Lion and Magic Boy

I have so much to tell you!

First, there is the thing about the neighbors. I have mentioned the neighbors before. There are a lot of them.

Dog-Poop-Catapult Recipients left. Oh, that was a major event! Boxes upon boxes of undefinable objects sitting out at the curb for weeks, trips back and forth to their 600 cars. At first I thought only some of them were moving but no, Big Daddy took his SUV and left also. With all three dogs: Big, Medium, and Yappy.

And then there was quiet.

For a day.

Then the pickup trucks arrived, and the New People came.

I was going to give New People a big bag of apples, and then I got to thinking that maybe they don’t eat apples and anyway isn’t apples a weird thing to bring a new neighbor? So I skipped the gift thing.

He is a karate instructor. She is bigger/taller/more muscular than he is (and he looks pretty buff).

Which explains the sounds I hear at night, like someone is using the wall between our places as a kickboxing dummy. Not that there aren’t a lot of various loud sounds coming from my place from time to time, but every night. Like at 10 pm. THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP.

He also spends a fair bit of his time on the phone. On the porch. Which is under my bedroom window. While he smokes. Until 1 am.

However, everything balances out:

Day before yesterday, another moving truck appeared behind the house across from me, the house that’s next door but with a strip of grass between. If you’ve been keeping up, this is the house of Judgy Bus Stop Mom. All day as I was in and out I noticed the three-year-old standing on the truck ramp but never saw anyone actually putting anything in the truck. Were they moving or simply storing a moving truck in their driveway?

J.B.S. Mom said hello to me, first time in months! She didn’t mention the large moving truck not six feet from her, so clearly she hadn’t noticed it yet. I didn’t want to give anything away, so I didn’t either.

At the end of the day they were finished levitating their invisible goods into the truck, and it was now out front with a trailer attached and they were attempting to drive a car onto the trailer. I dragged my free stuff that even Craigslist doesn’t want to the curb. J.B.S. Mom was out there watching Husband try to drive the car onto the trailer. “Once you don’t want something, no one else does either,” she remarked to no one in particular. Still nothing about moving. Perhaps no one had told her? I was prepared for a big emotional scene with her crying and sobbing about how much she’d miss me, but I think the strain was getting to her so I let her off with a have-a-nice-life nod and a semi-smile at her semi-joke.

This week Serena had her Worst Day Ever At School (something about a lost mitten; no pie for her!) followed by One Her Best Days So Far At School (something about a friend and plans to play together the next day). Life should be like that. Passionate and intense.

Eric amused himself in the Indian grocery yesterday by turning in circles in one spot until he fell down on the floor last cleaned in 1982.

I now despise Freecycle as much as Craigslist; could you explain why you are upset at me because I wasn’t home when you came to get my crappy FREE dresser, when you never told me when you were coming? And also? Woman who came to get my daughter’s very nice outgrown clothes? Is there a reason you didn’t tell me your six-year-old was INCREDIBLY FAT AND THEREFORE CAN’T FIT IN THOSE CLOTHES so you’re going to sell them on eBay? I know you are so couldn’t you have just been honest about it? And then I would have given the clothes to the 4000 really nice people who emailed me repeatedly and actually wanted clothes their kids could wear instead of making up that bogus story about your house burning down. I wish I had had the balls to just not let you have the clothes.

And today it is sunny and it is warm and I will go outside. The end.

Oh, hi. You like my new dropdown sidebar widgets? They only took me seven tries and 3.4 hours to install. And they still have issues, but unless they agree to pay half the counseling fees to get through those issues they may just have to deal with them for awhile. Hopefully it won’t affect their quality of life too much.

The sun is out, mocking me. It asks why don’t I get off my butt and go outside and run a few 10K or so. I have no answer, so I close the blinds more tightly and pretend it’s winter still.

Here’s my running log for the past week:

Day 1: Sunny. A good day to think about running.

Day 2: Raining. My first run since October shouldn’t be in the rain. I’ll wait.

Day 3: Cloudy. Does that look like rain? I would hate my first run since October to be in the rain. I might run wrong or something. I’ll wait.

