The Bruno Triple Throat Clear and Other Unfortunate Legacies

I wandered into a used clothing store yesterday in that aimless way that mothers sometimes enter stores where they have no interest in the products but just want to gain a feeling of exasperation from wedging a bulky bright red off-road stroller through narrow clothing-lined passageways and tight corners populated with old women burrowing through rayon blouses.

Halfway through my why-the-hell-am-I-in-here-and-how-will-I-ever-get out realization, a woman in the store sneezed. Not just any sneeze, but a deafening sonic boom aaaaaah-choo! that caused everyone in the place to recoil in shock. It was so sudden, and so terribly loud, it created what I indelicately like to refer to as a “tampon-expelling moment.”

Anyway, the gal’s apparently sent shock and awe through other shopper-packed stores because as some of the older patrons were still blanched by the event and readjusting their wigs, she made a brief and unembarrassed announcement.

“Sorry!” she called out. “Yes, I’m a loud sneezer. I inherited it from my grandfather.”

Okay, so who really cares about Grandpa’s sneezes? If I were her life coach I’d help her work up a better post-sneeze remark.

But the little episode did get me thinking about The Bruno Triple Throat Clear. It’s one of those divorce-able habits that are the patented (and only) approach the women in my family unconsciously (and constantly) use to clear their throats. It’s a kinda “mmm-mm-mmmm.” A peppy throaty trifecta that actually makes me miss my mother to even think about because it’s one of those little things that was just so her.

And, as it turns out–unfortunately for our spouses–is so my sisters and I too.

Of course, my annoying habit is one thing, but Mark ran into the room where I was the other day wild-eyed, as if he was about to report a family of rabid badgers had set up house in his boxer short drawer.

“Kate!” He bellowed right up in my face. “She just did The Triple Throat Clear!”

Of course, I could just smile coyly, thinking about how she sucks all the water out of her toothbrush after using it, then gives it two quick taps on the edge of the sink before putting it away.

“Oh. Really?” I eventually said. “Huh.”

Maybe some of the stuff my family does is easier to pick up on since there are four of us, and we’re all girls. That has to make it easier to detect our shared annoying habits, right?

Case in point. We were all just back in Rhode Island for my Dad’s 80th birthday extravaganza. I think it was after the party, later at home, when we were beaten down from excessive socializing, daytime alcohol consumption, and the sweet relief of having the shindig successful and behind us. I walked into the living room to see my sister Judy sprawled asleep on the leather couch, her left arm slung up over her face and her mouth gaping open. It was the exact stance I’d seen Ellen in on the blow-up mattress earlier that morning. And that night, in front of one Law and Order show or another, my father nodded off, head turned to one side, mouth agape. (He didn’t do the arm sling thing. We got that part from Mom.)

At this point in my life, I can tolerate the humiliation of knowing that every time I fall asleep on an airplane the flight attendants could set a cocktail napkin and bag of nuts in my open mouth. (The Bruno Flung Arm Sleeping Maneuver is thankfully too difficult to enact in a seated position.) What concerns me at this juncture is which shameful traits my little innocents will pick up from me. Which crosses of mine, as it were, they’ll have to bear.

Miss Paige has always been a star sleeper. (My genes, thank you very much.) But in the past few weeks she’s somehow realized that she can sit up in her crib and look around her room. Something she finds so fascinating–reviewing an unchanged space she sees every day–she now does it at the beginning of every nap. The problem is, tired as she may be, she hasn’t managed to make the connection that she has to lie down again in order to sleep.

So I’ve been having to go into her room and readjust her, gently pushing her shoulders down onto the mattress. At which point she looks up at me grateful and groggy, and dozes off nearly instantly.

The other day, she started in on the why-am-I-still-sitting-up-when-I-want-to-sleep-now? whine. (It’s amazing how you can categorize their different laments.) I was hoping that something in her brain would finally fire and she’d realize she could solve the problem herself. And a few minutes later, as if I’d willed it to be so, she was totally quiet. So I waited a bit, then cracked open her door to take a peek.

