Bulletproof

I'm sitting in a hotel room in Arlington, Texas, by a window overlooking a closed amusement park. It took six hours to drive here today, and at the last minute, I veered from my directions skirting Dallas and instead drove right through its heart. Dallas is notorious for its heavy, mad traffic and jumbled, confusing exchanges, and I wanted to prove I could still handle it. I never used to blink at racing along in fast traffic on major city roads, and I wanted to feel like the person I was before I got so damn old and responsible and soft. Keeping pace with the high speeds, navigating fearlessly, slipping into the groove of the commuter rush: it was euphoric.

That was my life almost ten years ago, tearing down the highways around the Bay Area, free, bold, answering to no one. The person I was then didn't make meal plans and to-do lists. She had all the time in the world, and her choice of how to spend it.

Just as I was reveling in my invincibility, a song came on the radio that made me miss my boys. It wasn't a sweet, childish song, of course; they have their dad to inform their musical taste. It was Bulletproof by La Roux. Paolo knows every word, knows the song well enough to make up alternate goofy lyrics, and Luca belts out the chorus. Bulletproof, hah! At this point in my life, I couldn't be more vulnerable. I no longer exist in exclusivity; my husband and children are part of me. I am saddled with demands, stretched thin, and chained tight, because I am loved. I do not long for the days when no one waited to hear I had arrived safely.

When I'm away from home, sitting in an empty hotel room, she's so close to me, the person I was. Sometimes I like to check in with her, to step back into the stream of a faster, more reckless life, to feel young and unencumbered, but these are moments of nostalgia, not regret. Living without a net or an anchor is no way to spend your whole life, and I knew that ten years ago with the sunroof open, music screaming, going 80 down the highway.

Greater or Less than Hungry Crocodiles

Sam ran upstairs where I was folding laundry to ask me the trick for remembering the greater-than and less-than arrows. When the arrow looks like an L that means less than, I told him. He only knows the crocodile trick, whatever that is, so he asked me to help Paolo with his homework. I joined Paolo at the table and casually glanced at the directions at the top of the worksheet. They used the crocodile trick, too, so I began my explanation: The crocodile's open mouth always faces the smaller number. It's a great, big, mean crocodile, and he's going to chomp the puny little number. Got it? We worked down half the page before I noticed something was awry. The L-arrows weren't indicating what they should. What the...?

Now, you math geniuses were probably groaning several sentences ago, but I am not one of you. I am of the species Liberalus Articus, and my kind do not understand your strange symbols. My people study dead things and words. So. I re-read the directions and, sure enough, the crocodile chomps the bigger number. Fine, have it your stupid way. Completely mortified, I had to reverse my prior explanation to my trusting child and have him redo the worksheet. Never mind what I just said, I told Paolo, the crocodile isn't mean, really, just hungry, so it's going to chomp the bigger number. If you were really hungry, would you eat two cookies or twelve cookies?

Once homework was done, I lashed out at Sam for putting me in charge of math, when he knew I didn't know the crocodile thing, and he did, and now Paolo is probably totally confused and won't get into college, because these are the types of building blocks an entire education is built on, and I've blown it. He was not surprised at all by my fervor and retaliated by reminding me that he came to get me because he knew his grasp on the subject matter was shaky, and I seemed very sure of myself, and this is what happens to children with two Liberal Arts-educated parents, so we should have known the day was coming when we couldn't help with math and science studies.

Yes, but I didn't expect the day to come while our child is in first grade.

Mad Love

Love is...

Not being offended when the 2010 World Cup commercial comes on, and I shush you, turn to the TV and raise my arms in victory at the clips of the Italian team celebrating after the 2006 final.

Mad Love is...

Knowing I will have the same reaction every day until June, but never changing the channel or rolling your eyes.

Don't loose the goose.

We are in Omaha for Thanksgiving, which means Sam and I are doing some serious shopping. Most girls prefer shopping alone or with girlfriends, but I always make the best purchases with my husband. I don't know how he does it, but Sam can pick out a pair of shoes from 20 yards away that, once I've tried on, I can't live without.

