Cords and Fleece

“Can I make a maraca?” Wha...huh? It’s 7am on a school day and energetic young Elizabeth already has a project. “I want to take something, put something in it, then put tape over it and make a maraca. Can I do that?” she continued. “Well, sure.” Who am I to quell a creative impulse? “But you have to hurry. You have to get ready for school soon, so when I tell you it’s time to stop, you have to stop and get dressed, OK? Do you understand?” (See, you have to be very clear and think of possible outcomes ahead of time--i.e. she may not want to stop when I ask her to. So it’s very important to get them to agree, in advance , to stop when you ask them to. Trust me.) “OK,” she agreed and ran off to collect water bottles and hair clips. She poured water out from the bottles, put the clips inside, put the caps back on the bottles, then wrapped tape around the caps. Michael did a double-take as he walked by and noticed this step. He tried to tell her that tape wasn’t necessary, but he just didn’

I was happily washing lettuce. Michael and the girls were outside looking through magazines and cutting comics out of the newspaper. Michael came in, asked about dinner, then went outside again. After I heard the screen door close, I heard Michael gasp, “Oh, no! Elizabeth. Never, ever do that! Nooo!” The screen door opened and shut again, and Michael returned with a pair of scissors in one hand and a lock of Elizabeth’s hair in the other. It was bound to happen. Scissor-happy Lizzy is always cutting something. She loves to cut pictures out of magazines and then tape them together. My favorite cutting project was the time she snipped all the heads out of a pad of paper we often find tucked in our front door. There, lined neatly in a row, was our local realtor, one head after the other -- some with slightly less hair, some with slightly more, but all smiling. Pair that with her frequent complaints about her hair “bothering” her neck, and it was inevitable. Not to mention she’s “threaten

I need to sit myself down and have a long talk with myself. I was shopping at Trader Joe’s, hoping to find something quirky and interesting for a party at Elizabeth’s school. But I forgot -- I’m not used to "interesting". I’m used to tubes of potato chips and cheese-flavored goldfish, so I decided to go to Ralph’s where I can find Cheetos and Teddy Grahams. However, a container of cocoa-covered almonds caught my eye and was too tempting to resist. The lines were long, but a nice older woman asked if I would like to go before her. “I just hate it when you’re standing there with one item, and people won’t let you go first. Don’t you?” “Oh, well thank you. That’s very sweet,” I said and stepped in front. “Have you ever let someone go in front of you?” she asked. Clearly this was an important issue for her. “Yes, I have,” I said smiling, pleased with myself because it was true. “It gives you a good feeling, doesn’t it?” “Yes. Yes it does.” We smiled. It was nice. Soon I departed

Today I want to grow my hair long and straight and keep it in a braid down my back. Today I want to quit my job and take photographs of homeless people and construction sites. Today I want to wear leather and drive an amber Harley with two black leather rucksacks on either side: one containing a camera and iBook; the other containing my weed. Today I want to shake hands with strangers. Today I want to dance in the street. Today I want to take my girls out of school, dress them in batik and walk through fields of wildflowers, birds nests and garter snakes. Instead of working for money, today I want to work for trade. In exchange for a web site, story or photograph, please give me your 67 Mustang, your Nikon camera, or your dog; or a really good meal. Today I want live in a city loft with built-in bookshelves and a corner market down the street. I want to walk to used bookstores, antique shops and art galleries. I want to buy organic vegetables and place rose extract behind my ears. Tod

“Do you have any vitamin supplements for cats -- you know, some sort of cancer-curing vitamins?” Yes, that came out of my mouth. Yes, I was sincere. I realized how absurd it sounded just before the question mark. I went to Whole Foods seeking something to heal the wound on Exene’s cheek; something to reduce the redness and swelling in her left eye. But as I started asking questions, I realized I was seeking a cure. Her wounds aren’t going to disappear. Exene didn’t get them from a cat fight or from licking a discarded can of tuna fish. She has cancer. Now, today , I realize how powerless I am. When our pets are wounded, we douse their scrapes with antibiotic sprays, we cover them with ointments, we affix bandages to them. Naturally, seeing her wounds, I did what common sense told me to do: I tried to fix it. But I just can’t. This morning I was like a child. Driving to work, I thought about Exene’s decline. I worried about the possibility of feeding her through a tube. Already she resi