And there she was. In a seated position but pitched forward, totally face-planted into her blanket, and sound asleep.

Of course, like any sensible mother I didn’t dare move her for fear she’d wake up and her nap–and my cherished child-free time–would suddenly evaporate. So an hour or so later when she eventually came to, I went in to get her. Her face was pink and indented in the pattern of the lovely afghan that Aunt Terry knitted for her. But she was well rested nonetheless.

Well, she’s found a solution. Since that first ergonomic nightmare of a nap, she’s fallen asleep a few other times the same way. One of these days I’ll put a silencer on my camera shutter and take a picture of it. It seems wretchedly uncomfortable, poor dear, but at least I can say for sure, she didn’t get that one from me.

My Little Indian–er, Native American–Giver

Pre-kids, in our swank San Francisco apartment, Mark and I had a butcher block island in the kitchen. On the lower shelf we kept bulky seldom-used cooking appliances.

One day a friend was visiting with her toddler, and in the midst of an otherwise mellow wine-glass-in-hand hangin’ in the kitchen chat, Mark suddenly gasped and lunged across the room to pluck a large food processor blade out of curious Elias’ wee little hands.

Turns out we weren’t too hip on the concept of childproofing.

Which isn’t surprising since there’s a great divide—nay, a vast wide-open abyss—between observing your friends parenting, and taking a crack at it yourself. The things you’re certain you’ll never do–drink wine during pregnancy, hang charts around the house that show off potty-pooping performance, wipe a baby’s nose with a sock then put it back on her—you may eventually discover you succumb to. Or at least I have.

I’ve long disdained the word “silly.” As a parent I hear myself say it no less than five times a day. I’ve also surprised myself by letting a baby cry herself to sleep, cooking different food for the kids than the adults, (then cooking something else when that other thing didn’t work), licking a finger to spot wash a child’s face, using ice cream to bribe good behavior, and bellowing at the top of my voice, “BECAUSE I SAID SO!”

Oh I’m not proud of these things. In my pre-motherhood days, back when I was naïve enough to think hemorrhoids only afflicted the elderly, I’d sometimes see a parent do something or other and would tell Mark—close witness to this character atrocity, amongst others—how different I’d be when I became a Mom.

Heh.

“Did you notice,” I’d ask him at the end of an evening, a toothbrush sticking out of my mouth, “that they put Devon in a Time Out for throwing food? I mean, I don’t know about those… Is that really the best way to handle a situation like that?”

Ah, hindsight.

The thing is, tragic as it is to admit, even when you’re quite certain there’s a better way to do something as a parent, hell if you can figure out what it is. And since the not-best way may be readily available, in the clutch you sometimes find yourself resorting to it.

One thing I vowed I’d never do was eat a sucked-upon mushy half-masticated food item that my child—no matter how darling the little cherub—offered to me. Again and again I’ve softly gagged witnessing a mother eat a proffered spit-strewn mac ‘n cheese noodle. Something I’d rather be waterboarded than have to choke down myself. And invariably—oddly—it’s lapped up by the recipient with such overly dramatic glee, I can’t imagine what’d possess them to risk reinforcing the behavior in the child.

It’s baffling.

Since Kate’s infancy apparently swept by Mark and I while we suffered a sleep-deprivation-induced blackout—we can barely remember celebrating her first birthday–I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure she never did the “Here eat this, Mom” thing.  And blessedly, nor has Paige.

Well, that’s not altogether true. Generous soul that she is, Paige has recently taken to holding out a singular black bean offering. She’ll drop it into your hand, but then immediately pluck it back up—going back and forth with this process sometimes up to five times before ending the game by popping the filthy smushed bean into her own wee bouche.

An alternate version of this game involves her taking a, say, broccoli floret, and holding it out to you, but never releasing her grasp on it. She just sort of taps it into your hand, smiles coyly, then retracts it.

