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Bedtime Story = Nightmare for Mommy

Bedtime Story = Nightmare for Mommy

Once upon a time, there was a mommy of three boys, Tyler, Michael and Julius. Every day the mommy happily wrote all sorts of stories on her computer, and every night the same thing happened.

“Mommy! Tell us a story!” The three little boys would plead.

The mommy never knew what to do. She would fake a coughing fit or excuse herself to go potty. She distracted (anyone want chocolate?) and demurred. She pleaded exhaustion or a headache. She simply couldn’t tell anyone the truth. She was a terrible storyteller. “Howard!” She would call to her husband. “The boys want a story.” So Howard would trudge into the room with a contrived, heavy sigh, “Another story?”

Tyler, Michael and Julius would nod feverishly, and Howard would pluck a tale from the trees or out of the sky or from a lifetime ago. A man completely incapable of reading a book or communicating a feeling could somehow spin a yarn with a cast of characters, intriguing and funny, getting themselves into all sorts of mischief. He even managed to end with some kind of moral.

Night after night, his stories entranced the boys, their mouths hanging open, glee in their eyes. The mommy listened, equally impressed. How did he do it? She wondered. It made her all the more insecure.

Generally, by the time Howard was finished, all that was required of her was some back tickling and kisses. Easy stuff she loved. But some nights, not often, but some nights, the children would persist in hearing one of her tales. They pitied her and gave her prompts to work with, “Tell us about when you were little?” Tyler would ask. But the mommy had blocked out most of her childhood and could not recall or imagine any of the funny antics that Howard could. “Tell us about a cat, a lizard and a fly?” Julius suggested.

“A cat, lizard and fly…” She pondered a moment. She had it! “There was an old lady who swallowed a cat.” She looked around at their eager faces. “She swallowed the cat to catch the lizard…” Their faces dropped.

“Mom!” They interrupted her, mid brainstorm. “That’s a nursery rhyme,” Michael scolded. “Not a story.”

Defeated.

“I don’t know boys. I have a headache.”

They shook their heads, not accepting it for a minute.

“I’m tired.”

They were enjoying the game and shook their heads again smiling.

“Who wants a drink?”

“No!”

“A snack?”

“NO!”

“Can I read you a story?”

“NO!” They happily shouted.

Wait! What’s that?” The mommy put a hand to her ear. “It’s the phone. Sorry, boys.”

“The phone isn’t ringing!” Tyler said.

“Come on.” Michael demanded. “Just do it!”

“Okay fine.” She finally conceded. “But it’s going to stink.”

“We don’t care.” Tyler encouraged.

“Okay. Here goes…” But nothing would come. “Uh…”

Eye squinting. Deep thinking. Nothing.

“Mom!” They stared at her. Her brain hurt. The pressure was too much.

“Okay, okay.” She began. There once was a mommy of three boys… uh, let’s call them Myler, Jichael and Zulius.”

At that, the boys giggled and the mommy perked a bit. “And this mommy just couldn’t think of a bed time story.”

“Oh no!” The boys said simultaneously.

“Wait. It’s good. So, she pretended to have a headache. The mommy held her head. Ow. Ow. Owwwwwwww.”

They giggled some more.

“And then she pretended to be so tired. YAWN!”

She fell over on the bed. “Zzzzzzzzz!”

“Mommy” Julius said, “Wake up!”

“Oh sorry. Okay, then she decided they needed snacks so she left to go get them apple slices.” She zoomed from the room. “Huffing and puffing, she put the apples on the bed. Then she decided they needed drinks. She ran down to get water.”

Giggles followed her out.

“Huffing and puffing, balancing three cups of water, she tried to be funny. But she was so tired coming back up that she walked right into the wall. The water spilled all over her. She was now wet. Oh man!”

The boys cracked up.

“So of course she had to run back down to get more water. Out the mommy ran, down the stairs and up with three new cups, but when she got back up the floor was still slippery and she fell, water cups flying in the air. She lay on the floor.”

Hysterical laughter filled the room.

Howard walked past, and offered a hand to help her up. “Show off.” He smirked.

She was soaked and may have broken a hip, but the boys were still laughing.

“Okay boys. Time for bed.”

“You didn’t finish!” They protested.

“Oh sorry.” She said as she tucked them in. “Then the mommy had to be taken to the doctor and the boys had to clean up the floor. They got so tired from working, they fell asleep.”

“That was a good story mommy.”

