. "Okay."
I tried the ugly doughnut again and quickly spit out the bite into the bag. Yep, the thing was definitely poisoned. I threw it in the trash, my cheerful mood destroyed as I worried about my immediate future.
Later, when we had almost reached the library again, and I was arguing with Berto about just how many more hot tamales I was going to let him eat before I chucked them in a trash can, Ana started in again with the guilt.
"Do you think a doughnut is as bad as a piece of pie?" she asked sweetly. "Because..."
I was not going to take it anymore. I mean, for goodness sake, wicked pastry poisoning could be setting in at that very moment; I had bigger fish to worry about.
"Look, Ana," I said irritably, all my good humor and patience gone. "We had lots of treats today. It's not going to kill us unless Mama's doughnut was poisoned. Tomorrow we'll do much better. In fact, we just won't eat sweets ever again, okay?"
"Okay," she said, giving me one of her super-squeeze hugs that always crushes my ribs and seems an incredible feat for a child so skinny.
We entered the library parking lot. I was experiencing black thoughts and a bad taste in my mouth as I herded the kids into the car and threw them their library books. I started mumbling, "We should have just driven. Papa would never let you guys dictate what we do. Never. And I was tired; I'm the one wearing suede high-heeled boots. And that donut was bad! Bad, I tell you...and Papa would never let you do this!"
I thought about that life lesson all the way home as Danny Sam fussed from his carseat. Sometimes Matthew's lack of serendipity gets my dander up. The kids will ask to do something on the spur of the moment - like stay a little longer at the park, and he'll say immediately, "No it's time to go." I want to scream, "Just let's live, damn it!" But Matthew understands that kids shouldn't rule your life; I don't. Sometimes I'll be talking to Matthew about some minor decision, and I'll turn to the kids as if they are my very own appointed team of advisers and say, "What do you think?" And Matthew cuts it short with a, "They don't need to be in on this. It's not up to them." I always wonder why he won't let them participate in planning the details of our familial existence. Then I find myself walking downtown for an hour and a half longer than planned and eating poisonous doughnuts as if they were real food, and I get Matthew's point.
You know - stuffed bunnies dressed in cute little outfits? No, I don't really like those. What am I - five? But, I mean, I do like rabbits. They're graceful, quick little creatures, and I've always loved them. I had read about this new shop in my local paper and was eager to investigate a shop devoted to all things rabbit - for Easter gifts for the kids, of course.
We parked at the library and headed out. Berto pushed Danny in the stroller, and it was my esteemed job to shout at various intervals, "Everybody hold hands!" at which point it's usually my custom to begin singing, "People around the world - join hands! Start a love train. Love train!" while doing an electric slide-like line dance. Mostly, I do this to embarrass Matthew, though, and since he wasn't with us, the idea of drawing attention to our family didn't even occur to me.
Not that we needed help with that. People usually notice a procession of one woman followed by a bunch of little kids. Particularly if that woman is shouting at every little side-street intersection, "Stop! Are you looking for cars? I didn't think so! Look both ways. Now go!", and then running with her gaggle of kids, loping along sideways with arms extended around their moving figures as if that could somehow protect them from oncoming vehicles.
We went up and down the major streets of our small downtown. We went into a gift shop that sells souvenirs from Arizona made by actual people living in Arizona. A novel idea! I bought a book on the history of my adopted state to support the new shop. Then we circled around to the alley where people park, thinking the shop might be hidden in an unlikely place. Ana was nervous on the narrow street.
"Don't cars come down here?" she asked several times to remind me of the danger. Then she said, "I'm going to be over here, Mama."
She climbed a low wall by some dinky buildings, clear of the street. Climbing walls is contagious with children, so Berto and Ella quickly fell in line.
After circling streets we'd already trod, we stopped at the green park in the center of downtown in order to take a picture of our city's Christmas tree. It's made of tumbleweeds, and I wanted to capture it on film before they take it down or it blows away bit by bit.
Shockingly beautiful, isn't it?
We went into the historical golf resort next with our shoddy stroller. There I politely requested the concierge to direct us to the new bunny shop where the owner sews and sells stuffed bunnies and their clothing. It's an awkward question to ask, but I was woman enough to admit the child in me. After twenty minutes on the computer, the gentleman still had no clue even when given the address, so we exited the resort hastily before Ella could break a tabletop ornament, topple their fancy tree or jump on the sleek furniture.
