a legend falls

In order to understand the utter gripping magnitude of what just transpired in my life, you might want to read this post before proceeding. It’s okay, I’ll wait right here. Or just blaze ahead, keeping in mind that in seven years of marriage I’ve never, ever, once won a bet with my husband.

Ohio-bound as we are virtually every Thanksgiving week, we were driving on Interstate 77, which becomes the West Virginia Turnpike as it passes through, well, West Virginia. We pick it up at Princeton and take it through Charleston and up a bit farther north until we bump into Route 35 which takes us over the Ohio and beyond.

There are three toll booths on 77. For like a decade the toll was $1.25 per booth, which meant we laid in a supply of change for the trip. In fact, “30 quarters” is an item on the official pre-departure checklist.

Yes, we have a checklist, because when you make the same trip multiple times every year, the second or third time you forget the freakin’ quarters, or whatever else, you start to get that wee bit annoyed with yourself. Or, more likely, your spouse. Who then prudently suggests, in a mild tone, that a list might be a good thing.

When we made the trek this summer, however, we discovered they’d raised the toll. So on Sunday, in pre-departure mode, with the MPM sorting quarters, the question came: What’d they raise that toll to? A buck fifty? No, I said, I think it’s more. Maybe one-seventy-five, then, he decided. So he ferreted out a few more and checked that task off and moved on to Adjust Thermostats and Empty Compost.

So. There we were, driving along 77, when the first toll reminder hove into view. Cars $2.00, it flashed at us.

Which led into a conversation between my beloved and me. Which led to a degree of certainty on my part, which then naturally culminated in the offer of a wager on my part, which led to some weighing of degrees of certitude on his part, which led to jibes on my part and general taunts of wussitude, which did not in any way influence or lead to but preceded acceptance of the wager on his part.

The nexus of the bet lay in determining whether we had paid that very amount previously, or if the toll had been incrementally stepped up to $2.00 and we’d paid less the last time through. I held the former point, and he the latter.

Yes, these are the crucial matters on which triumph can stand or fall.

So when we stopped at the third and final toll booth (the debate conversation having endured some 30 miles through the first and second), as I handed over my two bucks I asked when the fare had gone up.

August 1, was the reply.

Recollecting that we’d been in Ohio for the 4th of July, I had a moment of disbelief — tinged, however, with the dull resignation of long experience — that I’d managed YET AGAIN to fall victim to my own certainty.

But then, in a moment akin to watching a buzzer shot bounce off the top of the backboard before arcing impossibly through the net, I remembered that in fact we’d made a second, spur-of-the-moment trip home over the summer. In August.

And the crowd — of three: me, myself and I — went wild.

Had I not been driving, this would have been an occasion for inflicting lasting injury on my spine while attempting gymnastic feats during a victory dance. I settled for attempting to high-five myself whilst bouncing up and down in my seat. I don’t think I said the words YeahBaby out loud, but I might have.

And days later, I’m afraid I’m still prancing around in a most annoying manner, looking for any opportunity to tell the tale of my momentous victory.

As happened when we watched Lance’s 8th Tour De France victory slide away on the Alpine climbs this year, there is the opportunity to reflect on the passing of an era, the fall of a legend, an icon. Few people could achieve a seven-year streak; to hope for an eighth was, perhaps, too much.

Though I imagine the MPM will be staging a comeback in 2010. In fact, I’d say it’s a sure bet.

then again…

As bent out of shape as I was over today’s early dismissal? Again, I find I may need to reframe. Because let me just say, having two extra hours in the afternoon in which to more lazily attend to a first-grader’s homework, piano practice, and the like? Is something I could get used to. In about, oh, one day.

reframed

Whew, y’all. I am a touch frazzled. The timing of this time of year is always tricky for us. There’s Megan’s birthday, and then we have our traditional trek to Ohio for some portion of the week around Thanksgiving. Last year I threw a lil Saturday half-marathon race into the mix just for the heck of it, but a wiser head, not to mention weaker legs, prevailed and that’s not happening in ‘09.

So instead, because there’s some karmic even strain to maintain, yesterday I got a full-on sick kid. Megan’s midnight earache for the second time in her history led to multiple vomiting episodes as well, despite no fever. Go figure.

