A Bike Ride

Saturday morning, while Jason played golf, the kids and I lay in bed deciding what to do. I ticked through the undone chores​, the piles of tasks cluttering my home and my head. Escape was the only option.

​"Let's go on a bike ride," I said.

"Yes! Bike ride!"​

The outing became a mission.​ Tires? Check. Sunscreen? Check. Guys? Check. Helmets, sword, water bottles, lunch money? Check, check, check, check.

The sun was out, and the air was metallic and cool from the rain the night before. We rode to the park past happy grass, the neighborhood clean. At the park, Lu climbed and spun, while Milo brandished his sword at playground dragons. I read a book in the shade, until Milo climbed into my lap to take a break, content to sit with me for a rare moment. He said he didn't like the mud, but I told him the rain had made the mud and rain was good, so mud was good too.

When we were done at the park, we rode off to have lunch. I held the handlebars lightly, my body and the bike supple over the road while Milo bumped along in the trailer behind me. As we coasted down the hill, Lu shouted, "Mom, wait for me." I said over my shoulder, "I'm here. You'll catch me."

What was making me so happy? I'd narrowed all my worries into only the actions needed to get my family safely and happily to our destination. I felt the wind and sun on my face, the road under my tires. I could hear the shouts of my children.

"We are going over a train," Milo proclaimed as we mounted the bridge over Mopac. "We are so high. Isn't that amazing?" And it was.

Nocturnal Animals: Installment 2

The raccoon family has moved on. The pest control guys confirmed it today, sealing up the attic so the raccoons and their rodent brethren couldn't get back in. (For the record, raccoons not rodents at all -- they are part of the bear family, and therefore classified as vermin and not pests. And you can sleep a lot easier when they're carrying on overhead. Oh, no wait, you can't, because they sure seem like effing pests in the wee hours of the night.)

One of the things I would do as I listened to them scratch and chitter is imagine the Disney version of the story...

A beleagured single mother raccoon (raccoon dads are notorious deadbeats) finds a place to shelter her newborn brood (our attic). They are happy there for a time. They frolic and grow into precocious children: Pepe, the spunky one, Rocky, the intellectual (who hated his cliched name) and Serafina, the protective older sister who takes care of the family when Mama goes out gather food. Their only worry: the dreaded trap the Evil Humans had placed in the attic. They know to avoid it at all costs.

One night when Mama is out, Pepe can't resist the Oreos that Pest Control Villain had used to bait the trap and SNAP, he is caught! Mama comes home to find Rocky and Serafina beside themselves, and they fight together valiantly to free Pepe from the inside of the cage.

The humans below here the mighty clatter of the raccoon family's struggle to free Pepe. They are certain of their victory over their enemies, the misunderstood raccoons. When Pest Control Villain comes to check the trap, the humans look on smugly to find...nothing. No trace of the raccoons, nor of the Oreos. 

Meanwhile, the night before, the raccoons pack up their meager treasures —  richer a few more Oreos and some important wisdom — and scuttle into the moonlight.​ "Come on, kids, we'll find a real home someday. I just know it."

Based on the true story of the raccoons in our attic, who evaded capture and moved along.

Unhealthy Sleep Habits, Unhappy...Everybody

Once, when Lu was two and a half, I was bragging to someone at a party (a sweet woman named Kristina) about what a good sleeper Lu was. I  pitied this poor woman, who was pregnant and worried about the fact that she still had to stroll her kid around the block to get it to sleep, and what would she do when the new baby came. Oh, bless your heart, I thought smugly, you not only have created bad sleep habits, but you've also gone and done a super crazy thing like have another baby. God smote me. That very night, my perfect sleeper began escaping from the crib, setting into motion a set of bad sleep habits that it took a good three months to undo.

Fast forward six years (yes, I was crazy enough to have another one) and here I am again (though Milo is a full year older than Lu was when the sleep shenanigans started). I am not sure who I bragged to, but I am being punished. Milo's sleep-related crimes:

Waking up in the middle of the night. We have let him come "sleep" in our bed. He ends up perpendicular to us both, usually with his feet in my ribs. Oh, and he snores which amounts to two men sleeping and snoring and one woman seething.

Waking up at 5. Almost every morning. Like some kind of rooster that says "DADDY, IT'S WAKE UP TIME." We let him in the bed with us and tell him to go back to sleep, it is not wake-up time. Instead he explores our facial orifices and asks every few minutes, in a stage whisper, "IS IT WAKE UP TIME YET?"

Peeing in the bed. This I can forgive, as he is three years old.

Peeing on the bed. As in, removing his pants and underwear and taking a protest piss onto his mattress. After he does it, he will yell, "MOM, I PEED!"

Getting out of bed, turning on the light and playing with his toys. Honestly, if he is quiet, I don't care if he does this. But he can now open the door to his room, the snack drawer, the front door, etc. so this requires a whole new level of Milo-proofing that we are too disorganized to manage.

Being a sleep-deprived jerk. Even the teachers at school have commented on his, er, attitude.

We are all tired. Even Clifford. This has to stop. Do they make pediatric doses of Ambien?

My Best Thing

I have a lot of good things to report today — small things, little happy tasks done (not the least of which was sending the children off to school and out of this house). It would be hard to pick even two of those for the proverbial Two Best Things. But I can pick ONE BEST THING: my friend Amanda is cancer-free today.

After a pretty grim diagnosis six months ago, she endured chemo and is now recovering from a double mastectomy and reconstruction — trials for the spirit and body I hope never to know. She managed with vulnerability and bravery, humor and aplomb.

And today she got the kind of news that makes you want to kiss a pathologist or get prostrate in thanks: no tumor, nothing in the lymph nodes, nothing for radiation, nothing to see here.

I offer a great yawp of a yay to the universe. Hug your healthy bodies.

C Stands for 'Can Do Better'

Lucy made a 79 on a book report. A BOOK REPORT. A book report where she mainly just had to decorate a pumpkin like a character in the book (a picture book, at that). She made a C on an arts and crafts project about a book. This from the child whose past-times are reading, writing and drawing/gluing/decorating. When we brought it up, she was not worried about the grade. She did her best, she said. Jason and I tried to be loving and supportive, restrained and encouraging. But what's the right way to say, "That wasn't your best, kid. We know how smart you are. And we want to see an effort that reflects your intelligence." Well, I don't know the right way, but that's pretty much exactly what we said.

I was more proud of the things I didn't say:

  • "This will go on your permanent record."
  • "We don't make B's, let alone C's in this house. Unless you count some lesser academic moments by both your parents. But we are notorious underachievers. You are better than that."
  • "You'll never get into a decent middle school with grades like that."
  • "Think about your future."
  • "We may be underfunding your 529 slightly and are counting on at least a partial scholarship. Pick up the grades or pick up some golf clubs."

This conversation caused much gnashing of teeth and dramatic wailing. At one point, she blamed me for her bad grade (which she finally gave up defending as good) because I bought her an ugly pumpkin. She seemed unconcerned about the grade, but offended by our conversation.

I don't want to pressure her. Except I do. But I can't make her care as much as we do.