Miles Away

Flying out of LaGuardia was exhilirating, especially when we got Athena (our fish) safely through security. Thanks to my friend, I, we knew the drill: right before we went through the security screen, we put Athena into a teeny-tiny tupperware container with 3.7oz of water (the amount of liquid the TSA allows, post-9/11). E carried her cupped in his hands. The TSA security officer stopped him and scratched his head. E spoke right up: "We are moving to California and this is our pet and she is coming with us!" I stood behind him, letting him make the transaction. The officer called his supervisor, who came over and took E and Athena aside. Then he tested Athena's water and dusted E's fingertips. All clear!

Once we were through security, we put Athena into a large, clean olive container and filled it up with spring water. During our flight, we kept the lid off the container and E held her during take-off and landing.

So Athena is now officially a member of the betta mile-high club. And she seems to be adjusting to the new time zone just fine.


We are really here. In Santa Barbara, E, (A), and I. A world away from New York City, which is E's hometown, and in some ways, mine too (if being someplace almost half your life qualifies). It is so beautiful here. What strikes me most is the way it smells: of green, lavender, eucalyptus, honeysuckle. And mist (yes, the morning mist has a great smell, too). And it is so quiet, except for the sound of birds.

We found a shipwreck on Friday on Butterfly Beach. A small worn-out sailboat that had lost its mooring and was aground, and already, after only a week or so, was laying on it's side, half-buried in sand, the bottom covered with mussels, scallops, and sea anemones. A hobo (E's word for those who live without an address) told E and another little boy about how valuable the parts were: the aluminum mast, the stainless steel fittings. So E scavenged the wooden railings for the fort we'll build in our yard (in the hidden spot, J, our surfer/chef/gardener landlord, picked out for just such a construction project in the incredible lush, lovingly kept yard of our house).

Our house. I can't believe it. Our house. After twenty years of apartment dwelling we have a house And it's a beauty. A front porch, a fireplace, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, the great room so warm and sunny and inviting--and great. It is big! And the kitchen...a real cook's kitchen (explains why J,who grew up in this house, is a chef now) that dazzles me.

Now we just need the balance of our stuff to arrive so we can actually move in...

For now, we're "on vacation" in E&P's home, which they rent out furnished. E loves the hot tub. And the scrub jays. And Pan, who plays his pan-pipes for all the hummingbirds in the garden. And he loves walking Django on the bluff above the ocean and playing ball with Zeke, too.

We met another Hobo on the trolley ride back from the Wharf. He told us about all the trees in Santa Barbara, as though he knew them all personally. He looked like the naturalist, John Burroughs, except his feet were black, his white beard was smeared with grease and dirt. He made us laugh when he told us about his encounter with the a lion at the SB Zoo.

Our first week here we visited our favorite places: the beaches, the Zoo, the Museum of Natural History, the aweseome playgrounds. And we played lots of "Go Fish" in the evening before reading stories from "King Arthur and His Knights." E is sleeping so well here. And he has said, several times, "this is my best day ever" which is code for "all is well." His hair is blond, his long-limbs, longer. His skin is as "brown as a berry," as my dad used to say. He has another loose tooth.


He started 2nd Grade today. I made his favorite hot lunch (rice, chicken nuggets, fruit salad, milk) and packed it up with a note from Mom. I was so proud of him when I dropped him off and he sat right down and began to draw Egyptian symbols all over his name tag, which he was invited to color by his teacher Mrs. A. We gave each other the Native American sign for "friend" and I blew a kiss goodbye. I can't wait to pick him up and find out how it went.

Here we are.....

Almost Seven

It's beyond embarrassing that my last post was more than six months ago. It's a testament to how busy life with a six year old boy has been but it's also totally terrifying, because this fantastic year with him went incredibly fast and is now almost over. In just a few hours, E will no longer be 6.

One cause of the long delay was the dreadful collapse of our aquarium and loss of our fish. So happy was I with having office mates that I put too many fish in a tiny tank, and one by one....it was awful. E and I grieved long and hard. It took about 6 months for me to be able to bring up the topic. And everytime I said "I think we ought to get another fish" he'd say no. So one day I just came home with one. At first, he was angry. Then he drew a picture ("I'm the Goddess Athena and I love life!") hung it next to the aquarium, and a love story was born. Athena is a "moon" betta. She is so beautiful--pale blue & purple--like a shimmery, swimming moonstone.

