Making the Grade

Today is Paige’s long awaited why-ain’t-she-walkin’-yet assessment. Which, as it turns out, is taking place at our house.

I guess that’s just how this state-funded clinic rolls. They dispatch a case manager, a physical therapist, and a infant development specialist to come check the kid out, then they decide what kinda treatment’s needed. And they hook you up with it for free.

I don’t think there’s anything about the home setting itself that’s part of the assessment. At least, I hope not.

But as I was dressing Paigey this morning, I pulled her black, long-sleeved SLACKER t-shirt over her head, and a little voice inside me said it probably wasn’t an ideal fashion selection for the day. Seeing as Little Miss Paige would be under the scrutiny of the Baby Expert Trio.

And since my brain had, at that point, created the entry point for a neurotic path that it could run down, I started to look around the house, casually at first, then with mounting panic, dizzied by the countless things that the Baby Trio, peering over their glasses disapprovingly, might take issue with.

For starters, the white socks I put on Paige have a “6-12 months” label stamped on the sole. Clear evidence that, for a child 16 months of age, her mother is keen to hold her back. Intentionally stunt her progress towards ever taking those first few steps.

What else? There isn’t a single children’s music CD in our stereo. The mango poised atop our fruit bowl? Not organic. Nor the whole wheat sliced bread.

The top magazine on the coffee table—burying Parenting, Cookie, all Mark’s New Yorkers, and the latest issue of Wired featuring Mark’s cover story—was of course, People. The horror! I can hear the three buzzing as they get into their car to leave. “They not only READ People magazine, they subscribe to it! And they’re surprised that their daughter can’t walk?!”

There’s a bunch of wine glasses from last night’s book club drying in the dish rack, and several empties wedged in the recycling bin under the sink. Since the house cleaners’ last visit, the girls’ve done comprehensive work spraying food bits on the floor beneath their chairs. And God knows how many toys laying about in plain view are for kids far younger than any who live here.

I can hear it now: “She doesn’t walk?” they’ll say. “Well, hell-o-ooo! In those conditions, they’re just asking for it!”

I’ve tidied. I’ve cleaned. I changed Paige out of the snarky shirt and into a sweet clean white cardigan. Kate, in all her three-year-old sassiness, will be dispatched to the neighbor’s for a play date long before the Baby Dream Team’s arrival. And at some point, I just have to stop and say, “Enough.”

When my childhood friend Sydney visited last summer, I hadn’t seen her in some twenty years. And after we’d happily reconnected, she and her husband planned a get-away weekend in San Fran. About a week before their visit, I mentioned to Mark that I felt like I was going to a reunion, but it was being held at my house. Forget just agonizing over one’s weight and outfit. I’d have to alphabetize the spice rack, hide our bank statements, refinish the floors!

In that same conversation, I informed Mark I was having a landscape architect come see what he could do with the yard in short order. He stopped chopping mire poix, turned to me and said, “Really?”

I’d been KIDDING, of course. But it just goes to show you that Mark’s known me long enough—or rather well enough—to not think such a move is beyond me.

Even though we couldn’t be more different in this area. Mark’s the kind of person who’d leave a perscription fungal cream front and center in the medicine cabinet without ever fearing a guest allegedly “looking for a Band-Aid” would spot it.

Aaaanyway, if I don’t hop into the shower right now, I risk having one of the Baby Assessors look me up and down, and while tsk-tsking, grab her clipboard and in a column entitled “Maternal Hygiene” put a mark indicating “Poor.”

Wish us luck.

Separated at Birth?

I know my dad adores his grandchildren, but this is getting kinda weird.

When Paige was a baby—unlike her peaches and cream complected sister—she was plagued with all manner of lizard-like dermal issues. She had a savage case of eczema—or at least what seemed an inhumane amount to us. Not to mention baby acne that’d make you turn your head and blush. And she had some hardcore cradle cap that defied all homespun, holistic, and fancy-brand cosmetic cures.

For her first several months of life I endured an inner battle, compelled to take copious pictures of my sweet new baby, then I’d focus on her smiley scaliness through the camera lens, and want to just sit down and cry.

At the time I was dragging Paige from doctor to skin specialist to tell-me-how-much-longer psychic, my father was navigating the same circuit for himself, on the East Coast. It seemed that right about when Paige was stricken, Dad also got himself a case of the itchies.

And so, caring phone calls to inquire about Paige’s progress inevitably involved Dad recounting the misery of his own sudden eczema onslaught. “The itching! As a grown man I can barely take it,” he’d lament. “Oh that poor baby. Give her some extra big hugs from Gramp.”

We’d talk about what Dad’s doctors prescribed, comparing it to Paige’s piles of ungents and salves. What soap and laundry detergent he’d changed over to. If the heat really did make it worse or not.

