In my experience, geography plays a large part in what Memorial Day means (beyond the honor-the-troops part that the newspapers remind us of annually, making me feel chastened for about the amount of time it takes me to finish reading the paper before heading off to one party or another).
Growing up in Los Angeles, it was the last day you could count on having an outdoor barbecue before July, since June is the only month in Southern California that can reliably be counted on to bring cold and rain. In the cities of New England and New York, Memorial Day represented a whispering hope of summer rarely fulfilled, when we found ourselves standing around at some optimistic outdoor venue shivering and hoping we wouldn't have to retrieve the umbrella from the car. Memorial Day was generally pretty warm in the DC environs, but also the bearer of summer thunderstorms and the feel of living in a dishwasher on the dry cycle that comes with endless days of 90 percent humidity. And the Memorial Day parties I recall from my days in St. Louis evoke memories of the scent of Off and citronella candles and of warm-ish cans of Budweiser sucked down in a desperate effort to stay ahead of the heat and bugs.
So how do we do the onset of summer in the WNC Hills?
Here in Asheville, The Boy and I celebrated by going to the pool at the JCC.
This is not, I suspect, what one might expect to hear when being told of a traditional Hillbilly Memorial Day. Jews and corncob pipes don't generally mix in the collective imagination. Nor does a place to swim that does not involve inner tubes, cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, and cut-off shorts.
We did, I hasten to point out, spend Saturday at the White Squirrel Festival in Brevard, forty minutes south of town. Turns out the festival wasn't about eating white squirrels, but we saw plenty of amateur replicas, lots of Boy Scouts and Chamber of Commerce types, and some really good live music. (In addition to retaining more of the hill culture than Asheville, Brevard is home to a highly regarded music school.) What we did not find, to Hubby's great disappointment, was a beer tent. But The Boy enjoyed the roasted corn on the cob that was available so much that Hubby forgave the Festival this major shortcoming.
Asheville, however, despite my best efforts to color it otherwise, is not exclusively hillbilly territory. Hence, the JCC pool is a gathering place, not only of Jews, but of other young, upscale transplants from California, New Jersey, and the Midwest. They grill brautwurst and drink microbrew IPA's. Their children rest between bouts in the pool with library books and colored pencils. True, the lifeguard to whom I spoke about possible swimming lessons for The Boy sported a shiny gold nipple ring and a thick hills accent, but Hubby assures me The Boy will speak like us, not like the other adults in his life, so I feel it will be safe for him to learn to swim from this man.
I was thrilled to discover this lovely summer ritual just a half mile from our home -- close enough to load up the stroller with snacks and baby sunblock and towels and hoof it over -- where neighbors greeted me warmly and mothers of The Boy's preschool friends chatted with me around the baby pool.
The Boy, however, was less enamored than I of the social possibilities offered by our JCC membership.
While he adored swimming in my parents' pool last summer, he was determined not to join the splashing, yelling mass of kids in this overwhelming, noisy, hot place. Clutching Buddy, his blankie, he allowed me to take him over to the baby pool to see his friend from school. He even consented to putting Buddy out of harm's way and to sit in my lap while I dangled my feet in the cool of the pool (as Horton the elephant would say).
He showed enough interest in a bucket of toys at water's edge to eventually wander from my lap, and to gaze with round, serious eyes upon the efforts of a teenage girl who volunteers at his school to engage him and his friend in play. His friend was happy to have water squeezed on his head and to race toy cars. But the Boy made it quite clear, for his part, that his head was a water-free zone, although he did shyly demonstrate his knowledge of how toy cars work with the ones he clutched in his round little hands.
What The Boy would not do, under any circumstances, was get in the water. I asked him several times as he sat at the edge of the baby pool but he declined. I decided he could go in the big pool in my arms and thereby get over his fear. While he had no choice in the first half of this proposition, I was dead wrong about the second. As I made my way down the steps, he wrapped his legs around me extra-tightly so as to have leverage to pull them well out of the range of the water. When I dipped one of his feet into the water he whined his disapproval. When playing children inadvertently splashed him, he cried. And I gave up.
We spent the remainder of our short time at the JCC pool sitting on a towel eating grapes and playing with the stacking magnetic bugs he received as a gift when he was ten months old and has recently rediscovered. I managed a few words with other adults, but they were brief and not promising of longterm friendship, anchored as I was to a hot little boy who wanted nothing more than to go home.
We arrived home to a peaceful front yard shaded by maple trees and decorated by lounging hound dogs. I had to concede that a glass of cool water and the breeze playing softly through the trees was just as nice as friendly neighbors and the smell of chlorine, and a lot more sane.
Besides, according to The Boy, blowing bubbles on the steps of his own front porch is the ideal way to welcome summer to Asheville.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Asheville Al Fresco
Summer is on its way to Asheville.
It's taking its time, mind you. As soon as I get excited by a warm, sunny day a big, dark storm cloud dumps buckets of cold water on my happiness. Or an arctic wind blows a chilly blanket over a tauntingly sun-speckled afternoon. I've despaired of ever putting the space heater next to my desk into deep storage and truly believe the teacher at The Boy's school who sent his stand-by long-sleeved shirt home for the season is crazy.
