While I was gallivanting around Manhattan last Tuesday, my beloved boy turned 10 years old. I worried ahead of time about his birthday and my husband assured me that he’d take care of everything with a celebratory dinner at our son’s favorite restaurant.  His birthday party was scheduled for the following weekend (last night).

Several times in the preceding week, I considered calling my son’s teacher to see if she had an official birthday policy. This entire school year, my son had never mentioned birthdays in his class, nor had I ever seen evidence of cupcakes or Ding-Dongs or any sort of birthday treat.  However, the cacophony of details raging in my head stopped me from following through.  Bad move.

My husband tells me that Tuesday afternoon when he picked up our son from school on his 10th birthday, he spotted our son’s best friend’s mother coming out of the school with a birthday balloon and leftover cupcakes.  Our son and his best friend share a birthday (and also have joint birthday parties each year).  Then, our son appeared, looking devastated.  He cried for an hour over the lack of birthday cupcakes in his honor.

My husband told me this over the phone . . . and, of course, there was nothing I could do but suggest cupcakes the next day.

The next morning, my son–who is rarely ill and loves school–asked to stay home from school.  When my husband asked, the teacher reported nothing unusual in class the day before.  He gained permission to bring cupcakes the following day and my son stayed home all day, claiming fatigue.

It does turn out that he is sort of sniffly now with some cold symptoms, so maybe he wasn’t feeling great on Wednesday.  However, I think he was just sick with disappointment.

This marks the third serious breach of parental expectations in our lives as his parent.  It’s one thing for a child to experience pain and disappointment in his lifetime, but, oh, why do I have to be the one to hand-deliver the little heart-breaks to my baby boy who troubles us so little and impresses us so much?  I hate making mistakes more than the usual bear, but to make a mistake that hurts my child?  Horrible.

(And yet, now, all seems forgotten and forgiven, though I am sort of afraid to bring it up again.  His birthday party last night was a loud, boisterous success as far as I can tell.)

I am back home, wearing slippers, admonishing the children to be quiet. The noisy streets of New York are a fading memory. If I didn’t have photographic proof, I might doubt that I had ever left my house.

I flew on the red-eye last Sunday night, meaning I left at midnight and arrived in New York at 8 a.m. In my time zone, that was only 5 a.m. Did I mention already here that I woke up from a sporadic and unrestful sleep dotted with downy feathers from my pillow? It’s hard to look unflappable when you resemble a chicken.

I arrived at my hotel by 9:30 a.m. (a driver was waiting at the baggage claim for me, holding my name on a sign just as if I were Somebody Important). When I checked in at the front desk, the woman said, “How are you paying for this?” and I said, “Uh, my company is paying.”

She demanded a Letter of Authorization. I telephoned my contact person, who showed up in person to take care of things. However, that meant that I met her for the first time, desperate to make a good impression, with bleary eyes. She said to call her when I was ready, so I went to my room, washed up, reapplied make-up, changed clothes. We were walking to the subway within fifteen minutes.

The sky was clear and sunny, the sidewalks in Tribeca bustling with people in a hurry. We walked several blocks to the subway, then rode from the Brooklyn Bridge station to 28th Street in the 6 Train. By 10:30 a.m., I was at my temporary desk, working. I was introduced to everyone in the office, at least twenty people. We worked until 3 p.m., when returned on the subway. Within an hour, my friend from Kansas City arrived at the hotel.

We took the subway back Uptown to board a Grayline bus Night Tour. We sat on the upper deck in the frigid air to we could see the sites clearly. After the tour, we asked where to catch another bus back downtown and the tour director told us the buses didn’t run that late. We asked to be pointed toward the right subway and he told us he’d take us to the C-train. We stayed on the bus and then disembarked with him. He was traveling home, so he escorted us to the train and rode halfway to our stop, giving us advice the whole time about where to eat, what to see and how to find the best cannoli. (Which, alas, we did not have time to do.)