And today? Today, when she got herself up and dressed with no alarm, when I should have and deserve and Desperately Freakin Need a full complement of kid-free hours? She has early dismissal.

Which I think means that she’ll be helping me make her class birthday cupcakes. That’s fun bonding mommy time, right, and not a heartless thing to do to the almost-birthday girl. Right? Right.

Because I’m all about the reframing, yes I am. Yesterday I sat in her couch “nest” in the living room with her for a good bit of the day and snuggled and read to her and managed to successfully ignore the one-quarter-painted walls and the clashing window treatments and the rolled-up rug to be returned to Overstock.

Because I remembered, just as I was about to stress out about all that “needed” to get done, what it is that being an at-home mom is really about. And remembered, not too slowly, to be grateful for the opportunity.

And I imagine that what needs getting done in the next couple days will get done. And a lot of stuff that doesn’t, well, won’t. Cos that’s how it works, isn’t it?

And the stuff in the middle that gnaws at me at three a.m.? Ah, heck. Who needs all that sleep anyway?

rules for random scenarios

I was just a few miles into my ride on this incredible day, in the 70s for heck’s sake, November or not, when I came upon a clutch of cyclists on the edge of the greenway. Usually signals a flat tire. I was slowing enough to ask my usual “Y’all got everything you need?” when I saw it was rider down, blood in evidence.

He was sitting, and had enough blood on his head that it was through one eyebrow and down the side of his face. Ear too. He looked confused; three other riders were standing around him. They’d gotten his bike upright, and obviously it had been a couple minutes since it happened. But they were, oddly to my mind, standing away from him, and it didn’t seem that anyone was really talking to him.

I dismounted. “Y’all called 911 already?”

Uh, no, not yet.

Rider tried to stand up, but not very steadily. His buddies weren’t stopping him. “Woah, now, let’s sit down right here in the grass. Just to be safe.”

Sitting again, he had his eyes closed. I asked his buddies, one now fumbling for a phone, his name.

“Jim, do you know what happened?”

He opened his eyes. One was bloodshot, or -stained; I couldn’t tell. He looked at me, obviously dazed. “No… what happened?”

I asked his buddies; they hadn’t seen it. “Did you hit something that made you fall?” He didn’t know. “Did your head hit the bridge, or the ground?” He didn’t know.

So we have an unknown cause of loss of control; could be the edge of the pathway, but equally could be a seizure or other loss of consciousness. We have an obvious head injury. If he had a helmet on, he hit hard enough to lacerate the top of his head anyway. If he didn’t have a helmet on, he smacked blacktop, concrete, or wooden pillars without a helmet. Dude needs medical attention.

Random Scenario Rule #1: Your friend is bleeding from a head impact? Call 911. Right this fucking minute. Do not pass go, do not wonder if it is the manly thing to do. Gitcher phone and call.

I rode to the nearby fire station and alerted their EMS. And then I rode on, a spectacular 25-mile loop with scenery and scant traffic.

Arrived home as the inlaws arrived. For my FIL, with Parkinson’s and COPD and macular degeneration — the trifecta of aging — the act of climbing the dozen steepish steps into our house is a Herculean task.

Given that and the weather as detailed above, we brought chairs and made ourselves comfy in the front yard. The girls brought out balls and a grand time was had kicking and throwing and chasing. Their grandma was nicely engaged in the playing and she had them both giggling. She’s a good grandma, she is, and loves those girls to pieces.

And then it was time to settle down a bit and visit. Both girls wanted to be on her lap, not mine or the MPM’s, and so they were there and tussling around the chair and suchnot.

And she opened with this gem: “Is that Harrington girl from this neighborhood?”

Most of y’all, even if you’re not from these parts, are probably aware that a lovely blonde Virginia Tech student went missing a few weeks back while attending a Metallica concert in Charlottesville (home to, confusingly, the University of Virginia). Morgan Harrington. She is indeed from our metro area, and her daddy is an M.D. and we have right many docs and lawyers and such in our ‘hood. But no, not the Harringtons.

Despite my curt negative, “No, I think they live in the County,” there was no pause in the media-tragedy-du-jour stream of What a terrible thing and Can you imagine and The mother just looks like DEATH, yada yada yada.

