Happy Birthday, Sister

Today is Sister's last birthday before she enters the decade her brother and I have inhabited for a while.  She's never stopped reminding us of the fact that she's the spring chicken in the family. 

She claims to have stopped enumerating the years after she turned 39.  You're only as old as you feel makes a lot of sense to me.  It's how I've tried to live my life - hanging on (with my fingertips, at times) to the energy and enthusiasm, tempering it with the comforting knowledge and experience garnered over the years.  

 Act as if you are 17 again just makes me anxious.  I have no interest in going back to my teenage years.  I'm happy to have left the angst and uncertainty and insecurities far behind me.  Adulthood has suited me just fine.

Sister, on the other hand, has had a harder time.  I'm sure 17 feels relatively uncomplicated for her.... if anything in her life can be said to be or have been uncomplicated.  She's a survivor, a rationalist, a self-sufficient human being who has a harder time accepting help than anyone I've ever known.  I finally hit her sweet spot with a Whole Foods after knee surgery delivery of ice cream, chocolate syrup, and vodka.

Of course, I only found out about the surgery after the fact.  Did I mention that she doesn't like asking for help?

She's been the most entertaining person I know and the most aggravating.  She's brilliant and can't seem to get out of her own way.  She's demanding, insistent, and usually right when it comes to everything outside her family.  

She's an activist, taking personal credit for the election of Andy Kim to the Senate (not much of an overstatement, actually), displaying anti-FFOTUS signs in her red neighborhood, flooding our siblings WhatsApp chat with gift links to the NYTimes' political screeds.  

She's complicated and annoying and funny and probably the book-smartest of the three of us.  Here's wishing that the world sends her peace and smiles and more world travels.... and that she comes to realize that her 70's might not be as scary as she imagines.

Happy Birthday!

Happy Valentines Day

I spent the last few months watching mothers with their daughters and missing my own Mommy.  Finding this old post was like finding a hug. 

Happy Valentines Day from my heart to yours.  

*****

This happened on Valentines weekend 12 years ago.   I remember it as if it were today. 

Shockingly, G'ma was willing to forgo her post-prandial nap and accompany me to Target.  I hustled her into the car before she could change her mind.  We admired the clouds and she told me I was driving too fast and not stopping for the yellow lights and following too closely and she was my mother again, except for the clacking dentures. Be careful what you wish for, I guess.

There was an electric cart in the unloading area next to the handicapped parking space and it was calling her name.  She's still got left and right implanted in her memory bank, so directionality wasn't an issue.  She took a turn or two too closely, but the t-shirts didn't seem to mind the little bit of sway she put into their hangars.  Humans managed to get out of her way, and her enjoyment of the scene washed away frowns before they could be formed.  We chose Valentines Day cards and bought mini-packs of tissues for her purse and we giggled over but didn't purchase any of the soft pink socks with hearts that were tempting me at the register.  Sorry, Little Cuter........

Pie wasn't nearly enough lunch for me, so I suggested ice cream.  "Drive faster!" was her reply, so I did.  There's a new Dairy Queen in the neighbrohood and that's where we headed, $5.01 bringing us her sundae (all chocolate....did you really have to ask?) and my strawberry milkshake and more napkins than we needed.

Sitting there in the parking lot, sipping whipped cream and watching chocolate sauce melt into chocolate soft serve, feeling the warm breeze on my bare arms, I was 10 years old again, in the drive-thru with Mommy.

It felt really really good.

My Baby Was Sick

She tested positive after FlapJilly's test turned red immediately.  They were both under quarantine and the boys were left to fend for themselves.  SIR kept his girls supplied with food and beverage, while they turned the shower into a spa experience with essential oils in the steamy air.  

My girl likes her alone time, but she thrives in the bosom of her family.  Going a full day without snuggles from Giblet is painful; anticipating and then living through day after day of that separation wass heartbreaking.  She was tired and she was bored and she was sick.  Not desperately sick, but day after day not getting better sick.

And her mommy was 2000 miles away.

This is the time when GRANDMA should spring to action.  Deliveries of chicken soup with matzoh balls......with just the right amount of spring when you bite into them.  Cooking them dinner so the boys can focus on one another and not the missing half of their family.  Cleaning and laundry and all the tasks that with two adults are manageable can be handled so attention can be given where it is most needed.