We had a late dinner at a little place down the street from the hotel.

I hardly slept that night. First nights in strange places are always tough for me. I woke up exhausted and sore. And then, back to work, commuting again by subway. (So easy, so convenient, so clean and so cheap!)

I worked from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. My friend met me at my office and we took the Subway to 42nd Street (Grand Central Station!) and then a shuttle over to Times Square. We wandered some, then found a restaurant. At 8 p.m., we saw a Broadway show (“Spamalot”) which was so funny that my cheeks hurt from laughter.

After the show, we headed down the sidewalk, ran into a blockade and realized Someone Famous was due to come out of the neighboring theater. After a short wait, we saw Terrence Howard come out and sign programs for fans. (He was starring in “A Raisin in the Sun.”)

We made our way back to the Subway and then to our hotel. We arrived home at 11 p.m. I slept that night, though not until 1 a.m. (I was reading The Other Boleyn Girl in anticipation of seeing the movie.)

Work on Wednesday from 10:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. That morning, another co-worker had arrived. We attempted the subway again, but it was not running (“signal failure” they said) so we took a cab which was much slower and more expensive than the subway. After work, nine of us from the office went to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. The walk to dinner down 10 blocks or so was brisk but invigorating and the dinner itself was full of conversation and laughter. And glorious guacamole.

My friend spent the whole day sight-seeing at Ellis Island, Liberty Island and riding the (free!) Staten Island Ferry. She also visited a museum. That night, when I finally arrived home at 9 p.m., we went down the street so she could have a late dinner (and I had dessert).

Then, Thursday, she left for home, I worked a short day in the office. Between the end of my shift and the time my car was due to pick me up, I took the subway uptown, this time all the way to 51st Street. I walked along tall buildings and very fancy hotels to 42nd Street, where I entered Grand Central Station (and how grand it was!). I was cold from the chilly air, but the sun was bright. That area seemed to be the domain of business people and very few tourists (unlike Times Square). I took the Subway to 33rd Street, then walked down Park Avenue to my office building, stopping to pick up lunch.

Then my car arrived and drove me to the airport (an hour’s drive). My plane (JetBlue, how I adore you) left at 7:25 p.m. and arrived in Seattle at 11 p.m. I picked up my van and drove an hour home and by 12:30 a.m., I was snuggled in my own bed.

I can hardly believe I spent four days in New York City. I was enthralled by the energy, by the kindness of the people and by the beauty of the city. It was a far different city than when I visited twentysomething years ago. Then again, I am a far different person now.

I would really love to travel again to New York City, this time for recreation only.  My time was so limited that I didn’t even glimpse Central Park, nor did I set foot inside a museum.  Next time.  I hope it doesn’t take me twenty more years to return.

Packing and leaving at midnight turns out to be a rather peaceful way to travel.  However, trying to sleep on an airplane with a non-reclining seat is less than restful. I think I slept for three hours, in fits and spurts.  I awoke at 4 a.m. to find myself covered in tiny downy feathers which had escaped as I tortured my full-sized pillow in an effort to sleep.  And nothing says “fashionable and grown-up” like black clothing covered with white fuzzy feathers.

A car service picked me up at 8:30 a.m. and delivered me to my hotel by 9:30 a.m. . . . at which point the woman at the front desk asked me how I intended to pay.  I said, “Uh, my company is paying.”  She insisted she need a Letter of Authorization.  I telephoned my company contact person who said she’d be right over to make everything right.

Of course, I had hoped to make a first impression that did not involve smeary eyeliner and teeny feathers on my clothes.  A girl can dream.

I did clean up and change clothes and then headed off to the office.  Elizabeth showed me how to get a MetroCard and now I’m practically an expert at riding the subway.  I worked until three (at which point my head actually exploded in an uncaffeinated display of terror).  Then I came back to the hotel and waited for my friend to arrive.