If only Paige was talking, the two of them could’ve formed a real nice support group. Though I don’t know that I’d be too keen on the satin Back Scratcher Bad Asses jackets they might’ve made. (Or maybe they’d just wear t-shirts from The Itchy and Scratchy Show?)I mean, there’s a limit to the extent you want to broadcast some of these ailments, no matter how desperately you desire sympathy.

Yesterday, on a drive somewhere or other, I decided to gear Kate up for the fact that Grandpa was going to be in the hospital for part of our summer pilgrimage to Rhode Island. I explained, in my clearest 3-year-old concepts, that Grandpa’s hip was worn out, and the the doctors would be opening him up, taking it out, and giving him a new one made of metal—what her bike is made out of.

“Do you think,” she asked with knitted brows, “he maybe has a cat in there?”

My father promised to bring up this possibility with his doctors.

This morning, as I was on the phone talking my way into an orthopedic appointment for Paige that’d hopefully precede her prom—explaining how with the not-walking-yet thing she needs her hip x-rayed ASAP—it hit me. I mean, now the two of them with the hip issues? This is getting kind of ridiculous.

When Paige starts having to take Lipitor to keep her cholesterol in check, I might just have to do some finger pointing. Then again, it could be my dad who finds himself fighting off ear infections, swollen aching gums—or worse—a nasty bout of diaper rash.

The thing is, I’m not sure which of them is experiencing sympathetic symptoms on behalf of the other. I mean, at age 80, I’d assume that Dad was the chicken, and wee Paigey’s the egg. But it’s just not that clear who’s starting it; who of the two of them is spearheading these afflictions around which they’ve apparently sworn solidarity.

I’m hopeful that once they sort out these hip problems, the two of them’ll find other things they have in common to bond over. The first of which—if I could put in a request—I’d like to be a long spate of excellent health.

Oceans Apart

I collect friends named Kristen. (With the ‘e-n’ not ‘i-n’ spelling, of course.)

I know it sounds narcissistic, and I’m sure in part it’s just a generational thing. I mean, I don’t have any friends named Agnes or Gertrude.

Actually, check that. None named Gertrude.

Anyway, it’s not like I set out to have nine or so Kristen friends. It’s just that I met these women in the course of life, as one does, and for some reason I’ve tended to develop freakily fast close bonds with most of them. And so now, at any party or ho-down I throw, I make the inevitable, goofy “Kristen, meet Kristen” introduction. Though, blessedly, at this point most of my Kristens know each other.

One of my Kristens who I utterly adore (despite her abandoning me to move to the Land of Potatoes), started going by the name Ruby at a small agency we worked at, on accounta I was there first. I swear I didn’t threaten her in the parking lot to make her do this! In fact, for a long time I’d no idea she didn’t rock the name Ruby before we worked together. I mean, how can you not love someone who’s willing to do that? (And could she have picked a cuter nickname? No!)

But, that’s how we Kristens are. We look out for each other. It’s just like that with us.

Anyway, another Kristen friend who goes by the street name Ingrid (for reasons unrelated to me), also moved—at least for now—to New York. (Sniff!) Anyway, she and I have taken a staggered approach to our baby birthing. Unintentionally, of course. So whenever one of us is freshly preg-o, the other is inevitably tending to a newborn, and so on.

When Ingrid visited here last, her son Ocean was around 18 months or so. Kate, a year older. That age spread is prime for Kate’s social tyranny. She loves nothing more than a younger person whom she can tilt her head towards while explaining, “These are cherries, Ocean. CHEH-reeeeeez. They are yummy to eat!” Kate goes into what I call her Hostess Mode and introduces everyday objects in our house to younger children. As if the kid had been living under a rock until having the good fortune to encounter Kate and her more mature, hard-won life wisdom.

Sad as it is to admit, Kate and Ocean have only met each other a handful of times. But in that terrifying way that three-year-olds remember things (“We know another Jane too, Mama! Remember that lady who was buying broccoli at Safeway that time?”), Kate has fond memories of her last long-ago afternoon with Ocean.

In the car this weekend, prompted by nothing I could discern, Kate started talking about Ocean and asking when he’s going to visit next. She became fixated on the idea of seeing him, and from most of the drive from Burlingame to Oakland—miles and worlds apart—she outlined her plans for their next encounter.

So I started to jot them down on my phone. You know, capturing her social agenda like a good Mommy Secretary.

“Ocean can sleep with Dottie.”

“He can sleep in my bed if he takes a plane to see me.”

“If we want to color in the night, I’ll get you up and ask you to get Crayons and paper.”

“If he wants me to read to him in the night, I’ll turn on the light and he’ll pick out a book.”

“I’ll make paper airplanes and helicopters for him. And boats!”

“Do we have a car seat for him?”

“He’ll sit next to me at dinnertime.”

“We can introduce him to Jonah.”

“I have a little knife. It’s wooden and he can put his hand under my hand and I can help him cut.”

“I’ll teach him how to do dance class and puzzles.”