Day 4: Sunny. (What? I didn’t hear you.)

Day 5: Cloudy and kind of cold. Brr. Better wait until it’s sunny.

Day 6: Where are my running shoes?

Day 7: Eric found my running shoes where someone must have stashed them in the very far back of the closet. Huh. Is that a cloud there? It might get cloudier. Better wait.

So yes, the running thing is going well, quite well, thank you. I hardly have any sore muscles at all.

[insert masterful segue here]

Oh! Serena made banana muffins yesterday. Almost practically by herself. I was only there barking out orders about how to properly scoop flour without packing it down too much and how to melt the butter without it exploding all over the inside of the microwave. Tonight she makes paella, Peking duck, and crepes suzette, and maybe steak au poivre for dessert. These kids have to pull their own weight around here.

You know how when you build up anticipation for something, it makes you want it all the more?

It all started with ice cream. I don’t eat much ice cream. Maybe once a year. It just isn’t my thing. Salty-crunchy, yes. Sweet and dairy, no. So no ice cream, not much anyway. Hardly ever.

But not long ago Matthew asked me, in a sort of intense (in a good way) moment, what I wanted. Just answering that question unloosed all sorts of things within me, since I don’t know when the last time was that I ever felt so free to say what I wanted. It could have been anything. Anything at all. It was one of those intense (in a good way) moments that you know you will remember for the rest of your life. I could have anything I wanted. I just had to say what it was. Anything. Several things! As many things as I wanted. Only…what did I want?

“Ice cream,” I heard myself say.

Wait. Ice cream? Did I just say that? And indeed, all I could think about then was ice cream, sweet, melty. The thought of ice cream was all wrapped up in that incredibly intense (in a good way) and intimate moment.

Ice cream.

So ever since, I’ve been thinking about ice cream.

The Indian store I frequent (I love being the only non-Indian shopping there) has ice cream. Huge vats of it, with indecipherable writing on the side. I did manage once to identify a picture of a mango on one and we brought home delicious mango ice cream instantly devoured by everyone. Even me, in the kitchen surreptitiously licking the spoon after shoveling it into bowls for everyone else.

But this time I wanted pineapple. Surely the Indian store would stock pineapple ice cream, would they not?

Serena went in with me. She also had a taste for ice cream. Pineapple. We looked inquiringly at the containers. One had a picture of several fruits on the side, including a pineapple. The name was “tutti-frutti”. I figured it was a mixture of flavors, including pineapple. Sure, I could live with that. So we bought a vat of it the size of Wisconsin and trundled it into the back of the car where the weight of it immediately caused the two back tires to go flat. But no matter. We had ice cream.

I amped up the anticipation factor by leaving the thing in the freezer for a couple of days while we all thought slaveringly of pineapple ice cream.

Finally, it was time.

The color of this product is best described as Fluorescent Terra Cotta. And the flavor? Recycled Cotton Candy. And, worse, somebody left bits and pieces, chunks really, of leftover dried fruit pits and skins in it. Or… something.

Even Serena, who has been known to force her way through many a (to me) disgusting thing simply to soak up its sugar content, could not be paid enough to eat a second bowl of tutti-frutti ice cream.

Maybe next year we’ll try the flavor called “custard apple.”

[WARNING: tongue-in-cheek but potentially offensive religious commentary to follow]

I could do away with the whole Easter Bunny thing, actually. Nathaniel asked me last night how the whole bunny thing and the egg thing ever came out of the Jesus-and-the-crucifixion thing, and I could give him no good answer. I knew that eggs = fertility and people have been celebrating paganish things like seasons and spring and fertility for a long time, but how that translates into a 6-foot tall humanoid rabbit who leaves eggs I have no idea, let alone what it has to do with a not-quite dead Jewish guy who had great energy. Already my kids have a pretty twisted idea of religion based primarily on the world religions of history (my theory is, take what you like and leave the rest) plus, in Serena’s case, the whole idea of Magic, but even I couldn’t come up with plausibility for rabbits + eggs + chocolate = a holiday worth celebrating.

I am SO going to hell. I just know it.

