Mars and Venus

This weekend when I was chatting on the phone with my friend Mary, Kate asked if she could talk to her son, Will.

After their conversation, Kate handed the phone back to me and said disappointedly, “I wanted him to say more.”

On her end, Mary reported that Will said, “I told Kate all about my life.”

Typical, huh? Here’s the guy feeling like he’s bared his soul, and the girl just wishes he could open up to her a bit more.

Ah well, they’re three. They have plenty of time to work this stuff out.

And Now for Something I Should’ve Done Ages Ago

My sister Ellen rented a house in San Francisco for about six years before she went downstairs one day to find her house guest cutting into a huge avocado from the tree in her yard. Ellen was about to tell her they weren’t edible, when her friend gushed, “You are so lucky to have these right here for the taking! I’ve been eating them all week. I think they’re the best avocados I’ve ever had!”

Upon learning this Ellen was confused, delighted, and understandably annoyed with herself. Back when she’d first moved in, a neighbor, or the landlord–it was hard to remember exactly who–mentioned something about the avocados not being good. At least she thought they had.

And of course, in all her years living there, she never thought to try one.  

As mean as it is to admit, I’ve always found that story hilarious. Just so funny that she was overlooking something so good that was right there under her nose.

Well, karma’s a bitch. It seems like lately I’ve had my own slew of small missed opportunities. So I guess Ellen can have the last laugh.

The other day in a fit of must-feed-the-family-but-cannot-summon-energy-to-cook, I decided to try out a somewhat dumpy looking Thai restaurant that’s just two blocks away for take-out. Mark picked it up and said the place was packed. And when we started eating we saw why. Great chicken satay. Delicious pad thai. And cheap!

How maddening. The place could not be closer to our house. So we’ve missed out on three years of cheap-easy-yummy Thai food. Argh.

Then when my frienda Brenda arrived dirty and tired from a long road trip on Thursday, I ushered her into the Pink Bathroom, explaining that for our first couple years in the house we disparaged its shower. The stall seemed small. Mark found the shower head low. But then for some reason I used it one day, and realized that the water pressure and even the heat was far better than the shower we exclusively used.

I guess the only other time I’d used the now-favorite shower was when I was in labor with Kate. Probably not the best time to make a judgment call on something. Now, of course, I won’t set foot in the White Bathroom. I guess I’m somewhat of an extremist. For me things are either pink or white.

Back when I first moved to San Francisco I wrote a story for the free weekly paper about dream analysis, and interviewed a bunch of herbal-tea quaffing, poncho-wearing Marin hippie dream experts. One woman asked me about any recurring dreams I’ve had. There was the UFO abduction in the driveway of my childhood home dream. (Hey, don’t laugh.) But I haven’t had that one since I was a kid. The one I was having at the time of the interview was that after a long time living in a particular house I’d realize that there was another room, or a whole wing even, that I’d never been to.

And of course, it was decked out and fabulous or packed with young hot studs and fifty-dollar bills. Well, not really the money and men part so much. But it was distressing nonetheless since these unknown-about parts of my dreamworld houses sent me into repetitive head-thumping V8 moments. Why oh why hadn’t I ever just opened that door?

The hippie dream lady told me it meant that I was looking for new unrealized things in my life; paths not yet explored. And that I was lazy about not opening doors that were right there in front of me.

I’ve got to think that there’s some of that being played out in my world right now. I mean, the shower, the Thai place, and then the other day I go downstairs to dig up some of Kate’s old clothes for Paige and find a trove of forgotten but adorable outfits–many of them Oilily or French designer baby duds that my sister Judy manages to send our way as often as the Sunday paper. Of course, half of them were either already too small for chubby Paige, would fit her for about a week more, or would have been perfect for this past summer. Drat.

Of course I can’t bear to have her not wear them, so the next time we go anywhere I’ll have to do several costume changes for Paige, like she’s a mini Cher in concert. (I’ll likely skip the wigs and make-up.)  It’ll be exhausting, but oh so worth it to get one more wearing out of these crazy cute little numbers.

And frankly, the Paige clothing is one thing. But we’re getting ready for a yard sale. (Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Packrat are actually planning for a public purge. I mean, Bravo should be sending Dr. Phil and a camera crew over here because the pain, anguish, and eventual victory of the whole endeavor will no doubt make for brilliant reality TV.) So, here I am last week spelunking though toys, baby gear, clothing–you name it–and dumping it into the yard sale pile.