She smiled and kissed their happy, sleepy faces. “Good night, babies. I love you.”

The End.

Done.

Done.

 

Draw the Shades, Honey.*

Draw the Shades, Honey.*

Danielle wished he would look her way. She had been eyeing him from across the boardroom table, hoping to catch his attention, but he was so involved in his presentation he didn’t even notice her. It was hard not to notice him. He stood center of the room, gesticulating wildly. His strong features, animated in defending his work, brought out a palpable energy. His hair, a mass of curls as unruly as his temperament, bounced around as he did. Dan Steel was on fire and the whole room stood at attention, but none so much as his assistant, Danielle.

She had worked for him for over a year now and knew what he was going through. These idiots around the table wouldn’t know a good idea if it hit them in the face, possibly because the only things going into their faces were mouthfuls of muffin. She had worked side by side with Mr. Steel to make sure that every “i” was dotted and every “t” crossed. The campaign was brilliant, why couldn’t they see that? It seemed they were all against him. It made him all the more attractive.

A smarmy, know-it-all, who had the nerve to grip Danielle’s arm before the meeting, look down her blouse and ask for a cup of coffee, started speaking, “Mr. Steel, while I appreciate your efforts here, I don’t believe what you’re suggesting is a right fit for our target.”

Danielle stifled an audible puff of absurdity. The whole boardroom turned toward her. She really had to work on those stifling skills.

Smarmy man raised a brow, “Excuse me, miss? Did you have something to say?”

Danielle flushed deeply at the attention, bringing a gorgeous rose to her high cheeks, and brushed a thick curling wave of hair away from her face. She hesitated, but spoke forward, “I was just thinking that as the demographic you’re seeking to reach, I for one, really respond to this campaign. It speaks to my generation honestly, without pretense or being condescending. Maybe you’d consider an informal focus group of my peers before making any conclusions?”

There was an extended moment of silence while they considered her and her words.
“I like it,” said the figure closest to Mr. Steel. It was John Blake, president of Blake Industries, the company they were pitching the marketing and advertising strategy to.

Commotion and coordination ensued as the teams worked to come up with a plan to test the ideas. As they shuffled from the room, Mr. Blake briefly rested a hand on Danielle’s shoulder. “Nice job, little lady. Hey Dan,” He called out, “give this one a raise. I’m sure you’re not paying her enough.” He winked at Danielle who glowed, happy that she helped, and didn’t make a fool of herself. “Thank you, Mr. Blake. I really like your new product-line.”

“Do you now?” The older magnate said. “Yep, this one’s a keeper, Dan.” He affirmed as he walked out.

The last two left in the room, Dan Steel looked down at Danielle with an unreadable expression. “Yes sir, she is.” He agreed. His eyes bore into her, penetrating her skin, setting fire to her clothes, igniting her from within.

She was naked before him. Bending down, he breathed low and gruff in her ear “That was risky. Don’t take risks with my company.”

Danielle lowered her eyes, focusing on the hard yellow of her high heels to keep steady. “Okay.” She whispered, still unable to meet his gaze. The intensity of his nearness made her light-headed.

“Okay what?” He challenged, his breath like a hot caress.

“Okay, Mr. Steel.”

“I’ll deal with you later in my office.” He bit her lightly on her ear lobe.

She almost melted into the floor.

She couldn’t wait.

*This is a response to write in the style of a writer who influenced you. I chose Danielle Steel because from the age of 17-22 years-old, I couldn’t put her books down. At the time, she inspired me so much that I tried my hand at my own romance novel. It still sits waiting, yearning for someone’s touch under my smoldering, hot bed. Come on, you know you want it.

 

Set Them Free

“Okay boys, time to go.”

My boys continued staring at the television, transfixed by a sponge wearing pants.

“Hello? Boys?”

Nothing.

I sighed, but wasn’t surprised. I was used to talking to myself. It seemed I could speak directly to my children, literally in their faces, but if the TV was on, their brains were off, and they could completely block me out. It’s both amazing and extremely annoying.

Outside Howard was beeping the car horn like he had every answer on quick-fire jeopardy.  We were going upstate to visit the grandparents and to return the salamanders we captured there over a month ago to their natural habitat; but first I had to get my children out of the house. It’s an everyday battle.

“Michael, let’s go bike ride.”
“I want to stay inside!  Call Noah to come over.”

“Tyler let’s go play ball.”
“NOOOOOOoooooo….” Return to blank TV stare.

