Acceptance

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. Distance.

Last night The Partner and I huddled at the bottom of the stairs, trying to go unnoticed, as The Boss told a story to Number Two up on the second floor. Using the illustrations from a Clifford's Puppy Days book as her guide, she wove a personalized tale for her brother. Number Two chortled in all the right places. I heard him flop around. This one-on-one time with his sister-hero was a shock to each extremity. He listened with spastic glee.

Soon enough three years won't mean much. It will be like there's no distance at all; like there never was. But right now three years divides The Boss's life in two. Three years is Number Two's entire existence. Right here, right now--this is where they meet in the middle.

Number Two sneaks up behind The Boss and throws his tiny arms around her waist. He laughs maniacally. The Boss tries to shake him off. Then she begins to run, dragging his red-Kedded feet behind her.

"Mo-om! Da-ad! Get him off me!" It's a half-laugh, half-scream. "I can't get him to let go!"

I cross my arms and lean back against the kitchen counter. The Partner settles in beside me. We're both smiling.

Pole Dancing for Jesus

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.

Some Songs for Your Sunday

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.

No Mommy No Cry

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 season of rock-hard snow banks. I threw his backpack into the backseat and stepped back only to find him standing next to me with his hand held out for the taking. I clasped it in mine.

"Hold hands," he said. "Mommy no cry."

The Faux Fevered Fives

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. "Like my insides are burning my bones."

I sighed. Then I launched into the line of questioning that would either confirm or invalidate my hypothesis. "Did anything bad happen at school today?"

"Well..."

"Yes?"

"Well, something might have happened."

"Like?"

"J. kept pushing me and he wouldn't stop when I asked him to."

More questioning of the "yes?" and "like?" kind drew out a clearer explanation of the event. After her schoolmate J. had repeatedly ignored The Boss's requests, she went to the teacher for help. In the Montessori manner of conflict resolution, the teacher facilitated another conversation between the two children. The Boss stated her case. Then, she told me, J. gave a perfunctory "sorry." What led to the stomachache, it seems, was J's lack of remorse. The Boss felt sad and maybe a bit afraid because she knew J didn't really care about her feelings.

The Boss is hysterically funny. She's smart. She knows her audience. But underneath it all, the sensitivity she's been hiding so well is beginning to seep out. Tears of a clown, they say. A clown with irritable bowels, anyway.

I'm sure it's all terribly predictable from a developmental standpoint, but watching The Boss--the unflappable Boss--operating from a place of sadness and fear is disconcerting to a parent experiencing this all for the first time.

It's also a reminder that I have to step up my game. As solid and as capable as my daughter is--and despite the fact that she sometimes seems more 25 than 5--the truth is that The Boss isn't going to raise herself. Left to her own devices, I fear for a future in which she becomes a stand-up comedian climbing the ladder to either SNL cast member status or that of a professional Friars' Club roaster. And we all know what happens after that.

At least now I have an inkling about what's going on. I don't claim any more insight than that, but it's something to work with. I can start trying to make sure that the Boss doesn't feel the need to waste sick days on growing pains.

24/7 News

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 infant cries and reeked of shit.

This weekend, the coverage of the earthquake and tsunami in Japan brought me out from under the rock. My two children--not babies anymore--crawled with me, their eyes unaccustomed to the glare. The Boss's ears perked up and her eyebrows raised at radio reports. Number Two ran in circles around the coffee table as he screamed about trucks and trains.

I went down to the garage at one point to update The Partner on the apparent meltdown occurring in one (or two, or three, or four) of the reactors at the Fukushima plant in northeastern Japan.

"I know," he said. "I got that from reading one article. I didn't need to sit in front of the TV all night listening to the same facts over and over. Not to mention a bunch of talking heads who have no idea what's going on."

I look at it differently. In this day and age, I acknowledge the need to search through a lot of bullshit--on television, Web sites, social networking venues an even local telephone trees--to unshelf a nugget of truth. Diverse perspectives can enhance a story as much as they can muddle it. You have to be a media savvy consumer; you can't just buy everything. The difference between me and The Partner is that I enjoy a shopping spree while he'd rather grab the staples and exit through the self checkout.

I've been without news, relatively speaking, for almost six years now. Maybe this zeal I'm exhibiting comes from repression. Maybe in a few months I'll start to agree with The Partner that it's just too much--the expert commentary, the videos, the Tweeting, and the Facebook updates. Or maybe I'll start to tune out his declarations about right and wrong in favor of coming to my own conclusions.

