Let’s Make a Deal

Like a United flight, we encountered delays this morning.

But ours weren’t due to weather in Chicago or some vaguely-described-so-as-to-not-make-you-worry mechanical issue. Ours were from what’s become a regular waking nightmare here at Casa McClusky–getting Kate dressed.

And so in an effort to expedite the process, and to reduce the number of tears shed by either her or me, I offered the girl a deal. If she put on a fresh pair of panties, she could watch Blues Clues.

It was by no means my finest hour as a mother. But it did result in me getting my desired outcome. A victory for me and the proverbial doctors-who-may-see-them everywhere.

But now as I crawl into bed, I’m fearful of the precedence that I might have set. And hopeful that the new day doesn’t deliver Kate, taunting me with a clean pair of Elmo undies dangling from one finger and muttering in some raspy tough-guy voice, “No Blues Clues, no panties, Lady.”

Don’t Cry for Me Chopping Onions

My Aunt Mary, who was my neighbor growing up in Rhode Island–and who my sisters and I call “aunt” even though she ain’t blood kin–is one of those dazzling people who children instantly adore.

At an amazingly spry 90 years old, she remembers every word to seemingly every children’s song, including the little hand gestures. Kate was still an infant when she met her for the first time, and even then she was enraptured. Today, the love is more about the home-baked cakes Kate’s come to know Aunt Mary always has on hand.  She serves up big slices with glasses of milk, and Kate sits blissfully on the same wooden stool at the same yellow linoleum counter where my sisters and I used to preside.

Aunt Mary is nothing short of a legend. I’m so happy my kids have gotten to know her. I just wish her wonderful kitchen wasn’t now so many miles away.

So, back when I was the one begging baked goods, Aunt Mary used to tell us there was a little girl, clearly some sort of ghost-girl (though she never quite spelled that out) who lived in her attic. She said her name was Isabelle Onnabike—which just a few years ago I realized was a pun for ‘Is a bell on a bike?’ I think she must have found that funny, but maybe didn’t realize we weren’t in on the joke. Or perhaps she knew we didn’t get it and that was what delighted her.

Another thing I remember her often saying, or rather singing, was, “I’m a lonely little petunia in an onion patch, and all I do is cry all day!”

I’m sure there are other verses to this odd song, but as I said, she’s the one who remembers the words to these things, not me.

Anyway, I thought of that ditty the other day since I seem to somehow be channeling Heloise and her tactics for avoiding the onion-cutting weepies.

Kate’s old nanny came over one day last week to provide childcare and psychological relief for me while Mark was out of town. I also managed to convince her to whip up a batch of her chicken and sweet potato curry for us. So I got a couple dinners out of the deal too.

When she arrived she enlisted Kate’s eager help with the cooking. Her first instructional comment being, “So first we need to put the onions in the refrigerator so they’ll get cold and we won’t cry when we cut them.”

Huh. Who knew?

Then on Saturday, when Randy came over to do some front porch sitting, we were drinking iced tea—as one does on a front porch (unless it’s an hour when one should be drinking alcohol, which, sadly, it wasn’t quite yet). There were quotes or fun facts or something written in our bottle caps, and I actually decided to read mine. It said that if you chew gum while you’re cutting onions, you won’t cry.

Randy thought it was bullshit.

As for me, I don’t have the energy—or enough interest, frankly—to test either tip.

I’m just curious why the universe is sending me so many pointers on this issue. Perhaps it’s time for me to rejoin the workforce? And I’m going to be pulling long shifts of KP duty, peeling potatoes and chopping onions?

Or maybe I’ll be reincarnated, some hopefully far-off day, as a lonely little petunia in an onion patch?

Hard to say how my immersion in onions will manifest itself, but it seems prudent for me to keep these tactics—and my old ski goggles—handy, just in case.

Songs about Stars

A few hours ago Mark staggered through the door, finally home from his European business trip.

It was uncanny how Paige decided to start barfing just hours after his departure Tuesday morning, and maintained a steady stream of miserable maladies straight through to today, when I had to arrange a weekend doctor appointment for her inconsolable (and uncharacteristic) bawling.

Oddly, the doctor couldn’t find a thing wrong with her, which I could tell was bugging him. Diagnostic performance anxiety, I guess. I should have just told him she was trying to maintain a high level of drama and neediness up until her father got home.

When she wakes up tomorrow I’ll bet the college savings she’ll be pink-cheeked, perky, and all smiles. Daddy’s little girl.

The temptation to swan dive into self-pity when I was mopping up vomit while Mark dined in a room hung with Picassos and Chagalls was great at times. I won’t lie. But I know Paige didn’t set out to make my solo parenting stint extra challenging. (That’ll come when she’s a teenager, right?)

And through it all I did manage to find the silver lining to a week’s worth of Just Us Girls. The one thing I learned about myself is that it’s my instinct to move a puking child. Why do I do that? While holding a baby who is spewing forth, whatever reason would I have to want to walk her through other rooms of the house? Oh wait, honey, you didn’t get any on the hall carpet, let me quickly usher you through there!