Every morning when E gets up, he says hello to her. And every day when he gets home from school, he greets her. And he worries about her when we are away from home. We shower her with love and dote on her. So I'm hoping that, when we one-day-soon get our dog (E has mentioned a chihuahua named "El Condor" or a black mutt we'll call "Darth Muffin") we will (I hope) be prepared.

Plus, E's got fans from such far flung locations as Cyprus, Iceland, London, California and New Jersey, who've been asking after him all this while, I owe them an update.

So here, in a very quick nutshell, are some of the most magical things about living with a six year old boy:

My umbrella stand is filled with lightsabers, a bow and a bunch of arrows, several swords, a pirate blunderbust, and some awesome sticks, carried home from Central Park, and meant to be kept forever. Everytime I reach for an umbrella, I realize how lucky I am to have all this essential boy gear at hand, and I'm acutely aware that it won't always be there.

E was chased through the park (with his friend Z) by a pack of private school girls. Nevermind the pleated skirts and plaited hair, these girls were fast. On the way home, eyes ablaze, hair wild, short of breath, E turned to me and said, "Mom, girls have such savage hearts." Boy, do we! Living with a six year old boy has opened my eyes to how tender-hearted boys can be and how hard on them we girls can be. This is such a simple, raw fact--but it's so complex and strikes at the heart of our mars/venus stuff--that I was grateful for the reminder.

We all need love.


Probably the thing that most blows my mind is walking into E's room and seeing him sitting reading, intently. It's incredible to realize he no longer needs me in the most fantastic way. The world is wide open now. Oh, sweet freedom. It's now his.

So much is changing, so fast. The only consolation I have is knowing that it just gets better and better.

To the six year old boys of the world--you rule. I love you all--truly, madly, deeply.

IF SIX YEAR OLDS COULD VOTE

If six year olds could vote, we'd finally be on the right path.

Last night's AP Poll says we're in a dead heat (44/43) going into the Presidential election. But that's a poll of Americans who are 18 years or older.

I'd like the AP to poll six year olds. In that demographic, there would be no dead heat--there would be a landslide in the making--for Barak Obama.

We live in such scary, dicey times, right? Not six year olds. They live in the real world, which means playing rain or shine, not suffering the coat that is too itchy, fearlessly jumping off of high places, running more than walking, singing when the mood strikes. They are color-blind, gender-blind, money-blind, hatred-blind. They fight fair and love deeply. They want to touch everything, read everything, know everything, be everything. They are alive. And, oh yeah: they love boogers.

And they LOVE Barack Obama.

Why? I think it has something to do with their ability to read an aura, even with sound bites and pundits and fine print and lousy rhetoric clamoring to cloud the atmosphere. Six year olds are inexorably drawn to honesty, integrity, and authenticity and are repelled by anything that has even the slightest whiff of "con" to it.

As E says whenever he sees the candidates "Yah! Obama! Boo! McCain!" (It is worth noting that he was saying this even while I was working on behalf of Hillary Clinton, so it is an innate integrity thing for sure, not just the parroting of parental partisanship.)

Six year olds are sober, sane, and grounded in reality. They are, quite vividly, here in the world now--present in a way that most of us struggle to be everyday.

If only they could vote.

Morning Glory

This was a wildly rich week. So I'm just going to write down the things that blew my mind, beginning with the Morning Glory muffins and ending with Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds.

We made morning glory muffins last weekend--dozens of them. The recipe (my mom's) was so huge that we (me, E, and C--E's dad) were all involved and there were many bowls in play, the food processor whirring, lots of peeling, etc. In the end, I had to mix it all up in a giant pasta pot. What's in a morning glory muffin you ask? Mounds of fresh grated carrot, fresh grated apple, coconut, raisins, cups and cups of flour, some sugar. A half dozen eggs. I was making them for E's class, where the rule is "only fruits and veg" for snack time. I figured if I used wheat flour--and given that the recipe called for 8 cups of fresh grated fruit and veg--I'd be okay. (But that's another story--rule breaking is a no-no in P's class, no matter how delicious the pavement on that road to hell may be.)

