Lion and Magic Boy

But first, the Daily Cycling Roadkill Report:

#bugs = 5
2 stuck on face, 2 in mouth and retrieved, 1 in throat and swallowed (NOTE TO SELF: close mouth while breathing), and 1 discovered stuck on lip an hour later.

# roadkill = 2
1 squished possum, identifiable only by its naked pink tail (ew).
1 groundhog, attended by a hawk who stood his ground until I got really close and then flew slowly and insolently away.

# deer sighted = 4
Saw a dog slowly cross the road ahead of me a bit and became concerned that it might chase me a little. I thought about my speed and the condition of my legs, as it was near the end of my ride, and decided I could take on the dog. When I approached I noticed it was actually a deer, and he had a friend.

On another road, Mama deer was standing in a cornfield, looking at me yet unmoving. As I got closer I could see a fawn behind her in the underbrush, peering out inquisitively. He wagged his tail at me as I went past, very interested but also unmoving except for his little tail.

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So Nathaniel was still sick today. His rash has progressed a bit, morphing into a network of yuck. Startling, really. I actually mentioned the word “leprosy” once, betting that Nathaniel hadn’t heard of it, but somehow he knew it was something awful. And reacted appropriately, with horror. Then I told him that he really had Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever (he doesn’t), which he immediately suspected was caused by something very, very awful. Like lizards. After assuring him that he hadn’t been near any lizards lately, and by the way he didn’t have that disease, he felt a little better.

But the weirdest thing was when his unreasonable fears got the best of him. His fever was way down but he was still in a pretty altered state most of the day, though his face looked human again. This afternoon he felt good enough to crawl up the steps and gather laundry from the dryer to pack for going to his dad’s house, and I could hear him making an incessant nervous laugh that sounded like a dead-on impression of Peter Lorre. Not as Mr. Moto but more the caricature Bugs Bunny/Mr. Hyde version. The only thing is, Nathaniel was perfectly serious. He muttered and laughed like that for about an hour before I thought to give him a dose of Rescue Remedy, at which time it ended as quickly as it had begun.

Meanwhile, we talked about the potential of seeking medical advice, and Serena issued an immediate and emphatic protest. A car ride apparently wasn’t in her plans for the day. And Eric amused himself much of the day by stuffing bits of leftover pancake into the A/C vents and piling bean bags into the cat’s water bowl.

And I remembered that I haven’t left the house in four days.

There’s nothing that brings the act of parenting into sharp relief more than when a child is sick. Suddenly the amount of energy required simply to maintain the status quo and to keep things flowing is so much more than before. Needs are magnified, as are fears. The senses remain on high alert until the crisis abates.

Nathaniel came home sick Friday when the children came over from their dad’s house. He mentioned a sore throat, which didn’t seem to be a major issue, but stated his preference for quiet play rather than, say, a trip to IKEA. As in every time they come back from being away for more than a night or so, there was a transition period. We’re getting better at these, but they still require a certain amount of attention and intention to navigate. I can’t imagine what it must be like for a child to be constantly moving from one parent’s house to the other, each with huge variances in feel, rules, expectations, and mundane things like food. Still, they say that kids are resilient, and it comforts me to believe that.

By Friday night, Nathaniel had developed a fever. I sent him, tired, off to bed with a hug, hoping he’d be better by morning.

He wasn’t. Didn’t want breakfast, which is a dead giveaway. By Saturday afternoon he had developed a bright red rash over most of his body. Fortunately I don’t freak out too much over illness, and I felt it was some sort of viral eruption. It happens. The sore throat was no longer an issue. It’d look an awful lot like scarlet fever if the throat was more of an issue.

By late Saturday the fever had caused strange fears: he was afraid he’d be contagious to everyone else (too late for that, I’m sure); he thought he’d have brain damage as a result of the fever. My natural dry and ironic humor doesn’t help in these cases and I’m afraid I may have caused him some undue worry. Oops. But everything was magnified. I so hope I don’t get this.