Maternity clothes are difficult to let go of only due to my lingering desire to have another baby. I made it doable by thinking I’ll just buy all new stuff if I ever need to. Besides, how sad can you get about letting go of immense mumu-like shirts and elastic waistband pants? Even if you did pay a king’s ransom for them.

And in the midst of digging with both arms like a dog through one of those huge plastic tubs, I unearth a pocket of non-maternity duds. And I see my jeans. My cute pre-preg Lucky jeans, some dark DKNY jeans I think I bought mere moments before the pregnancy pee stick turned positive, and even my faithful faded old Levi’s. In a fit of sentimental fashion fervor I step out of the skirt I’m wearing and right there in the basement start trying on my pre-Paige clothes.

And the heartbreaking mind-blowing thing is, they all fit. No wrenching the zipper up or stretching them over my thighs. No thinking I can wear a long shirt cape-like over my ass to conceal it. These clothes all legitimately fit like, well, like they were mine.

Joy!

But then I also find some nice linen shorts, a bunch of little skirts, and a navy silk shirt with white polka dots (which sounds horrendous but believe me is darling) that I bought last summer in, of all places, a little boutique in Bristol. Who knows when all these cute clothes started to fit again! For all I know, I could’ve been wearing these things all summer instead of my restricted post-partum wardrobe which included, ashamed as I am to admit it, a couple pairs of Mark’s Patagonia shorts that I’d borrow when I was desperate.

So all these missed opportunities can’t help but make me wonder how I avoid things like these from happening again in the future. Frantically sample the food in each and every local restaurant to ensure we’re not missing out on some easy-to-acquire gastronomic treat? Obsessively taste the fruits in my and my neighbor’s yards? And conduct tests on the efficacy of household appliances–pitting one burner against another–so as to know I’m using the best ones and won’t suffer any future regrets?

Perhaps I should just give into what I’ll call the Parents’ VCR Approach to Life (TM). I mean, back in the day, whose parents ever performed any other function on their VCRs other than Play and Rewind? Sure there was other stuff it could do, and they were even aware of that, but it didn’t ever seem to bother them. They never seemed to lose any sleep over the thought that they were missing out.

Maybe as parents get older so many of these little things they could be doing but are somehow missing out on keep piling up until they get to the point that they just have to throw in the towel and become at ease with it all.

And so, tomorrow perhaps, I shall work on embracing this new philosophy. While strutting around in my brown wedge sandals and my cute little pre-pregnancy jeans.

Christmas Comes Early ‘Round Here

Would you be disgusted with the rabid state of consumerism in America if I were to tell you that a store I went to this weekend was already totally decked out for Christmas–trimmed trees, stocking stuffer point-of-sale bins, and carols blaring in the elevators? In September?!

Well, thankfully, I didn’t enter any such store. That would have just been ridiculous.(Though I’m sure there are some teddy bear laden trees already lurking in the basement at Macy’s.)

For an untimely hit of holiday spirit, I actually had to go no further than, well, my own house. And despite myself, I think I’m the one who brought it on.

You see, whenever we manage to find a children’s book author whose stories when read hundreds upon hundreds of times over don’t make Mark and I want to go on a wild book-burning spree,
I go onto Amazon and buy out everything that author has written. I mean, if one of his or her books has managed to totally unsuck, my assumption is the others may have their merits too.

We’re on an Arnold Loebel kick right now. He wrote these Frog and Toad books in the 70s, which aren’t much in terms of illustrative eye candy, but are sweet stories written in a quirky enough manner to entertain Mark and I. (The one about them not being able to stop eating cookies just slays us. As does Toad’s frequent depressive exclamation, “Blah.”)

The other children’s book rut we’re currently in is the Olivia books–introduced to us this summer by Daryl and Christian’s kids.

So on Saturday, along with a couple other things, Olivia Helps with Christmas arrived in the mail. Telling Kate we were going to put it away until a more seasonally appropriate time would have been like making her a huge hot fudge sundae, setting it on the table, then saying, “Oh, this isn’t to eat now.”

At this point, the entire family has nearly committed the book to memory.

