Ode to Vinnie

You were beautiful, Vinnie, shining in the sun, letting the sun shine in.
You were artful, Vinnie, a statue on Grand Avenue and at the LL Hotel.
You were comforting, Vinnie, a warming place for our freezing behinds.
You were glamorous, Vinnie, a glimmer of hope that even a Mom---this Mom---can be cool.

Vinnie the Volvo was sold yesterday to a handsome young Air Force man who has no kids. He is survived and replaced by the new auto in our lives. We finally accepted parenthood.

[Gasp.]

I'm a mini-van Mom.

Kid Behind Bars

My child has become a danger to himself and society. He's Trouble-Makin' Tommy, the boy who doesn't sleep at night and yet still musters up the charisma to give his Ma a devilish grin as the day starts. He's rarin' to go, crawling across the beds to play with the Venetian blinds and then explore the terrain until I save him from catapulting himself off the edge. Once he's down on the ground, he scoots towards live outlets, casting a smile in my direction. "No, Tommy, NO!"

Then it's onto the fan. Why not grab the fan, looming high above like a glorious conquest? "Tommy, NO!"

So we head upstairs. And he's off...zipping around the kitchen, he opens up the heavy metal drawer underneath the stove, clambering pots and pans into one another until til I pick him up. "No, Tommy! That's dangerous." He heads for another drawer as I slurp down my coffee. His fingers pull this once open and he strains to pull it out with all his weight. Except he doesn't quite have control, so his fingers soon are trapped in the shut drawer and he screams uncontrollably.

The poor kid.

It's gotten to the point where I can not leave Tommy for a split second without worrying that he'll find The Most Dangerous Item in the household. Whether he's stuffing Kleenex wads into his mouth or grabbing Grandma's glass frame of Claudia precariously---yet artfully---displayed on the lowest shelf, this kid is a danger.

And now he's behind bars.

Tales of Sobriety and Inebrity...mostly the latter

You're just not even respetive to that! You're not even respetive! Respetive, respetive, respetive!

Game

A fun game when you're bored is to go to the bathroom and count ants while you sit on the toilet.

Bonus points if you can still count them when your bathroom has a distracting floor pattern offering ant-camouflodge.

Slithering Ants

There is a laundry shoot at our house which conveniently allows us to collect dirty clothes in a closet in the laundry room. My mom and I do laundry endlessly---maybe 3 or 4 loads a day---but despite our efforts, the problem still persists.

Ants.

Disgusting ants.

I don't know how she can live in a house which presents this problem year after year. "It's every spring," she says, spraying toxic ANT AND ROACH KILLER on a pool of slithering friends. The smell, not to mention the sight, nauseates me.

Thank goodness for brand, spankin'-new suburban homes.

2 Year Old Flirts Flawlessly

Claudia: Don?
John: Yes?
Claudia: Do you wear pants?
[Pause.]
John: Yes...
Claudia: I do, too!

Old People Routine

Do denominations other than Catholicism have daily services? If not, I suggest you become Catholic before getting old. Hey, I guess I suggest it anyway, but the reason I'd like to point out right now is that Old People Need a Routine.

I'm not saying this to be disrespectful. In fact, I'm old in a lot of ways myself.

I've been going to daily Mass lately because it's Lent, and I'm too ill-disciplined to give something up for 40 days. Instead, I tote Tommy along and parade him in front of the old people who are always at daily Mass. I believe that a little bit of their daily Mass commitment stems from its familiarity and social opportunity, although I also believe that a great many of these folk are devout & faithful.

Why are so many more people devout & faithful at the end instead of the beginning? Are they just filling their days? Am I just filling mine?

Things She's Taught Me

1. Be patient.
2. Forgive.
3. Trust your instincts with your kids' safety.
4. When in doubt, bake.
5. Don't judge others.
6. Think of others before yourself.
7. Value family.

Globo de Nieve

The snow is thick, rich like icing.
Glistening underneath a rare winter sun.
Perhaps so beautiful because it's fleeting.
Perhaps because here, inside, I'm protected.
The tree bent down low to meet the ground yesterday,
But he shook the snow and released its weight.

9 Months In, 9 Months Out

Dear Tommy,

As my kind friend Miss Kate pointed out over the weekend, you've officially doubled your age. When we put our fabulous math skills together, we calculated that this won't occur again until you are 3 years old. Or 18 months old. Or something like that. Whatever. It's a momentous accomplishment, son.

As I write, you are muttering softly next to me in the bedroom. It's time for bed, and you're not really happy about it. I know you're tired, though. You've rested your head heavily upon the mattress, indicating that the day has exhausted you. You played hard in the bath, and you worked hard figuring out how to flick the lightswitch on and off. You're just getting over a high fever. They always happen over the weekend when we need to take you into Urgent Care to get things checked out.



The last month has been a big one, kiddo. It seems they always are. You're finally realizing that things have a NAME. Like Helen Keller and the water scene. I think this started out with a trick you've been doing...when we ask you to do your trick, you clasp your hands together and hold your hands in an "O" over your head. You look pretty darn proud of yourself.



At any rate, things have progressed since the O took shape. A week ago, you started to take extreme interest in Grandma's mantle clock. Then, one day, the word just came out: "clock." You repeated it several times. Clock. Clock. Clock.

Tick tock.

That day, it all came together. "Mama, mama," you pleaded as you crawled towards me across the rug. I knew you meant what you were saying. Later that night, you reiterated your understanding of the word by screaming, "Maaaamaa! Maaaama!" when you were supposed to be sleeping. I love you, Tommy, but night-night is night-night and I'm not getting out of bed just because you know my name.



I make exceptions for sickness.

It's not only been a big month for you...it's been a big one for our whole family. Last week, Dad and I finally took the plunge and signed a purchase agreement for Our First Home. Well, the first one not underneath the Barreller. And not within the confines of your grandparents' home. There's one bedroom for you, and one for us, and one for your toys or whoever comes to visit.

It's about 6 blocks from your cousins, and Will is planning to bike over as soon as we move in.

You're basically eating whatever's in front of you, although you've decided that Rice Cereal is now beneath your vast palate's standard. Daddy fed you a chocolate chip cookie today, along with cooked carrots, pot roast, and pureed potatoes. You love cheese, and today you gobbled it up atop scrambled eggs.



I wish I could freeze some moments, Tommy, in the way some people freeze cookies or leftovers for later. I wish I could pull out a tiny Tommy to hold and remember---in a physical sense---as these months and years go by. Yesterday, I walked by a picture of you from this summer, and I can't believe how much you've changed. You were so small and pudgy. Now you're long and thin and strong. And smart.

I could go on and on about who you are, Tommy, because you really are...already...coming into your own. It will be amazing to see how that progresses each day that stretches before us.

I love you.

Your,
Mama

P.S. Ask me later about how I accidentally spliced your little finger while cutting your nails. I'm sorry, Tommy. It was horrifying. And then you were SockHand.