Wandering down the isles of the supermarket, I was multi-tasking. Waiting for an oil change, and a perscription to be filled while also doing my grocery shopping for the week. My mind was whirring and chaotic, flashing from products to sale tags and vaguely entertaining questions from my 3 year old. Children are adept at getting one’s attention when they want it. Even when they have it. My son has me to himself today and I enjoy lavishing him with my affection, but when I’m shopping, its business. Gabe has this way of breaking down barriers. He has darling, expressive brown eyes and he has a way of lighting up his whole face when he wants you to look at him. When that doesn’t work, he uses his body movements, quick and jerky to get the job done. Sometimes he dances a little jig, sometimes he starts running while shifting his shoulders from side to side. Today he’s trapped in the shopping cart. Its nearing lunchtime and so all food looks interesting. Gabe points at everything in the isle, the end-cap and since I am only vaguely aware of his show, he amps it up a bit. Instead of pointing, he extends his entire arm with his whole hand outstretched at items over his head and out of reach.
“It looks like I have a friend here.” Says an old voice in a familiar foreign accent.
I registered the comment after I had looked up in the man’s direction. His rippled old skin is shining and soft looking. Almost like cookie dough. There was something mis-shapen about something around his mouth. Possibly a faded old scar. I tried not to stare. His eyes search mine while I glance down at my son, still frozen like a statue with his arm outstretched like a tiny little Nazi giving a Hal Hitler. I didn’t put it together just then, I tried to remember my manners.
“Gabe, say hello.” I urge my son to notice the man and be polite. That is what I do when I’m not sure what to say. The children are the only reason older people ever talk to me.
The man seems a little arrogant or something, most people just want to smile and talk to my children. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it and he pushed on. I was half-way down the isle when I noticed Gabe doing his arm thing again and I placed the old man’s accent, decidedly German. Something went cold and I stopped right in front of the hot chocolate. What the? No. Is it possible I actually just met…no.
It seems like a hallucination or an apparition that spontaneously appeared in public. Or maybe that actually happened. I’m reading a book written by a Jewish psychologist on the Nazi doctors. So maybe that is why my mind put that scenerio together the way it did. But the thing is, I wasn’t even thinking about that book. It had been days since I’d picked it up. I know the mind is complex and in a way our memory can change to fit whatever we want it to. I’m just wondering if it is possible to have met either an actual Nazi or some old Nazi sympathiser in Wal-mart? I think any that survived would have way to much shame associated with their past to bring it up casually to a stranger in the grocery isle?? Or was that some kind of psychotic break from reality? I’ll know if that guy shows up somewhere else to head to the shrink. Or the neurologist. Or maybe I’m reading too much into this…
Yesterday, St Patrick’s day my baby turned 18 months old. She is my first kid to take a bottle, so I set 18 months as the cut off for bottles. Here she is, clinging to her last bottle.
This was more traumatic for me than it was for her, maybe. I took a tip from Suppernanny and got a treasure box from Ikea
Before bedtime, I had Hannie help me collect all the bottles and put them in the treasure box. I told her the bottle fairy was coming to get all the bottles to give to little babies because she was too big for them.
Then, I went out with the girls and BJay dealt with a sad, sad little girl. He said she whined about “Ba-ba” for 3 hours before zonking out at 10:00
When I got back I replaced all the bottles with these prizes
I got 2 packs of those tummy tickler things because I’m going to recycle them as our permanent sippy’s. And then I got her big girl things, like tiny water goblets from Ikea and little silverware, a purse, keys, and a cell phone.
She loved the cell phone
She carried her purse, keys and phone around all day.
And I am going to be okay, eventually. I just wish they didn’t have to grow up so fast.
I haven’t checked my mail in a few days. I just found a really fun package from our friends Addie, Heidi, James and their awesome momma Jamie! You guys rock! The kids were so excited!
Here is Asher, modeling his new wind-up bug.
Here is the closest thing to a smile Gabe will do for the camera. He’s a total Ham, but he loves his frog!!!
Here is Hila with her Hello Kitty stationary. She LOVES it, she’s already written some notes with it!
And here is Hannah with the egg from Asher’s toy. She got a cute little chickie that makes a chickie sound, but before I could snap a picture of her with it she took it to her lair where she hides things like the remote and my glasses. She’s sneaky, that one.
