A couple of years ago I was walking down the hallway of my high school with my little sister, mocking the inspirational posters that hung on the walls.
"Always remember, Jess, 'Everyone has the potential to be great,'" I read with feigned seriousness.
"Well yeah," she said after a moment's thought, "everyone except Michael Jackson." Jess is too young to know much about Mr. Jackson aside from his plastic surgeries, public trials, and oddly attired children. I myself only discovered the music behind the man after I went to college, but I have many fond memories of rocking out to "Billie Jean" at dances and, more recently, of singing along with the Jackson 5 as Micah and I drove up and down Oahu's windward coast.
The other night a friend suggested having a Michael Jackson themed party to commemorate the man and his music and for some reason I woke up thinking of what I would do. So far I'm stuck on playing Karaoke Revolutions because earlier this week I was walking by a store and "Billie Jean" was playing and I suddenly knew we had to have a KR party if only so we could sing that song. But besides that, I haven't a clue.
So now, dear reader, imagine for me please what your Michael Jackson party would be like. Then tell me so I can rip it off.
I just finished reading Judith Warner's weekly column in the Times. Sigh. It brought to mind so many little nips and digs that I have felt -- and actively tried to anticipate and fend off -- since becoming a mom and having to carry/wear/stroll my child around in public wherever I go. So many strangers asking me angrily where my boy's hat is, or suggesting that he's too big to be worn on my back (he weighs 28 pounds, which is nowhere near too heavy) or whatever else. I've worried on the subway about strangers chiding me for letting him stand on the bench, or for allowing him to dictate where each of us sit, or for being okay with him standing by himself and holding the pole when he wants to. Some of the little barbs still sting, probably because I realize I deserved them. Simon really should have been wearing a hat that day. But it looked sunny and not too cold outside and by the time I realized how cold it was, and how the wind was blowing, and how far it actually was that I had to walk it was too late to go back. I was mad enough at myself without anybody pointing out my folly and just grateful that I was wearing him and my body heat was keeping him warm. Sometimes when someone says something, I try to say , as politely as I can, "We're fine, thank you," and remind myself that I know my son and I know our situation and needs much better than any of them. But mostly I just try to ignore them and talk myself out of crying.
After all, it is often on the days that everything is going wrong that somebody has to go and remind you that you are an unfit mother and probably shouldn't be entrusted with the well-being of a small child, which of course you already suspected.
It is just my opinion, but I think it was too long.
We watched this movie last night: Has anybody else seen it? Did anybody else wonder if maybe the director simply forgot to turn off the camera and that it would keep going and going and going? I think it must have been the longest movie I've ever seen. Maybe it was the slow Southern drawls. Maybe it was the fact that we knew exactly where it was going. Maybe it was that I couldn't help but think of "The Princess Bride" whenever they went back to Daisy's hospital room and really wanted Benjamin to say, "As you wish," at some point, just to lighten things up a bit. But by the end of the movie, which was very well made, well acted, had good cinematography, an interesting premise, etc. etc. etc., the only thing I could think was, "It finally ended." And also, "That was based an a short story? 700 page books get made into shorter movies!"
The dear child has surprised us yet again with hitherto undiscovered talents, which he unveiled just in time for Father's Day much to Micah's (and my) enjoyment.
Exhibit A:
You may not be able to discern what the talent is at first sneeze, so allow me to point out the finer points. Note, first of all, the false modesty with which the child begins his performance. "No camera . . . no talk to me." But then, when confronted with his own beautiful visage, he cannot contain his delight (that's how we know the modesty is false). He clearly thinks he's as cute as we do. And then, sigh, that lovely falsetto. Who knew the boy had such singing chops? Not us. Surely he will do us proud as a countertenor at the Met. Our hopes are as high as his voice.
Exhibit B:
At church today the Primary (ages 3-11) and Nursery children (ages 18 months-3) sang some songs for Father's Day. We were thrilled to have our son demonstrate his newly-found gift for a wider audience, of course, and sent him to the front of the chapel post haste. He was still one of the last children there (blasted short legs and shorter attention span!), which, thankfully, meant he was on the front row. He didn't know that, though. All he knew was that as he was walking up the steps, he found himself facing a wall of children. His way was thwarted. He was stuck with his back towards the congregation. Nothing could be done so he just stood there. Facing the rest of the kids. Through both songs. Singing to the choir, if you will. Two parents have never been so proud. Or taken with such a fit of the giggles in the middle of sacrament meeting.
Despite his predicament, I was told by someone that he could hear Simon loud and clear, his voice carrying angelically above the other children's.