“If he doesn’t like shell macaroni—if he doesn’t want one of my big spoons he can use one of Paige’s spoons.”

“He needs to help me make my [mud] soup. I’ll show him what roses I need and he can just break them and sprinkle them in the bowl.”

[Noticing I was typing what she was saying] “That’s my list. That’s what I want to do with him.”

[A final thought] “I wanna give him a card for him coming over here.”

When my mother-in-law visits, at the end of the day if the kids seem tired, she’ll often say, “Well, we had a big day today.” Prompting Mark to remark that every day is a big day for me.

What can I say? I like to keep busy. Plus, I don’t believe in relaxing.

Clearly, Miss Kate takes after her Mama.

Alas, Ingrid has a newborn (and no, I’m not pregnant), so I’m not sure when she’ll be in Cali next. But when we do see her and her clan, I hope for his sake that Ocean’s well rested. Kate’s got a hell of an agenda planned for them.

A Mighty Worrier

Worrying is like paying interest on money you may never borrow.

I’m pretty sure that quote’s from Stuart Smalley, the daily affirmation spewing self help guru Al Franken used to play on SNL. And it’s brilliant. I mean, I don’t even know who any modern day philosophers are. Which is just as well, really. I’m content having Smalley as my Nietzsche.

Though truth be told, I still am worried.

Worried about little Miss Paigey. Sweet, precious dumpling of all dumplings, who, despite being 16 months old now, has apparently sworn off ever learning to walk. Something I wouldn’t have necessarily been too concerned about, if it weren’t for her doctor not liking it. And determining that we need to have her ASSESSED.

The thing is, I used to spend a fantastic amount of time worrying. My father is a world-class worrier, so I’ve learned from one of the greats. But strangely, as a mother, I’m really not at all neurotic.

It’s kind of like how you can develop allergies at a late age, or have your hair go straight after a pregnancy or something. I mean, I birthed these babies—beings I adore and cherish with a maniacal fervor—who you’d think’d be the perfect subjects for excessive irrational fears and fretfulness. Yet somehow, I’ve always just felt in my no-longer-as-taught-as-it-once-was gut, that they’re alright. That whatever little thing came up, would turn out okay.

But as some weird consolation prize for being so even-keeled, I get this walking thing. It’s like there’s some maternal anxiety load-balancing taking place. Like some Greater Being decided that some woman who’s out there devouring her stomach with stress that her four-year-old might not get into Princeton some day, that she got some sort of temporary respite from it all, and me, who’s been sailing along just fine, thanks, was given a Gross Motor Skills Delayed child to up my blood pressure.

And so, taking the bait, I go to that inevitable Mama place, wondering, “What did I do to make this happen? How’s this clearly my fault?” And, sure, I’ve expended a lot of energy infantalizing Paigey. Wanting her to stay my wee baby forevermore, and not grow up and go off to the mall or the reservoir or whatever teenage haven is hip 15 years from now, and abandon her adoring Mama. Yes I’ve thought those stay-a-sweet-immobile-baby thoughts. But I’ve never bound her legs to prevent her from crawling or anything. I mean, it’s not like I’ve knocked her down when she’s tried to pull herself up on the coffee table.

Because, sadly, she’s never really tried to pull herself up. And she’s not even crawling “right” either. She sort of scoots along on her bottom from a seated position. Uses her legs against the floor in a windshield wiper sweep to pull herself forward. And sure, when she gets up to full throttle, the girl can moooove.

But it’s just off. Way off.

Now, ask anyone whose child is 15 or so, and they’ll hurry to tell you how their kid didn’t walk until they were, like, five. That they never crawled or scooted or anything and then one day just sprang up and started walking. How the only word their kid could say until age 12 was “baa-baa.” And how today they’re enrolled at MIT and are champion breast-strokers. (Swimmers that is…)

And don’t get me wrong, I LOVE hearing about other kids who were worse off than Paigey. I mean, no parent’s rambling tale about their child is more interesting then when it’s being told just to make you feel like your kid’s superior to theirs.

Bring it on, people! The phone lines are open.

Alas, the pit of my stomach has been telling me Paige’ll be okay. We’ve already got her a great—get this—pediatric chiropractor. (I know, I know, I’ve been living in California too long.) And next week she’s getting some thorough long-awaited assessment by some state-sponsored place that’ll eventually hook us up with physical therapy for FREE. Plus, I got a lead on a nice local pediatric orthopedic guy. And when I say “nice” it’s to say he’s married to the friend of a friend, and is known to be, well, friendly. Unclear still whether or not he’s actually good at his job.

So we’re doing all these things. And even though she’s squawking during the chiro sessions, bawling and looking at me beseechingly as if to say, “Wouldn’t rummaging through my play kitchen be a much more fun use of this time?” Even though she’s not liking having her legs prodded and massaged and moved, at least I know that it’s for the best. And that in a matter of minutes she’ll be dry-cheeked and peering through her fingers, flirting with someone in the waiting room as I pay up and schedule another visit next week.