I’m not sure how Emily Post (or the Countess deLesseps for that matter) would regard this. It no doubt flies in the face of proper gift-giving procedure. But be that as it may, I’m just happy that with this one thing I said I’d never do as a parent, Paige has not made a liar out of me.

Ceci N’est Pas Un Soleil

We’re fresh off of a nearly two-week blitz of visits from Mark’s folks. Back-to-back visits, that is, as they don’t travel in the same circles any more, if you know what I mean.

It’s been fun mind you, but Mark leaves for Switzerland for work on Tuesday and I can’t help but feel jealous about his getting to be alone for 12 hours on a flight–forget all the Nordic delights that await him once he arrives.

But I know my karmic reward for staying home to mind the kids is whipping around the universe now, picking up fabulousness as it goes. I can’t wait to see what it’ll be.

At any rate, the other night as Mark’s dad and sister were here for dinner–a marvelous meal prepared by the best daughter-in-law I’m sure anyone could ever hope to have–I went to grab some wine glasses and commented on Kate’s paper plate artwork that’s hanging on our oh-so-Craftsman built-in china hutch.

This is the art in question:
For some reason, I felt the need to point out that this was a sun that Kate had made at school. Duh. (In case they were wondering whether it was the product of some housewife-grade art class I was taking?) And Kate was already in bed at the time, so she wasn’t available to expound on the piece herself.

The next morning as we ate breakfast the thing caught my eye and for some reason I decided to ask Kate about it since, truth be told, she’d never actually told me anything about what it was supposed to be, her inspiration, choice of media, use of glitter, etc. It was just one of those things that’s crammed in the cubby at preschool nearly every day, that you grab along with your kid’s lunchbox and some pee-drenched or fingerpaint-encrusted article of clothing.

Me: “That thing that you made at school, Kate. It’s a sun, right?”

Kate: “No.”

Me: “Oh, so what is it then?”

Now, I’m going to give the reader a moment to look back at the artwork and try to answer this question themselves. Take a minute or two now to really look at the piece and jot down your answers.

Okay, then. Pencils down.

What did you guess? Maybe that it’s an orange? An egg yolk? Perhaps even a kumquat?

Let’s return to our setting at the breakfast table to find out.

Kate: “It’s a… parking lot!”

Me: “A parking lot? For what?”

Kate: [exasperated] “For parking cars, Mama.”

Riiiiiiiiiiiight. I’m really not sure why I hadn’t seen that myself.

Yesterday, our friends Scot and Sheryl stopped in for a front porch drink on their way back from Santa Cruz. I don’t want to put on airs, but Sheryl, well, she’s an artist.  And she’s always great about hanging out with Miss Kate.

So at some point when I was maybe in the basement picking out another bottle of wine or something, Kate had apparently gotten her little green notebook and settled onto Sheryl’s lap to do some drawing. Or rather, have Sheryl do some command performance drawing for her.

By the time I walked back onto the porch Sheryl looked up at me and reported, “I asked Kate what we should draw and she said a musk ox.”

Oh sure. A musk ox! Right.

Far be it from me to attempt to even venture into the mind of the young artist. Best to just sit here on the sidelines and enjoy the show.

Kate asks the age-old questions

At the breakfast table on Saturday, apropos of nothing, Kate leaned over towards Mark’s mother who is visiting and asked, “What about if some girls had penises?”

We’re raising our kids to be well-versed in the art of stimulating mealtime discourse. There’s none of that, “So, how was your day?” crap ’round here.

Night Moves

Last summer when we were visiting our friends Mike and Myra they made a brilliant remark about Kate’s state of unrelenting chatter. (And blessedly, it wasn’t that she’s her mother’s daughter.)

“We remember when our kids were her age,” one of them said. “We called it The AM Radio Phase. From the minute they woke up in the morning ’til they went to sleep at night it was Non. Stop. Talk.”