Being the primary food consumer in the house, when Nathaniel doesn’t want to eat it’s noticeable. It’s been rather nice not cooking much, but he worries about his not wanting to eat. I figured he was better yesterday when for hours he asked repeatedly if we had any bacon, or failing that, sausage. Or ham. What is it when you crave nitrites? Can’t I just administer those directly? Sorry, we’re fresh out of smoked meats. I gave him some miso soup instead.

I haven’t slept more than a few hours for days now. Saturday night we were up barfing. Well, Nathaniel did all the work while I stood by being supportive. No one’s been out of the house since Friday. We’ve watched a Cirque du Soleil video, some Tour de France coverage, and they’re working their way through several hours of “Little Bear” now.

Today his fever is down and he’s all itchy, so I figure he’s on the mend. Meanwhile, Serena has a sore throat so I guess we’re about to start Round 2.

Welcome to parenting.

Yesterday, Saturday, we went to Ikea. Understand, I love Ikea. But I usually go there on weekdays. In the morning. Apparently, most people don’t. Which is totally fine by me; I’m not one for crowds. Being in a crowd of people, to me, is like intentionally setting fire to yourself. At some point, you have to stop and ask yourself: Why? Why subject myself to this?

So. There we were, in Ikea. Amid the crowds. There was a sale! And live musicradiopeopledancing!! So. There we were. Thinking about a bed for Eric. Which I bought. I may regret this, since his crib keeps him contained, at least when he’s in it, but he’s going to have to move to a big boy bed eventually, and his oldest sister wants it for her own purposes, so there you go, that explains why I bought the very simplest wood bed platform-thing which I plan to use minus its legs, at least at first, because I will likely be unable to count the times after the first week that he falls off the thing.

All through Ikea in the livingroom section, Nathaniel kept suggesting sofas and chairs he thought would be better than our current selection. I agreed, but we’re not in a position to buy all new furniture, even in relatively reasonable Ikea terms. One day, I am sure that something modern would like to join the few Ikea pieces we already have, but as long as Eric is wiping his nose on the couch when he climbs up on it, what’s the point?

We also needed a lamp. The livingroom had a floor lamp, an amber and black torchiere-thing, that Eric broke months ago, rendering it, uh, broken. So it stands there, lifeless. And broken. It was time for a new one. In the lamp area I told Nathaniel to find one. We discussed the relative merits of various lamps, most of which I dismissed because of not meeting my first criteria, which means they had visible wires. Who designs a lamp where you can see the wires trailing down the center pole? I don’t care if it costs $7.99 or not (actually the $7.99 is probably the reason for the trailing wires in the first place), it’s not worth it to have something you hate because you can’t not look at the wires.

And then he showed me The Lamp. It’s totally not what I would have chosen on my own, but I instantly saw the possibilities, even though I wasn’t sure it met the second criteria, which is that it must be Eric-proof. So we put it in the cart behind Eric.

Not long after, Nathaniel came to me with this other lamp, this sort of free-form colored glass thing, and he was suggesting places in the house it might go, at least if we got rid of a whole lot of other stuff we have that “wouldn’t go”.

So then I indicated the lamp already in the cart and said, “We could design our whole house around a lamp,” and you should have seen that boy’s eyes light up!

We bought the lamp, and the other lamp, and also a rectangular clear glass vase that’s going to contain a Lucky Bamboo plant, rather a sculptural thing on its own, and Nathaniel was looking at art for the walls also, and held up this one, and inexplicably, this one, and at one point held up this round one, and each time I’m all, “Yes, but where will it GO?”, to which he had no answer.

When we got home, though, it was a different matter.

Oh, did I mention that in the morning Nathaniel rearranged the furniture? Yep, he roamed through the house measuring things, and then he sat down and drew a diagram of the livingroom/diningroom area (not to scale, he explained to me, though it looked pretty good), indicating how he planned to place the couch at an angle in the room. Skeptical, I told him he could move it (thinking we’d just be moving it right back), but do you know, it looks better that way, and changes the energy flow in the room?