“Julius, how ‘bout a walk around the block?”
Foot stamping, arm folding, “I don’t wannna! I wanna play Gold Fish!”

I may be partly to blame for their homey natures, but I prefer to blame society. When I was growing up, I had the run of my neighborhood; while at 10, Tyler isn’t even allowed to walk down the block to his friend. It’s the culture of the day to keep them close, protected. So while I do push them out on the lawn (where I keep watch), and have friends over (where I keep watch), and have them involved in many sport activities (where I drive, Howard coaches and I, you got it,  keep watch), they are now creatures of habit and home. It’s just not the same world anymore.

We make it to the bungalows. The boys are like panting pups, ready to race outside to run wild, but Howard grabs the salamander container. “We’re going to release these guys first.”

Groans.

“Can’t we do it later?” Michael whines.

“We want to go by the paddle courts.” Tyler moans.

Julius stands in between his big brothers, looking supportively whiny.

Howard shakes his head. “Release first, play after.”

We traipse through the woods behind the bungalows. Howard lugs the heavy Tupperware filled with the salamanders who had ‘summered’ in our backyard on Long Island.

After being coaxed, a.k.a. tortured thru whining, into taking them home, Howard and I had every expectation of soon burying them. There seemed no way for these guys to survive so far from their natural habitat. Regardless, Howard and Julius created a salamander wonderland filled with moss, sticks and a big rock. It was very damp with ‘pools’ of water. Howard constructed a special mesh cover for better ventilation. We had no idea what to feed them, so Julius and Howard packed the container with bug filled mud and we hoped for the best.

As it turned out, it was even better. The salamanders fed on some kind of larva that seemed to mysteriously grow in the water. They lounged on the rock. On many occasions, I saw them tucked neatly into a moss cave, one on top of the other, two little orange heads, almost unnoticeable. We did nothing but look at them every few days, and then not even that.

Looking now at these luxury accommodations, our Tupperware penthouse seemed damp and homey; the perfect place for two little, orange creatures to happily lounge the day away, while the woods seemed vast and dangerous. I had a moment of regret. Maybe we just should have left them in our yard.

Didn’t matter now; we were here and it was time to set them free. We placed the Tupperware near a tree and added a thick branch so they could walk out on their own. We watched for a while, but the salamanders made no attempt toward escape. Howard placed them higher on the branch to show them their surroundings. The salamanders turned and crawled back into the Tupperware.  After repeated attempts to ‘guide’ the salamanders to their freedom, we ultimately had to physically place them into the woods.

We left them there, looking so small and lost. I felt guilty, which was ridiculous. This was where they belonged. Right?

Our boys quickly forgot about them and ran from the woods back toward the bungalows. “Release the hounds,” I mocked as they galloped past, tongues lagging. They were so happy here, despite the morning difficulties getting them out. The bungalows had always been a cocoon of sorts, filled with family, friends of family, grass and freedom. Here, kids can be kids, like the old days.

“We’re going to find grandpa.” Tyler announced, using his upstate independent voice.

“I think he’s down by Sandy’s bungalow playing cards.”

“We’re going to find him.” He reiterated confidently.

“Okay, watch your brothers.”

They headed away from us, each walking with a little swagger, down toward some bungalows about 100 feet away, but out of my vision. Howard and I smiled at one another and I almost welled with tears. Letting them go was scary, but they were good. Howard would follow them shortly, just to make sure.

I still wonder about the salamanders.

His Name was Puppy

Today she had a done a bad thing. She knew she wasn’t supposed to open the door but her father was calling to her from the other side, cajoling her into acquiescence. “Come on, sweetheart, open the door for daddy.” Her mother shouting from behind her, “Don’t you do it! Don’t you open that door!”

She stood in the middle. Turning both ways, conflicted, afraid, overwhelmed. She couldn’t take it anymore, the pleading, the yelling… it was too much. So against her mother’s wishes she had opened the door, and then flew out of it, away from her mother, right past her father. Running. Running. Out of the house, around the block, until finally, panting, she rested against a tree. She took a few deep breaths, lingered a bit to pick at the bark of the tree and then walked slowly back to the house. Where else was there to go, really.

When she returned, her parents were sitting there in the yellow kitchen, waiting. “I’m sorry ‘bout that, doll-face.” said her father, tussling her hair and grinning sheepishly.
Her mother knelt before her, grabbing her arms with her hands, “I shouldn’t have done that to you. It’s okay that you opened the door. I’m not mad.” Her mom gave a comforting little smile, “Okay?”

