I woke up beautifully. And I usually have some great mornings. (These last few days I have been staying up late watching BBC mysteries on the laptop through Netflix instant viewing). This morning, to my left: Nels, clinging to me and sleeping softly. On the far side of Nels: my daughter, holding the cat Harris.

Sophie and Harris have a unique relationship in our family. She has always been kinder to the cats than our son has; in fact, she has been predominantly gentle to animals her entire life. She's not the tail-pulling type. Harris trusts her in such a way that you often see the two of them travelling through the house, she carrying him in two arms, hunched shoulders, and his body forming an upside down "J" shape (or a right-side up flaccid "7" shape) while he purrs. Mornings, like this morning, you can find the two of them literally in each other's arms - he's a big cat, she's a little girl, so the embrace is physically reciprocal in nature.

As I woke and perceived them there Sophie was talking to him softly. Sleepy, I reached over and pet all three of them; first the boy, then the girl, then the cat. The cat, for some reason, chose to grip the area between my thumb and index finger with his teeth. Not biting, but holding my hand. For a while. I tried to tug out of it but his little tooth was right in there. Sophie, seeing my conundrum, silently gave the feline a sharp but gentle whup on top of his head, her air the casual expertise of a professional cat-handler; he immediately released his grip. I lay there and watched the two of them while Nels gradually woke up and put his arms around me. I was in heaven. I was also thinking of my daughter and our pet; if she's lucky, Harris will be with us eighteen more years or so. I pictured her out of our home, off to college or somewhere else, having grown up with this companion. Getting to have a love affair with this very cat. Being with him as he ages, perhaps - if she's fortunate - when he dies.

It's one of my life's pleasures to watch my kids form relationships completely independent of my influence. I find myself comforted by the impermanence of things, interested in how things play out. My life as a parent has been one of relinquishing more and more control. I wouldn't have guessed my daughter would take as much genuine pleasure from our pets at such a young age. I thought I'd adopted this kitty for my pleasure.

Overheard this evening:

Me: Should I give Shannon some of the tamales I made as well? [while packing up some molasses cookies for her]

Ralph: NO! What the hell are you thinking?!

He's a little greedy for tamales. As you know.

Labels: food, friends, Harris, Nels, Sophie, verbatim

I've been biting my lip trying not to laugh at things my kids say because they are just so serious when they say them but it is also so funny.

First there's this afternoon as my daughter and I walk to join Nels and Ralph in their photo-shoot at our downtown favorite deli / eatery (Ralph's working on some new menus et cetera for the proprietor).

"Oh man! I forgot to put Harris' ass outside," I exclaim, deliberately using bad language because Sophie loves when I talk that way about the cat.

But she's having no playful banter in this case: "The point is, it's not our fault. It's Harris' fault," she says in clipped, decisive tones. "He should have gone outside when we opened the door."

"The point is ..." ?! Who talks like that in this house?

Then tonight as my son runs through the living room top speed with my quilting ruler (look, there was some reason he was doing this - none of us knows what it was) and suddenly the ruler, only three inches shorter than he, stutters on the ground and scrapes the top of his foot. And he cries. Then he sees some of his skin is gone and he really cries. I mean Nels hardly ever lets life get the best of him; he's either belligerent, angry, or whining but in this case he's actually afraid. His chin lowers and trembles and everything. Ralph is trying to explain to Nels his skin will grow back; patting Nels tenderly on his tiny, bandaged toe.

Sophie steps in: "Nels," she says sagely, "When I lost my toe..."* she goes on reassuringly, with all the veteran wisdom of like, some kind of grizzled old Marine telling combat stories.

Ah yes. Belly up to the bar, young 'un - Ole Stumpy can regale ye with thrilling tales.

Labels: hilarity, Nels, Sophie, verbatim

Today as I awaited my young daughter's exodus from the hot showers post-swimming lesson I saw another woman in a an angry tableau with her daughter while the grandmother watched. The little girl had done something - I don't know what - and was receiving a lengthy scolding, right there in her bathing suit. The mother and the grandmother's faces were molded in lines of intense displeasure. The object of their ire was avoiding eye contact while making angry grunts. "Look at me. Look at me," the mother fumed, gripping her daughter's upper arms. At this the grandmother marched over from a few feet of observational distance, grasped the young girl's head, and forcefully turned it. "Look at your mother," she grimly intoned. I lost track of the conversation as my daughter skirted past the trio, giving them a curious glance, and into my waiting towel. A few minutes later, out of eyesight at the locker bank, I heard the sound of a slap and the mother's voice again, angrily: "Behave." I thought, impossible. If the little girl was weak-natured, she would be terrified and ashamed. If she was strong-willed, she would be angry and ashamed. At best, she'd be cowed into submission. Adults can win this sort of conflict because they are larger, meaner, and scarier. And the worst thing is adults who behave like this often never reflect on doing things a different way; never learn to take care of their anger, only to unleash it at the expense of their dependents.

