Picture by Elizabeth: Into the Pumpkin Farm, 10/2004

Today was the annual trek to the pumpkin farm.

Since he was born, we've used a picture of Bear atop pumpkins as our Christmas Card. Yes, the hair. Right. So off we went, in eleventy-degree freezing weather. But clear as a bell, with colors aglow.

This place is nearly an amusement park. With food stands and a gift shop and pig races (yes, Arnold Schwartzenpigger won!) and a maze through the corn fields. Bear petted everything at the petting zoo, including some animals that would surprise you. Baby Water Buffalos, as it turns out, have warm tongues. In case you were wondering.

We got our pictures, and even a pumpkin. Bear threw himself atop a large misshapen thing that he hugged and rolled towards us, pleading with his big blue eyes. We gave in. We're suckers. CD carried the beast for a quarter mile back to the car, a sleepy and grateful Bear tagging behind happily.

Picture by Elizabeth: Pumpkin Field, 10/2004

I'm wind-burnt, full-up, happy, and not entirely de-stressed. I head off to dreams of John Crichton and caramel apples. Good night.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 05:23 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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It is a cold and dark and blustery day in Chicagoland. The three of us burrowed under the down comforter this morning until the last possible minute. Reluctantly Bear and I dropped CD off at work.

"Where are we going to go now?" Bear asked me as I turned onto Lake Shore Drive.

Good question.

Picture by Elizabeth: Runner on Lake Michigan, 10/2004

The lake was deep green and almost deserted. Navy Pier was lit up like a neon sign. So I swung into the $19 parking lot and in we trundled - over, over, around the strange singing people, and up the escalator to the Children's Museum.

Bear liked everything: the dinosaur dig, the water works, the construction zone, the ambulance and safety display, but his absolute favorite thing was Clifford's world.

He strapped on an official mail bag and delivered and picked up letters from the mailboxes scattered throughout the display. Then he would sort them at the 'Birdwell Post Office'. Giggle, concentrate, triumphantly match, rinse, repeat.

Picture by Elizabeth: Bear in Birdwell Post Office, 10/2004

I was struck by how many Dads were there. Usually, Bear and I hit the Children's Museums (we have a national membership) during the week when, and not to be sexist but reality is what it is, there is hardly a dad to be found.

Today, though, it was Dads-aplenty. All ages, sizes, colors, and shapes. And wedding rings galore. Big yellow gold numbers, thin silvery ones, and all kinds in between.

As Bear did his rounds back and forth, I watched families sifting around us. I smiled as one man gently tucked a strand of hair behind his wife's ear, the engraving of his ring catching the light. Another man, handsome and leather jacketed, enwined his fingers with his wife's and then pulled them up so he could kiss the back of her hand.

I laughed as one dad with gold practically down to his knuckle laid down in submission on the floor while his 3 boys (THREE!) pounced all over him. His wife held their pile of coats and tried to stifle a laugh as her man caught an accidental knee to the groin. His "oof!" had 20 of us, nearby, in a compassionate group groan.

I missed CD, and thought about how much fun he'd have with us. I thought about how his ring would join the tonnage of husbands' rings in the room. I thought about how profound and sacred it is to push a ring on someone's finger and claim them as your mate.

It's that moment. That intimate, vulnerable moment when the question is asked - "will you? me?". A wedding ring shouts "yes"!

In my religion we call it 'an outward symbol of an inward grace'.

I know not all cultures use them. My parents never wore wedding rings in the 22 years they were married. So I have no idea how I come by this... conviction. But there is something about them that resonates deep in my soul.

On an autumn night a long time ago, I once danced on a sidewalk under a streetlight to Anita Baker's Giving you the Best That I got as it echoed out to us from a party. I remember getting choked up at the line "I bet everything on my wedding ring".

I still get choked up when I hear that line.

Shaking off my thoughts, I saw that the big dog himself had showed up for an interview with a television crew. Bear informed me that the “guy in the Clifford costumeâ€� gave him "a bad feeling" so we put away the postal tools and moved on.

Picture by Elizabeth: Clifford, 10/2004

Bear held my hand, and twirled my ring.

I smiled to myself.

Back on the road, the hard winds rocking the van at the stoplight, dang if that Anita Baker song didn't come on the radio. Guess I was in synch with somebody out in radioland.

I sang loudly and badly as we looped out of Navy Pier. I got choked up at the end like I always do. The streets felt almost deserted. The wind was pushing aginst the few people out on the sidewalks. The threatening sky was a dark ceiling overhead, and I wondered if we'd make it hom before the rain hit.

Picture by Elizabeth: Leaving Navy Pier, 10/2004

“Mommy?â€� Bear asked, puffy-eyed and tired in the back seat.

“Yes, Bear?â€� I answered, turning down the music.

