It's a Scream

Jack is usually the happy-go-lucky, laid-back one of the bunch, but everyone has his limits. For the last couple of days Claire has been home sick with a cough, so the quiet routine of Jack’s normal business hours with his Mama’s undivided attention have been decidedly disrupted.

When the rest of the clan gets home, the tension starts to mount and things can turn on a dime. The escalating high-decibel mirth of their rambunctious play suddenly screeches into high-pitched, bloodcurdling cries for help.

Jack is a little man of few words, but in this impromptu photo he’s clearly saying, “I can’t take it any more!” I can relate. His way of retaliating against all these daytime bombardments of noise is to get up at three a.m. and quietly practice his ABCs. As cute as this is, I have to say, it makes me want to scream.

(painting: The Scream by Edvard Munch, 1893)

Steppin' Out

Contrary to current speculation, you still can dress us up and take us out – it’s just great deal more effort than it used to be. Since outings without children only happen two or three times a year at most, you’d think we’d have time to plan ahead. Think again.

Fifteen minutes before we are supposed to leave for a fabulous 50^th birthday party, we’re looking up “cocktail attire” on the internet because James is afraid that fashions might have drastically changed since the last time we actually went out. He can’t find his shirt, tie, or cuff links (right where they’re supposed to be) and I’m frantically searching for my shoes (they’re in Chloé’s closet). This leaves us about four minutes to shower, get dressed, and get out the door without getting covered in the mac-and-cheese the kids are eating.

In the car on the way, we try to decompress from a kid-packed day and stay awake at the same time. James says, “I can’t believe I used to like going out.” I say, “Yeah, my feet hurt already.” Sheesh. We are way too young to be acting this old. Somehow, in our rush not to be late, we pull into valet parking five minutes early. It’s embarrassing, but we figure if we’re the first to arrive, we can be the first to go home.

The party, held at Bimbo’s 365 Club, is really spectacular, and beautiful 50-year-old Kate looks like she’s turning thirty-seven. I try not to be jealous. We see a lot of family and have a great time enjoying delectable dishes amidst cascades of gorgeous fresh flowers. At 11pm, when the band starts singing “Get Down, Boogie-Oogie-Oogie” we hesitate, fearing that if we get down too far we might have trouble getting back up.

Getting to bed sounds like the most realistic plan. It’s a good thing that we set the clocks back to Standard Time, because we’ll need that extra hour to recuperate from all the excitement. Boogie Wonderland will have to wait until next time we go out. Which may be awhile.

King for a Day

Wynham’s soccer season came to a close yesterday and it couldn’t have ended on a higher note, with a win in triple overtime. Wynham acted as goalie for the final penalty kicks, and they won on the last kick. Talk about pressure; wow! It was an exciting finale, to say the least. I was still trying to savor the thrill of victory on the way home from the game when he said, “Mom, let’s stop on the way home so I can buy a football.” And wait, doesn’t basketball season start in two weeks? No rest for the weary…

Sweet and Low

Jack is up early this morning (long before the sun) and following the usual ritual, James brings him upstairs to snuggle. While I’m sorry to be deprived of the sleep I was enjoying, I wouldn’t trade for anything these quiet little tête-à-têtes before the day cracks open and everything becomes distraction.

He’s particularly chatty today, carrying on a monologue about everything and nothing that I can only sometimes comprehend. As he tries out his ever-growing repertoire of words and inflections, I try not to giggle too much in the hopes that he’ll drift back to sleep.

It happens in an instant. He rests his cheek against my shoulder and nestles his golden downy head under my chin, grasping my clavicle with his dimpled hand. And the silent whisper, sweet and low, of his breath upon my skin moves me with more force than a hurricane ever could.

Happy Days

Wynham and Socco: A Mutual Lovefest

Forever Miss You

Your adorable little mooshed-up face,
That wiggly walk so full of grace,
Trying hard to always please;
Forever miss you, Socrates.
(with love, from Claire)

They Go Together

Anyone who was acquainted with my mother and her dog Socrates knows that they were inseparable. Wherever Marmay went, Socrates went too. So it stands to reason that he’d follow on her heavenly voyage as well, and he took off yesterday in his own noble way.

A sweeter, gentler, more loving and less imposing creature, there never was. We’ve known Socrates (Socco, for short) since he was a puppy and Chloé was not quite one year old, but when he came to live with us ten months ago, he stole our hearts completely. We were pushovers from the moment his white-socked paws crossed our threshold.

He gave us so much joy, and I hope we gave him a measure of the same. He had a special bond with Claire, and James, and Chloé and Wynham, too. It’s not an exaggeration to say we’re feeling quite heartbroken today.

It seems fitting to say goodbye on All Saints Day, because he was truly a saintly little fellow; never barking, always happy to see you, doing a frisky jig to demonstrate his excitement. I can smile when I envision him on the ultimate joyride in Mom’s purple car, eagerly looking out the window and wagging his tail for all it’s worth. We miss you already, Socco, and we know it will be a wonderful journey.

Jack-O'-Lantern