April 28, 2005
Finally, I staggered to open it. Somewhat dressed. 8:49AM and I got to bed at maybe 2:30AM. There was a neighbor lady, from up the block. The one from that historical house that hosts piano brunch benefits for local politicians.
She was looking harried. "Does Bear live here?" she asked.
I blinked.
"Bear. With the red hair. He lives here?"
I blinked again into the sun. After a long moment, the starter on my brain finally caught and my mouth begin moving. Slowly. "Yes."
"Well," she snapped, impatient. "I have my Grandson with me. All Day. Can Bear come to play at my house?."
"Uh, he goes to Montessori in the mornings. I pick him up at 11:30." I don't know why I am having this conversation. Her Caddy is idling over the oily spot in my driveway. In the front seat is a boy, I can barely make out his brown hair.
I vaguely remember my son referring to someone named Caillou. Of course, I thought it a fanciful story.
But no, "His name is Kyle," she tells me. Her gray hair is sensibly cut, her lipstick is perfect, her skin unmade-up. For a minute, I see my grandmother standing there. No-nonsense Yankee woman, cutting to the chase.
For 4 years, we've lived in Pleasantville. Her house is on the way up to the park, about a block away. For 4 years, she has waved back as we walked past. First with the baby carriage, then the stroller, then wagon, then bike. My son growing up before her eyes, as we've walked past. And now, he is a person. A boy to be sought. He is no longer my son. I am now Bear's mother.
"I'm Elizabeth," I say. Trying to find my manners.
"I know," she retorts. She looks frustrated. Her grandson is 10 years old, recently moved in with his dad to her house. I learn this later. My Bear is only 4, but he plays well with children of all ages.
"I will send him by, around 1," I tell her. "With his babysitter," I add.
An expression of barely controlled asperity, she nods. She marches to the white Caddy and opens the door to get in. I can hear her telling Kyle that Bear will be by at 1, and he smiles at me.
I smile back.
At 4:30PM, Bear comes racing home with Elia after his playdate. Grinning, laughing. A big kid has played with him for ages. Transformers. Lego's. Elia tells me how genteel and welcoming Kyle's grandmother was to them, how relieved to have a playmate for her grandson.
"I told him," Bear says between long slurps of juice. "I said, you can come to my house anytime. Just ring my doorbell and if I'm home then I will come out and play. That's ok, right?' he asks.
I kiss his sweaty forehead and smile. I remember years of doorbells from my childhood, of boys shouting for my brother. Of pick-up games and flashlight tag.
I look at my son, and realize that the future has already started.
Bear lives here.
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April 18, 2005
1. The Battle Of the Trophy.
Bear won a trophy at his Tae Kwan Do competition on Friday Night and he wanted to take it to school. It's his first-ever trophy, it's as tall as he is, and even though they gave one to every competitor under a certain age you can bet that Bear thinks that HIS trophy is unique in all the world. I had to physically restrain my little prince from sneaking it off the shelf about eleventy million times.
2. The Fashion Disaster.
Bear has grown out of all his clothes.
Normally, I would have gone to my favorite bi-annual swap meet by now and stocked up. This is the first one I have missed since he was born. The consequence was a tearful choice.
There was an old (you know, from last winter) pair of pants that now stop at his shins ("My favorite!") and cut off blood circulation to his waist when snapped up. Or the new "Church" pants that haven't been hemmed up yet and had to be rolled up so many times that it looked like his ankles were wearing flotation devices.
We went with the flotation slacks. With a green t-shirt and grey socks. And sandals (because his sneakers are still wet from "washing the car" yesterday). To sum up: He was dressed in the very latest refugee attire.
3. Breakfast of Champions.
Bear wanted nothing to do with food. Sat down and began crying at the thought of Cheerio's. Told me that Cheerio's would make him vomit. Told me Cheerio's would poison him and turn him into a Transformer. A BAD Transformer.
4. Cleanliness was next to Impossible.
Bear brushed his teeth well enough but then refused to wash his face North of his nose. We wrestled in the bathroom for several long minutes and I am not ashamed to admit - ALL that boy's parts were CLEAN when we emerged.
However, we were both wet. So I found another clashing t-shirt.
5. Pack Rat.
Bear then insisted on packing for the 20 minute drive. He gathered up books. He grabbed about 15 thousand toys and began loading them into his arms. I drew the line at one. He drew the line at four. We settled on two.
6. He'll have the half-caf soy latte with cinnamon.
I bought him a "Purpleberry" muffin at the Dunkie's Drive-Thru (For those of you from somewhere west or south of Boston - that's Dunkin Donuts). And an iced coffee for me. About 5 minutes later, a choking Bear asked me to pass him his juice. Juice? Oh, crap. Yes, I sent my child to school with a stomach full of sugar, fruit, and carbs - all laced with caffeine.
We talked about what it was like when I grew up. He was fascinated to hear that his Nana would get up and make his "Duncle" and I breakfast - every.single.morning. AND pack lunch for us. He began listing all kinds of food to see if his Nana had made that: bacon, sausage, pancakes, fruit juices. All while eating a commercially made muffin.
7. Disco Lives!
When we finally pulled up at his school, he and I were singing "I will survive" by Gloria Gaynor (Bear knows all the words) at the top of our lungs.