But we have had the pleasure of more than one warmth-kissed evening. There is a certain besotted-ness never to be recaptured in sitting on your own front porch, waving at the neighbors and watching your child tumble through the fauna of the front yard. Or in eating dinner downtown in a restaurant open to the street, where we take turns walking down the sidewalk with The Boy as he gazes upon the lights in the trees and chases after dogs out with their owners. If ever he had a chance of adjusting his sleep schedule to daylight savings time, we have destroyed it with our own woozy happiness at spending evenings outdoors with our child.
Last Saturday, the start of summery evenings brought us an even greater opportunity than giving our child a lifetime of sleeping disorders (at least according to the articles I occasionally come across in the New York Times with the latest studies about how we're doing everything wrong when it comes to sleep training). Hubby was invited to a block party by someone at work. A real, live, outdoor social event.
We were excited but cautious. Would we fit in? Would be meet new friends? Or would we stand on (rather than in) a corner, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot like a thirteen-year-old at a dance when "Stairway to Heaven" is playing -- not entirely sure we want to be dancing but disappointed that no one has asked us to?
I was leaning toward the less hopeful side of things when Saturday came. Work took precedence over yoga practice since I had spent most of the week watching a too-sick-for-school boy. This meant that I was already five or ten pounds heavier than I wanted to be for meeting all those . . . who? Who was I meeting who really cared how I looked?
"Not the point," I muttered to myself as I struggled to find an outfit with just the right sense of carefree summer-ness but enough warmth to guarantee I wouldn't end up feeling cold and stupid and willing to wear just about anything with long sleeves someone offered me, no matter how bad it made me look. Crisis number two: the weather was not exactly summer-like, though it teased the edges of warm enough to hang out outdoors in something less than North Face fleece-lined windbreakers.
One thing we did have going for us. The Boy had taken an astounding three and a half hour nap. Which meant that we were going to be up entertaining him well past our bedtime anyhow. Might as well do it outside the boring confines of home.
We made our way to a little street no more than a mile from our home and parked the car. As we walked down the block toward the festivities a warm breath of sunbaked air wrapped around me. I don't know how it's possible, but I swear it was a good ten degrees warmer on that street than it was in our own shaded front yard.
Looking back, I believe I turned a corner when I removed my cardigan with only a moment's hesitation about the chocolate brown bra straps peeking out from under my spaghetti-strap top. An hour before, the very thought of looking so sloppy would have sent me diving back into my closet. But get me away from mirrors, show me how absolutely ordinary all the other folks at the party are, introduce me to the new phenomenon of going to social events with my child instead of my martini-swilling best girlfriend, and I melt into that realm where you look great precisely because you don't care how you look.
For a time, we meandered, taking stock, petting dogs to make it look like we weren't shyly standing around not knowing anyone, and spending more time than necessary rearranging the food table to accommodate the rice salad Hubby made. If we had been at an indoor party we would have been forced to make our way uncomfortably from room to room until we ran out of options for trying to appear as if we were actually going somewhere with a purpose. But the outdoors lessened the pressure. We were a mere step away from strolling amongst a bunch of strangers downtown, only here there was a tantalizing possibility of extended conversation.
Hubby took over the first follow-The-Boy shift, and I did what anyone who doesn't really know the other people at a party does. I ate.
We all three ended up by the bands -- a rotation of neighbors with surprising talent, none so much as the nine-year-old girl who belted out a tune sounding almost like Michelle Shocked, only too young to have ever engaged in a good protest march. I ended up talking to a really interesting woman, a college friend of the host. We chatted about motherhood and career and college days. Of course, she lives in Atlanta.
But at least I can rest assured I still know how to strike up a friendship and may even one day do it with someone who lives close enough to, say, go with to the Sex and the City movie premiere. (For the record, I am planning on going by myself while The Boy is at school. I am not the least bit shamed by the article I just read about how everyone is going to see it in groups. I did, after all, once sit through a midnight showing of Beaches all alone.)
After a while I found myself in charge of The Boy, and then the party really took off. We explored the hill behind where Daddy stood watching the bands and engaging in the we're-all-friends-here-even-though-I-
don't-know-you talk. We went racing down the hill after the sticky whiffle ball The Boy found half buried in the ivy behind the swing set. And, best of all, we danced.
There is no one, I feel certain, who can manage not to smile at a sixteen-month-old dancing to "Psycho Killer." At least not when you're at a block party in a neighborhood and a town where people have kids. After all, the band playing the song just as surely listened to it in college as I did. A long, long time ago.
So these parents could be in a band playing music that made them feel like you don't shed some of your hipness when you become a parent as surely as you shed beer-weight and bad haircuts when you leave college. And I could pretend that having a toddler makes me as young as a woman you would expect to have a toddler. I don't know how old that is, but I suspect it's a good deal younger than forty-one.