“Next time, we should bring Daddy. OK? Does that sound like a good idea?â€�

“That sounds like an excellent idea,â€� I agreed.

And I thought of CD, wearing my ring as he worked. A physical, visible, unspoken announcement that he is a part of me, wherever he is. And me, a part of him.

And we... a part of him.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 03:19 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Make me a promise.

Promise me if CD and I don't work things out, that you'll help me hold on to my humanity. Promise me you'll print this out, this open letter of Post-Nuptial promise and you'll stick it to my head with Crazy Glue so I can't avoid my own words.

Promise me.

Not that we're getting divorced. I know love isn't enough but it counts for some serious glue - and we do actually have a bulldozer full of it for each other. Adoring, sweet, scrumptious kind love for each other.

But.

I was reading Emily's blog today and she isn't the first one to demonize her Ex. To end up in an angry battle where she and he are slinging unholy mud at each other. I mean even in my own family, this has happened before my own eyes.

Two people, who make a child together. Who will be the only two people in the world who will ever, ever be so in love together for that baby and who that baby grows up to be.

Please.

Remind me that CD was the one, who believed even after the doctor had given up. Remind me that CD roared Bear's name, grinning, when that heartbeat showed strong. Remind me that we slept together, and it was CD's neck that pillowed our new Bear, and how I wept with too much love.

If it all falls apart, and I strap on the gloves, stop me.

Point to CD, and tell me again how this man has every right that I do to our child. That he is flawed and infuriating sometimes but he is good always. That he should never have to beg for his access to his child. That nothing he does to me as a husband should be taken out on him as a father.

Remind me.

If I forget and allow this miracle, this child we walked through coals to have, to become a bone between two dogs. Kick me in the ass.

Remind me that I am an adult, and can use my words. That I am an adult and can use my ears. That I am an adult and know how to share gracefully.

That every tragedy does not have to have a bad guy.

Promise me that you will squeeze my hand and point my anger to ground, where it will not defile my son's heroic vision of his father.

Promise me that no matter what, I will not assume that I am somehow the more entitled parent because of biology.

Promise me that you will help guide me away from retribution or fear to a place where I remember that no divorce could ever stop me from sharing parenthood with CD.

I know that we don't all get happily ever after. I learned that a long time ago. But I fully intend to spend the rest of my life with this man, and torture my son with the embarrassment of finding my dead body astride his father's - with a wicked grin on my face and my false teeth in a glass by the bed.

But just in case. I mean, just as a plan for a very last resort ...

Promise me.

Please.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 02:28 PM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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1 I promise. Do the same for me, okay? Wonderful sentiment, Elizabeth.

Posted by: Jim at October 14, 2004 03:13 AM (GCA5m)

2 Absolutely! You know, your writing has grown very strong in just the time I began reading you several months ago and now. I thought I should tell you

Posted by: AGK at October 14, 2004 05:30 AM (17YKZ)

3 Amen girl. Growing up in a separated family with two parents that bad mouthed each other, I will never do that, no matter what.

Posted by: Jazzy at October 14, 2004 06:31 AM (H2JDL)

4 My ex husband and I are living proof that divorced parents can get along better when divorced than when married. That we can put the needs of our child first. That no matter what we can keep our promise NEVER to use our child as a pawn. Besides raising a wonderful child, getting along with my ex-husband is one of my acheivements that I am most proud of.

Posted by: Alexia at October 14, 2004 06:52 AM (SsPc6)

5 Dude. You made me cry. I'm weeping at my desk like a crazy woman and all I can do when the kids look concerned is gesture at the screen and sniffle.

Posted by: Michele at October 14, 2004 07:18 AM (FlmTP)

6 Oh honey, I promise. How beautifully put.

Posted by: Coleen at October 14, 2004 07:42 AM (vdU70)

7 I agree with AGK. Maybe it's the new look or mu.nu. did something, but your writing lately... I've got chills.

Posted by: Terri at October 15, 2004 10:04 AM (LRR15)

8 You have a way with words. Very well put. I promise, if you promise me right back. Words to live by.

Posted by: lex at October 15, 2004 12:33 PM (1Fr5p)

9 Beautiful, and very true.

Posted by: Jenny at October 16, 2004 10:19 AM (fcvxR)

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Fall is our season, me and Bear's.

I was a stay at home mom and he was a newborn in the fall of 2000. I pushed him marathons of miles on those city sidewalks deep with leaves. We were bundled against the brisk wind, and would often stop at the local coffee shop to breathe in the warm steam.

After that, it was set. It gets colder, and Bear and I seem to reconnect.

I remember last year, one afternoon, Bear came up to me and announced that we should rake the leaves. So out we went, and for crisp sunny hours we built and destroyed the same piles over and over.

