Icescreammama

More From The Pitch

Posted on July 3, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

Day two at the New York Pitch conference.

Her name was Jackie and she was an Executive Editor at the Berkley Publishing Group. One by one in alphabetical order, we pitched our stories to her in front of our group. While I didn’t throw up during the practice round the day before, I had another chance to do it right here in front of a real live editor. Although with my racing heart, I was hoping that I’d pass out instead. If I was going to make a dramatic impression, I’d prefer the cleaner option.

Our chairs were arranged in a semi-circle stemming from the hot seat area, and I counted each person off as they went…The inspiring woman with the spinal cord and brain injury turned whirling dervish, the preacher’s wife who pulsed with personality and light, the girl who looked like sunshine and whose characters were named Orion and Graffen, the mother writing about mothering a bi-polar child, the bra-tender, the unassuming woman from Singapore with the beautiful prose…

They all took their turns along with many fascinating others, and I while I was slowly learning some names, I began to associate them through their stories.

Jackie listened attentively to every one of them. She took her time, re-reading the pitch page put before her, considering her words and advice carefully. She was kind; suggesting cuts here or there, asking clarifying questions, offering gentle critique.

“I am completely unintimidating,” she said, and as proof showed us her glasses which had been scotch taped together. I did breathe easier in her open, unassuming way, until I considered that she was one of the four people we would see in this conference who held our dreams in her hand.

I was number 10 and when my turn came, I walked to the seat next to her and smiled. I forgot all about the 17 other people watching me as I introduced myself and my novel. I dove into my pitch, channeling the practiced voice I reserved for elementary class readings and my old advertising copywriter days.

When I finished, I gave a brief account of any relevant writing experience, flashed a broad, hopeful smile and then sat back relieved it was over and knowing I had done as well as I could.

She said nothing and I watched nervously as she re-read the presented copy of my pitch and bio. It was one of those extra-long movie minutes where you’re holding your breath, gritting your teeth and waiting on edge for the climax.

Finally she looked up at the class, turned my paper around towards them and said, “This, people, is a perfect pitch.”

Cue internal fireworks and champagne bottles popping. I beamed, giddy with pride and happiness. I wanted to take the moment and frame it. I could go home now. There was no topping this. I was done. Thank you very much.

“This is really great.” She said, leaning back in her chair. “I have nothing to ask you.”

Kvell. Blush. Glow.

“Well you can ask to see my manuscript,” I joked.

And she did.

Home run

53 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged Algonkian Writing conference, New York Pitch, pitching your novel, publishing, writing, writing fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

Here’s the pitch…

Posted on July 1, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I was going to throw up.

I was surprised it hadn’t happened already. For over a month I had been working up to it; filled with a mild anxiety that I shoved to the back of my brain, but this morning there was no pushing it down as it churned my stomach and rose to my throat. I was going to vomit on the first day of my Pitch the Novel writing conference. All I could do was bring gum and hope it didn’t hit my shoes or anyone else.

I don’t know what I was thinking signing up for a conference where the sole purpose was to put yourself center stage and sell your novel. My heart flutters just waiting to introduce myself in a group. Yet, in a moment of poor impulse control coupled with new midlife bravado, I hastily pushed send on my application and doomed myself to a month of indigestion and second guessing.

And now, it was here.

My husband had taken the next few days off so that I could attend, and he and the boys were dropping me at the train; the one he usually took to the office. “We’re a family of pitchers,” he said, ever the coach, “Now go get em.” I smiled but still waved goodbye like I was heading off to war.

Walking on shaky, stilted legs to the platform, I felt so out of practice for being a real adult. Yet I fooled everyone by sitting down and staring at my cell phone mindlessly. Monkey see, monkey do. What can I say? Eee Eee Eeee.

