Our wedding anniversary is June 17th, which is also the first day that same-sex couples will be able to legally wed in California. I’m just so pleased to share such a happy anniversary. Even cooler: a photography service is offering free photographs to all couples married at City Hall that day.
Today is also, most likely, the last day that Schenley High School will be in existence. The PG has a great video of the students speaking about the closing of the greatest school ever.
Brace yourself, betches. I bring the mushiness with this post.
Left: first day of kindergarten. Right: last day of kindergarten.
I feel the need to explain that he is standing a few feet closer to the camera in the second picture, so his little growth spurt is exaggerated. He’s not that much taller, but he is shooting up faster than I can say “flood pants.”
These pictures make me think of the ending scenes in Juno. As Juno recovers with Bleeker, Vanessa peers into the nursery trying to peek at the new baby. The nurse steps out and asks Vanessa if she would like to meet her son. Vanessa, stunned, does not answer yes or no, but instead repeats, incredulously, “I have a son.”
The incredible thing about parenthood is how different it is for everyone, and how similar at the same time. Vanessa does not give birth to her child, but the moment she says the words, “I have a son,” for the first time, their bond is solidified. As incredible as it was to say, “I have a son,” on December 6, 2001, it’s even more amazing every time I say it. Today, saying, “I have a son. He is now a first-grader,” I feel the same thrill that I did when I declared that he was a member of this world, that he shall forever be known as a human being and a citizen of this planet, as my son.
Parenthood does not have a single origin or formula, but the results are always thrilling.
I have a son. He is a first-grader. He reads. He writes. He still wraps his arms and legs around me in the morning when I get him out of bed.
I have a son.
I’m constantly compiling these lists in my head, but lately I’ve noticed that my brain is rebelling. So I dedicated a page to all of my awesome lists that you can access at any time by clicking on the link on the right under “Other Stuff.” I will happily accept submissions and critiques. The page will grow as I remember crap.
Ah, Monday. What a dick this day is.
Internets, I don’t mind telling you that I had a rather lovely and restful weekend. On Saturday morning, we took the baby to tee-ball and were happy to sit in some shaded bleachers. The moms in front of us provided the entertainment by talking in hushed tones about their psychic, who told one mom that she saw a flooded basement in the future. There was much gasping when that mom revealed that not six weeks later, there was some heavy rain (in Pittsburgh of all places!) and her brother’s girlfriend’s roommate’s dog’s basement flooded. Freaky, right?
After tee-ball, the husband went to work and the baby and I pretty much just relaxed the rest of the day. We put in some quality time with the Wii.
When the husband came home from work, we walked to the main boulevard. We passed some honeysuckle and the smell was intoxicating. The husband helped me to drink a drop of honeysuckle water and I finally believed that summer was here. We stopped into the state store so that I could gather the materials necessary to quench my craving for chilled white wine. Then we got some ice cream and practically skipped home, it was all so la-di-da.
Sunday morning, I rolled out of bed and rustled the family together. We go to the tee-ball field and were dismayed to see that no one was there. Alas, it was Junior Pirates day at PNC Park. But we had no desire to sit at the ballpark on a 90+ degree day, so we just went home. We ate some breakfast on the porch and just sat out there for a few hours, reading and enjoying the lovely day. Later, we went over to my mother-in-law’s house where I spent at least 3 hours drifting around on a raft in the pool. And I didn’t even get sunburned.
I love summer.
The husband noted that over the weekend, we watched three movies, all of which were about someone(s) being held captive: Turistas, Black Snake Moan, and An American Crime.
Turistas was just rather stupid, I fell asleep halfway through Black Snake Moan but what I saw of it was pretty meh. It also made me want to take a shower really badly. An American Crime was complicated. I felt that the way the story was presented, with the victim as the first-person, posthumous, omniscient narrator was tacky. Of course, Ellen Page and Catherine Keener are amazing no matter what they do and it was a very blunt way of showing how abuse can turn even its victims into monsters, thus continuing the cycle, but that often the people who say nothing in a situation like that are almost as disgusting as the abusers themselves. Obviously, since it was based on a true story, it was really depressing and there were more than a few moments where I had to emotionally distance myself from what I was watching. Otherwise, I would have had some kind of breakdown.
Ahem. Anyway. On Wednesday, the baby will finish up kindergarten and I will officially be the mother of a first-grader. Oh my holy hell.
I feel like I’ve not been attending to this space enough and I know that I haven’t even hinted at any of our adventures in Detroit, which are quickly fleeing from my memory and being replaced with nightmarish hockey visions and comparisons of Ryan Malone’s post-broken-nose-slapshot-to-the-beak voice and King Leonides’ voice in 300 and how the Penguins quest of the Stanley Cup is not unlike the campaign of the Spartans at Thermopylae, just with a lot more clothing and I don’t think Sidney Crosby was pinned to the ground with 60,000 arrows at the end.
I don’t know, though, because we turned the game off as soon as the buzzer sounded…couldn’t bear to watch the Red Wings celebrating and the Penguins being all gracious and cute. Instead we watched the aforementioned 300.
Speaking of Leonides, I kind of just wanted that dude to shut the hell up. Like, their freedom is at stake, etc. I get it. But dude, yelling constantly starts to lose its impact. Just saying.
