24/7

I don't know why we thought we could keep it from her. She is too smart--too aware --not to attune to the silent dirge within the nation's requiem.We know she knows, but we can't talk about it because of the reverb in our cathedral of lies. "Sometimes I see things in my head. Bad things happening to my family or friends. And I get scared I'm going to lose you," she said on the way home from school earlier this week. I looked at her in the rear view mirror. "Bad things? Like what?" "Like they're getting shot. Or...or some kind of violence." "That's an interesting way to put it. 'Violence.' Did you hear that somewhere recently?" "No," she said. Several weeks ago the house next to The Boss's school was gutted by a fire. Black window sockets still stare at the children every day. There's a tarp on the roof and the remnants of yellow police tape around the yard. One night The Boss cried in bed and said...

The convertibles were out in force. There was a gasping sense of exhilaration as the New England fall meted out what promised to be the last of the warmth. It was like opening one's mouth in the wind--breathtaking in a way you could taste. I was driving my own non-open vehicle to a birthday party with The Boss when I saw a 60s era Mustang in the distance. It was as red as an apple and ten times as shiny. Chrome accents gleamed in response to the fine-grained sun that only October optimism could produce. I saw a driver and three passengers. The two in the back were fidgety, their heads bobbing with excess energy and the wind. As I pulled up alongside the rolling piece of Americana, I tried to steal a closer glance. There was a middle aged man--late 40s, maybe--in the driver's seat and an elderly one to his right. Two teenagers sat behind them. I was quickly found out; the driver looked over almost as soon as I did. I considered waving or giving the thumbs-up sign but ended up tu...

The Boss is Montessori educated. Every so often, bits of the methodology will come home either through the the weekly newsletter, the monthly magazine, or a parent education evening. Only what I deem directly relevant to me and my family, at that moment in time, sticks to my gray matter. Here's relevant for you: Maria Montessori's careful study tells us that children begin to eschew parental attachment in favor of peer interaction at a certain age (around 6 or 7). What I’ve learned for myself is that the estrangement is not one-sided.  I’ve relied on my daughter’s dependency for the first six years of her life. She put me in context. I was The Boss's mother because that's what she needed me to be. Now that she is exhibiting the first signs of social self-sufficiency, I’ve taken it, on some level, as permission for a subtle shift in my own identity. I'm still heavy on the mom thing--and I always will be--but the psychic weight of the first few years of motherhood is ...

I've always been fascinated by the things I love without knowing why. It's a weak-willed fascination, to be sure. I don't search for answers. I am satisfied with ambiguity. It seems as if, maybe, I thrive on it. Take the move "Friends With Money."Jennifer Aniston is in it, and that's the type of movie it is.

I have crow's feet now. They weren't there when I started this blog. I don't know exactly when they showed up, those subtle footprints of age, but I know when I noticed. It was Tuesday. Since then, I've been scouring the Internet and store shelves for eye serum to fill in the "fine lines and wrinkles." I've been staring in the mirror, watching the tiny claws dig deeper with each manufactured smile. Maybe I laugh too much. Or maybe I only noticed the lines in the first place because I haven't been laughing enough. The birds, though: I've attuned to the them for awhile, those harbingers of doom and death. I've seen them on the wires and wondered what's coming. But omens are subtler than that. Crows don't denote imminent destruction--not usually, not in real life. They're a reminder only that it's always in the wings.

Number Two is full of love. He spews it unconditionally. When I donned a bikini top yesterday in preparation for some power washing, he told me he loves my boobies. When we read a Cars book before bed, he looked at an illustration of Mack and said "I love that trailer." Should we pass by a farm on the way to drop off The Boss at school, I can count on him expressing his devotion to "that cow." He loves colors, friends, and tasty food. He loves breezes and puddle splashing. He loves planes, trains and automobiles. He loves shooting "hoots," which is his word for basketball. Sometimes when I think of Number Two, I think of Lynyrd Skynyrd's Simple Man . He's only three, but I can't help pondering the person he is poised to become. Mama told me when I was young Come sit beside me, my only son, And listen closely to what I say. And if you do this It'll help you some sunny day. Oh, take your time...Don't live too fast, Troubles will come an...

There was nothing to do while Number Two dawdled over his dinner plate but look at him. I studied a face that had thinned out in the pattern following babies to boyhood. He ate sweetly. He's the only one who makes chewing sounds I don't mind listening to. He watched me watching him. "I love your eyes," he said, his mouth a green gape of broccoli. The unexpected compliment drew a smile from my lips. I laughed a little, my grin growing. "And your big teeth," he added.