Give Him a Break

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't want to believe, that the garbled words I heard were actually what I thought they might be. We don't allow talk like that in our house. On the other hand, he had to learn it somewhere--and it was probably here.

"Kiss!" he said, puckering up in deflection of the matter as he always does when a conversation is heading somewhere he doesn't want it to.

"What did you say?" I repeated.

He sighed. "I just talkin'. Give break."

I had to smile. He offered a valid point. Isn't that what we wanted? After all the effort we put into getting him to a place that I now think he would've arrived at without our intercession, maybe it's time to give the kid a break.

Sometimes it's just talk.

Appropriate Behavior

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 last dress in my pile was made of silvery lace. Thick straps secured it over my shoulders, at which point the dress just hung there. "It looks so...straight," I complained as I pivoted on socked feet to better view the different angles.

"That dress has no boobs," The Boss said.

"Yeah," I sighed. "That would be the problem."

The Boss, however, did not see this as an obstacle to overcome. Her eyes and cheeks were vivid. "You should wear that to my birthday party!" she declared. "It's very appropriate."

I raised my eyebrows--not at my 5 year old's use of the word "appropriate," since I'd long become accustomed to her vocabulary--but at the very idea. "Why is it 'appropriate' not to have boobs at your birthday party?"

"I don't have boobs." Her look was like, duh. "Nobody else will either. Well, except daddy. He has big boobs. Big, hairy ones." She drew out each word into an expansive descriptor and added hand gestures for my benefit.

Suddenly laughter was a chorus in the fitting room of TJ Maxx. In our mirrored microcosm, I could see fluorescent lighting intensify the flush of my cheeks; I saw the reflection of my budding comedian watching me for a reaction. Big, hairy ones. I was practically crying. The Boss nodded, satisfied.

For now she is still 5 1/2 years old, and I am the only audience she needs.

The Biggest Fear

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 as she did it.

I stared.

She did it again. Finger across the neck. The sucking sound.

"No," I said. "It's not coming here."

***

Several nights ago, apropos of nothing, The Boss said to me: "Why wouldn't I love my mommy?"

(See, I told you she does this; she brings things up out of nowhere I can see.)

"I don't know. Why wouldn't you?"

"Because I'd be dead."

I have words, but with her I can't always summon them. I said "oh."

"But you're in luck, 'cause I love you."


___

Renewing My License

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, or out, such things as light or sanity. As I was about to turn the corner, a whistle emerged from the car passing by. "Niiice!" the driver called out.

If my car had been closer or if I had looked as straggly as I usually do, I would not have assumed his comment was directed toward me. As it was, my guy-magnet vehicle was nowhere nearby, and I had actually taken some effort to put myself together that morning. He wasn't appreciating my ride; he wasn't mocking me. There I was, 32 years old, being cat-called. This was a birthday gift. I resisted the urge to do a jig and settled, instead, for pushing my purse back up on straightened shoulders. I purposely avoided looking at him, or even at his car. I didn't want the probable reality of what such a cat-caller would look like (or drive) to chase away my warm fuzzies.

I hummed a tune--probably Cecilia--as I pulled open the metal-lined glass door that marked the entrance to the DMV in grime. On the other side of the vestibule, a man held open the next door, balancing a large Dunkin Donuts iced coffee and a sheaf of forms against the handle. I smiled and said thanks.

Then I got in line and waited for the rest of my life.

Gift Giving

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 birthday 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!"

The gift was a hug. She enveloped me where I stood, wrapping her arms around hips that were much wider than they had been just over five years earlier. My hipbones fit into the bend of her elbows as she squeezed. I crosssed my arms over her back and tried to meet her strength with my own.

She tells the story, you know. I only write it down.

***

The thing that sticks with me is The Boss's breath when she was just-born. Holding on is no mean feat, considering the amount of Morphine coursing through my veins at the time. Forever and ever, the scent of rubbing alcohol will make me think of pure baby girl. I didn't expect her to smell like that when I put my face to hers the first time. I hurt everywhere. The pain, drugs and lost time conspired to take away all of the primal exhilaration that is (supposed to be) childbirth. But then I saw my husband's tears, and I smelled my daughter's breath like muted isoproponol on wet, red lips, and I knew that something monumental was happening. I knew it, and I almost felt it. But mostly I felt bad, my arm limp around the swaddled mass that exuded perfect newness. I couldn't stop shivering. I was glad when my husband took her away so I could lose consciousness again.

