Lucy has been a complete jerk for the past few days: whining, throwing tantrums, arguing about everything. A couple of days ago she said, "Mom, I am having a bad day because I am really tired."
Last night we got her to bed at a halfway decent hour, let her sleep in a little this morning, and she is herself again. Which is a good thing, because I was about to drop her off at your house.
When I tell Solomon the story of his birth, it will go something like this:
Your mother, my friend Pie, went into labor on a Friday night while we were attending a couple of great parties in your neighborhood. She told us you were maybe coming that night — it's a good thing you didn't because your dad and I were, um, definitely taking advantage of having your mom as a designated driver.
And then we waited.
Your mom claims to have been super grouchy, but she wasn't. She's just a planner. She did not do well with not being able to make plans more than 24 hours in advance. Because, you know, you were going to be here ANY MINUTE.
Except that three weeks and three days passed. When I didn't talk to her for more than four hours at a stretch, I was sure you were coming. You weren't (at least not imminently). She eventually had to unplug the phone. I resorted to calling your father's cell.
The night before you were born, she said, "I am just so bored with myself. I need for something to happen. I need to be doing the next thing."
Around seven the next morning, your dad called. FINALLY. Three weeks of labor is quite a build-up. At the hospital, your mom was serene and gorgeous (if a little hungry). She brought you into this world with athletic grace.
And here is the reason I even get to tell you the story of your birth: I WAS THERE. I watched you come into this world, with your giant feet and boy parts, 8 pounds and 14 ounces, as blue as a dang Smurf. It was a privilege. You were worth the wait.
Every day, we send Lucy off to have her own life for 8-9 hours. It's the choice we've made, and it works for us. But occasionally it breaks my heart. Particularly when I ask her, "Lu, what did you do today?" And she mumbles, "I don't know" or "Nothing."
I don't know?! Nothing?! These are the sullen answers of a 12-year-old. Where is the enthusiasm? Where is the childish detail? Where is the information about her secret life?
Then I read something. Or heard it on NPR. Or Liz told me to do it. Whatever the source, this simple question has opened up a new pipeline of info from Lu: Tell me the Two Best Things That Happened to You Today. Actually the Internet/NPR/Liz said to ask about the two best AND worst things, but I thought I would start with the best and see how much information I could glean. The answer: a lot.
Since I have started asking the Two Best question a week ago, she has offered the following, among others:
"When we got to do stretching."
"When I got picked up by Alex's mom for a play date at her house."
"When we watered our tomato plants."
"When I got to go to the Farmer's Market with Laney."
"When we got ice cream with one piece of bubble gum in it."
"When we talked about the weather in Spanish. ¡Esta nublando!"
"When we got to blow up a bunch of balloons for Anesh, and Anesh's dad came to pick them up so he could bring them to Anesh at the hospital." This came today, and while we hope to soon find out what is wrong with Anesh, without the Two Things, I would not have known even this much. Get well, little man.
It's interesting how often she uses the phrase "got to," as in "allowed to," which explains how at the mercy of other people you are when you're four. She is at the mercy of me, her teachers, all adults. How sad for her. Meanwhile, I am at the mercy of THE MAN. THE LAW. THE PRICE OF GAS.
I would kill to be four. Her Two Best Things always beat mine.
Lucy took a bath in the hose. Rather, I was watering some dry spots in the yard, Lucy was running around under the spray in her swimsuit, and she said, "Mom, can this be my bath?" Uh, sure. Hey, she tried to go nude, but I made her put a suit on.
Last night at dinner, she demonstrated, for the first time ever, that she can read (or is very much on the brink of it). By reading the word "Lone." On a can of Lone Star beer. As you might imagine, we couldn't be more proud.
(It is possible that she may have read the word "bag" in "Curious George Rides a Bike," the night before, but this milestone will be more fun to remember.)
When Jason picks Lucy up from school today, she comes out of the classroom leading her friend Grace by the hand, announcing, "Grace is coming home with us on a playdate!"
Jason asks, "Uh, when?"
Lucy: "Right now!"
Jason looks past Lucy at the teachers, then shakes his head, bemused.
Mrs. Garrett, the naptime teacher, realizes that Lucy has personally engineered the whole thing, with no consultation of parents, calendars, or maybe even Grace herself. Mrs. Garrett says, "Well...Lucy, we need to talk to Grace's parents before we just send her home with you."
At that point, Lucy begins to wail, and Grace begins to back slowly away.
Lu bonked her left eye with a large, red mixing bowl tonight, giving herself what I know will be a good-sized shiner (she's a spaz, no need to call CPS). It HURT — I could tell by the sharp gasp and two-second delay before the screams that came after she did it.
I was holding ice on her eye as she sat on Jason's lap, and she said, between heaving sobs, "Dad, I should get a little more computer tonight because that will help me calm down, right?"
RIGHT? Should I be scared? Should I call someone about this? Is she a sociopath, or is she just focused?
At the Round Rock Express Game:
L: "Can I have some cotton candy?"
K: "Yes, after we eat dinner."
L: "Can I have some cotton candy right now?"
K: "No, after we eat dinner."
L: "I have a GREAT idea, how about cotton candy after dinner?!"
K: "Yes, great idea."
Later, Lucy, halfway through one chicken nugget and 6 french fries: "Can I have cotton candy now?"
Me, realizing how stupid it is to insist that she eat all of her junk food before she can have her junk food: "Yes, fine."
Lu: Dad, Dronnels have 10 eyes...
Dad: What's a Dronnel?
Lu: It's kind of like an elephant (in the Dad you're such a moron voice).
Dad: What else?
Lu: They have three legs and three eyes.
Dad: Wait I thought you said they had 10 eyes.
Lu: Yeah, 10 eyes.
Looks like the eyes have it.
Today, I made my debut on the public speaking circuit: I addressed the Louisville Ad Federation, one of the oldest and most active ad clubs in the country, on the topic of interactive advertising. My speech was supposed to be a holiday case study, but I turned it into a discussion of online dating — how to build a relationship with your customers online. I made some jokes (even daring ones — "Okay, what typically happens on the third date? Please, answer to yourselves), showed some pretty good work, and got a warm reception.
Despite the fact that I practically talk for a living, the notion of standing up with a microphone has been making me a nervous wreck: I'd wake up at the Panic Hour (somewhere between 3:15 and 4:15 a.m.), my heart racing at the notion of it. But it went well, I think. I'm no Barack, but I've learned a few things:
1) Some gentle teasing (of oneself and one's strange rooster-covered dress, of account people, of clients) is disarming.
2) Romance is a great metaphor for almost anything. It's racy and relatable.
3) Everyone always assumes they're so dumb and you're so smart. I know I always assume that about other people (they're smart and I'm dumb). We can't all be that dumb (or smart) if we're so interested in what everyone else has to say.
4) This is the advice I give to people who work for me, that I had to remind myself of: it's not a presentation, it's a conversation. Even when you're holding the microphone.
