24/7

Here's the necessary caveat: I love my mother dearly. But she is delusional. She contradicts me when I say Number Two is surly. "He is not," says she. "Is too," says I. "He's always smiling when he's around me." She's positively preening. "So I'm a bad mother, then. Because he's surly to me." She shrugs. "I guess so." The easy acquiescence must be her attempt at levity. I fall for the bait, choking back a snort that emerges snort- ish anyway. "I've been around both of you all day, and he was not smiling the whole time. I've got the pictures to prove it." "No, you don't." Oh, don't I? Still, nobody's denying he has his moments. You've got a cute grandkid , mom. I'll give you that.

I went back in my blog archives to February/March 2006, the period during which The Boss was the age that Number Two is now. At eight months old, they both weighed about 14 pounds . They both woke easily to the screech of the witching hour . They developed their motor skills at a slow idle, content as they both were to lay there, focused on fusing cells and neurons in a flurry that went unseen from the outside. Of course there were differences, too. The Boss had two teeth by eight months, while Number Two's surly demeanor just makes it seem like he's teething. His virgin, non-swollen gums lead me to believe he feels fine and is simply not prone to exuberance. The Boss, on the other hand, was happy as a clam even as the calcium was rising in jagged peaks through her flesh. She didn't demand to be held as much as Number Two does; she was soothed by classical music in a way he is not. The biggest difference, though, is in my perception. I took The Boss at face value because I ...

The Partner and I do not do well under pressure. We fought for the entire week before our wedding, came to an armistice in time for the rehearsal ceremony, and were back at each other's throats by dinner. The day of our wedding dawned peacefully, but the honeymoon was over three days in. We have stood back-to-back, with arms folded, for three out of five anniversaries. Valentine's Day hasn't fared much better. Birthdays are hit or miss. Only Independence Day has emerged unscathed. There's no pressure there, just beer and a barbecue and friends who kindly insist that we shovel up the bullshit, stick in a firecracker, and watch it burn a hole in the ozone. The main issue is organization versus chaos. It's common sense versus distraction in the face of shiny objects. It's The Partner's desire for a well oiled machine and my belief that I can get by just fine without lube. This Christmas was no exception. I failed to order the cards in a timely manner. Then I re...

I entered Abercrombie & Fitch only to be accosted by darkness, cologne, a blaring beat, and the realization that I am thirty years old. In the haze of fragrance lit by no bulb brighter than 15 watts, I squinted at the form of a salesgirl who seemed to be speaking to me. I shook my head with a rueful smile. It was a universal gesture that I hope conveyed both the fact that it was ridiculous for her to think I could hear what she was saying or see her well enough to read her lips and that, no, I don't need any help anyway. She went back to folding skintight wool sweaters. The merchandise in the women's (and I use the terms loosely) section consisted basically of one single outfit, the pieces of which are meant to be layered on top of each other until the waif wearing them is sufficiently buffered from the December chill. First a cami and jeans, then a long sleeved tee-shirt. Then a tight sweater and a looser buttoned one. Then a hoodie. Then a scarf and a cap. I sucked back t...

Today I gave Number Two a red ribbon to play with and it was like, well, Christmas. I've said it before and I'll say it again. Number Two is surly. He is loath to smile unless someone physically exerts herself to pull a grin from those two straight lips. But not today. Not after the introduction of the red bow. The kid was beaming from ear to ear. Until that moment, The Boss had co-opted all my excitement about the upcoming holiday. It's the first Christmas for which she is truly cognizant of the wonder. I'm as abuzz with anticipation as she is. I can already hear her stuttering incredulity on Christmas morning as she bounces with the language of a three year old who has more experience than words. We weren't planning to bring many gifts for Number Two when we spend Christmas Eve and then that morning with The Partner's parents. We figured he doesn't need them; don't think he wants them; and are sure there won't be much room next to his car seat when...