Instead, I ordered flowers and popsicles and cheese from Whole Foods to be delivered once SIR was home from school drop off.  I chatted on a kids' messenger service with Flap Jilly, amusing us both, reminding me of the hours she and I spent together during Pandemica.  

But this time there are vaccines and boosters and Paxlovid for the grown ups, which makes it less scary. It does not bring us any closer.  I felt the distance in every fibre of my being.  All I could do was shop.  

Their Amazon Wish Lists are depleted - books and comfy pj pants and leggos and yahtzee and scrabble and a comfy blanket - and I'm still too far away.  Instead of bringing them homemade baked goods I'm DoorDashing my way to parenthood.

She's a grown woman.  She's competent.  She's responsible.  She's my little girl and I wanted to be there, masked and gowned if needed, catering to her every need like I did when we sere separated not by miles but by steps.

And y'know what's the nicest part of all?  She likes it.

I am not smothering her.  I am mothering her...... even if it has to be from afar.

 

Unbalanced

TBG drove Little Cuter's family to the airport, taking my car and a little piece of my heart away.  I compensated by washing every bit of linen they used.  Blankets and sheets and pillowcases and afghans and other soft and cuddly items were snuggled and sniffed before being tossed in to the washer.  They remain in a pile, two and a half weeks later.

If they aren't folded, I can't put them away..... where I can't see them and remember the bodies which were wrapped up in them.... the same sheets and blankets their parents used when they were young.... and those kinds of thoughts have kept them close.

Big Cuter left before dawn on Friday, driving straight through to Marin, with LiLou as his co-pilot and ten hours of podcasts to keep him company.  I spent the day with Honey Bunny, savoring every sweet and fetid smelling moment.  She and her mom and lots of luggage flew back the next day.  

How is it that I miss poopy diapers?

I spent the rest of Saturday with a new Lynda LaPlante police procedural (not the thriller the blurbs on the cover suggest) and getting to Genius in Spelling Bee.  I tried to fill the hole Big Cuter's absence made on the couch during the 49'er's game, but my heart really wasn't in it. 

Sunday, dedicated to laundry and the collapsing of baby related furniture into neatly, easily storable bags and blankets, passed in a haze of beeping from the laundry room and the steady rain outside.  We rarely get a slow, steady rain that was coming down when I woke up and is still coming down as the sun sets.  

I'm going out now, to put fertilizer on the lemon tree which has, for some reason, decided to set buds this month.  The ground is soft enough to absorb it, and I feel the need to take care of someone... something....  

I miss my family.  I miss the fullness, when every room had evidence of the people I love.  Once we got to a level of chaos that was comfortable in the 4+baby iteration, the addition of the bigger kids and their parents was barely noticeable...... until it was gone.

We were a little less cramped but a lot lonelier.  

Then the rest of our houseguests departed for their regular lives and suddenly TBG and I are on our side of the house and there's no one to hold down the other side.

It's unbalanced.  

We've Been Having Fun

There's been dancing in front of the mirror.

There's been popcorn while watching football.  

We've been baking

and doing minor car repairs on Daddooooo's Testarossa.

There's been time for swimming

and playing silly games

and drinking fancy drinks. 

There's been no time at all for writing to you.

The big kids and their parents leave tomorrow on a 6am flight.  Big Cuter is taking the week off and will be the primary caregiver for Honey Bunny.  I'll be lonesome and blue but will have time for you.  

There's lots to share.  I've been reading some wonderful books, watching some interesting tv, and playing some fabulous games.  I have deep thoughts about our Supreme Court and the freak show that is the Republican Party.  I have lighthearted imaginings.

I'm going to spend tonight with all my chickens under one roof, reveling in the wonderfulness of it all.  In the morning, when the traveling guests are gone and their bedding is laundering and deflating, The Burrow will begin easing back to its regular schedule.  Look for a mid-day post tomorrow and then daily posts live at midnight, Tucson time.

It will be hard to say goodbye.  It will be good to get back into my routine.  Such is life.

Ladies Lunching

Honey Bunny's presence in my house is prompting many changes in our lifestyle. She's neither an early riser nor a cranky sleeper.  Her father was both.  She takes scheduled naps (whatever happened to never wake a sleeping baby?) and wakes up smiling and happy to see whoever bends over the Pack 'N Play to extricate her.  

