Lu York City, Day 3

Waking up to the street sounds of New York, snuggling Lu as she slept between me and Jason in the king-size bed (pretty comfortably, as we are not big people), I thought, this is life for city people. I sat up to the crash of a dumpster being emptied and surveyed the hotel room, flannels and plaids and industrial fixtures cast in a little strip of dawn that made it decidedly less romantic than in the hipster dark. I thought, my god, this would be our apartment — where would we even put Milo? Lu, charmingly exhausted, continued to sleep while we stirred. We finally got her moving with the promise of pancakes and a "fancy dress show." After breakfast at Penelope, Lucy and I went to the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met (thanks to Meg and Grandma Susie for the recommendation!), for which I'd bought the special "Mondays at the Met" tickets when the rest of the museum is closed.

The retrospective was exquisite: one of the most dramatic and interesting things I've ever seen at a museum. Lu was less impressed. At one point, she partially lay down in the exhibit, clutching a phantom pain in her side that seemed to correlate strongly with boredom, exclaiming, "I can't go on." (Dear serious museum patrons who paid $50 a head for the private ticket to the McQueen exhibit, I am sorry. You should talk to the management about instituting some kind of culture stamina quiz so this kind of seven-year-old riffraff doesn't get in.) When we got to the end, she wanted to go back to see a few more things, like "the dress that looked like seaweed" and "that red one with the feathers." She did like it, but if I'd wanted the full experience, I'd have gone with Meg or Grandma Susie: alas, Lu did her best.

The rest of the day was magic with Dad: FAO Schwarz and chocolate and a nap in the king-size bed. When I met up with them later, she was even a good sport about eating at Momofuku, the land of much strange and wonderful food.

Lu York City, Day Two

After brunch at Sarabeth's (Goldie Lox anyone?) we headed to Central Park, where I went for a run and Jason and Lu went to the city's best playground to meet John, Jess, Grace and Maddie, a bunch of Austin friends we'd serendipitously run into on the flight (worthwhile side note: these are good pals that we can never coordinate with because we are mutually busy and disorganized — leave it to fate). I tagged in after my run, then Jason left to meet Mary for the Yankee game (Yankee loss, Jason victory over beer and hot dogs). Despite the heat and the walking, Lu enjoyed the playdate with Grace, the carousel ride and lots of carnival fun (Central Park is days of discovery, and we'd allotted a mere morning). The heat and stimulation took its toll: by the time I hustled her back to the hotel to get ready for Mary Poppins, we were both pretty beat. No matter. The show must go on. Or at least that's what I was telling myself as I carried a 40-pound kid on my back halfway uptown. While wearing silk. In 100 degree heat. In fairness, she walked most of the way herself (WITH GREAT COMPLAINT).

We made it with minutes to spare and found ourselves ensconced in AC and stage lights. A spoonful of overpriced Sprite (or Chardonnay) helped the medicine go down, indeed. Cue music and ... she was rapt. She sat on the edge of her seat and sang along, her attention never flagged and she spared me any of those I-paid-good-money-for-you-to-have-the-time-of-your-life-so-you-better-dammit moments. Getting autographs at the stage door was even better.

After that we subjected her to a fancy-hipster seafood meal at The John Dory, rewarded her with Shake Shack (original location), then bed for everyone at 9:30.

Lu York City, Part One

Last week we took Lucy to New York! For years she's been begging to go, knowing that her two conditions were that she 1) be able to walk a lot and 2) try new foods. At last, we decided she was ready, and she did not disappoint. She walked miles through the city, including a big swath of Central Park and a hasty thirteen-block trek up to 42nd street for a show. She ate, among other things, raw Spanish mackerel with charred jalapeño and grapefruit and steamed pork buns. Here's a video report on Day 1:

She forgot to mention that we spent our first evening (in bars!) with some dear friends, two of whom are Austin transplants to New York, relishing the city like exchange students, along with our friend Mary, who has a love affair with New York unlike anyone I know. It was Mary who wrote me and Jason our first personal New York guide, the inside track that started our own love affair with the city. As Mary walked with us up Fifth Avenue toward dinner, she told us that she was seven when her parents first took her to New York. I think we are off to a good start.

Nobody Likes It When

...Milo calls his preschool teacher "Mama." While I realize that 1) "Miss-jess-i-ca" has many syllables and 2) said Miss Jessica is a sweet, nubile creature with a certain Snow White quality, the boy is forgetting which side his bread is buttered on (and who toasts said whole grain bread. And applies the butter. And accompanies it with organic turkey sausage.).

Mama? Oh, don't mind me. I'm over here with a bit of your lunch smeared on my left shoulder and 3 guys and 2 trucks in my pocket. We're cool.

[Ed. note: We here at lucyandmilo.com are starting a new series: Nobody Likes it When. We'd say "enjoy," except that it's a pretty grouchy little series. Instead: Harumph. Commiserate.]