Forty-two minutes later, I stepped out of Penn Station and looked around excitedly at the blur of the faceless and the colorful, the purposeful and purposeless. It may only be a short train ride, but I was a long way from the person who used to walk these streets. I muscled up some lost swagger, straightened my sunglasses and only tripped once as I strode to the conference building where around 50 or so others loitered. Taking a deep breath that may as well have been filled with helium, I waited.

After introductions, we were split into three groups and I filed into a room with 16 others. It was central casting for farm girls off the bus in the big city. Still, though our wide-eyed expressions were the same, we were quite the hodgepodge; our ages ranging from 20’s-60’s, our races and backgrounds as diverse as the stories we were telling. We were the women’s fiction/memoir group. Many in the room had traveled a long distance to attend this conference. I felt a little lucky and guilty that I had easily hopped the 8:08 for our 9am start.

Our group leader, author Susan Breen, a kind woman and former success story of the conference, explained that we would each pitch our novel for feedback and critique from the group, then she asked us to turn the chairs in a circle. Ugh. Why did people like that? But of course, I turned my chair and we all faced each other expectantly.

While this was our practice day before meeting with the real editors, putting myself center stage and pitching wasn’t practice for me, it was go time. I sweat in my chair just watching the first person take the hot seat. I guess she did okay. It was hard to concentrate with the light pounding in my head and heart palpitations.

I was up next.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!

I was going to throw up.

53 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged Algonkian Writing conference, getting published, New York Pitch, Susan Breen, writing, writing conferences, writing women's fiction. Bookmark the permalink.

Missing Dad

Posted on June 24, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

When the call came in from my father’s home health aide, I was on the elliptical machine watching an episode of Housewives. Automatically, I groaned. It was first thing Monday morning; never a good way to start the week.

“Um hey Jolie,” I greeted hesitantly. Would she have found him asleep on the bathroom floor? Would the place have been turned upside down by an evening of semi-conscious wandering? Did he throw her out again?

I tightened for the impending trouble, “What’s up?”

“I can’t find your father.”

I wasn’t expecting that, but still, for all the crazy that went on in my father’s small world, at the moment this was still pretty low on the drama scale. I considered getting off the exercise machine but then decided to power on. I needed a positive place for my stress. And it was my time to exercise.

“Okay,” I said slowly, thinking as fast as I could, “You’ve checked the tub, right? And the floor?” I gave a little laugh. Only in my world, could my father’s frequent trips into unconsciousness be cause for sad humor.

“His walker is still here,” She said, “And the door was slightly open, his meds on the table and his bed was made.”

“His bed was made?” I repeated. It was the most curious and disturbing thing she had said. “So his weekend girl was there at some point but he never slept in the bed.” I stopped pedaling. “Shit.”

I hung up on Jolie to make some calls, while she did a more thorough investigation of his living quarters and surroundings.

My first call was to the home health agency to double check whether the girl had in fact seen him on Sunday. She was a fill-in, so I asked them to double check with her and get back to me.

Still pedaling, I contemplated my continued pedaling. Was I not taking this seriously enough? Should I be pacing? After 20 plus years coping with a mentally and physically challenged parent, I had learned to go flow, which meant keep peddling until I no longer could.

So while my feet moved on, my brain back tracked. He didn’t answer the phone yesterday. I didn’t think much of it at the time, since he often slept through the weekends. The last time we spoke was Saturday, although since he was half asleep, muttered unintelligibly was much more accurate than spoke.

With no one else to call and no other realistic options, I considered the two possible hospitals where he could be and dialed the closer one.

“Hi there, I’m looking for my father. He may have come in there yesterday or this morning?”

I waited while she checked his name.

“Yes, he was brought in yesterday. I’ll transfer you.”

Okay I breathed, missing father found. But why was he there? With his health problems and history, it could be a million things, many of them terrible.

My pace slowed but my heart rate sped up significantly. I was used to hopscotching through the landmines of his life, but while my sensitivity chip was broken it still emitted some charge, and I waited anxiously. For a fleeting second I thought he could even be dead; a realistic possibility that has loomed over my head for decades, so many in fact, that it almost didn’t seem possible.

