The snow is melting and so my mother-daughter day in Seattle did not involve dying in a car accident. Instead, we arrived at a conveniently located parking garage at 11:20 a.m., gazed at the Seattle Center comatose fountain, scurried into the Seattle Center building (such a shadow of its former tacky self), examined the life-sized snow-globe and then rode the Monorail to Westlake Center for a quick shopping expedition at Children’s Place (new hat, gloves, sweatshirt, matching pants and three stuffed animals). Then, at her insistence, we ascended and descended and ascended the escalators before returning on the Monorail to the Seattle Center where we dined at Quincy’s. (My daughter ate five mini-corndogs, asked for more and threw away most of her fries. What a weird kid.)
But all that was the prelude to our real purpose for being in Seattle on a Friday afternoon.
My six-year old and I attended the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s “Nutcracker” performance. She, of course, has never been to the ballet and I hadn’t been since I went with the International Club in high school. We had amazing seats–why go at all if you can’t see?
Tonight, I asked her what the best part was–she said it was when the Mouse-King bit the girl–and then, I said, no, I mean the best part of the whole day and she snuggled against me and said, “Spending the whole day with you.” I hope she still thinks that in ten years. My boys would much rather hang out in their cave with their friends and an unbeaten video game than with their mother–which is as it should be.
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Christmas Day was a rousing success, if I do say so myself. Saying so seems self-congratulatory because, face it, without me, there would be no Christmas. I mean, without Baby Jesus there would be no Christmas. But without me there would be no homemade fudge.
We told the kids they could look in their stockings but that their dad and I would not be down before 9 a.m. We were and it was all over by 10 a.m.–well, unless you are me, and then there is cooking to do. We have a hearty meal, but one that’s easy to prepare, and one of my teenagers likes to cook. By 3 p.m. we were cleaning up and my husband–God bless him!–suggested that I go to a movie. So I did. I saw “Doubt” with Meryl Streep and, uh, that guy whose name slips my mind, but he was fantastic. I said to the ticket-taker guy, “Hey, what are those people waiting for?” and he said, “The Marley movie,” and he said, “Doubt? What’s that?” And I said, “You know, the nun movie?” because, really, did I want an existential conversation with a ticket-taker guy who doesn’t even know the basic plots of the movies showing at his theater?
I can see why “Doubt” has received rave reviews. I really liked it. (More than “Seven Pounds” which is hardly a fair comparison, but that movie, “Seven Pounds” has a basic premise that I do not accept.)
My family room is a wreck at the moment–I just looked over searching in vain for a good ending sentence for this blog. I guess it’s a sign that the kids here are living it up, enjoying life in my house. That’s fine, as long as no one spills anything sticky. The carpets were cleaned recently and wouldn’t it be nice if no one spills Kool-aid for awhile?
Another holiday over and done. Check it off the list. Let’s move along.