I’m also sneezing a lot. I’m not real sure what the culprit is for this most recent allergic attack, but it takes me an extra half hour to get ready in the morning because of all of the pauses that I take so that I can stand in my kitchen and go, “AH CHOO! AH CHOO! AH CHOO! AH CHOO! AH CHOOOOOO! OH MY FUC–AH CHOO! FUCK!” It’s taking a lot out of me.
For what it’s worth, I have a few other non-bloggy writing things that I need to get moving on and I find myself terrified. I get really, really scared of writing sometimes.
On Friday, the husband and the baby and I headed to the gigantic multiplex to see the new Indiana Jones movie. We squeezed our way through horrendous traffic and past the mobs of Sex and the City fans to the back corner of the theater, where movie-goers who see the blockbusters a week after they premiere are sequestered.
At least 6 of the main theaters were dedicated to Sex and the City. I loved that show the same way that I like Fiery Habanero Doritos and Kraft Mac n Cheese and candy and alcohol. They’re both bad for me, make me fat and/or drunk and/or orange-stained, but I am not ashamed of our relationship. And I fully intend to see the movie at some point.
However, the premiere activities surrounding the movie can only be described as a tea party with stilettos. Women were all dressed up and giddily discussing the movie and the show while standing in line and I swear I half expected them to bust out their baby dolls.
Frankly, I find this behavior strange. I had to wonder: is Sex and the City the new Star Wars?
Anyway, we watched Indiana Jones and were enjoying it enough (nutshell review: it’s okay, though not awesome). The husband left the theater about 20 minutes from the end to take a phone call, which was really strange.
He returned after the movie was over and informed me that his father had a heart attack.
After racing home and and a flurry of phone calls, we found out that he had been driving his truck through Ohio and suffering chest pains. He finally pulled into a terminal and went to the hospital. He’s going to be okay, but good lord was that scary.
The husband, the sister-in-law, and I have been on the cases of all of our parents to improve their lifestyles. The combined smoking habits of my mother and father and my in-laws totals to something like 170 years and they’re a mostly sedentary bunch. Until now they’ve mostly waved away our demands that they quit smoking and exercise and eat better. I don’t know when they thought that crap would catch up with them, but now they know.
The husband is currently on his way to Ohio to pick up his dad and bring him home to recuperate. First day of the rest of his life and all of that.
Sigh. We may be adults, but we still need our parents. Hopefully, they’ll really realize that now.
To lighten the weekend, we went to the graduation party for the sister-in-law’s friend, Stacey, yesterday. The husband asked Stacey what nationality her family was since everyone was pretty sedate and quiet. “I’m only ever at Irish or Italian family functions. I guess I never noticed how loud we are.”
But the quiet mood allowed us to focus on the unexpected entertainment. Stacey’s sister’s little poodle-ish dog was desperately trying to hump Stacey’s huge chocolate Labrador, despite the fact that both dogs are boys and besides that the chocolate Lab was not interested. I have to give the poodle credit, since he approached from every angle, even humping the dog’s head at one point. However, I am now a big advocate of neutering pets because after the…things that I saw…well, let’s just say that I’m really glad that I didn’t have a hot dog to eat. I might have barfed.
Sigh. Angela and I discussed it and we decided that maybe it’s time to take it back to the old school and rock some colonization. The guidance and discipline might be good for us. She’s on the phone with England.
I am so tired. So, so tired. I will have more substantial posts tomorrow, but for now I want to tell you what sucks about coming home in the middle of the week from your vacation in Detroit that included the ER at Henry Ford Hospital, alcohol, roller skating, British guys, and Moby.
What sucks is that I had to just drop back into life and, like, parent and shit. This morning, I pried my eyes open after a grand total of 3 hours of sleep and when I got downstairs and started packing the baby’s lunch, I realized that the bread was moldy. Of course it was; it’s got to be two weeks old at this point. For the past few weeks, the baby has been whining that he wants peanut butter crackers for lunch and I would argue that that isn’t a substantial lunch and blah blah blah I want you to thrive or some shit. So, this morning, I’m sure you can imagine me standing at the counter (read: the stove…we don’t have any counters and FUCK), eyes half-closed, hair all askew, toaster oven ticking away, and moldy bread poised to incite hallucinations to those brave enough to eat it, realizing that oh my god, I am going to have to send my child to school with peanut butter crackers for lunch.
I played it off pretty well, though. I went into the living room where the baby was and said, “Hey! Guess what’s for lunch today? PEANUT BUTTER CRACKERS HOLY SHIT YOU ARE THE LUCKIEST KID ALIVE!” The baby was, in fact, pretty excited. However, he didn’t see me flailing at the heavens when I realized that the box of Saltines that I never pay attention to was two years old. But since I am Mom Bot 5000, I had a back-up box in the pantry. That box only expired in March so I declare myself officially On Top of Shit.
I sent him off with his peanut butter crackers, some applesauce, and a small bag of pumpernickel-and-onion pretzel sticks that I bought at a rest stop in Ohio yesterday. I think he had shoes on, but I can’t be sure.
I went back inside and realized that my brilliant idea to get started on the laundry last night was maybe not so brilliant since all of my bras were soaking in the wash tub, gleefully sopping wet. Also, did I mention that I put the baby on the bus sans brasserie? And the bus driver was blasting “Summertime” by Will Smith and I had to resist the urge to go, “Awwwwwwwwww shit, son!” I tossed the bras in the dryer and reveled in the fact that I had such a great excuse for showing up to work late.
The more I write down the details of my life, the more I find myself struggling to complete sentences.