Today though, for some reason, all the things I was told we need to do—stretch her this way, encourage crawling that way, decrease her time in the Ergo carrier (my preferred mode of baby haulin’)—all the directives today seemed daunting. Seemed to reinforce in my mind that there is something wrong. That it won’t get better overnight. And that it’ll take more therapy sessions where Paige cries from discomfort or frustration, and Kate tests the patience of the once-friendly receptionist, and I realize that despite how many snacks I packed, it still wasn’t enough.

Apparently this is some parental rite of passage I must endure, so 15 years from now I can prattle on to someone else—some fretful parent of a late walker, or slow talker, or bad sleeper—letting them know that we went through it too (and far worse than them), and that eventually everything turned out just fine.

Bygone Bluegrass Weekend

We’re fresh back from Mark’s cousin’s wedding in Kentucky.

And I’d just like to say, as an Italian gal who grew up a calzone’s throw from Providence, RI, some of the Southern icons are lost on me.

The whole horse thing, for one. I mean, in any other state the racetrack’s a haven for deadbeats, grifters, and rent-money gamblers, right? But in Kentucky, having your wedding reception in the track’s club house is akin to attaining social nirvana. And, whether it’s the bluegrass or the blue bloods, the scene there is quite different. Especially since, when we were la-di-da-ing around Keeneland this weekend, the ponies weren’t racing or anything. It wasn’t like they were cutting the cake in between the betting windows opening.

And here’s another thing. A lovely family friend who I’ve come to know on my visits down yonder, works at a schmancy gift store. And there, amidst swoon-worthy crystal, dinnerware, and heirloom-grade drink coasters, many locals register for fine china with—get this—horse heads painted on it. All I’m saying is, to my people, the horse head has a very different connotation.

But all that said, despite our cultural differences, there’s so much I just love about the south. I mean, even aside from the bourbon. The wedding’s fabuosity topping the list on this visit.

And as you know since you’re no doubt an avid and addicted reader of this-here blog, I’d had a bit of the weeps in the couple days preceding the festivities. But, per my prediction, they dried up as soon as I was swept up into happy busy nuptial mayhem.

And at the wedding itself, it was, as I’d guessed, Mark who set me off in a bit of eye-dabbing. But not for the lovesick reasons I’d expected. Instead, as all the groomsmen took their places at the front of the chuch, Mark turned to me and whispered, “Dan’s not up there. He’s got to be walking Mags down the aisle.”

And, in that way that news travels fast when you’re packed into pews with family members who you cotton to talking to, we all got filled up at the thought of the bride’s brother so gallantly stepping in where their out-of-the-picture dad should have been. So, we were bawling before the bride even set foot in the church.

This brother, being the same one who brought the house down the night before with a rehearsal dinner toast he was nearly too choked up to spit out.

I’m the last person who could serve as an authority on brotherly love. And frankly, never felt I’d missed out on much that my three sisters couldn’t provide. But that bride and her bro have a kinship that’s downright picture perfect. Got me thinking a brother wouldn’t've been half bad to have around after all.

Later at the part-ay, as I was making my way bar-ward, I stopped to chat with Mark’s amazing Grandpa. We got to talking about his days as a working man, and how it was with his wife home with the four kids and him often away on business. A bit of family history it was nice to reflect upon—the thought of Mark’s Grandma as a young wife, wrangling Mark’s mom and sibs, and no doubt doing it with her exceptional blend of style and grace. Sometimes it takes a three minute chat to make all those old photos seem to spring to life in your mind.

In line at the photo booth, after we’d picked out props and talked through blocking on the four pictures we’d get, Mark relayed part of a chat he’d had with his Grandpa too. Essentially, how he told Mark how proud he was of him. The kind of wanted-you-to-know comment that seems to be shared so it’s sure to be passed along while it can be. Heart-wrenching for sure, but so very special too.

And reason alone for, heck, another trip to the bar. Another bourbon and Coke.

From the drink-sippin’ edge of the dance floor, I was drawn in to watching an older chap, dapper in a dark suit and colorful striped tie. Hair slicked back and beaming, he just oozed entitlement, confidence, and mad dancing skills. He was the poster boy for good Southern living. And even though one political chat would have me likely, well, repulsed by the guy, from my distant perch I couldn’t help but marvel at him. And wonder what kind of person I’d be if I’d grown up here, if these skinny-ass blonde women and traditional old school men were my people. A brief bourbon-induced daydream…

Back at the hotel, the after party included more beer and bourbon, plus a karaoke machine. My brother-in-law John rocked the house with a white boy version of “Humpty Dance,” throwing first rate rapper-style arm and hand moves, and capping it off with two splits that’d do a cheerleading squad captain proud.

John should rent himself out as a wedding guest. He could make some serious bank.