She shrugged. She could take it. She could take it all. It was no big deal. “Sure. Okay.”

Her parents exchanged a strained glance, and sent her off to play in her room.

She sat there now on her bed with Puppy, her favorite stuffed animal since she was a baby, and “A Wrinkle in Time,” one of her favorite books, semi-listening to the angry voices billowing up the stairs. The voices were loud and full of hurtful accusations. At 10 years-old, she was well aware her parents were divorcing, but it didn’t make her cry or anything. In fact, unless the fighting was particularly hateful, she could block it out completely.

Years later, her grandmother would relate a story about how she walked into the enraged house to find the little girl coloring a picture on the floor, her parent’s screaming all around. The grandmother bent down and asked, “What’s all that fighting about, pussycat?”
The little girl answered, “I don’t hear anyone fighting, grandma.”

The little girl listened for just a moment, hugged her worn, torn, well-loved Puppy a little closer and returned to her reading. It was no big deal. No big deal at all.

Puppy lived till the ripe, old age of 17, when all the thread in the world couldn’t put Puppy together again.

He is lovingly remembered.

How to Look Good While you get your Ass Kicked

Everyone around me jumped up and down in Lululemon workout gear, while I sported the very latest in ratty maternity wear circa 2005. Not that I just had a baby or anything as frightening as that. It’s just that all my comfy, old maternity clothes wound up as pajamas which at times double as gym clothes. So you see, I’m not only incredibly fashionable, I’m practical too.

In truth, the ladies weren’t all wearing Lulu. There were some Hard Tails thrown in, one girl brazenly sported Nike and two girls were wearing outfits that I couldn’t determine the brand. I tried to get a close-up look, but it got a little weird. I guess I should have waited till they were done with their squats.

I concentrated on the fashion parade to distract myself from what I was supposed to be doing – exercising in skinny, sadistic Stacy’s boot camp class.

“25 Burpees!” She yells; slim as a string bean with two little peas for boobs and a butt. The biggest thing about her is her mouth.

We hurry to comply and commence with quick jumping squats that plank. Again. Again. Now, I’m no exercise novice but Burpees are something that you can only effectively do if you’re in your 20’s, are super, super fit or are a frog. I am none of the above. When I do a Burpee, it looks more like a Throwupee. I’m a mess, a splatter of limbs on the floor, and I can never keep the pace.

“This is your hour!” Skinny, sadistic Stacy screams. Damn, I think. This is my hour. I look at the clock. Is it almost over? I want another hour, one which involves someone massaging my back and me sighing deeply instead of panting in pain. Why is this my damn hour?

“Squats!” She yells. “Stick out your butt, Ladies! Lower! Again! Again!” She sticks her peas out to demonstrate.

She is the exercise Nazi. You didn’t squat low enough! No breathing for you!

“Run!” She screams, her voice hot on my back. “RUN!!!” She is scary. And loud. I wish there were a skinny, scary, sadist Stacy mute button.

“It’s your hour!!! PICK IT UPPPPPP!” We all run faster. I’m closing in on one of the women whose clothing brand I can’t determine. If I can just get a little closer…

“Jumping JACKS!!! GO!”

She stops short to jump and I crash into her. It’s not pretty, but we both brush it off. There’s no time for injury or conversation in Stacy’s class. I’m jumping. And sweating. And I may have peed in my pants a little. Just a little. My body feels old, but I keep jumping, because SSS Stacy is on my ass. I think I feel my knee give a little. I may fall down. That would be embarrassing. I slow my Jacks, and just do the hands-up part and hope no-one notices. My friend across from me gives me a wink. Of course she notices. She does kick-ass Burpees too.

Finally, thank God, “my hour” is over. I’m putting away my weights, dragging my sorry, sweaty, old maternity clothes mess to the exit. I glance in the mirror as one of the Lulu’s pass. She’s perspiring, but her outfit is cute and fitted. She looks good and healthy. I’m sweating like a pig and my clothes hang from me, dampened, like I picked them out of my grandmother’s dirty laundry.

As I hobble out and try to convince my friend to go waste lots of money with me at Lululemon, somehow Stacy overhears. She obviously works her ear muscles as well. She beckons me to her and I’m afraid she’s going to make me drop and do 20, but instead she says, “It’s not the clothes that make you look good or even the body. It’s up here.” She points to her head.

