spontaneous delight

i will get back to my mother’s birthday – post – really – before the end of the year
i will also respond to the lovely creative blog award that three of you gave me – thanks! really really really thank you! i know you know how much having you in my life has uplifted me and made everything more wonderful- and i so appreciate it
i will also ‘attend’ Liz’s blog shower (held a week ago – i need these to be on weekends) and i will ‘finish answering the quizes on evelyn’s – not out of duty but because they were creative and i really liked them…i will figure out why lately every time i post a comment on Rebekah’s blog it gives me this long list of words and then i cannot do anything but close the window – Rebekah – i’ve done my best writing in my comments on your blog and now it’s all lost – ah well…

but i cannot do all of this now and i need to make a note on our place, where we are, my son and i

he is seven. indescribible. he’s been thinking about his new sibling. younger sibling. share his room sibling. “mom, if it’s a girl. well. i’m concerned.” “uh, huh. why?” I try not to role my eyes when i say this. it takes serious effort, because i can tell by his tone the nature of his question. “well. pink. i really have a hard time with the color pink. i hate the color pink. and if my room is going to have pink all over it…(here he begins to shake his head back and forth as he is looking in the mirror at himself, which he has been doing for 6 days straight since he bought a knit hat with a brim which he thinks makes him look like a jamaican regae musician and a snowboarder…)”
I don’t say anything, i just look at him, appreciating for once that his discussion of his younger sibling is light hearted. Finally, realizing i’m looking at him he turns away from his own image in the mirror to look at me, his brown eyes twinkle in a way that reminds me of my blue eyed grandfather, and then slowly and with such beauty that i am torn open by it, he smiles at me and turns back to the mirror.

A couple of nights ago we were in bed and i was reading the history of the presidents when he interrupts me to ask how babies learn to speak. ‘oh they just learn, the hear it and they remember and that’s it.’ (lame, but i’m exhausted at 8 PM after a full days work and really that was about all my brain was producing.) ‘well, when my baby brother comes i don’t want to have to be the one to teach him all the words. all that repeating is going to get REALLY annoying!’ and then he adds in a very exageratedly long and drawn out way “yes, yes, yes, no, no, no, ball, ball, ball.” Holding back the laughter i say to him “oh no honey we don’t have to repeat everything like that, it’s not like learning your spelling words (i suddenly realize where he is getting this idea) babies and children learn language naturally. i say, ‘are you thirsty? here is a cup of juice.’ and little by little they learn the word juice, and then thirsty and then here is. they learn from watching and seeing and doing. it happens and it happens pretty quickly (and then i realize something else) not like mommy trying to learn amharic. not like that at all.” he looks at me calmly, then smiles a bit and says while taking in a great big breath and letting it out very slowly “oh good. that’s a relief.”

last night shortly after i got home Q followed me upstairs as i went into my room to change clothes. he stood there in my room and said “mom, i want to give you a high five!” and then he did, big in the air high five! “i want to give you a high five for going to work on a snow day even when you don’t really want to. i’ll give you a high five every day you do that!”
Thanks babe!
yesterday was a big day for him. he hopped onto our bed and started to tell me about it. his class has about 10 children of african descent, who are americans, english, carribean and african. but he’s the only one who knows of and celebrates kwanzaa. his teacher asked if he would help teach the kwanzaa lesson. he was thrilled. he brought in the kinara he and i made when he was three years old and he stood up in class and told them everything he knew. he came home with three photos that were taken of him with the student teacher teaching the class and a thank you note from the teacher and the student teacher telling him how wonderful it was for everyone in his class that they were taught by someone who had real life experience. it was lovely. he’s was elated. ‘when i grow up if my other career plans don’t work out (they include professional football player, professional snowboarder and rock star drummer) then i think i would like to be a teacher.” he then asks how much school it would take and when he hears he thinks he be able to skip it because he’s already pretty good. seriously. and then he looks at me and asks “mom, if you could do something else as far as work, what would it be? what other career would you like?” i think seriously for a moment over the two or three others that i would love to pursue if….and then i reply “writer. i would love to write.” “what do you mean, mom, books? you would like to write a book?” “yes,” i said “a book.” “So why don’t you go to college and be a writer?” “well, i would have to quit my job and i need to work to help pay for the house and the food and our clothes.” He thinks, leaning back on the pillow propped up on the headboard. Finally he says “Nope.. No you don’t need to work. I’ve got $200 in the bank…i think right? $200 and now $100 dollars in my bank and that’s $300 and i’ll give it all to you for the bills and you can quit and go to college and be a writer like you want.” “Thanks honey, but i want you to keep your money right now. i like my job and i’m not sure i want to go to school right now.” “ok, but if you change your mind, i’ll give you my money.”