And by the time I got up from my weekend-day-to-sleep-in on Sunday, Kate had apparently done some dumpster-diving in my orange childhood toy box. That’s where we keep toys we’ve gotten as gifts that scare Kate (or us), like the animatronic Tickle Me Elmo, unwieldy games we don’t need in constant rotation, and out-of-season holiday-themed books.

So, groggy from the decadence of what might actually have been too much sleep, I stumbled over that scratch and sniff book about Bear’s smelly Christmas on the floor of the white bathroom. We’ve since read, scratched, and sniffed it several dozen times. 

And late Sunday afternoon I walked by the living room to see Mark reading an enraptured Kate The Night Before Christmas. It was very sweet, but at some point soon I’m hoping I can sneak all the Santa stuff away for a while.

I don’t want to be a buzzkill about it. I mean, I like seeing a kid in his Spiderman costume in April as much as the next guy. I’m just not sure we can maintain the magic of Christmas around here for the next few months. And it would be such a shame to lose momentum around about mid-December.

The Deep Dark Hours

Pre-Kate, one thing I heard mothers talk about that I was sure was complete crap was that in the middle of the night they’d wake up moments before their babies needed to nurse. That there was some weird groovy connection between them that they just naturally operated in synch that way.

It’s not that I thought those women were lying per se, maybe more that it was unlikely that I could ever muster something so fine-tuned. I mean, I’m the one who’s sneezing and hacking for five days before I get the first inkling that ‘Oh! Maybe I’m getting sick!’ I guess I’ve come to accept that there’s a missing link or two in my mind-body connection.

So I was stunned when Kate was an infant and I found myself–the woman who takes pride in the fact that I never get up to pee at night and sleep deeply on airplanes, lumpy couches, and alongside train tracks–waking up suddenly in the middle of the night, only to hear Kate seconds later squirm around in the bassinet and start her soft “ah ah ah” feed-me noise.

I felt a huge rush of belonging. I was part of that super-connected Mommy-baby club. I was normal!

I haven’t asked other mothers about this, but with the second baby I think I was less attuned to those wake-ups. Or maybe just less thrilled by them. In fact, Mark and I had forgotten what noisy sleepers newborns are, and in Paige’s first nights home managed to tune out the menagerie of wheezing, retching, and choking noises that might have alarmed us with Kate. With Paige we just rolled over, dragging our pillows over our heads.

These days Paige is decamped down the hall in her own room, and for a while I needed a monitor to be sure I’d hear her wake up. But I’m on the verge of tossing that onto the garage sale pile. When Paige gets up in the night now, the monitor first picks up the rustle of her moving around in the crib. Then she starts in with her alarmingly loud monotone vocalizations.

“AAAAAHHHHHH EEEEEEEEE AAAAAAHHHH. EEEEE-UH!! EEEHH!? EEEHH. EEEHH. EEEEEEEEE!! EH.”

You’d think she has a little bullhorn in there.

And hey, it works. Around here, nighttime–and especially early morning–is Operation Don’t Wake Up Kate. I mean, if Paige gets up at 5:30, I can stick a boob in her mouth, whip her around in the rocking chair a bit, and eventually coax her back to sleep, if only for a precious hour. If Kate were to be awakened at that hour, after several rounds of walking her back to bed and pleading with her to “Please lie down and get some more sleep, it’s not morning yet, honey,” Mark or I would eventually find ourselves blearily assembling the 101 Dalmations floor puzzle in the living room, while Kate launches into her endless waking stream of banter. (“This is fun, right Mama? We got this puzzle from Ari’s yard sale, right? He’s a big boy. Where do you think this piece goes, Mama?”) Not exactly how I like to spend my pre-dawn time.

Of course, I have no one but myself to blame for my daughters’ excessively talkative natures.

So, when Paige starts her middle-of-the-night blaring babble, exhausted and cozy as I may be, I dive for the door and stumble down the hall to grab her. Even though we go through this, well, every night, I still always expect that once I’m in the room with her and start frantically, hopefully-soothingly hushing her, she’ll pipe down. But even when I pick her up she’s still at it, and at the same top notch. That girl’s got a story to tell, and when I enter the room there’s not even a pause or flicker of recognition that she’s got company. “EHHHHHHHHHH. iiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeee UH?? EEHHHH EHH. LAAAAA!!!”