Thankfully, not many people think you're forty-one when you're crouching, in true yoga-lubricated-knees fashion, next to your toddler in a spaghetti-strapped Gap top and Keds that I once spotted on Rory in an episode of Gilmore Girls.
Even more thankfully, you don't much care if they do when you're busy grinning as your child claps his hands and gives out a "Yaaaaaay!" with the rest of the music-loving crowd.
It's taking its time, mind you. As soon as I get excited by a warm, sunny day a big, dark storm cloud dumps buckets of cold water on my happiness. Or an arctic wind blows a chilly blanket over a tauntingly sun-speckled afternoon. I've despaired of ever putting the space heater next to my desk into deep storage and truly believe the teacher at The Boy's school who sent his stand-by long-sleeved shirt home for the season is crazy.
But we have had the pleasure of more than one warmth-kissed evening. There is a certain besotted-ness never to be recaptured in sitting on your own front porch, waving at the neighbors and watching your child tumble through the fauna of the front yard. Or in eating dinner downtown in a restaurant open to the street, where we take turns walking down the sidewalk with The Boy as he gazes upon the lights in the trees and chases after dogs out with their owners. If ever he had a chance of adjusting his sleep schedule to daylight savings time, we have destroyed it with our own woozy happiness at spending evenings outdoors with our child.
Last Saturday, the start of summery evenings brought us an even greater opportunity than giving our child a lifetime of sleeping disorders (at least according to the articles I occasionally come across in the New York Times with the latest studies about how we're doing everything wrong when it comes to sleep training). Hubby was invited to a block party by someone at work. A real, live, outdoor social event.
We were excited but cautious. Would we fit in? Would be meet new friends? Or would we stand on (rather than in) a corner, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot like a thirteen-year-old at a dance when "Stairway to Heaven" is playing -- not entirely sure we want to be dancing but disappointed that no one has asked us to?
I was leaning toward the less hopeful side of things when Saturday came. Work took precedence over yoga practice since I had spent most of the week watching a too-sick-for-school boy. This meant that I was already five or ten pounds heavier than I wanted to be for meeting all those . . . who? Who was I meeting who really cared how I looked?
"Not the point," I muttered to myself as I struggled to find an outfit with just the right sense of carefree summer-ness but enough warmth to guarantee I wouldn't end up feeling cold and stupid and willing to wear just about anything with long sleeves someone offered me, no matter how bad it made me look. Crisis number two: the weather was not exactly summer-like, though it teased the edges of warm enough to hang out outdoors in something less than North Face fleece-lined windbreakers.
One thing we did have going for us. The Boy had taken an astounding three and a half hour nap. Which meant that we were going to be up entertaining him well past our bedtime anyhow. Might as well do it outside the boring confines of home.
We made our way to a little street no more than a mile from our home and parked the car. As we walked down the block toward the festivities a warm breath of sunbaked air wrapped around me. I don't know how it's possible, but I swear it was a good ten degrees warmer on that street than it was in our own shaded front yard.
Looking back, I believe I turned a corner when I removed my cardigan with only a moment's hesitation about the chocolate brown bra straps peeking out from under my spaghetti-strap top. An hour before, the very thought of looking so sloppy would have sent me diving back into my closet. But get me away from mirrors, show me how absolutely ordinary all the other folks at the party are, introduce me to the new phenomenon of going to social events with my child instead of my martini-swilling best girlfriend, and I melt into that realm where you look great precisely because you don't care how you look.
For a time, we meandered, taking stock, petting dogs to make it look like we weren't shyly standing around not knowing anyone, and spending more time than necessary rearranging the food table to accommodate the rice salad Hubby made. If we had been at an indoor party we would have been forced to make our way uncomfortably from room to room until we ran out of options for trying to appear as if we were actually going somewhere with a purpose. But the outdoors lessened the pressure. We were a mere step away from strolling amongst a bunch of strangers downtown, only here there was a tantalizing possibility of extended conversation.
Hubby took over the first follow-The-Boy shift, and I did what anyone who doesn't really know the other people at a party does. I ate.
We all three ended up by the bands -- a rotation of neighbors with surprising talent, none so much as the nine-year-old girl who belted out a tune sounding almost like Michelle Shocked, only too young to have ever engaged in a good protest march. I ended up talking to a really interesting woman, a college friend of the host. We chatted about motherhood and career and college days. Of course, she lives in Atlanta.
But at least I can rest assured I still know how to strike up a friendship and may even one day do it with someone who lives close enough to, say, go with to the Sex and the City movie premiere. (For the record, I am planning on going by myself while The Boy is at school. I am not the least bit shamed by the article I just read about how everyone is going to see it in groups. I did, after all, once sit through a midnight showing of Beaches all alone.)
After a while I found myself in charge of The Boy, and then the party really took off. We explored the hill behind where Daddy stood watching the bands and engaging in the we're-all-friends-here-even-though-I-
don't-know-you talk. We went racing down the hill after the sticky whiffle ball The Boy found half buried in the ivy behind the swing set. And, best of all, we danced.
