Melsville

mommy stuff

Well, the weekend almost upon us.  It's a big weekend too with soccer games and birthday parties.  And Susanne and Chuck's big Halloween to-do.  I promised a butterfly costume, but I don't know how I will make the wings.  In my dreams,  I will go into CVS and find a perfect little set of wings, bright colors and everything.  Somewhere, we have an old set wings, the kind that are made with coat hangers and colored pantyhose.  If I could find them, I could freshen them up and all would be perfect.  All the better if they were fancy pattened hose.

Myself, I'm a fancier kind of butterfly.  I'll wear a long gown and fix wings over my arms.  Should be pretty.

Liam has his heart set on being a Star Wars clone trooper this year.  He'll be trooping out with is buds this year, a regular clone trooper army.  I think his friend Liam has the super-deluxe  $ 40.00 suit, and I hope our Liam like one of the less expensive suits. 

We need to be on the road by 8 am tomorrow to be at a 9 am soccer game.  It might be a cold morning, so we'll bring coffee and donuts.  Our team has won all but one game, and next week we'll face again the one team that beat us.  We're ready.  Our boys really want to beat this other team, and we can do it.  We will do it, the Westford kids won't know what's coming.   Winning isn't a happy outcome, it's what they need to do.

A poll

O K everyone, I'm taking a poll.  Please take a few minutes and practice your voting skills.

On November 5th, it will be the twentieth anniversary of the  rainy night when I was struck by a volvo (or some other heavy car  being driven by somebody's grandmother.  The traffic light was broken; she had a Green light and I had the WALK sign.  Car hit me side-on, I rolled over the hood and landed in a ditch with a fractured pubic-bone, a displaced sacrum and  a closed-head skull fracture. 

Seeing that WALK light up is the last thing I remember until I heard  on the evening news (some many days later) that Dan Quayle was our Vice-President-Elect.  Before that, I'd been moved, drugged-up and hazy, from Poughkeepsie home to Concord.  The shocking news might have yanked me out of that fog.  It's the one good thing that Dan Quayle ever did, so I'm grateful for that idiot.

Dear Friends, that is the end of the grim bit.  I'm alive and living in Somerville with the love of my life, our two wonderful kids, and our devoted doggie. All is good.

Now here comes your chance to vote.  I can do one of the following on Wednesday, November 5th, 2008.

    1.)   I can fulfill my obligation to Liam school and attend the Coordinating meeting of officers of the                 program in which Liam is enrolled.  I am the Secretary, and should attend to take notes and                 to prepare for a meeting for all parents the next day.

2.)      I can ask someone else to take notes and go to Kung Fu class and celebrate my health and my                     survival.  If you wish, you can sub in a two-mile run, a yoga class, 25 laps or whatever your                 choice would be for the Kung Fu class.

3.)      I can hang out with Jamie and the kids.  We can eat a great meal,  read books, watch a movie,             that kind of thing.   If it rains, I might just say to hell with it and stay in.

Again, this is a poll, and I would like to hear what y'all think.  I'll do exactly what I want to do.

Vote early, vote often!

Love,

Melanie

October 20

Well, the baseball season has ended, sadly for Red Sox fans everywhere. One home-run within the first few minutes, then it became an eight-and-a-half battle that seemed to be as much about trying not to lose as much as it was about trying to win.  Jamie yelled instructions at the screen on partly on behalf of his two life-long-fan grandfathers.  When it was over, Jamie woke Liam just enough to give him the bad news as he carried him from the couch to his own bed.  By morning, Liam had forgotten, so we needed to tell him again.  Same thing happened when we won the World Series last year; we woke him to tell him the Red Sox were victorious,and he gave a tiny cheer before rolling over and falling back asleep.  The following morning, he hopped around whooping as if he were seeing it happen right in front of his waking eyes. Maybe next year, Emma will be aware enough to understand.

Show me an underdog, and I will cheer for them with all my heart.  It's a big part of who I am.  Maybe it has to do with having spent my life working to master the simple tasks like tying a shoelace holding a pencil, standing on one foot.  It  could be first cousin to the drive that brings me to Kung Fu class and toil away, imagining myself the slowesr-progressing student Davis Square Martial Arts has ever had.  All that said, no victory is as joyous as the surprise victory.