News of the Weird

Long time no blog. Apologies and...updates: So weird that I am 38. Sigh. I'd give myself long odds on accomplishing everything I'd intended to between now and 40, but the good news is, the lead on any post-Pulitzer interview could now be, "Amazingly, she toiled for years in advertising and didn't publish her first novel until the age of 39 (or so)." For now, I toil in advertising-ish things until the muse (read: giant expanse of free time) strikes me. Which I have been warned it never does, in which case I will be a Grandma Moses of "mom"oirs and pithy short stories. Milo is not that weird, but at the peak of his charms. Really, he's a bit of an asshole. But he has this sly, sweet look — you know, the kind the cute guy in algebra gave you just before he asked to cheat off your homework? This is the look Milo is giving to check-out girls and passers-by. There's an outside chance that Milo is cool. He will be applying for some kind of exchange program soon after realizing that no one else here is cool. Sorry in advance, kid.

Lucy: a strong force in keeping Austin weird. Ah, Lucy, I go to her next, not because she is not cool (there's still a chance, baby girl), but because I see her approaching an age where it matters to be cool. And I see her approaching that age wearing a crocheted tail, many layers of costume jewelry and fake eyeglasses. She will be fine (for this week, at least: she's going to art camp).

Jason = more dweeb than weird. For my birthday he gave me a French press and a subscription to The Art of Eating, the indie food mag the NYT calls "erudite" — clear evidence that he not only gets me, but also the person I aspire to be.

We are weird. We are here. Get used to it.

Shells

As Lucy and I walked along the beach looking for good shells on Friday, we held hands. We did not rush. We were quiet and patient — two rarities for both of us. We did our task and enjoyed each other's company, considering the rosy color of one shell, why this one had a hole, what a pretty piece of sand dollar. In this moment, I pondered how little true attention I give her. Maybe her volume — both the number of words she says and how loud she says them – is a function of how hard she has to fight for an audience in our noisy, noisy life?

During our quiet walk, we found a few modest beauties, which thrilled Lu, but I hid my disappointment at not finding a whole sand dollar. Just as we headed back, we passed a pretty white-haired woman who was on her own shell hunt. I said, teasing, "Good luck — I think we got all the good ones already!"

The lady smiled, wordless, and held out her hand. In it was a perfect sand dollar. She must have picked it up right behind us. In a moment very much out of our shared character, Lu and I agreed we just needed to keep looking. And so we are.

Lucy: Hoarder

I've been cleaning out Lucy's room. A brief inventory tells it all. What I found: Detritus from the plastic tide constantly battering our shore. News: we are losing to the tide. I found myself picking up tiny pieces of plastic asking, "What IS this?" A bolt from the space shuttle? A prized gem? The one little thingie that fits into the other thingie? I have several Ikea containers of items for which I couldn't answer that question. If in the next three weeks, nothing collapses and no fits are thrown, they're gone.

Several caches of acorns and pecans. Is she a squirrel? Is it wartime? Are we not feeding her enough?

Approximately 1,327 stickers. About 1% of which were adhered to inappropriate surfaces.

Three containers of Scotch tape. This in house with a child who is always either asking 1) "Can I watch TV?" or 2) "Where is the tape?" Where IS the damn tape? Oh, it's in your room.

Those lost socks. Luckily, she's down with the non-matching-socks fashion statement.

Oh, the rocks. So many rocks. And shells. And even another dang bone (smallish — a deer foot, maybe?), despite my blanket ban on any new bones coming into this house. She's a freaking archaeologist.

Trash. Really, this is a whole category of stuff ranging from gum wrappers to popsicle sticks (used, people, not the kind intended for crafts) to cardboard of any kind. I hate to stifle a burgeoning artist whose primary medium is the found, but ew. One must draw a line. Mine is the UNWASHED CUP used as part of baseball stadium model.

Necklaces, bracelets, makeup brushes, tubes of lip balm. All of which are MINE. Finding my lost stuff in her nest is both annoying and sweet. I choose to think of these stashes as little altars to mom.

The starts of many stories. I have to confess to saving choice pieces of paper — any artifact or memory that could be filed away.

We're not done by a long shot, but at least no one from TLC (or CPS) is coming.

p.s. PLEASE, don't buy her anything. I will pay you not to.

Oh, Hello

The past few weeks have been a test of my relationship-maintenance skills. I have failed. Any of you who rely on this blog to know what in the world we're doing, what can I say but "I'm sorry." For those of you who actually picked up the phone to call (and got no response), I am extra sorry. All is good here is Lucyandmiloland. Nothing new but the usual May marathon of end-of-year events and school holidays. Plus I was on a massive work deadline counting down to seven days in New York: fun-filled professional development + many good meals. While I pretended to be very important, Jason held down the fort at home. Miraculously, laundry and homework and piano lessons got done.

Ed. note: Jason, upon reading this post, rolled his eyes at the word "miraculously."

Did You Know...

... that the closest living relative of the manatee is the elephant? ...that "Do" (as in "Doe a Deer") is the note C? And that Lucy can sing each note nearly perfectly before playing it on the piano? (And that maybe I only think she's playing them nearly perfectly because I am a little tone deaf?)

...that the treble clef is a G clef and the bass clef is an F clef? And that there are some others, but we don't need to know them for piano right now? And, look, this line that goes up and down? That's a measure.

...that pinnipeds are wing-footed mammals (seals, walruses, sea lions, you know)?

Confession: all the above was news to me. Mind is reeling from all I learned during piano lesson (Jason normally handles this) and all the discussion leading up to and after today's  Sea World visit.