And the girls, my girls, age 3 and almost-seven, are now riveted, looking at her.

“Who are you talking about?” asked Megan.

A girl who’s disappeared, says the MIL.

I clarify: A college student, honey, from Daddy’s campus, is missing. Her name is Morgan Harrington and her mommy and daddy are very worried, and everybody is trying to find her.

And that, of course, led to more questions. And my MIL’s input: “There are bad people out there. That’s why Mom and Dad tell you not to talk to strangers.”

Well, no; actually we don’t tell her that. Since she is, and always has been, incredibly skittish about people she doesn’t know, we’ve never felt the need to. Frankly, we’re always with her; pickup at school is Gestapo-like in the scope of its security. And we’ve instituted the secret-word security measure, the one about If we ever send someone you don’t know to pick you up, they will know the secret word; if someone tries to get you to go with them and they don’t know that word, you don’t go. Period.

But that aside, after Megan’s questions were answered, the MIL veered back on course, nattering on about How Horrible and Wouldn’t you be sick, and Have you noticed the mother does all the talking, the father can’t even say anything he’s so… and the girls are looking at her, and Megan is forming another question.

And at that point I gave MIL a look, and a finger across the throat. The universal sign for Shut Up.

She looked at me so quizzically you’d have thought I’d sprouted antlers over my ears. I don’t know if she ever grasped why — certainly not immediately — but she did comply. It was soon apparent I’d hurt her feelings, something I manage with disheartening regularity, but good gosh amighty.

Random Scenario Rule #2: Feel compelled to speak of tragedy? For the luvvagod, don’t do it in front of children who are old enough and bright enough to understand just enough to be confused and scared about it.

I hope your day was free from vexation at those around you.

dreaming in bloglish

I’m not fluent in any language other than English — though I can stumble painfully along in the particular dialect of Indirectese that my inlaws speak — but I’ve always heard it said that when you start dreaming in another language, you know you own it.

Last night I was in the midst of a dream in which bizarre things were being perpetrated around and upon me, and I thought, “I am so going to blog this.” And, still fully dreaming, began to reflect on precisely the angle I would take in the telling.

Please tell me you do this too, and it’s just a sign of stretching into a new sphere of fluency… right? And not an indication of, oh, say, addiction… because I hear tell alcoholics dream about drinking, too.

decorating: it’s all in the little touches

It may pain you to know this, and I am sorry, but I am not much of the decorating type.  This is true not just of my house in general, but my approach to holidays as well.

As much as I adore Halloween, I’m not moved much beyond the pumpkin-carving aspect of accoutering our abode.  MUCH to the chagrin and dismay of the resident six-year-old, particularly as we live in direct view of a family that believes every holiday deserves its full due of indoor and outdoor ornamentation. Yes, there are inflatables.

To appease Miss Megs, and because I thought it was fun and a great use for all those blessed plastic bags we can’t possibly get our newspaper delivered without, one early October day we made a dozen or so cute ghosts to hang in the trees.

Whaddya mean, you’ve never seen a green ghost?  Don’t tell my girls.  Me, I was amused by the double entendre.   Green, and green, get it?  Hah.

And because we have a Halloween advent calendar, courtesy some relative, I dutifully hung that baby up.  And then, because there was still a lot of sadness and general gnashing of teeth and rolling of eyes over the great undecoratedness of our abode, I ponied up the idea that we could make it a tradition every year to go and pick out a new halloween decoration.  I’m all about Making Childhood Memorable and Fun.  Really, I am.  I’m just not about buying, owning, or storing a bunch of stuff.

Megs immediately began lobbying hard for a full complement of faux tombstones like she saw in front of the house a few blocks down. I don’t mean to crush her dreams, but I can tell you there will be a real one planted with my name engraved thereon before there are any fake ones in my yard.  Witches, ghosts, black cats, pumpkins, yes.  Skeletons,  graveyards, tombstones, scary shit or gruesome anything, not so much.

We settled on pumpkin-shaped lights.