So when we got home from Ikea I put together our new lamp and discovered that we had naturally forgot to procure bulbs for it, but here was Nathaniel going through the house telling us the things that no longer “went” now that we had the lamp, and do you know, he was absolutely right about this? Not only that, but he pointed to the space above the fireplace, that presently contains a picture that hung about the “hi-fi” in my childhood home, and said, “There’s where the round one goes!”

And you know? He’s absolutely right.

It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he decided to be an interior designer.

P.S. You can probably get him at this point for pretty cheap should you be needing some design work. Might as well now, before he gets all famous and all.

By the way, I hope you’re happy. I’ve been agonizing all day over what to post and had no idea what I was going to write until my phone rang tonight.

When I was little, telephones had little real significance for me. Sure, there was the incredibly asinine game of “Telephone” played in the first grade that ranked right up there with “Duck, Duck, Goose” in terms of Games That Made My Eyes Want to Bleed So I Would Not Have to Play Them. So judgmental, for six years old.

I built a phone once. Or rather, my dad did while I looked on. It was for my 6th-grade class in Electricity, and the phone was housed in a dishwashing-soap container, and it really worked! Impressed the hell out of me. I think my dad got an A on it.

If you want to contact me now by phone, you either call my cell phone or you call the home phone, to which is attached two different numbers (one is for work; I am so sly that way!). “Work” involves me speaking to other people and recording our conversation, so the fact that I use a semi-reliable VOiP phone is somewhat interesting and leaves just the right amount of challenge. Just tonight I was talking to a woman and she said that she heard about every other syllable, which would make for an interesting recording. I could hear her fine, by the way. Is it possible that you get what you pay for?

Tonight, when my cell phone rang, I noted instantly (because my mind works fast like that) that there was a total of perhaps three people who could possibly be calling me on that number. I grew eager with anticipation. Who was it??

Damn. Some recorded voice, obviously selling something. In Spanish.

The phone hasn’t rung in days, and when it does, it’s not even a real person? Speaking in a language I know?

Why do I even have a cell phone? Besides the fact that it looks kind of cool and I use it to tell the time.

Not. Fair. There are three people in the entire universe who have this number, and I would have been thrilled to hear from any of them, but no…….

(ring….) (could that be the phone??)

Hang on. I’ve got to take this call. See you later.

In case you’re wondering, yes, the heat’s back on. I had a nice talk with my landlord, who apologized again for not having come out to meet me (I’ve been here eight months) and was highly concerned about my lack of heat. A nice guy, even if he’s an accountant (I won’t hold it against him). He gave me the number to call (furnace is under warranty), and the heater-guy was out here by 2 pm.

So this guy comes in with a uniform, he may have been old enough to drive, I’m not sure, and he opens up the panel of the furnace and starts literally ripping wires and stuff out of it while assuring me that he knew what he was doing. He did. The trouble was a faulty inducer motor, the thing that draws fresh air into the unit to be heated and then blown into the house. He sees this all the time, he says.

So he goes back into his truck after warning me that he had about 45 minutes’ worth of paperwork to do there, and comes back eventually. Within 2 minutes he had the heat working, new motor, everything is wonderful and I’m running to the thermostat to turn it down because he’s got it cranked up to 87.

Meanwhile, I am standing on the window sill, busy drilling little holes into the window jambs so screws can be screwed in there that hold up the little brackets for my new mini blinds. Yes! I am Installing Blinds! Myself!

Before we moved in we were warned that window coverings were our responsibility, meaning that I had to buy and install window coverings that I’d likely eventually end up leaving here for the next tenant. So I wasn’t all that keen on running out and spending hundreds of dollars on blinds and all, not with my tenuous financial situation. The realtor who connected me with this place was extremely kind and bought some temporary paper shades while laughingly telling me that she had even seen some people move out after a year and never replace them with permanent shades! Imagine! I knew, of course, that those people would be me.

