Even with the dogs and the cats, it’s so still.
Away for five days with their great aunt, the boys aren’t here.
They aren’t in their beds, whispering to each other from seven feet apart as we insist they hush up and go to sleep.
They aren’t asking for one more drink of water, one more story, one more joke.
As we were driving home last night from my nine year old’s birthday dinner in a bar…
(And to be perfectly clear, my son hadn’t actually set foot in a bar until Saturday night, when we gave our 20 year old nephew $100 as we ran out the door saying “Thanksforsittingtaketheboystoamovieanddinnerkthxbai!” All we heard about the next day was why Bobby V’s was the best restaurant my boys had ever been to, and asking have you ever been there Mom? Really? When? Do you know where to park?)
…my father and I were discussing music. He asked me if I could find a Paul Simon CD for him.
Sure, Dad, no problem.
“OK, and I think I have some stuff you’d like. I’ve got the new Andrea Bocelli, and I have all that Bon Jovi I bought for your mother.”
Click to continue »
It’s his first real bike.
Other than his mother’s face smothering him with kisses, it was the first thing he saw when he woke up this morning, his ninth birthday. He was up in an instant, putting on his clothes and running for his helmet.
“Take it easy,” he tells me as I leave. “I can tell you should.”
I’m sure our second date is what nurtured his overprotective nature and helped it blossom. After an Indian Summer day on the beach, playing hooky from work, I started to come down with a fever. He carefully followed me back to my apartment an hour away, where I promptly started hallucinating from the fever.
Anyway.
I heard the thud of the backpack making contact before I saw what happened. Muffled by the puffy ski jacket, the sound of backpack-to-flesh was nonetheless unmistakable.
Restless from endless (pointless) days of Connecticut Mastery Test-taking and no recess, my oldest was uncharacteristically violent with his brother that week. He swung his heavy backpack, stuffed to the brim with God knows what (he likes flat rocks), and landed a blow square against his brother’s shoulder.
For the first time in more than a year, I pointed to The Corner. Click to continue »
The tetras died last week. Cleaning up in the wake of rotavirus at 2 am, I saw Mike (or was it Ike?) floating upside down in the bowl. The other followed about 12 hours later. Having survived the bigger, dumber cat breaking their bowl and the subsequent (yet momentary) flailing about on the kitchen floor, I thought they were hardy suckers. Not like that showy little golden tetra who mysteriously disappeared when I left all the fish in a mixing bow overnight. No, these were tough guys, capable of dodging the sharpest and fastest cat claws.
“Where did you get that bracelet?”, some of my friends have asked me lately as I’ve proudly worn this jingly-jangly beauty that fits so perfectly on my wrist.
It’s not new. I suppose I could recreate it if I tried very hard, but I certainly couldn’t have bought it as-is.
I got so lucky with the header picture.
Yes, I’ve posted this picture before. I took it at South Beach, trying to capture my boys in silhouette.
It’s now among my very favorite pictures, ever. Sure, Alison Shaw, you’ve got the pole position (and the second… and the third…) in my dining room. Truth be told, your prints are the first and only serious pieces of art we’ve owned.
But I’m claiming the blog header as my own.
I have so very much to say. But It’s going to have to keep for a bit while my brain attempts to make sense of the impossible. Back soon.
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