Memory Lane: Episode 3

It was Chinese food for dinner tonight (since Grandma needed a break), and afterward the boys started watching Nightmare Before Christmas.  This movie bothers me a lot for many reasons, most notably that it gives Joey nightmares, so I felt an urgency to get them both away from the TV.  I also felt like we needed some Christmas Spirit, so I loaded them into the car to go on a Christmas Light Adventure.


Some of my earliest memories are of my grandmother, and this year, for me, is a year I really want to hold  on to all the moments my grandma made special.  When we were little, I vividly remember sitting in the back of her giant Lincoln, driving at 1 mile per hour through the rainbow-lit streets of her neighborhood (which was just her usual speed in the Lincoln).   My parents never put lights on our house, which could have really dampened my spirits if it hadn't been for all those rides with Grandma.


Joey and Noah have a favorite neighborhood to drive through.  There are three houses clearly in competition with each other, and Joey and Noah start shouting, "I see them!  I see the lights!" when we're about a mile away.  These people must have the tallest ladders and the biggest electric bills, but I appreciate how happy their efforts make my children.  Noah made me drive by, at 1 mile per hour, about five times.  I had to keep coming to a stop, and I was really afraid of holding up traffic until I realized these people must get this a lot.  Why else bedazzle their homes this way?  I wondered how many people still drive around oohing and aahing over Christmas lights, and I remembered the only other time in my life that I'd done it myself, besides my Grandma, and besides these last few years with my kids.


I was a senior in high school, and I had liked the same boy for two years.  He had blond hair and blue eyes, he played football and was captain of the wrestling team.  Once in awhile, he stayed up late night on the phone with me listening to my problems and telling me his, and always reassuring me I was something special.  Then one night after two years, he asked me to go on a date.


He wasn't actually able to drive me, because when you're seventeen years old having a license, ability to drive past 9 pm, and access to a car add up to too many conditions.  But I was so excited that I eagerly volunteered to pick him up in my mom's super-cool Ford Contour (I had plastered Winnie the Pooh decals in the back windows, to my father's horror; I called it the Pooh-mobile).  My parents would have been adamantly against me driving a boy on a date, except that when they asked where I was going and I said, "Out with Joe Bielecki," it was just no big deal.  He was a person, a name, a friend they had known for years and took for granted.  But I didn't.


I did my hair and put on my makeup with serious care, certain that tonight would be the night that would change our relationship For. Ever.  I took the long way to his house, my palms sweaty and shaking.  I checked myself in the rearview mirror at every red light, every stop sign.  My right foot trembled against the accelerator, but I couldn't help but press on it a little harder than usual.  I'd known Joe for two years, but tonight felt different.  He'd never asked me to go out just the two of us, and since I didn't think he'd ever known my real feelings for him (because I'm NEVER obvious about my feelings), I couldn't help but feel a little magic was on my side.  


When I pulled up to his house, he was already coming down the front walk.  He was wearing jeans and his awesome varsity jacket, white leather sleeves and all.  He climbed into the car, smelling like cologne and outside.  The cold rushed in as closed the door, and I felt my whole body temperature rise against the snowy air.  Ridiculously, I wondered whether I could possibly be giving off steam and thank God for the darkness.


"Where to?" he asked.


"I don't know," I said, trying to sound breezy, like this was just another night of hanging out for us.  Except that we were alone, so it was really, really hard to be breezy.  "Are you hungry?"


"I could eat," he said.  "Friendly's?" 


"Sure, we could go to Friendly's," I said.  I flipped the car in reverse like I'd been driving waaaay longer than six months, and carefully backed out of his driveway.


I couldn't possibly hope that we'd hold hands this soon into the date, because it was just too weird that magic was hanging all around us, practically singing.  I deliberately cranked the heat up so that Joe reached for the dial to turn it down.  When he did, I pretended I was reaching for it, too, and his fingers brushed mine.


"Sorry," he said easily.  I, on the other hand, was nearly hyperventilating from the contact, and decided such bold moves weren't safe to try while driving.