She's supposed to get a certain amount of calories from a certain amount of breast milk each and every day.  There is a vast supply - newly pumped and frozen.  The frozen is taking over our freezers.

Her father and their Audi transported a cooler full of already frozen milk; the colorful bags fill the garage fridge's freezer. The oldest bags are defrosted and used as new bags are pumped and added.  It's a system which includes a never ending cycle of reorganizing and redistributing the food which formerly lived in the cccccold.  

I don't have much to do with the process.  I watch in awe.  

My only resonsibility is to get the milk into her mouth. I feed her a bottle with powdered allergens after her first nap.  I always have a defrosted bottle close at hand once she's up and out and about.  She's very clear about wanting and not wanting the bottle; her snarfle face and the juicy raspberry which follows lets us know in no uncertain terms that, as her Daddy says, I have an itch on my foot and you are giving me a bottle?????

There are no jars of baby food.  There's a steamer to soften green beans, but no pureeing of anything.  Instead, she sits in her high chair at the table, gnawing on what the app (of course there's an app for that) judges to be appropriate for her age and toothlessness.  

What's approved?  The ribs not the leaves of lettuce, cut in long strips so she can hold and gum the piece without losing control. Last night, the red marks around her pretty mouth were not signs of allergy.  She bruised her tender skin with a chicken drumstick, beating herself in the face while trying to insert the thick end into her maw.  

It's fun to watch.  It also makes going out for a ladies' lunch very easy.

We took a nice long walk to Pappoule's, navigating the user-unfriendly lack of walking paths down from the street to the mall with aplomb if not dignity.  We spent a few minutes being admired by the owner, a woman we've known since we moved to town.  We spent a lot more time being admired by the other patrons, all but one table of whom were grandparent-eligible nd eager to know her details.

Taking an outdoor table so Honey Bunny could enjoy the trees, we continued to be a source of amusement to passersby.... one of whom, an old friend of Grandma's, took that picture (if I ever take a great picture I'll be sure to include my face).  The ladies at the next table engaged us in a spirited conversation about our daughters-in-law and their new fangled ideas - all of which were fine and wonderful if totally different from how we raised and fed our own kids.  

We couldn't just walk out when we finished our meal (I had salad, she had lettuce ribs and a hunk of chicken to suck on).  All the patrons on the patio requested a drive by.  We were happy to oblige.

It was such a success that we're going out to breakfast this morning, leaving as soon as Queen T creates strips of egg to bring along.  Apparently, scrambled eggs are a disastrophe in the making when you're nearly eight months old.

Girls!

There are lots of wonderful girls in my life these days.

One of them is living in my house.  

Notice the very intelligent piggy skulking beneath the high chair.  She knows that Honey Bunny takes great delight in flinging her food after she's had a suck or two on whatever Mommy decided was kid-friendly enough to try.  Lettuce (the rib not the leaves) was a big hit for both of them last night.

But there are bigger girls who bring me joy, too.  

I snuck away for a couple of hours yesterday to visit Grandma's Garden.  The green buckets in our hanging garden are starting to sprout seedlings.  From the delighted cries of Grandma LOOK!  It's growing!!! to our shared wonder at the magic contained in a tiny seed, it was a pretty wonderful morning.

Not everyone was content to admire the seedlings, though.  There was a major redecorating project taking place, centered on the painted stones made by the 4th grade earlier this year.  The stones move around from raised beds to the mandarin orange tree to the buckets on the fence, depending on the whims of the scholars that day.  

The tree stump sits there, haplessly allowing itself to be chalked and water painted and climbed upon.  (I hate Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree; I see no resemblance here at all.)  Yesterday, it was the site of the creation of a Rock Garden (capital letters, please).

There were others involved in its design.  They were too engrossed in shifting the tiny scarecrows and pumpkins from one bucket to another to pose for a picture.  I moved myself to the left and had four scholars who were happy to share themselves and their creation with you.

I've said it before and I'll say it again:  it is impossible to be sad when kids are smiling at you.  I highly recommend it as an inexpensive form of therapy.

SPORTS

There are months at a time where there is no football.  While TBG feels the loss acutely, I only notice that I have fewer opportunities to take out my hearing aids and nestle in my chair with a book, content that my spouse is occupied with something that makes him just as happy.