So I was making small muffins for small people. A big mistake, in terms of time: I was looking at about 10 gallons of batter and one tiny pan that made a dozen tiny muffins at a time. After about the first 6 dozen, a bit of a mood descended, and I felt like I was baking for a prison population, albeit an adorable one. (I thought about my mom, who, when she made these, was baking for seven, which, from her point of view, was probably also a kind of prison population.) I didn't give up though, and ten dozen muffins later....

The Highlights of the Week:

E saying, at dinner one night, when offered some of the last, fresh farmer's market tomato we'd see until next year: "Mom. You know I only like atoes that begin with a P, I don't like atoes that begin with a T." Who knew I was having dinner with Dr. Seuss?

Taking the train to Stamford to see C, her daughter L (one of E's first friends--they met in prenatal yoga) and C's 8 month old twins. E wanting to trade his stuffed red panda for darling wee C, the boy baby. Sorry. No go.

My friend A coming all the way from Seattle and meeting E for the very first time--in Central Park. It was like a scene from a movie: the kids scrambling all over the Alice In Wonderland sculpture while white fluffy clouds bounced by. A jazz band planted on a bench, striking it up just as the sun started to sparkle. It was obscenely gorgeous-perfect. And so New York, where random moments of awesomeness like this happen all the time.

Then A, who has MS, ditching her motorized scooter downstairs--making her way one step at a time up to our 5th Floor apartment -- to join us for dinner and the debate (E: "Debate? What?! Are they fishing?" Thanks, Shecky.). When she got to our landing, I thought "Fuck Sir Edmond Hillary's effort: AD is my new hero."

So we had pot roast (my mom's killer recipe--again), wine, and apple tart from A&V. E and A did math homework while I cooked. Then after E went to bed, we watched the VP debate. At the end, A and I turned to each other, and, at the same moment, said "Todd Palin's kind of a fox." There is always a silver lining.

Saw gorgeous young mom-writer-chef A for lunch and was reminded that there's just no perfect in this life. But there is a big difference between imperfect and just plain lame. Sigh. Anyway: if there were such a thing as perfect, she's pretty close.

And then yesterday, feeling dog tired after a busy week and E off for a guy adventure with his dad, I rallied and did something I've never done before: I scalped a ticket for a show. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. It was in the little theater in Madison Square Garden. 3,000 hungry souls, looking for a bit of brilliance in the midst of these muddled times we live in. We got it. Nick Cave. Uh. He is....

Let me call upon the author to explain...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4k2Hf6Vc2FE

If you can't get to this video via this link--look him up: will be the best thing you've done for yourself in a very long time.

Today Has Been Okay

Woke up under warm blankets, a long-limbed boy climbing to see if I'm awake. Raisin Bran for breakfast. A walk to school in the early autumn sun. Blowing kisses goodbye.

Then work, with good and decent people grateful to have someone read their words expecting to be delighted.

I feel lucky in this work today.

E's noggin is healing nicely. His sweetness undented. Yesterday he made me a charm bracelet of bright plastic beads strung on a cheap elastic string. Today I pray that it won't snap or fray.

He sits on his own reading now. This began just days ago. Green Eggs and Ham. The Cat In The Hat. Miraculous.

Even checking the mail today was okay.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ac_87o0UWUg&feature=related

Don't Blink

It was a shitty weekend for accidents.

First, my friend El sent a note saying that her sister's stepson had been killed in a motorcycle accident. He was 23 years old.

Then, my beloved (ex?) sister-in-law L called to say she had been in a car accident (car totalled, but miraculously, she's okay).

While all this was happening, it was all over the news that a fiery plane crash had killed four people and had left two young musicians badly burned.

On Saturday, E was running and fell face first onto the pavement. It was a bloody, scary mess. But thank God, he is alright. No lost teeth, no broken bones. No concussion. He went to school today looking like Rocky Marciano after a wicked one, but with a smile on his face, two thumbs up (and a Yankee's cap, pulled down low).

Man, did we luck out.

But there is a big screaming message in this nasty weekend and it's this:

Hug your loved ones tight. Now tighter. Now one more time, tighter still.

