I hate it when that happens.
As I have transferred all my cd's onto iTunes and then into storage boxes somewhere, I guess I will just have to start strapping my computer to my hip with an oversized fanny-pack. Won't my kids be proud.
Hippocrates, Epidemics, Bk. I, Sect. XI, loosely translated from the Greek and adapted for wide screen tv.
I saw four, but it wasn't a contest. I said nothing.
Did I never notice them before, or did women such as these of past decades die away quietly and out of sight? My mother has just gone through her second mastectomy, second chemo, and second run of radiation. Her hair has grown back enough to look intentionally stylish. Most of it is dark grey, ridged around the hairline with a shock of white. The hair is as soft as a puppy's. I have to stop myself from petting her head.
Her upper body is so incredibly small now. She was visiting from the south, so I threw my Nordic coats on her with every brief outting outside. I imagined that the needle-like wind would pierce her if she were not protected with Finnish technology and high grade down. She had trouble stretching her arms, as the cut site was still tender. I dressed her as I would have to do a toddler. I wanted to keep her with me, like another one of the kids; make sure she had a bed, new clothes every season, books, chocolates, the morning crossword and a window that catches the sun.
I spent a day - thirteen hours to be exact - on our early holiday feast. Each time I passed by the table partially set with our family whites, the thought of having some other type of plate kept nagging at me. Then, when looking for the silly, dishwasher-unsafe thirty-year-old probably lined with lead snowmen head hot chocolate cups, I found her china instead. That was what my tired brain was trying to remind me. I pulled them down, rubbed the silver lining around the edge of each, and set the girls to doing a fast switch, including the china bread plates and cups and saucers.
Two hours later she saw the table and quickly disappeared. She returned with a hand delivery of one of her famous newspaper clippings. This one was written by Ellen Goodman, a Boston Globe columnist. Ms. Goodman had described the almost compulsive need of her siblings and her to use their own grandmother's dishes this way. My mom had read this and thought of her own china that she had passed on to me, cut the column out and brought it thousands of miles for me to agree with. Thank goodness that some part of my brain had been overheating itself in an attempt to get the rest of bossy me to remember the china. It was a close save, and a big one. I cannot wait to place it in front of her again next year.
The best time I had at Chicken Little was when my five year old and I walked out of the movie theater into the windy, dark night and I watched her reaction to me saying, "If I saw one of those aliens out here on the street right now in front of us, I would pee my pants."
She thought I was the God of Funny.
Then in the car she realized, "Hey, I did not see the part where the dad chicken said to Chicken Little, 'I screamed like a little girl'; maybe he said it while we were looking at each other instead of the movie." Well sure honey, that line you had seen in the trailers had the potential for humor, so the Chicken Little committee, that same group that thought it was a good idea to play chicken with Pixar, scrapped it.
She like it better than Wallace and Gromit, but that is only because she hasn't acquired the knack for giggling at Brits yet.
Earlier in the week I took her to the grocery store before school. Hardly anyone was there yet but the bakers.
"Would you like a bagel?" I asked.
"Sure," she said, and walked up to the bagel display. A large baker man stood proudly behind the baskets full of creative bagels, and watched as my daughter sneezed all over the bottom row. n front of the 7 foot tall kindly baker man, sneezed all over the bottom row.