Go figure. Crazy Stacy’s not so crazy.  I don’t need new clothes, I need a new attitude. Now, there’s something I can work on. No sweat. On second thought, I think I’ll still go shopping. Certainly couldn’t hurt.

Gym Minx

Gym Rat

A Three Hour Tour…

A Three Hour Tour…

“We’ll be there in about an hour.” Howard says over the phone to the Kittatinny registration woman. “Yeah, the three-hour tour. The three-hour tour.” Howard sings it the second time to the tune of, what else? Gilligan’s Island. Amazingly, she had never heard that before. Why is everyone getting so damn young?

Howard hangs up and addresses his troops.

“We’re going rafting!”

Howls and cries of pain answer him. Both Michael and Julius vie for loudest dissident, only Tyler is on board. “I guess I shouldn’t have told them all those “scary” river rafting stories this week.” Howard quietly confesses.

I’m appalled. “You did not!”

Howard shrugged. “They wanted scary camp-fire stories so I thought since we were going rafting this weekend, I’d make it…”

“…Frightening?!” Ugh.

“It wasn’t so bad. I had some people falling out of the boat. Maybe one of the boats got away with just the kids, losing them down river…”

“Good going dad.” I am shaking my head so fast I look like I’m shivering. “Well this is going to be fun.”

“You hear that boys!” Howard yells loudly and winks at me, “Mommy just said, this is going to be fun!”

I shiver some more.

Somehow I manage to get them dressed, fed and into the car. I sucker my mom into coming. It wasn’t hard, she’d do almost anything to hang out with the boys. It’s mostly for my entertainment though. My mom’s a screamer, and I was pretty sure I’d need some humor stranded on a raft for hours with crying children.

We drive the half hour or so, cross over into Pennsylvania and arrive at Kittatinny Tours, where a very serious safety rep informs a busload of us antsy adventurers the rules. “We are heading six miles up the river. You will be given life vests and a raft/canoe/kayak. Wear your life vests. Always. Normally the six miles takes around three hours but because the water levels are low today, it could be more like four. When you go under the black bridge you’re almost done. Wear your life vests. Have a great trip.”

The bus peels out of the parking lot. We’re on an amusement park ride called Crazy Bus Driver. We speed the 15 minute drive with a mountain on one side and the river looming below. The road is a never-ending series of S’s which she takes like an Indy 500 hopeful. There may be life vests for the water, but there are no seat belts on the bus. So apparently it’s okay to die on the road.

We make it alive, and are rewarded with a raft and vests. After a series of false starts, we are off. Julius, usually so tough, was very afraid, mostly of the rocks; especially after the first few times Howard and I rammed directly into one, got stranded and had to propel ourselves off with our oars. He kept crying and saying over and over with obvious distress, “You don’t know what you’re doing!”

“My story may have had rocks tipping the boat,” Howard whispered. I grit my teeth. It just keeps getting better.

My mom is cowering in the back of the raft. When she came aboard in her cute gold sandals, jeans and perfectly applied lipstick, she didn’t realize what she had signed up for. “Maybe you could drop Julius and I…?”

“On the side of the river, mom?” Her face fell. She was crying on the inside.

Hours and hours of peace and crying children

For the next few hours, we float and row. Row and float. The rapids are not really rapid, but it is a long trip and each child does his part to add to the crying. Occasionally my mom screams. We pass time trying to assess how long we have to go. We know we’re in trouble when Tyler breaks down. He had been the lone supporter on the escapade and watching him crumble was unnerving. “I just want it over already!” He bawled. “It’s forever!” We all agree and blankly set our sights ahead on the same tired, gorgeous scenery.

Then out of nowhere, Michael bursts with excitement and we all turn. “It’s the bridge!” We all cheer. With renewed energy, we plunge the oars into the water. Almost there! After four hours, I can no longer feel my arm, but I row, row, row my boat, to get myself off this river!

Okay, this isn’t the real black bridge but my mom couldn’t find my camera in the bag under all the soaked towels and then thanks to my massive arm strength, we passed it.

And then, cheers again from our boat. We see the parking lot. We have survived! We steer our raft to the gravelly shore. Rubber kisses rocks and we have docked. Howard takes one last poll before we depart. “Come on everyone, who had a good time?” Julius tentatively raises his hand and the other boys slowly follow. “Really, Julius? Would you want to go with daddy again?”

Julius quickly shakes his head. “No way! But at least no one fell in!

“Yeah, no way daddy!” Michael and Tyler concur.

“Let’s plan another adventure!” Howard suggests.