Now, growing up with my mom’s ancient New-England-chic beater Volvo–one of the last vehicles to roam the planet without an FM dial on its radio–I typically equate the AM scene more with Dan Fogelberg and Carpenters songs (the lyrics to all of which I’m ashamed to say I still know by heart). But I guess many of the AM stations are exclusively about the talking. And since I’m pretty sure Mike hadn’t overheard Kate humming “Top of the World” that day, I’m assuming that’s what he meant.

At any rate, Mark and I often marvel (and claw at our respective scalps) over Kate’s ceaselessly crashing wave of talk. And we luxuriate in the blissful aural peace that her bedtime brings.

But then we shared a room with her and Paige in Lake Tahoe recently, and we realized Mike and Myra were actually slightly incorrect. The thing is, Kate doesn’t “turn off” when she goes to sleep.

The first night she muttered a variety of random words throughout the night. No complete sentences, but a fugue of unassociated words timed in perfect syncopation with my having just dozed off from her last utterance. The second night she woke us by distinctly (and quite loudly, I’ll add) calling out, “No, bumble bee! No! Go away!”

If it weren’t for the deep dark hour of the night, or the superfluous amount of alcohol I’d consumed earlier in the hot tub, it might have elicited a soft-hearted maternal “aw” from me.

After three nights sleeping en masse, we gratefully all beat paths to our respective bedrooms when we arrived at home. Well, Mark and I still share.

That night, so as to ensure our move to uninterrupted sleep wasn’t too harsh a transition for Mark and me, Kate called out from her bed late-night. When I went into her room, her eyes were closed and she rolled over, clearly still sleeping and huffing defiantly, “I don’t like black beans!”

Good to know at 4AM.

A few days ago on the drive home from preschool, which I think I should start videotaping since those brief rides are the setting for some of our best (and most confusing) mother-daughter conversations, Kate said, “Did you know, Mama, that when I was in Lake Tahoe I had a dream that a bumble bee was wanting to sting me?”

I hated to take the wind out of her sails, but I couldn’t help but say, “Well, yes, actually. I did know that, Kate.”

Annie the Moth, Long May You Live

We went to a poorly-attended reading fair at Kate’s school on Saturday, the highlight of which was chatting with another set of parents who we admire for their sense of humor about their adventures in parenting.

You never know when a gathering of parents will suddenly turn into a group therapy sesh. And we always welcome a good dose of we’re-not-alone-in-this.

At one other school event the dad had a group of men howling as he recounted a scenario where their son–who they were convinced would be the last un-potty-trained preschooler on Earth–had an epic public melter because the image on his pull-up diaper was the red vehicle from Cars, not the yellow one. On the drive home, Mark slapped the steering wheel smiling and said, “Okay, so Kate’s hellish sock freak-outs? Hooray! We’re not the only ones losing our minds!”

And by the pancakes-cooked-in-the-shape-of-letters booth this weekend, the mom talked to Mark about the kinds of arguments she finds herself getting into with her son. She and her husband recently hammered at the fact that that one million IS in fact more than one hundred until they were each busting neck veins. Yet their son continued to state that he was right. They were wrong.

They’d also had a conversation about left and right, she said, which ended with her bellowing “I AM 42-YEARS-OLD AND I KNOW MY LEFT AND RIGHT, thank you very much!”

Mark savors every morsel of these stories–as do I when he relays them–because, God knows, we’ve been there. Of course, you’re intellectually aware you’re A) speaking to a young child, and B) are in fact correct. But there’s still some mind-imploding I’m-the-adult-and-YOU’RE-supposed-to-learn-from-ME-kid fury that can suddenly devour all rationality when your glib, self-assured child persistently informs you as Kate did yesterday, “Cherries grow in the ground. I know it, Mama. NOT on trees.”

And it’s not that our friend’s son or our daughter are particularly difficult, pugnacious, or contrarian kids. It’s that they’re three. Or more specifically, as we read and learn more about these mysterious wee ones, it’s that they’re three-and-a-half.

My friend Megan has a wise mantra she whispers between clenched teeth at times. “This is age-appropriate behavior… This is age-appropriate behavior…” It’s the kind of saying that relieves you of the conviction that your child has been sent from Satan to torture your days on Earth, and helps you realize that all kids their age have been given that same satanic directive.

