Loverboy

A reprint from my "other blog"

My son is smitten.

The object of his affection is another four-year-old classmate by the name of Sarahpatterson. It is all one word when he says it, like she is Madonna, or Cher.

"Dad," Matthew says out of the clear blue one day, "You've just GOTTA meet Sarahpatterson."

"Sarahpatterson?" says Dad. "Who's she?"

There is a long pause during which my son is obviously contemplating a vision in his memory.

"A girl," he finally says with a sigh, "In a pink shirt."

I guess that's all that needs to be said.

The object of his affection is certainly a beauty. A cute little blonde thing with boatloads of personality. I'm sure my son's lovesickness was brought on by her obvious charm. And I know my youngest son. He wants very much to please. And now he has decided WHO he wants to please.

The teachers at nursery school tell me he follows her around like a lost puppy, fetching things for her, making sure that she has everything she might want or need.

"I gotta get that girl to tell me how she does it," her Mom emailed me, "I want to know if it will work on her father."

I doubt it. Most men stop indulging us once they hit double digits. Unless they want something.

Now that he is besotten, I fear that this will take away from his studies. How will he concentrate during show and tell? Open his juice box? Properly complete Finger Painting 101? This may set him back for months!

I was quizzing him one day about the pictures and letters at school. I'm so proud of how smart he is. He remembers that A starts the word apple and D starts the word duck. "T is turtle," he says.

"What's S?" I ask.

"Sarahpatterson."

I sigh. "And what was she wearing today?"

He looks up and scans his brain, "A blue dress."

Now THAT he remembers.

"Sarahpatterson should come up to the cottage," Matthew announced one day. "We have lots of rooms, but she can sleep with me."

Ah the innocence of the Pre-K set! He'd probably let her share his stuffed animals and hog all the blankets.

I can't take it anymore! Matthew, please stay little! Be that sweet little long-lashed, brown-eyed bugger who still believes that you can just adore someone...and everything stays as simple as which bed you sleep in.

And Sarahpatterson, please don't break my little guy's heart!

We Three Pounds

Three pounds!

How can I gain three pounds in two days?!

I know, it sounds like I'm whining, but that's not a great rate to buy into. That would be nine by New Year's, thirty-three by Martin Luther King Day, and something like seventy-eight by President's Week. Seventy-eight! That's a whole 'nother eight-year-old boy. Just what don't want to be carrying around with me! Yikes!

Okay, obviously I'm panicking. I guess "We Three Pounds" showed up just like the Kings, "bearing gifts" and "travers(ing) afar"--that is, if "afar" can be Grandmas' and Grandpas' houses over the last two days.

But could I really have eaten two pounds worth?

I didn't eat two pounds worth of walnut kolachki, although I could have. They remind me of Christmases with Grandma Ashman--perfect---delicious AND sentimental! But even though Colleen CLAIMS she loves me, she also says she's done making Christmas cookies FOR-EV-ER!!!! That's okay, though, because she's also said she's never having another dog, and Lexie the pitbull really loved the cookies, too. Tee hee hee.

Hmm, I did get closer to two pounds worth with the chocolate fudge and peanutbutter buckeyes at Mom's house. And Shelly was so "kind" as to bring the leftover dips from her party for us to graze on Christmas day. Mmm, I can't resist a taco dip with real jalepenos! But calories eaten while standing up don't count anyway, we all know that!

I might have gone over the limit with lasagna and garlic bread for dinner. Mom's lasagna, especially the vegetable version, is irrisistable. And Faith's Ameretto cake (heavy on the Ameretto, of course) is absolutely heavenly. How can I resist having my cake and liquor, too?

So I COULD blame it on Colleen and Mom and Shelly and Faith. For twisting my arms, of course, and forcing me to enjoy all that food. Then again, it might have just a little to do with the numerous glasses of wine I've consumed. Ouch!

I'll have some making up to do this week.
"Guide us to thy perfect lite." ;-)

On the First Day of Christmas...

...Or why I never get a damn thing done...