The restaurant was pretty empty; maybe it was because it was only eight o'clock or maybe because it was an ice cream shop in December.  Either way, the waitress seated us in a tiny booth along a wall of mirrors.  As I wiggled out of my coat in the super small seat, I had to mentally tell myself, "Don't look in the mirror.  Don't look in the mirror."  Mirrors are my mom's primary decor, so I grew up unable to avoid my reflection and became rather fond of the convenience of it.  I liked to think of myself as Mary Pat-neverhasfoodinherteeth-Michalek.  But to be caught checking myself out by Joe, well, that just wasn't an option.  So instead, I focused on his face, and the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed at his own goofy jokes, and the way his eye would catch mine and hold my gaze a second longer than a friend's should.  


We opened our menus, the tall skinny laminated kind that have miscellaneous mysteries smeared crustily across them. I quickly chose a basic hot fudge brownie sundae. I put the menu down and focused on Joe instead of the fact that a large and promising mirror was two inches to the left of my head.


Joe peered at me over the menu. He turned his head a little, like he was about to say something, but he said nothing. His right eye squinted slightly, searching for mine. When our eyes met, I went cold in the head as my body grew warm. I had goose bumps. The waitress came over.


"What can I get you?"


"I'll have the Brownie Mountain,"  I said. She scribbled it down and turned to Joe.


"Well, I have a problem," Joe began, looking the waitress seriously in the face. She looked slightly alarmed. "You see, I'm completely torn between the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups and the Pieces. What do you recommend? Cups or Pieces?"  The waitress blushed and self-consciously fussed with her hair. I watched the whole exchange with a bit of awe. He had just charmed a complete stranger by making her believe she was involved in this decision.


"Well, Cups are good, but I 'd definitely have to go with the Pieces," she said. Her whole face reflected hope for Joe 's approval.  I, too, was anxious for his decision.


"Okay, then," he said. "The Pieces." The waitress beamed and hurried away.


When she left, Joe put his full focus back on my face. His eyes roamed liberally and carefully over my entire head. It was exasperatingly unnerving, and it made me desperate to check my reflection. I tried to pretend I was just crossing my legs and casually noticing that Oh, hey, there's a mirror there, but I nearly fell out of the booth so I decided to just look back at Joe.


It was a mistake, of course, because now his eyes locked on mine. He took a breath, and again it appeared he wanted to say something. I wanted so much for it to be some kind of an admission. A Look, we've come so far. I know now that I want to be with you.   The only thing that came, however, were two ice cream sundaes and a now confidently flirtatious waitress.


Joe paid for the ice cream sundaes.  I couldn't help but think that made the entire night Official, but I just thanked him and walked out ahead of him.  I started making my way to the car when I noticed he had stopped walking just outside the door.   I turned around.  He was staring up into the dark winter sky.


"It's such a clear night,"  he said.  "Want to go for a walk?"


I froze.  Friendly's was located on an extremely busy main road complete with four lanes and a median.  I had never, ever walked down this road or any like it because my parents were strict and because growing up they had put the fear of God in me that I might be killed by crossing any street, never mind a suburban superhighway.  So of course, I blinked up at the stars, looked back at Joe and said, "Okay."


I walked near him with my hands in my pockets.  The snow covering the ground blanketed all sound, even the noise of the cars whizzing past.   I was aware of the gravelly chomp beneath our boots and of the air puffing from our noses as we moved through the night.   I thought he might hold my hand, but it was cold and he had pocketed his own hands.  I tried to stay close enough that we might bump elbows, and maybe share a little warmth.  The icy breeze made my cheeks numb and I hoped my nose wasn't running.


Across the street from the restaurant was a playground. It was dark and icy and abandoned, but Joe headed toward it anyway.  It was the kind with all the towers and secret staircases and tunnels.  The swings had been dismantled and stored for the winter, but everything else was intact.  I climbed up a tower alongside the monkey bars, the one at the top of the slide.  I leaned over the side and peeked down at Joe, feeling childish but content. I was a princess.  Granted, I grew up believing this was true, but in that moment my knight was down yonder awaiting me.


Joe made his way immediately to the monkey bars. He hung upside down from his knees, swung and did a flip, and then climbed all the way to the top.  I watched him.   He had all the spunk of a little kid and he knew I was noticing.  I wondered if he would want to kiss me. A moment did not pass that I did not think about the fact that we had never kissed and probably should.