The morning was cold and quiet. The Boss busied herself getting dressed. The Partner set out cereal. I took a shower. In the midst of the footsteps, the clank of the bowl, and the running water, there was silence. Number Two was away at the paternal grandparents'. I imagined he had no idea what to do with all the attention. Here, at home, he is swept up in the day-to-day of our four person household. He is carried in The Boss's wake. At least that's what I thought until his absence indicated otherwise. On that silent Sunday I realized Number Two has his own drive. His feet pound the floor with distinct energy. He labels everything loudly. He's no bystander. He's on the cusp of three and I never knew this about him. It's not that I don't see my two children apart. The Boss goes to school every day. From 8:30 to 3, it's me and Number Two. But it's so fast. There are errands to run and playgroups to attend and toddler "'nastics" classes to...

First there was The Boss. She sucked up undiluted attention for almost three years. The arrival of Number Two did little to alter our firstborn's theatrical bid for the eye of everyone around her. I could almost see the thought bubble swirling around her blond, straight-haired head: "If I ignore him, it's like he doesn't even exist!" It's been three more years. The Boss has been a sibling for half her life but she won't admit it. She is only now beginning to accept her brother's existence as a little playmate, a little laugher, a little stealer and pooper and parrot. There was a form to fill out yesterday that asked for my children's ages. "3 and 5," I wrote. 3 and 5? I thought. Is that all there is between them? Well, not really. There's only a two month span during which their ages will indicate such closeness. Come July, and The Boss's 6th birthday, they will spread out again. 3 and 6. Two years and nine months simplified. Dis...

From the "Only in Texas" files comes Pole Dancing for Jesus . It seems to me that some things should remain sacred. And some things that aren't, shouldn't. Regardless of your views on Jesus--mortal or immortal--he just doesn't seem like the type of guy that anyone should be polishing chrome for. Isn't it the life-long goal of most fathers to keep their daughter's off the pole? Don't get me wrong. I think pole dancing can be fun, sexy and great for a wide range of muscle groups. But it's a sad state of affairs if the only way you can rationalize studio time is by declaring Jesus your sanctioning body. As Americans, we need to do a lot more work toward embracing sexuality. What I'm questioning is the productivity of wrapping the pole in the shroud of Jesus.

In an unexpected turn of events, I have become quite enamored of Simon & Garfunkel. I mean, I've always liked them well enough, but I tuned in to Sirius Satellite Radio's "all Simon & Garfunkel, all the time" special station not thinking I would get as caught up as I did in the lyrics and harmonies of old favorites as well as songs I'd never heard before. It's been two weeks of immersion in S&G studies. I now consider myself qualified to release a Top Ten* list of my favorite songs performed by Paul and Art. Without further a-duo... 12. El Condor Pasa 11. Feuilles-O 10. A Hazy Shade Of Winter 9. The Boxer 8. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover 7. Keep the Customer Satisfied 6. Me and Julio Down By The Schoolyard 5. Mrs. Robinson 4. Slip Slidin' Away 3. He Was My Brother 2. Cecilia 1. Bridge Over Troubled Waters *Upon deeper reflection, I was unable to narrow down the list to only ten favorites.

Today fists were raised through wide open car windows in solidarity with spring. The blue above was brighter in the warmth. On a tree across the street from Number Two's pre-pre-school building, three shirts--one each in red, blue and green--waved with the current and proclaimed "No nuclear nothing! Never! Ban it from the planet!" Number Two and I exited the school close to noon. He ran ahead, enjoying the feel of his feet on the non-icy surface. "Hold my hand, please?" I asked. "I run!" he shouted, blazing ahead. I put on a melodramatic pout which was probably more enjoyable than it should have been. I threw in a gratuitous shoulder heave as if sobbing. "But I want to you hold your hand!" He slowed. "I know! I'll hold your hand and we can run together!" I grabbed his tiny fingers and we padded off toward sun that layered itself hotly over the salt-film of my car. We dislodged at a bumper that was worse for the wear after a seas...

The Boss has taken to exploiting our sick leave policy. At first I didn't think anything of it; throat cultures at the doctor's office confirmed strep throat in two separate instances earlier this winter, so there was no question about the validity of her claims. Then I began getting phone calls from school with reports that The Boss was not acting like herself and was sporting a 99 degree temperature. I'd pick her up early only to see a radical transformation as soon as we got home. It took me an entire season of cases, both confirmed and questionable, to start looking a little more deeply at the situation. It was just this week, after the assistant teacher at The Boss's school told me that my daughter had been complaining about an earache and an upset stomach, that I sat down for a talk with The Boss. "So how exactly do you feel?" I asked. "My stomach hurts," she said. "What does it feel like?" "Like hot, bubbly goo," she said....

The Partner feels about cable news the same way he feels about reality television and speed limits. They exist because people are not willing--or in some cases, able--to think for themselves. Also, they have bad taste. I used to have a compulsive cable news habit. At work, I could be found at any given time on either the CNN.com, Foxnews .com or MSNBC .com exit of the Information Superhighway. At home, the themed breaking-news beat of the second Iraq war was a soundtrack to life in the small beige and white apartment (with pink bathroom) where I resided as a recent college graduate. The Partner married me despite this character flaw and was heartened to see that the birth of our first child brought to an abrupt end my interest in the world around me. I could no longer endure stories about death, terror and/or global warming. I retreated under the rock of new parenthood to the place where many others in similar circumstances navigated dark, labyrinthine passages that reverberated with i...