I wake up this morning ready to roll. It's my first day of vacation, and I am determined to Get Something Done. The house needs to be picked up, some bills need to be paid, and presents wrapped (ALL of them)! If I have time, I want to get to that newsletter I was going to write--the one that used to be The Christmas Chronicle, but will now be a New Year's Greeting.

I got to sleep until nine. What a treat! Matt and Ben are up already, watching television. I decide to nip this in the bud right away. We can't have them doing that all day. They turn it off as soon as I ask and decide to build a fort out of blankets and pillows in the family room. Full of Christmas spirit, they are singing, "Fa la la la la, la la la la." How cute! I sneak in to have breakfast with my blog.

I don't get much written, though, before duty calls. My little boys are quite proud that they can get their own breakfast, but today they need help because the cereal bag isn't open yet and the milk is too full for 8-year-old muscles to lift. No big deal, Mommy will grab that for you. While I'm doing that, though, I notice the bags of assorted candy, paper decorations, green and red pencils and plastic junk left on the counter from yesterday's school parties. I sort through and sneak some of it in the garbage.

Oh, that reminds me. I still have my bag of stuff to sort through. A middle school teacher doesn't get much, but I should take care of that now. The phone rings next, of course, and fifteen minutes later I am looking at my cold tea and toast, and I haven't begun a single thing on my "To Do" list.

I finish my journal entry and hear those voices singing "Fa la la la la," in the other room. I resolve to get back to work.

Start by picking up the house. Can't throw away cans until I empty the can bag. Can't clear off the counter until I bring in the recycle bins. Can't throw in a load of wash until I put away the clean ones taking up space in the baskets.

A voice cries out desparately from the kitchen, "Who threw my reindeer in the GARBAGE?!"

Mommy panics. Dangit! I got nabbed! "Um, it must have fallen in, Sweetheart. But, um, the googly eyes fell off and we lost the nose. So now all that's there is a brown paper cone."

Matthew is appaled! "It's a REINDEER, Mom!"

"Fa la la, la la la, LA LA LA!"

Ever onward! In the midst of folding clothes, though, I stop to answer the door, bring in the mail, and referee two arguments between my sons. Putting clothes away necessitates my clearing the pile of Christmasgifts out of my closet and dragging my kids upstairs to clean their room.

Teenager wants to join the sing-along, "Don we now our GAY apparel!"
"Cut it out!" Mommy yells.
"I know!" is the sheepish answer. Followed by an evil little giggle.

My mother calls. Can we come over tonight so she can give the boys their tree ornaments BEFORE Christmas? Of course we can. There's an hour chopped off the day, so now I really need to get my act in gear!

I hear the voices upstairs, changing the words to the song, "Poo-py, poopy, poopy, pa-ants. Fa la la, la la la, la la la!"
"Hey, you two, cut it out! Sing the song right!"

I head in to vacuum the family room, but get no further with the pillows and blankets all over the floor.
"After we pick up the blankets, can we watch TV?"

No way. They are going OUTSIDE to play in the snow! Mommy will finally get some wrapping done.

First there is the endless wrapping of children in snow gear, though. Once they are cleared away, I get brave and pull out some little kid gifts. I lock the door so that they will have to knock to get in, giving me time to hide the loot. YES! I am LOCKING my children OUT of the HOUSE!" Give me another Bad Mommy award. It'll look great with my collection!

But outside is never, truly, outside.

Knock, knock. "Mo-om, where are the sleds?"
Knock, knock. "Mo-om! Benny threw a snowball at me!"
Knock, knock. "Mo-om, I need new mittens."
Knock, knock. "Mo-om. Why are you locking the door?"

It really doesn't matter--nine presents later it is raining wet snow and they are ready to come in. Sigh!

Mommy caves, "Do you guys want to watch TV?"

A Very Satisfying Meal

I think the reason I first notice him, is that he has a cap on. Not an impolite, improperly worn baseball cap, but a tweed cap like Gatsby would have worn. Sure, he probably should remove it, sitting in a booth in an Italian restaurant, but he has his coat on, too. Like he is ready to leave.

So as I walk by to be seated with my two youngest sons, I can't help but glance his way. He sits stiffly, straight-backed, frequently checking the door. And on the seat in the booth beside him sits a vase full of red, sweetheart roses.