But then August rolls around and there is pre-season nonsense, which I feel quite justified in dismissing.  I try not to schedule events when there are games, but I don't worry when I do.  Once the regular season starts, though, all bets are off.  

There are windows of opportunity which suit us both.  There's always the DVR.  We get by, just as we have for 50 plus years.  There was a wonderful interlude when Big Cuter shared our living space and occupied the pillow next to his father on Sundays.  He was a Bears fan, then a 49'ers fan, and, like his dad, he tried not to miss any of their games.  

Once he moved away from home, they spent Sunday afternoons and Monday nights and then Thursday nights analyzing, arguing, laughing on the phone.  

Queen T entered our lives and I had a compatriot at last.  She was learning and caring and paying more attention than I was, but even in her natural state of once I decide to care, I care a lot!! she often joins me in the can we talk about something else space.  We say SPORTS in stentorian tones, laugh, and leave the boys to their pleasure.  

Then Honey Bunny arrived.  

She has her own spot on the boppy pillow, next to Big Cuter, so she can eat and watch the game at the same time.  There's room for Queen T, too, and they are both very glad to see her when she joins them after doing whatever she was doing that was not football.

What goes around, comes around.

Happy Birthday, Giblet

You were a pudgy little baby who's turned into a kid with no hips to hold up the elastic wait pajama pants that are your favorite things to wear.

You ask more questions in less time than any human on the planet, which both exhausts and delights your parents.  You often want to call Gramma and Grampa to share a piece of news.  When the news is shared you smile and say That's All and walk away.  The information was imparted, what else was there to do.

You didn't like the feeling of wet bathing suits; there are many adorable-but-not-shareable pictures of you after the birthday party guests had left, naked as a jay bird, and happy as a clam. Having a July birthday means you get to play on the slip-n-slide and the blow up waterfall castle and the big-kiddie pool and the swing and the motorized Jeep and Mustang.... all the things your Mom and Dad have provided, since Pandemica, for fun.

It's a nice life, kiddo, surrounded by stuffies and soft blankets galore.  You've got all the fresh fruit you desire - strawberries and mangoes and apples and strawberries and did I mention strawberries and don't forget the red grapes.  

You are loved.  A lot.  Happy turning 5 years old today.

An Entirely New Thought

Queen T brought it up.  I can honestly say that the thought had never crossed my mind; if it did, it didn't make any impression at all.  That it might have been discussed and I don't remember it is improbable.  As I said this afternoon on the video chat, My head was exploding.

We were discussing the beautiful baby she calls her own, a child named for the earth and the sky.  Her mother grew up in an SSR; she has no religious traditions to speak of.  (In Ukraine, the day on which one chose to celebrate Christ's birth last year was a political statement. )  She has embraced my son's cultural Judaism with enthusiasm and introspection.  

They want the baby to have a Hebrew name.  She asked if her husband had a Hebrew name.  I couldn't answer.  The thought had never occurred to me.  I couldn't believe the thought had never occurred to me.  How was is possible that 40 years after his birth I had never considered the fact that her husband had no Hebrew name.  Not only that, neither TBG nor I had ever considered that one way or the other.... not that either of us would have been opposed one from being given.  We just didn't think about it.

As I said, my head exploded.  

I went back to the genealogical album G'ma created.  It's filled with sepia photos of relatives she knew, some of whom I knew, and of those who died, of cholera or in the Warsaw Ghetto, before they could say hello.  Each of them has a Hebrew name, some echoing TBG's very Protestant, American heritage.  I have a Golde and he has a Golda, and they are just a generation apart.

I'm going to enjoy this new naming opportunity.  I'm not imposing (!).  I was asked to help.

But before I start in on their kid, I'm going to spend a few more minutes wondering why I didn't do the same for my own.

Brother

I have the best brother.

Don't argue with me.  It's true.

He's the glue that binds me to my sister.  She doesn't read The Burrow.  Therefore,  I'm free to say that she's often been a difficult presence in my life without running the risk of her not talking to me for months.  I enjoy her company when she's not being a lunatic.  I'm sure she'd say the same about me.  But every year, Brother creates a conference call so that we can sing her Happy Birthday.

He laughs when I promise to hang up when she misbehaves.  He doesn't scold.  He understands.