Plus the mantra gives you a beat to pull yourself together before calling the adoption agency.

Although she’s too big for it now, Kate still likes taking her trike out for a spin sometimes. And I happened to notice when she hauled it onto the sidewalk this weekend that there was a moth in its basket. A long-deceased moth.

One which instantly became the center of Kate’s obssessive need-to-nurture universe.

“A moth, Mama! A moth! I want to pick it up. I am sooooo gentle.”

“It is my moth! Hello moth. Jonah can’t touch it.”

“My moth’s name is Annie. Can we get a bug house for it?”

“I need to put something inside it for it to eat!”

“A flower! Here is a pretty flower for Annie. Hello, Annie! And here are some leaves for her to munch munch munch.”

“Can you write ‘This is Kate’s moth’ on the top of the jar, Dada?”

“Her name is Sally.”

“Shhh. Sally is sleeping in my room. Her name is Frank, you know.”

Intermittently when Kate brought up Annie/Sally/Frank’s state of hunger or sleepiness, Mark and I gently reminded her that the moth wasn’t alive any more–death being a concept she’s appeared to grock in the past. She could still have the moth and play with it, but it wasn’t alive; wasn’t going to fly away.

But in her Kate way, she’s just tuned us out, resolved in her certainty of life versus death. Preferring instead to putter about with her jar, yammering on, “When Grandma comes, she will like to meet you! Now you’ll have your rest time, okay?”

Sometimes when I can step outside of my wild insistence on the facts being the facts–or moreover me being right and Kate being wrong–my cold little heart temporarily comes around to seeing things Kate’s way. And I wonder what’s so wrong with one hundred being more than one million, just for a day.

A Mother’s Mighty Power

I’m pretty sure it was our friend Gary who called me out on this. He was visiting from Kalamazoo, and we’d taken him to our usual neighborhood haunts, a tour which is as much about eating as it is about seeing things.

The first day I foisted our favorite cookies from a local bakery on him saying, “I don’t really like almond, but these are just so chewy and delicious.” Then at Berkeley Bowl we bought a bag of chili and lime roasted almonds. And a couple days later at the farmers’ market I urged him to try a Bay Bread almond croissant, assuring him, “I’m no almond fan, but these are truly amazing.”

At which point, smart lad that he is, Gary gently informed me that, as it turns out, I apparently do like almonds.

A concept I resisted initially, until he walked me back through our recent gastronomic adventures, and I had to admit he made a strong point.

So last night the Grippandos were here for dinner, seeking shelter from their kitchen remodeling mayhem. (They’re decamped in their living room, cooking out of one of those microwave oven cookbooks from the 70s that you see at yard sales all the time. Or if they haven’t been using one of those, they should be.) For dessert I set out some of the aforementioned amazing almond cookies.

Sacha took a bite of one and declared, “Wow, these are great. And I don’t usually like almonds.”

Later, while making her way through a second cookie, she looked at it then at me and said, “You know, I think I say that I don’t like almonds because my mother always said she didn’t like them. But… maybe I really do.”

At which point I almost fell to the ground in amazement, as though I’d suddenly cracked the code to some long-suffering hang-up in a therapy session.

“My God, that’s it!” I bellowed, no doubt shocking Sacha, and likely making a few of the children start crying. “That is EXACTLY why I have been saying all this time I don’t like almonds! That is SO INSANE.”

I mean, how could it be that by the mere power of our mothers’ dislike of almonds, that both Sacha and I, of otherwise sane mind and strong opinion, could be so swayed–even into adulthood–into thinking that something it turns out we actually do like, we really don’t?

How mighty the power of the maternal opinion!