Could this be it? Could this be the moment I had become so complacent and emotionally detached from that I didn’t even think to dread. Could the man who a lifetime ago told me stories by the edge of my bed, gave me dollars to tickle his back, charmed me with word and a smile no longer be?

I stopped pedaling. The air became more still. I heard my breath.

A nurse picked up, “Your father is fine.”

I almost laughed with relief and amusement. She clearly didn’t know my father.

“He came in for anxiety and we’re still awaiting psych to release him.”

I began pedaling again. It was just business as usual.

Missing Dad… since 1992

22 Comments

Posted in Dad and tagged aging parents, care taking for sick parents, caring for elder parents, dad, mental health, mental illness, midlife. Bookmark the permalink.

I Dream of Bikini

Posted on June 17, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m going to share an embarrassing superficial secret.

For years, decades really, I have wanted to wear a bikini. In my mind I saw the perfect one. It was always bubblegum pink with those 70’s strings hanging from the sides of the bottoms. I also imaged smooth, thin tanned legs that those sexy ties would be resting against, as well as the long lean torso showcased in the middle.

This would explain why besides the three times in my distant memory, I have never worn a bikini. The fantasy is not the reality and for a long time I was the kind of girl who thought if you can’t do something right, don’t do it. I’m still sort of that kind of girl.

Thus, years of swim dresses and cover-ups ensued. I even successfully managed to go without wearing a bathing suit for an entire summer – twice. Of course, all of this is unnecessary. I could certainly comfortably wear a swim suit, but that doesn’t mean that I am comfortable doing it. Also, since I dislike the water – both pool and ocean – turns out bathing suits are easier to avoid than you’d imagine.

I worked within these confines for basically my entire life, but the other day I was flipping through a bathing suit catalogue that somehow mistakenly wound up in my mailbox, and I came across a suit that almost fit my fantasy… as did the model wearing it. I lingered on the page; silently coveting and felt a shift within me.

I wanted that suit.

I couldn’t believe it. Now that I was over 40, had three children come out my pooched, overstretched stomach, I was going to cave? Was this some trick of middle age? I knew I couldn’t see distance well anymore, but could I no longer see myself clearly either? Did I really think I could get away with this?

Logically the answer was no, at least not in the way I’d like to, yet still I felt gripped by urgency. This was probably my last chance to wear something like this before middle age really set in around the middle.

I’m already done with having children. I’m done with going out late nights and dancing till dawn – okay, I don’t think I ever danced till dawn, but you know what I’m saying. I’ve got wrinkles and pains. I’m happy to be in bed by 10pm. I like hot water and lemon. I carry hard mints in a Ziplock bag. I’m – Aaaaccck – getting older.

I’ve noticed other emotional changes in myself as well, now that I’m further up the maturity chain. I’m a little more ready to take chances, a little less judgmental, more appreciative, less giving a shit. I’ve also gotten simultaneously more and less vain; which means, I notice many more things that bother me but I also don’t care as much.

Which brings me back to the bikini I’ve coveted but never owned much less worn; it was now or never. Without thinking any more, I added it to my cart and clicked purchase.

I don’t know if I’ll ever wear it, but lately I’m full of surprises.

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Posted in Weight Watching and tagged aging, bathing suits, bikinis, body image, middle-age, self image, Swimsuits. Bookmark the permalink.

Accidents and the drive to feel pretty

Posted on June 9, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

The windows are rolled down, the day is gorgeous and the wind is dancing in my hair, which just so happens to be fabulously clean. I’m working the stylish shades, flashing the Colgate smile and pretending to all I pass that I am just another young sexy thing in my young sexy car. Good thing I’m going at least 30mph. I couldn’t pull this off without the blur factor.

I’m not bold enough to roll back the soft top to drive at optimal coolness. Well, actually I’d have to take off the doors if we’re really talking optimal. But no matter, I am satisfied just being in this midlife crisis mobile and feeling like a rock star.