He understands that we are all screwed up in our own little ways, but that the common thread running through us is one deserving of respect.  I'm glad someone is alert to keeping the flame alive.

He's a collector of interesting pieces of wood, which he turns into interesting decor

or alligators with wheels and a jaw that opens and closes as it rolls along.

He's the occasional drop-in-for-dinner guest at Little Cuter's house.  It's just off the highway when he's driving to visit his daughter in Chicago; he calls from the road and leaves when the kids go to bed.  He's the perfect guest.

He came after my perforation and, for a week, he caulked and replaced and repaired and improved and installed, all while keeping us amused with what are now called Dad Jokes but which will always be, to me, Oh, Brother! jokes.

Every once in a while he'll send an edition of his personal newsletter, filled with riddles and conundrums and absurd articles from arcane sources.  Every part of the parcel is decorated.  I always learn something, even if I didn't know I didn't know it.  

He is the most comfortable-with-himself human I know.  

And today is his birthday, so raise a glass.... a beer.... a whiskey.... water with no ice, and celebrate.

I'm Taking An Early Weekend

There are tapes - there are always tapes! - that may send the lying liar to the pokey for espionage.  But rather than revel in the how stupid is he? realm, I'll leave you with this photo, from the my son, filed under Times Have Surely Changed.

Take Your Daughter to Work Day...
(but isn't that every day?)

A Silly Snippet or Two

Flipping through channels, TBG landed on a local station, announcing its 70 years of service to Southern Arizona.

He looked at me with horror.

I am older than tv.

*****

Little Cuter's children are used to being photographed.  They understand posing and smiling and saying cheese.  

They are also, at times, total goof balls.

*****

And what would the weekend be without a photo of the littlest addition to our family?  

Just thinking about her lowers my blood pressure. 

Have a wonderful three day weekend, if your life admits such things.  

Happy Birthday, Little Cuter

There are some people who really do make the world a better place, just by existing within it.

There are some people whose presence brightens the room, the party, the meeting.  

There are some people who elicit Oh, thank God she's here! when a team is formed.

I'm lucky enough to have birthed one of them.

People gravitate to my daughter; in first grade the girls made a rotating list to keep track of who could sit next to her at lunchtime.  She was nonplussed by the drama.  She just wanted to be.

In 6th grade she wondered why the girls all fight with one another.  Don't they realize that if you don't fight with anyone you can sit anywhere you want at lunch?

Recruited to participate in Peter Pan, she won the part of Nana and wagged her tail into 5th grade history.  She's not one to push herself into the limelight; that giant dog costume was the perfect foil.  

But when she has a good idea and feels that it's being ignored, she raises her voice and makes sure she is heard. Some pretty wonderful changes have occurred in her orbit because she spoke up.

She was a beautiful child.  When her hair drew compliments at a summer job (hostess at a waterfront restaurant in Sausalito) she smiled and said Thank you, I grew it myself.

It's that little bit of snark that I love the most.

38 years ago right now we were struggling together to bring her into the world.  Her big brother was quite disappointed that she didn't throw the yarn ball back to him from her isolette the next day.  I think that's the last time she let anybody down.

I'm a very lucky mama.

The Thing About Babies

The thing about babies is that they are all consuming. 

Honestly,  how could you look anywhere else when this is in the room?

That's my only excuse for the delay in posting this morning.  

She sleeps and eats and needs her diaper changed. She's not much of a conversationalist. She has no sporting achievements about which to brag.

And yet,  she is infinitely fascinating. 

Asleep

or awake

everything is new.

I have spent hours watching her watching the black and white checkerboard, wondering what she makes of it all. 

We leave tomorrow morning.  My brain will be filled with New College and Ja Morant and all the other mundane nonsense that grown ups think about.  

My heart,  though,  will be carrying her closer than close,  no matter how far away she is. 

40

My son arrived on Mother's Day,  sunny-side up, eyes wide open, wondering what he'd missed during his trip through the birth canal.

There isn't much that he's missed along the next 40 years.  It takes him a while to get around to doing it, but when he does it, he does it very well.    

He never toddled; he ran. He never read on his own for pleasure until the end of 3rd grade when necessity forced him to finish Edgar Rice Burroughs's John Carter series all by himself.  He takes his time when meeting new people; his friends are his friends for life. 