There is no one, I feel certain, who can manage not to smile at a sixteen-month-old dancing to "Psycho Killer." At least not when you're at a block party in a neighborhood and a town where people have kids. After all, the band playing the song just as surely listened to it in college as I did. A long, long time ago.
So these parents could be in a band playing music that made them feel like you don't shed some of your hipness when you become a parent as surely as you shed beer-weight and bad haircuts when you leave college. And I could pretend that having a toddler makes me as young as a woman you would expect to have a toddler. I don't know how old that is, but I suspect it's a good deal younger than forty-one.
Thankfully, not many people think you're forty-one when you're crouching, in true yoga-lubricated-knees fashion, next to your toddler in a spaghetti-strapped Gap top and Keds that I once spotted on Rory in an episode of Gilmore Girls.
Even more thankfully, you don't much care if they do when you're busy grinning as your child claps his hands and gives out a "Yaaaaaay!" with the rest of the music-loving crowd.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Mother's Day in the Neighborhood
One of the things we excitedly told people about the house we bought on our three-day househunting trip to Asheville last summer was how many children lived on the block. "The Boy will have kids to play with!" we enthused, no doubt steeped in sun-flecked memories of our own childhoods running wild on the streets in the days when parents didn't worry about things like pedophiles and bike helmets.
There are more than a few moments when, however, my enthusiasm for living on a street with lots of kids freaks me out.
Who is this woman who sees it as a plus that small children can be heard calling to each other in the early evening hours of a spring night? Can it be me ooh-ing over a little girl's tutu and aah-ing over a little boy's Speed Racer promo car from "Mickey Donald's"? And do I really want to be here in ten or twelve years when they become teenagers driving cars?
Oh yeah. One of those teenagers will be mine. Which quite changes everything. And, yes, makes me like living on this block and talking to four-year-olds about the cookies they ate in school today.
I began to truly appreciate the world of which I am now a part on Mother's Day.
Normally, I'd think Mother's Day was all about me since I am, you know, the mother. But that morning I didn't much feel like being the center of attention. Call it the crappy weather. Call it the reminder that I will be getting up at 6:30 on Sunday mornings for a long, long time to come. Or, if you will, attempt to psychoanalyze what my problem is with being the one getting the special treatment for a day. The thing is, I just wasn't feeling too excited about going out for a big celebration in Asheville. It was cold and rainy and I have been dreaming of the beach lately, either because the weather is turning warm or because it is disappointing me in a deep, personal way by repeatedly turning cold again.
The Boy wasn't being much of a Mother's Day gift either. Cute as ever, of course, but with a runny nose that occasionally slid into bouts of inconsolable crying over some shortcoming of mine like giving him the wrong spoon after plopping some yogurt in his bowl at breakfast. Then again, maybe I was the one not being much of a Mother's Day gift. At any rate, he was ready for an early nap and I was ready to watch a movie with Hubby, who wisely drew the blinds just in case the sun came out and I lost the ability to watch a movie in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.
I was, to be honest, more than a little distracted when, sure enough, half an hour into the movie I noticed a sliver of bright light at the bottom of one of the blinds. I tried to ignore it, but my toes started to twitch in tribute to my own mother who, could she see me, would surely give me a "What are you doing inside on a beautiful day?" for old times sake. I was almost glad when, far earlier than we'd expected, we heard The Boy's cries of indignation at awakening to find himself -- offense of offenses -- in his crib.
It was still well within the range of respectable lunch times, the sun was shining, and I somehow managed to come up with a restaurant I wanted to go to for lunch. So off we headed.
We walked in the door to find one of The Boy's friends from school having lunch with his parents. In fact, I had had a nice chat with his mother a couple days earlier, when I craftily volunteered to devote my "Mitzvah Hours" to sitting with a bunch of napping toddlers while their teachers headed off for a Teacher Appreciation lunch. "Mitzvah Hours" is a euphemism for mandatory volunteer work at The Boy's school. "Is it a mitzvah if someone makes you do it?" Hubby asked me. I waved away the question as one that would only make me resent the obligation more.
But, as it turned out, the whole volunteer thing was great. We volunteer moms sat and chatted for an hour an a half, and I came away feeling like maybe, ahead in the distance, I might be headed toward the faint sounds of a social life.
Here, on Mother's Day, at the Sunnyside Cafe, was my proof that I was. Cool family, cool restaurant. Made me feel kind of cool myself, despite my joy at living on a block full of little kids and their detritus. At this point, Asheville, for all the pros and cons of a small town, was feeling like a good place to celebrate Mother's Day.
But great as it was to watch The Boy and his school friend kick their legs with the joy of recognizing each other, the moment when it hit me that not only am I a mother, but I have a SON came later, at home.
The sun had firmly established itself by then, so we headed out to the front yard to blow the bubbles that so fascinate The Boy. "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" he yells when he spots them spinning along the length of the front porch. He even blew one of his own that day, the pleasure of which I decided far outweighed the danger from all the soap he swallowed the many, many times he put the wand in his mouth instead of blowing on it.
Then our neighbors came out to work on their yard, and their four-year-old boy, Matthew, headed over to our fence.