I was just noticing a strip of ice on one of the monkey bars when I heard the loud squeak of a sneaker.  Before my eyes, Joe slipped from the bar and landed on one just below him with a thud.  He was straddling the bar and looked...winded.  He gasped.


I went thundering down the metal tower staircase to his aid.  "Are you okay?" I asked, not sure if it was funny or not.   In my head I was laughing uncontrollably.  He shrugged and got up, limping slightly.


"Yeah, why?" he asked, his voice only a little strained.  He walked into the tower and climbed the steps to the top of the slide.  I did not follow him.  He seemed to need a minute.


It was not a full sixty seconds before he was leaning out of the tower. "Where are you?"  he called.   I ducked through a tunnel and made my way up to him.  The tower was narrow and we were standing very close.  The wrinkled leather of his jacket sleeves was brushing my hands.  He looked at me.  His eyes sparkled in the streetlight.  He smiled and then walked back down the steps toward the road.  I felt all the air go out of me in disappointment as I followed him.


It was strange. I had never been on such a date. Conversation floated between us all along, and yet I have no idea what we spoke of.  I only can say it was...us.  To anyone else, it probably sounded meaningless, but to us, every word, every moment was so interesting.  I don't think these kinds of conversations are common in life, or that you can have them with just anyone.  At least, I can't.  They require comfort and a sense of safety.  No matter what I said, it was okay.  But what I wanted to say, I didn 't.


It was getting pretty cold and we were a fair distance from the car, so when McDonald's came into view and Joe suggested hot chocolate, I was relieved. The blast of heat hit us as we entered and we immediately unzipped our coats. Joe stepped up to the counter and ordered two hot chocolates.  


"Three seventy-three," said the bland cashier.  She was a girl who looked like she loathed her job.  Joe put four dollars on the counter.  The girl scooped it up and began counting the change out very slowly.


In this time, Joe had miraculously come up with seventy-three cents.  He placed it on the counter and busied himself examining the display of recent Happy Meal toys.  I watched the cashier triumphantly produce the change, still from the even four dollars, as she noticed the seventy-three cents on the counter.


"What's this for?" she demanded.  Joe started, and faced her.


"Uh," he said. He looked at me sideways as if to say, What does she think it's for?  "That's just for being you," he said seriously. The girl looked side to side in confusion and then said finally, "Thanks?"


We hiked back to the car and, though I didn't want our weird enchanted evening to be over, I felt I had no choice but to start driving back to Joe 's house. His parents tended to be unreasonably strict like mine were, and he needed to be home by ten. I headed toward his neighborhood.


"Wait," he said.  There was a flutter in my stomach.  "Let's drive around and look at the Christmas lights. "


Dear God. How freaking romantic. I was dying. Dying, and it was spectacular.


The Pooh-mobile rolled slowly through the streets of our town, making loud crunchy noise over the salt and snow on the roads.  Joe knew all the jazziest neighborhoods, and interrupted our loud silence to periodically say, "Turn here," or "Don't miss the next street.  It's a good one."


At ten-thirty, worry began to creep in. What if Joe's parents associated me with his lateness and thought I was a floozy? I turned the car back in the direction of his house.  He did not object.  When I came near, I pulled up in front of the driveway so he wouldn't have to get out in the snow.  At first, he did not move to get out.  He only stared at me in that unsettling way, the way that made me feel exposed and beautiful at once.


"I had a really good time," he said.  He wasn't smiling.  He looked as uncertain as I felt.


"So did I, we should do this again."  I stopped before I started speeding along in my obvious chalance.


He unclicked his seatbelt.   He looked at me.  I held my breath and blinked.   He leaned over and hugged me.  He opened the car door and stepped out.   He waved.  He turned and began walking toward the house.  I let my breath go and put the car in Drive.


As my foot sank down on the gas, movement caught the corner of my eye.  I turned slowly, uncertainly, to find Joe peeking in the passenger window again.   I slammed my foot on the brake.  He opened the car door and leaned in.  Oh my God, I thought.  Oh my God.  He has returned for the kiss.  Finally.  My heart raced as he opened his mouth to speak.


"Do you know how to get home?" he asked.


"I, uh, yes."


"Okay," he said. He paused. He looked deeply into my eyes, and then walked back out onto the driveway, closing the car door behind him.   I watched him walk all the way into his house.