He goes deep over a broad range of topics.  He sets high standards when accepting new information, so his recommendation of the smart person I listen to on this is always worth a look. 

We don't always agree. 

I've tried, but I still think the whole 538/Obama Boys/Pod Save America situation is puerile and self-referential and not worth the effort of waiting for the occasional nugget of a new thought to creep its way through the advertising and the whining and the blather.   He listens to my ranting with a loving smile, reassuring me that it's okay, he'll love me anyway, even if I'm wrong.... oh, so very wrong.

How did it happen that I now enjoy being patronized by my son?

How did four decades fly by?  

In the afternoon, 40 years ago today, he fit on his father's forearm.

Forty years later, his own first born child does the same, one month into her first journey around the sun.  Firmly believing in the power of early indoctrination imprinting, he has begun her education: a major in the intricacies of Warriors' basketball, with a minor in poor officiating.

He's sharing the love.  She's feeling the vibes.  

I know just where those 40 years have gone.

And It Got Worse

There was a kerfuffle with the credit card, because the tickets were booked while I was logged in to my American Airlines account but I paid for the tickets with an American Airlines credit card TBG applied for on a previous flight (to be rewarded with two more flights) and which we use to eat out and travel.  

The computer had a hard time reconciling the difference in the information in their little boxes.  

It took a while to get that far.  The first person who called me back (I like those leave your name and we'll call you back queues) said It's a credit card issue and I can't help you with that. You have to go to the company.  I hung up.

Raised from birth to recognize nonsense, I called back and left my name once again.  This message was a little more discouraging; call you back between 1 hour 28 minutes and 11 hours.  It didn't really matter.  The weight on my shoulders was heavy already; another load was barely noticeable.  But I kept picturing the kids in the desert; in the end, it will be worth it.... in the end, it will be worth it.... in the end.......

Less than an hour later, Paul called me back.  He was courteous, clear, and right on the edge of perfunctory.  There were no wasted words.  How can I help you?  I reiterated the fact that there was, in fact, no issue with that credit card.  He asked factual questions and I responded.  He put me on a very brief hold, then asked for every piece of information that was on the pending reservation.  

When we got to name on the credit card he paused, then went on for the ccv and the expiration date and the rest of whatever he wanted when it dawned on me what happened.  Before I could open my mouth, he asked me wait on hold, once again.

This time, I waited.  It's not like I don't have other credit cards. There were seats available.  This was just time and fodder for The Burrow.  Why was I worrying?  

Welcome to my world.  It's only when I stop worrying that bad things happen.  

Just as that spiral began to really get going, Paul came back on the line.  Everything is okay.  Your tickets are booked.  You will receive an email (pause to verify email) confirmation shortly.  Is there anything else I can ....

I exhaled and began the litany of compliments that spewed from my heart to my mouth.  I'm sure people yell at you all day long.... and he interrupted my paean with a genuine laugh.  We wished each other a good day, and went on with our lives.

As I thought about it, perhaps his taciturnity was a defensive maneuver.  He was giving me no rope with which to hang him.  No How are you today?  Just what do you need and what do I need to give it to you?  

The email confirmation for those tickets went through.  When we couldn't find an email confirmation for the ticket I'd booked with miles I had another panic attack until I found the teeny tiny little link at the bottom of the screen that said find your trip into which box I entered the record locator and found that I'd never gone back and moved it from pending to pay for me.

Okay. That one's on me.  In my defense, I knew it was good until at least February 1st (turns out it was the 4th but who's counting?) and the fact that I wanted to blame the airline speaks only to the generally awful time my daughter and I have had trying to use what should be regarded as a treat but which was more of a roller coaster ride, and I don't do roller coaster rides.

But..... deep breath..... The kids are coming to town!!!!!  Spring Break can't come soon enough.

The Review

Giblet liked the ballet.  

He was told that he could applaud when so moved.  Being a child surrounded by affirmations at home and at school, he was right on it.  Every time someone leapt, he clapped his hands and encouraged them, loudly.  You're doing great!  Keep going!  Good job!

The notion of intermission flummoxed him.  Leaving and then going back was not on his agenda.  When you leave your seat, it's over.... right?  There was no convincing him to return, and so they did not.

Maga's suggestion of a fancy dinner held no allure, either.  McDonald's, please.

