A Special Victim

She flew into his web years earlier.

Decades, really.

And lay, caught. Trembling.

She had mistaken his web for something else

Something that looked the same, but,

Wasn’t.

He descended:

Long arms and clever eyes,

And wrapped her from head to foot.

He saved her to savor.

(For it was only breakfast and

he would someday be hungry

for dinner)

Time passed. 

The web grew moldy and old

But never lost its strength.

He liquefied her

Sucked bits and pieces of her

(an elbow here, a toe there)

To satisfy his hunger through the years.

She lay helpless, caught up in bandages

A special victim.

Eventually all that remained of her was a shell

Like a cicada or a papery snakeskin.

 

Brains quivering in the stomach of the predator

Her heart beating in his hands.

The Ostrich

A few days ago, at the Gym, I was watching two older women catch up after a swim.

They stood on the roughly carpeted floor of the locker room in dripping old-lady bathing suits. I was captured by one woman in particular, the one with her back to me. Soft grey hair hung to her shoulders and gathered in heavy wet curls around her neck. Long, still-strong legs bowed in and then out again; bunches of inner-knee-extra-skin cellulite touching at a smoosh point mid-leg. The chafe looked comforting and not uncomfortable (Like the reassuring pressure of an old pillow. A frayed blanket). Her heels were knobs of thick callous and her bunions seemed to balance her, bird like, an old quirky ostrich. The suit, navy with tiny white dots, was big on her in a way that only years of wear can create. Its over-modest skirt hung unevenly at her mid-thigh. Upper arms like bread dough (white, glistening, yeasty) shook and quaked as she made her point. I imagined her eyes rimmed chlorine red shining as a wide and grinning mouth smiled at her friend.

I watched this snapshot unfold as I diapered my daughter and powdered her chubby little thighs. I was sneaking glances at myself in the mirror to see if I looked like a fraud. Work-out me hasn't been around in a while. I was too busy being pregnant and then not pregnant and then exhausted to even think about hitting the gym. I watched these old women-gleeful in their conversation-laughing at the latest secret they shared. I watched them and realized that they were standing, in the middle of the room, for all to see, in their bathing suits. They were not wearing towels.

They didn't care.
No one was looking.
No one was evaluating or critiquing or judging.

And I was jealous.

And then, then, I put the envy aside and adopted instead a sort of an awe. A respect. A realization that these two older women didn't care because there was nothing to care about. Who knows what their bodies had been through. Who knows if they had borne children or walked to work or lay in repose. They could have battled cancer. They could have hiked the Appalachian. Their hands could have held a dying parent or chopped routine garlic.

There was beauty.
There was strength.
There was utter indifference, in that moment, to those around them.

And I was thankful that I got to see.

Like I'm the only girl in the world

I drive a Mini Van.

I swore it would never happen to me, but it did. Each of the kids has their own Captain's Chair elaborately outfitted with car-seat and age-appropriate toys. Zachary's seat has a multi-pocketed mesh pouch that hangs beneath it which, in turn, holds a variety of items ranging from intellectually stimulating and eye catching books, a mini-etch-a-sketch, healthy (yet filling!) snacks and a medley of half decomposed glazed munchkins.

Zoe's pouches are still fledgling in their possessions. Their content of orphaned socks and baby wipes uninspiring. She does, however, have a music playing light up mirror (controlled with a remote that clips next to my garage door opener under my visor). So, there is that.

The Toyota Sienna commercials speak to me. I mean, they SPEAK to me on a level that shouldn't be possible or achievable through branding and marketing. Toyota's advertising agency is brilliant. Seriously.

Last night, outfitted in brand new post-pregnancy dark washed GAP denim and trendy (yet not slutty) top, I was jammin' to some Rhianna after making an appearance as a judge of a talent contest at a local high school. I was Rockin. It. Out. I'm so with it, right? Windows partly rolled down. Having myself a little late night (9:30 PM) pre-up-all-night-baby-feeding mini-van dance partay.