As a mother myself, I’m now curious and fearful of my newly-realized power. I mean, I’ve now got to make a concerted effort to conceal things I don’t like so as not to rob Kate and Paige of their own opinions. In fact, just the other day I lamented having gotten a parking ticket–blathered on about how very much I hate getting tickets–right in front of both girls! To think that they might otherwise grow up to not mind getting tickets–maybe have been able to let them just roll off their backs–but instead they may now become irriated and irascible upon receiving one because, well, because I always said I didn’t like them.

Or maybe they’ll never even try a mushroom. Those nasty fungi may bring as much joy to them as they do gag reflexes to me. I mean, it could happen.

Who knows what grumpy, damaging, or ill-formed opinion of mine could be unwittingly saturating their souls right now.

Sure, I realize that I use Tide laundry detergent and Skippy peanut butter because my mother did. And like her I’m outspoken in my disdain for playing cards, something I’m confident I truly don’t enjoy. But even from childhood, I’ve always felt fairly competent in my ability to differentiate myself from some of the parentally-crafted lore that exists about my family.

The best example being my desire to take voice lessons as a girl, which was quickly shot down by my mother because, “We’re not a musically inclined family.” A curiosity-squelching remark I find hilarious, since I can’t fathom any modern-day parent worth their weight in Dr. Sears books uttering it today.

Of course, my mother’s comment left me stomping upstairs, vowing that when I became a mega-hit pop star on my natural-born talents alone I wouldn’t share my riches with my family. (Though sadly the music curse did become a self-fulfilling prophesy, since never getting any training left me unable to read music or play an instrument to this day. Well, aside from tambourine, triangle, and some limited cowbell.)

So then, Sacha and me. It’s taken decades, but it seems we’re both coming to terms with the fact that, despite our mothers’ preferences, we just might like almonds after all.

But I’ve discovered enlightenment can just lead to further confusion. Knowing as I do now the great power that I wield as a mother over the minds of Misses Kate and Paige–well, it’s somewhat terrifying. How do I manage that responsibly? In some ways I of course want to mold and shape them, but in other ways it’s my job to stand back and let them be their own people.

Maybe if I just keep them guessing, they’ll develop a strong sense of their own likes and dislikes?

Alas, note to self to buy Jif the next time I’m at the store.

We Love Gay

A few years ago we went to a wedding in Philadelphia, the bride’s hometown, and I was blindsided by just how much I liked it there.

And I wasn’t alone. Throughout the weekend other guests from San Francisco made comments to the bride like, “This is actually a pretty cool city. Who knew?” Backhanded compliments, for sure.

Living in the Bay Area for more than 16 years now makes me often wonder about what life’s like elsewhere. But since moving is so complicated, and we’re forever stymied about where it is we’d go, I process most of my curiosity through pretend play.

So one morning when we were at that wedding in Philly, I woke up, rolled over and said to Mark, “Let’s pretend we live here, okay? So… Here we are! We live in Philadelphia! What should we do today in this city that we live in?”

Mark humored me for a short time, but ultimately found the game more absurd than socially enriching. And of course, he’ll never forget it. Sometimes still if I’m doing or saying something, he’ll turn to me and ask, “Are we pretending we live in Philadelphia again?”

One of the other places I invariably find myself fantasizing about being a resident of is my wee hometown of Bristol, RI. Or at least some place like it.

On our recent visit there I took the girls to the town’s newly expanded stone facade library. In the fabulous new children’s area–replete with huge windows, soft-sided animal-shaped chairs, bins filled with toys, an outdoor path through a lovely little garden, and of course books books books–I couldn’t resist imagining that the girls and I would be regulars there if we lived in town. Bringing them to proudly return books in the drop slot, pick out a new batch, and sit in on story time–all at the very library on whose once-mildewy basement carpet I spent many childhood afternoons of my own.

The other folks there during our visit–a father with a boy somewhere between Kate and Paige’s age–were hardly the friendly cohorts I was hoping to encounter. Paige made every opportunity to engage them, and her powers of charm are nearly bionic, virtually impossible to resist. But somehow, in what I attributed to a brusque New England attitude, both father and son barely made eye contact with us. Likely even found our presence there annoying.