I remember episodes like this in my childhood (I was of the strong-willed variety, in case you hadn't guessed), the full (if momentary) anger and shaming language directed at me by the supposedly loving figures in my life. These incidents were awful, simply awful, and when I see a child treated in this way I remember it like it was yesterday. Only slightly less uncomfortable than witnessing tonight's unpleasantness was the knowledge that I have myself talked to my child this way, have felt that angry at my child - although I know I have never permitted adults to gang up on my children in any way (at least, not as long as I've been present to stop it). It was so easy for me to see, looking in on someone else's child, that no matter what this girl did she in no way deserved this browbeating. It was so easy for me to imagine this grandmother treated her daughter this way and the cycle continued - at least in this moment there was no growth, no healing.

Alone on our locker room bench, I gather my daughter in my arms, towel and all. She permits the embrace and I have a few blissful seconds of her warmth and dearness. She is tough and smart and almost the age she could physically forage for herself in the world. But in the moment she feels like a tiny bird, all fluttering heart and fragile wings. Gentle, gentle, I think to myself. Can I return to being gentle to my children? I know today's example will stay with me. I also know I'm not being so gentle to myself lately. Take a breath; tomorrow is a new day. I can do it.

Labels: other haters, Sophie, verbatim

I think the kind of day like today, where one stays at home and asses out and asks Husband to stay home with the kids, eating poorly all day because one is sick and isn't cooking well, and gets nothing done - someone who say, prides themselves on working hard and usually experiences some self-esteem to say at the end of the day, "I did such-and-such and nailed it" - for someone like that, a sick day with junk food and no ambition, the kind of day that only happens about once year for that person -

Anyway like I've said, today is precisely the wrong type of day to idly sit down at the computer and end up on the MySpace clickaround... you know, looking at other people's pictures, reading comments, starting to believe everyone else does more traveling and has better times and killer inside jokes. They've been drunk with fun friends more often and have nicer clothes and their kids are more fun and less work than mine.

Some voice of reason would tell me there is no way to know someone's existential reality by their uploaded persona-bytes. An even smarter voice of reason tells me I loathe MySpace, I really do (except my friend Jessica's blog), and never have benefitted from using it, much. And that I should get back to watching a movie and knitting socks for my daughter, instead of feeling flaccid and sick in front of the computer screen.

On the other hand, there's a way to lift my spirits almost unfailingly: spending time "doing nothing" with my family. In this case, a ride to the video store instead of staying home. As we drive through the rain-soaked evening, snug in our car, we offer the kids a choice - two movies, simplified as "one with aliens, the other with weird creatures". Sophie votes "Creatures!", Ralph and I concur on aliens, and Nels' vote stands in sway. Finally he says, "Aliens," decisively, prompting a total crying breakdown of our daughter who throws her head back and howls, "Noooo....!"

The car is briefly quiet except for her crying. After a minute Nels says quietly, "What about creatures?" Reconsidering. For his sister's feelings. And I wish I had a recording of what his voice sounds like, saying that. His voice is attached to my heartstrings.

Labels: film, illness, Nels, Sophie, verbatim

My mom invited us over for dinner tonight: meatloaf. Frankly, I'm dying for a break from cooking (altho' I won't be eating the meat, natch). Here were the negotiations:

Me: "Are there going to be mashed potatoes?" (I love my mom's mashed potatoes)

My mom: "OK. What about vegetables *? What does Ralph like?"

My dad: "How about carrots?"

My mom: "I know what you like. I'm trying to find out what he likes."

Me: "He likes caesar salad - I have a great dressing recipe I can mail you."

My mom: "Good idea! I have a head of romaine. I'll find anchovies for the dressing."

My dad: [ unintelligible muttering because he hates salad ]

Me: "What was that?"

My dad (sullen): "I didn't say a fucking thing."

* My mom's cooking requirements per dinner: meat, one "starch", one veggie.

Labels: FOO, food, the Ghost of Christmas Bastard, verbatim