We gazed across the next street, the last hope. Nope. No bunnies. Just an Italian eatery and a questionable sushi outfit, so we made our pilgrimage back across the major thoroughfare and started the long return walk to the library past bubbling fountains with deep stone pools around which I watched Ella Belle like a hawk. Danny Sam just sat like a little angel in the stroller, enjoying the scenery as we skirted an office building, by-passed a smelly gazebo and the city's museum of local history before finally entering the library where we purchased some cold refreshment in its gift shop, asking the lady there if she knew where the bunny shop was.
"I wonder if its south of here across from the NY sub place? Or down by the Better Than Sex Cafe?" she added, trying to lower her voice around the kids. "They sell the best cake there. I haven't been there in ages. But, anyway, if you find the bunny place, let me know. It sounds like it'd be right up my alley."
Once the kids had checked out their books, we were back outside. As they were trotting on the low wall in the courtyard (of course), I said casually, "Mama's just going to drive south a ways and see if I can spot that place. Then we'll head home."
"No let's walk!" they all began to chorus. "Please!"
I admire their lust for exercise, but I was the one walking in heeled boots. To be honest, I was tuckered out.
"Aren't you guys tired?" I asked hopefully.
"No!"
"I think we should drive," I said as if negotiating with reasonable adults. "Some of us haven't gone p-o-t-t-y in a while."
I spelled it out so the littlest outlaw wouldn't get the idea suddenly that she had a bathroom emergency. The power of suggestion means everything with kids when you're talking about something you don't want them to do. On the other hand, if its something you really want them to do, words are meaningless; you'd better have candy.
"Who needs to go?" said Berto. "I can wait!"
Telling words. I should have marched them all back into the library to the restrooms. Or to the car. Instead I thought, They want exercise. Exercise is good. I could use more exercise. We're having a good time. We could walk.
The thing I forgot is that when you're having a good time with kids, you should thank the sweet heavens for that blessing, lock the memory in your heart for old age, and quickly put an end to the festivities, because things have nowhere to go but south.
And south we went. After heading west again away from the library, we turned south at the major intersection, and I strained my eyes to every little shop across the street looking for rabbits adorned in flowing dresses or men's overalls.
Berto began seeing bathrooms everywhere.
"Is that a bathroom?" he said. And a few moments later, "Do you think they have a bathroom in there?"
"I thought you said you didn't need to go," I said in exasperation.
"What?" he said defensively. Then with shifty eyes and sulky voice, "I can wait."
We reached a gas station. We went in. Not that I was going to ask the punky teenagers there where the "bunny shop" was. I thought they might have some snacks; we hadn't eaten in a few hours.
"Oh, look. They have bathrooms," said Berto casually.
Nothing quite freezes a mother's heart like the idea of taking her children into a gas station bathroom. And four at once!
"I thought you said you could wait," I said weakly, noting that the restroom doors said the facilities were only for clients. I never knew gas stations had clients. I thought they only had customers; makes you wonder what their side business is.
"Oh, alright. Let's go."
But then I saw a guy open the men's restroom door with a key. Now, usually a key makes one feel privileged, gives one a sense of ownership. Here's the keys to your new car. I'm picking up the keys to my timeshare today. Don't forget the hotel key. Oh, damn! Left my work keys at home!
Gas station restroom keys make you feel desperate. Common. A little seedy. Germy.
"Can I have the key to the women's restroom?" I asked the teenager in charge.
He looked me over.
"Sure. It's right there."
The bathroom wasn't too bad. Everyone took their turn, and we made as clean an exit from that den of germiness as we could, including opening the door with paper towels. But I couldn't save myself from the key; it had to be returned. Thank God I'd brought that sanitizer on our long pilgrimage in search of the non-existent bunny shop.
We picked out snacks. Our options were nuts, chips, candy or doughnuts. The healthy nuts were out, because of Berto's allergies. I knew we shouldn't get anything. We'd already had treats of chocolate, marshmallows and pie at home, but we'd done all that walking, after all. And why does one exercise if not to reward oneself with junk? Besides, those doughnuts looked good.