So the whole E.B. thing and whatever part in it I am supposed to play (if any) is getting old. And why can’t Jesus bring the easter baskets?

Nathaniel and Serena got dark chocolate and a few nasty jellybeans and a book apiece; Eric got a tiny bowl of jellybeans which someone hid from him and then consumed without his knowledge.

*burp*

And now we are having the fun of going through all the stuff we suddenly have realized we don’t need. Anybody want 100 skeins of embroidery thread or some nice gold jewelry or a new pair of winter snow mittens in lavender?

It’s been, let’s see, 8 minutes so far.

Nathaniel stayed home today. He coughs; it hurts. I would love snapping a photo of him in his pre-cough mode, bracing himself against an inevitable uncomfortable experience, face contorted, tongue out, body held in tense suspension, but he would likely object. I am pretty sure he has tuberculosis/bronchitis/a rampant imagination, one of those.

Nine minutes.

There. I have discovered the speakerphone button on this phone. That helps, since it’s awkward typing (using my 2-3 fingers) while also holding a phone pinned between my ear and shoulder.

Ten.

At least I have Rufus Wainwright to keep me company. Hold-music has improved. It could be worse.

Hey! They picked up! I almost told the nurse I was too busy blogging to talk to her, could she call back at a more convenient time? But no, never mind. I can talk (speakerphone) AND type. They will squeeze us in at 7:10 tonight. Yes! The wonderful U.S. healthcare system. Don’t get me started, but hey, at least we don’t have to wait 6 months like they tell us the Canadians have to do (yes, yes, I know that’s one of the many myths we Americans are subject to about Canadian healthcare, and oh, is this my first foray into anything remotely political on this blog? why yes it is. huh.), so I’d better count my blessings and be grateful.

Okay! On to more important things…

Someone (Eric, the self-appointed door-closer) closed Nathaniel’s bedroom door yesterday morning at some point. Early in the afternoon I heard faint muffled meowing and realized I hadn’t seen the cat in awhile. I could see black feet through the space between the bottom of the door and the floor. When I let him out, he was incredibly friendly and almost seemed…grateful. Gratitude is not a normal state for cats. Ego told me that not only was he grateful but that he missed us! Look at him! He’s purring and rubbing himself all over; he definitely loves me!

Yeah. Well. He’s also a cat. I should not forget that. Cats are in it for the cats, and that’s all. Everything else is an illusion. Remember this.

At 10 pm Nathaniel dragged himself to bed after finishing his homework (which had been pushed back in the schedule due to some important computer-game-playing and blog-reading), trying not to cough. Shortly he was back down. That’s when we found out the True Nature of Cat Behind Closed Door.

“Shadow pooped on my bed.”

At 10 pm, all I could do was suggest a different blanket, throw a sheet over everything, and wonder why Nathaniel never noticed it all afternoon/evening when he was resting, sick, on his bed and playing said computer games/reading. And I could make this helpful observation:

“At least it’s a dry poop.”

And I now am completely sure where the term “headbanger” came from.

(If only I could get the refrain to “Nothing Else Matters” out of my head now.)

Seriously, if there had been enough of a crowd he would have surfed it, that boy. As it was he weaved all over the livingroom in his particular way of dancing, pausing from time to time to shake his fists menacingly at the crowd in time to the beat.

Next week: the tattoo. Oh, and he definitely needs to grow his hair longer. And maybe the diapers should go at some point?

Nathaniel started playing a game last night. No one knew the rules except him, and it drove Serena crazy because it involved him not actually speaking, to her or to anyone, but instead making a lot of seemingly random gestures and frequently shaking his head at our pathetic inability to guess what he was trying to say.

But the best part (for me) is that he would communicate with me in writing, either on a small dry erase board that he carries around to keep notes on about things he wants to not forget to do, or via IM on his new! computer! that he got for Christmas!, and in that communication, apparently one of the rules, which again no one knew about but him, was to address me as “My Lord and Master”.