I fell into a sleep void of all senses except her breath on my face.

***

She toddles. Almost fifteen months from the day she first set foot on Earth, she began making her own treads. I know she's no trailblazer, but the implications in her own small sphere are enormous. My daughter is making her way in the world.

Her gait is precarious. Each step seems too light to hold her, but the halting weight of one foot against the ground, then the other, pushes her forward in a baby gust. I stop counting the movements; it seems as if she will go on forever. Then her confidence falls out from under her as she folds to a neat stop on her knees.

This is how she will get where she's going. It's literal now, but soon enough the baby steps will mean something different. It's careful exploration. It's tentativeness. It's the way one feels out a world where solidity, texture and layout is uncertain. Her first day of school. A part in a play. A sleepover. A test. This is how she will learn, by pushing herself on her own terms.

I am proud of her pacing. I thought early on that I wanted her to be the first at everything. I wanted her to be precocious. A fat, walking, talking bundle of joy. And don't get me wrong--she's joyful. But she's also small and comtemplative; calm and observant. I am so enamored of her unexpected personality that any desire I had for her to be something other than she is vanished in the gray fog of so many pre-parental ideals.

Now I know that her whims are her own. Her timing is impeccable. She is exactly right.

***

Roughly three hours before the first labor contraction of my second childbirth hit, The Boss had a precognitive existential crisis. She was sitting on our bed as The Partner and I nested our way through a much needed pick-up of the bedroom. Maybe it was witnessing this act of cleaning that shocked her system, so foreign was the idea of seeing her mother with a duster in one hand and vacuum in the other. Maybe it was the intuition of the imminent arrival of a sibling. Whatever the cause, it's safe to say that The Boss freaked out.

"It's not fun being bigger and older!" she shrieked suddenly. It came out of nowhere. She rose to her feet on the semi-firm mattress and threw herself prone. "It's not fun!" She was screaming again, and rising again. Then she threw herself back. She was crying.

"What's wrong, honey?" The Partner and I climbed onto the bed with her, patting and consoling and wondering. We had hazy notions of what troubled her, but we wanted her to articulate it. We wanted to say the right things back.

She probably wanted words, too. But all that came out was I don't know.

***

It might've been spilled milk, or the fact that that dinner got cold while we were waiting for The Partner to finish a conference call, or maybe that someone ganked the last of the banana bread. The cause doesn't matter as much as the admission.

"It's all my fault," The Partner said, throwing up his hands in martyrdom. "It's always my fault."

The Boss looked over at me. "It's his fault," she confirmed. "Not ours."

I laughed. I had to. But the chuckle lost depth as I thought of growing up in a house where my mother would drop a glass in the kitchen and immediately blame the wreckage on someone else, even if the nearest person was minding her own business upstairs in my bedroom, reading Judy Blume through spectacles as thick as magnifying glasses.

"It's nobody's fault." I spoke more for The Boss's benefit than to validate The Partner's histrionics. "We don't need to blame anyone."

The Boss's eyes were wide with knowledge that belied her three uneventful years. She looked from me to her father before settling back on me. Her voice was a blend of confidence and whisper. It was as if she didn't want to burden me too heavily with the truth. "But sometimes people have fault."

So I conceded. How could I not? I marveled at our daughter with a headshake and a shrug, then I dismissed the issue from the table. "You're right. Sometimes people do have fault. You're absolutely right." I was sure it was something we'd be able to discuss in more detail for the rest of our lives.

***

From the moment she was ripped from my gaping abdomen while I laid there unconscious, The Boss has been the one in charge. Three years of experience only rendered her more effective.

At three, The Boss is benevolent. She drops lispy words of encouragement like candy: "I really love you, Mommy" or "You're beautiful." She says "please" and "thank you" and "may I use that when you're done?"

She only breaks down occasionally, though you don't want to be the one called into her office to witness that harangue.

She is a people person, too. She chats with strangers in the supermarket about subjects ranging from her weekend plans to bodily functions to her upcoming pre-school matriculation. These strangers are usually charmed by her voice and passion. I am always proud. Okay, well, sometimes--in the case of the exclamations on functional anatomy--I admit to being a tad bit embarrassed.