this morning i heard him tossing and turning and got into bed with him before i went to take a shower. we cuddled for a little bit and then out of the darkness i heard “mom, if you write a book, what would it be about and what would you call it? what would it’s title be?’ “Wow, Q what a great question. let me think. i guess i would write about traveling and i would call it ‘early dawn new city’ ” “that’s nice mom i like that”

Thanks sweetie thanks.

what memories part three

at three years old he could not yet guess that what was the very best day of his sweet life was coming to a close.  we had said good bye to the bus driver and stood in the cloud of the bus’s exhaust fumes as it pulled away on one of the busiest, dirtiest, loudest streets and most romantic streets; 42nd street.  42nd street is one of my favorite streets in manhattan because the romance of it is lost on everyone except we that have wonder in their hearts.  42nd street slices through manhattan not at the geographical center but at it’s heart.  If you fly into newark or jfk from anywhere in the world you can take a bus to the city and it usually puts you down somewhere along the length of 42nd.  if you are first time visitor to the city, coming from, perhaps, france or tibet, chicago or palermo, what you will find is  movement, everyone is moving.  42nd is not a street for lingering, from 42nd you are always going to….you are often crossing over, on or through.  you will see those that have stepped down off of the bus, the uptown or the airport, who stand for a moment to get their bearings, looking for their next mode of transportation.  there are the suburban trains going north for the college kids with their huge rolling luggage to be transported down the alley, across the busy street and into the arms of grand central, there’s the taxi, the final route for european and asian tourists who have saved themselves some dollars to spend on their vacation and have only 10 or 20 blocks more to go – good to take a taxi – and get to the hotel – there are the newly arrived immigrants who will step down from the bus, not onto the little drop of land called ellis but onto 42nd street  stopping for a moment only while they look for the bus station and the bus that will take them to relatives in ohio, michigan, illinois.  they stop, eyes wide, unblinking, could all of america be this?  could we have been wrong?  and on they walk.  and with all of those glorious people there we were two tired, gloriously happy people; a 41 year old mom and a three year old brown eyed, brown curly haired boy in a little jacket and a green straw cowboy hat, walking toward what had just that day started to be our favorite landmark in new york city; grand central station.

grand central station cannot be a stop on tour of manhattan, it must be several because the brilliance of this spectacular building that was almost town down (oh folly all of you who have no wonder in your hearts), the brilliance is that gcs is less a building, less a location than a moment in time and therefore to experience it you must experience it over a period of time.  you must see the light from the sunrise slanting throught the eastern windwows down onto the commuters rushing oddly quietly to their jobs and their morning cup of coffee, you must be there under the clock to watch as the wednesday matinee attendees step down with from the train and rush to meet the older woman in the lovely red coat and the sensible shoes standing next to you “oh, i’m so happy this day is here! “  and finally you must, really must, walk down a bustling 42nd street as dusk is descending and melting into the flow of the now weary caffienless workers pour through the doors of the great cathedral of transportation.  you will flow with them down the wide corridor and then into the wide open grand hall which has been transformed as the last bit of sunlight has drained from it’s windows and now finally the spectacular ceiling, evening, lovers blue with twinkling stars and constellations, drawings pointing out what you may have missed from all those night skys you have seen in your past.  if you are lucky or wise, you will miss your train and give yourselves another sixty minutes to sit on the stairs and watch all the people all those kinds of humans, all of them with their dreams, watch them and how they walk, run, stoll, skip and drag themselves from one place to the next.  and you will see the others, the ones who stop, look up, pull out the camera, giggle, turn around with their chin help up as they try to take it all in.  you may, if it’s your first time, think that all these twisting, turning, gazing people are tourists but we are not, we are just taking a moment to realize the wonder of it all.

although our real purpose for being in the city for the day was to ride as many forms of transportation as we could, we needed a destination to keep us from riding in circles, literally.  a quick online search and i had the name and location of an indoor play center designed specifically for the pre-k set and their caretakers and a restaurant with a cowgirl theme, which i admit to telling him was a cowboy theme. 

we climbed the stairs up out of the subway found our selves, like magic, not on the bustling loud chaotic 42nd street but on a treelined lower manhattan neighborhood street where children in strollers were being pushed toward a small storefront.  His eyes wide, his hand gripping mine.  upon opening the front door we encountered the typical pile up of strollers you find in new york at any place that allows children.  there was a room to the left where we could hear a toddler music class going on and then beyond that a wide open loft-like space.  in the middle of the space children raced back and forth on small wheeled thingies.  running down the left was a miniture town, houses, one and two stories tall, with small second floor terraces.  of course the houses were just right to fit the average three year old and the top of the second story rose to just above my head.  in the back was a bouncy room full of balls one could throw in and out and to the right was a small counter where you could order a grilled cheese or pb&j and a juice box then some tables and chairs to sit and relax.