Matthew had shown remarkable interest in The Boy once before, when we and his parents bumped into each other at the park around the corner. At the time, I had chocked up a four-year-old's tolerance for a sixteen-month-old to boredom and the possibilities offered by a sandbox. After all, a four-year-old can't possibly fathom why it is that a sixteen-month-old has so little to say, nor why he is still kind of wobbly on his feet. Although I doubt he minds when his young friend eats sand.
But, as a four-year-old will do, Matthew saw nothing the least bit unusual about being friends with his little neighbor. The world at that age has the wonderful in-the-moment quality that renders such things as playing with a sixteen-month-old much less of a big deal than the fact that you can steer the Speed Racer car.
When Matthew was distracted from demonstrating this feature, as four-year-olds frequently are, The Boy picked up the yellow Speed Racer car from the sidewalk and examined it intently. Hmm. Big boys play with these. Must be good stuff.
Matthew returned looking for his car. "The Boy has it," I informed him. I turned to my son. "Can you give Matthew his car back?" I asked without much hope for success.
But he did. My boy walked to Matthew, hand outstretched, and handed him his Speed Racer car, and suddenly Mother's Day meant something new. No longer was being a mother just about thrilling with every newly discovered word and eating breakfast in my pj's because my son insists on eating his sloppily in my lap. It wasn't solely about my relationship with my little boy. It was about my little boy being just that -- a boy walking after his friend as they explored the yard next door.
"Sit on your bottom!" I called as Matthew and The Boy approached some steps. Matthew looked up at me like someone who knows to listen to a mother, and, after a moment The Boy did as I suggested. But for a few seconds before he did, he was poised at the top of the stairs with Matthew holding his hand as if to help him down.
And in that perfect tableau I saw that one of the joys of being a mother is watching your child learn to navigate the world, not with you, but with a friend.
There are more than a few moments when, however, my enthusiasm for living on a street with lots of kids freaks me out.
Who is this woman who sees it as a plus that small children can be heard calling to each other in the early evening hours of a spring night? Can it be me ooh-ing over a little girl's tutu and aah-ing over a little boy's Speed Racer promo car from "Mickey Donald's"? And do I really want to be here in ten or twelve years when they become teenagers driving cars?
Oh yeah. One of those teenagers will be mine. Which quite changes everything. And, yes, makes me like living on this block and talking to four-year-olds about the cookies they ate in school today.
I began to truly appreciate the world of which I am now a part on Mother's Day.
Normally, I'd think Mother's Day was all about me since I am, you know, the mother. But that morning I didn't much feel like being the center of attention. Call it the crappy weather. Call it the reminder that I will be getting up at 6:30 on Sunday mornings for a long, long time to come. Or, if you will, attempt to psychoanalyze what my problem is with being the one getting the special treatment for a day. The thing is, I just wasn't feeling too excited about going out for a big celebration in Asheville. It was cold and rainy and I have been dreaming of the beach lately, either because the weather is turning warm or because it is disappointing me in a deep, personal way by repeatedly turning cold again.
The Boy wasn't being much of a Mother's Day gift either. Cute as ever, of course, but with a runny nose that occasionally slid into bouts of inconsolable crying over some shortcoming of mine like giving him the wrong spoon after plopping some yogurt in his bowl at breakfast. Then again, maybe I was the one not being much of a Mother's Day gift. At any rate, he was ready for an early nap and I was ready to watch a movie with Hubby, who wisely drew the blinds just in case the sun came out and I lost the ability to watch a movie in the middle of a Sunday afternoon.
I was, to be honest, more than a little distracted when, sure enough, half an hour into the movie I noticed a sliver of bright light at the bottom of one of the blinds. I tried to ignore it, but my toes started to twitch in tribute to my own mother who, could she see me, would surely give me a "What are you doing inside on a beautiful day?" for old times sake. I was almost glad when, far earlier than we'd expected, we heard The Boy's cries of indignation at awakening to find himself -- offense of offenses -- in his crib.
It was still well within the range of respectable lunch times, the sun was shining, and I somehow managed to come up with a restaurant I wanted to go to for lunch. So off we headed.
We walked in the door to find one of The Boy's friends from school having lunch with his parents. In fact, I had had a nice chat with his mother a couple days earlier, when I craftily volunteered to devote my "Mitzvah Hours" to sitting with a bunch of napping toddlers while their teachers headed off for a Teacher Appreciation lunch. "Mitzvah Hours" is a euphemism for mandatory volunteer work at The Boy's school. "Is it a mitzvah if someone makes you do it?" Hubby asked me. I waved away the question as one that would only make me resent the obligation more.
But, as it turned out, the whole volunteer thing was great. We volunteer moms sat and chatted for an hour an a half, and I came away feeling like maybe, ahead in the distance, I might be headed toward the faint sounds of a social life.
Here, on Mother's Day, at the Sunnyside Cafe, was my proof that I was. Cool family, cool restaurant. Made me feel kind of cool myself, despite my joy at living on a block full of little kids and their detritus. At this point, Asheville, for all the pros and cons of a small town, was feeling like a good place to celebrate Mother's Day.
