Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Dear Babies,

It’s a glorious day. The sun is shining. A breeze is blowing. Is this what it’s like to live in San Diego? I wouldn’t know: The one time I rented a house there on the beach for a week it rained everyday, and everywhere I went every person I met felt the need to tell me, “Oh, you’re from New York? What a week to come here! Funny but it NEVER rains…” which would leave me thinking, is it me?

We had such a nice walk into town this morning. We saw geese. The boats. We met a nice young kid who said he was doing community service at the park and that he mowed the whole lawn yesterday, and that it took him four hours. And I chatted with him, warily, thinking “I hope he’s here doing community service  out of the kindness of his heart and not serving a prison sentence.” Here was this good kid, and here was me the skeptic questioning if such a thing as “a good kid” is possible in today’s world.–“Gee, Ward, I sure hope that Wally is wearing his ankle monitor today…”–Is that a parent thing to trust no one, or is it me?

We met a woman at the deli who was there with her one week old son. She said she was happy to be out of the house. I said how great to be out, too, on a day like today!, and you could hear the exclamation point with my inflection. She complimented me on our stroller. She said she had just bought the same one, she also has a two-year-old girl. She asked me how I like it. I said I loved it. I raved about it to the point where I was this close to quoting “Annie Hall”–“I luurve [the stroller], I loave [the stroller], I luff [the stroller], and that’s with two f’s!”–but sometimes even I self-edit. We left the deli and turned the corner and, as if we’d been struck by lightning, heard a crack…the stroller, the beloved stroller!…a back wheel snapped right off. I then had to pop a wheelie and push you guys home that way, on two wheels. You, Baby Boy, flapping your feet while suspended in the air thinking “wow, Mom, thanks for the ride!” You, Baby Girl, hysterically laughing. Me, sweating, forever empathizing with desert mules. Does this stuff happen to other people? No. It must be me.

We came home and you jumped off the kitchen table and got a bloody nose, Baby Girl. Please note that the abnormality there is not that you were on the kitchen table, but that you jumped off and banged your nose. When I finally got everyone settled, when I finally got you guys down for a nap, when I finally cleaned up the tornado that was the kitchen, I got the following text from Grumpah:

“Guess where I am?”

I could not guess. Truthfully, I did not want to guess.

He then sent me this one:

I did not respond.

He called to tell me, as if the suspense had been killing me, he is shooting today at a polo match. “Oh, wow,” I said, as I stepped on a pea with my bare foot.

He asked how you guys are, and I said, “fine.”

“How’s your day going?” he asked.

And I said fine.

Because it is fine.

It is not me.

It is me and you and you, and everyone else out there caught in the current of a day.

It is me and Lou Reed, having the perfect day, drinking sangria in the park.

Love,

Mom

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