The shoppers are out in droves, not only to beat the cranked-up Christmas clock, but to outrun the storm. Dr. Mel is predicting almost a foot of snow by the time the clouds move out at midnight. It's noon now. The white stuff is just starting to fall. I think of angels shaking dandruff from blue-gray tresses. I left The Boss at a friend's house for my run out to Target. I am looking mainly for some clay to round out her array of Christmas gifts. It's one of her favorite things to play with at school--the rolling, the stretching, the marking with a "B." Plus, Crayola's clay offerings are made in the USA, which is so rare in the world of children's toys that I'm considering it a Christmas miracle. Target doesn't have it, of course. So much for magic. Instead I buy the Mamma Mia DVD for my own mamma and some paper towels for the friend who's watching The Boss (as a courtesy, not a gift). Everywhere, people are taking long strides, their thighs ...

I don't know what to call it. It's a home, but of what variety: Retirement? Convalescent? Old People's? We've been there twice, but I haven't yet been able to tell The Boss exactly where it was we were going. I think I mumbled something about grandmothers and Christmas carols as we pulled up this afternoon. When we got out of our car, a middle-aged woman next to us was sobbing beside her Ford pick-up. I hurried The Boss along. Already, I didn't want to be there. There were about five mothers and ten kids from the chapter of the MOMS Club to which I belong. One parent pulled a wagon filled with crafts of which she had overseen the completion earlier in the week as children, like snot-nosed and supremely adorable elves, poured colored sand into water bottles and planted a fake flower in each. We were at the...facility for the aged?...to deliver those homemade vases to residents amidst choruses of Rudolph and We Wish You a Merry Christmas . There was a stench that...

The Boss is falling apart. This morning we couldn't find the sharing stick (the harbinger of the Montessori version of "Show 'n' Tell"--it comes home with each child the night before s/he is supposed to bring a story or item to share with the class) and then, on the way to school, she told her carpool partner that there is no Santa Claus. The sharing stick is still missing and I am clueless as to how The Boss came up with the idea that there is no right jolly old elf. I have to admit that she is not the only one falling apart. A three year old cannot come undone without help. We are one thread unraveling together. We are always at our most frayed on Mondays. It pains me to fall back into patterns of organization after the weekend's formless family time. For me, disorder is the norm. We thrived during The Boss's infancy and toddlerhood, when nothing forced us into a schedule and there were no demands other than the ones we put on ourselves. She napped when ...

My ambivalence toward my cell phone borders on disregard. Once I dropped it in the snow for The Partner to drive over in his truck. It survived. On another occasion, same phone, it fell from the pocket of my hiked-up jean skirt into the toilet just as I depressed the flusher. It did not survive. After a couple years of going cell-phone-less, I have one again. I am still reckless. I misplaced it earlier today and realized I didn't much care. I went about my daily business relying instead on email. I thought that maybe the phone was gone for good. Then I sat down to relax in front of the television and heard a muffled ring emanating from somewhere. I started up toward the sound, but each step took me further away. I walked backwards, but that didn't intensify the ring. I turned in confused circles. I had to call my cell phone with the land line four times, traversing the house and climbing up and down two flights of stairs, before I realized that the muffling agents were a door a...

The Boss got thirsty while I was ogling the prices on no-nitrates-added hot dogs at Trader Joe's. After she proclaimed that fact for the fifth time, I agreed to find her a drink she could imbibe now and pay for once we got to the register. We settled on a strawberry yogurt smoothie. "This is good!" she said. "Is it yummy?" asked a woman who was passing by. "No. It's strawberry." I chuckled at the seriousness of The Boss's glee. It was such a small thing, but she was talking it up to every shopper she passed. "I'm drinking strawberry milk!" she told one guy. "My mommy bought me this!" she informed another. I sure did. And I was happy to. It reminded me of the conversation I'd had with a friend the day before. She told me how she never thought she'd be the mother who got her son everything he wanted for Christmas. It's not necessary. It doesn't teach the right lessons. She knows this all rationally, but the...