I shied away from driving it for the last couple of weeks because, I don’t know, it was so high off the ground and I had gotten used to the feel of a car, even if that car is a minivan. Plus it was all new and shiny, and I’m one of those old and dull people who kind of fall in love with comfortable.

It certainly would explain my closet where the only time I get new things is when my mother brings them over. I’m content in my well-worn wear. It’s so easy just picking up yesterday’s outfit off the floor or grabbing a new set of old gym clothes. Don’t judge.

But today I felt a little pressure to step it for the new car, so I was wearing my better old clothes with my newly washed hair and got a string of compliments. Really, have I set the bar so low that all it takes is washing my hair for people to notice? Well, there’s something to be said for that.

Still… Soft, creamy fabric, the clip clap of strappy shoes, the hot new car – it all makes me want to twirl and dance and smile for the cameras. It’s true that feeling pretty feels pretty fabulous. I guess I forget that sometimes since I’m usually feeling pretty tired or pretty lazy or pretty who gives a shit.

The only reason I’m driving the car today is because of an unfortunate altercation between me, my minivan and a stupid tree, that apparently showed up unexpectedly while I was backing up. And of course on this one day, my car’s rear sensors which always beep when things unexpectedly show up behind me weren’t on. But I’m not here to make excuses, well, except those already noted.

The aftermath was a broken rear taillight and a few minor dents and scratches. Nothing compared to some of the driving malfunctions I have inflicted on my poor mom machine. Like when I drove over the divider and got stuck. That was hysterical. Or when I crashed into a boulder right after it was fixed. Good times. So, really this was nothing. Except that without my passenger side brake light and blinker working, it was no longer drivable.

For the time being, I will have to drive the new car. Which means, until further notice, I’ll be sporting clean hair and might need to go shopping. I’ll also need to be extremely conscious of surprise agriculture and such.

I already miss the minivan.

Stupid tree

47 Comments

Posted in Weight Watching and tagged car accidents, driving, i feel pretty, Jeep, minvans, new car, self image, women drivers. Bookmark the permalink.

Aw look, it’s a new baby Jeep

Posted on June 4, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

My husband stood outside in the sun, still flush with the excitement from the delivery of his beautiful new baby. The look in his eyes said it all. Love. Pure and simple.

He had waited for so long for this day and now she was here in the flesh, or um, in the chrome and steel. Yes, cigars all around, we are now the proud owners of a Jeep Wrangler.

“Hey boys!” He called out excitedly to our children, “Come look at the new car. Isn’t it so cool?”

But our boys are too cool for cool. My oldest barely raised his brow, my middle one shrugged unimpressed and said, “Eh. It’s alright.”

But my little guy eagerly ran over to his daddy who scooped him up and looked at him expectantly. “I know how to spell Gum!” He exclaimed.

But stars in the eyes cannot so easily be put out. “We’re going for a drive!” My husband yelled, refusing to hear the chorus of boos from the mini peanut gallery.

We all piled in and started to drive as my husband pointed out what button did what and all the beloved features of his new baby. He took a deep satisfying breath. “Smell that?” He asked, his eyes a glimmer, “Nothing like new car smell.”

“This is so boring,” My middle guy droned.

“Where are we going?” My oldest wanted to know.

“Mommy, I had three brownies at the party,” My youngest confessed.

We drove through the wealthy part of our town where Richie Rich Mansions overlook the sound; so close yet quite untouchable with its own police department. It is beautiful and mouth dragging, except to the chorus in the back.

“Why can’t we live here?” Middle demanded accusingly.

“Why are we here?” Oldest whined annoyingly.

“Can we go play at that one?” Youngest wanted to know, pointing to a massive home with a Bentley and a Rolls parked on the drive and surrounded by its own ponds with a rowboat sitting idle.