The weekend was packed with pretty blonde fillies, preening, prancing, and vying for attention in their cocktail frock finery. And the bride was truly and honestly the most beautiful joyful one whose glow I’ve had the honor to bask in. (I mean, if women spend a lifetime trying to return to the weight, dress size, or skin tone they had on their wedding day, Miss Maggie has set the bar very high for herself indeed.) Oh, the women, they did themselves proud alright. But Saturday night at Keeneland, it was the men who stole the show. Coming in ahead of the pack by a mile.

The Weepies

For the last day or so I’ve had a mild case of the weepies.

I mean, nothing that’s even resulted in actual tears, but some intermittent on-the-verge-of moments that come about suddenly and vaguely, unrelated to anything that’s even happening at the time. You know, putting the sliced turkey back in the fridge, handing Mark a washcloth for the kids’ bath, driving on the highway through a torrential thunderstorm when we arrived in Kentucky tonight.

And yes, I know what you’re thinking, and NO, I don’t have PMS. I’m not sure what’s to blame, but it ain’t hormones.

Though I wish that it was, because frankly this wimpish state of neither glee (my default) nor despondency is so not for me. I prefer my emotions with more dramatic flourish, thank you. At least more decisiveness, for God’s sake.

If there is crying to do, better to have an all-out bawl sesh like Holly Hunter’s daily one in Broadcast News. Sob and wail like a baby, then take a breath, wipe your face, smooth out your shirt, and get on with your day.

God, I loved that movie.

Anyway, I’m certain that my bulletproof chipperness is bound to be back by daybreak. We’re settled into a gracious old hotel in downtown Lexington—center stage for Mark’s favorite cousin’s long-awaited wedding. Which isn’t to say we’ve all been wondering when the hell she’d finally git hitched, but that ever since she and her fine fellow got engaged the family’s been champing at the bit awaiting this opulent Southern shindig. (Equine pun intended. Hey, it is Kentucky, after all.)

It also should be noted that the dress-shoe-and-accessory shopping that Mark’s relatives have done in preparation for this event has likely had a significant impact on stimulating our nation’s tragic economy. So, you’re welcome.

As for me, resolved to not spend money on something new (per the aforementioned recession, and that my dress closet overfloweth), I buckled at the last minute, but decided to be thrifty and went to Nordstrom Rack. Where, as luck had it, a fabulous frock for a fraction of the retail price fell off the rack at my feet and squawked, “Take me home!”

Okay, okay, so I actually got three dresses—and three pairs of shoes—but they were all dirt cheap. And if I don’t release the shopping pressure valve a little bit every once and a while I could fall prey to some unanticipated retail incident that’s far far more devastating.

So, I’m not sure really where this is all going, but why not come along for the ride because it could eventually get interesting.

Okay, so just to prove to you what a BAR-GAIN this dress is I’m wearing to the wedding—because I’m quite certain you’re sitting there desperate to have some way to understand more deeply just how much money I saved. Just to be able to illustrate that for you I’ll out and admit that I went out and bought my first, uh, well, girdle.

I mean, when I talked to my friends about this I’d actually thought it was a legitimately seismic confession. But everyone’s all “Spanx this” and “Spanx that,” like they’ve been wearing some form of corseture under God knows what clothes for God knows how long when I’d just been going along thinking that exercise and watching what I eat are the best ammo against a fat ass. Hell, they’re all downing 8-foot subs at lunch and just wedging their lower halves into girdles.

So the fact that my deep dark confession made everyone turn to me and say, “Duh,” made me feel like I’d told them I hadn’t read Eat, Pray, Love yet or something. Which, by the way, I have. So my ass might have naively been shakin’ around unclenched by Spandex all this time, but I have kept up with some other realms of modern female life. Sheesh.

Okay, so but what I was trying to get at was, this girdle, this gut-and-ass-confining contraption that I bought? It cost MORE than the dress I’m wearing over it. And just how many bourbons does this Northern lass have to drink under a tent at a schmancy reception at Keeneland before she’s admitting that to everyone?

Well, I’ll be sure to report back and let you know.

Again, taking my patented Pressure Valve Release Approach, I was hoping that if I admitted it here, it might mitigate my need to inform the pastor of this fact after the ceremony on Saturday.

Yes, this is what it’s like being me.

And speaking of the wedding, I can’t help but wonder now if there’s some little emotional nugget inside me that can attribute my recent state of sometimes-not-estatic, to the dismal fact that the groom—whom I truly think is the bee’s proverbial patellas—is mourning the recent death of his mother. A thing that, if it weren’t so altogether crappy on its very own, unfortunately happens to be a situation which is very damn similar to the one that I found myself in on my wedding day.

So before tomorrow morning’s hotel breakfast where we’ll descend into a slew of family and friends, before that slings me into extroverted socializing heaven, and this little case of the droop is whisked away never to be thought of again… Before all that happens, I’m here now, on the hotel bed in the shirt Mark wore today, him next to me, sleeping with a pillow over his head. And I’m sending out some thoughts the groom’s way.

