Why I Love Halloween

• I get to dress up in goofy clothes and people think I’m cute instead of weird.
• Strange men sit on their stoops in pairs, drinking beer and handing out candy.  They love it.  The kids are hesitant.  They have an innate sense that something is not quite right.  The parents hover on the sidewalk wondering if this is a good idea.
• Everyone comes out of their houses to smile at complete strangers.
• High school boys get away with asking for candy without even wearing a mask.
• I get to carve a pumpkin.
• The lady across the street was bored since there were barely any kids around so she dressed up in her witch costume (broom too) and hobbled up and down the sidewalk.
• Everyone tells me my child needs a bigger treat bag.

Happy Halloween

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Happy Birthday, Child of My Heart

Today, on this day, at 9:16pm, your piercing cry of anger filled my ears.  They placed your slippery self on my belly and all I could do was laugh at your intense spirit.  Your eyes looked black.

Today marks your third year.

You are more than I possibly could have imagined.

You are fiercely independent even when you get frustrated and then we talk about a new solution.

You complete each task in detail (like taking an hour and a half to unwrap your gifts today).

You are generous and kind and like to take care of me just as much as I like to take care of you.

If one of us threatens a grouchy day we just remind each other “Let’s have a nice day, okay?”  And then we smile at each other and I wait until we have to be reminded again.

You can count and identify letters, if you choose.

You can jump from impossibly tall things and land in a graceful two-footed crouch.

You like to moon us.

You love going fast and swinging high.

Carol is still your favorite, but you have a growing collection of puppies and a small group of animals (usually a bunny, a llama, a unicorn, and Vanilla Lambi) whom you refer to as “The Guys.”

You make everyone talk all your toys for you in a high-pitched voice.  It’s both endearing and irritating.

Mouse and Mouse’s Sister still come to play almost every day.

Your simple  questions of “why? why? why?” have progressed to complex thoughts like “Why is the sky blue?” “How do babies get out of their mommy’s tummies?”  “What is under the floor of the tub?” and “Why does there need to be a little hole in the top of the sippy cup to let air in when I drink?”

You are in preschool five afternoons a week.

You are spirited, can carry a tune, can twirl a crazy twirl and dance a crazy dance, and I love getting to know you.

Happy Birthday.

I can’t wait to see you fly.

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Avast! Talk Like a Pirate Day is Upon Us.

Oh, yes, me hearties.  Today is International Talk Like a Pirate Day.

Arrrrr.

Any of you lubber free to stop by and swab the deck and whip up a cake?  We’re busy prepping for a distinctly pirate-free 3rd birthday party that looms on the horizon. No?  Walk the plank, I say!  Walk!

And, in case you need something with which to waste your time….

Today I go by the name

My pirate name is:

Red Grace Cash

Passion is a big part of your life, which makes sense for a pirate. You’re musical, and you’ve got a certain style if not flair. You’ll do just fine. Arr!

Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.
part of the fidius.org network

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Fear of Falling

It turns out that my long-time fear of roller coasters which eventually included the scrambler and then the log flume now includes…the ferris wheel. Yes, the dreaded and terrifying ferris wheel.

How embarrassing.

Remember this photo?

See that ferris wheel in the background?  That’s the one we rode together.

But it was at least fifty years old if a day.  In order to get on, the operator had to tip the seat forward so you literally climbed in.  I had to place Avi in, hold her in with one hand so she wouldn’t slide forward, and then climb in myself.  Once we started moving, every time the ride abruptly halted, the seat would swing madly forward threatening to tip us over into an alice-in-wonderland fall.  The first time this happened, we were only 15 feet off the ground.  No biggie.  The fifth or sixth time it happened, we were at the top and I felt my heart plummet in front of me, my breath sucked in hard as I dead-ended the shock tears and I stuck out an arm to grab my child.  And that is where my arm stayed the entire time.

And my breath?  Oh, I got it back alright.

I chattered like a nitwit for the entire ride.  Anything I could think of about the view, the animals, the air, the trees.  Eventually I resorted to “And we’re going up up up up up.  Here we are at the top.  Hello World!  And we’re going down down down down down.”

And this was on a ferris wheel.

I am officially the biggest chicken I know.

Later that day, as the fair was closing, we sat to watch the rides begin to be dismantled.  We spotted a man climbing up into the ferris wheel rigging.  He was wearing a harness but he hadn’t strapped in yet.  Shirtless and carefree, he swing himself upwards into the center of the circle.  Visions of Tuck Everlasting swam through my head and I wondered if it could be true and how it would be fun to climb up into the ferris wheel itself, but riding it scared me shitless.

So, there it is.

I will gladly climb and swing as long as I’m in control.

Put me in the hands of someone else’s swing and unless I’ve got a two year old to keep me calm, I will likely burst into tears.