Tell them you love them as obnoxiously often as possible.

And please remember: don't blink.

It could all be gone tomorrow.

The House That Roxy Built

September 19, 2008


Roxy is a betta, a siamese fighting fish. He's also a boy (I couldn't remember this at first, so E, in exasperation, taped a sign to the table the fish bowl sat on that read "He is a boy!")

Roxy was a sort-of gift. ("Mom," E rushed in, breathless on my birthday, "this is for both of us, but really me!") Roxy lived in the small fish bowl he came home in for about two weeks. But I found looking at him in a living space the size of a ridiculously small studio apartment to be a bit depressing. So we went to the pet shop and got a proper tank, albeit one that is still nyc apartment size (it is an adorable 8" clear plastic cube, a watery wonderland, complete with an Easter Island statue and two really real-looking fake plants).


Life for Roxy changed overnight. In his wee bowl, he moved so little he could have been mistaken for a plastic fish. Once in his new home, he became positively giddy, flipping and swimming all the day long (at times I could almost hear him whistling). Man, life was sweet.


So sweet that E wanted to add to the happiness.

A couple of weeks later, he came home with two neon-sized "glow" fish, Alex and Matt (of course, both boys). Roxy seemed stunned by the sudden introduction of two rommmates, but he proved to be an incredibly gracious host, allowing these two spastic creatures to basically run the joint. At dinner time, we'd first drop in a few pellets of Roxy food (only 3 a day--no more! the girl at the pet shop had said) and then we'd drop in a few tropical fish flakes for the other guys. We'd watch Roxy gobble up his dinner, then we'd watch him chew up the flakes and spit them out, like a patient big brother cutting up his little siblings' food.

He really seemed to love those two fish.

We just didn't know how much he loved them.


A week ago today, we were having breakfast at the dining room table and E peered into the tank (yup: we eat with the fish). "Where's Alex?" he asked. "He's not in his happy corner." No. He wasn't. I looked around and there, lying on the purple stone floor of the aquatic castle was the headless/tailess body of Alex, which looked like the used-up tip of a yellow highlighter. Clearly, Alex had not died of natural causes.

"It was Roxy!" E exclaimed! He's a Siamese Fighting Fish! It's his nature!"

Gulp. Who else would have bitten off the head of one of the "little brothers?"

I took swift action. I scooped Roxy out of the tank and put him back into his tiny fishbowl--he was now in a serious time-out. When E was distracted with something else, I retrieved Alex's remains from the scene of the crime, wrapped the yellow smudge in a tissue, said a quick "peace be with you" and tossed him out.

"Mom. We have to get a new fish. An angel fish--so he can watch over Alex."

This was one of those moments that makes the "YOU ARE BEYOND DARLING!" meter hit the roof.

Here is the part of this story that is very difficult to share: while I was cleaning the tank, I happened to read the directions on the Betta pellets, the food the pet store clerk had told me to meter out in doses of 3 pellets a day. The package recommended 3 pellets 3 times a day. Shit! I had been starving Roxy! I had forced him to rely on his Darwinian instincts just to survive.

I sat E down and explained this to him. He wasn't buying it. But he was up for buying new fish.

But not an angel fish. Instead, E came home with a brace of bug-eyed goldfish: one black, the other orange and white. Two more boys. AJ and Ben.

Roxy watched from his sorry little bowl while AJ and Ben took over his palatial digs. These two slobs ate like they had just escaped alcatraz and started pooping everywhere. I instantly hated them. Matt, the remaining "glow" fish, seemed unfazed. Roxy once again turned to stone.

I wasn't happy about this. "E. Let's put Roxy back into his house. I promise I will feed him so much that he'll never so much as glance at the other fish."

"No, mom! It is in his nature! He will eat them!" E was adamant

But I just couldn't take it.

So yesterday, I made an executive decision. Roxy's time out was over. I wouldn't care if he ate the party-crashers. It was Roxy's tank and he had been punished enough.

So now there are four. One beautiful blue betta, two ratty goldfish, and one oblivious "glow" fish. Maybe we're just one food pellet away from another "harsh but true" episode of a nature show taking place in our small fish tank.

But I don't care.

I'm willing to take our chances.