Dead

For the past couple of days, my husband has been complaining about a foul smell around our backyard shed. He asked me if I’d noticed the smell, but I’ve simply been too busy this week to investigate. The truth of the matter is, I secretly suspected that it might be some figment of his imagination.

Today he came home from work a bit early to satisfy himself once and for all that he wasn’t crazy. He emptied the shed and, finding nothing more interesting than some weed killer and the kids’ toys, began pulling rocks away from the base of the structure. At this point – and being the dutiful wife that I am – I headed out into the yard to lend some moral, if not physical, support.

And then I smelled it: Death. Michael was covering his nose and mouth, and he was in some obvious distress, so I got down on my belly and pointed a flashlight underneath the shed. “You smell it now?” he gagged, and I nodded. “Yes, I do.”

And then I saw it: fur. And a little eye socket without an eye. “It’s likely a cat,” I told him matter-of-factly, as he prepared to vomit. “They like a little privacy when their time comes.”

Now, my Michael’s a good soul. He’s also been in some of the more awful hellholes that the world has to offer, and he has smelled some rather nasty stuff. But he wasn’t ready for the whole circle-of-life thing. “I think I can get it,” I said quickly, letting him off the hook in much the same way as I did when our children vomited in their car seats, or pooped right through their diapers and onto everything within a half-mile. I popped back into the kitchen, got a barbeque fork we never use (and will never use again), and began to remove the corpse from under the shed.

And for some reason I can’t explain, I just started talking to it, right there in the yard, while Michael tried not to upchuck and the kids were inside watching Shark Boy and Lava Girl. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” I told the poor dead thing, “but this is no one’s idea of a proper resting place.” I deposited it into the family wheelbarrow, and Michael hauled it off to the woods. I was tempted to say a prayer, but chastised myself for the very childishness of it all.

Then I went inside to finish cooking dinner, and to confront my own mortality in a way I haven’t since 1996. And I decided the following: the next time I wake up to pee at 2:00 a.m. and find a spider in the master bath, that man of mine had better leap out of bed to mash it …

One
Oh, to be young and carefree ... and able to pee whenever and wherever the urge strikes! This is my Godchild, who celebrates her first birthday this week. She's sweet and adorable and she has no idea what "global warming" is ...

Happy Mother's Day

This is my Mom, and my little Maddie, at brunch in New York. We had a grand time eating blueberry and banana pancakes, french toast and (Holy cholesterol, Batman!) eggs Benedict.

And I didn't cook one damn bit of it! Hope you all had a great day!!

The End is Coming ...

The end of the school year, that is. My daughter's kindergarten class is dressing up as Kangaroos for the closing ceremonies, or whatever they're calling it. So I mocked up this kangaroo cap and offered to make 20 of them for the class. (Earlier this year a friend and I made 450 "gold medals" for the K-thru-5 Reading Olympics, so I figured it would be a snap.)

However, I've been summarily rejected by the Class Mother, so you're the only ones who will ever see it. Oh, well ... it's not about me. It's about 20 adorable kids in sub-par kangaroo caps.

By the way ... when did I become this?

David Blaine ...

... is alive, at the end of his recent underwater stunt. And I feel compelled to say, "So what?"

I can't find anything particularly life-affirming or socially-redeeming about this bit of theatre. I don't even think it's good performance art. And if he truly wanted to call attention to something "important," he should have done the whole thing from Darfur, not Lincoln Center.

Almost Mother's Day!

And, thanks to my little stinkers, I've earned the right to have "mother's" brunch in New York City with the whole Estrogen Brigade.

So, tell me ... what can I bring back for all of you?

Listen Up!!

Today I was informed by my three year-old son’s preschool teacher that he refuses to hold his crayon correctly, that he lags far behind his peers in paper-cutting and that, as a consequence, he’s in danger of being unprepared to enter Kindergarten. A year and a half from now.

And this is not the first time I’ve gotten this type of report about my little son. The time before, the teacher asked whether I’d had Thomas’ ears checked. “He appears to have a hearing problem,” she said.

“No,” I countered. “He doesn’t.” Then I went on. “What he has is what every man I’ve ever known has. And it’s not a hearing problem, it’s a listening problem.” I uttered this statement with the certainty that can only come from having retreated to the furthest corner of the master bedroom closet to open a bag of chips in peace, only to have my little boy come dashing up the stairs and through two closed doors to find me, saying: “Mommy – have you got chips in there?”

The preschool teacher’s jaw hit the floor. But I was done talking, and so I swept my little man into my arms, kissed him on his chubby little cheeks, and took him home.

So what if he can’t cut a circle? So what if he refuses to hold his crayon in the proper manner? He’s three, for the love of God. And if he wants to cut zigzags and color like a deranged maniac, I’m prepared to accept that.

And someday, when they’re swearing him in to the Supreme Court, I’ll recall this day and smile.