We in the front do our best to enjoy riding in a cool car without a roof, the wind in our hair and visions of our twenties spread out before us like an open road.

But it is hard to ignore those in the back driving us crazy.

With nowhere to off road or the possibility of leaving our kids by the side of one, we head home. The boys climbed out, grateful to be released from what was apparently ‘the most boring ride ever’ and ran in the house to engage in more stimulating activities like sitting on the couch and playing with iPhones.

“Are you coming in?” I asked when my husband lingered in the driveway.

“In a minute,” he said, his eyes fixed on the perfect form, beautiful coloring and shiny exterior.

I nodded and left the two of them alone. I had a feeling he would be spending a lot of quality time with this new baby, the one who didn’t talk but purred.

Right now I think it’s his favorite.

Proud papa

55 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged cars, going for a drive, Jeep, Jeep Wrangler, new car. Bookmark the permalink.

Dear Writers,

Posted on May 28, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m in deep.

Can’t sleep, can’t eat… as much, can’t focus on anything else. I’m going to bed well after midnight and waking up by 4:30am raring to go, excited to get back to my hard uncomfortable computer seat and write and edit, hone and cut and fix.

My butt is numb half the time but I barely notice. I’m writing and I’m in love… with my characters, with the process, with creating something outside of myself.

I’m so tired, but like my character who has started a passionate affair that is as good for her as it is bad, neither of us can stop. We are addicted.

It has always been this way for me; whether writing bad teenage poetry, heartfelt essays, journals on my children’s journey to life or longer works of fiction, when I’m in, I’m in. I love that moment when you realize something great is happening, your story is evolving and you’re into the action. You may be writing it, but you can’t wait to find out what happens next.

It’s a genuine gift to enjoy the process of writing; the agony, the thrill, the total obsessive consumption that has you by the balls and keeps squeezing no matter how many gives you say.

Yet it’s totally reclusive and really the height of narcissism. Apparently, I prefer to just hang out with the thoughts in my head, the stories and people of my own creation than do anything else. What is more alienating and totally self-absorbed than that?

But there’s always a rub. You’d like to hope that if you spend so much time writing, you would actually do it well. But there’s no guarantee of that at all. To enjoy the process is gift enough but to actually expect to be talented? To have enough writing chops to rise above? Well, that’s just arrogance, stupidity, and a necessary aspiration.

Because tangled in all the insecurity and dedication, the loving and the hating is the hope that one day you just might hit on something good enough to rate. Something that will give others a moment of enjoyment or a secret thrill; will keep them on their toes, at the edge of their seats, reaching for tissues or whatever emotion you’re trying to convey.

Because a writer wants readers, needs them, and we also want our work to be recognized. You can’t sit for that many hours, days, weeks, months by yourself and then not crave worldwide domination, I mean some peer recognition. Not just your mother or your friends nodding and clapping – although where would we be without those claps and nods? – but the writing community; which if you’re relatively unpublished translates to an editor or an agent, and of course worldwide domination.

But no matter about that. It’s the carrot on the stick before us, a hope, a pipe dream, but onward we charge because we need to write. There is no other choice.

We are in deep.

41 Comments

Posted in Writing and tagged insomnia, inspiration, obsession, on writing, reading, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

The good old days

Posted on May 22, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

When my grandmother used to call and ask “What’s douching?” Her quirky way of asking what’s doing, I’d generally answer, “Nothing really, same old nonsense.” To which she’d reply, “Good. That’s how you want it.”

Often I argued. “Well, sure, if you enjoy changing poop diapers or chasing down a maniacal two year-old with a blue marker and the glint of crazy in his eye.”

“Best years of your life.” She’d scoff, “Goes by like a dream.”

“Or a nightmare.” I’d quip, to be funny and also because some days it was true.

“You’ll see.” She’d counsel knowingly, “You’re gonna miss it when it’s gone.”