A sweet looking Mercedes pulled up next to me at a light with an equally appealing young man driving. He was totally checking me out. Totally.

There was no way he was turned off by the two baby seats he could clearly see in the back seat, right? I mean, that didn't interfere with his fantasy, right?

It's cool, hot-Mercedes-driver. Pay no attention to the safety seats in the back. You don't know I am wearing worn leather clogs. Ignore the day-glo orange and neon green baby mirror remote.

Just check my style, yo.

Mr. Hankey, The Christmas Poo

This is the time of year when raising a Jewish child gets a little more difficult.

For as long as I can remember, I have experienced countless exclaims of dismay when I explain that no, I don't celebrate Christmas.  That's right, we don't even have a tree. Nope, not a Chanukkah bush either. (FYI-there's  no such thing).

No, stop right there. It's ok. Really. It is.

Not having a tree doesn't mean I'm a scrooge. Not celebrating Christmas doesn't leave me desperate and sobbing alone at home.

I love Christmas Carols  (Everyone knows that they kick Dreidle Dreidle Dreidle's ass). I love looking at Christmas lights. I love holiday decorations in the mall.  I love all of the Christmas parties we attend. And, when we visit my husband's family, I love being included in their celebration. Just as, I'm sure, you would love being included in my celebration of Chanukkah. Or Passover. Or Rosh Hashana. Or any other Jewish holiday where we observe but also spend time with family and friends and have yummy food (and too much to drink).

It's just the assumption that's tough. Just yesterday, while in the line to checkout out of Bed Bath and Beyond, a sweet older lady said to my son (who, at the time, was playing with a cute little propeller-candy thing) "Maybe Santa will put that in your stocking, sweetie". My husband looked at me, awaiting my reply. My son looked at the lady as if she was purple. I replied, "Maybe".

Let me explain. It's easier to just go along with it. If I were to correct everyone who wished me a Merry Christmas over the holiday season with a curt, "I/We don't Celebrate Christmas" I would be proving nothing. I live in America. Just as most people speak English, the majority celebrate Christmas. I know this. I also know that what these well-wishers are really wishing me is a happy time of year.

And, you know what? I'm cool with that. I like me a happy time.

I know that my son will get it and he, too, will not miss anything. I am so fortunate to be able to give him anything he wants. Gifts? Sure. But more importantly, a warm home. A loving family. Plenty of food. Even more laughter and love.

And that, folks, is something to celebrate.

I. Touch.

The other morning, while playing with my Blackberry, Big Z made that now famous backwards pinching motion used to increase the size of whatever-it-is-one-wants-to-look-at on an I-Touch or I-Phone. I had to explain to him that indeed, a Blackberry does not have that capability. Yet.

For a relatively un-tech-savvy girl like myself, it would seem to me that the future is here. I mean, have you checked out the new X-Box? The one where you stand in front of the sensor thing and, using 48 motion points on your body, YOU control the object on the screen. If you are watching a video and want to fast forward you just wave your hand in a forward motion. If that's too much energy, you can simply speak. Say, "X-Box Fast-Forward" or "X-Box Play". Maybe even, "X-Box put away the laundry".

Maybe Not.

I mean, I guess all that's left is a thought Feed. Something tied into our brains that lets us telepathically connect with whatever we happen to be bossing around at the time. I can tell you this, I have tried it with my husband and it doesn't work.

What scares me, as a mother, as a teacher and as a consumer, is that the technology will take over; has taken over. My generation is the last one not to have grown up with cell phones or computers. With Google. With Facebook. Kids have computer games that simulate riding bikes. Call me crazy, but how about you send the kid outside to, oh, I don't know, actually ride one.We make friends online. We research online. Nothing can ever be, will ever be, fast enough.

In one of the vignettes in his quirky little novel about Einstein's theories of Time, Alan Lightman paints the picture of a town that has discovered that the faster they move, the longer they live. Houses whiz by one another on motors. The homes cruise the streets even as the occupants sleep. The wealthier the individual, the faster machinery they purchase to keep them, literally, moving forward. There is, however, a small sect of individuals that have decided to screw it. They refuse to rush around. They eat pasteries at sidewalk cafes. The walk next to rivers. They watch the sunrise.