This weekend felt like the first real weekend of autumn. The chill has settled into the mornings, although the days are fine. The leaves have just begun to turn.

With CD working, Bear and I indulged ourselves. Friday night we grabbed a flashlight and walked for almost 2 hours around the neighborhood admiring all the Halloween displays.

Everywhere else is amateur league it seems, compared to here - my own personal Pleasantville. Here, people decorate for each season as if, at any time, a truck could come by and haul your house off to be in a parade. Bear and I admired the dozens of displays, the colored lights and ghosts and giant spiderwebs. The orange spotlights on scarecrows and pumpkins.

Saturday we dawdled for hours, playing at the park and leting Bear ride his bike along the sidewalks with first fallen leaves crunching beneath his wheels. His Spiderman backpack filled with a snack, and his PowerRanger sword from his costume near at hand, in case an Immortal should suddenly appear and need to be dueled.

Today we snuggled at home, he dressed in full Blue Power Ranger kit and me, well, not. He dragged over a chair and helped me finally clear out the backlog of dishes. We made apple smelling suds with Dawn and scrubbed side by side, playing an alphabet game - coming up with as many words as we could for a particular sound.

At bedtime, he pulled over his current favorite book - a poem by James Riley - and we read it together, the words we've almost got down by heart. These are the days that take the sting out of the rest of life. It was a good weekend. It was a great weekend. And I think? We both needed one.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here --
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock --
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries -- kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below -- the clover over-head! --
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

From: WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN, by James Whitcomb Riley

Posted by: Elizabeth at 04:27 PM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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Never heard of ya-yaÂ’s? Strap a preschooler into a 5-point harness in a minivan. Start driving. No matter how many DVD's, sing-alongs, sticker books or snacks you run through - eventually, the child's head will start to spin in complete rotation while he screams the theme to Digimon over and over like a satanic chant.

Remember that? From the never-ending fairy tale that was our trip to Boston JUST THIS AUGUST?

Like labor and my wedding planning, I'd had the Asgard remove those 60 hours (there and back) from my memory banks so I wouldn't go stark raving loony and start doing illegal things with flowers beyond just the getting-to-know-you conversations we've been having lately.

But now, now it rushes back to me. In Technicolor. And I am afraid.

I am very afraid.

CD (in the background): Honey? Which route are we taking this time? New York or Ohio?

Me (shuddering, muttering, to myself): help

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Today we found out that my beloved Uncle is sick. He is very sick. As my Aunt wrote: "Keep us in your positive thoughts. I want more time with this man."

After I found out, I wasn't doing a good job of holding it together. This was definitely a "Take this job and shove it" day. But some things couldn't be rescheduled on account of life sucking. So I called up this old picture, and put one foot in front of the other.

Like my husband's favorite Simpson's episode - the one that ends with Homer, at his job station, surrounded by pictures of Baby Maggie. The sign above him has been altered so it reads "Do it for her."

P.S. They still fall asleep like this, and I still sneak up and take pictures when they do. I've learned to turn off the flash, though.

P.P.S. All good thoughts for my Uncle are deeply, deeply appreciated.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:37 PM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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Everyone hides shades of shame,
But looking inside weÂ’re the same,
WeÂ’re the same and weÂ’re all grown now,
But we donÂ’t know how
To get it back to good
- Matchbox Twenty

Since we got back from our Boston trip last month, it's been a struggle. It's like depression is catching and I caught some. ItÂ’s been harder to laugh, and easier to cry.

A lot of invisible lines have been crossed, and instead of dealing with things I just kept lowering the bar. It's OK to gain those few pounds back; it's OK to let this report or that presentation slide. It's OK to watch people I love flounder, let them sort it out for themselves. The laundry is just as good from the basket as the shelf.

And then the other night, I was looking for that thing that you use to clean ceiling fans, and it wasn't in the first place I looked. I sat on the floor, angry and frustrated and CD said from the doorway, hands on his hips; "What?”

And I said, "I don't want to live like this, anymore."

And his mouth made an irritated moue, with a gust of exhaled air. And he made some defensive noises - like yes, he knows. It isn't all peaches and cream right now. So, why was I rubbing his nose in it?

But I wasn't. And he's bright, our CD, so he caught on quick. This is about me. This is about me and not him and not Bear. This is about something going on in me, maybe a mid-life crisis. And it isn't going to be solved easy.

I can't talk, about what's in my head. Not here. Not yet.

Progress comes in baby steps towards improvement. Making it a little better each day until some of these bigger knots get a little looser.

And tonight? Well, tonight was a miracle. It was a trip back to Normal, and it was like a tonic. A fresh warm breeze in the morning when you expected frost.