Hoping that he manages, like I did, to spend his wedding day in a flurried blitz of joy and love and luck. And that without too much guilt or sorrow, he’s able to make this grown up, big boy, life-rocking move happily. Even without his Mama there.

As for me, I’m hoping the next wave of weepiness I contend with is during that inevitable hand-squeeze that Mark and I—and likely every other twosome who still takes a shine to each other—will make at some uncontrived and true, love-drenched point in the ceremony.

And I plan to follow that up promptly with a nice large glass of local bourbon.

Did I mention how cheap babysitters are here?

The Jewish Thing

Anyone whose known me for more than a day, knows what a wannabe Jew I am.

I mean, it’s so much more fun being Jewish. The food’s better. The mother’s are more obsessive, protective, fawning. (What I aspire to.) On holidays you get extra days off of work or school. And I can’t be the only woman who finds the short, nebbishy smart guys white hot.

Of course, these are all gross generalizations. All Jewish men don’t fit that description. But the ones who do—the really stubby geeky ones—are oh so swoon-worthy, no? (Sure, sure, I married a tall WASP. And I’m attracted to him, of course. But I’m not dead to the short man’s charms, people!)

Speaking of The Husband, the day Mark and I got engaged we were in NYC. We’d stuffed ourselves silly with pastrami, pickles, and matzo ball soup at the 2nd Avenue Deli (may it R.I.P.), and had the afternoon free to bum around before seeing our friend Lorin’s band, The Klezmatics, play at the 92nd St Y.

Kosher food and klezmer music. We were in Jewish heaven. Well, you know, if there were such a place.

And then, to make a perfect day even perfecter, on a walk through Central Park, while standing on a stone footbridge watching some ducks dick around in a pond, Mark suddenly got all love-goofy and kinda nervous and asked if I’d be cool with him becoming my husband. My forever boyfriend. If we could go steady for the serious long haul. Not that he used those words, per se, but that was the intention of the askin’.

I do remember exactly what I said in response, which so eloquently was, “Oh my GOD! Oh. My. God. Oh my God!” Over and over again. Enough times to likely make him question whether he really did want to spend the rest of his life with me.

But not to worry. In the made-for-TV-movie version of my life the actress playing me will throw her head back, hair flowing, and while laughing throatily, murmur, “Yes! Yes, darling! A million times—yes!” (That’s something I planned less than an hour post-proposal, over champagne at some fabulous hotel.)

Before the klezmer show, we had dinner at a Chinese restaurant with Lorin’s then-BF-now-husband, Mike. One of my all-time favorite humans. (Oddly, I still have the take-one-as-you-leave breath mint from that meal.) If it’d been Christmas and we took in a movie afterward, I think the whole day would’ve qualified us for immediate conversion to Judaism.

Eight months later, at our wedding, some friends decided to have the band play “Hava Nagila,” then raised Mark and me up in chairs on the dance floor. It was what every little non-Jewish girl who ever wished her straight hair was curly dreams of.

I get verklempt just thinking about it. Truly. (Except I do still wish I’d known what I was supposed to be doing with that napkin they handed me. I ended up whirling it around like a propeller, no doubt reinforcing in our guests’ minds the tragic imposter that I was.)

After our honeymoon I called Dawn, my friend and long-time tutor in all things Jewish, and asked her if Mark and I being up in the chairs—something she and her hubbie weren’t in on—was at all offensive. Without skipping a beat, she graciously offered that her traditions be mine, then added that she knew a great mohel in the Bay Area, if we’d need his services when our first son was born. Brilliant.

Turns out the baby we eventually had was a girl. And after a year of my staying home with her, we hired a nanny. An Israeli nanny. Her English was fluent but we had her speak mostly Hebrew to Kate.

Wait… that’s not what all good non-Jews do?

I mean, we honestly didn’t set out to provide our Jewish friends with more reasons to razz us over how clearly we covet their culture. It just turned out that we liked her the most of all the caregivers we interviewed. Plus, a nanny with good gun skills can’t be underestimated in Oakland.

So last week we were at a dinner party, rampant with children. Kate and her friend—the neighbor girl she’ll likely smoke cigarettes with and get her ears pierced by some day—the two of them ran into an upstairs bedroom to terrorize a cat and jump on the bed. Those being the four-year-old activities equivalent to cigarette smoking and home ear piercing.

A sweet mom who I met that night went into the bed-jumping room with her younger daughter, likely using Kate to illustrate to her child how one should Never Ever behave.  And in a friendly getting-to-know-everyone mode, the Mom asked Kate and her friend how old they were, and did they go to school. Kate and Future Smoking Buddy were jumping jumping. Hurling themselves no doubt at the terrified cat. And Sweet Mom was slipping in little questions. Where did they go to school? Did they like school? And more jumping jumping, talking, squealing.