According to the latest schedual given to us by the Youth Soccer League, Liam's team. The Blue Dragons will end the season facing again the one team (so far) they did not beat.  Our boys fear nothing.  Heads high, shoulders back, chests out, they say they will beat Westford.   This time, they know what they will be facing, and it is nothing to them.   They will mow down Westford, and enjoy every minute of it.   As their parents, we believe them, not because unconditional love gives us no choice, but because we really do believe it.

On our side, we have Ali, Youseff's Dad who has joined our coaches.  He played as a kid in Maracco, he now plays in a league, he know what he's doing.  He's teaching the kids how to play a position, what it means to play upfield, midfield and downfield.  All parents yell from the sidelines; Trish calls out "Pass it, Alex, pass it!"  "Get it away from him Liam!  "Go, Isaiah,go!" Trish has modified the vocabulary she uses at basketball games.  Ali calls out to whom Alex should pass it, how Liam should get it away from our rivals, what Isaiah should watched for as he goes and goes.  Does Westford have an asset like Ali?:  I think not

Now that we can't point to the Red Sox's final, ultimate victory, what should we do?  Now that we can't point to our beloved underdogs who came back to win the World Series we can only say that they can win because they can.     And they will, really they will.

The Red Sox winning the 2004 World Series did not redeem that year for my family.  Between February and October of that year, two of Jamie's grandparents died, my mother died, and I had an abortion.  Jamie's longest spell of unemployment fell during those months, and the job for which I was hired ended before it started.  I was a raw heap, and baseball can't do anything to change that.

All that it could be was a tiny distraction.  The night following the wake of Arthur O'Keefe was the night that the series against the Yankees began.  We sat in an Olive Garden with Jamie's aunts, uncles, and cousins eating pasta and sending the kids into the bar to check the score on the TV.  As the Red Sox lost worse and worse and worse, Jamie's aunts turned their faces upward and called, "where are you Arthur O'Keefe?  Your team needs you now!"   It gave us something we could rage against, but that might just save itself.

On the long drive home, we tried listening to the game on the radio as Arthur had done.  It didn't feel right to me.  All I heard was the announcers droning on to one another in a language I could not comprehend.  Let me see the game, and I understand it.  The talking just cluttered  up something clear and simple.   From that night forward, we watched  every game, partly because Arthur would have enjoyed them so much, and partly because it provided with a sparkly piece of fun.

That the Red Sox finally did win, and it was fun.  Things can  come back from what feels hopeless.  It was a small triumph that can't make anything better, but can make them a joy.  Yelling instructions at the players on the screen gives you a tiny jolt; you know they can't hear you, but it feels damn good to do it.  You can curse the Yankees or the Rays, or whoever, because it doesn't matter how mad you get; they can't hear you.  They become someone everyone can come home and curse at.

Today, I hate the Rays; I hate every player.  The Red Sox came from nothing last night, and won in the last two innings.  Anything is possible. Right now, that's a victory all fans can share.  Whatever happens in the next game, fans can go to bed assured that thousands of people feel what they are feeling.

I'm looking forward to the games on Saturday night.  I'll thow myself right into it, and it will be so important while it's happening.  On Sunday, I'll have the pleasure of feeling victorious or of wallowing in  communal misery. And then, it will be Monday.

   

October 16, 2008

I just visited a blog (www.thursdaynightsmackdown.com) for which my old friend, Peter Barrett had written a post.  The whole site is about food and cooking, and dear Peter (a painter) had written about creating mustard-greens raviolli and having his young son machine-roll the dough.  I've said before that I always love hearing the voice of an old friend calling out from their blogs, and reading of Peter's trip around the kitchen as well as his views on child-labor and new uses for truffle oil was a delight.  The dry, sarcastic wit is still there, and the joy and rewards of creating.

Funny though, I've known Peter Barrett since we were younger than Liam is now; nd the child he was then is still present.