On two occasions, instead of limiting the, well, splash zone, I took long circuitous pathways through the house to eventually get to a toilet. By which point Paige was essentially dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin and giving me a well-I-feel-MUCH-better-now-that-that’s-over look.

Fool me twice! And as I was on my hands and knees maniacally Formula 409ing every visible surface, I started chanting an internal don’t-move-the-puker don’t-move-the-puker mantra. But it was like when someone always makes the same kind of nasty or hurtful or weird comment to you, and even though they’re a repeat offender you still find yourself so stunned you never manage to bust out a zingy retort. And then in the shower some morning you decide you’re not going to take it any more, damn it, and you craft a brilliant scathing response. But then you lie in wait to defend yourself and they never come back at you. Aaaargh!

Which is all to say that once I had my stay-rooted easy clean-up baby barf approach all mapped out, she moved onto other gastric issues and didn’t upchuck again. Figures.

And despite the weird role reversal of Paige workin’ some illness drama and getting all the attention, it was Miss Kate–the one who’s usually with top hat and cane doing jazz hands up in yer face–who stole the show this week in the sweetest quietest way.

I almost never put Katie to sleep any more. With Paigey still doing the pre-sleep boob thing, it makes Mark and my division of bedtime labor an obvious one. But on my own I put Paige down first, then Kate and I run through her bedtime routine.

Aside from the realization that, despite her overflowing bookshelf, she often wants the same books I read her during the day read again at night, I noticed for the first time the glow-in-the-dark stars Mark painstakingly mapped out on her ceiling. If you set aside your jaded they’re just those glowy star stickers mindset, and lie down on the bed, take maybe the first relaxing breath you’ve had all day and gaze up at them, they really are quite beautiful.

Our post-reading, pre-nighty-night moments only lasted a few minutes. But that first evening, marveling at the beauty of the stars and giving Kate a fresh interest in them, I realized she has yet to go camping and to experience the wonder of sleeping outdoors. (Something I regretfully never did myself until my twenties.) And so, whispering–as I was directed to so as not to wake her babies–I explained what sleeping in a tent that’s open to the sky is like, and promised her that we’d do that together soon, while assuring her that, no, there aren’t any tigers that come to eat you when you go camping, and leaving out the part about how maybe bears will.

The next night, Kate capitalized on her ceiling stars, an asset she knew at that point impressed me. The moment the light was out she pulled me down on the bed imploring, “Look at the stars, Mama. Look at them!” I had to remind her to keep her voice down for the barracks full of sleeping dolls lined up under small blankets all along her floor.

On Night #3 the stars were still cool and all, but what really moved me was having my little bundle of three-year-old energy in a rare sleepy snuggy mode. The girl who, understanding full well the power she wields over her adoring mother, rations hugs and kisses like bottles of bourbon during Prohibition. The same gal who recently made the weird world-weary “I have no love left to give” remark—odd and adult-like enough to make me wonder if she’s been Tivoing As the World Turns behind our backs.

Anyway, somewhere in the course of the week she determined that once the lights went out, after a brief period of admiring the constellations, she’d roll over, back herself up to get really close to me, and request I sing her a couple ditties. Namely, “Silent Night” and “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” (Note the theme she’s going with?)

Of course, I needed to whisper-sing, since God knows her babies are extremely sound-sensitive sleepers, despite what I’ve told her about having it be preferable to get them used to sleeping without having to tiptoe around them. But does she ever listen to her old-fashioned mother? Noooooooo.

Anyway, let’s just say that there are notes towards the end of “Silent Night” that I struggle with. And whisper-singing only seems to exacerbate my cracking voice. But Kate just burrows into my side quiet and listening. She doesn’t seem to mind my singing voice. And for the sweet few minutes of snuggles it affords me, I don’t either.

Kate and I are wired the same way. Whatever it is we’re doing we’re always busy busy busy. We’ve got things to do, places to go. But this week reminded me that I need to carve out more time for the two of us to stop and do some star-gazing together.

And while I’m at it, I should come up with a few more songs about stars to add to my repertoire.

Yo, William Safire

Magazine obsessives that we are, even Paigey subscribes to something. And the mags, like all of Paige’s possessions, Kate immediately requisitions for her own amusement, until she eventually loses interest. Then the moment Paige so much as glances in the direction of whichever discarded item, Kate reclaims it, dragging it back to her bedroom lair, where Paige will be lucky to ever lay eyes on the thing again.

Some day we’re hoping that Paige will have her own toy.

So last night I was putting Kate to sleep and reading her Paige’s newly-arrived magazine, a publication that’s geared towards giblets far younger that Little Miss Precocious. Despite that, as Paige’s property it was being processed by Kate, and was still being held for inspection and assessment.

The last page had a picture of a gorilla on it.

“G is for…” I said, leaving her to fill in the blank. Lately, she’s been super curious about letters and words and such.

Looking up out of the corner of her eyes she said slowly, “Geeeee is foooooor… Gelephant!”

Well, yes Kate. Oddly enough, I guess that’s true.

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.

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.

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.