But great as it was to watch The Boy and his school friend kick their legs with the joy of recognizing each other, the moment when it hit me that not only am I a mother, but I have a SON came later, at home.
The sun had firmly established itself by then, so we headed out to the front yard to blow the bubbles that so fascinate The Boy. "Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!" he yells when he spots them spinning along the length of the front porch. He even blew one of his own that day, the pleasure of which I decided far outweighed the danger from all the soap he swallowed the many, many times he put the wand in his mouth instead of blowing on it.
Then our neighbors came out to work on their yard, and their four-year-old boy, Matthew, headed over to our fence.
Matthew had shown remarkable interest in The Boy once before, when we and his parents bumped into each other at the park around the corner. At the time, I had chocked up a four-year-old's tolerance for a sixteen-month-old to boredom and the possibilities offered by a sandbox. After all, a four-year-old can't possibly fathom why it is that a sixteen-month-old has so little to say, nor why he is still kind of wobbly on his feet. Although I doubt he minds when his young friend eats sand.
But, as a four-year-old will do, Matthew saw nothing the least bit unusual about being friends with his little neighbor. The world at that age has the wonderful in-the-moment quality that renders such things as playing with a sixteen-month-old much less of a big deal than the fact that you can steer the Speed Racer car.
When Matthew was distracted from demonstrating this feature, as four-year-olds frequently are, The Boy picked up the yellow Speed Racer car from the sidewalk and examined it intently. Hmm. Big boys play with these. Must be good stuff.
Matthew returned looking for his car. "The Boy has it," I informed him. I turned to my son. "Can you give Matthew his car back?" I asked without much hope for success.
But he did. My boy walked to Matthew, hand outstretched, and handed him his Speed Racer car, and suddenly Mother's Day meant something new. No longer was being a mother just about thrilling with every newly discovered word and eating breakfast in my pj's because my son insists on eating his sloppily in my lap. It wasn't solely about my relationship with my little boy. It was about my little boy being just that -- a boy walking after his friend as they explored the yard next door.
"Sit on your bottom!" I called as Matthew and The Boy approached some steps. Matthew looked up at me like someone who knows to listen to a mother, and, after a moment The Boy did as I suggested. But for a few seconds before he did, he was poised at the top of the stairs with Matthew holding his hand as if to help him down.
And in that perfect tableau I saw that one of the joys of being a mother is watching your child learn to navigate the world, not with you, but with a friend.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Voting Early (But Not Often)
Who knew when I moved to North Carolina that I'd be so important to the rest of the nation? Every time you look at a newspaper these days, it's all about the North Carolina Democratic Primary on Tuesday.
Me, I've already voted.
North Carolina has something called "early voting." I'd never heard of such a thing, although everyone here seems to think it's so normal as to be unworthy of comment or explanation. I guess if you can get enough people to work the polls for a good three weeks before the primary, you too can have early voting.
Still, I was suspicious. Who's to say the box with your ballot won't get lost between the day you vote and election day?
My suspicion is not entirely unfounded. (Just like my suspicion that if I don't ask for a receipt at the gas pump my credit card number will somehow remain in the machine to be spit out at the next customer; this fear was justified when I had ATM card information stolen from a gas pump a few years ago, almost making the hassle worth it.) I'm still smarting from my first presidential election in 1984. I was a freshman in college and duly requested my absentee ballot. Some fiasco on which I am now a little bit fuzzy occurred that launched me into a fiery letter addressed to my Senators about being disenfranchised on this, my first chance to vote the way a left-leaning eighteen-year-old easily influenced by the politics of a notoriously left-leaning college campus would vote. Alan Cranston's office responded; the newly elected Republican Pete Wilson's office did not. I still didn't get to vote.
I was also feeling jealous of my vote in the primary election this year because it actually matters. I spent much of my voting life in places like California and Massachusetts, where the Dems really didn't need my vote. And primary elections? Even living in states with elections far earlier than ridiculously late North Carolina, I frequently found myself voting for the guy who had already dropped out of the race: in 1992 in New York, I voted for Bob Kerrey after he had ceded the race to Bill Clinton, and in 2004 in pre-move-up-our-primary-date-because-we-have-so-many-delegates California, I voted for Edwards even though John Kerry already had the nomination. Not alone among the disenfranchised, I was pleased to find that I, Hubby (Kucinich), and my best friend (Dean) had all managed to vote for different candidates without a one of us voting for Kerry.
Then there was the actual Presidential election of 1980, when my father drove to the polls in Los Angeles after work to vote for Carter while listening to his concession speech on the radio.
The fact that I remember this somewhat humiliating event shows just what a mark it left on me.
And so my fear of early voting, of the chance that this, my second vote that could count, might not. (The first time I felt like my vote counted, I help elect the dead guy to one of Missouri's U.S. Senate seats; the defeated John Ashcroft went on to be a calamitous Attorney General, a tenure for which my family still blames me.) Still, all three Clintons and Michelle Obama have already made their pitches here. People are holding out hope for Barack, but the message is clear. We're almost expected to do the early voting thing.
