Robin and his friend Genevieve performed a puppet show for their school’s talent show. The video of the whole event is now online—Robin’s performance starts at 16:07.
Davy: “Mom, I love you so much because you always do so many things to help me. I want to give you a hug.”
Me, blinking rapidly: “Awww!”
Davy: “And also I want to tell you what I want for my birthday. A bunch of Lego sets! And a tablet!”
Me, patting his back as the hug continues: “I really should have seen this coming.”
Happy Easter! We are just back from a camping trip with our scout group. We dyed eggs with onion peels and cabbage, and we hiked in the hills of Garin Regional Park. The weather was excellent and so was the company.
Sol had a birthday last Thursday—now he’s a three year old, still up to all the same things as when he was two, except that he’s discovered a new interest in letters and numbers. He’s got the alphabet down and he can count up to twenty. He still, however, has absolutely nothing in the way of common sense, social propriety, or a respect for others’ belongings. So, uh, growth opportunities remain.
He did get to spend two hours this morning romping in a muddy creek. He was sodden and filthy when we finally dragged him away, and absolutely delighted with himself. Happy birthday, little buddy! You are a handful and a half but I am very much looking forward to seeing what you come up with next.
So Robin’s enduring fascination with lizard monsters (which has so far traced a route through Godzilla, the comic-book villain The Lizard, and the Jurassic Park movies) has now landed him into an obsession with the Egyptian crocodile-god Sobek.
Robin: “Can Sobek shoot crocodiles out of his hands?”
Me: “Well, in traditional Egyptian mythology, no. But you’re telling a story where he can and that’s cool.”
Robin: “I mean in real life.”
Me: “He doesn’t exist in real life. He’s a myth.”
Robin: “No he isn’t.”
Me: “Yes he is.”
Robin: “No he isn’t.”
At this point, sensing that we had reached an impasse, I excused myself from the conversation. I have to admit the idea of shooting crocodiles from your hands sounds like a pretty awesome superpower!
The 23rd Oaklanders went on a mushroom hunt yesterday, led by an East Bay Parks naturalist. We learned how to recognize some of the fungus among us–including the most poisonous of our local shrooms–and we got to explore one of the area’s more hidden/overlooked parks, Sobrante Ridge. There’s a very rare species of manzanita, the “pallid manzanita,” that only grows in two sites in the whole world, and Sobrante Ridge is one of them.
This picture of Sam toting along a napping Sol was snapped by John Granger, a fellow Rover (adult scout) in our group. I thought it was a wonderful photo and had to share!
As a kind of creative counterpoint to the story I posted a few days ago, here’s my Sam-themed playlist: songs in celebration of sleep-deprived fathers.
This…came out in a single afternoon, and it’s flawed enough that I will never bother to submit it for publication, but still there’s something there that compelled me to write it in the first place. It felt weird because it’s such broad allegory (and allegory is not my bag at all) but I didn’t actually know how it was going to end until I got there and wrote it.
Obviously it has a lot to do with being a mother to three boys. In this story there are four blessings, for three sons.
How to Fix Men
“And why haven’t we done it sooner? I mean, that’s the question, right? The thing that we’re all not saying.” Lorelei picked at the label of her beer and splashed her fish-tail in the gutter. She was blond and plump and gorgeous, though she didn’t know it: her breasts were still taut with the firmness of youth, completely overflowing those two scallop shells she insisted on using for a bra. The effect was devastatingly sexy, but it embarrassed her, so the others didn’t mention it.
“I don’t think this topic should be off-limits,” said Moira, the moderator, carefully: “but we have to be careful to avoid victim-blaming and derailment.” She said this without looking up from her knitting, which in this context constituted a move as blatantly aggressive as a knife between the teeth would’ve been for the sirens. Moira was the head bitch in charge.
“I’m just saying,” said Lorelei. “The historical subjugation of women could not have happened in the face of an organized and spirited resistance. We’re a little more than half of the population, and we’re their moms. Boys adore their moms, they get tattoos about it.”
Moira dropped, or perled, or did whatever it was she was doing. The finished end of her scarf (was it a scarf?) trailed in the gurgling run-off of the street, growing increasingly darkened and tattered. Her skein of yarn twisted down the block and disappeared around the corner. “Do we have a talking stick this time?” she asked mildly. “If there’s a talking stick, somebody pass it to Kore.”
“Kore doesn’t talk,” said Orlando tartly. She was the third woman, tall and rangy. “You’ve got me, kiddo. You’ve always had me.”
The other third woman (she would have been the fourth, except that mythic numbers of women are never allowed to cluster in groups of more than three) said: “I’ll talk.”
Lorelei stopped a twig with the trailing end of one of her fins, and handed it to the other third woman. Her fingers were made of shadow and her bones of cold wanting.
“I didn’t say no,” the shadow-girl said, spinning the twig around her bony fingers like a cheerleader’s baton. “I didn’t realize I had to. I thought that he would look at me—stiff a board, silent as a shadow, crying a little bit—and he would have cared. But he never even looked. He says he did but he didn’t.”