Last night I was just settling into bed with my book. I’d even read a page or two, and was relishing it, since it seemed I might have enough wakeful energy to read one or two more pages. (By Christmas, perhaps I’ll get through the chapter!) And then Paige started in. An odd time for her to awaken, before Mark and I have even gone to sleep. So, feeling sorry for myself that my simple-pleasure Friday night was being interrupted, I tossed my book on the pile of also-barely-read magazines and ambled to her room.

What’s incredible is how quickly my maternal chagrin can turn into a near-weeping lovefest. I picked up Little Miss Loudmouth and thought about the time not long from now when I wouldn’t be able to hold her to me in one easy swoop. And as we rocked she flapped the blanket I’d snugged around her off her arm and started waving it up in the air. Reaching for my face, swatting at my hair, and eventually settling her pudgy paw awkwardly behind her back where she could grip my arm. It’s those kinds of things that reel you back in when you’re parental reserves are hitting rock bottom.

But I’m no fool. I’m already bracing myself for the day 16 years from now when Paige storms out of the house screaming that she hates me because I’ve refused to give her $800 to fly to LA for the weekend with her 21-year-old creepy deadbeat boyfriend so they can go to a beach party that Skylar’s mother is letting her go to, then stay at guy-who-should-be-dating-someone-his-own-age’s cousin’s house, where there’s allegedly adult supervision. Riiiiiiiiight.

I guess when that day comes I’ll just have to comfort myself with the thought that there was a time when she was just seven months old that Paige gave in willingly to a nice long cuddle, and I was the one she saved all her best stories and secrets for.

Halloween’s in the Bag

Halloween is like black licorice–you either love it or hate it. I personally loathe black licorice but I ADORE Halloween.

What can I say? It’s a legitimate day upon which my inner showman can shine. If you’ve known me for more than say, three minutes, this I’m sure surprises you not in the least.

Hey, materialists get Christmas, romantics get Valentine’s Day, and folks like me get Halloween.

I don’t consider myself terribly competitive, but on Halloween no last-minute Walgreens caliber witch costume will suffice. In fact, if it ever got to me going that sad route, I’d rather just not participate. And unlike some folks who specialize in the gory, scary, or sexy, I don’t like to limit myself. I’ve dappled some in the scary realm, and intentionally steered clear of the costume-as-excuse-to-show-leg. I mean, anyone with a nice pair of stems and a little imagination can find a way to expose their assets. But the sexy pirate, the tavern wench, the 80′s slut, or the naughty devil get-ups not only offend me with their lack imagination–they’re just plain tacky.

Though bad taste comes in many forms. And some would argue that in my career of crafting costumes I’ve teetered on the brink of it myself. But as my old friend Andy Robinson says, “I’m not for everyone.”

If there’s any one theme, I’d say my costumes are most often reflective of the times. Like in 2004, I couldn’t resist a snarky ‘tribute’ to The Gipper. Wearing a sensible dark wool dress, a scalloped gold necklace and brooch, and a fluffy brunette wig in an effort to make my head appear as large as humanly possible, I was a mourning Nancy. I walked through the streets of the Castro—San Francisco’s dearly-departed Halloween epicenter—clutching a tri-folded American flag, sobbing into a hankie and crying out occasionally for “My Ronny.” Those gay boys who hated Reagan loved it.

My engineering masterpiece wasn’t a terribly original costume, Janet Leigh showering in Psycho. Its merits revolved around its construction. I rigged a piece of PVC pipe in a halo high above my head, from which I hung a plastic shower curtain and a large dummy arm clutching a bloody knife that swung at me. Mark–a non-lover of Halloween who graciously endures my antics—made a soundtrack loop of the famous “WAAH WAAH WAAH” sound effect and secured a micro cassette and little speakers somewhere along my back. Try listening to that for more than  five minutes without wanting to stab yourself. But, hey, that’s the kind of commitment I’m willing to make for a costume.