I want to teach my son and daughter to be those people. Don't get me wrong, they need to be fluent in the technology of their generation, but I need them to look around, too.

I have incredible memories of camping trips of my childhood. Memories that, even now, can make me laugh. Every Summer, my parents would load up the mini-van and drive us to The White Mountains, or Acadia or Prince Edward Island. We would camp and hike. I would bitch the whole time. But, truly, the bitching functioned as (what I now know to be a completely transparent) cover. I didn't want my parents to know that I enjoyed what we were doing.

About 10 years ago, I was fortunate enough to witness a late evening meteor shower. I have never again seen anything like it. Everything had slowed down, and the shooting stars didn't stop coming. I sat inside of a convertible with my eyes on the sky. It was, quite truly, magic. It was a night that has never again been equaled.

At the risk of sounding like one of those walking-to-school-up-hill-both-ways grandparents, you can't get that experience online. You don't need an I-touch to make the sky bigger.

It's perfect just the way it is.

Pantene Pro Me

I am willing to bet that the bedtime routine in my home is similar to bedtime routines in homes-of-toddlers across the country:
A before-bath-snack followed by a bath with tons of bubbles.
A book.
And, finally, bed.

Once my oldest turned three, the bed element of bedtime turned into a bit of a battle. What used to be a peaceful transition was now peppered with landmines in the form of requests. As my husband or I would make our way towards the door to (what, at the end of the day, we perceived as) freedom, our Big Z-man would inevitably demand another sip of milk or another hug or another back rub. Something, anything, to keep us in the room.

It was excruciating.
It was a battle.
It was anything but pleasant.

Our baby Z-girl arrived 18 days after Big Z's third birthday. The addition of a second child pushed me a bit too close to the edge for my liking. I became paralyzed with fear that I would not be able to give either child what they needed. That, if they had demands of me at the same time, all hell would break loose and I wouldn't be able to help them.

I cried constantly.
I hid on the couch.
I was frozen.

I also missed Big Z. Here I was, spending every day with him, and yet I had never felt further from my son. My heart ached for the time he and I used to share and I felt jealous of the relationships he was building with everyone else. I realized that in many ways, my way of coping with the arrival of another child was to split ranks and, most of the time (and because I am a nursing mother) someone else would have my Big Z while I loved up Little Z.

It wasn't working for me. I had to slow down.

One night, faced with yet another bedtime battle to come, I passed both children to my husband and retreated to a hot shower. By the time I got out, Big Z was in bed and calling for me. I put my freshly shampooed and sopping wet hair into a pony-tail, threw on pajamas, and went into Big Z's room to fulfill whatever demands he had. As I bent over to give him a hug (and to see how quickly I could battle through bedtime) I caught him smelling my hair.

He buried his face in it. It was so innocent. So intimate. It stopped me in my tracks.

I got up and into his bed, scooped him into my lap, and sang him a song. He wrapped his arms and legs around me and hugged me hard. He rested his head on my shoulder, reached behind me, and began to run his fingers through my hair as I sang. Instantly, my boy and I were together again and, with that one gesture, I was able to inject some breath into my life once more.

Now, bedtime is something I look forward to. My precocious non-stop 3 year old quiets, settles into my arms, and holds my ponytail as I sing to him.

It's something only we share and it is my most special time with him.

Don't get me wrong, the gears don't always cog smoothly. Why, only tonight, in the last 10 minutes, I have had to stop writing to investigate shrieking coming from his room. As I poked my head in his door to shush him, he informed me that puppy (his stuffed animal) was hitting him and that he (Big Z, not puppy) needs to make just a little bit more noise before bed. When asked if he could make the noise more quietly as not to wake his three month old sister sleeping soundly one door down he replied simply, sweetly: "No".

Ah, my independent little boy. Old enough to have an opinion, but not quite old enough not to be rocked by his mama.