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a little soccer vent

non-competitive adult soccer doesn’t exist around here.

i miss soccer.

so, i put out a listing on craigs list, got some interest, called parks & rec to double check on the field situation and off i went.

i haven’t even met the people who expressed interest, and they’re already being subversive in a nonconfrontational way.  totally wierd.

one guy emailed me

I am pretty excited about it. Well I was kinda wondering if 7 is a little late into the afternoon. But either ways, whatever time it be I will be there.

mister, just tell me you want to play earlier and then name a time.  no need to irritate me by beating around the bush.

one girl decided she’d put it on facebook since that’s how her ultimate pick-up team converses.  fine with me.  i don’t care.

today, i visited the facebook page to post the first game and there was already a discussion asking if anyone knew of fields…but two towns over from me!

then, i posted the event and the same chic said her friend was emailing that town (two towns over) to ask about fields.

madame, i’m not playing two towns over.  i’m playing here.  you play in your own town if you don’t want to come here, but don’t be stealing all my players.

and, yes, yes, i told them both as much.  in nicer words of course.

i don’t think that post made much sense.   nor do i feel all that much better from this miniature vent.

i guess i’ll go fold laundry.

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Go Vote

You were gifted this free country.  Now use its gift and place your vote.

Here in NH, it is never too late to register.  You can walk into your polling place the day of elections and they will hand you a ballot.  But it will be too late if you don’t move your tail over to your polling place.

Do not tell me that you are not political.  To care about the fate of your child, the freedoms of your child, the rights of your child–that is political.  To vocalize to your girlfriends that your child deserves more–that is political.  To look at your street and wonder why your town doesn’t recycle–that’s political.  To sigh when you see how much you pay for health insurance, and how little you get in return–that’s political.  So do not tell me that you are not political.  If you were not political, you would not care.  But you do care, so get yourself to a ballot box and help change the world.

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Happy Birthday, Child of my Heart

Today, you turned two.

You celebrated your birthday yesterday too, at school.  Because, yes, you now go to school.  Two mornings per week.

You are entering your second week of wearing undies during the day because you really like to use the potty.

You speak in complex and exciting sentences, often with multiple directives: “Carol needs to go to sleep now, change diaper, need pow-der, then carol needs to go to sleep.”and “Avi and mama put shoes on, then find Carol, then put her in the stroller, than go for a walk.”

When you’re excited, you have a harder time starting sentences, interrupting yourself with rapid bursts of breathing and things like, “and-and-and-and”  “then-then-the-the.”

You know a lot of nursey rhymes by heart and like to recite them when you play.  Sometimes you mush them together to make new rhymes.

You sleep in a big girl bed and drink from a big girl cup, and you are all done nursing.

You love to take walks.  Lately, you’ve been taking your doggie to pull along with you, the one that used to be mine.  Although, sometimes, you take Carol out in the stroller.

You have a thinking face when you think out loud about finding something or making a serious decision.  It involves scrunching your face up tight and sticking your mouth out.

It turns out that your favorite color is purple, although pink is a close second.

You just told me that you want to be a “white fuzzy mouse” for Halloween.

Your favorite dolls are Carol, Baby Kevin, Flower, and Spike.  In that order.  Although Spike and Flower might be a tie.

Often, when you ask permission to do something, you answer yourself, “Can Avi share with mama?” and then you say to us, “Sure!”  even if I haven’t said yes yet.

When I ask you what you want to wear today, you have been known to say, “a cute outfit.”

You still speak with a funny accent:  th = y.  c = t.  r = w.  banana = dabana.  cute = tute.  that = yat.  Carol = Tarol.

You can jump with both feet, climb up and downstairs without the railing, can identify several letters including “A”, “M”, “D”, and “O,” can toss a ball, can ride a rocking horse, and can do a wheelbarrow walk (this last one took some practice since you needed to learn how to coordinate your arms properly).

You love to dance, sing, and listen to music.  Lately, we’ve been listening to “Thumbelina” be read aloud on a cd which you really like.  Your favorite books are rhyming ones.

You are amazing.

Happy Birthday, Child of My Heart.

May you always see the funny rhymes in life.

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Vibrations of Soul

Around 7:15pm I rolled into VIP parking in the back of my new best friends leather interiored car.

By 7:30 we’d settled ourselves in a sky box, complete with locked mini bar.

By 8:10, the vibrations coursing through my ribcage were so strong I thought I might puke if I listened too hard.  So I closed my eyes, leaned back in my seat and listened with my body.  Eventually, my heart stopped trying to beat its own rhythm and synced with the heavy vibrations.  The queasiness passed.  Now I could even feel the vibrations in my finger tips, and it wasn’t unpleasant.

Sometime around 9, I guess, they struck up one of my favorites.  Bobbing my head and shaking my knees in a seat wasn’t cutting it.  Our sky box was occupied only by the three of us and an older couple who didn’t look like they were planning on leaving their seats anytime soon.  So I hopped over the back rows to the bar portion of the box, pushed aside the monotone furniture and let my limbs loose.

I am not a subtle dancer.  I am all elbows and knees, hips twisting, feet stamping, hands twirling.  My heart vibrated to 80s rock and it pulsed out through my spine, hammered the floor and sliced the air.

By the end of this single song, I thought I might die of exhaustion.  It was good.

By 11:30ish, we’d finally found a bar with an open kitchen.  Blues sung by a skinny old man in a black news cap, grinning foolishly.  He oozed love.