I pushed the remote on the side door and the parent helping unload the kids this morning jumped back as a cacophany of noise and stuff came spilling out - music, muffin parts, toys, napkins. My son was covered in crumbs and grinning.
To sum up; my son arrived at school this morning in the disguise of a caffienated, sugar-high preschooler dressed like a refugee and singing disco.
8. Be Very Nice to the Crazy Lady.
The parent stuck her head in back the van and I turned down the music with a snap of my wrist.
"Your husband out of town again?" she asked.
"No, just an early meeting. He'll be driving Bear the rest of the week," I replied.
She just BARELY stopped herself from saying "Good." I could see it in her eyes.
I pulled away with a squeal of tires and an uncontrollable laugh. And turned Gloria back on. Loud.
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April 08, 2005
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April 07, 2005
I've had strange medication dreams. Dreams of living in the woods, off the beaten path. Dreams of living vegetarian and cooking with kale that talks back. Dreams of spiders that wake me, crying. And Dreams of gentle hands, touching, consoling.
I wake up sweaty, in time to drive Bear to or from something. His little hand touches my forehead, rosebud lips pursed. "You're still hot," he sighs. His coppery hair seems blonder, the forsythia and cherry trees are blooming, he brought me bright branches in a pint glass full of water. Proud, concerned.
My heart breaks in love for him.
Wednesday, Bear was pleased that the candidate we voted for the day before had won. He demanded that we drive to the election office so we could get a lawn sign (yes, after the election) and I was too weak to fight him, so off we went.
We walked in, and Bear shook the candidate's hand. Asked politely for the sign.
The candidate had a staffer bring us a couple of signs. "Maybe in a few years you'll be voting for me," the candidate informed Bear expansively.
"I already voted for you."
The candidate looked a little nervous at the thought of a 4 year old voting for just a second and then realized Bear meant that he'd helped ME vote and nodded.
Bear talked to him for a minute about meeting the candidate at the last block party (yes, that my son remembered this from last August was a surprise to me, too) and from the town council meeting we'd attended. The candidate listened and smiled broadly, impressed.
I was feeling woozy so I told my boy that it was time to go home. Bear carefully picked up the two lawn signs (so big for such little arms). The Candidate stood there smirking at his staff, exceedingly pleased with his little supporter.
Bear didn't like that. "You won," he told the candidate. "But the guy who losed was not a bad man and maybe next time I'll vote for him."
The guy was gobsmacked. His staff burst out in laughter.
And sick as I was, even I giggled a bit. OK, OK, I snorted.
Maybe it was the drugs, maybe it is the bone-deep knowledge that all parents have - that our kid is unique and amazing. But what kept going through my head was a corruption of that famous Princess Bride quote:
"You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The first is never get involved in a land war in Asia. The second, only slightly less well known, is this: Never, ever assume you've got the Bear in your pocket. He may only be 4 years old, but he's definitely his own man."
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April 04, 2005
Back in the days when redeeming Frequent Flier points demanded an advanced degree in Chaos Theory, he would always manage to get us from PointA to PointB but there would sure be stops along the way.
I could just imagine him on the phone with one of the airline reps back in high school when he would get me a ticket so I could be shipped off to Florida to spend Spring Break with his folks.
"How many points do I need to spend for a direct flight? 25Billion? Mmmhmm. Ok, what have you got for less points? One stop in Philly? And that's only 10Billion points? Right, can you do a little better? Ok, a stop in NYCity, then on to Detroit, then she sleeps in the lounge in Butte, and finally arrives in Florida at 6AM the next day? And that's HOW many points? 9.5Billion? I'll TAKE IT!"
He once gave my brother a ticket from Seattle to Chicago that stopped not once but TWICE - the second time in Dallas. (You got to figure with kids this dumb, we probably deserved what we got, trip-wise.)
(Did I mention that, unfortunately, my brother fell asleep along the way? He woke up at the trip terminus in Minneapolis dazed and confused with a flight attendant asking him if he knew what day it was. But that's a whole 'nother story.)
Up until I was in my late 20's, all my flights were either purchased by the Church or my Dad, and I suck at geography anyway. So imagine my surprise to discover one day that Atlanta is NOT on the way to everywhere.
I think I actually called and woke my father up with the information. The way he'd been routing me all those years, I figured there was no way he already knew this.
You'd have thought that this would be genetic and that I could get away with a whole lot of fudge on our trips with my son. Heck, no. Turns out he is smarter than your average Bear.
This morning, after preschool, we were discussing our trip tomorrow. We're going to drive to Indianapolis and spend the night with friends and then I'm going to leave him there while I drive to my meetings in B.F.E., heading back to him the very next day.
"I can stay here, with my niñera," he informed me.
"No, this is a better idea."
He looked at me doubtfully and demanded I show him on the map where Indianapolis is and where I would be. So he climbed in my lap and we mapquested the whole trip (see how I made up a whole new verb there?).
Turns out that I was right, but I maturely refrained from doing a touchdown dance.
He sighed and agreed that the friend's house IS, indeed, A) on the way and B) much closer to my meetings than our house is. He further decided (praise the Lord) that he would be happier sleeping there because it would minimize our time and distance apart.
Negotiations with my preschooler completed, he ran outside to try and convince his niñera that she should come along for the ride. Don't place bets one way or the other, folks.
I know one thing for absolute SURE: my son ain't NEVER spending the night sleeping on his luggage in Butte.
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