On weekend mornings, the girls comes into our room, snuggle for a while, and Elizabeth whispers into my ear, “I want Froot Loops in a bowl -- no milk in a bowl -- just milk in a cup to drink. And a wanna watch TV. OK?” Then she hugs me and climbs down, knowing I’ll soon follow. If Samantha is there, she says, “I want Loop-Loops and I wanna watch TV, too!” Then she also climbs down. If I linger under the covers, Samantha turns back to implore, “Come on, Mommy. Put on your black dress.” The "black dress" is really my dark blue robe which hangs on the corner of our bed. Samantha knows that I start each day by first donning my “black dress”. Before I go to the bathroom, before I brush my teeth, before I get Loop-Loops and milk, I put on my back dress. Occasionally she fetches it for me, and the message is clear: Get up, now! It’s so much edgier to think of it as my back dress than my old blue robe. When I get up, I don’t put on some tired old thing I’ve had for years. Instead, I

This morning we drove to work listening to “Point Me in the Direction of Albuquerque” sung by David Cassidy -- a song featured on Michael’s latest and greatest CD mix of “bubble gum” music. “Again!” cried Elizabeth when it was over. “You like that song, sweetie? What do you like about it?” “I like it when they sing ‘sparkeee’.” Sparky? It took us a minute to realize that she misunderstood “point me” as “sparky”. We played it again, and Michael explained that this song is about a runaway who misses her family and wants to return home. “She’s sad and lost,” he explained, “and this... man... is helping her.” We could hear questions forming in her mind. What man? We couldn’t say he was a “stranger” because we’re fresh from stranger-talk. Right now we’re teaching Elizabeth that strangers are to be avoided. Don’t talk to them. Don’t leave with them. Don’t let them give you things. If they approach you, run away, and if they try to put you on a bus, run away screaming . Strangers = bad. For

I see ghosts on my daily commute. Near my home there’s a man who walks with his dog. He’s an older man who wears a green army T-shirt. His dog wears a red bandana around his neck and an American flag juts up from his collar. They walk slowly. He’s a retired vet, I imagine, parading his dog and his patriotism throughout the neighborhood each day. He worries me. More than once he’s crossed a busy intersection without checking to see if cars were coming. I’d hate to drive along one day to see the old man and his dog lying in a pool of red, white and blue blood. Next on my way to work, my husband and I see the Longhair Couple. They’ve been walking towards campus for at least 7 years. We’re fond of them. This heterosexual couple wears their dark blonde hair in long ponytails down their backs. She’s a little taller, so her thin hand takes lead position. He mostly wears cargo shorts, even on brisk winter mornings. They remind us of Iowa City, circa 1990, which is the time and place of our cou

Turns out, boys are pretty much the same at age 4 as they are at 24. Alone, they’re perfect gentlemen. They wait patiently. They’re polite. They allow girls to play, free from harassment. But add another boy to the mix and together they turn into mischievous devils that torture the cat and cause other children to cry. Welcome to Elizabeth’s fourth birthday! For the big event, Elizabeth requested to wear her hair down so she could adorn her birthday hat. (”I can’t wear my birthday hat over pigtails!” True enough.) To my surprise, she wore her hat all day and to bed that night. I soon learned that she wasn’t simply wearing a paper hat with her name on it. She was wearing a crown of entitlement. Elizabeth took full emotional advantage of her birthday; pouting, throwing herself onto the couch in despair, running from the room. “It’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to” is more about getting one’s rights (above and beyond one’s normal rights, mind you) than being wronged. I observed a gr