Oh my God.  Oh my God.


I drove all the way home imagining myself turning back.  I replayed the last moment when he returned to the car and leaned in.  I replayed it again and again.  Could I have changed it?   Could I have initiated something more?  Was Joe in fact initiating it and had I done something stupid and irrevocable?  Most importantly: Would I get another chance?


These questions seem beyond silly now, fifteen years later with two little boys in my backseat shouting, "I think I see Santa!  Look!  Mommy, do you see him?!"


I am so lucky that I have TWO Joe Bieleckis, plus one very special Noah.

Who Makes Dinner

My mother had an uncle who got really, really sick when I was ten.  He lived far away, and I didn't know him very well.  But when I was ten and he was sick, my mother flew to California to see him.

I remember her telling us everything.  "My uncle is really sick, and I need to go and see him.  He needs me."

And my response was, "But who will make dinner?"

This was a serious concern to me at ten years old.  In my whole life, there was only one person who ever made dinner.  I've mentioned before that even when we were expecting to go where another person was cooking, my mom cooked for us beforehand.  Just in case, she said.  Because you never know what you'll get.

When my mother returned home from California, I was extremely relieved to tell her that Daddy had taken good care of us, and that he had been able to handle all the meals like a champ.  "Mommy!  Mommy!" I shouted.  "I had Fruit Loops for breakfast, lunch, AND dinner!"

My sister became an adult when she was, like, two, but it was about twenty years after that she took her first real foray into serious cooking.  My parents were away on vacation, and Jane decided to cook Cornish hens.  This seemed like a pretty big feat, and it was.  She made side dishes and everything.  The sides turned out okay, but not the hens.  She'd cooked them upside down, and...I don't know.  They weren't done right.

And I sat at the table with the sides and the messed-up hens thinking to myself (but never out loud--my sister was already crushed), "See?  This is what happens when Mom's not here to cook."

(My sister has since become quite a successful preparer of all sorts of foods, even conquering the Cornish hen some time in the late nineties--Kudos! to her for not giving up.)

And it's funny, because as always, I see history repeat itself in Joey and Noah.  At around five o'clock this evening, Joey looked pointedly at the door.  "Should we get our shoes on?" he asked.

"Grandma's going out to dinner with Grandpa," I said.

"But who will make dinner?" he cried.

The Things I Said

My son Joey was a surprise.  Having only been married a very short time when we realized I was pregnant, I managed my extreme panic, painful morning sickness, and, at times, horror, by imagining a beautiful little girl I would call Isabella all dressed in pink with giant floppy bows on her tiny bald head.

Joey is so not a girl.  Nor, for that matter, is Noah.

But I have since decided that God had a LOT of reasons for placing me in a boy-crazy house.  For one thing, it's certain payback for my behavior as a teenage girl.  I also think it's owed to my behavior as a teenager in a way completely unrelated to boys.  I don't think I could live with another me.  It's not about sharing a spotlight, it's about how really terribly I could behave as someone who is as much girl as my boys are boys.  Let me spell it out for you.  Drama.  Angst.  Hormones.  Shrillness.

I told my mother I hated her more than once.  Maybe even every other day.  I said even worse things to my brother and probably my sister, too, though our relationship now is so close I can't actually remember it being any other way (which is probably for the best).  My dad is pretty scary when you tick him off, so I never said anything nasty directly to his face, but you can bet he was the recipient of some seriously fuming Thoughts and Mutterings.

My only jobs in my teens were working for my parents.  Before I describe my somewhat atrocious behavior, I'd like to defend myself by saying my parents wouldn't let me work anywhere else.  For all my prissiness, I really wanted to work at Burger King and eat Whoppers.  No kidding--I thought they were delicious and still do.  But instead, I answered phones at my dad's office two nights a week, and sometimes cleaned.  He fired me each and every night that I worked.  Either I was "sick," late,  belligerent, rude, or just plain old refused to get up off my chair.  He would yell, "Then just go home!  I don't want you here, then!" and I would drive all the way home only to have my mother say, "Don't be an asshole.  You have to go back and apologize."

I worked for my mom as an "administrative assistant."  I have to give her credit for tossing such a glossy title my way, but I also have to admit that I was prone to skipping out early, falling behind in stacks of paperwork, and trying to flirt with the male employees (who were all way too old for me).