One of our requisite stops in Omaha is Whole Foods, one of many stores that we don't have in Fayetteville. The wine and cheese section was packed with shoppers gleefully downing free samples, and we eagerly joined in. One of the platters held "goose mousse" on a wee cracker. I have never had goose pate, but it has been on my list of things to eat if ever faced with the opportunity. I handed a cracker to to Sam and we popped it in right after the Manchego.

I offer the following taste experience as a public service announcement, in case any of you are thinking about classing up a holiday party with some pureed fowl. Imagine, if you will, a whole, unwashed goose - feathers, poop, and all - put into a blender, chilled, and spread on a triscuit. It was a real effort to get it down, and as I searched desperately for a complimentary swish of Beajoulais, Sam's pained gaze met mine. "What do you think?," he asked. "About the goose?," I replied. "I really wish that hadn't happened."

My love is like a green, green pickle.

Today marks the end of the first week at new daycares for both boys. Two weeks ago, their daycare shut down suddenly for financial reasons. This is the third daycare that has closed on us since we started depending on childcare services. I am the daycare widowmaker. To avoid boring you with the suffocating panic I felt the Friday afternoon we got the news, knowing I had no place to take my children the following week, I will simply say, it was not fun. Team Family pulled through, however, and after a week of Daddy Daycare with a few Take-Your-Kids-to-Work days sprinkled in, we found good situations for each of them. I have spent this first week nibbling my fingernails up to my elbows, but as it turns out, Paolo’s best friend from Kindergarten attends his summer camp, and Luca has not eaten anyone.

Sam has been watching the Tour de France for the last thirty-six days. Apparently, during the Tour, five extra hours are added to each day in order to provide twenty-nine solid hours of daily Tour coverage. Phil Liggett and Bob Roll narrate my dreams. Paolo is nearly as rabid as his father. He gets a kick out of the elevation maps and enjoys showing me easy days vs. hard days based on the category and frequency of climbs. I will discuss this further in the divorce paperwork.

Luca has developed his own language, and it is fascinating to me how it differs from Paolo’s verbal development. Paolo was all about animals and animal sounds at this age. Looking back, it wasn’t terribly useful for the purposes of communication, except maybe in a barnyard. Luca knows how to ask for things he wants, specifically, food. Even more specifically, ice and pickles. There is no disappointment, no meltdown, no rage that cannot be cured and calmed by offering Luca ice or pickles.

Linguistic quirks of note:

1. Anything liquid is “juice” (juice in a cup, juice from the garden hose, juice falling from the sky, juice in the toilet bowl).

2. Paolo is Fuh-Fuh. I had been dying to know what Luca would call his brother, just desperate to hear him call for his brother with his sweet baby voice. Paolo called himself Ba-doh before he could pronounce his name, so I figured it would be close to that. Instead, Luca chose Fuh-Fuh. Where did that come from? Is it an approximation of “brother”? I wanted cute, and this is not cute. It’s weird. What the fuh?

Graduation Day

Today is Paolo's last day of Kindergarten. Yeah, on a Thursday. That's not very helpful to working parents. As usual, Sam and I will split Friday hours with me taking the afternoon shift. Since I'll take a half-day off this week, I couldn't take off Tuesday morning to ATTEND PAOLO'S GRADUATION. Minor event, right? Actually, it was a very casual non-cap-and-gown affair, so my heart only splintered into 42,000 pieces.

When I got home Tuesday night, my darling husband plugged our videocamera into the TV to show me the footage he was able to get while sitting in a miniature chair and holding a squirming todder. I watched several short clips of the kids getting their diplomas while the teacher read what each child wants to be when he/she grows up.

Then it was time for the slideshow. My jaw dropped when I saw the video length in the corner of the screen: over 11 minutes. Sam had recorded the entire show. As pictures of the class began cycling, I got all choked up. It wasn't the toothless grins that did me in; it was the understanding that my husband had gone to such trouble to make me feel like I hadn't missed anything. He knew, without any conversation, how much it killed me to miss this milestone and, as usual, he knew how to make it better.

Less than two minutes into the slideshow, Luca picked up the videocamera and deleted the video. Irretrievably. A little piece of Sam's soul died, along with the last vestige of hope I had that Luca will end up anywhere other than jail.