Three months ago, we lost our “first born cat”, Klaus, of 15 years. (Good Lord, this hasn’t been a good year for cats at our house.) Explaining his death to our very small children has not been easy, as demonstrated in the following exchanges. My husband and I have taken the straightforward, death-is-death path without referencing an afterlife. Grandma has presented the “higher” path to the girls which leads to heaven, reincarnation, and sometimes even ghosts . Who said you have to give your kids only one viewpoint? -------- Me: “Honey, Klaus has died. He’s not at the vet’s or anywhere else. He’s gone and is not coming back.” Elizabeth: “Well, can I call him on the telephone?” --------- “If I catch a mouse, I’m going to bring it to Exene or Meg... or I’ll get in my car and drive to heaven and give it to Klaus.” Ms. Elizabeth --------- “I miss Klaus. He’s my friend.” Ms. Samantha --------- Elizabeth: “Where’s Klaus?” Grandma: “He’s passed on, but he’ll always be with us. He’s probably h

I hate crying in the parking lot in the morning; especially before work and especially before a meeting -- not to mention it’s hell on my makeup (well, what little I wear, anyway). But as a working mother, that’s how it goes sometimes. Elizabeth and I have parted hundreds of times when I take her to daycare. On good days, she runs to the window and I run to the other side, trampling grass and flowers. I breathe hot fog onto the window and write the letters she silently mouths; usually an “E” (for Elizabeth) and an “S” (for Samantha). I add a heart and she smiles. Then we laugh and wave goodbye. It’s a good start to the day. Most days we part with a bearable ache that slowly dissipates with our daily distractions. Generally we leave one another smiling, except when she was very small and just starting daycare. I expected it to be tough at the beginning and toughened myself as much as I could against her tears, and mine. But last Thursday was dreadful -- mostly because I was not prepared

Samantha (singing): “Mary had a little man, little man, little man...” Elizabeth (correcting): “No! It’s not ‘man’, it’s ‘lamb’.” Samantha (defending): “Mary had to poo-poo!” “I was a grown up all day today. I want you to be a grown up, too.” Elizabeth said she had a secret for me and this is what she whispered in my ear. I don’t know why. “Why is she screaming?” Elizabeth asked this while listening to Bjork. Me: “No, you can’t watch cartoons and eat Fruit Loops on the couch. It’s a school day.” Elizabeth: “Shhh! ...Samantha is sleeping.” Genius. Elizabeth: “Samantha, you’re silly.” Samantha: “I’m not Silly. I’m Samantha!” “On some people’s gates, there are words that say, ‘Don’t Come In’ ...unless you’re wearing the same shirt. Then it’s OK.” Ms. Elizabeth Elizabeth hands the Costco Exit-Checker our receipt so that she can hastily confirm that we haven’t stolen anything. For cute little kids, Exit-Checkers usually draw smiley faces or flowers. Elizabeth bucks the trend. Elizabeth: “Co

More than disliking my small boobs, I hate wearing bras. I'm sure many ample-bosomed, Victoria-Secret-wearing women all over the world Tsk when I say this. Wearing bras is what mature women do. It’s a rite of passage we anxiously await, like getting our first period. But while bras have a purpose and bring about certain pleasures, they’re a hell of a nuisance in our day-to-day lives. And for some of us, bra-wearing is a pointless endeavor. I remember when I first got my boobs, how excited I was. I looked down as I changed into my nightgown and saw It. Yes, “it” -- because if you didn’t know already, boobs don’t magically appear fully-formed and simultaneously -- at least not for me. I had to coax mine out, one at at time, like nervous little squirrels. They didn’t descend all at once on my body like a bomb as it did with some of my friends. I drank milk, I exercised, and I pleaded with them. Slowly my shy girls peeked out, little by little. Come on, girls. Where are you? Come on ou