he walked back to check out the balls in the jumpy room but decided against joining in at that moment and went instead to the little village along the wall.  in and out of every building he wandered.  thrilled to be able to reach every door knob and look out every window.  he delivered mail to the mail box, sat on the terrace and looked out from an upper window and laughed at me being shorter than him.  eventually he tried the jumpy house and got into a game of throwing all the balls that  landed outside back into the house.  it was a sublime adventure.  most of the time he talked very little, a rarity that allowed me just to watch him.  he seemed to be sizing up the situation, which was similar in many ways to some of the places we would hang out in at home; the library with the play area for children, the cafe with a corner for board books, stuffed animals and board games.  but here was different.  at home there was always constant conversation.  living in a small town of 10,000 with a horde of expatriate brooklynites who all seemed to move up with one or two toddlers in tow, we went to the cafes and the parks and libraries to meet each other.  and soon after moving there ever trip out of the house had us bumping into someone we knew.  there are times living in our town feels like being at one large family reunion, the kind where there are cousins of cousins and no one looks, talks or acts alike but still you know somehow you were meant to be there.  here at the city indoor playground there were one or two people who had arranged to meet up and have a playdate but other than that there was little conversation.  children played and caregivers watched in silence or talked on their cell phones.  he must have wondered at that, all those adults and so little talking.

after a while we had a snack played a bit more and then when he began to fade we gathered our things  and went back out into the cold air.  now, it was time for the taxi.  it was yellow, as it should be.  he was surprised a bit that i was climbing into the back seat with him and that there was no car seat. before  i buckeled him in i told him the name of the cross streets and told him to ask the driver to take us there.  he put his face up to the window in the partition and with a seriousness of military assignment he asked the driver to take us to our destination, please.  we sat in the cab hindered a bit by the fact that he was too short to see out the windows when he was buckeled in.  we looked at the tops of the buildings, all the different cornices and windows.  i showed him the taxi drivers picture and that he had a special id number.  his name was from a culture that was not ours and i asked him where his name was from.  we spoke to him for the rest of our car trip and again the look on Q’s face is etched in my memory; taxi cabs have drivers!  and they tell stories and call you my friend!  we left the taxi with a sincere thank-you and got out on yet another type of new york street, this crowded again but with art hounds and the people that wanted to look like them.  everyone in their twenties and thirties in groups of 2’s and 4’s mostly.  we entered the restaurant gave our name, were told we’d have a wait and then began to look around.  in amongst the other people crowded into the small little waiting area there was all the tchokies a fake city cowboy or girl might need.  lasso’s and lighters, old fashioned toys, packs of cards and of course cowboy hats, in bright crayon colors  and made of straw.  eventually we were seated and i do not remember what he ordered but i do remember the harried waitresses stopping to comment on how much he ate.  Q can eat.  afterwards i bought him a straw cowboy hat, he chose green and out on the street we were again ready for our next transportation adventure; the city bus.  this was for him, the hightlight of his day.  while it had been a day of firsts, first train, subway and taxi, something about the size of the buses and the number of them just overwhelmed his imagination.  we climbed the stairs, huge for him, and the driver calls him little man, the driver said to my three foot boy with the one foot green straw cowboy hat, and we took the first seat on the bus directly across from the driver, so that Q could look out the front window.  the driver closed the doors of the bus and began to pull away from the curb, Q looked at me in surprise and a bit of panic “mommy, he didn’t give the announcement!”  “what announcement sweet heart?”  “the door announcement!”  as i tried to figure out what he was saying the driver stopped the bus to pick up more passengers, they boarded, paid and the driver shut the door.  Q’s panic mounted.  he was no longer trying to explain it to me he just stared at the driver and then when we stopped at the next stop at the passengers getting in.  as the last passenger stepped on board an up to the metal box to pay, Q stood up and yelled “please stand clear of the closing doors!”

the older woman who had just paid her fare gave a little jerk as if someone had poked her in the back, turned, stared at Q and then frowning, took her startled little self to the back of the bus.  The driver however, gave Q a grin, and a nod of his head  and then with great flare shut the door.  for the next 15 blocks or so the scene was repeated, the doors opened, the passengers entered, Q watched for the last one and at the right moment jumped from his seat and shouted ‘please stand clear of the closing doors!’ just as he had so delightedly had heard on the subway that morning.  the driver and he had become a team and each time the diver nodded his head toward Q as if to say ‘good job – nice to be working with you.’  some of the passengers stopped to say how cute he was, to which he responded with a snub, the way any decent city worker might “just doing my job m’am’ was his look, some looked at him with a sour face, some ignored it as if three year old, green straw cowboy hatted boys were employed by the mta and manned every bus screaming ‘please stand clear of the closing doors!’ at every stop.  we were one block away from our own stop when i began to button his coat.  the driver and i along the way had shared some pleasantries; yes, this was are first trip on a bus, yes, he’s always been this talkative, yes, he’s wonderful.  as the bus was slowing down Q spotted a small store front with a large plywood ice cream cone sign hanging outside of it “mommy!!!” he shouted “look! there’s my favorite restaurant!”