Sweet Mom relayed this all to me later, since with Kate out of sight and earshot, I was hiding in the kitchen focused on guzzling wine. Oh, and neglecting Paige.

So she said at one point she tells the jumpers her daughter is starting school in the fall too. More jumping and screeching, and one of them calls out, “Where?” And Sweet Mom says, “Beth El.”

And then suddenly both girls fall silent. Stop jumping and look at Sweet Mom. Which, as she tells me, brings on a momentary neurotic panic. “Oh God,” she’s thinking, “They’re judging us because we’re Jewish.”

But then, before she can get too far down that road, Kate springs up on the bed again, looks at her and calls out, “Perfect!”

Jumping resumes. Neurotic moment passes. All is right again in the world.

Of course, whatever caused the girls to stop for a second likely had more to do with them never having heard of the school, than them passing any judgment on Judaism.

Though who knows. Maybe Kate did somehow recognize Beth El as being a Jewish name, and then paused for a moment to think to herself, “That explains why that Dada is so cute…”

Don’t Know Much About History

Doesn’t it seem like William Safire should have some sort of Nielsen box set up, so the language trends he writes about reflect a wide array of American households, not just what he hears in whatever entitled old white man circles he rolls in?

Sure, there may be some technical hurdles to overcome before people are willing to have their voice boxes wiretapped. Still, it’s a good idea, don’t you think?

Anyway, until they iron out those kinks, I’ll just report here what I’m hearing uttered around the McClusky casa. Which is to say, the McClusky house. (In case you don’t speak Spanish.)

Kate’s modifier of choice these days is the excessively California-surfer-dude sounding double-header, “super super.”

During dinner: “Paige is spitting milk, and being super super funny!”

Attempting to influence me: “I let my boy watch a super super lot of TV. He says to me, ‘Mommy, can I watch TV?’ and I say, ‘Yes, yes, yes, yes!’”

Observing a dead houseplant: “Mama, that plant is super super thirsty.”

I’m not sure where she picked up the expression. Figuring that out’d be like trying to track down the genesis of a preschooler’s perpetual runny nose. Where would it get you anyway? Easier to just accept it into your maternal maelstrom as a minor annoyance, and keep rolling.

At a dinner party this week, my neighbor Chicken Daddy and I were comparing notes about the progressive private schools we went to as kids. Or more specifically, about the pot holes of ignorance those schools left us with. Huge knowledge gaps our parents paid good money for.

His school clearly exceeded mine on the hippie groovy scale. They studied American history every other year, and in between learned about the histories of other cultures. “But get this,” he tossed out. “When we did do American history it wasn’t even about the presidents or the Civil War. It was Native American history.”

God, I just love that.

Anyway, as a result, he’s apparently well versed in things like wampum macro economics, but couldn’t tell you the first thing about what the U.S. Senate does.

This is fantastic news. It makes me feel far less freakish and alone about my similar vein of standard-knowledge naivite. Plus, I now know to never partner with him playing Trivial Pursuit.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I have the excuse that my school didn’t teach the things I’m stone dumb about. They likely did, but I was too busy rolling up notes and sticking them in pens I disemboweled for cheeky “Oh, here’s your pen back, Pam” under-the-teacher’s-nose note passing.

Being caught up in all-consuming God-this-class-is-boring-but-isn’t-Dean-Klitzner-sooo-cute? brain activity seemed like a good thing for me to be doing at the time. You know, instead of laying down fundamental knowledge that would serve me in a lifetime’s worth of jobs, cocktail party banter, and trivia games played drunkenly at rental ski houses. Oh well.

So my brain’s lacking some standard info it really should contain, but as a tragic counter balance it’s brimming with crap that’s of no discernible use at all. I mean, if I could have a yard sale and clear some of the worthless knowledge out, it’d be a long day and all, but I think I could make some serious bank, even if I sold it all cheap.

And I can’t even imagine what I could do afterwards with that freed up brain space! I could maybe retain the fact once and for all that Mark’s birthday is November 19th, not the 17th. Or memorize a big chunk of Pi, or be able to recite the names of all the state flowers.

One of the things that for some reason I’m chock full of—and have been lugging around with me for decades now—is, tragically, radio jingles from the 70s and 80s. Ads for a random assortment of currently likely-defunct Rhode Island businesses.

There’s one for some big car dealership that used to be in Warwick. And of course, who can’t reel off the Van Scoy Diamond Mine song? Most locals can summon those verses faster than the date of their wedding anniversary.

But long before Van Scoy set the small state’s standard for advertising ear worms, a jingle for a New England grocery chain called Fernandes ruled the airwaves. My three older sisters adored that one. Or rather, they loved mocking it.