Her thoughts and emotions are vivid. They're right there. She's a magnifying glass that uses sunlight to ignite everything in the line of sight. Without her, I wouldn't notice half of what's around me, and there'd be no fire.

I told The Boss that her birthday was also my anniversary. "You made me a mom," I said. "Before that, I was just Binky."

She laughed, like that was so silly. "You're not Binky. You're Mommy Binky." She threw everything into the giggle that followed, the sound coming from her diaphragm and emerging deeper and louder than one would expect from a just-turned-three-year-old. She always laughs like that. "You're not Binky. Nope."

"That's right," I agreed, matching her laugh. "That's exactly what I'm trying to tell you."

***

The Partner was home all day with no big plans to fix all that was failing around him. We ate breakfast first, which he cleared as I nursed Number Two. Then the baby napped. The Partner and The Boss played a board game. I shut the door on them all and ran a bath.

Later we watched home movies of The Boss when she was the age Number Two is now. I had no recollection. Was she really ever so tiny? I looked down to where she sat, nestled in my arm on the love seat, and I found it hard to see her as anything other than what she was at that very moment. The past, though vivid on the screen, was faded; the future, a blur. I patted the solid bend of her leg next to mine.

The Boss's bath came before dinner. I lined up foam letters in short word formation on the wall of the tub. I held my breath as The Boss sounded out the first one."Puh-ah-duh. P-a-d. Pad!"

I screamed and clapped. I ran to get the Partner, who wore mechanics' overalls as he worked under my car in the garage. He followed me up the stairs to the bathroom."You've got to see this," I said.

I arranged three more letters in front of The Boss, who was splashing slap-happy as the center of attention. "She can read! She can really read!"

She studied the word. "Buh..."

The Partner and I stared down, nodding her on. My eyebrows were high in my forehead. I still wasn't breathing. "Yes?" I sucked in air, prodding.

"Buh...ah...guh. B-a-g. Bag!" The Boss fell forward like a seal, splashing water over the side of the tub, sending the letters sailing away. We were all spastic.

At the end of the night, after the dishwasher had been loaded and the kids' beds filled, The Partner and I sat down to a movie. I don't like to be sad on purpose, but I suggested The Bucket List anyway, thinking that an uplift would prevail. And it did. We've never been immune to schmaltz.

Toward the end I cried so hard that my face hurt where the tears clogged my sinuses.

"It was the little girl that got me," The Partner said. She was the new found granddaughter Jack Nicholson kissed on the cheek; she was the most beautiful girl in the world. "I can't see a little blond and not think of our own adorable kid." His eyes were puffy. He sighed beneath the weight of pride. That breath propelled him into the star-struck addendum that follows almost any mention of The Boss: "She's the best." It takes a little more air away each time. "The best."

***

Even though it's my birthday, I have a present for you. Do you want it?

___

Recollections From the South of France

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 glory of so many palm trees made my four year old gasp; she watched them wave in the Taxis' wind. Small cars darted all around us, puttering into traffic circles or detours forced by airport construction. The Partner's two French uncles led us to a set of outside elevators below the parking garage. From there, we were delivered to the family compound.

The eldest of The Partner's uncles--il s'appelle Attilio--presided over a swath of property only two or three miles from the Mediterranean. On it he had built homes for his three sons, each modern villa connected by Attilio's green house, where, at the time of our arrival, tomatoes, green beans, and zucchini flourished. The three new houses and Attilio's old one, where he lived with his wife, Colette, sat at the base of the city of Biot, which climbed in blocky, stucco steps up a seastruck mountain.

A straight path led from the house in which we were staying (it belonged to the youngest of Attilio's sons) to the home of the patriarch himself. We would walk that small hill--just a asphalt tease before the steep cobblestones that could take us to the city if we wished--each noontime and night. Meals were served in an extended outdoor banquet that spilled over with meat and shellfish and wine. On our first day there, Number Two fell asleep at the table, his forehead pressed against the wooden lip. Nine of us shared one bottle of champagne and five of wine.

I stumbled home soon after for siesta, leaving The Partner and the kids with their long lost family. I prepared for the welcome release of afternoon sleep with a tumbler of gaseous water (it sounds better in French). The bubbles effervesced 24 hours, 2 continents, and approximately one liter of alcohol into the stuff dreams are made of. I lowered myself onto the bed of white linen, letting the down of duvet and pillow swallow me. The breeze, trapped between mountain and sea, whirled at my back.