Which is to say I’ve also suffered my fair share of physical pain. Sure as kids we all had that annoying condensation build-up inside our plastic masks, or costumes that made sitting and certainly peeing an impossibility. But try lugging a hand-crafted sandwich board-sized Wheaties box with a oval cut out for your face to an evening of hi-jinx and debauchery (while trying to look cute and meet men). This I endured for my Olympic gymnast Kerri Strug costume, complete with the bandaged injured ankle she still vaulted her way to gold medal glory with. (Am I dating myself here? She made all the news back in ’96, trust me. Michael Phelps may we remember you 12 years from now…)

Anyway, all I can say is that costume delivered a facial ring of fire the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I also did a decent job of whacking people with the side of the box whenever I’d turn even slightly. Though my friend Kevin, dressed in a hastily-made but hilarious Bela Karolyi costume—which he perfected by sadistically barking heavily-accented gymnastic directives at me—did his best to guide me through crowds to avoid injuring innocent bystanders.

Some time in that same late 90′s era, horrified Noe Valley mothers pulled their children close to them on the sidewalk when they realized my blonde wig, pink satin dress, lace ankle socks, and Little Miss Denver sash was an overgrown imitation of recently-deceased pageant-rific JonBenet Ramsey. Young girls walked up to me cooing about princesses and their mother’s smiled, then blanched, and steered their innocents clear of me. And I don’t even think they noticed my excellent strangulation-bruising make-up job.

Ah JonBenet. That one was a classic. Those patent leather Mary Janes are still around in a box somewhere.

But really, the costumes over the years are like one’s children. How could you ever say you love one more than another?

Last year, more than 7 months preggy with Paigey, the timing was perfect for me to become one with Buddha. (Ask me if I’m still bitter that it didn’t garner a prize at the company party.) Needless to say, my rotund midsection fit the Buddha bill to perfection, but despite my best efforts at Ace-bandage bondage, I think I was a bit more buxom than would have been ideal.

So often it’s the timing that makes the difference between a good costume and a really offensive great one. Which is why while watching Kate and Paige playing from across the room yesterday I nearly squealed with excitement at the thought of two costumes that were spot-on for them.

All it’ll take is a brown dress, a little black hair dye on Kate, and maybe a bit of a trim–otherwise she’s ready to roll as a perfect Piper Palin. Of course, she’ll be cradling Miss Paige, playing Trig, and I’ll coach her to do that little spit on the fingers and hair-smoothing maneuver we saw at the RNC.

It’s perfect, right? I mean, how many people have kids the right age for this? Not to mention a mother with the utterly unflinching poor taste to pull such a thing off.

Of course, I wouldn’t ever really do this. For the costume to be truly authentic I’d need to surround the girls with a convention center’s worth of 9,000 or so utterly deranged mis-informed and asinine Republicans. And thankfully I couldn’t find that may conservatives in Northern California, even if for the sake of a damn good costume I wanted to.

What the 3-Year-Old Buddha Said

Yesterday upon hearing we were leaving a supremely fun birthday party, an overtired sugar-fed Kate began shrieking, “I want everything that I want!! I WANT EVERYTHING THAT I WANT!!”

If it weren’t for the fact that the host, our dear friend Megan, found it so hilarious, or that I was the one carrying the howling kicking terror, I’d have looked to the person next to me and asked, “Whose child is that?”

What’s *Your* Husband Doing Right Now?

Mine is shaving his legs.

Sure, cyclocross season starts on Saturday. Something he’s been training for, obsessing over, reading and blogging about since, well, since I was too pregnant with Paigey to even remember what my own legs looked like. (And trust me, it was better that way.)

Call me naive about the nuances of bike racing–and you’d be absolutely correct–but I was under the impression that the leg-shaving thing had to do with reducing wind resistance of some sort. I mean, he’s got a fairly bushy gam, but how much could that really slow him down? Turns out that the leg shaving has nothing to do with speed. It’s just that the other boys who race prefer soft smooth legs. No, actually it’s because it makes tending to injuries easier when there’s no nasty leg hair messed up in the carnage. Ew!

It also makes his legs look much sleeker in his new denim skort.

Of course, I have to make this all about me. I mean, first I have to deal with his having a better butt than mine. Now he’s practicing more diligence in the depilatory arts too.

Add this to the shame I suffered several months ago at the dry cleaner. I brought in some of Mark’s shirts and the nice Chinese woman pulled them over to her side of the counter, lifted one of the collars up to her face for a closer look, then grimly tore off a piece of green masking tape and stuck it next to the the ring of make-up encircling the collar. No, it wasn’t mine, or thankfully another woman’s. It was Mark’s make-up. Residue left-over from one of his TV appearances. (Yes, my husband has his own MAC pressed powder.)