She was here by 4 p.m. and off we went.  We took the subway uptown, grabbed a quick bite to eat, walked around Times Square snapping pictures and then took a Night Tour of the city by a Grayline bus.  Afterward, the tour director on the bus walked us to the subway and escorted us halfway to our destination, all while giving us tips for our remaining days.

We returned to our hotel, walked up the street and had some dinner.

And so ends my first day in New York City.  I still cannot believe I’m here.

I had a terrible dream last night. I kept losing my husband in a mysterious downtown urban area which involved a parking garage and at one point, a parade. My enthusiasm for flying to New York (on business!) is tempered by anxiety and misgivings. I already miss my daughter, even though she’s right over there watching television (taking a break from bugging her almost 10-year old brother). I’ll be gone on my son’s 10th birthday. I worry about how my teenagers will handle school in my absence.

And then there is work itself at the corporate office. I fret about making a good first impression, especially considering that I will leave here at midnight, arrive at 8 a.m. (which will be 5 a.m. in my home time zone) and then by 10 a.m., I will arrive at the office, ready to work. A friend will be meeting me in New York and I worry that I will not have enough time to spend with her. I am a ball of anxiety.

But, I do have these cute shoes to wear. (Arg! I can’t insert a picture, for some reason.)

And the crocuses have started to bloom. (Again, I have a picture, but I can’t insert it. Technology can be so uncooperative sometimes.)

Next time you hear from me, I’ll be in New York, New York.

My teenagers are on “Winter Break” this week, a ridiculous week-long break for no apparent reason. My almost-10-year old is not on Winter Break, so he goes off to school and the teenagers lounge around all day. I secretly like Winter Break (and Summer Break, too) because forcing them to do schoolwork is an exercise in frustration. They are so much easier to live with they are on a break. (My kids are in different school districts because of the teenagers’ virtual school.)

I took my daughter on a long walk before lunch today. Breathing in the cool air and squinting in the sunlight was such a delight.

Thanks for all the New York related advice. I have decided to wear a black track suit (is that what you call it? . . . black pants, black jacket) and I found some really cute shoes that will be perfect. (I think I’ll even post a picture of them tomorrow.) We’re going to see “Spamalot.” I became a fan of Monty Python, ever since I watched “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” when I was a teenager. And Carmen recommended it.

I can’t believe I’ll be in New York in less than a week. I’m already missing my family and I haven’t even left.

My son will turn 10 years old while I’m gone. (Birthday party will be held the following weekend.) Ten! And then my daughter will be five and a half (on March 2).

And I will spare you my rendition of “the cat’s in the cradle and the silver spoon, little boy blue and the man in the moon” (the kids are growing and have I spent enough time with them?) lament.

Grace is my youngest child.  On March 2, she will be five and a half years old.  I may be in some denial about her growing up.
Yesterday, on the way to the grocery store, she piped up from the back seat:  “Isn’t it nice that we can spend time together?”  As if we don’t spend every day together, all day.

We bought some fried chicken from the deli, even though the smell of it and thought of it curls my lips in disgust.  She and her 9-year old brother love drumsticks, just as I did as a child.  Now I would sooner starve than eat a chicken drumstick.
All the kids are gnawing on their chicken (*shudder*) and suddenly, Grace stops and grimaces in pain.  She said, “Oh!” and clutched a hand to her mouth.  I reached out my arms and said, “What happened?  Did you bite your lip?” and she said, “I bit the bone and MY TOOTH GOT LOOSE!”

Uh, I think I might have forgotten to mention to her that her baby teeth would fall out and her big teeth would grow in.  I remember my other children being excited about this event . . . granted, one of my older boys was in about third grade by the time he lost his first tooth and his twin brother was only a little younger.  My 9-year old lost his first tooth when he was 4, but he found it exciting.

I hugged my daughter to me and explained what happened.  She spent the rest of the night pushing her tooth around with her tongue.

Tonight, she hollered for me while she was in the bathtub.

“Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Can we go somewhere tomorrow?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to buy some church shoes.”