The New York Times just published a story about homicides in New York City. I read with interest about how summer is the hot time for such things, so to speak, but was taken aback by this little tidbit: "The bloodiest block in Brooklyn was in the 77th Precinct, in Crown Heights, bounded by Schenectady Avenue, Sterling Place, Troy Avenue and St. Johns Place."
Six murders took place on that block in 2008. Four of them while we were sleeping peacefully in our bed just one block west. Good thing we didn't know about them at the time, eh?
Oh, and our new neighborhood is much safer. Only one murder last year, and it was three blocks away.
A few nights ago we were talking with some friends about manifestos. You know, a list of things you stand for and aim for and such. In the morning I thought, Why the heck don't I do that for myself? I remembered a story or something I read about writing down characteristics of the person you want to become and then reading it frequently, perhaps every day. Eventually you will realize that you have become that person. I have bemoaned the fact that motherhood and wifehood is hard for me to improve at because it is difficult to make measurable goals and too easy to say, "From now on I'm going to do _____" or "I'm never going to do ______ again" and then forget the next day or in the heat of the moment. So I thought that this manifesto thing was worth a shot. I pulled out a 4x6 card and started:
I am a person who . . . I am a wife who . . . I am a mother who . . . I am a writer who . . .
I'm finding it easy to come up with things about motherhood, but still really hard to come up with some solid characteristics of a good wife. I plan on taking some time with this, thinking things over and really imagining the person I want to become. Some of the things I've come up with so far include:
looks for ways to help and serve others without being asked
acknowledges the help and sacrifices of others
actively strives to develop new skills and talents in friendship, homemaking, music, sewing, record keeping (journal writing and photography), etc.
keeps myself clean, healthy, and attractive
encourages my children to ask question, pursue interests, and voice their opinions
celebrates small victories and achievements
listens to my children's concerns and addresses them appropriately
What do you think? What would you add? How would you go about such a task?
I sort of made a mistake. I told Simon that I can feel the baby kicking. I probably should have said "moving" instead of "kicking." Because now, of course, Simon wants me to feel him kicking, too. Every time I change his diaper or get him dressed or he finds himself lying with his feet towards me, it's, "Kicking. Kicking." And lots of laughter. From him, not me. But on the cuter side, he also picked up on the fact that sometimes I expose my belly and tell him that if we watch carefully, maybe we can see the baby move. At first he adamantly refused to participate, pulling my shirt down with a definitive, "No open. Close." Alrighty then. But on Friday he got into the spirit of things and decided that baby-watching could be fun. He straddled my lap and pulled up my shirt, then rubbed my belly like I sometimes do when I'm trying to get Roscoe (as we are calling him until we come up with something more permanent) to show himself. "Watching baby. Watching baby," he said. Cute.
We flew home yesterday. Took the red-eye and got to our apartment at about 7:00am. And then we totally crashed for most of the day. And no wonder. We had a busy week. Shopping, swimming, meeting up with friends, and, oh yeah, my sister's wedding. Simon stayed up until 11:00ish several nights in a row (that's 1:00am New York time . . . sigh) because he just wanted to be where the party was. There were so many aunts and uncles and not enough time in the day. Plus he could climb out of the pack-n-play and unlock the door to our room so there was really no restraining him.
Here are some pictures of some of our activities for those of you who are interested in such things.
It turns out that the boy likes chocolate. Wonder where he gets that from. He is also not afraid of horses, like I thought he would be. He did, eventually, warm up to both Will and the pool. But only when it was time for us to leave.
Just lounging around waiting for dinner to cook. Note to self: tinfoil dinners are not a fast food. At least not for us. The uncles let the boy win at King of the Rock, which was very nice of them. I think these two like each other. That's the vibe I got when I was around them. And here are me and my sisters. Yeah, we look good. (I did get my haircut. I love it. But the humidity back East is wreaking havoc on my bangs. Sigh.)
I think this picture adequately captures Simon's attitude through most of the festivities. I don't even want to know how many times he yelled, "Go home!" at inappropriate moments. Like in the middle of my sister's choir concert and during my grandma's funeral and while Jon, my new brother-in-law, was giving a little speech at the luncheon after the wedding. But here he is just upset because we didn't want him to play in the fountain. He managed to get his sleeve soaking wet anyway. I love that kid.
Jess is too young to know much about Mr. Jackson aside from his plastic surgeries, public trials, and oddly attired children. I myself only discovered the music behind the man after I went to college, but I have many fond memories of rocking out to "Billie Jean" at dances and, more recently, of singing along with the Jackson 5 as Micah and I drove up and down Oahu's windward coast.