Three donuts and a box of candy, please.
We're going to find a quiet place to enjoy our snack, " I said to the kids once in the clean sunshine again. Berto pointed out a city bus terminal hopefully. "No!" I said immediately.
I gave the bunny shop a last ditch effort by asking some ladies emerging from a car if they might know where it was.
They looked around vaguely. "Is it there?" they asked each other. "Maybe by the fish and chips place? Down by the market area with that realtor's office? No..in that little house, maybe?"
I gave up and moved on. I was tired. My suede boots were dusty, and Ella wanted a piggy back ride. So I gave her one, but she had to push my backpack purse out of the way. I hobbled along pushing the stroller with a preschooler hanging on like a chimpanzee to my shoulders. It didn't last long. Ella wanted to climb the public art. We passed the new city hall - again. The old town family Mexican food place - again. We finally turned on the street with the library, and I told everyone to halt. We sat on some benches in the shade outside a closed breakfast eatery and pulled out our snacks.
I took a bite of my chosen doughnut. It was nasty. Never buy gas station doughnuts in the afternoon, I told myself. But I took another bite to make sure my taste buds weren't foolin'. Wow, it really was bad! I turned the pastry around to test the other end of it. Maybe it was only the one side. No, it was horrible at both ends, and now I was beginning to think it was poisoned. Okay, I have a good imagination, but I thought I tasted anti-freeze. It seemed probable that I was going to end up on the evening news as a warning to others about buying doughnuts after 3pm on a weekday; I just hoped I wouldn't die before the segment aired.
Ah, well. Might as well enjoy my last moments. So I moved on to eating Ella's; she was too busy playing on the sidewalk, anyway.
Then Ana began to admonish me gently.
"Well, Mama, I do love you," she began. "Even though I don't think this was the healthiest snack."
I glared at her with chocolate frosting on my mouth.
"It's just that, well...we already had treats today...."
"I know, Ana. But we were hungry. We've been getting lots of exercise, and those were our choices. We'll do better tomorrow."
She gave me a shrug and a hug. "Okay."
I tried the ugly doughnut again and quickly spit out the bite into the bag. Yep, the thing was definitely poisoned. I threw it in the trash, my cheerful mood destroyed as I worried about my immediate future.
Later, when we had almost reached the library again, and I was arguing with Berto about just how many more hot tamales I was going to let him eat before I chucked them in a trash can, Ana started in again with the guilt.
"Do you think a doughnut is as bad as a piece of pie?" she asked sweetly. "Because..."
I was not going to take it anymore. I mean, for goodness sake, wicked pastry poisoning could be setting in at that very moment; I had bigger fish to worry about.
"Look, Ana," I said irritably, all my good humor and patience gone. "We had lots of treats today. It's not going to kill us unless Mama's doughnut was poisoned. Tomorrow we'll do much better. In fact, we just won't eat sweets ever again, okay?"
"Okay," she said, giving me one of her super-squeeze hugs that always crushes my ribs and seems an incredible feat for a child so skinny.
We entered the library parking lot. I was experiencing black thoughts and a bad taste in my mouth as I herded the kids into the car and threw them their library books. I started mumbling, "We should have just driven. Papa would never let you guys dictate what we do. Never. And I was tired; I'm the one wearing suede high-heeled boots. And that donut was bad! Bad, I tell you...and Papa would never let you do this!"
I thought about that life lesson all the way home as Danny Sam fussed from his carseat. Sometimes Matthew's lack of serendipity gets my dander up. The kids will ask to do something on the spur of the moment - like stay a little longer at the park, and he'll say immediately, "No it's time to go." I want to scream, "Just let's live, damn it!" But Matthew understands that kids shouldn't rule your life; I don't. Sometimes I'll be talking to Matthew about some minor decision, and I'll turn to the kids as if they are my very own appointed team of advisers and say, "What do you think?" And Matthew cuts it short with a, "They don't need to be in on this. It's not up to them." I always wonder why he won't let them participate in planning the details of our familial existence. Then I find myself walking downtown for an hour and a half longer than planned and eating poisonous doughnuts as if they were real food, and I get Matthew's point.
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