But apparently that benefaction, and even the promise of more to come, didn’t quite live up to her vision of House Halloween.  Because one weekend morning, these and others popped up all over the downstairs:

I hated to take them down, they’re so daggone cute, but hey — it’s time to start decorating for Thanksgiving, you know.

I’m just one vase of autumn-toned flowers on the table away from being done.

in which I make my opinion known

Some things were never right for the job in the first place.

Why, then, do they linger on when other alternatives are readily available?

Oh, let’s don’t go there.  So yesterday already.

THIS.

The dreaded Bread Tag.  Why, I ask; WHY?

red, white & blew me away

I don’t know what you call the standardized testing conducted in schools over your way, but we here in Virginia have the Standards Of Learning.  And trust me, the SOLs are a horse that has been bludgeoned by thousands more learned and articulate than I.   So not to worry, I ain’t a-going there.

I don’t pay so much attention, but I remember that “Symbols of America” or somesuch was covered last year in kindergarten, and this year they seem to be revisiting and expanding the theme.  The Statue of Liberty, Washington Monument, bald eagle, the flag, yada yada.

And because nothing gets your hard-working public educators giddy like a good SOL tie-in — looky see, our curriculum is pertinent and meaningful and useful! — each November the first-graders get to put on a Patriotic Program.  See?  It ties in to Veteran’s Day.  Do they do this where you are?

We had ours today.  70-some first-graders in patriotic garb, with accessories, singing songs like This Land Is Your Land and Yankee Doodle and You’re a Grand Old Flag and reciting this and that is pretty dang cute no matter what you think of standardized testing.

My favorite part of the evening’s performance was the synchronized camcording team:   a row of dads lined up against the wall, each standing at precisely the same angle, elbow cocked to wield the ‘corder, wearing the identical amused/proud grin.  I left my camera at home, more’s the pity, because that would have been SUCH a great shot.

Well, maybe, just maybe, that was only my second-favorite part of the performance.  Because Megs — my soft-spoken, cautious, hyper-aware girl — had been assigned the closing salutation of the evening.

She was excited about it at first, but then nervous:  “Mom, I think the teachers should have known that I am not someone who is comfortable talking in front of a lot of people I don’t know!”

Indeed, no.

And so I wouldn’t have given you very good odds on it, but I am here as your witness: her voice rang out in that gym loud and clear and cadenced, yes it did. And my heart got as big as the smile on my face.

She stuck it.   Yes, she did.  And she knew she did, and that was even better.

If only they had a confidence SOL to teach to.  A believe-in-yourself SOL.  Now, wouldn’t that be a curriculum we could all get behind?

Halloween ‘09

So, here’s the obligatory Halloween-costume shot, though I didn’t realize it was out of focus until now.  Blame it on the wine lighting.

I got off so easy this year I’m practically cringing in embarrassment just thinking about it.

Because when Kira started talking about what she thought she might be, I led her quickly down the Purple Kittycat avenue and she, good second child that she is, never veered course. I am costume crazy, but I am also lazy: for every handmade costume, there is a season, and it is two seasons long. Minimum.

I couldn’t quite figure it out, but for some reason, maybe because the whole suit was just a little big on her, or maybe because I got the angle on the ears wrong this time, she somehow looked much, much more like a Wild Thing — or maybe just a purple Max — than the sweet kitty that I swear Megan did.

I’m not sure how that happened, but with the recent Wild Things movie release, it all tied in just fine. She had whiskers and a pink nose and pure astonished delight that everyone she glanced at shyly put candy in her pumpkin.

And I swear, I was all set to hand-craft Megan’s tiger swallowtail wings using coat hangers, black stockings and who knows what all else, consuming the better part of my free hours in early October, when I happened onto a pair online that she deemed perfect. For seven-ninety-nine plus nominal shipping. SOLD, to the lazy lady with the charge card.

I already had that black shimmery bodysuit because when you are a little wacked about costuming and you find one of those at Goodwill, oh you snap it up then and there even if it is, and it was, the middle of December. Some moms shop seasons ahead; I shop Halloweens ahead.

One headband, two pipecleaners, two fuzzy balls, an inch of hot glue later and she was good to go. Criminal, I tell you.

It was such a fun evening, and completely devoid of even a flicker of last year’s Halloween meltdown. Score one in the treat column.