In short, I was a bit of a brat and not very nice.

I'm thinking of all this right now because while I didn't get the daughter who would supposedly bring strife and drama to my life, I do have two children who are people.  They are individuals with their own personalities, and there is nothing I can do or even want to do to shake that out of them.  Boys bring their own issues to the table, and it's not just gross bathroom floors.

Noah managed to say all of the following to me in the course of just today:
You are MEAN.
I am NOT doing that.
I WILL not do that.
I don't like you.
I don't need you.
I want a NEW mommy.
I don't want a mommy at all.
I don't want to live with you.
I hate you.
You are ugly, ugly, ugly.

I know in my heart that these things he said today were only said because I was expecting him to do things he didn't want to do (poop on the toilet, eat his whole lunch, take a nap, put something away, etc.), and because I refused to take no for an answer--something I definitely inherited from my own parents.  I also know that because he was mad, he deliberately said things that were the OPPOSITE of what he says when he is happy.  On any given day, he will also call me beautiful, tell me I'm the best Mommy, and ask me to never, ever leave him.   And of course, he's only three years old.  There's also that.

But as I tucked him into bed tonight, and he held my face close to his and said fiercely, "I just love you so much," the other things he said today were not erased.  Sometimes I can forgive and forget, other times I cannot.  Tonight, I couldn't forget.  I couldn't help but feel like really good moms everywhere would know just what to do with such a high-charged, high-maintenance, intense little boy like mine.

And then I remembered being seventeen years old and standing in my parents' kitchen, looking right into my mother's eyes, and saying, "I HATE you."

I wanted to hurt her, because I had been angry.  But now that I know how much it hurts, even when you know they don't mean it, I want to tell her I'm so, so sorry.  I want to hug her--even though she really hates when people touch her--and buy her a big present and tell her what I've always REALLY thought:

I'm so lucky that all my life, my mom was prettier, smarter, and more fun than all the other moms.  That she's better than a gourmet chef and that I really admire how clean and good she makes everything around her.  I hope someday Noah will say something like this to me, but I won't hold my breath.

Because he's Noah.

It was DADDY!

We put our Christmas tree up the day before Thanksgiving this year, but ran out of ornament hooks.  I finally got some, and we decided to finish decorating our tree tonight.

Halfway through, I spied something odd on the couch.  

"Is that...an apple seed?" I asked, puzzled.  

Sound parenting advice:

NEVER, EVER PICK UP ANYTHING DARK BROWN/BLACK IN COLOR.

It squished between my fingers instantly and smelled very, very bad.

"NOAH!" I yelled.  I'd like to say I was patient and gentle, but I'm pretty much at the end of my POOP rope.

"WHA-AT?" he sing-songed back.

"Why is there POOP ON MY COUCH?"

"It was DADDY!" he shouted, and ran the other way.

My poor husband.  He is usually the smelliest one of us, but he just didn't deserve that.

Photo Time!

Today was Holiday Picture Day for us.  It was decided that my sister, my sister-in-law, and I would group up and share an appointment.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I hate photo "places."  They are always crowded, and I seem to have a special Super Vision power for seeing the germs coating all surfaces and even floating in the air.  We went with a photo place, of course, because it's really much easier for everyone that way and because, you know, we wanted to be able to pay for the pictures.  That seemed key.

I knew about this appointment weeks in advance and picking out Christmas outfits was an enormous pain in the you-know-what.  We all agreed we wanted the kids kind of "matchy" this year, and even though were going with standard Christmasy colors, I felt insane levels of pressure in choosing the just-right outfits for the boys.  By the time outfitting was done, I had ordered online from three different places, made one return, and had to hit up one store in person. (And then, my husband saw the outfits and said, "I don't like them.  Why didn't you ask me?")

This morning, I timed everything out perfectly.  Our appointment was at ten, so I considered dressing times, bathroom times, and coating up.  We were leaving the house by 9:45, which felt safe.  Until I realized I had no idea where the photo place was.  I thought it was by Target, but when I got there, I couldn't find the photo place anywhere.  I reached for my cell phone to call my sister, but I didn't have it.  In fact, I didn't even have my own car.