Speaking of life prospects, would you like to know what Paolo wants to be when he grows up? A dad. Barring that, a helicopter driver. I told him I can't vouch for which would be more exciting, but I know which is more important.

Ictalurus punctatus

Sam did the grocery shopping on Monday, and I asked him to pick up some pollock at the seafood market so I could make fish sticks for the boys. On the drive home he was suspiciously reticent about his purchase until he finally admitted the store had been out of pollock. "That's okay, so you got haddock?" "Mmm, no." "Cod then?" "Well, no." He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye like he fully expected what he revealed next to have me throwing my wedding ring at his head. "I got catfish." "You. Got. WHAT?" Sam went on to explain the unauthorized substitution, toggling between apologetic and defiant. He knows I won’t eat that nasty, bottom-feeding river dog. I grew up in South Florida, and people who live there DO NOT EAT CATFISH. It’s like offering Spam to Nebraskans. Yes, it’s a regional prejudice, but I have actually tasted catfish, and it tastes like dirt.

I have another reason not to like catfish. After the birth of our first son, with whom I labored eighteen hours, Sam went out to a fantastic Cajun restaurant for a celebratory dinner with his parents and my mother. Me, I was stuck in the hospital, with a tar-pooping newborn, eating cafeteria food. After their two-hour feast, Sam brought me a doggie bag from the restaurant, consisting of cold fries and chicken fingers. After downing a couple of bites of really strange-tasting chicken, Sam confessed it wasn’t chicken at all, it was CATFISH! HA-HA-HA! See how good it is? No, in fact, I did not. Some women get expensive jewelry after giving birth. I got leftover deep-fried catfish in a greasy bag.

And last night, thanks to my husband, I got to touch it and feed it to my children. I actually feel guilty that I fed that swimming sewage to my sons. Proving how much he takes after Sam, Gianluca inhaled his fish sticks without noticing a thing. Paolo, who takes after me, choked down two pieces and asked if he could be done with his fish sticks because, for some reason, they just weren’t very good tonight. My precious boy.

Eat me. Mmmm.

Please always be with me.

I glared at the message light on my office phone Monday morning and rolled my eyes impatiently while the robotic voice announced that my missed call had come Sunday morning at 7:02. Surely a wrong number. Finally, the message played: just some incomprehensible noise, almost as if someone were mouthing the phone, and then “gah-gah-gah” – click. I quickly scrolled down the Caller ID to confirm that the call had come from my house. It was Luca; my baby called me.

I still don’t know how he did it, but it sure made my day, and it made me realize anew how he has made my life. It amazes me that a short eighteen months ago (Happy 1½, kiddo!) I didn’t know this boy at all. And now, how unimaginable my life would be without him. I lose my breath just contemplating it.

Who has made your life, colored it in, given it fire and meaning and joy? It doesn’t have to be a child; it could be a friend or a lover. Who are the people that you didn’t start this life with, but without whom your life would be a shame? Tell them, even if you whisper it while they’re sleeping, even if you just leave them a message.

Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory

I ran into Sam at home yesterday when I dropped off my Valentine’s party booty, so we got to eat lunch together. It began pleasantly, just two adults eating and conversing, until Sam finished his pizza and reached for the cookies.

"What are you doing?"

"I want a cookie. You said there are extras, so let me have one."

"No! You can’t open any of them."

"Why not? Give me a cookie."

"I can’t carry in open containers of food to the party. It’ll look like I found these in the parking lot, or worse, like I had an unstoppable case of the munchies from hitting the bong all night. THE SEAL MUST NOT BE BROKEN! You must be crazy, thinking I’m going to walk in there with used food."

"You’re really not going to give me a cookie, are you? Okay, I'm feeling a lot of anger towards you right now."

There the cookies sat, pristinely, all day and evening until dessert, when I had essentially the same conversation with Paolo, with Sam chiming in, “Paolo, she won’t do it, bud. You’re not getting a cookie. Your mama is MEAN.”

Which brings us to this morning, as I triumphantly carried the stack of unopened boxes of cookies into Paolo’s school. It was a delicate balancing act, as I was also carrying Luca, who picked at the stickers sealing the boxes until he had peeled them all off.

Post Postscript

Me: How did Paolo’s drop-off go today? Did you look for the missing library book?