Twelve years ago yesterday, there was a good eight inches of snow on the ground, but I didn’t get to enjoy much of it.  No, I was indoors, getting to know a brand-new someone, a someone who’s not-quite-but-almost tall as me, whose feet and hands are bigger than mine, a someone in whom I see more than a few indications of the man he’ll one day become.

Yesterday we drove to Manhattan to see a Cirque du Soleil performance in honor of Nathaniel’s birthday. We’ve looked forward to the event since about last August, and no one went away disappointed, though the drive could have been shorter for the amount of time we actually spent in the city.

But twelve is a different world than eleven, closer to that eventuality.  I see it every day now in his eyes, in his questions, in his decisiveness.  I see it too in how he’s beginning to engage more with the wider world.

Part of that engagement has resulted in the launching of a new blog, so I bring you…Green Flamingo.

Eric is a climber. It’s kind of amazing, actually, considering that a year ago he was scooting around the house on his butt and could barely stand. And now he piles pillows up and jumps on them, face first and with gleeful abandon. Or grabs the big pile and rolls on the floor with them, ending up at the bottom of a heap of pillows.

And from time to time he misjudges things, falls off the couch maybe, or bumps his head on the floor or on a table leg. We say, “head bump!” and he shakes it off. No big deal. This is one tough little boy despite all his frailties.

Last night he was building a bridge of pillows across the gap between the couch and the coffee table, the same table where he often perches to consume a snack, and he made a construction error. The pillows fell and Eric became the bridge, suspended across the gap using his lower lip as a pivot point.

I immediately scooped him up and cradled him, calming him quickly. Nathaniel, who usually runs the other way when someone is hurt, grabbed the homeopathic remedy that works wonders for bumps and bruises. Meanwhile, Serena had begun screaming, looking at Eric with horror.

It was then I noticed the blood.

On Eric’s face, pooling in his mouth, all over his shirt front, the sleeves, his hands, on me. It hadn’t been there just a moment before. Huh. I’ve never seen so much blood come out of one child before.

He wasn’t crying at this point and seemed to be enjoying being covered with this red stuff. And we’re talking covered.

So, today, we have one small cut below his lower lip and zero mentions of it. One day he’ll learn to milk this stuff. It totally would have been good for special treatment, but no, we were back wrestling with pillows and large stuffed bears today.

Some days it feels like I’m waiting a lot.

Right now I am waiting for Nathaniel to finish drawing microscopic pictures of things the Phoenicians did around the border of his I-am-a-Phoenician diary-entry paper (due tomorrow) so he will go to bed and I can get on with the rest of my evening. I think he has used every color of colored pencil he owns, drawing the shells the Phoenicians ground up to make purple dye, and stacks of money from the riches the Phoenicians had from all that purple dye. I wish I was a Phoenician. Then I would have a son who did not stay up late doing homework and drawing the Big Dipper (to show the awesome navigation powers of the Phoenicians) across the top of his paper. No, if I was a Phoenician I would have a son who went to bed early because he arose with the sun.

In fact, if I was a Phoenician I might not be much of a blogger, actually. In which case I would likely be weaving or something.

Sleeping, hopefully.

So, other things I wait for:

1. For Eric to decide he is ready to get out of the tub. Shivering with cold, blue feet, those are not reasons to get out of the tub. Sometimes I hurry things along by letting all the water out of the tub, and he sits there until every last drop has drained away and then imperiously demands a towel.

2. For the water in my shower to get hot. Important things like this should not take nearly so long, in my opinion. Hot water is a must.

3. For the people in this house to remember to use their indoor voices.

4. For the cat (the black one) to remember he doesn’t need to use his claws when he’s on my lap and decides he needs to change position a few millimeters.

5. Inspiration.

I wrote a post earlier today about spanking (there’s a segue here somewhere) at Strollerderby, and was reminded of some of my own experiences with that as a child. Needless to say, they weren’t pleasant. I think it was the waiting that was the worst part: waiting alone in my room, having been banished there during dinner; waiting for what was to come; and then, finally, waiting for it to be over.

I wonder if that isn’t one little piece of why waiting is so hard for me sometimes now. Part of me wants just to get to it, to get there, to hurry up and be done. I know the outcome, or a part of me does, so why wait?