Aha! The romantic in me can't resist. I'll make sure I sit facing him. I can't wait to see his awaited love arrive! Will he propose to her? How I'd love to be a nosy bystander for such an event!

Fortunately it's pretty easy to pretend that I am looking at my boys while I check Loverboy out. He has dark eyes and hair, and a clean-cut, military feel to him. He is nice looking, but not too handsome. I like that. In the stories in my head, I can imagine that they love each other for more than just good looks, and soon they'd be engaged right here in the corner of my favorite pizza joint!

I start to create some scenarios. Maybe he'll do the old-fashioned, get-down-on-one-knee. Maybe he'll announce his love to the whole restaurant, and bravely wait for her public answer. Perhaps he has something elaborate planned, like a hidden ring brought out by the waiters. There is no end to the possibilities!

And yet, as my daydreams ramble on, and my salad arrives, still no girl has joined him. Loverboy continues to fidget nervously, and the corner booth he occupies alone seems to swallow him up. Twice a thoughtless waiter apologetically sets his tray on Loverboy's table as he unloads it for a nearby party. I want to shake him! Can't he see that a little piece of history is about to take place in that corner?! Would it kill him to walk a little further?!

Oh, no! What if She doesn't arrive?! How long will he sit there waiting for her? His face looks so hopeful and nervous, that I begin to worry for this stranger. I really, really love happy endings.

Then I wonder if I've got it all wrong. Was I silly to assume that he's a great guy who deserves to be met by his beloved? Maybe he's been horrible to her, and this meeting is his desperate apology. Maybe it's best that she never shows up. Maybe this guy thinks I'm psychotic because I've been staring at him all through dinner!

As Loverboy makes a phone call, I silently chide myself. What is my problem? I'm always off in some other world, creating scenarios and daydreams, assuming that everyone is good and happy and oh-so-in love! Sheesh! I need a reality check. This poor guy is probably nothing more than a florist who had an extra arrangement left over today, and is irritated because his business partner is late. To hell with it!

Just when I have talked myself into paying attention to my food instead, she arrives. She has been brought in by a friend who was, it appears, in on the surprise. She did not know that he would be there! Loverboy's girl is pretty, but not too pretty. Perfect!

I have tears in my eyes as she hugs him, and I catch some smiles on the faces of others at the tables around me. It wasn't just me, then! A group of strangers collectively sighing in relief for this young man in the corner, enjoying a long-awaited happy ending.

On the way out, I just can't resist. I walk by their table and smile at her, "I was so glad to see you arrive," I say. She smiles back at me, and looks at him.

I leave the restaurant, very satisfied.

"The sun a spark, /hung thin between/ the dark and dark" -John Updike

I've just discovered which sons' arms have outgrown their coat sleeves.

It's definitely winter in upstate New York. Updike's words above are barely exaggeration here, where the sun really is a spark, or a low flame, at least. The highway construction cones will finally be put away, with the exception of a few strays here and there that will emerge in the spring, popping up like crocuses when the sun melts. I drive to and from work in the dark, a trip which is shorter than the time it takes for the heat to kick on. And what the heck did I do with that snow scraper, anyway?

My neighbors will soon disappear into their houses, and by the time they reemerge, many will have more or less children. We wait longingly for that first tranquil snow fall, which we hope arrives in time to make the Christmas decorations look good. After that, just about everyone under the age of 12 wants it all to melt away until next year.

But that will not happen. Oh no. It will pile up endlessly, mercilessly, until there is nowhere left to put it. We will shovel and scrape, push and shove, play and pray, but the snow is tenacious. Snowplowed piles in shopping mall parking lots literally do not completely melt until June. By February I will feel as if I can no longer see color.

Already I am lamenting, and the big stuff has not even begun. We haven't had a real big snow storm. In the pool at work to pick the first snow day, I have December 19th, so cross your fingers for me. But honestly, the big, stay-in-your-house snow days are kind of fun. It's the everyday, wet, cold, slushy, gray, don't-see-the sun-all-day endlessness that I could do without.

Sigh.

Send me some sunshine!