The Kiss Keeper

Number Two, despite being put together of mostly inscrutable parts, is straight-forward in matters of the heart. He is a kisser. He puckers whenever the urge strikes, thwack-ing toward me with mouth and legs working in concert. He will continue to suck his bottom lip into his bottom teeth, with the top lip breaking the suction loudly, over and over until I lower my own face to his. Then he'll smile into a turn. Then he'll waddle off. Then he will be, once more, the cryptic kid--but only until he kisses again, with the generosity of a soul that knows just how much to share and just how much to save for later.

A Moment of Weakness

Today, in my cleaning closet, I realized there are people whose entire homes smell like that. I took a deep breath, savoring the toxic odor of clean, before I stepped back into my hallway. Humid air hugged me. It was eau de grass clippings and last night's dinner and dog, with just the slightest hint of diaper. I thought of slipping back into the closet, settling on the floor amidst detritus of the kind that collects on closet floors, and letting my head fall back on the inhale. Cleanliness. Purity. Starch and bleach. I stared at the blond wood whorls on the door as I fantasized about what lay inside. Then I shook myself back to reality.

That stuff'll kill you.


___

Running Away

Number Two runs in a jig, his feet kicking out to the sides yet propelling him forward. "No run! No run!" he shouts as short legs splay from his torso, the swish and the sweep finding a strange traction. I’m not sure if he knows what he’s saying. I can’t be sure that I know what words are coming out of his mouth. But it sounds like “no run” as he burns rubber in light-up sneakers that illuminate trails at home, at the ballpark, at the furniture store, and on the sidewalk in front of his sister’s school.

Number Two doesn’t seem to need words the way The Boss does. He is absorbed by process while his sister thrives on explanation. Number Two runs to feel the earth more, to feel the wind more, to feel the catch in his lungs and then the exhale. The Boss, on the other hand, runs so that she can be the first person to arrive at the finish line with a story to tell.

When my son moves, he is so solid on the ground that he seems to weigh down the sky. “No run! No run!” The language is what floats away. Does he mean he knows the rules, but is flaunting them? Is he telling me I shouldn’t chase him? Is he saying no to everything except the race? “No! Run!”

I don’t get it. I don't get him. But as Number Two darts away from my grasp in a fit of laughter, I see that my running enigma is sure enough for the both of us. Steady enough, too.

Healthy Eating (for Dogs)

The Boss loves nothing more than hearkening back to the days of youth. Currently, this gives her a three year span to work with. Her own memories can take her back to the latter half of two; her family's nostalgia fills her in on the rest.

"Remember when you used to eat dog food when you were a baby?" I asked The Boss one night as we dumped a new bag of Rachel Ray's Nutrish dog food into Roxie's Rubbermaid receptacle. "It was no fluke, either. You went back for seconds." I giggled at the stupid things people will do before they learn about pet food processing. The Partner lent a chuckle.

The Boss, who likes to be involved in family amusements not just by inclusion but by shared memory, looked at me. She looked at her father. She looked at the replenished container busting forth with red, green and brown kiblets. "Okay, I guess I'll try some." She shrugged. "I guess."

The Partner and I did a double-take. "Whoa, hold up," I said. "I did not even ask you to eat dog food."

She shrugged again, this time incorporating her abundance of expression and the stretch of her neck into the shoulder roll. "No, no, it's okay. I'll try some." The only fear in her eyes was the kind derived from the suspicion that her parents would get in the way of her fun. The Boss was hell-bent on reliving her past.

She needn't have worried about any trouble from me. I just stood there, all "what?" and "uh, wait a minute. What?"

The Partner raised his eyebrows, cocked his head, and reached into the stash of Nutrish. He grabbed a handful for his daughter to choose from. The Boss dug her small palm into his big one, angling to possess the offering in its entirety. "You don't have to eat all of it!" The Partner's words came out in a surprised sort of chortle.

The Boss faltered for a minute. I imagine she was going over, in her mind's eye, what she perceived to be her past dog food-eating triumph. She didn't just want to recreate the moment; she wanted to improve upon it. Her hand halted over her father's for just long enough to be discernible. Then she took it all. And then she at it, one kibble at a time.