Sam: I didn’t get a chance to talk to his teacher about the book because she had something to say to me. Apparently, yesterday at lunch Paolo would not sit down and stop shouting until they threatened to call his dad.

Me: Really? Our Paolo?

Sam: Yeah. So after I gave Paolo a talking-to while the teacher watched, I didn’t feel like bringing up the library book.

Me: Wow. I wonder why they threatened to call you. Why wouldn’t they say they were going to call me?

Sam: Because I’m the parent that walks him all the way to the classroom. You just drop him off at the front door like a stray dog.

Postscript

Sam: I read your post this morning. That’s some heavy stuff.

Me: Yeah, it really came out of left field. Do you think I did the right thing?

Sam: No, of course not. The boy is five years old. You can’t just drop him off at the front door. Jesus, he’s in Kindergarten, not junior high.

Me: Oh, hell. I was trying not to hover. It’s not like I abandoned him in the parking lot; he only had to walk down the hallway.

Sam: Yeah, well, he left his take-home folder in his backpack instead of returning it to his teacher and his library book is missing. Just because he asks for something doesn’t mean he’s ready for it.

Me: Well, when you put it that way…

Sam: No more of this front door business.

Me: Alrighty then. So much for my moment.

Filling the tank for $30.00 never felt so bad.

Me: Did you see that gas dropped below $3.00 just in time for me to fill up? Pretty sweet.

Sam: I wish it would go up to $5.00 a gallon. Gas needs to be as expensive as it is in Europe so people will stop driving huge gas-guzzling cars.

Me: Well, yeah. I just meant…

Sam: And so cities will invest in pedestrian- and bicycle-friendly infrastructure and mass transit.

Me: Of course. It’s just a little Woo Hoooo, not even that big, more of a w’hoo.

Sam: Less urban sprawl! More infill!

Me: A wuh, at most.

Sam: Developing alternative energy sources has got to be a top priority, and it never will be as long as gas is considered affordable.

Me: Yes. All of that. I just thought for me, only me, it was kind of nice to pay a little less today. I drive a small car, you’re a bicycle commuter. We’re good people. Only now I feel like an asshole.

They don't call it rocket for nothing

Sam made a new dish a few nights ago, involving grilled portabella mushrooms, sliced tomatoes, and arugula stacked on ciabatta bread. The recipe called for the arugula to be dressed with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Sam presented the bowl of arugula to me and asked me to check it for salt/pepper deficiencies. I popped a leaf in my mouth and told him not to add a thing to the mixture. Arugula is a BYOB green: it brings its own bam. Sam looked at me doubtfully, so I told him to partake. He chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, and then his eyes popped out of his head. "Aaaaaagh! This is like eating poison ivy," he exclaimed while sucking air. "Don't be silly. You're just getting that peppery finish," I said. "No, dude. I'm here trying to have a nice meal, and someone came along and sprayed mace in the back of my throat."

Tell me he couldn't have his own cooking show.

Storing some junk in the trunk

"This is what I tell the younger guys at the bike shop: women are like elephants."

"Go on."

"They forgive, but they never forget. So, watch what you say."

"Like maybe don't call them elephants?"

All this Bliss

"There's a barstool out there somewhere with my name on it, but that's another Sam in a different life."

"Well, that Sam is sad and lonely."

"I'm better at that."

"Is all this bliss cramping your style?"

"It is. It's beating me down."

This is not a love song.

I’m at the end of my music collection now, so I’m spinning the Various Artists and compilation discs. On my way back from lunch I was listening to a CD that I got with an issue of CMJ (College Music Journal) back in 1996. It took me a minute to figure out why I was rocking out, yet felt like I’d swallowed a bowling ball. Those familiar songs, like they always do, took me back to where I was when the music was new. I could see myself so clearly, stereo at top volume, letting the angry, yearning songs speak for me. I wish I could go back in time and tell that girl not to hurt so bad. Because that boy who is breaking her heart is going to marry her someday and give her two magnificent sons and will love her just as much as she wanted him to.

What would you tell your twenty-year-old self?