“That’s Eurydice,” said Moira, not unkindly. “You’re Kore today.”
The shadow-girl sniffed. “Sorry,” she said. “There’s too many of me sometimes. I can’t remember.”
“Are you sure Kore didn’t want to be carried away?” Lorelei said, and then hastily added—because the others were glaring death—“I mean, I believe you. I do! I just thought, sometimes, the leather biker-type, you know. I wouldn’t mind.”
“You would,” said Kore, her chrysanthemum eyes shedding petals, “if you were just all seized up and scared and waiting for him to notice, and he never did and then it was over. You might pretend for a while that you didn’t mind, but you would. It does a number on you.”
Moira looked up. “Why?” she said mildly. “Why should it matter so much? More than a skinned knee or any of the other crappy things that happen to us all.”
“Because you feel like you were never even a person to him. Nothing more than a shadow. Maybe nothing more than that to anybody.” Kore turned the twig over in her white-bone fingers, then held it out. “I’m sorry. I’m done. I don’t want this anymore.”
After a long moment Orlando took it, and they all tried to hide their sighs of relief.
“Moira’s right, though,” she said in her husky voice. “There’s a lot of ways of being hurt by other people.”
“And we still want men,” said Lorelei, anxiously. “Right? We’re not talking about just…” She trailed off.
“A clean slate? No,” Moira said without dropping a stitch. “No such thing. Women come from men, men come from women. Women are men sometimes, right, Orlando?”
“A person is what a person says they are.” Orlando’s voice was nothing but spun-sugar, and Moira looked discomfited. “I could tell you. I could tell you, but you wouldn’t hear.”
“So how do we fix them?” said Lorelei. “There’s got to be a way.”
Moira gave a twist of her needles, pulling her knitting out of the sewage. It dripped darkly onto her knees. “Make a wish,” she said.
They were all silent, for a moment, as the gutter-river ran on. Then Lorelei pulled out a single iridescent scale and placed it delicately on the dripping fibrous pile. “Be brave,” she said. “Ask for what you want. Protect those you love. Be manly and be brave.”
Kore leaned over and let her grave-breath stir the knitted mass. “Be wise,” she said. A single chrysanthemum petal fell from her skull, like a tear. “Listen in the silence. Look into the dark. Be manly and be wise.”
Orlando laid a long, lacquered fingernail on the pile. “Be kind,” she said, her voice deep and rich. “You are not lessened by difference, you are not threatened by change. Be manly and be kind.” When she pulled back, a flake of color remained.
And at that Moira gathered the whole ball up, twisting and wringing out the dirty water. “Be afraid,” she said briskly, “or I will come back and consume your hearts on the battlefield. You have been coddled too long. Be manly and be afraid.”
“Moira,” the others said, reproachfully and almost in sync.
But Moira merely handed over the thing they’d made to Lorelei–and the gutter mermaid accepted the whole sodden, trailing mess with open arms, pressing it to her shell-clad bosom. “Beautiful one,” said Moira. “All of our hopes go in your hands. Make them worthy of you.”
Lorelei smiled, exposing row upon row of shark-white teeth. “I will,” she said. “I always have.”
So we’re all home from visiting Pappy and Nonna in Carson City, a visit that was very nice as always, except that I came down with something on the drive over the mountains—I blame being stuck in a car for four hours with three grotty, snotty little boys. They are always grotty and snotty, or at least one of them always is, and somehow every time we go to Carson City I end up getting sick the next day. Or maybe it’s a version of what I used to think of as end-of-semester syndrome. Back in college my body somehow knew to put up with stress and microbes until exams were over and I was home on break, but then I invariably—every damn time—got sick the day after I traveled home from school.
Anyway, I’m starting to worry that the in-laws will think I’m avoiding them or something (when in fact they are lovely people), but the truth is it was honestly wonderful to be able to stay home alone in the hotel room, napping and reading on my Kindle and drinking take-out wonton soup, while Sam and the boys and their grandparents romped around in the snow.
I’m feeling a lot better now! We’re back home and Davy spent an hour or so constructing an Iron Man suit out of cardboard boxes and packing tape. He pretty much just got the collar done:
“Mom,” he said, “can I keep this until I’m a grown-up?”
“Um. You can keep it as long as you want to, how’s that?”
“I want to keep it until I’m dead.”
Sooooooo…we’ll see how that goes, I guess.
Meanwhile Sol built himself a pillow fort on the couch and fell asleep in it, so I was finally able to get a picture. He’s cute when he’s unconscious!
I have fond memories of decorating sugar cookies with my Grandmama at Christmas time. Now I decorate them with my boys.
(We do still have a two-year-old, I promise. At the time this photo was taken he was dancing on the table in his diapers, enjoying a stolen bit of cookie dough. He was not interested in posing for pictures.)