“No way!” We all chant, but I sense something brewing in the back of that man’s head. I really wish I could lift my arm to hit him with an oar.

 

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/06/30/daily-prompt-nature/

The Sounds of Silence*

The Sounds of Silence*

My house screams with quiet. There are no feet stomping down the stairs. No yelling for the bathroom, or at each other for stealing a toy, or a friend. There are no iPods singing or ICarly chatting on the television. The Wii dance party has shut down and someone else will have to help Mario save the princess. The whirl of the electric Sponge Bob toothbrush has ceased. The crack of my son’s bat hitting a home-run, just an echo. No hamburgers sizzling or Kung foo battles. No sing-offs, or screaming fits over homework. No honk of the bus or for the friend being picked up. No more reading The Three Little Pigs over and over. No more tantrums for treats, or crying while washing hair. No more slammed doors, loud farts or chanting for “Ice cream!”  No more calming their cries. No more, “Mama, come.”

I can almost hear the cock of the Nerf gun, right before one of my little boys shoot me in the back; and my own voice as I sing my babies to sleep. Almost. The giggling and tickling, laughing and whining is gone. My feet scrape loudly in empty silence. It’s just so quiet now. It’s almost as if it all never happened.

*This is a response to the weekly WordPress writing challenge on the role of sound in writing.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2014/02/17/the-sound-of-silence/

Are We There Yet???

We were in the car for two and a half hours already. Howard, me, the three boys, Smiles, our bearded dragon and two salamanders we had hijacked on our last visit, who we now intended to return to the wild. The boys had played their video devices and watched a movie. It was time for the badgering to begin.

“Are we almost theeeeere????” Michael whined loudly.

“About 20 minutes.” I called back.

“Lizard check!” Howard yelled.

Smiles tank was precariously positioned in between seats and luggage, with an overhead heating lamp plugged into the cars’ adaptor hanging over it, since it should never be below 80 degrees. Howard had been randomly calling for checks on Smiles every five minutes or so.

 

“I can’t take it!” Michael cried. He was not a great traveler. None of the boys were but Michael was the loudest. Plus, his distress seemed to morph into physical symptoms. “My belly hurts!!!”

“We’re going to stop at the next exit. You can use the bathroom.”

“Lizard check!” Howard yelled again.

“No!! I don’t want to stop.”

“You can go to the bathroom.”

“I just want to be there!” He howled.

“Lizard check!”

We were stopping at the next exit whether he liked it or not. Already I could feel a restless excitement, my mouth watering in anticipation. It was like, how you can hold in your pee until you finally get to the door of your house, but then the urge becomes unbearable. Getting your keys out, opening the door, it’s almost as if there’s no way you can hold it one more minute when you’ve been holding it for an hour. That’s how I felt one exit away from Twin Cone, my country crack.

Twin Cone is one of those off-the-highway, stand-alone ice cream joints that scream 1950. It has flavors like Panda Paws and Play Dough. We pulled in and I took everyone’s order. My family is too lazy to even get out of the car. The waitress must deliver the goods to their waiting hands. Michael decided it was too much work to even go to the bathroom.

I get in line and tap my foot impatiently till I finally place my order – a cup of vanilla, a cone and a cup of peanut butter chocolate chip, a Play Dough, a Sponge Bob pop and sides of chocolate sprinkles and crunch. I run each ice cream over to the car as it’s completed. I also try a sample of low-fat chocolate yogurt. It is adorable on a mini cone, but tastes borderline disgusting. I dip it in sprinkles and eat it anyhow. I’m not one for waste.

Aww. Isn’t it cute?

I settle in the car, positioning my cup and the side of topping for optimal dipping. Everyone is busy licking and getting sticky. I place a spoonful in my mouth and let it melt on my tongue. Ah. I’m ready for another hit when Tyler asks for water. I pass it back and go for my spoon again.

“Mommy! It’s dripping!” Julius calls out and I place my ice cream down to rummage through my bag for wipes. I clean his lap and then his face.

“I need one too!” Tyler says. Why does my 10 year-old look worse off than the 4 year-old?

“I’m good” Michael says, by far the neatest of the three.

“Can you check on Smiles?” Howard requests, apparently his scheduled “lizard checks” from the boys not sufficient. His cone is almost polished off, while I’ve barely begun.  Checking on Smiles would require a trip to the back of the mini-van, kind of like walking through an airplane mid-flight with everyone’s luggage stored in the aisles.