After that, they went back to Maga and Papa's house where the kid played happily in Papa's big truck (pushing buttons and turning levers and turning dials and light toggles is his idea of heaven) until it was time to go home.

Grandma to Grandma, I feel for Maga.

Grandma to Giblet, I'm glad there were rides after the ballet.  

Another Plan Gone Slightly Awry

Maga, grandmother only to boys, was delighted with FlapJilly's arrival for many reasons.  Among them was taking a little girl to see The Nutcracker ballet.  FlapJilly was thrilled to have a chance, after COVID delayed it for two years, to dress up, to do fashion, until a fever and tummy troubles woke her up the night before.  Maga had to agree; the kid looked awful.

Giblet was happy to tap in.  He dressed himself in his handsome pants (khaki's) and his handsome sweater.  Without prompting, he brushed his teeth and did his hair (just like Daddy would).

And, of course, there were questions.  

What will it be like?  (Flummoxed parents scramble to describe seeing a live performance to a COVID sheltered 4 year old.)   

It's like a movie in a big theatre only with live people on a real stage.

And the ballet has dancing, a lot of dancing, and the dancers' bodies are so strong, and so fit, and they jump so high, it's really amazing.

As amazing as Captain America? (N.B. His father is frequently seen in a Captain America t-shirt.)

Yes, as amazing as Captain America.

I think that there will be rides there.

(cue giggles from parental units) 

No, honey, there are no rides at the ballet.

*****

There are no rides at the ballet..... like Rick and the waters at Casablanca, he was misinformed..... I'm going to have to put that phrase in my lexicon, right up there with you can't always get what you want.

And, of course, it didn't matter because it was special time with Maga, and that beats rides anyday.

Remembering Life Lessons

The irrigation in Grandma's Garden at Prince Elementary School was on the fritz.  The scholar gardeners had never heard that expression, one that I heard in my house anytime anything went awry.

I pulled up the tubing so that the gardeners could till the soil.  Without the need to be careful of the irrigation!! they could trowel and dig and mix with impunity.  They did a wonderful job.  The soil in the first bed was almost loamy; if love were a nutrient the seeds would have sprouted already.

We re-laid the lines, burying them beneath the reconstituted soil.  I went to the control box to manually activate the system.  I had explained it to the kids; I wanted them to see the water in action.  

Unfortunately, the system did not cooperate.  Nothing happened.  Thankfully, the whistle blew and they were off to class, leaving me alone with the dysfunction. 

I checked all the connections.  I made sure the water was running from the main line to the garden, remembering when I had a similar experience that was attributed to a groundskeeping error.  I loosened and tightened the connectors one more time.

Everything looked fine.  Some of the tubing holes were ridged with lime, but all of them had enough of an opening to allow the water to flow.  And yet, it would not.  

I reset the timer on the control box, wondering if Manual might be the only setting that didn't work.  But Automatic was just as recalcitrant.  There was nothing.  I made a mental note to call Jessie The Irrigation Guru, and locked the playground gate behind me.

That was last Wednesday.  I went back to the garden on Tuesday to start work on the second raised bed, and took another look at the timer.  The front, the top, the sides, the bottom - I wiped away some lime deposits but saw no structural imperfections.  

I turned to the back of the box and had to laugh.  There is a compartment for 2 AA batteries.  The system has been in operation since before Pandemica (though turned off for 18 months in the middle of lockdown).  I have never replaced the batteries.... actually, I never knew they were there so I couldn't possibly have replaced them.  

Getting the cover off to remove them was impossible for my arthritic fingers.  I'll bring a pair of needle nose pliers tomorrow, along with another set of Duracell AA's.  I'll also bring this famous family story:

The neighbor knocks on our door.  "Is your Dad home, Brother?  My refrigerator is broken and I'd like to see if he can help."

"He's not home.  But I'll come with you."  

He was 5.  She was a nice neighbor.  She said, "Sure."  They walked 2 doors to her house.

He opened the refrigerator door; the interior light did not go on.  He lay down on the linoleum and reached his hand behind the machine, grabbed the cord, and pushed it firmly back into the socket, firmly.

"There you go!  All fixed." 

Is it plugged in was, from then on, the first question we asked when something went on the fritz.  I can't believe I forgot it.