the driver laughed out loud and the bus came to a stop but the door didn’t open right away “little man,”  the driver said holding out his big gloved hand to shake Q’s “little man, thank-you for coming on my bus today.  this was the safest ride my passengers have ever had!”  Q greated the bus drivers broad 50 plus year smile with his own three year old turned down serious grin, “you’re welcome” he nodded and then we turned to leave.  “Good bye Mama”  he said to me “and good job!” i turned and smiled back to say to him “you too, and thanks!” and the bus door closed this time to a quiet but much less sweet bus.

all has been a challenge lately, big and small

too much to write about at the moment.  nothing that changes the path that we are on, just a few bumps, twists, and u-turns that have me thrown.  and so i turn to reminiscing.  my little boy is not little any more.  he turned seven in october.   he is so very seven.  he’s not christopher robin so much anymore (that was from maybe four on – so very sweet and gentle and open) he is ….who?  he’s capable.  he’s strong.  he’s oh so sweet and loving.  he wrote a card to Y for no reason, and it said, ‘you are the inspiration for my dreams.’  he’s a joy.  you know during the joyful times.

so here is a trip down memory lane.  this for Evelyn who is waiting, and i might guess wondering.

it was cold and dark and he was almost three and sitting at the dining room table at 6 in the morning i could not imagine what i would do with this little boy for the next twelve hours on a cold yucky day.  and so an hour or so later, much to the dismay of my plan everything three weeks in advance husband, and my isn’t-it-too (soon, loud, dirty, dangerous)-husband, Q and i were sitting on a train watching the little towns along the hudson rivers wander past our window.  There is nothing in the world better to an almost three year old boy than to be on a train standing on the seat looking out the window.  so many of his books were trains, buses, cars,  transportation.  it’s big in a boys life.   where are we going today?  it was almost the first thing he would say every morning, and i would have to tell him a place, any place, as long as it wasn’t; nowhere.  we’re going to the cafe, the library, the grocery store.  anything was good.  but when i said we’re taking a train, well that was something.

i had a plan.  we would take every form of transportation we could afford.  the helicopter tour of manhattan was out, but the car, the train, the bus, the subway and his all time favorite; the taxi were all in.

getting off the train he looked like i imagine i looked when at 19 i stepped off the bus onto the streets of Athens for the first time.  wondering, waiting, expectant, thrilled.

he walked with his little hand reaching up to mine.  we stood in the middle of grand central station, near the clock, and looked up at the ceiling.  stars on the ceiling and drawings.  people rushing around, workers working.  staircases leading to landings floating above us and staircases leading down under archways to a destination we could only imagine.  we walked down the arcade of stores and took the escalator down into the subway.  a musician played a guitar and we gave him a quarter and he smiled.  the train zoomed, rushed, pushed the air up all around us making our sweaters blow up and around, thrilling.  it’s thrilling watching a child be thrilled.  it seeps into you and rises like a flood.  The Subway!!  the doors sweep open and we move out of the way of the people getting off and then we become the passengers, the subway riders.  he won’t sit, he must stand, like the others, two small feet planted on either side of the pole and two small hands gripping the pole and his face staring down the aisle and everyone who bothered to look, to take a moment and see the boy not three feet tall on his first subway ride, they all smiled.  they were having an ordinary day and he was having his most thrilling moment yet.

at another stop two young women got on board and stood near us.  they stood close together, tatoos, clothes, hair, all twin-like in their details, almost tribal in their adherence to a certain city chic.  they noticed him noticing them and they smiled, said something, he smiled, and then they went back to the cacoon they were weaving around them and they whispered and staired into each others eyes and kissed.

Q stared, his eyes widened and then he said loudly, to make sure his voice beat out the sound of the train ‘mom!  girls!  kissing!’

and so finally we had everyone’s attention.  all heads turned toward us, some eyebrows raised, some smiles, and the two girls laughed and bent down and kissed him.  ’sweet boy’ they cooed.

he had never imagined, when looking at the pictures in his transportation book (and the train goes choo choo and the car goes honk honk) that there might be kisses and smiles and music.  it was magical.  and that was it, the beginning of  his love affair with the city.  he was my city boy.  no doubt my mountain climber, forest explorer, river wader, but now too, city boy.  the world, every part of it, would be a wonder for him.  he was in love.  and i, being his mom, could only stand by and watch his love affair, and tag along as long as he would let me.  even then i knew there would come a day where he would board a train, or a bus or a plane, and he would be off looking to make his discoveries on his own.

but that day was ours, together, and it would be forever.