We caught the magic hour of afternoon might and headed over to Fantastic Sam's. You know the place? They have a Barbie's Pink Convertible for Bear to sit in and Dum-Dum Lollipops for after the haircut. And the people there, they come running for my Bear. They admire his manners and bring little plastic bags so we can capture the glorious copper silk they chop from his head.

Then we drove over to the shopping plaza, windows open. Talking about Rescue Heroes, and going out pumpkin shopping next weekend, and household stuff. Admiring the way fall was flirting with the bits of Illinois prairie visible here and there.

Pulled into CD's secular Mecca. Got stripper for the antique door we hauled 1000 miles ("Thwacka Thwacka Thwacka"). Bear investigated every snow blower on display. Every. One. In fact, gave a tour to one of the HD Employees - showing which ones had "pusher spouts" and which ones "were not very big".

And as the sun set over the strip mall, we headed home again home again lickety split.

The guys made nice with the king of domestic power tools - the canister vacuum. They Hoovered and I attacked the kitchen. It was the most non-kosher meal ever created (I know this, because I once served it to a Kosher Jew. One doesn't forget being caught THAT much without a clue) - Beef Stroganoff. Made with steak and mushrooms and red wine and cream, over Lite egg noodles. Like drinking a Diet Coke with a Big Mac, but the effort was there.

And Bear went to sleep, in non-Superman pajamas (because both pairs were in the wash). And CD took a hot bath, after satisfying himself that I was all right. That it had been an OK night.

But it had been more than that. It was a normal night. It had been a baby step, back to good.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 06:39 PM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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Twice a year, I wake up at Freezing Forsaken Crack O'Dawn and drive 45 minutes to a county fairground. There, I stand in line for about 90 minutes, hopping up and down, and drinking the last of my very-bad no-good McD's coffee (with about 100 sugars). And finally, at 8AM, I pay my dollar and get the 30 seconds all that effort bought me.

30 seconds as the first (FIRST!) one at the piles of boy's clothes at the worlds nicest and best-run rummage sale you will ever find.

Here, gender stereotypes are proven. Because the piles of girl clothing actually teeter; pastel towers that reach up to eye level. Adults smoothly sort through them, chatting to each other. Chatting!!

By comparison, the little piles at the boys' tables are scraps. They are grabbed up indiscriminately by snarling, territorial parents. Sweat pants and pajamas are pounced on in rabid packs. It's not all 'Lord of the Flies' though - some civility remains as we growl "Excuse me" to each other while ripping windbreakers off hangars.

There are "sorting tables" at the back, where you can surreptitiously flip through your booty. My piles of blue and red give me away as a “boy” parent, and anything I discard into the "return to tables" box is immediately grabbed up by a pack of wild adults, who've been eyeing me and drooling.

This is a 'good' resale - all the clothes are good quality. No visible stains, rips, loose hems or anything like that. The clothes I bring home are a mix of Tar-jay and Old Navy labels as well as Gap, Children's Place, and Gymboree.

But it's getting harder and harder. Boys' clothing past 4T gets worn out, not outgrown. There was less to choose from at this recent sale and I was hard-pressed this time to find even half of what Bear will need for the next 6 months.

Plus, the women who have been my partners and advisors in this twice-annual pilgrimage have all dropped out, one by one. I was alone in the crowd.

So it was a uniquely poignant frustration that followed Bear's accident on the bathroom floor last night.

He was wearing a pair of his "new" pants for the first time and I hadn't realized when I bought them that the snap was very tight. Bear couldn't undo it in time, as he bounced around doing the "potty dance" while I was running his tub.

By the time we got him free, there was a small puddle. He looked so sad, as I quickly wiped it up.

"IÂ’m sorry," he said, from atop his throne and using an entire roll of Charmin on that which was about to be in a sudsy bath.

"No worries, sweetie. IÂ’m sorry that thereÂ’s a bad snap on the pants," I said, pulling on the fastener to make it a little looser. "But now it should be fixed. All better."

And even though I knew that I could have just as randomly spent $25 on a new pair of pants and had them be just as stupidly designed, suddenly I was just overwhelmed. I love our life. The sacrifices that we make are negligible, when weighed against the reward of bringing up Bear ourselves, at home. So I donÂ’t mind, that heÂ’s wearing used pants with a stupid snap.

But sometimes? I do.

Bear flushed the toilet a couple of times just to be sure and clambered past me into his tub. Then he clambered out again and hugged me. “I like my blue pants,” he whispered in my ear. My chest hurt so bad with love, that I almost started crying.

When he was back in his tub, he looked down and said “Oops, puddle!”

I threw down a towel on it and smiled. “This was a good puddle,” I said, doing the “twist” to wipe it up with my feet.

And he laughed. And it made me laugh, too.

Posted by: Elizabeth at 01:15 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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