I thought about trying to explain it to the woman, but then decided to just let it be. I could tell she was already silently judging me, pitying me. Whatever I would have said was bound to sound pathetic and defensive. “No, no! My husband doesn’t wear make-up! It’s really not what it looks like. I can explain.”

Ah well. Let her think what she will. Just wait ’til I bring in some of his pants with a blood stain from where he nicked his leg shaving.

I am not my mother… I am not my mother…

For a while now Kate’s been all hopped up on hearing me tell stories about when I was a little girl. I’ve told her about vacations we took, playing in snowstorms, my sailing lessons, and the day we went to see the dog, Tramp, we ended up adopting. But by far of all the stories I’ve conjured from my past, the one Kate requests the most is the one about when my mother forgot to pick me up from school.

You see, my elementary school was across the street from my house. But my mother would still take me there–help me cross the street in the morning and fetch me at the end of the day because, of course, YOU NEVER CROSS THE STREET WITHOUT HOLDING MOMMY’S HAND. Right?

So, one day my mommy didn’t come to get me. All the other mommy’s and daddy’s came to pick up their kids. (I always include daddies when I tell Kate this story, but really, hell if a single dad performed this duty back then.) So, bereft that my mother had potentially left me and taken off on the Green Tortoise bus to California, or some such, I stood in the corner of the school yard and cried and cried and cried.

(She was likely on the order of four minutes late. But you know, kids and time and all that.)

So here I am crying.

“Then who came, Mommy? Then who came and saw you?”

Then, as I was standing there, a police man pulled up.

“In a police car, Mom?”

Yes, in a police car. And he said, “What’s wrong little girl.” And I told him about how my mother always picks me up from school but today she didn’t come get me. So, the nice police man asked me if I knew where I lived, and if I wanted him to give me a ride home.

“In the POLICE CAR, Mama?”

Yes, in the police car. Of course I felt super cool. So I get into the police car and I’m checking it all out and the police man asked me where I lived. And I pointed to the yellow house right across the street.

“Hahaha [fake laughter], that’s funny, Mama, right?” Kate says, not entirely understanding why it’s funny but knowing it’s supposed to be.

Yes, that is funny, Kate. But the police man didn’t laugh. He just asked me if I thought we should just drive around the block a couple times before he took me home. (No, he didn’t offer to put on the siren. But I took what I could get.)

Anyway, when we get to my house the police man rings the bell and through the window I saw my mother at the kitchen sink. She sees me and the police man, opens her mouth, looks at the clock over the stove, and runs to open the door while she’s drying her hands. She explains with immense embarrassment (as I stand smugly holding the policeman’s hand) that she had totally lost track of time and thank you SO MUCH officer, and of course that will never happen again.

Needless to say, my mother would have to endure several lifetimes before I’d ever let her live that one down. 

Anyway, I’ve managed to pass that old yarn down through a generation. And, like any kid, I could come up with a few other stories of minor maternal slip-ups. None of them truly damaging, neglectful, or malicious, but certainly things that collectively informed some of my “I’ll never do that” attitudes about my own mothering.

Like when my friend Steve told me he and his wife were expecting their first child. Nearly immediately after announcing the news he vowed he’d never do that spit on your thumb and clean your kid’s face move. So, you know, we all have our issues.

For me the “I won’t do thats” are more along the lines of forgotten field trip permission slips. My mother seemed to lack the gene for ever remember getting those in on time, leaving me to hold up more than a few field trips when a teacher flipping through a pile of papers at the front of the bus would mutter in dismay, “Oh wait… We don’t have one for Kristen Bruno. Again.”

Mom also thought nothing of leaving a sink full of dishes when we’d go see my grandmother for a few days. As for me, I can’t go to the bathroom with a dirty dish in the sink.

The other big thing I vowed to never fall prey to was lateness. Four girls, one mother, and one shower–and our collective estrogen level–made it understandably difficult getting out of the house en masse. Late, loud and clumsy arrivals tended to be a Bruno family hallmark. They gave grumpy Father Coffey a legitimate reason to leer over his pulpit, and me a legitimate reason to swear that my own family would assuredly be different some day.

