He Sees You When You're Driving

On December 2, I was in a hurry to take Milo to school. I sat in my car at the light on 24th Street that turns left onto Guadalupe (and don't worry, this story has no accident-related drama). You know, the really short left-hand turn light because of all the effing pedestrians, the one that lets approximately 4.5 alert cars through before turning red? Well I was at that light, the fourth car in line to turn, and the person in front of me, this minivan that was moving in slowmo, like it was on a wildlife tour of the Drag, was about to make me miss the light. So I honked. A restrained "yo," as opposed to an all-out "movegetouttheway." But still, a honk. A rude-ass honk. The minivan moved.

So when I miraculously made the light behind this sloth, I saw the minivan SIGNAL RIGHT TO GO INTO THE PARKING LOT OF OUR PRESCHOOL. (Gulp.) What else could I do but drive around the block? I had to hide.

Milo said, "We not go school we go Pie house?" Busted. I said, "Uh, maybe. We'll see Pie, okay? We'll go to school in a few minutes." "Two minutes?" he said, which is the only measure of time he can articulate beyond now and never.

The shame! I drove around some blocks and called Pie. She laughed (a lot). We discussed the logistics of who I might have honked at. The associated politics. My frustration and remorse.

It didn't matter who I honked at. This moment was a fitting reminder of the persistent advice of Stacy's mother, the lovely Jane Lively (who collected coffee cups but didn't drink coffee): be sweet.

Oh, and be sweet all the time, apparently. Because Santa is watching you. Or maybe just the driver of a minivan from preschool.

Synonyms

Milo is obsessed with these granola bars for kids, which, despite their organic ingredients, are little more than cookies in the shape of granola bars. Yesterday, he wandered around the house, wailing, "I WANT Z BAR! I WANT Z BAR!" Lucy trailed behind him, mocking his wails. Me: Lucy, don't make fun of your brother.

Lu: Mom, I am not making fun of him. I am copying him, which the same as imitating him, which is more like mimicking him.

Me: Lucy, don't mimic your brother.

Lu: Okay.

Milo: I WANT Z BAR!

Sign of the Times (or Siri is Your New Mommy)

One day last week, while trying to decide if she needed a jacket, Lu hollered across the house, "Hey Dad, ask your phone what the weather is gonna be like today!" Jason did not blink. He picked up his phone and said to it (without irony), "What will the weather be today?"

AND IT TOLD HIM. Oh, and when I tried to refresh his memory about this moment, he did not remember. Because he talks to his phone more than he talks to me. Only with clearer diction and more patience.

These are very modern problems we are dealing with.

I am going to train Milo to ask the iPhone to change his diaper, sketching the final dark scene in my semi-non-fictional play "Siri Poppins."

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.