Number Two, like the rest of childkind, is on his own schedule. Like many parents, however, The Partner and I decided we wanted him on our timeline. We brought in professionals of the state-sanctioned child-development kind to assess his progress when he was 18 months old. They found him significantly delayed in several areas including those of expressive and receptive speech. Fast-forward one year (because that's how time travels): our formerly delayed son has been diagnosed "normal." Sometimes the words come so fast they are barely intelligible. Some of them seem disconnected both to each other and to a overriding thought process. Other times a few key phrases hint at the fact that he knows much more than he's saying. Yesterday Number Two was in his car seat on our way to a friend's house when he reacted to something I told him with obvious displeasure. "That's stupid," he said. "What did you say?" I demanded. I wasn't sure, or didn...

The Boss is now 5 1/2 years old. I'm sorry if I've blogged in such a woefully inconsistent manner that this is a surprise to you. I find it pretty shocking myself. Yesterday there was ROFLing in the aisles of TJ Maxx as my daughter regaled everyone in the store with her perspective on life, liberty and the pursuit of the clearance rack. Her voice was clear and confident beyond her years; her observations carried. Whether she was talking to me or to strangers, everyone within five racks got the gist. And appreciated it. I think most people left that store in better spirits than they arrived. In the fitting room, where we both tried on an array of clothes that--based on previous experience--was bound to disappoint, a voice carried over the veneered partition from another stall: "Your daughter is very entertaining!" Every so often, a chortle from the attendant reinforced that fact as The Boss was holding sway over the entire fitting room from behind her red curtain. The ...

She's five now, but we haven't had enough time to realize how much she knows. She's almost four feet of feelings, but we forget. Like this afternoon, when I shouted to The Partner in his home office about the nearby shooting in which at least nine people were killed. "The guy killed nine people," I shouted. "Did you know?" "Yeah, I heard that," he said. I went back to the Hartford Courant article laid out on my computer screen. I read about the disgruntled employee of the largest Budweiser distributor in the state. He was, allegedly, a "disciplinary problem." I didn't hear The Boss come up behind my scratchy swivel-chair on wheels. "Tell me it's not coming here," she said. "Tell you what's not coming here?" I asked, hoping she was talking about something different. She does that a lot. But she looked at me knowingly. Then she pulled her hand across her throat, pointer finger out, making a sucking sound ...

I went to the DMV to renew my license on my 32nd birthday because that was the date it expired, and I like to wait till the last minute. The air from sky down was blue and balmy, which was a pleasant change from sticky. I took a tree-lined route that canopied vividly without all that haze. Simon and Garfunkel's Cecilia came on and I belted out the words to the thunky beat as I revved my car close to the red line just because I could. There was too much congestion on the semi-country road to keep up any speed for long. With the kids back home with The Partner, I enjoyed the solitude, the green and gold, and the snarl of my engine on the ride to the Department of Motor Vehicles. The front lot was full as I pulled in. I drove around to a spot behind the building. I got out of the car, still feeling free, which was a remarkable feeling considering my destination. I hiked my purse over my shoulder and walked along 70s-era bureaucratic bricks that climbed high with no windows to let in,...

Happy birthday to you. I shuffled all groggy and froggy into the Boss's bedroom, the detritus of sleep sticking in the corners of my eyes and in my throat. Happy birthday to you. A smile pushed all her facial features upward as looked over at me from the book that was open in her lap. Happy b irthday dear Boss, happy birthday to you. Tossing the pages aside, she slid off her bed and landed, in a few strides, at my side. "Thank you, mom," she said, ever mannerful. She held my gaze with eyes that I still maintain are the only thing she got from me. The artful gradations of blue were framed by a blond bob. The changes weren't sudden, exactly--I had been aware of something creeping up on me--but she seemed striking in her growth. Her legs and arms dangled with a distinct lack of baby fat from her solid core. She leaned into me. "Even though it's my birthday, I have a present for you," she said. "Do you want it?" "Of course I do!" Th...

Our arrival at the Nice airport was heralded, if not by The Boss's immediate declaration that she had "to go potty," then by the one she made minutes later when she was finally and firmly entrenched in the bathroom stall: "It smells like horse poop in here!" My own keen sense of observation honed in on the lack of hand soap and paper towels. We scrubbed our hands under the running water and then wiped them on our thighs. Back at the baggage claim, a greeter (not unlike those stationed at the entrances of WalMarts back here in the States, except that she was thin and French and pretty) had pity upon our poor hunchbacked party and wheeled a baggage buggy in our direction. We loaded four suitcases in excess of 160 pounds onto the cart and made our way across the glass-lined building, through Customs, and into the direct sunlight. "France is so beautiful!" The Boss enthused, all traces of horse poop erased from her nasal memory. The scaly, sharp-fronded gl...