By 12:30ish, my new best friend had pulled away in his fancy car and the two of us left were tangled up on the couch.

Now, dear reader, close your eyes and picture another kind of vibration.  For one such as myself who will embrace the vibrations of music without hesitation and fly, body against body is an entirely different story.  It is, in my lucid memories at least, accompanied by trepidation, nerves, shyness, and even fear.  Not so on this night.

At 9:05am I pulled into my drive.  Five minutes late.  I walked in my backdoor to discover a teary eyed child.  She’d expected me the moment she entered our home and instead discovered emptiness.  It momentarily broke her heart.  Fortunately, toddlers forgive easily.  It wasn’t long before we’d settled on the couch for an apologetic nurse.

This is when I looked into my live-out-hubby’s face for the first time.  His cheek twitched in agitation.  We talked lightly of our child’s previous night and day.  He shared her funny and delightful, successful and challenging moments.  And all the while, I knew I smelled of something musky.  My heart did not beat in time to my own little home; it was still letting off tremulous vibrations of triumph, nostalgia, comfort, and joy.  It vibrated of moments he could not possibly share.  And his cheek twitched in agitation as I smiled.

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There’s a Hole in My Foot, Dear Liza, Dear Liza

Yes.

A hole.

It’s slightly wider than the diameter of a dime.  If you were to stack three dimes together, that’s how deep it is.

And why do I have this hole?

Because, dear Liza, I had **gasp** a plantar’s wart.

I’ve been growing this not-so-little sucker for approximately ten years.  It was high time to say farewell.  So I let my pediatrician attack it with a laser.  Do you know how delightful it is to lie on a table and smell your own flesh being burned off with a futuristic device?  It’s not.  I kept repeating to myself, “Pretty pedicure.  Pretty pedicure.  Pretty pedicure.”  Because that’s what I’m getting when this hole plugs itself up.  A pretty pedicure.  I haven’t had one in years because of the guilt factor.  What if soaking my foot and allowing some innocent beautician to rub my sole means she develops plantar’s warts on her hands?  Or I leave the virus behind for the next innocent pedicure receiver?

But now, Liza, I will get me a pretty pedicure.

Once this hole is fixed.

It’s certainly taking its time, let me tell you.  And I feel a little nauseous twice a day when I have to look at it and re-bandage it.  And, another thing, my doctor said “take it easy for a couple of days.  You can’t run for at least a day or two.”  A day or two?  Try a week or two!  Who the hell could go running when it feels like someone is shoving a nail into my foot every time I take a step?!  Is it only me that doctors lie to about recovery time?  Because my ortho lied too when I had knee surgery.  And my midwife lied too when I gave birth.  Do they hope that my mind will make me heal faster?  Because my body doesn’t work that way.  I need to be prepared so I know how long I’m gonna be walking around like a gimp and lying to everyone I meet about why there’s a big bandage on my foot.  Because, seriously, who among us wants to admit to being warty?

Anyway, Dear Liza, I’ve got a hole in my foot.  And I need it fixed.  Pronto.

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My Other Life

There is this other life that I would like to try living for a while.  It involves bars and parties and one night stands and random trips to sandy beaches, lots of skinny dipping in large groups, and martinis.

It’s the life I had glimpses of when I was younger, things I could have done and tried, had I been braver.

I would like to be brave now, and try all those things.

I have a girlfriend (who shall remain nameless) who has spent the last 10ish years in a couple long-term relationships.  She moved to a new city for grad school and decided to try sleeping around.  Just for fun.  Just to try it out.  She’d been having a really good time.  She even tried a swingers party.

I like it when she visits and tells me about her sex adventures.  Because that’s really what they are.  Sex Adventures.  It’s fun, and rather awe-inspiring, to hear about things I’m too chicken to try.

Even just going to a bar and ordering an alcoholic drink makes me get all nervous.

So I wish I could try living this other life.  Doing things I’d like to be brave enough to do, like party, and have one-night stands, and drink too many martinis.  Because these things really do sound like fun.

I’m just too chicken for it all.  And too tired, I guess.  I don’t have the energy to go out drinking when my toddler will be waking up at 7am sharp, screaming at me for not sharing a morning nurse and then resorting to kicking me and yelling for milk and cheerios.  Actually, it’s more that I don’t have the bravery.

Tonight, another girlfriend and I went out to a bar.  She bought me a martini.  I don’t usually buy drinks since I only drink a quarter of the drink.  It’s a waste, and embarrassing to drink so little and so slowly.  I’d rather suck down a soda.  So she bought one for me.  And I sat there, with loud music playing and TVs blaring a basketball game.  I stank, my hair was a wreck, I was wearing scummy flip-flops.  This was not a planned bar night, you see.  I didn’t have a chance to make myself cute.  We went on the spur of the moment.  And I had a really good time.

Two ladies whose toddler girls were sleeping in their dad’s houses.  So we got to go out.  I’m wondering if having a child means maybe I’ll get to try pieces of this other life after all.  I certainly couldn’t try it when I was a wife, but I guess I can as a mom.

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