It was nearly enough to shatter my sunny we-live-here-now fantasy.

So anyway, a few months ago when I was throwing dinner together, Kate was playing on the kitchen floor with Paige and announced, “Mama, I’m gay!”

Which, hey, is fine and all, but I have to admit, coming from a three-year-old took me a bit off guard.

But I managed to find a kindly response that also aimed to garner more information. “Oh really, honey? How’s that?”

Kate, who was encircled by books–a fairly typical setting for her–held up one with the pages open outwardly to face Paige, and explained, “I’m gay, and it’s story time, and Paige is one of the children coming to story time.”

(Then to Paige in a slightly affected tone.) “Good morning, children! Welcome to story time!”

At which point I realized she meant Gay–capital ‘G’–not gay, gay. Gay being the name of the beloved grandmotherly children’s librarian right here in Rockridge.

Now Kate adores Gay and it’s easy to see why. She is adorable, though not in a baby bird kinda way.

Once I was walking behind a klatch of mother’s who were heading to the park after story time and they were all cooing over how much they dig it when Gay reads books–doing all the voices for different characters and singing songs that require you to move you hands one way or another to act out things as you sing. As much as you can’t imagine enduring this stuff as a non-parent, trust me, it’s equaling surprising to find yourself one day getting into it.

In fact, I’m sometimes like a maniac getting us out the door so we don’t miss Gay’s opening “Good morning dear Earth, Good morning dear Sun” song that somewhere along the line I decided I just love love love and that in its simple way makes me kinda sorta just happy.

Chalk it up to sleep deprivation, a deficiency of daytime adult conversation, and the presence of a kindly woman who’s happy to entertain my kids for a half-hour–somehow that story time gives me as much a hit of serotonin as it gives the wee ones for whom it’s intended.

After the stories–which are always related to some sort of train or family or mitten theme–Gay is besieged by the small beasties, reaching out to get either a sheet to color in, or a sticker. She even gave out blueberries one day after reading the Maine classic Blueberries for Sal. Something I found generous and fun, and delicious for greedy blue-mouthed Kate, even if there was a part of my brain I was trying to ignore that was wondering, “Are-they-organic?”

During my “office hours” here at Chez McClusky I’m often surprised by the small things that trigger Kate’s curiosity. They’re usually such commonplace things it’s weird to realize Kate has no clue about them. You know, like what happens to stuff we put in the recycling bin, how corn is grown (not on a tree!), that dogs have a special sense of smell. Often whatever Kate and I are discussing turns into the thing that she wants to get books about at the library.

On Tuesday we made applesauce, and Kate got all freaky-obsessed over the seeds–as she’s wont to do–which got me explaining about Johnny Appleseed, which got Kate wanting a book about him from the library. Plus, after listening to the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang soundtrack for years now, I recently mentioned that the music was from a movie–actual live-action footage that could come to her through the TV, a rare treat. This information had her nearly blow a gasket.

So on drizzly Tuesday we sauntered to the library, just a two block walk from home. Kate got Gay in her cross hairs immediately and run up to her desk, pumping adrenaline and panting as if she were about to evacuate a burning building. “Gay! Gay!! Do you know what? Chitty Chitty Bang Bang IS A MOVIE. Did you know that? Do you have the movie, Gay? And also, you know what? We want to get a book about Apple Johnnyseed too. Do you have that, Gay?”

Gay’s reaction is perfect. She mirrors Kate’s excitement in a genuine way that makes me feel like she gets Kate–and truly likes her. A mother’s joy. And while she looks up whatever Kate requested–she’s animatedly sharing factoids about “Johnny Appleseed, sweetie, not Apple Johnnyseed.” And she pokes out a finger towards Paigey’s belly. “Hello, Little Sister. Don’t you look proper today in your wool hat.”

My excitement to interact with Gay is nearly as great as Kate’s. I just keep it more on the DL. Although I doubt she even knows our names, Gay is someone who, in the midst of some seemingly endless empty days of having to find this or that thing to do with the kids, knows us. Which can sometimes provide just the amount of comfort that I need to change my perspective on the day.

