My daughter’s a magnet. She sends out a wish and the Universe rises to grant it. She may long for a toy, a book, a friend or an adventure. Upon giving voice to it, the desire more often than not magically manifests.
My girl’s not demanding. Asking politely for what she wants is just part of her operating system. “Mom, I’d like to be an olive for Halloween.” I think it over a minute. Right on! We call her amazing seamstress-grandmother. “Sure,” she says. “Kalamata or Spanish green?” I take my daughter’s measurements, but more than that, I’m taking notes. “Ask and ye shall receive.”
Right now my daughter’s front teeth are missing. She lost both upper incisors in the span of two days. A couple of weeks ago, after being served another ear of corn or a rubbery bagel, she sent up a flare to her distracted mother. “Mom, can we please get some baby food?” Not two days later, an unexpected envelope arrived in the mail. A friend of a friend has started a baby food company and enclosed were samples. The food is organic, dried, and portable; you just add water. My daughter ripped into the packages, ravenous. She downed two containers of apples and one package of peas. “I liked the apple better, she said, licking the last trace of bright green peas from her bowl.
*
“If you don’t talk happy talk, and you never have a dream, then how you make a dream come true?” — Rodgers and Hammerstein, “South Pacific”
OK, my birthday is tomorrow (Wednesday), so I’m taking a minute to reflect on gratitude. I’d like to thank the Universe (that my kids so beautifully rendered in legumes) for my full-to-the-brim life. Thank you for my family (giggling children running in their nichies in the back yard while husband chases them with hose). Thank you for the recent influx of architecture work (up late every night). Thank you for my health (lightening-pedicure on bathroom counter 4 minutes before departing for annual gyno exam). Thank you for the gift of a pool membership from the grandparents (something to do every afternoon; kids learning to swim.) Thank you for the receding of perfectionism (weird unaccompanied songs on thecoconutgirl). Thank you for ceiling fans, nice contractors, my macbook, cheesy dance moves, stolen spoonfuls of ice cream, and Vic Chestnutt’s song “Steve Willoughby.” And parenthesis. And the opening titles of “Napoleon Dynomite.” And most especially for my Mom and Dad for gettin’ me born. 
The latest installment of seeing my life through the eyes of my college art history professor. Please read in a pseudo-English accent. And be sure to over-do the italicized foreign terms. 
People want to hear about the storm that struck your town about as much as they want to hear about the dream you had last night. Exactly not very much. Most will express concern with comments like “no way” or “that’s crazy.” But you get the sense that they’re playing solitaire on mute while you yammer on. Who can blame them? After ten minutes of this: “The wind peeled off my neighbors’ metal roof, folded it into an origami crane, and dropped it into their front yard!”, the only thing to say is this: “Uh-huh? Wow.” 
The telltale leaf of a hollyhock emerged from the ground by our porch last month. It was a “volunteer,” as my grandmother Nanny used to say, a plant that showed up unexpectedly. I recognized its green, maple-sized leaf and knew that mischief was afoot. Not that I have anything against hollyhocks. I love them. But this little sprout, if left to its own devices, would soon grow humungous and wreck the careful symmetry of my flower bed. My symmetry! My precious! I called my Mom, who inherited Nanny’s green thumb. “I’ve got a hollyhock coming up in the wrong place and I want to move it,” I said. “What are its roots like? Should I do it now or later?” She was tactful but clear. “Leave it.” Not the answer I was looking for. “Hollyhocks are special plants, treasures,” she explained. “I know it doesn’t go with your bed, but if you dig it up, it’ll probably die.”
Last October I wrote a post called 
The kids were hungry when I got home from work at noon on Monday. They were both wearing tutus and swinging at each other. “It’s so weird; they were fine all morning…” said the sitter, confused. I wasn’t at all flummoxed. Even if I’m gone only a few hours, it takes skills to manage our post-work family reunions. Something akin to the talents of a boxing ref, a Zen Buddhist monk, and a short order cook. I set my briefcase down and muddled through. By now I know it helps to separate the children by lifting one of them to the kitchen counter. I’ll ask him or her to select our lunchtime music from the sticky stack of cds by the windowsill. “Here, grate some Parmesean,” I’ll say to the other, gesturing towards the table. This task takes concentration and offers quick calories. It’s my version of the “boil water” directive that people default to when a mom goes into labor.
Recent Comments