Category Archive

It’s after lunch and the kids are playing in the rec room. Washing the dishes, I analyze the snippets of conversation that I can overhear. I am certain the children are using the dress-up clothes and the Tae Kwon Do paddle in their latest game of “Make-Believe.” I consider intervening.

“I’m takin’ a bwake,” calls Henry, climbing upstairs. “But, whath your name again, ma’am?”

He runs into the kitchen wearing a police helmet and SWAT vest.

“I’m hungwy,” he says.

I guess the hostages can wait. Henry wants a donut.

We have a conspiracy in our family that’s bigger than the bunny, more fantastical than the fairy, practically more sacrosanct than that chimney sweep who wears red.

It’s all about the Pig.

Henry and his stuffed “Piggy” are a duo. You don’t often find one without the other. If Piggy is missing, our family goes on red alert until she is found. Piggy comforts Henry like none of us can. Sometimes, she even speaks on his behalf. Piggy is Henry’s best friend and champion.

Henry is long past the age my other kids were when I told them about the origins of bacon. And even though it’s something Henry should be told, I haven’t told him and I actively discourage others from telling him, too.  I reason that he will be upset to learn that the fork he holds in one hand is spearing, in a figurative sense, the friend he holds in the other. I rationalize that telling him will only spark more battles at the dinner table.

On inspecting my motives for keeping the Secret of the Pork, I recognize the truth: I want to preserve his innocence. Because Henry is my baby. He is my previously unlooked for miracle-child; the one whose due date was December 25. He is the last of my brood.

Almost without my perceiving it, he has become a pre-schooler. Not only does he now expertly articulate his immediate needs; he also makes surprising observations about his world. His little body hums with energy and curiosity. He grasps the seeds of his independence firmly and with purpose as he pushes the boundaries I set for him.

I never thought I would feel this way. From their births, I pushed my kids to move on to the next phase, stage, year. I wanted them older because that meant they’d be easier for me to manage. I wanted a diaper-less, stroller-less, high-chair free world. And finally, I have it. Except now, like many others, I want time to freeze.

I can’t stop time. But I can delay the inevitable by keeping this one, small secret.

Your whine scrapes my nerves.
Rusty hinge. Must lubricate.
Wine, wine and more wine.

There were five Fedex Kinko’s employees behind the counter when Henry and I walked in. “Ummm, hello?” I queried, realizing that none of them were going to approach me. “It’ll be a moment,” one of them muttered, not looking up from his computer screen. After waiting almost ten minutes for assistance, I gave up trying to distract my squirming child and let him do exactly what he wanted, which was to spin the greeting card holder until the cards blurred.

I had spent the better part of the morning trying to upload various versions of a five-page document on the Fedex Kinko’s print-on-demand website. My frustration had increased exponentially with every “unsuccessful upload” notice and I was mentally flogging myself for volunteering to produce the classroom directory when the site finally accepted my file.

This is how I ended up driving twelve miles, one-way, with my three-year-old son—at that special time of day which ought to be reserved for naps—only to stand in line at Fedex Kinko’s.

“Hey Rob,” said one of the copy guys to another. “Has anyone started the Hollister order?”

“Hey Rob,” I said, giving voice to my Inner Bitch. “Has anyone started working at this counter?”

They gave me my pre-paid order. But, I still needed to make copies.

I dragged Henry over to the self-serve color photocopier, put the original in the feeder, and punched the buttons for 16 collated packets. It jammed on the first set. You could have fried an egg on my head when we marched out.

Reluctantly, I drove to the other copy shop – the UPS store—the one located a mile from my house but whose website would not accommodate my large PDF file.

The UPS customer service agent held the door open for Henry and I when he saw us walking toward the store. I was shocked by his courteousness.

“How can I help you?” he asked as he returned to his spot behind the counter.

The gentleman adroitly made my copies, packaged and shipped a present I was sending to a friend, assisted two customers who came in behind me, and took two phone calls—all in the same amount of time that I had wasted at that other place.

It is a pleasure to be helped by someone who is good at their job. Big props, Steve at the UPS store. You saved my day.

As I was leaving, printed directories in hand, I suddenly recalled a moment with Liam when he was about three years old. We were walking on Church Street, hand-in-hand, when he stopped and pointed at a UPS truck. He posed the question, “What can Brown do for you?”

At the time, I had been both amused and appalled by how much advertising my son was absorbing in front of the television.

Now, I have an answer to that question. Because Brown did it for me.

*Lest you think I was compensated in any way to write this: I did not. I am gratified by words alone. Comments always appreciated.

“No, I-I-I-I-I-I-I don’t want to fall in love…,” the rest of the chorus was drowned out by the din the children were making at our table. It was just as well. I never liked that song. The twenty-something waitresses rolled their eyes. Either Chris Isaak disgusted them or our game of Chase-the-Three-Year-Old-Around-the-Patio was too much to take on a Monday. On the lunch shift.

“Put on somethin’ good!” shouted our unnaturally red-haired waitress to her friend at the stereo. “Heah’s ya beeahs,” she said to us, depositing pints of Sam Adams and plastic tumblers of milk on the cardboard coasters-cum-frisbees. (We were on vacation and anyway, it was noon somewhere!) Thirty seconds later, Henry was seated and singing gustily: “Don’t think too much just bust that stick/ I wanna take a ride on your disco stick.”

My husband and I drank deeply.

The song about stiff sticks segued, inexplicably, to “Billie Jean.” Thrilled with the Gloved One’s genius, Henry leaped from his chair. We watched him bounce, flail and shake with self-abandonment. Surprisingly, we were rewarded for our indulgent parenting. (That’s my code for laziness.) At the end of his spontaneous performance, Henry executed a perfect one-footed spin a la the King of Pop. The kid has moves.

If only he had them from me.