I was turning circles in amusement, watching my back for the arrival of the state Department of Children & Families. The Partner was marveling at his daughter's gutsy quirks. "Well, what does it taste like?" one or the other of us asked, finally.

"It doesn't really taste like anything I've ever had." She pondered the question, mulling the grainy chunks over in her mouth and mind. "Well, it kind of tastes like chicken. Kind of."

Playing in the Dark

Number Two is an incoherent one. He talks and talks, but the sense is peculiar to him. He hums his own songs in the sweetest tones. He plays in circles around the spaces we inhabit so solidly in deference to the demands of the day. Sometimes he escapes to the basement and plays in the dark.

One evening I came home from something or other, entering the lowest level through the garage. I shut the door behind me into darkness. I was about to ascend the stairs when I heard the "hi." The voice was pitched and eerie. It came close to the floor behind me. I turned to see Number Two, barely, waiting in a shadow as big as the room. I scooped him up and carried him toward the brightness of the main floor.

"How long was he down there?" I asked The Partner.

"Not long," he shrugged.

I released Number Two to the wooden planks of the dining room, where his feet pushed off in a waddle-run. He shrieked, jazz hands waving in flight. Then he was gone again. We heard toys spring into action on the other side of the house. Wheels in need of lubrication rolled over the carpet. The alphabet emerged muted from plastic casing in need of batteries. The Partner and I stood still. Sometimes it's as if Number Two hogs all mobility.

Other times it's as if we all move around him.

On Marriage

Life is predominantly bullshit. If I had to put a figure to it, I’d estimate 95% of everyday living is flotsam we fabricate to keep things interesting. Five percent is truth. That’s where love is, and hate. You have to look in the five to find out if the rest is worth it.

Someone told me a marriage is salvageable if there’s love. Period. “Do you love him?” Yes or no. There’s no choice C, no #3. Don’t examine the bullshit; it colors things in sepia. The answer is in the 5%. “Do you love him?”

If you say yes, that’s all that matters. Not money, not sex, not a clean house or a job that sucks. All those things are effects. The cause is separate. “Do you love him?”

If you say no, that too is an encompassing truth. Ninety-five percent can drive you crazy, but it doesn’t have to. Love isn’t always the answer. “Do you love him?”

I do.

The Bright Side

Little lamb bones stared up at us from our plates. I don't generally cook lamb, but my mother-in-law does. She had served the rare delicacy at The Partner's 32nd birthday celebration. I brought out the leftovers at home the next night because, while I don't generally cook it, I have no qualms about reheating it.

The Boss pondered the meat and bone curiously. I think the difference between that piece of meat and the others she eats unquestioningly on a regular basis lays in the nomenclature. "Lamb" is straightforward. Things like "hamburger" and "roast" and "hot dog" beat around the bush a bit more. One can eat them without being reminded via word choice that the food he is consuming once romped around a pasture or looked out longingly from a cage.

"The lamb that had the bones tooken out of it must be dead now, right?" The Boss asked us, looking more toward The Partner than toward me. He's the one with the answers.

"Yup," The Partner said.

"Um, yup," I agreed.

She didn't quite gesticulate into one huge shrug, but she might as well have. "No more life for him." If there was any sorrow in her voice, it was overwritten by the optimism in her follow-up. "But the lambs that weren't food, more life for them!"

The Best Mom I Ever Had

She says "You're the best mom in the world." She means her world, of course, which is vastly different from the greater and lesser world around her. Nobody else would consider me the best mom; nobody else needs to (her brother excluded). When she says I'm the best, she means it. And I am.

Are there better moms? Most of them are. But other moms don't matter. There's something liberating about being held accountable only to the authority of my children. I don't have to worry about what others think and there's no need to curry the favor of strangers. When it comes to bestowing best mom status, only my children can do it.

I've never been the best at anything before; I wouldn't believe it if someone told me I was. There's just too much competition and I'm too realistic. But when The Boss says "You're the best," or when she narrows it down to "you're the best mom in the mom's club," or when she opens it back up again to "you're the best mom in the whole, wide world," I see that it's true. I could never be anything greater than what my four year old thinks I am.

Still, some of my realism's been passed down. Some of my sarcasm is evident in the eye-rolls that come more often now. The Boss has been honing a sense of irony since before she could put words to wit. She knows what I know. Every so often she speaks it beneath a cocked eyebrow and lit cheeks:

"You're the best mom I ever had."