Back here in Somerville,  I'm thinking up ways avoid cooking three different meals.  Jamie is a flawed vegeterian who eats only the most common, boring veggies,  Liam would live on beef if allowed, and Emma is happiest when eating mashed potatoes.  And the kids will not tolerate sauce of any kind, not even tomato; I can't wait  until they outgrow that.  So, here's me hoping the meal I create will be eaten by everyone without boring myself to sleep.

I think I would enjoy mustard-green pasta, and having someone cook it for me sounds great. Right now, I just have to make something that doesn't leave out anyone.  I used to enjoy cooking much more than I now do.

Last weekend, I went out with Sarah to eat chianese dumplings.  We went to Wang's, it's the kind of place that looks like a take-out joint but has multi-generational Chinese families eating at its rickety tables.  Wang's has ten or twelve kinds of dumplings, and we always have them fried because that's less healthy and because the kids aren't with us.  On the menu, there are dishes made with tongue or sea-cucumber, but I'm not there to be that daring.  I just enjoy eating what I want, and not worry that everyone else will hate it

Friday 10-10

I go back to the Harry Potter books often; when I need a read I can get wrapped-up in.  I wish that I could make cartoons in the animae style.  I would love to see the whole of the Harry Potter series as an animae cycle.  I think it would work well visually as well as theamaticly; all the good and evil.

Red-haired women, and fried potatoes

Stopped at Rene's cafe on the way back from Preschool drop-off.  Thought I'd grab a muffin, but potato leek  pancakes were on the menu.  I got as far as asking that the muffin be grilled, but I couldn't full my hunger.  I gave into the pancakes, and took a table.  I wishing I'd brought a book, or a laptop or a simple pad of lined paper.  I devoured  the pancakes (chunky, and yummy),  the apple sauce (probably Mott's) and even the horseradish sauce; stopped before I licked the plate, but I ate every bite. Sarah or Maria-Carmen are my usual companions at Rene's, but I ate alone.  Potato pancake wait for no-one.

Sarah and I agree that anything with fried potatoes and onions must be good.    They are good, resistance is useless.  You know you want them.

Speaking as a natural redhead, I'm telling you now that red haired women are a force of nature.  You can't fight it, so just give in now.  The notion that blonds are every man's ultimate dream is the lie that men tell themselves because it feels safer.  Or, it could be that the gene for red hair is super resecive, there are only few real redheads.  It's all over literature. Red-haired women are a combination of iron will, passionate opinions and sex on legs.

Just ask Harry Potter.  Okay, Harry  fought pure evil and won.  He slew monsters left and right, and would not be silenced by an oppressive government, and he usually did it for Ginny Weasley.  Do I have to have to remind you that it was the smell of her hair that wrapped him up.  The memory was his dirty little secret, only the best kind of dirty little secret.  She was also peace and comfort, the things he'd never  thought he'd have.

Ginny's mother was another kind of redhead, the kind that will not be opposed. Harry also knew better than to argue Mrs. Weasley.  Her word was law.  She fed and cared for everyone in sight and offered another kind of safety and love.  It's Mrs. Weasley who mows down Bellatrux Lastrange (Can't spell it, you know who I mean) because the bitch threatened her child.

In college, my friend Marguerite wanted to do her part to increase the redhead population.  From my buddy Sheldon with the long, silky hair like orange embrodery floss to young Tigger to a visiting Irish musician with curly ginger hair, Marguerite walked straight up to them and say they should marry me so that we'd produce red-haired children.

In the real world redheads run the world, and nobody with any sense gets in the way.  Trish keeps order while teaching math to a roomful of teenagers.  Anne Marie rules the school parents' council, and nothing get past her.  Their husband just agree with what they say.

Myself, I'm some combination of the the sex-force and the mother bear.  I don't need to run the larger world, just my own.  Emma's hair looks red. I don't know what she's going to do.

Tuesday 10-07-08

Last night, I hauled my butt to Kung Fu class, and I've still got that lovely endorphanal jolt exercise works up.   Class started with fan kicks, which I dread as some people dread the LSAT test.  I'm sure I'm going to do horribly, and make a fool of myself.  In the 9th grade, I was so terrified that I appologized for every little mistake I made (ask anyone in Madam Brough's French  class, I felt even more hopeless than I probably was), but I'm sure my fan kicks / reverse fan kicks aren't that bad.  Still, I'm sure that Mark, Karen and Jonathan are sick of hearing me say I'll never manage those, so that just makes it worse.