Not that I’d admit it at the time, but in my heart I knew grandma was right. Each night looking down at my sweet sleeping babes, I mourned the loss of each passing day; each precious giggle and milestone now stored away in the picture and video folders on my computer.

But, of course, those wistful, reflective moments always seemed to happen when my beautiful little rats were sleeping. Before that I was counting the minutes till bedtime; puffing out deep breaths while cleaning up a bowl of cheerios my toddler had flipped to the floor, or realizing the reason why my baby had just peed through his romper and all over me was because I had put the diaper on backwards.

I couldn’t help day dreaming at times about doing my private business in private without some small creature pushing the door open, crawling in and yelling, “Mama, I sit on your lap!” Or simply about being back with adult people and feeling smart. And not mom smart like convincing my kid that he was safe by spraying a water bottle of “monster remover’ all over his room, or sensing before seeing that my child was about to fall off a chair he somehow climbed in the 3 seconds I turned away.

Not that I’d ever knock mom smarts. Where would we be without the forethought to pack an extra diaper or stash a lollypop in the bag for just the right moment? Up shits creek, that’s where, but still, I longed for a little adult appreciation.

Although I occasionally fantasized as I sleepwalked through my days after walking from bedroom to bedroom each night; from nursing a baby, straight to comforting a child with a scary dream back to the woken baby; in so far over my head that I couldn’t even see the surface, I knew I was living my dream. That this was it. These were the times of my life, working and playing up through the ranks of ‘mommy hood’; where the work could be grueling but the gifts were overflowing.

When else would I be needed so? When else would babies nuzzle in my neck? When else would I rock in the blissful solitude of 3am with my child sleep-nursing at my breast? When else could I skip out of the house with spit-up on my shirt, dried sweet potato in my hair singing “Let’s Go Fly a Kite”, and happily enjoy an ice cream cone with my kids without dwelling on my non-existent exercise routine.

Those were the times to remember just as much as they were the times to survive. Where the most exciting thing in my day was staying awake to fall asleep watching a movie with my husband; a long hot uninterrupted show was the epitome of pleasure, and a night out with the girls left us all flush with wine and laughter and still home by ten.

Grandma knew those days would be the good old days. But honestly, these days are pretty good as well. There’s holding my breath as my boy strikes that last guy out; proudly signing a 100 on a test after torturous studying, negotiating whether to play Payday or Monopoly. There’s catches on the lawn, water balloon fights and a growing communication and understanding between us. We’re a little older, a little wiser but we’re still living the crazy. It’s just different.

And sometimes when I see a sweet little one giggling and smeared in chocolate, or a baby making out with his mother’s cheek, I feel my heart squeeze and just for that moment I long for the good old days when my boys were little, nothing was ever new and grandma was still around to see it.

She made the good old days better.

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Posted in Boys!, Grandma and tagged babies, good old days, grandmas, growing up, parenting, surviving motherhood. Bookmark the permalink.

Once upon a time

Posted on May 19, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

My home was broken.

But I was used to it. For years, my parents clumsily taped up the holes with transparent truces, sucked in offenses and alcoholic avoidance. Still, the anger and disappointment always leaked through, pumping like contaminated air through the vents, infiltrating every aspect of our house.

Their fights played like music in the background of my life. When the end officially came no one was surprised or sad, certainly not me.

My father moved out, but still hung around, taking me and my brother out for a movie or to his racquet club. It was only when I passed my parents’ room and took notice that there was no lump in the center of the bed; no giant bowl of salad with smelly dressing on the night side table that I realized he was gone.

I was 10 when they divorced, by the time I was 12 my mother had remarried.

It was December and the wedding was a small affair at my new step-father’s house. It came up quick, somewhat of a surprise, although my mother will jokingly remind me how if anything the whole thing was my fault, she asked me if she should marry him.

He lived in a big house and had a pool. I was 11.

