Overheard

Lucy, tossing herself on the ground with a harrumph, "THIS PLACE IS LIKE JAIL." This, after every other negotiation tactic and extortion technique on her part had failed. She had to face the cruel reality: finish your math project or Milo and Mom are going to the park without you.

The scratch of her colored pencil after she relented was positively murderous, but the kid finished. And we went to the park.

Mercy

Airline travel makes refugees of all of us. We obey the rules and shuffle through the lines, shoeless and ignoble. Those of us who travel a lot have systems designed to make us better and more efficient than our stocking-footed fellows, but we're all the same — pilgrims and potential terrorists just trying to get home. Friday night, I arrived early at JFK for my delayed flight, so I wasn't in my usual very-important-businessperson rush. I moved slowly enough to notice the family in front of me, preparing to go through the first of several security checks. A woman in her mid-to-late 40s was tenderly arranging the parcels and persons of two older people — her parents — in the exact same way we'd pack small children off to school.

"Dad, your glasses are falling out of your pocket. There. No, see, there? There you go. Mom, go ahead and untie your shoes because you're going to have to take them off? And keep your boarding passes and your drivers' licenses out, okay?"

As her parents walked away from her through the security line she couldn't cross, the middle-aged daughter sheep-dogged the nylon rope, watching them, waving. I struck up a conversation and found out they're from Buena Vista, Colorado, and they don't travel much anymore except once a year to see their daughter in New York and their granddaughter in Vermont. As we snaked through the long security line, the daughter watched and waved, like she was sending her parents off to kindergarten.

The older couple was flummoxed by the lines and stern directions at the x-ray scan. SHOES OFF. SHOES DIRECTLY ON THE BELT. ELECTRONICS IN A BIN. COAT OFF. BOARDING PASS OUT. "Do I need to take my sweater off? Do I put it in a bin?" As I answered their questions, I could see the daughter far away against the nylon rope. They waved. I waved. She waved back.

I went first, efficiently, but hung back to see how they were doing. The man limped through first, one leg dragging from a bum hip, and I said, "Do you need anything?"

"Oh no, dear, you go on. Have a safe trip," he said.

They carefully gathered their shoes and sweaters and parcels, unaware of the line they were holding up behind them. I could see their daughter lingering, small beyond the security glass and the ropes and the other ropes, clutching her hands, straining to see her mom and dad.

I wanted to follow them to their gate, but I didn't. I thought, If they need help, someone will notice. Flying reminds us that we are all here at the mercy of each other.

Broccoli Car

Stage One: Man, it smells musty in here. I must have spilled water on the floormat. Need to air the car out.Stage Two: What IS that smell? That's not good. Did I leave a dirty diaper in the diaper bag in the trunk? Stage Three: OMG, where is the dead mouse? I don't see it but I know — for sure — something died in here. Where is it -- WAIT A SECOND... Stage Four: Oh. A container of uneaten broccoli from Milo's lunch from last week. Egghcckk.

Broccoli Car.

When You Ignore Your Children

For much of the day, Milo pushed a baby ("My baby!") around in a shopping cart ("I go byebye with baby, k?"), while wearing sunglasses and a beaded necklace. Ultimately, he decided baby needed one of the dee-luxe shopping carts with a front-facing seat/car, so he put a small chair in front of the shopping cart to push around. Oh, and for most of this, he had a giant eraser of Lucy's tucked between his chin and shoulder: his phone, which he was using to talk to Honour and Granny. Meanwhile, Lucy took her dolls, Kit and Ruby, on vacation on a plane, with many trunks and bags. As best I could tell by listening in, they were accompanied and bossed around by someone with an English accent (governess?), who kept saying imperiously that certain things "wouldn't do."

Oh, and when I pulled up in the driveway, she was putting on some kind of musical that involved choreography and an umbrella.

Milo Knows My Name

If I ask him my name, he says, "Mommy," but sometimes he says "Cupcake" — maybe because Kate sounds like cake which he always calls cupcake? And cupcakes are awesome. If you ask him his name, he will say "Mino" or "cracker." (At which point I tell him, "Baby, you just look like a cracker, but you are really quite diverse.")

He knows the names of his teachers. He talks almost constantly. Today at Central Market, he lost his balloon and said to it, "Uh oh, balloon go bye bye. Bye, balloon, byeeee." He kept pointing it out to me: "Balloon up there? Balloon go bye bye?" And then when we left the store, long after that balloon was out of sight, he said, "Bye, balloon."

S.M.A.R.T.

Time Out

Yesterday, Grover was being really naughty. He kept pushing Babar and Milo. Then he had to go to time out. Repeatedly. I only know this because 1) Milo kept tattling on him to me and Jason and 2) I kept walking past the very spot where we put Milo in time out, and poor naughty Grover was flopped there in a blue heap, no doubt contemplating his misdeeds. Or revenge.