“Can I eat my ice cream first?” I snap. There was a rising pool of melted vanilla around the edge of my cup that was making me edgy. My crazy needed to be fed.

“My belly hurts!” Michael wails. “I can’t eat this!”

I turn around and see his ice cream teetering on the edge of the seat. One bump and it’s on the floor. “Tyler,” I say nervously, “get me Michael’s cup please.”

After an exaggerated “why do I have to do everything” grimace, he hands it over where I place it safely in the garbage (Howard).

I get two spoons in before the calling winds up again.

“Mommy it’s dripping!”

“Mommy I’m done!”

“Oh no! I spilt!”

“Lizard Check!”

I’m about to explode, but decide to just ignore everyone and drink my ice cream. I stir in some sprinkles. It is cool, creamy goodness. I’m not answering anyone for a few minutes. I’m on a break.

“Are we almost there?!” Michael whines.

“Almost.” Howard says. “Less than 10 minutes to the bungalows!”

“Yay!” The boys cheer.

“Who wants to go river rafting?!” He booms.

“NO!” The boys protest.

“Then it’s settled!” Howard roars, with that crazy glimmer in his eye. “We go rafting!”

Everyone in the back seats begin to cry.

I continued eating. There was nothing I could do anyway. We were almost at the bungalows. The fun was just getting started.

The Cat Whisperer

Michael and Julius have a new friend. She’s about 75 years-old and lives on our block in a semi-rundown house. I have heard random gossip from the morning dog walkers that her recyclable garbage contains only wine bottles. Another neighbor labeled her a nasty, old lady.

Until recently, I had never met her. I knew her house, but like so many people who are close enough to touch, our paths never crossed. Then one day, while playing on our lawn, Michael and Julius spotted a black cat across the street. It became our activity for the next ten minutes to follow it. No matter how it scampered from us, we pursued. At least they did. I pursued them.  Finally, the cat stopped at her driveway, walked up toward the porch and laid out on the concrete, stretching like he owned the place, which he obviously did.

Photo of Marina by Michael

“Her name is Marina,” said a quiet voice off to the side.

I turn my head and notice a woman in a blue, flowered housedress sitting on an old kitchen chair on her porch. It’s not even a porch really, just a small, guard-railed area to stand and get your key out for the door.

“She’s a little skittish, but mostly playful. Come around to this side of her and pet her head.”

My boys listen and beam proudly when Marina rolls over for them and sticks her head under Michael’s hand for continued pleasure.

The woman goes on like she’s talking with a friend over tea. “I took her in. She was a street cat and it took a while to get her to trust me, but now she’s very comfortable. Not like that one.” She points, and we all turn to see another cat strut out of her open door, rub up against the leg of her chair and saunter down the steps. “That’s Valentine. He’s not nice.”

Valentine had Garfield’s body and Cujo’s expression. “I think he was abused.” The woman said and Michael and Julius automatically take a step back. Marina did as well. “You never know the story with rescue cats. Where they come from, what’s happened to them.”

Valentine photo by Michael

Two more cats emerged from the house, and Michael and Julius stared in awe. “Are they good?” Julius asked.

“That one’s Cocoa. She’s very friendly. And this here is Pumpkin, she’s sweet but very shy. I don’t think she’ll let you touch her.”

Michael and Julius slowly approached, with cartoon-quality, quiet faces and matching exaggerated, quiet steps. I almost expected them to turn around with a finger to their lips and go “Shhhh. I’m hunting wittle cats.”

Cocoa loved up their loving and, Pumpkin, as expected, stayed a safe distance away, jumping backwards anytime one of the boys invaded her space.

Photo of Cocoa by Michael

We stayed too long, the boys obsessed with the felines running round, and watching Valentine (“the meanie”) mess with the other cats, stalking and then pouncing on them. I said a few words to the woman, and she acknowledged me, but spoke mostly to the boys in a soft, adult-voice, schooling them on each cats temperament and history. The boys were fascinated, asking questions, listening, not just politely, but with interest. Wow.

There was no condescending baby talk. No, “Oh those are cute kids.” She spoke with my four and seven year-olds as equals. I wondered about her. Alone, in her house with her rescued cats and a reputation. I remembered she gave out inappropriate candy on Halloween the first year we lived here – sticky, wrapped hard candy, probably from a bowl sitting on her table for 5 or 50 years.  We never knocked again.

It was getting late. I was getting bored. “Guys, come on. We’ve got to go home.”