Only my rapid-fire typing is keeping my fingers from losing all sensation. Number Two is sleeping, tucked away in his carrier beneath a Bundle Me-type carseat cover. The Partner is in New York City. He left us yesterday for a business trip and the last of our home heating fuel followed. He will be returning tonight to employ stopgap measures. Oil delivery time: T-24 hours and counting. I'd post more, but there are probably activities better suited to encouraging the proper flow of blood than typing. Like getting out of the house to a place where heat is. You stay warm, and I'll try to do the same. Heating oil price per gallon: $2.11 Current temperature inside: 48 degrees

Number Two has been coming into his own lately. I suppose he was always cute, in the way that any baby is, but now he's done and gone Gerber Baby on me. His face is round but not jowly; his hair is a fluff of fine white gold over enormous eyes. He is ruddy and smooth. He doesn't give away smiles, but when his lips curl in a flirt, it's worth the price of admission. Today at breakfast a stranger with black ringlets around her face kissed his fingers. Another gentleman told me my son should be on television. That same man's mother was dining with him, and she looked from her baby--who was 60 years old if he was a day--to mine. "He was young like that, once," she told me. I said "I know," but I doubt she believed me. How could I know? But I do. It's why you might catch me looking sad sometimes; why I am quiet on occasion. I fade into these moments more often with each passing day--when I age 50 years in the time it takes Number Two's hand to ski...

The grocery store is one place where the difficulties of being a parent to young children become readily apparent. When I wield two kids and a shopping cart, pity from all over drips onto my shoulders like tears from shoppers' eyes. Number Two does not like to browse. He will not sit in his carrier while watching the perishable and the non-perishable go by. I must hold him with one arm while pushing the cart with the other and using my voice to keep The Boss from detouring down the candy aisle. You would think I would wise up and bring a sling so that I'd at least have my hands free, but somehow I always forget it. I am not good with accessories. None of them. I purchased reusable bags to cut down on my use of plastic, but I every time I sidle up to the register with the baby on my hip, I find that I left them at home or in the car. The other day I was so distracted by my wayward children--Number Two was arching backward in my arm and shrieking while The Boss grabbed various ca...

I met up with Lauren yesterday. She's a blogger-turned-real-life-friend. She's a story teller who works with both words and pictures. A moment is more vivid when she shows it to us through her eyes. Nothing is mundane, nobody is normal, and even the cheese graters hold fascination. She shocks me with the realization that her world is the same place I've been living in all this time. I never even knew it. And she has me pegged. "I can see her being the one at the party with her skirt accidentally tucked into her pantyhose," she wrote about me in her post about our visit . God, she is so right . If I ever pen a memoir, some variation of that statement will have to serve as the title. But, since a picture says a thousand words and, I promise, you'd rather hear it from her than me, here are a few shots of Number Two to prove my point (in case you haven't followed the previous links to her blog already). Photos by Lauren

On how many separate occasions am I am going to drive right past my driveway, turning in a sad circle at the nearest cross street, before I start to pay attention? How many school events will I miss because I failed to attune to the weekly newsletter sent home with The Boss? How many friends' birthdays forgotten? How many vitamins missed? Today a friend asked if I was planning to attend tomorrow's Parent/Child Night at The Boss's pre-school. "What?" I asked. "Parent/Child Night," she repeated. "What?" I said. "Don't you read the newsletter?" "Apparently not." "Didn't you see the sign on the door?" "Nope." In my written life, I'm more focused. I can edit myself...which I do, a lot. The results are not perfect, but they are usually not scattered the way my real life inspiration is. I remember things on the page. I am collected on the screen. I am careful. It's almost as if I'm a differen...

I usually drive by the ramshackle farm house to find the billy goat coatless on the porch, but today he was in the middle of the road, forcing me to stop. He was woolen for the winter. I didn't quite know what to do. He was messing with my habit of agricultural rubbernecking. I drive by every so often on meandering jaunts through scenic byroads, seeing if he's still there in his enormous gruffness and checking on the status of the freakish red stripes--like the kind my daughter would draw with a marker--that cover his skin. It's those stripes that keep me coming back. I look for clues as to the identity of the artist who paints goats red. At first I stopped. The beast was unmoving. I wanted to let the owners know he was on the loose, but I didn't want to frighten him with my GMC's deep beep. I slowly pulled around and then beyond, waiting till he was a car-length behind me. I honked once and watched the property, which sprouted garbage in fruitful yields, for signs ...