So here it is, eight months later, and I am finally getting around to the blind thing. It turns out that I found a blind source that costs $1 cheaper per window than the paper ones. Ironic, wouldn’t you say?

It turns out also that installing blinds is far easier than I thought it would be. I did six yesterday. And afterward, turning a little wand or pulling a cord to open the blind is far easier than painstakingly folding up a flimsy paper shade and then reclipping it. Trust me.

The light looks a lot different in here, though, and it’ll take a while to get used to, but I think I like it.

And the drill? That’s the best part. Everyone should use power tools.

[tags] power tools, testosterone, window blinds, furnace [/tags]

My furnace is on the blink. Literally. I go down there and stare balefully at the big metal box that (I think) is the furnace, and there’s a blinking light. A red blinking light. Was that there before, I wonder. Before we all noticed how cold it was getting in the house.

I’m pretty sure there hasn’t been heat since Friday, but the temperatures weren’t all that low until the night before last when the rain set in (which will supposedly flood the nearby river, but we’re not close enough to that), the rain that is feet of snow in more northerly places, the snow we’ve been denied all winter. I would have liked two feet of snow in mid-April.

But yesterday it was decidedly cold in the house, and the children noticed it (Saturday I walked around asking, Is it cold? Or is it just me? and was assured that it was indeed just me, and even constant checking of the thermostat revealed little since the indicated temperature of the room was identical to what the thermostat was set on, so stop complaing and put on a sweater!) and ran to my bed, shivering, after they awoke, despite their many layers of snuggly wool jammies. Eric’s hands were icy despite his many layers and we snuggled under the covers while I warmed him, the two of us whispering and laughing to some unspoken joke.

Downstairs, the thermostat read 60 degrees. Aha! I thought. I was right! It IS cold in here! Vindicated, I felt smug. For about ten seconds. Then I switched on the gas fireplace, how handy! to warm the downstairs. I spoke to Eric about it and assured him that it was HOT! We have been talking a lot lately about HOT! in terms of the kitchen, and I get that he gets it now. He had fun playing with Serena, though, teasing her, as she has appointed herself Eric-monitor near the fireplace while he would inch slightly closer to it, grinning, hearing her yell NO NO NO ERIC HOT HOT HOT at him.

So it was a little like camping out, an adventure, yesterday, this no-heat thing. It continued to be raw and cold and wet outside while we remained inside. I sent the children down into the yet-to-be-fully-unpacked boxes, of which only a few remain, to investigate the extra-blanket situation. One purple blanket that used to be Nathaniel’s before he got his duvet that fits a twin bed, one throw blanket-thing that could cover Serena, and one quilt given me by my grandmother (who died a few years ago at the age of 101) that was made by her aunt.

Plus we found the little electric space heater too. We were set!

This morning I phoned my landlord, an accountant, who evidently has nothing much to do today, this being April 16, the day after April 15 that falls this year on a weekend. So I might hear from him, when, next week?

I heard that this month will be, over the entire U.S., the coldest April on record in something like 150 years.

[tags] heat, landlords, furnace, cold[/tags]

This time, my absence here hasn’t been due to extreme busyness (the explanation much of the time) or a temporary descent into internal blackness (once in awhile) or a complete and utter lack of original ideas (most of the time), no, instead I was actually away this time in body, having traveled over 1800 miles to spend a couple of days in Colorado.

My father moved there about a year ago to be closer to me and his grandchildren, and in an amazing stroke of irony is now left there almost alone since last August when we were forced by the Pennsylvania court to return to PA. During the time we were there together, however, the children got to know their grandfather more than they ever had despite four years of living concurrently in PA, a time when he’d come over about three times a year. In Colorado, he joined us weekly, every Saturday night, for whatever we were having that night and a bottle of wine. Once he brought over one of his own concoctions (the love of cooking runs strong in my family), a huge vat of chicken stew that was devoured hungrily by the children. My dad loved the interaction with Michael who challenged him, and the children who often befuddled him. He played chess with Nathaniel (who beat him, an amazing feat with a man who strives to win at absolutely everything). He was devastated when we left.