I was given the option to finish out my 6^th grade year and live with my grandparents in Brooklyn or move mid-year to Long Island. My science mid-term was coming up, and it terrified me. I was averaging a 75 in the class when all my other grades were up where they should be in the 90’s. I couldn’t handle the thought of flunking a test. In a half a second I jumped on the move, deserting my friends, my grandparents, my life, all in the name of science.

We moved into our new home unceremoniously and awkwardly. None of us knew what we were doing; certainly not my mother or new step father; certainly not my younger brother or my two new younger step-brothers. The only person who rallied with contrived enthusiasm was the live-in housekeeper who showed off the house like it was hers.

I was shuffled off to my room and left with another young girl whose name was Gia. She was the housekeeper’s daughter who had apparently come to visit months back and never left. She was a year younger and I was a year shyer, but we still didn’t even out.

“This is my room.” She said. “You can sleep there.” She pointed to the second bed. “Don’t touch my stuff,” She commanded and huffed out.

My brother and new step brothers were also trying to find their way in this new dynamic, while my mother and step father circled each other uncertainly, and the housekeeper kept us all in a tight divided line of us against them.

I looked out the window into the backyard. The pool was covered for the winter. It looked dark and dangerous.

My home was broken.

51 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Dad, Mom and tagged broken home, divorce, family, remarriage, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

The other chicken dance

Posted on May 6, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

Even though I’m busy dropping sweet corn in the boiling water, from the eyes in the back of my head I see what’s going on, or more accurately, what’s not going on.

“Why are you standing on your chair instead of doing your homework?” I turn and calmly ask my 6 year-old who smiles mischievously, bounces a bit up and down, then with contrived indignity produces a sweaty looking blue crayon he’s clutching in his hand. “I am.”

Uh huh. I roll my eyes and go back to pressing my chicken cutlets into the egg, into the breadcrumbs, then into the pan.

“He’s not doing his homework.” My middle guy accuses. “Mommy, he’s not.” His affront is never mild. It’s always palpable.

“You just concentrate on doing yours.” I say. Dip. Press. Flip.

My oldest wanders in to take his place at the table but before he does, drifts over to me for a hug. He wraps his arms around my waist and I immediately respond to his warmth. He really is the sweetest boy. There aren’t that many almost 12 year-olds who love to linger in a hug with their mom.

We start to sway a bit and all of a sudden it feels like a dance. I have a flash of my husband and his mother at our wedding; his dark head bowed to her blonde one, just a mommy and her baby slowly moving together to Through the Years; a public hug before 200 guests for a private moment where a son leaves his mother and takes a wife.

So now I’m silently crying.

And of course, my middle son who notices everything from the non-existent speck of green in his pasta to the exact amount of minutes more of computer time his brother got than he did, wants to know why. “Mommy, you’re crying.”

“No I’m not.” I laugh. “I drank too much water, so now I’m leaking.”

My little guy giggles, “Mommy’s leaking!” and my oldest smiles sheepishly then pulls away. The dance is over, there’s homework to do and dinner to finish, but irrationally I don’t want it to end. Our time together seems suddenly shorter.

“You’re not leaking,” Accuses my middle son who is also the defender of truth and justice, “You’re crying. It’s true Mommy, say it. Say it!” How did a prosecutor get in my little boy’s body?

“Okay, okay. Fine. I was a little emotional.” Then I made the mistake of continuing. “You see, I was thinking about you guys and how fast you’re growing and when we were swaying it reminded me of…”

I looked at my boys. Not one of them was listening. They all amazingly had their heads down and were deep into their homework.

Huh. Note to self. You don’t matter.

“I’m hungry.” My oldest announced and my other boys piped in the backup chorus.

Okay, so I do matter. For now. For the next few years, they need me and love me, but before I know it, they will be grown starting lives and families of their own and I will be wondering where the years went; where my babies went.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes boys.” I assure them and pick up the pace.

Dip. Press. Flip.

I don’t ever want this dance to end.

40 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged dancing, growing up, parenting, the chicken dance. Bookmark the permalink.