“You already have church shoes,” I said, thinking of her black Mary Janes and her beige Mary Janes with the pink flower on them.  Oh, and she has brown Mary Janes, too, not that she’s ever worn them.  And let us not forget the fancy red satin shoes with red sequins.

“My church shoes are all ugly.  Besides,” she said, “On Sunday I want to wear that really pretty pink dress and I need to get some pink shoes that match at that store we went with Zachary to buy new shoes yesterday because I know they have church shoes because I tried on those really pretty pink ones and I want to buy them even though they were too big.”

“We’ll see.  Probably not.”

Contrast this with Zachary’s absolute disgust that I insisted he try on and allow me to buy new shoes for him.  All of my boys have been shoe resistant and now I have a little Imelda Marcos on my hands.  Life has a funny way of balancing out.

I thought I’d post a quick entry here tonight and yet I have very little to report. Working full-time, even from home, even from my computer in the midst of my household, still feels like work. The downside? My housework is neglected. And I can’t seem to get a decent dinner on the table. The upside? A paycheck! Oh, and I do actually like the work. That’s a plus.

My husband had an eventful week. He had a wisdom tooth pulled on Wednesday morning and despite my dire warnings–I’d had a molar pulled last summer and it was grim and unpleasant–he had no pain, no residual effects whatsoever. I felt stupidly defensive, as if my reaction to a similar situation (gloom and despair) was irrational.

I surprised my husband with a new iPhone for Valentine’s Day. Normally, I barely notice Valentine’s Day, let alone participate in it, but this year I needed to make up for a dismal performance at Christmas. (We always agree: let’s not go crazy at Christmas–“don’t get me anything,” we say–and then he always GETS ME SOMETHING while I have clung to the original agreement.)

Anyway, my fortysomething husband is now all hip and happening and able to receive and send text messages–imagine that! (We are woefully behind the times.) The iPhone inspires awe.

He shocked me by buying me a cool little digital camera, an improvement over my current digital camera which has become quirky (ie. refuses to work from time to time even with fresh batteries installed). This camera will come in handy when I fly to New York City in ten days. Oh, hadn’t I mentioned that? I’m flying to the corporate office on business.

Now, the very thought that I–a housewife with a favorite pair of slippers that I wear all day, every day–will be jetting off to New York on business–cracks me up. My initial concern was that everyone in New York would mock my purse, but I have been comforted–and gifted with a new purse–and now I worry only about finding cheap tickets to a Broadway show.

Any suggestions?

You never know where life will take you. I never thought it would take me to Manhattan on business. Now, tell me, if you were flying at midnight, arriving at 8 a.m. in New York City, what would you wear during the flight?

It’s 12:38 a.m. and I’ve finished working and turning in my hours for the pay period. It does not seem normal to be awake at this hour of the night. Usually, the phone rings at least once or twice in the mornings before I’m fully coherent. I manage to make my 10-year old a school lunch and comb his hair every morning before 8 a.m., but then I always return upstairs to my still-warm bed and fall semi-conscious for awhile.

I’ve always been predisposed to a nocturnal life, but for almost the entire last fifteen years I’ve been required to recalibrate my settings and rise early. When my twins were babies, they woke up every morning at 5:30 or 6. Until they were about four years old, they woke up that early, no matter what time they went to bed. For those four years of ruthless mornings, I vowed to get revenge when they were teenagers, but as it turns out, it’s so nice and quiet when they are sleeping late that I do not bang pots and pans by their heads at 6:00 a.m. to torture them as they tortured me for those long years.

Time is so odd because sometimes it stretches way past the horizon. You can’t imagine anything will ever change. You’ve been changing diapers forever or wiping noses for an entire lifetime. You can never imagine sleeping in until 10 a.m. or driving anywhere without buckling everyone into carseats or leaving a child behind when you run errands.