“That was so cool.” Michael exclaimed as they skipped back towards our house.

“Yeah!” Julius chimed in.

“Can we go back later?” Michael asked.

“Yeah!” Julius again concurred, nodding expectantly.

“No, not today guys. We were there long enough.”

“Can we get a cat?” Julius asked hopefully.

“Uh, we have a cat. Remember? Fuzz.”

“Yeah, but he’s boring.” Michael said glumly.

“He is not.” I defended poor Fuzzy. “Come on. Let’s go play with him”

We walked in our house and neither kid showed the slightest interest in Fuzz. “It’s okay, boy. I’ll play with you.” I cooed and stroked his fur.

We’ve been back to the cat lady at least half a dozen times now. She always steps out onto the porch in her house dress, like she’s been waiting for us. I know as little about her as I did the first day. The boys love going. They enjoy her conversation. They love her cats. They’ve won Marina and Cocoa over completely. Pumpkin is still a spectator but a less jumpy one, and “Meanie” Valentine is still not showing the love. I’m the real outsider. Watching. Waiting. Wondering. Do I really know any of my neighbors? Not really. So close. So distant. Who was she? Who is she?

Every so often I run in my neighborhood and sometimes notice her door left wide open. The gaping hole looks dark and empty and full of quiet, and I wonder, is she the one who needs to be rescued…?

They Say “Nay” to the Pony

They Say “Nay” to the Pony

Unofficial scientific research alert – boys don’t like pony tails.

At least mine don’t. And I’ve got three of the younger set, uninhibited by societal constraints. Unlike my trained husband who might just shrug and say, “It’s fine” to avoid confrontation, the boys tell it as they see it – the truth, in all its naked, cellulite reality.

Like when Michael was five and met an older neighbor walking in the street.

“Wow, you’re 90!” He exclaimed and the lady’s face lit up.

“You’re almost dead!” He continued and she seemed to die right there.

Or, like last night while snuggling with little Julius at bedtime, he’s happily squeezing my stomach, plumping it into a nice pillow. “Mommy,” he says adoringly, “your belly is so squishy like your boobies. I just love them.”

Thank you Julius.

For creatures who don’t notice the clothes I place before them, or that I’ve been asking them to do the same thing for five minutes, they seem to see things others don’t.

“Mommy, why does your stomach fall down like that?”

“I can’t go in the kitchen, what you’re cooking stinks soooooo bad!”

“What’s that big red bump on your face?”

And my ponytail? Michael, my most articulate child, says it best, “Mommy, you don’t look as pretty like that.” Well, thanks for sugar coating it, honey.

I’ve supported the pony look back in many incarnations; the banana clip, the scunci and scrunchies, the hair clips and clappers -anything to pull back my hair. I have even resorted to using those ridiculous ‘silly bands’ when desperate. (At least they’re good for something.)

I think of it as the hairstyle for the aesthetically lazy and/or overwhelmed, both me. I mean who knows what would happen if I just let my hair run wild at the supermarket? I might just pick up regular milk instead of low fat, organic or fricken Oreos instead of Annie’s Bunny Crackers.

Although the boys don’t like the style, I still wear it daily. Generally no one notices, but that’s only because I’ve realized that no one really notices me at all, but when they do, they don’t like it. 100% of the time.

Yesterday, Julius put a necklace he made at camp around my neck, then stepped back to survey his work. His expression read like an unsatisfied artist scrutinizing a canvass. “Take your hair out,” he ordered and I complied. He mussed with it a bit, and then smiled before finally nodding in approval. “Much Better.”

Whenever Tyler looks up from his haze enough to notice that I’m wearing one, he’ll wrinkle his nose and point. “I don’t like those.” When I go in to snuggle before bed, he’s apt to pull the band from my hair. “Better.” He’ll sigh.

I don’t know why, but I decided to stand in front of the mirror and I really study the look. I mean three boys were out and out saying they didn’t like it, I should it take under consideration.

Look A with hair down – I’m young and carefree, pretty and relaxed. I smile.

Look B with hair back – I’m busy. I’ve got things to do. Hurry up, I’m saying. This is serious. Chop chop! I’m a librarian, a school teacher, an ugly mom. Ew!

I flung the band from my head. They’re right. How could I not have seen this before? I blew the curls away from my eyes. Probably, I just didn’t care. And there again was the truth, I realized, and I tied back my mop, because ugly or not, I ain’t putting this pony out to pasture.

Fabulous

Hmm…