My poor 10-year old boy. I took him for a haircut today. I do respect his desire to have long hair, but once or twice a year, I insist on a trim–and he concurs, until he is perched in the barber’s chair. Then his face reflects his terror and his shock that cutting hair shortens the length of said hair. His blond long bangs are now clipped to his eyebrows and he has no need to flip his head to see. He hates this. Honestly, I didn’t intend for it to be as short at it is (though it’s not very short at all). It does look much better, though. He will not be happy until it’s long enough to put in a pony tail on the top of his blond head.

Meanwhile, my 5-year old slammed her middle finger in the door this morning when she closed it for emphasis. I told her that’s what you get for slamming doors at me. I also said to her today (while running errands), “You are making me sorry that I brought you!” and she said, “Well, you are making me sorry that I like you!”

While I was out running errands with the non-stop-talking 5-year old, my boys were all home alone for a short time. In that time period, one of the 14-year olds grabbed a handful of the 10-year old’s hair (prior to the haircut) and yanked it hard five times. The 10-year old had annoyed the usually annoying 14-year old and thus, the hair-pulling.

When I returned home to pick up the 14-year old to take him to Costco to have his glasses repaired and adjusted, my husband informed me of this hair-pulling incident. The hair-puller was sent to his room to consider an adequate punishment and that’s when I took the 10-year old for a haircut. (Which took forever because we go to a walk-in barbershop where it’s first-come, first-served. We waited for an older gentleman to be finished, then for a soldier to have his head shaved with a straight razor.)

I delivered the sad, shorn 10-year old home, picked up the 14-year old (all the while, the 5 year old is with me, chatting away) for a quick trip to Costco. On the way, he moaned to me about how awful his punishment is (cleaning the front and back yards tomorrow and not being allowed to play video games) . . . he clearly missed the point. Oh, and while I was gone, the 14-year olds got into a fight: one 14-year old annoyed the other until his brother grabbed his head and bumped it into the couch. Apparently, I’m raising juvenile delinquents or future WWE wrestlers. The kid experienced karma, though he didn’t recognize it even though it bumped him in the head–he did to his brother what his other brother did to him.

I despair that they will ever learn.

Meanwhile, I talked to my mother yesterday on the phone for quite a while. She is a mess, watching my grandmother die. My grandmother’s been mostly unresponsive the last week, not drinking or eating at all, but roused when one of her sons arrived in town (from Tennessee) to see her. She wanted to drink coffee with him. Her 102nd birthday is Monday. By then, her five children will all be in town . . . originally to celebrate her birthday, but now we will all gather around as she prepares to leave this world for the next. I wonder if I will ever see all these relatives again, all together.

My family will probably go tomorrow night to see everyone, though my mom cautioned me that seeing Grandma might be too much for the younger children. I’ll have to see. I’ve been very open with them, letting them know that Great-Grandma is dying.

And so it seems an odd juxtaposition that today I saw daffodils blooming everywhere, a signal of the world coming back to life just as my grandmother leaves this life. She loved flowers, always had a yard blooming with them.

As if all this wasn’t enough, I am leaving town again next Wednesday to attend (for the second year) a writing conference near Santa Cruz. I feel tremendously guilty for going, especially since I flew to New York last week. I’ve also had so little time to devote to writing that I feel like less of a writer this year than I did last year.

However, I do remember how refreshed I felt last year after the conference, how full of inspiration and hope I was, and how I loved the silence of the Redwood forest. I will set aside my guilt and open myself up to whatever the experience has to give me. (Also? After spending the day with my bickering children, the guilt is outweighed by desperation to get away from them . . . which makes me feel guilty.)

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.