Then, on Thursday evening, Hubby came home grinning about how much fun he had had early voting that day. He dropped a post-it with the names of candidates running for state seats in front of me and said, "I did a little research. In case you want to know who else to vote for."
"Because I should let me husband tell me whom to vote for," I said, pretending to be offended but really both surprised there were other opposed offices and relieved that I wouldn't have to figure out for myself which candidate I supported.
"You don't have to vote for the same people," Hubby pointed out. But I already knew I was going to. And I knew I was going to do it the following day, Friday.
The next afternoon, I headed for the local public library, one of several early voting polling places.
My understanding is that one of the justifications for offering early voting is to avoid the long lines on election day that somehow seem to end up only at polling places in heavily Democratic precincts. But here I was in a strictly partisan primary and I couldn't find a spot in the parking lot.
Weaving my way around an aggressive senior citizen cruising for the next available spot, I parked illegally at the side of the building. We were all compatriots, I figured, responsible citizens being sure to vote early.
As I crossed the parking lot, I spotted a table set up just beyond the no-solicitation zone with a sign reading OBAMA TICKETS HERE. Hmm, I thought, never having voted in North Carolina before. Maybe here they offer you a whole ticket to go along with the presidential candidate of your choice.
I walked over to the table, thinking maybe I could toss aside my husband's voting directive in favor of directions from complete strangers. Then I noticed the name "Michelle" written in the top corner of the sign. Michelle Obama, I recalled, was speaking that afternoon at the UNC Asheville campus. It was this sort of ticket being distributed, not some additional quirk of the North Carolina voting system. Since I already had plans to do something non-historic that evening, I kept going.
Inside, the polling place looked pretty much like most places I've voted, except maybe the garage where we regularly did our local voting in Long Beach. There was no place to tie up the dogs, had I brought them, here. But there was the same phalanx of tables: one where they would check you off on the rolls, a separate one where you got your ballot, and the rickety tables where you were instructed to mark your ballot only with the pen provided (in my case, a plain old Bic ballpoint with a big feather attached to the end that made me feel a vague connection to the Founding Fathers).
The one big difference from my past voting experiences was that the two women checking in voters were using laptops instead of big books of names that no one ever seems to be able to negotiate. I stepped up to the elder of the two, a woman of about 70, perched behind her shiny silver Dell. She blew away all the senior citizens who volunteered in the polls in West Hollywood and couldn't quite seem to be able to handle those new-fangled books that listed the voters alphabetically.
She asked my name, and I went through the contortions I condemned myself to when I chose to add Hubby's surname to my own without bothering to put a hyphen between them.
"It's two words," I said. "Cole, C-O-L-E . . ."
Her fingers were so fast there was no need for me to continue. I wasn't there.
"It's probably under Essig," I said wearily. You'd think I'd be over the frustration of strangers relegating half of my last name to the role of forgotten and useless middle name by now, as well as to that moment of wondering just who "Melissa Essig" is.
But this septugenarian computer whiz saved me. "Do you want to try your birthday?" she asked.
And there it was, my truncated name. But here's what I loved most about my voting experience. She FIXED it. This diminutive, white-haired, sweet old lady sent her fingers flying over the keys of a fancy new laptop and moments later handed me a sheet of paper with my full, proper name on it. So next time I vote early there will be no confusion.
And so I cast my vote with the feather-adorned pen and fed my ballot into the machine that counts how many ballots go in. (Will it add its count to all the other boxes so we know not only if a ballot is lost from a particular box but will be alerted when the entire box is locked in a room in the library basement, mistaken for old books?) I happily put my "I Voted" sticker on, even though it felt funny to be wearing it four days before the primary election.
And I watched Obama on Meet the Press this morning just to make sure the vote I've already cast was the one I felt was right. I wonder if anyone has told him about early voting.
Me, I've already voted.
North Carolina has something called "early voting." I'd never heard of such a thing, although everyone here seems to think it's so normal as to be unworthy of comment or explanation. I guess if you can get enough people to work the polls for a good three weeks before the primary, you too can have early voting.
Still, I was suspicious. Who's to say the box with your ballot won't get lost between the day you vote and election day?
My suspicion is not entirely unfounded. (Just like my suspicion that if I don't ask for a receipt at the gas pump my credit card number will somehow remain in the machine to be spit out at the next customer; this fear was justified when I had ATM card information stolen from a gas pump a few years ago, almost making the hassle worth it.) I'm still smarting from my first presidential election in 1984. I was a freshman in college and duly requested my absentee ballot. Some fiasco on which I am now a little bit fuzzy occurred that launched me into a fiery letter addressed to my Senators about being disenfranchised on this, my first chance to vote the way a left-leaning eighteen-year-old easily influenced by the politics of a notoriously left-leaning college campus would vote. Alan Cranston's office responded; the newly elected Republican Pete Wilson's office did not. I still didn't get to vote.