Today, with Grandma Peggy here providing two extra hands, Googled driving directions, and a departure time mapped out that’d give Kate plenty of time to suss out the scene and fluff up her tutu before her first dance class–we set out. Well, I didn’t actually print out the directions, just skimmed them. I did write down the address. But before long it was apparent that I had no idea where I was going.

An exit off the highway dumped me into an unfamiliar neighborhood (stress spike), though I managed to quickly get back on in the other direction (manic upswing), to quickly realize it was the totally wrong highway altogether (flop sweat). I fumbled around in the backseat with one hand trying to wrench my phone out of the diaper bag. I considered calling the dance studio for directions, then Mark (for directions and sympathy), then just trying to figure it out on my own.

The clock ticked away minutes closer and closer to the class’ 9AM start time. I did a lot of muttering under my breath and a couple seemingly safe u-turns, though my mother-in-law  was gripping the side of the car door white-knuckled. She politely kept offering to “do whatever she could to help”–no doubt ending that sentence in her mind with “just get me there alive.”

All the while I lambasted myself over how Kate would miss getting a good start to her new class. Meeting the teacher, hearing the rules, getting oriented with the other kids. Was I remembering all the first classes I got to late? You bet your ass I was.

Did I think about the first bat mitzvah I was invited to? Where my mother drove me to the one synagogue she ever remembered seeing in Providence, where I threw open the doors to an empty temple, then returned to the car–which was of course devoid of the invitation–where we continued to drive around the city asking pedestrians if they knew of any synagogues nearby, until finally, after a teeth-grinding grand tour of no less than five synagogues we found Cheryl’s family and friends pouring out onto the sidewalk at the end of her ceremony? (Don’t worry, I didn’t miss the Blue Jeans Disco Dance at the Marriott after.)

Anyway, as I was driving around hell and gone Oakland with my mother-in-law, and baby, and three-year-old who was asking “Where’s my dance class, Mama?” yes, yes, yes, I was thinking about all that.

Eventually my own Guardian Angel Direction-Dispensing Pedestrian pointed us in the direction of MacArthur Boulevard. And despite a long series of palm-sweating steering wheel squeezing red lights, we slowly made progress in the right direction.

Blah blah blah. We eventually got there ten minutes late. Surprisingly, I hadn’t blown a neck artery, and Peggy hadn’t peed her pants from fear of my driving or my rabid must-get-there-on-time wild-eyed determination.

Peggy pumped money into the meter, holding Paige on one hip, and I grabbed Kate and ran down the sidewalk into the dance studio. When we regrouped after Kate joined the class Peggy kindly made a “we’re a little late but no harm done” remark.

Indeed, it didn’t appear that Kate’s lateness affected her
in any long term psyche-scarring way. Though I guess it’s too soon to
tell. It’ll take a few more times of us skidding in after the bell before she makes her own resolve to never do all the things that I do when she has her own family some day.

Garrison and Me

I’ve marveled with many women over the phenomenon of forgetting the pain of childbirth. But less often we talk about the other part of Selective Memory Survival Syndrome, that once you’re a parent you can’t really remember what it is you did with your time before you had kids.

I mean, there are some broad-stroke things you can conjure from those days. How you mindlessly whiled away weekends at matinees, slept in late–and uninterrupted through the night!–and hoarded immense impractical collections of cocktail shakers, vintage table linens, antique china, and other charming breakable, stainable, space-hogging items.

Oh, and how you sat on airplanes chanting “not near me, not near me, not near me” to yourself as people with babies struggled on board, searching with a desperate look in their eyes for the row where they’d latch in the carseat they’re balancing over their heads, clutching an infant with one arm and directing a toddler in front of them to walk straight down the aisle without wandering into random rows, or to please not for the first time all day just stop. Oh yeah and now that I’m thinking about it there were even times when we dozed off on airplanes between periods of–get this–READING A BOOK.

But, aside from those biggies, it’s harder to remember the smaller more subtle pleasures of kidless-ness.

Last weekend though, when I wasn’t expecting or seeking it, I got a welcomed dose of life before having created new life. Some friends were coming over for dinner which threw Mark and I into our usual food-prep modes. Which is to say he did absolutely everything for the main meal, and I whipped up a little dessert.