Since last year, then, it would seem that my dad hasn’t done anything with his house. Boxes remain in the livingroom still unpacked; pictures are still leaned up against the walls where they might one day hang; and aside from a large bookshelf only partly filled with the hundreds or perhaps thousands of books he owns, he’s bought no new furniture since I was last there despite the fact that he jettisoned nearly all his furniture when he moved out there from PA. True, he’s 72 now, and he’s always been rather a procrastinator (also runs in the family), but there’s more than that going on. He’s 72. And he’s not as spry as he once was. So my visit was a lot about sussing out what’s been going on with him lately since he’s had several medical procedures and may require surgery and hasn’t been able to keep the place up.

It pains me that I’m not still there in Colorado to do this and see that he’s okay. Hugely independent and proud, he would be unlikely ever to admit that he’s not. But I can see what I can see, and I’m glad I went.

Other random observations from travel:

~~I cannot adequately express how very bad the coffee is in, say, free hotel breakfasts. I am gratefully sipping my own coffee now, filled with sugar and real cream. How decadent.

~~Some people, I gather, still think that airplane travel is glamorous. Or interesting, at least. Sure it is, if you like being treated like crap, herded around like groups of unruly children or animals.

~~The Denver airport is by far my favorite, for lots of reasons. Here are two:

1. Getting off your airplane and walking seven or eight miles to the terminal, you are confronted by a small amount of confusion when attempting to locate the baggage area. You must take an escalator down but the signage is lacking somewhat to make this clear. Instead, they’ve stationed a Real Person, friendly and helpful, at the top of the escalator to tell you where you need to go based on your needs.

2. Approaching the security point they’ve stationed another Real Person armed with stacks of plastic zip-loc bags who offers them to any traveler who needs one, and who is astute (or practiced) enough to question you about things like mascara that you never realized were considered by the TSA to be liquids and therefore were technically breaking a law? rule? on your previous flight. Oops. He also hands out candy.

~~You can tell which travelers returning from Colorado had gone there for skiing. They’re the ones with white raccoon circles around their eyes. Don’t these people know about sunscreen?

~~Try not to sit next to a guy who attacks his food on the plane, consuming a “cheeseburger” (using the term loosely, but that’s what the flight attendant called it) and a salad in about 1.2 minutes, as it might cause you to lose your own appetite.

~~As soon as you fall asleep on an airplane, trying to drown out the sea of humanity surrounding you and breathing your air, the guy next to you is sure to prod your arm to get you to get up because he has to go to the bathroom.

~~Hotel desk people at economy hotels are often missing lots of teeth, giving them interesting speech patterns and a disdain for their lives. Which is understandable if you consider that the highlight of their day may be refilling the bread box at the free breakfast buffet.

Returning home is always a good thing no matter how good the trip (and this was was strange, making the contrast less striking perhaps). The cats were happy to see me despite having been well cared-for in my absence. They greeted me warmly and then proceeded to ignore me, punishing me for my thoughtlessness in leaving them. They are still not quite over it. But having cleaned the house not long before everyone left it, the children to be with The Ex and me to be away, things look pretty good around here. The grass even decided to turn green while I was away.

Perhaps as a result of the exercise I began recently of attempting to remain in the moment (not always easy when there are constantly so many demands made by others), and perhaps from having been so sick recently that every night I was exhausted, but lately I have been feeling very grateful for my bed. As someone who has maintained a love-hate relationship with my bed for years, it’s huge to be able to say this.

A Few Exciting Moments In Bed History:

1977: Graduated from pink bedpread to a comforter in a dashing shade of, uh, pink.

1981: Entertained Bad Boy Older Guy boyfriend who was six years older than I was and a coke addict in my twin bed while the parents were out. Not long afterward I was shipped off to college. Coincidence?