I was also feeling jealous of my vote in the primary election this year because it actually matters. I spent much of my voting life in places like California and Massachusetts, where the Dems really didn't need my vote. And primary elections? Even living in states with elections far earlier than ridiculously late North Carolina, I frequently found myself voting for the guy who had already dropped out of the race: in 1992 in New York, I voted for Bob Kerrey after he had ceded the race to Bill Clinton, and in 2004 in pre-move-up-our-primary-date-because-we-have-so-many-delegates California, I voted for Edwards even though John Kerry already had the nomination. Not alone among the disenfranchised, I was pleased to find that I, Hubby (Kucinich), and my best friend (Dean) had all managed to vote for different candidates without a one of us voting for Kerry.
Then there was the actual Presidential election of 1980, when my father drove to the polls in Los Angeles after work to vote for Carter while listening to his concession speech on the radio.
The fact that I remember this somewhat humiliating event shows just what a mark it left on me.
And so my fear of early voting, of the chance that this, my second vote that could count, might not. (The first time I felt like my vote counted, I help elect the dead guy to one of Missouri's U.S. Senate seats; the defeated John Ashcroft went on to be a calamitous Attorney General, a tenure for which my family still blames me.) Still, all three Clintons and Michelle Obama have already made their pitches here. People are holding out hope for Barack, but the message is clear. We're almost expected to do the early voting thing.
Then, on Thursday evening, Hubby came home grinning about how much fun he had had early voting that day. He dropped a post-it with the names of candidates running for state seats in front of me and said, "I did a little research. In case you want to know who else to vote for."
"Because I should let me husband tell me whom to vote for," I said, pretending to be offended but really both surprised there were other opposed offices and relieved that I wouldn't have to figure out for myself which candidate I supported.
"You don't have to vote for the same people," Hubby pointed out. But I already knew I was going to. And I knew I was going to do it the following day, Friday.
The next afternoon, I headed for the local public library, one of several early voting polling places.
My understanding is that one of the justifications for offering early voting is to avoid the long lines on election day that somehow seem to end up only at polling places in heavily Democratic precincts. But here I was in a strictly partisan primary and I couldn't find a spot in the parking lot.
Weaving my way around an aggressive senior citizen cruising for the next available spot, I parked illegally at the side of the building. We were all compatriots, I figured, responsible citizens being sure to vote early.
As I crossed the parking lot, I spotted a table set up just beyond the no-solicitation zone with a sign reading OBAMA TICKETS HERE. Hmm, I thought, never having voted in North Carolina before. Maybe here they offer you a whole ticket to go along with the presidential candidate of your choice.
I walked over to the table, thinking maybe I could toss aside my husband's voting directive in favor of directions from complete strangers. Then I noticed the name "Michelle" written in the top corner of the sign. Michelle Obama, I recalled, was speaking that afternoon at the UNC Asheville campus. It was this sort of ticket being distributed, not some additional quirk of the North Carolina voting system. Since I already had plans to do something non-historic that evening, I kept going.
Inside, the polling place looked pretty much like most places I've voted, except maybe the garage where we regularly did our local voting in Long Beach. There was no place to tie up the dogs, had I brought them, here. But there was the same phalanx of tables: one where they would check you off on the rolls, a separate one where you got your ballot, and the rickety tables where you were instructed to mark your ballot only with the pen provided (in my case, a plain old Bic ballpoint with a big feather attached to the end that made me feel a vague connection to the Founding Fathers).
The one big difference from my past voting experiences was that the two women checking in voters were using laptops instead of big books of names that no one ever seems to be able to negotiate. I stepped up to the elder of the two, a woman of about 70, perched behind her shiny silver Dell. She blew away all the senior citizens who volunteered in the polls in West Hollywood and couldn't quite seem to be able to handle those new-fangled books that listed the voters alphabetically.
She asked my name, and I went through the contortions I condemned myself to when I chose to add Hubby's surname to my own without bothering to put a hyphen between them.
"It's two words," I said. "Cole, C-O-L-E . . ."
Her fingers were so fast there was no need for me to continue. I wasn't there.
"It's probably under Essig," I said wearily. You'd think I'd be over the frustration of strangers relegating half of my last name to the role of forgotten and useless middle name by now, as well as to that moment of wondering just who "Melissa Essig" is.
But this septugenarian computer whiz saved me. "Do you want to try your birthday?" she asked.
And there it was, my truncated name. But here's what I loved most about my voting experience. She FIXED it. This diminutive, white-haired, sweet old lady sent her fingers flying over the keys of a fancy new laptop and moments later handed me a sheet of paper with my full, proper name on it. So next time I vote early there will be no confusion.
And so I cast my vote with the feather-adorned pen and fed my ballot into the machine that counts how many ballots go in. (Will it add its count to all the other boxes so we know not only if a ballot is lost from a particular box but will be alerted when the entire box is locked in a room in the library basement, mistaken for old books?) I happily put my "I Voted" sticker on, even though it felt funny to be wearing it four days before the primary election.
And I watched Obama on Meet the Press this morning just to make sure the vote I've already cast was the one I felt was right. I wonder if anyone has told him about early voting.
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