And here is me with my absolute favorite candy for easter, candy coated cadburry eggs! Thank you so much. As you can tell, they are already open.
Jamie, thank you so much! I can’t believe you went to the trouble to send us a fun package, considering all the things you are dealing with at the moment. You are such a good friend. BTW, I plan to go see Mrs. Cole and Mr. Harris from that DC trip soon. Good times. Thank you so much! Oh, I like the sachet thingie too, it smells wonderful.
I keep imagining my life streaming past me in text-form. I actually finished a writing project I started and I am calling myself a writer. So many times I’ve sat down to write something and it just comes out stilted and choppy. Nothing seemed fluid. Its like that first fearful moment on the dancefloor when you have the beat and the flow of the music like its in your blood but you are afraid to move your body in time… It was like that with writing. It just takes confidence I think. Getting the nerve up, or faking it until it doesn’t matter anymore. Now everything, every sense, every situation is translated into text in my mind. I’m afraid to rest and lose the momentum. What if this current of creativity leads to the shore? What if it stops somewhere? It would seem that a blog is the perfect place to exhibit writing. But for now that isn’t the point. You’ll excuse me if I’m a little absent for a while. Not that there are that many of you who will miss me.
BJay and I were lamenting the fact that there is nothing to compare to the Pixies anymore. And that the only reason the younger generation knows about them is because of Fight Club. This is an awesome song. I’m on a Pixies kick lately. Also BJay is really attracted to female base players. Even if they are ugly. Ha ha ha.
BJay is home sick with the worst stomach virus known to mankind. He might be dying, actually. So I’m taking life one moment at a time. I’ve pre-packed the children’s lunches for tomorrow, assuming they are not sick by then. It wasn’t so long ago a fun round of food poisoning had me doing laundry ’round the clock so I guess I’m used to it. The funny thing to me is that this is exactly the one thing I didn’t think I could handle as a parent. It has to be the worst part of having kids. I honestly didn’t think I could take care of children when vomiting would be involved. But suprisingly–it isn’t so bad when its your kids. For some reason when its my husband I am so mean. I grew up with a dad who would retreat to his room and we wouldn’t see or hear from him while he was sick. I can only recall one time I actually knew my dad was sick. So when I have a whiney man on the couch insisting the lights be dimmed and watching the most boring science crap ever–I am about out of my mind. We have never established sickness ettiquette, apparantly. The injustice of it all is that invariably, I will get sick when the kids are sick and BJay will go off to work because the reports have to go out.
I just cry. And sometimes when the words are too big, too full, or too painful… I cry then too. Life is such a fragile thing. I know my mom lost a little baby between my older sister and me. The baby was old enough that they knew he was a boy but he was too small and fragile to survive. I don’t know what the appropriate reaction is to a tragedy like that. How can you properly grieve for the child that didn’t get to be? My mom has never talked about it, with me. As far as I know, I don’t think she’s ever mentioned it to anyone. And I think that is the worst part of the tragedy. It was something so personal and so painful that no one got to share in her pain. No one but her really knew him or felt him. I don’t know the date this tragedy occurred. I only know that it was followed soon after, by a pregnancy that resulted in me.
A friend of mine is going through this right now. At 19 weeks her water broke spontaneously. Its so sickeningly unfair. I am too far away to do anything and its so frustrating. Last night I made two tiny quilts because I didn’t know the gender. I was hoping against all odds that I could get them to her in time, that she could wrap her baby in something made out of love, just for that moment, for that baby. Time is so cruel and distended when you don’t want it to be. And sometimes it just slips through your fingers. I found out that Amelia Jayne was born this morning, still. I know that the hospital usually has hand-made things for babies that are born too young. I just wish that I could have done something to signify the emotions I feel. That she’s not alone, that its horribly unfair, that her baby has the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard. Where I am, there is nothing I can do but pray.
Life is a precious, precious thing. Don’t ever forget that.
My sister’s ex-boyfriend found this picture of Asher on his computer and posted it on my wall. Without the miracle of facebook my kids and I never would have spent 3 1/2 solid minutes laughing at this picture
I just wish they didn’t have to grow up so fast.