"Take my car, hon," Joe said.  "It'll be much easier because...." I can't remember the rest.  It doesn't matter.  A) I hate driving Joe's car, because it's fancy.  B) My cell phone was in the cup holder of MY car.

I looked at the clock and saw it was 9:58.  So much for being on time.  Without a cell phone, I had to go all the way back home.  I HATE being late for anything, so my heart began skipping beats and my foot sank down on the accelerator a little harder.

"Why dontcha just CALL them?" asked Joey unhelpfully in the backseat.

"No, I can't," I said.  "I don't have my phone."

"Can you turn on the radio?" whined Noah.

I huffed.  "I don't know HOW in Daddy's car."  It's true.  Joe's car has so many darn buttons and gadgets and lights.  Anytime I try to do anything, I end up resetting the seat settings (while the car is still moving), squirting windshield washer fluid, blasting the air conditioning in the dead of winter, or turning on a seat heater that totally scalds me and even leaves welts.  I find it's much better to just leave it all alone.

"Doesn't Daddy's car have a MAGIC PHONE?" asked Joey.

OnStar.  Yes, it has OnStar!  I pressed the little button on the rearview mirror.

"Thank you for using OnStar."

"PHONE!" I said loudly.  I couldn't waste time being misunderstood.

"I'm sorry.  Please give a command."

"PHONE!"

"I'm sorry.  I didn't get that.  Did you say, 'Help'?"

"PHONE!" I shouted.

"You're being very clear, Mom," said Joey.

"Thanks."

OnStar interrupted us, "Please give a command."

"PHONE!"

"Would you like to use the phone?"

"YES!"

"No?  Please give a command."

At this point, I was halfway home.  But still, it would be way easier to reach my sister than it would be to drive all the way home.  For once, the boys were being blessedly cooperative and quiet in the back while I argued with the frustratingly solicitous computer voice of OnStar.

"PHONE!" I shouted again, leaning over now so my forehead was bumping the rearview mirror.

"Phone?"

"Yes," I said in what I hoped was the same accent as the computer.

"Please give the full phone number you'd like to call."

GLORY!  I spit out the ten digit phone number.  OnStar repeated an eleven digit number back to me.  In other words, the wrong number.

"NO!"  I shouted.

"No?  Thank you.  Goodbye."  And OnStar hung up on me!  I had to start OVER!!!?

I'll save you the frustration of my re-do.  I finally got through to my sister's cell phone, and not knowing Joe's car phone number, she let it go to voicemail.

I then repeated the entire OnStar experience calling Christine.  Thankfully, she answered.  "Where ARE you?" she asked, either appalled at my lateness or just feeling serious pressure from Jane, who tolerates lateness even less than I do.

Where did she think I was?  The moon?  Having coffee with old friends?  "I'm lost!  Where IS this place?"

"It's by Target," she said.

SERIOUSLY???


As I whirled Joe's big fancy car into a U-turn (some wild driving I'm sure its never seen before), I said to the boys through short, frantic breaths, "I'm so sorry Mommy was yelling at the phone, boys.  I really, really hate being late.  I just want to get us to our pictures!"

"Mom, MOM," said Noah in his most authoritative voice.  "It's OKAY.  You're doing FINE.  You can do this, I know you can.  You're the best mom."

That kid!  Do you love him or what???

Anyway, here's a little practice shot from home:

P.S.--The pictures turned out great, but the wait to CHOOSE our pictures was atrocious.  Not to mention the EMERGENCY when Noah almost drank from a public water fountain.  We all recovered, but it was a close call.

Cwazy

Driving with my two boys in the car drives me I-N-S-A-N-E.

Let me back up.  Last night while eating dinner at my mom's--which is a regular thing for me, since NO ONE likes my cooking--I received a message on my answering machine.  It was about the Christmas Wreaths I'd bought as part of a fundraiser at Joey's school.  Pickup had been between 4 and 6 pm yesterday.  Somehow, I'd missed it.

I'm just not really good at the whole...Billions of Papers Coming Home In Joey's Backpack thing.  Seriously, the schools are all supposed to be on board with saving the environment, and they kill more trees than anybody.  I can't believe what comes home in Joey's backpack.  As a working mom, I totally gave up and figured that if something was THAT important, I'd catch it on the fiftieth notice or else he would just tell me.  I like that better than what I'm doing this year, which is Trying To Keep Up.