And then one day you look up and everything’s changed. Your kids are taller than you, your baby can grate cheese all by herself, and your mother is almost 65 years old. And that very day you get a letter from your immortal great-aunt and in her suddenly shaking cursive she tells you that she is 84 and Uncle Em is 81 and they’ve had a difficult winter and that the highlights of their day are when the mail arrives at 1:30 p.m. and the newspaper arrives at 4:30 p.m.

And you realize that these notecards that your great aunt has been sending to you for forty years–give or take a few months–will one day stop arriving.

And the crocuses you planted are pushing through the wet dirt already.

Not a single moment stops, ever. Life is a rushing river, never ever a stagnant pond. Grab the babies and kiss them while you can. And, by all means, take a few moments and send dear Aunt Nellie a letter and make her day.

So, last Friday night, my youngest sister and I went out to dinner to celebrate our birthdays.  (Hers in October, mine in January.)  After our dinner, she was supposed to pick up our other sister, the one who does not speak to me, from our grandmother’s house.  Because of the location of the restaurant, grandma’s house and my house, we decided the most sensible thing would be to stop by my grandma’s house on the way.

I knew that I would encounter my sister, obviously, but I am not about confrontation.  We arrived at the house and Estranged Sister was in the driveway retrieving something from our mother’s car.  I believe I said, “Hi,” on my way to the front door.  Once inside, I found my grandmother sitting in her office at the back of the house.  My mother sat at the desk and my grandmother sat in front of the desk.

I knelt by my grandma and she held my cold hands and told me how happy she was that I was there.  I had no idea but I’d walked into the middle of a dramatic situation–for that was the last night my grandmother was to spend in her own home.  She’s been living alone since my grandpa died in 1987.  She is 101 years old, nearly 102, and a few weeks ago, she fell.

As she tells the story, she lost her balance while trying to get her nightgown over her head.  Next thing she knew, three firefighters were in her room.  One said, “Do you know where you are?” because he was concerned that she might of hit her head.  She said in an indignant voice, “Of course I know!  I am in my bedroom!”

They lifted her up and put her on her bed.  She did have to go to the hospital but had no broken bones, just some bruises and scrapes.  That fall put into motion a series of events and my mother and my uncles and my cousin had decided that Grandma would move in with my cousin so she would no longer be alone and vulnerable.  (Oh, and did I mention that my grandmother is blind due to macular degeneration?)
My mother said, “Melodee, Grandma has some news!” and I said, “Grandma, do you have news for me?” and she acted surprised.  “News?  No, not really.”  And so my mother mouthed words to me and wrote a note and began to cry.  (The note said, “Mother is moving to Cindy’s.”)  Later, when we were alone, I said to Grandma, “So I hear you’re going to stay with Cindy?” and Grandma said, “Well, we’ve talked about it.  I’m going for a few days.”

That threw my mother into a sobbing panic.  In the driveway, she said to me, “We’re moving her chair and her bed!  What if she is upset?” and I said, “She’s just scared.  She’ll be all right.”  The transition from living alone, as she has for twenty years, and moving in with someone is enormous.  But everything will be okay.  At least that’s what I insist on believing.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, as I sat in my grandma’s book-filled office, I was aware of my sister’s presence in the other part of the house.  How awkward.  After a while, I walked out and talked to my cousin.  My other sister had told Estranged Sister that we’ll be giving her a ride.  (My other sister’s car is at my house.)

Eventually, we say farewell and head to the car.  Estranged Sister puts her suitcase and stuff in my trunk.  Here are the things I said to her on the way home:

1)  When was the last time you saw Grandma?  Did she look much different?

As usual, I was the one who made attempts at conversation.  Estranged Sister answered the question and that was that.

My other sister and I chatted most of the way home.  I may have directed another question or two toward the backseat, but I can’t remember now.

I invited her into my house for a second while my other sister came in to get something.  Estranged Sister stood by the doorway, picked up a newspaper from the recycling pile and read it for the few minutes we were inside.  She didn’t say hello to any of my children.
We could hire a therapist full-time for the rest of our lives and never untangle the knot that ties us together.