But after Paigey’s poke it’s back to Kate. And I stand back as Gay shows her a few different book options which she paws through quickly, while whining, “The Chitty Chitty Bang Bang DVD! I need that too!”

Ah, ever the ingrate.

Prompting me to remind Kate to use her manners. And Gay to dismiss my comment with an unspoken don’t-you-worry-about-that-we-have-business-to-conduct-here-Kate-and-I as she ambles over to the movie section.

“Oh you are right!,” she clucks. “I did almost forget that, didn’t I? Now let’s make sure no one else has taken that out…”

Thank you, thank you, Gay, for being our most exceptional small town librarian in this big city of Oakland. We are oh so lucky to have you, parents and children alike.

What’s more, whenever we see you I don’t even have to pretend we live here.

Bad Witness

When I picked Kate up from preschool yesterday, here’s the conversation we had:

Me: “How was school today?”

Kate: [silent]

Me: “It’s bad manners to not respond when someone asks you something, you know.”

Kate: “It was good.”

Me: “What did you do?”

Kate: “We did a lot a lot a lot of things.”

Me: “Did you play outside?”

Kate: “Yes.”

Me: “You did? I’m surprised since it’s raining so hard. You really played outside today?”

Kate: “No! Yes… No!”

Me: “What is it? Did you play outside?”

Kate: “No. Yes! Yes!”

Me: “Who did you play with today?”

Kate: “No one. I played by myself.”

Me: “Why?”

Kate: “I wanted to.”

Me: “Oh, that’s good. It’s nice to play alone sometimes.”

Kate: “I’m mad at everyone.”

Me: “Why?”

Kate: “I had a rough day.”

Me: “You did? I’m sorry to hear that. Who said that?”

Kate: [whispering] “Me.”

Me: “Why did you have a rough day?”

Kate: [still whispering] “Everybody ate me.”

Me: “Oh.”

Kate: [still whispering] “And then Batman came.”

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, Lord

We just got back from a super fun long weekend in Lake Tahoe.

Kate went sledding for the first time–actually saw a legitimate amount of snow for the first time. (“You know what, Mama? It looks like Fluff.” That’s my sugar-free girl!) We had some delicious hilarious gin-and-wine-drenched dinners with the fabulous Mama Posse families, and boiled ourselves silly in a huge hot tub. I even got a kid-free day of snowboarding in with my girls Sacha and Mary.

But of all of it, one comment from our friend Jack made our whole weekend.

The kids–all nine of them–were blessedly asleep, and us grown-ups were eating a lovely pasta dish the Grippies had prepared. Jack was sitting near Mark and I, and at one point when another conversation was brewing at the far end of the table, Jack looked up from his plate and said to Mark and I, “You know, I wanted to mention to you guys about Kate–”

At which point I inhaled and winced, bracing myself for whatever it was he was about to say.

That she pooped on the floor in the bathroom earlier, and he had to clean it up? That she bit off a chunk of his daughter’s ear, Mike Tyson-style? That he’s never met such a, well, “spirited” child–how do we keep up with her?

It’s not that Kate’s so out of control, really. It’s just that with a three-year-old there’s really no telling what may happen. Especially on a weekend when she’s marauding 24×7 in a large pack of friends like some feral child on speed.

Anyway, as Mark and I exchange a quick nervous glance, Jack finishes his sentence saying, “–that she’s really polite.”

Mark and I lean in stunned and say in unison: “Really? Polite?”

Jack: “Yeah. I mean, in interactions I’ve had with her this weekend she’s been, you know, really good about saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and stuff.”

Mark and I grinned and gleefully grasped each others’ hands like game show contestants who’d just won a car. Relieved, thrilled, and incredulous that all the seemingly futile work of reminding Miss Kate to “use her manners” in what seems like three-minute intervals over the course of the past two-plus years, might actually, really, finally, be paying off.

Will you get a load of that.