And really, how couldn’t they? It was sung un-ironically in a wretched—or rather wicked—Rhode Island accent. And one thing that bound us Bruno gals together, was our shared superiority complex about—of all things—our elocution. Pride in how distanced we felt from the take-an-R leave-an-R masses that surrounded us. The name Martha, for example, is pronounced back home Maaaath-UR. Simply take the ‘r’ from where it belongs in the beginning of the word, and tack it on the end where it doesn’t. It’s nearly as complex a linguistic formula as Zoom‘s Ubbi Dubbi language (which I also happen to speak fluently, though it wasn’t the primary language spoken in our home growing up).

So the Fernandes ad went—and I’m deferring (in part) to phonetics here—”SOO-puh SOO-puh MAH-kit with a lot more speh-SHILLS every daaaaaaaay! Fih-NAN-deez knows the waaaay!”

I’d love to have been a fly on the wall in the meeting where someone tossed out the dazzling “super supermarket” marketing concept. And where someone else cried out “It’s brilliant!” and they linked arms and vowed that together they’d spin it into commercial gold.

If you ask me, that’s the kind of history they should write about in text books.

I know it seems like it’d benefit me more knowing what the Speaker of the House does, instead of having scads of lame, outdated radio jingles committed to my everlasting memory. But hey, I’ve made it this far in life, and I feel like what I don‘t know hasn’t really made me miss out on a lot. And for that I am super super grateful.

In the Know

Every once and a while Kate takes it upon herself to enumerate the things the people in our family “know a lot about.”

Here’s what she came up with at dinner last night:

Herself
* Cars
* Bunnies

Mark
* Cutting (not a la Angelina—cutting as in carving meat, cutting pizza, etc.)
* Cooking things
* Fixing things
* Blimps
* Everything
* Tools

Paige
* Babies
* Talking baby language

Me
* Babies
* Mommies
* Planting flowers

Now, I don’t mean to be petty here. I’m the first to admit that my husband is a modern day Renaissance Man, but saying he knows a lot about everything? Sure there’s cycling, linguistics, technology, music, The Simpsons, installing car seats, comic books, writing, barbecuing, gadgets, soothing crying babies, science fiction, cutlery, online communities, reading super fast, urban planning, the Civil War, and molecular gastronomy. He knows a ton about those things. But, Kate’s paternal adoration aside, isn’t saying he knows a lot about everything a bit of an exaggeration?

Well, if you were to ask him, he might not think so.

In college, Mark and his BFF, Christian, used to play an aren’t-we-so-young-and-brilliant game, its premise being that they could recite off the cuff three facts on any given topic. While drinking beer at the local watering hole, one imagines.

The Eiffel Tower? It’s in Paris. It was named after its engineer, Gustave Eiffel. It’s the tallest building in Paris.

You get the idea.

Anyway, however good Mark may be at that game, by my count three data points—even if he could produce them on virtually everything—does not, in my book, constitute knowing “a lot” about those subjects.

But really, of course, I’m just jealous. Since it saddens me to think that Kate doesn’t perceive my ken as extending beyond the maternal arts. What about all I know about yard sales? Parallel parking? Taking really hot showers? Unrelenting sarcasm? Downward dog? Or toe picking, for God’s sake? Don’t those things count for anything? Or maybe it’s just that in Kate’s mind they fall under the vague rubric she calls “Mommies.”

I really shouldn’t blame Kate entirely for my petite neurotic reaction to her dinner-time game. She’s just calling it as she sees it. Really I should be thankful she didn’t add “Bellowing, ‘Can I please just have one minute here?’” or “Putting little girls in Time Outs” to her list of things I know a lot about.

Fact is, I’ve been doing a fair amount of wondering what it is I do know a lot about, all on my own. Trying to remember what I’m good at. Something that might be applied in such a way that I can make some money from it.

Because, after a glorious trip to the beach on Sunday, sandy sleepy kids piled into the car and u-turning our way out of Alameda, Mark and I stumbled into a conversation that I knew was coming eventually. The one in which we faced up to the fact that it’s time for me to get back to contributing to the family’s bottom line. Hopefully in no soul-sucking cubicle-dwelling full time capacity, but by freelancing or project work, or some utterly ideal, flexible and lucrative, creative part-time job.

So on Saturday night I went to bed, a sometimes-ashamed-to-admit-it Stay At Home Mom. And somehow by Monday I woke up feeling, well, unemployed.

What a difference a day makes.

He Wears It Well

The other day Kate took her Golden Retriever stuffed animal on a walk with us.

His name is Clifford, or as Kate says it, cliff-AWD. He was wearing Paige’s Kelly green cardigan with the zebra on it, and red socks on his hind paws. And despite his evident canine attributes, Clifford was, on that day, not at all a dog, but a baby. Kate’s baby.

Me: “How old is your baby?”

Kate: “Seven months, yeah.” (‘Yeah’ is what Kate tacks onto the end of sentences when she’s trying to act all casual and adult-like.)

Me: “Oh, and how much does he weigh?”

Kate: “50 pounds.”

Me: “Wow. And how tall is he?”

Kate: “He’s, well… one inch. Or about as tall as a flower. No! A leaf.”