And now, she’s back in Japan.

I saw Michael Clayton tonight (starring my boyfriend, George Clooney). Now I have seen all the movies nominated for an Academy Award for Best Picture. (Atonement, Juno, Michael Clayton, There Will Be Blood and No Country for Old Men.) I’m going to guess that No Country for Old Men will win, but it’s hard to know. I’m going to predict the winners here. (Waiting for a password reminder, then I’m going for it.)

Interestingly enough, the sister I spoke of recently (who does not speak to me) will be arriving at my mother’s house (a scant three minutes from my front door) tomorrow night. Do you think she’ll call? Or stop by? Ha ha ha ha.

It’s not too late . . . for you to send something exquisite and expensive for my birthday which is Monday. How old will I be? That’s right, boys and girls. Forty-three.

My daughter is five. I was trying to remember being five years old–that was the year we moved into the first house owned. My dad teased me and said it was haunted, but I didn’t believe him, even at the time.

I remember so clearly that my mother put our vacuum cleaner in its white vinyl box right inside the front door. The glass next to the door was 1970s opaque mottled gold. I remember the sun shining through that glass onto the vacuum cleaner box. (Our vacuum was a cannister with a long cloth hose . . . you pulled it around kind of like a dog on a leash.) When I think of that house, that’s what I remember first: the vinyl vacuum cleaner box in the glowing golden light of that window.

My parents were so young when I was five. My dad was only 28 years old when I was five. I try to imagine growing up, being five in a household with such young parents. I wonder if my parents saw me as clearly as I see my daughter. Or do all children feel sort of invisible and insignificant?

The other day, my daughter was carrying around a dog statue she bought for a dollar at the “One Dollar Store.” She’d had me fasten this purple leash on its neck and she dragged it and swung it around. I told her, “Be careful because that dog might break,” but she didn’t listen to my warning. We were heading to the elementary school to drop off her friend to kindergarten. While they climbed into the van, I jogged up the driveway to grab the mail.

When I opened the van door, I heard and then saw her bawling. I said, “What happened?” and she wailed, “I broke my puppy!” I glanced down at her hand and saw she was clutching a gaping hole where the puppy’s front paw had been. I couldn’t stop myself. I said, “Grace, I told you to be careful.”

She cried with such gusto that I envied her. I can’t even remember the day when I would let loose with tears without any consideration at all. Nowadays, when I feel like crying, I first try to talk myself out of it, then I bite my lip, then I breathe a shaky breath. If I still can’t stop the tears, I wipe them as quick as they fall, force myself to be silent and hope no one notices.

But a five year old hollers and cries out loud, lets tears smear on her face, lets her nose run without regard for appearances. What freedom.

After I promised to fix the puppy with glue, she was instantly all better. Life is simple when you’re five.

I was five so long ago. I wonder if anyone remembers me being five? My dad has been dead for 18 years. My mother’s 65 and from all accounts, remembers very little of her life as a stay-at-home mother.

Sometimes, like this morning, I wish my daughter would stay five. She climbed into bed with me while I was desperately trying to stay asleep, trying to hold onto the images in my dreams. “Will you hold me?” she said, and I flung one arm over her body.

She’d nudge her freezing cold feet onto my legs until I said, “Stop touching me with your cold feet!” but what I really meant to say was, “Please, don’t even grow up. Stay five forever. Let’s just cuddle here under my quilt and pretend that we will always be close and that you’ll always want to be next to me more than anyone else in the whole wide world.”

This is my last winter with my baby girl before she heads off to kindergarten. The next thing I know, she’ll go to junior high and develop a crush on an older boy and get her driver’s license and decide I am so uncool and apply to a college back East and meet her future husband and never, ever, ever crawl under the covers with me and giggle when I tickle her by wiggling my fingers on her back. My days of sniffing her little girl curls will be over.

But I will never forget when she was five and I was forty-two.