Two Faces of the Moon

My husband, the walking contradiction, in two Acts:

Have you ever been Metro? Have you ever tried?
Sam went to work late last night, coming home long after I was asleep, then I gave him the fussy, possibly teething baby at 4:00 this morning. So at 7:30, he wasn't so much ready to be awake. He huddled under a blanket on the couch, desperately trying to snatch a few more minutes of shut-eye. While I sympathized, I couldn't decide which shoes to wear, so I came downstairs wearing a different shoe on each foot and nudged him, "Honey, I need your help." He rolled over and opened one eye. I picked up one foot at a time and asked him which shoe he thought looked better. Now, any other man on the planet would have thrown something at me. Sam perked up and replied, "Ooh, you really can't go wrong. Those both look good."

Shave and a haircut: two bits.
Sam grows out his hair and beard every winter, but this year he started early, and it has become too much for me. Much, much too much. I expect every day to come home to find him skinning jackrabbits or splitting logs or whatever people with that much hair on their heads do. The other day, Paolo was sitting on Sam's lap and discovered a piece of candy nestled in his beard. It was a Nerd from the box I gave Sam for Christmas, so who knows how long it had been in there. Paolo picked it right out and ate it. I suggested that, seeing how our child was eating food out of his face, he might consider a trim. He is deaf to my pleas, however. He has committed to this look, and I may be married to a Sasquatch until spring.

Guidville, USA

I got an irate call from my husband this morning. He had called Dish Network because there was something wrong with our system, and he didn't want to miss our college football team's playoff game tomorrow morning. Go, Bearcats! That's all the spirit I've got, unfortunately. When pressed, I got the school colors wrong, and I got a four-year degree there. Incidentally, AC Milan is in the World Club Cup Championship game. Now that's exciting. Woo-hoo! Anyone?

We've had problems dealing with Dish Network in the past because it's about the only bill in my name, and Sam is usually the one who calls. I kept my name when I married Sam because my last name is Italian and Sam's is German or maybe Dutch, we're not sure. I don't get bent out of shape if a telemarketer asks for Jennifer Hislastname, but Sam, for whatever backwards reason, comes unglued when he is mistakenly referred to as Sam Mylastname. So, the poor Customer Service Rep was unsuccessfully trying to locate our account on their system, and Sam finally suggested she look it up under "Sam Mylastname." The CSR found it, and they were happily progressing through the diagnostics when the CSR said something about our address in Rockaway Beach, New York. She had pulled up some other Sam Mylastname's account.

At this point in the story, Sam's voice went up an octave. "Do you know where that is?" he demanded. "It's in the heart of Guidville! There are probably a dozen Sam Mylastnames in Rockaway Beach, New York." I tried to interrupt him with threats of marital sanctions for his ethnic slur, but he was unstoppable. Apparently, I am supposed to call Dish Network and explain to them that Sam has his own last name, and we in no way live in Rockaway Beach, New York aka Guidville or Dagotown. And once again - you cannot imagine how often this topic is revisited - Sam declared that our lives would be so much easier if I would just take his name. Sam, I'm not going to change my name and erase my heritage so that you can make a phone call to Dish Network. But thanks for asking.

I should have married beneath me.

We were driving to the mall, and I noticed a half-built dome atop some new construction on the corner. While sitting at the red light, I quipped, "Oh, look, they're putting a dome on that building. They certainly didn't get Brunelleschi's advice." Sam didn't reply. "It isn't very often a person can reference Florentine architecture, you know," I added, feeling smart and unappreciated. Sam glanced over at me and said, "It looks more like a Spanish dome." God, I hate him.

If I didn't have a sense of humor, he'd be dead by now

Keep in mind I had his baby, drug-free*, a mere two and half weeks ago.

Me: Gianluca has outgrown his first outfit, so now I have a dilemma. Do I store any baby clothes as keepsakes or do I just get rid of them all?

Sam: We're gonna have another kid, right?

Me: Um. What?

Sam: We've got to have three.

Me: Well, neither of us got fixed, so it's still in the realm of possibility, I suppose.

Sam: I can't get fixed. I might want to have kids with my second wife.

*That's somewhat misleading. I did have Pitocin, which speeds up labor by making your contractions very strong very fast. I didn't have any pain-relieving drugs. That's just the kind of wonder-woman (idiot) I am.