Monday, December 26, 2011

Blue Blood

Tonight, as I read my three-year-old-daughter to sleep in her 4-post-bed, we read a book we had not yet read before: Grover Goes to School.

A couple of pages in, she pointed to his name, deep, within a fairly long paragraph, and said, "Grover!"
"Yes!" I said, with genuine enthusiasm. "How did you knooooow how to read that?"
And without skipping a beat, she turned to me from the cuddly spot she had occupied in the nook of my left arm, and looked my dead in the eyes. She replied, "...because I am a Proper Woman!" and proceeded to put her wee nose back in to the book.
My only option was to burst out in laughter: I'm pretty sure I sounded like a drunk man.
"You sure ARE a Proper Woman," I finally managed to say.

*Every night my comfy family of three discusses the best part of our day. That was certainly the best part of mine.

Friday, December 23, 2011

'Twas Festivus for the Rest of Us.

Before my family came over this afternoon, I distributed many clothespin ornaments (hand painted and drawn by my kid and I), to my daughter's teachers, the neighbors I'm friendly with, and I tied some of them on to gifts. A gesture of gratitude. Then came Festivus.
Tomorrow, the Eve is on.

Wednesday, December 21, 2011

Bearing Straight

*Image courtesy of Shorpy

When my daughter nearly fell face first in to her desk today, it reminded me of the time I DID fall face first into the coping of my local community center pool when I was eight years old: we attendees of our urban summer day camp were permitted to go to "The Cenna" twice-a-week. 

That particular day, I was breaking the easily breakable rules by running from away from a lanky, older Puerto Rican boy, with red elastic swim trunks and a thin gold chain clinging to his neck. He was trying his best to kiss me in public, and fenced in by chain-link, all I could do was run.

I sat aside with some counselor I didn't know,  bleeding into my bloody, wadded-up tank top after my chin hit the concrete, waiting for my mother.

My mom came to pick me up in our blue Escort wagon. I screamed when she told me I had to go to the hospital for stitches.  Needless to say, when I arrived to the big, white hospital, I had conjured up an image of the activities to come and was terrified.

So when the doctor who tried to sew me up lay me down on an exam table to shoot me with Novocaine, I freaked.  I screamed and wailed.  My mom sat helpless to the side of me as I did everything in my bony power to avoid the fate I had imagined in my head. I hadn't been to a hospital since being born. I eventually got my mother and doctor to believe that I had to go to the bathroom.  Once in that ochre, wallpapered lavatory, I locked myself in and refused to come out.  They had to call for a janitor to get the door open.  I fluctuated between screaming my best horrific sounds or sitting in silence, refusing to open the door.  
Once, forceably removed by an orderly and flailing in the best acting job I had performed to-date, they wrestled my arms from my body and put me in a straight jacket.  

My mother watched as the baby she bore from her womb was now subdued, hands pinned over and behind my back by orderlies, canvas and leather. Imagine what she was thinking she gave birth to.

I didn’t stop yelling during this forcible take-down, of course. Yet when the needle of Novocaine hit my raw chin bone, it was a feeling and a texture so different than anything I had ever experienced, I was mesmerized.  The sandy scrape of metal against naked bone was eerily excellent. 
As the doctor sewed and pulled my thin, young skin I said, "I like the way this feels, this feels good."
The nurse, my mom, the doctors, and even the orderly in his white, too-tight-garb, laughed in harmony.  'Betcha the janitor was laughing at my Exorcist behavior as he walked down the flourescent-lit hall to another scene.

I guess hospitals, like obstacles, are never as bad as we think they will be.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Gingerbread Kookie

Today, in our true Christmas fashion, I delivered a seasonal misfit to my bohemian-gypsy mother before she arrived home from work. It was an oddity that I'm certain she is always searching for each holiday season. This time it was Christmas cookies with heft.

...yes, that crotch is adorned in purple glitter. Hmmm, now that's a thought...

Wednesday, December 7, 2011