I pondered what to make with all the summer’s glorious fruit while standing in front of our cookbook cupboards. And I happened to crouch down and see my cooking school recipe binder; over-stuffed, unwieldy, and sadly long-neglected.

Flipping through it brought back visions of people I hadn’t thought about in years, recipes of old-school foods I’d never make now but love that I know how to (Yule log, anyone? Or perhaps a towering croquembouche?), and the regretful feeling that I should have taken more notes about things like which desserts I’d personally liked at the time. You know, so at a time like this–quite literally wiping dust off the book–I could venture to make something I could be fairly certain I’d be happy with.

Alas, I decided the best approach was to tab things that, despite my wretched memory, looked like they’d be good. And made a longer-term resolve to break away from my small familiar repertoire of crowd-pleasers, and start working my way through this forgotten treasure trove of calories.

Admittedly, the blueberry buttermilk tart I made that day wasn’t a terribly outrageous selection. But I discovered that less than the final product, what this girl had been missing was the process. Alone in the sunny kitchen while Paige napped and Mark and Kate played outside. NPR on our old transistor radio. And me in a long apron working butter into dough, rinsing, stemming, and sorting through blueberries, and moving through the familiar pathways of sink to cookbook to refrigerator to mixer with easy confidence.

Only a few years ago I’d pass many weekend days in this contented cooking flow. I’d go through all of A Prairie Home Companion and much of the BBC news. If I was lucky I’d even catch some of This American Life. Mark might wander in and out of the kitchen, but mostly I was alone, lapping up solitude I didn’t even realize I was storing up for winter, as it were. For a time when a little baby and an busy talkative child would make a long afternoon of baking for visiting friends seem like a sweet sweet vacation.

Some Things You Learn in High School Really Do Apply to Life

Nothing makes me feel younger than faking sober for the babysitter at the end of an evening.
 
Back in the day I’d have to pass the gauntlet of my waited-up-for-me mother, who was typically in the kitchen working a crossword puzzle or getting herself a late-night snack. I’d make what I hoped was nonchalant (and non-slurred) small talk until it seemed a reasonable amount of time had passed and I could head up to my room to sleep with one leg dangling off the bed.

Not that this was a frequent occurrence in my youth. I wasn’t a booze-hound by any means, but I did have some nights of, uh, experimentation.

Funny how now that I’m a mother myself, I’ve had to dust this skill off. Except now I’m faking sober for a teenager instead of being one myself. It just seems so uncouth to be the boozy neighborhood mom whose kids you babysit for. I mean, I have a reputation to uphold.

Speaking of responsible winos, our friends Mike and Myra take turns being Designated Driver when they go out. But when it’s Myra’s turn to drink and she doesn’t take full advantage, Mike takes it as a sort of affront to his sense of fairness.

“Here’s Myra,” he says, winding up for a good rant. “She had one glass of wine–one!–and here I’m holding back because it’s my night to drive. I mean if I knew she didn’t want to drink anyway, she should have offered to drive! I could have been having a good time!”

Like any good conflict-averse spouse Myra’s come up with a way to get Mike off her back on this topic. She confided to me that at the end of some nights when she thinks Mike will feel she hasn’t sufficiently filled her role as Designated Drinker, she just plays drunk. You know, laughs extra loud and fumbles around a bit. Maybe slurs a word or two to ensure she’s gotten her point across.

How good is that? God, I’d love to see her act. 

Anyway, all this came to mind since it’s been a while since Mark and I have gone out on the town, leaving someone else as sentry for the sleeping kids. But today my mother-in-law, Peggy, arrived for a week-long visit. And Friday’s Mark and my fourth wedding anniversary. (What’s the gift for the fourth again? Tin foil? PVC pipe? Burlap?)

Mark booked us at an incredibly romantic, delicious, beautiful restaurant in the city called Quince. No getting up to re-supply chicken nuggets mid-meal! No ‘Please eat two more bites of broccoli’ entreaties! No ketchup present at the dinner whatsoever! All that, plus the company of my adorable smart funny husband whose company I remember really enjoying before the exhaustion of two weeks of Olympic-watching drained the life blood out of me. 

Even if we just drive to San Francisco singing songs from the radio together, it’s sure to be the best night ever. And if we do whoop it up a little, I’m not feeling any pressure to put on my sober act for Peggy. She probably wouldn’t buy it anyway.