And, what was the good part of class? I was able to pick a corner and practice Long-Fist form by myself for fifteen minutes.  All by myself; I just kept at it and really tried not to look at my feet. It might have been the first great part of the day.   It helps that I adore Mark, Karen and Jonathan (K. and J. weren't there last night, but I still adore them) as much I do.    Nothing wrong with that if it keeps me showing up in class as often as I do and slog though the stuff I hate. 

It was probably the jumping jacks (50), push ups (25) and all that that started off the adrenal buzz.  That and the streatching.  Did I mention that I can hold Horse Position or Bow Stace for minutes at a time?  Well, I can.

On my walk home, I met David and Marielle walking arm in arm down the street.  They looked like an old married couple or love-muddled teenagers, or both at the same time.  So happy to be out at 9pm without the kids.  They had their own glow, that probably wasn''t left-over adreniline; or maybe it could be.  "It's date night" Marielle told me, 'nuf said.  All you young ones have this to look forward to; "date night", rare, wonderful, nights without the kids.  I love to catch my friends in these moments but I always leave them alone as fast as I can.

October 6 2008

Seeing your old friends living the lives they want is one of the great pleasures of Facebook; greater even than checking pictures of exs and showing yourself that you are aging gracefully.

I don't consider myself a Facebook collector.  On my list are people I would love to see again,  people I'd be thrilled to see at a party.  I've got friends on my list with whom I'd sit in a cafe talking to until the manager threw us out.  I'd have something to say to everyone on my list.

My twenty-year old (second) cousin updates almost constantly; she posts a note when she leaves for the libarery, and again she heads home after a long night of studying.  Lauren reminds me how packed each day at college can feel.  The only person who updates his profile picture more often than Lauren does is Michael, my graduate-school adviser to whose updates I always look forward.  It's good to see again his fabulous (greying?) hair and to imagine his unmistakable lived-a-tough-life voice reading his comments to me.

My friend Nancy, the labor lawyer continues to list "sticking it to the man" as her occupation.  Chris, an elementary-school principal looks out of his picture with some glint of his teenage attitude clear as day.  I'm not totally sure what my old lab-partner Nick,  is doing these days, living on a boat off the coast of Mexico, but he does post pictures of his smiling baby son on his web-page. Not one of my old friends has let me down yet. 

Maybe I'm challenging myself to get back to my more creative self so that I do not disappoint my true-to-themselves friends.   I have to dare myself to keep trying, and this helps.

Thursday 10-02-08

Sarah Palin, have been in the same place.  We have been lying on a table wearing a hospital johnny being told that the fetus growing in our bodies would develop into a child with a disability. 

The doctor who informed me of this  showed me the nick in the spine of the fetus and the shape of the head; spina-bifida, no doubt about it.   She dropped the information like a bomb, and left.  Cold bitch.

That morning, I thought I could care for a child with spina-bifida.  The more I found out about the disability, the more I had to keep telling myself I could.    Friends of my dying mother called, expressing sadness and disbelief, clearly assuming that I would have an abortion.   All the first day, I told them that I would not. 

That day, a Friday, was also the day that I learned that my mother was dying; she died exactly two weeks later.   She wasn't going to live to love her grandchild, to love me and offer support.  For the next week, I cried ceaselessly, I cried until I threw up.  I grieved for my mother while she was still alive, and I grieved for the healthy child that I had been imagining.  This sadness knotted up inside me, and I could never pull them apart.

On Tuesday, I called the clinic and made the appointment to have the abortion.  I didn't want to have an abortion, but I'd also decided it was the better choice in my situation.  It was the most wrenching descision I've ever made.  I knew that I could not give a child with spina bifida the care she deserved.

I can't question Sarah Palin's choice to have a baby who she knew would have Down's Syndrome.  Her decision was her own and has nothing to do with me.  I would not presume to make her decision for her.   Sarah Palin has no right to assume every woman's life is just like her own or that her beliefs represent everyone's.   Sarah Palin and I faced the same choice and came out on opposite sides.    She doesn't realize that what is right for her was not right for me.