1982: Quit college, slept on floor of my new empty apartment.

1982 1/2: New boyfriend bought me a king-sized bed with an agenda. We were married within a year.

1985: Waterbed. Right. They leak, especially after soon-to-be ex throws the mattress down the stairs when you’re moving out.

1992: Sleeping alone again after some off-and-on, with years’ worth of insomnia. Is it the caffeine? I have found a love for flannel sheets, though, except I have to wonder about the dust everywhere that is the same color as the sheets. Do sheets shed?

1995: Beg for new bed during pregnancy, feeling like I’m sliding off the edge. New husband has old mentality, and convinces me to buy the bed that Paul Harvey, pretty much dead already himself, advertises.

2000: Joined by new bedmate weighing 7 lbs 2 oz. This king-size bed is not big enough and I’m sure he’s going to squish her. So now I have to be in the middle (sigh) and I can’t hang my feet over the edge. It’s a good thing I’m not sleeping anyway.

2003: The girl has done growed up and she kicks her feet in her sleep. It’s time she slept in her own bed. Good thing, too, because her other brother is due to arrive anytime.

2004: I hate that bed. I don’t care if I’m sleeping on air or not. It’s not big enough. So I buy new sheets, made from organic hemp. So what if they’re $400?

2005: I told you the bed wasn’t big enough. I’m moving, you can have the bed. I’ll get a new one.

2005 1/2: New bed: complete with squishy down feather bed-thing. Feels like sleeping in a nest. I took the hemp sheets with me though.

2005 3/4: Michael hates the feathers. He’s allergic! He brings his bed, so I’m sleeping on air again. Except this one is technically a camping mattress. Makes rubbery sounds. S’okay, I’m not sleeping much anyway.

2006: Moved again. Still on air. Michael leaves but leaves me the camping mattress. S’okay, I’m getting used to it. Since he was allergic to down I bought a lovely thick wool mattress cover and a lovely thick wool duvet. With my lovely wool pillows I may turn into a sheep.

Now: The hemp sheets bit the dust. I repaired them once but they got so thin there was nothing left to patch. I am back to flannel, however the flannel leaves little grey balls of flannelish fuzz everywhere, all over the floor for instance.

And now: I love climbing into this bed. All the lovely wool warms without feeling hot, and I feel enveloped by soft comfortable wooly-love. Everyone should have such a bed. I don’t even care about the air mattress thing anymore, though someday I will buy a latex bed. Yummy! Everyone should love their bed. Do you?

What??! Today isn’t the 7th? Damn. That’s what I wrote all day.

Story of my life, really. I used to rely on Nathaniel to tell me what day of the week it was, and how old I am (I refused to continue counting birthdays a few years back and lost track). After all, when you’re home every day, day in, day out, each day is pretty much interchangeable, isn’t it?

I do know it’s Tuesday, however. That’s the day the trash cans have to go out to the curb, and one of my neighbors reminds me of this every Monday, exactly 24 hours too early, and I can see it from where I sit here typing (thank you neighbor!).

It’s been very, very, very, very cold here this week. So cold that I shiver in anticipation of the next month’s heating bill when the one for last month, in unseasonably warm weather, was $225. (I know! I am so wasteful! And we’re all just sweltering with the thermostat set at a balmy 67.) So cold that schools are delayed in opening. I haven’t quite understood the logic in that one, but I think it has something to do with shivering underdressed kids standing forlornly at bus stops early in the morning instead of at mid-morning when it’s warmed up a whole 3 or 4 degrees. Something like that. At any rate, I was charmed to receive a call from Nathaniel and Serena’s school this morning assuring me that it would open on time, despite the fact that the surrounding districts (who provide bus service for many children including mine) were delayed. Happy getting your kids to school and so sorry we screwed up the bus thing for you! The biggest irony is my children were with The Ex (Day 7: The Seige From Across the Street) who had no idea about the phone calls or the delays.

Yes, I am filing this one under Domestic Bliss.