I thought I was doing okay until last night's message.  The people in charge, parent volunteers, were very polite when I called them back.  "I have no idea how I missed this date," I apologized over the phone.  They did not say, "It's okay, don't worry about it."  Instead they said, "We brought them home with us.  When would be convenient for you to pick them up?"

As an English Major For Life, I tend to read into people's tones and word choice, and I was totally picking up on a vibe with these folks.  They did NOT think it was okay that I'd missed the big Wreath Pickup.  (I swear to God I never saw a notice about it.)  All the same, I tried to maintain a level of sweetness without becoming phony (which is really hard for me since I tend to blurt and/or say exactly what I'm thinking).

I was super nervous all day about having to pick up the stupid wreaths, it having been decided that after 4 pm would be best.  Noah was actually kind of wonderful today.  We had our first real snow of the year, and ran around in the driveway catching snowflakes on our tongues.  Then we warmed up and played Mickey Mouse all morning, had a great nap, later sang Christmas songs and played more Mickey Mouse.  When Joey got off the bus, things were a little crazier, since coming home from school seems to let loose some sort of mania inside him that he's been keeping at bay for his teacher all day.

I got Joey changed, loaded them into the car, and sped off through the streets of our town in search of the Wreath House.  I was feeling anxious about the unhappy Wreath People, since they were specifically unhappy with me, and decided a quiet drive might calm my nerves.

"MOMMA!" shouted Noah.  "TURN ON 'SUMMER OF '69!!'"

"Mom," said Joey, "Do you know what happened at school today?"

"SUMMER OF '69!  SUMMER OF SSSSSSSIIIIIIIXXXXXXTTTTTYYYYY NIIIIIIIIIINE!!!!"

"MOMMA!  DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED AT SCHOOL TODAY???"

"What happened at school, Joey?"  Now I'm fiddling with the radio, watching the road, my windshield wipers start randomly going, and Noah is still screaming "Summer of '69."

"Well," Joey says conversationally, like it's just me and him over a cup of coffee on a desert island, "I decided to tie my shoes together because I was bored, and my teacher caught me, and she had to cut my shoelaces off, and--"

So, it wasn't a peaceful ride.

The Wreath People, upon my arrival, were actually smiley and rather pleasant, so it turned out my Professional English Major vibes were off.  It happens.  But on the ride home, the boys got even worse.  "Summer of '69" was playing on repeat, Noah was belting it out, and Joey was trying to tell me about a picture of a rash he saw in his DEAR book that he was sure he was going to contract from touching the pages, and it was getting dark, and Joey actually starting crying about the rash, so Noah sang louder, and then Joey thought his gums were hurting, and finally I lost it.

"HEY!" I said over the noise.  "LISTEN! DRIVING IS VERY SERIOUS BUSINESS!  I canNOT listen to you, answer your questions, AND safely drive this car, so YOU NEED TO BE QUIET!!!"

There was a moment of beautiful, loud silence until Noah said, "Mommy, you are CWAZY."

I Forgot

A list of things I routinely cannot find:
Car keys
Credit card
Cell phone
Cordless home phone
Driver's license
Wedding rings
Remote control
Any important documents I will ever need again
A pen

Things I most say to my husband most often:
Have you seen...?
Where is my...?
Did you move the...?
Can you help me find...?
I'm going to be late and I lost my...!!!
YOU MOVED IT!  I KNOW YOU DID!

Last spring, I bought my father-in-law a great birthday gift.  I dressed my boys up for his party, and we drove over a half hour early to spend extra time with him on his special day.  It was the wrong day.

I once sat in a doctor's waiting room for a half hour before someone came out and told me my appointment was the following week, and they'd be happy to see me then.

Several times a day, I enter a room and immediately forget why I'm there.

This probably all seems very frightening to other people, but I can tell you when it began.  Or rather, with whom.  He is three years old and believes that sleeping is optional.  If you are up for a rock concert at 2 am, he'd be happy to oblige.

I'm pretty sure that given a glass of wine and a solid night's sleep, my keys would be on the hook by the door, my purse would hold my credit card, license, and cell phone, my wedding ring would be on my hand, and I'd know where to find a pen.  A pen that works, even.

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