Bend It Like Wynham

Jack saw this picture and said:

"Wynham, Wynham, he's our man;

if he can't do it, no one can!"

and Claire said:

"Hey, whatever happened to those pom-pons, anyway?"

and Chloé said:

"I'm going to make chocolate chip cookies."

and Wynham said:

"Mom! There's not even a BALL in the picture!"

Ya win some, ya lose some.

I simply like this photo for all

the possibilities just beyond the frame, and

the way Wynham is running up to greet them...

Parenting: Epic Fail #427

If ever I forget any of my shortcomings as a parent, my kids are quick to remind me. They are so helpful in that regard. Every once in a while, when I've had all the hemming and hawing over homework I can stand, when there's just one more whine about what's for dinner, well, I SNAP! "Fine then! You can just go to boarding school!"

There are any number of excellent parenting books which could point out the grave error of this reactive type of statement: You're damaging their fragile little psyches! They'll spend years in therapy undoing all the harm you've inflicted on them! I'm sure Claire has read them all. I'm sure she can quote the chapter, page, and paragraph correcting any of my various infringements against her delicate soul.

The last time I used the boarding school threat, Claire ran down the hall, to be seen moments later climbing the stairs to my room. Upon receiving this missive, left forlornly on my pillow, I had the following reactions:

1. I am the world's worst mother.
2. Wait, I'm going to redline this text and give it back to her. If she's going to call my bluff, she should at least use proper spelling and grammar. And editorially, "sad" and "little" together is laying it on a bit too think, don't you think?
3. Aack. Back to reaction #1.

Ultimately, I told Claire I was going to frame her note, to preserve it for posterity. That stopped her in her tracks, but probably not for long. I can tell you one thing for sure, there's not a single line in any of those books to prepare you for the day when you suddenly realize your kids are smarter (or at least way more clever) than you...

When Royalty Goes Awry

It's that special day of the year again, the Feast of Kings, the occasion when we serve the Galette des Rois and someone is crowned king or queen for the day. This year the favor was found in "the share of God," the extra piece left for the first person to arrive at our home after this celebration.

Claire was having none of that. She insisted on having the favor, on the grounds that she had never been the lucky recipient of the crown. To my surprise, some parent (Not me. Ahem.) acquiesced to this demand.

Drunk with the possibilities of her newly-appropriated sovereignty, Claire headed straight to the kitchen and came back with the marble rolling pin, hollering "Off with their heads!!!" No flimsy orb and scepter for this monarch, no siree. She attempted to wield this daunting bit of authority in the whereabouts of Wynham's pate, but like the good French peasant that he is, he took up his dinner fork and retorted with "Vive la Révolution!!!"

At this point, the Queen Mother decided she'd had just about enough of all this abuse of power and uttered words guaranteed to deflate any budding potentate: Go. To. BED!

Long Live the Queen...

Rock Star for Rent

Possibly, the only thing more egregious than a teenager with attitude is a teenager who goes away to college and comes back with more attitude. Don't get me wrong, Chloé's a good kid getting good grades, and I'm proud of her and all that, but I think her sosie came home for the holidays. Gone is that helpful young lady who could be relied upon to put the dishes in the dishwasher and watch after her younger siblings, the one who never missed a curfew, who called when there was a change of plans, who could be counted on to clean up after herself.

She's been replaced by a somewhat unruly creature who's out all hours, leaves apple cores and underpants on the mantle, has a constant in-and-out stream of adoring fans, and seems to think there's room service 24/7 and perpetual housekeeping services at her disposal. I'm thinking, as her personal manager (every rock star needs one), I could cover the cost of all these amenities by setting up gigs for her, whereby she goes to someone else's house for 24-hour increments and impresses folks with her many talents. Just sayin'.

For any interested parties, please expect impromptu concerts any hour of the day or night, an incredible slowdown in your wireless network, an incredulous look if expectations aren't instantaneously met by the minions, and oh yes, you might want to install a revolving door. And an extra large-capacity water heater. And don't forget to stockpile enormous quantities of chocolate for regular care and feeding of the rock star. You've been warned...

Coco! I love you! *mwah*

Hard to Pin Down

The New Year always seems to bring with it a sweep of ideas and emotions, relief and regrets, optimism and determination. This go-round, I resolved to keep my resolutions realizable. They are small and fuzzy, not grand and polished, and perhaps a little hard to pin down. They might, just maybe, be doable.

In the spirit of starting small and staying focused, I took a few photos with my new microscopic lens for the iPhone. I love the results, and this one in particular is the perfect talisman for 2012. It's a straight pin, threaded through a tiny glass bead and a seed pearl, on an ornament I made 40 years ago. A tiny thing, but enduring.

So the motto for the year is, "If you cannot do great things, do small things in a great way." Starting small is just fine. The important thing is to start...

Learning My Lines

Certainly, I've had my issues with getting older. Gravity, for one, is not my friend. In the last couple of years, I've spent a lot of time and energy fighting the inevitable, inexorable, downward trend. *sigh*

A dozen years ago, an older friend of mine complained to me that the creases which appeared on her face while she was sleeping now seemed to stick around for quite awhile after she'd gotten out of bed. I didn't have a lot of pity for her at the time. I should have, but how was I to know?

To no avail, I waged an all-out war against that little Grand Canyon between my eyebrows, the one that careens off towards my left eye. The one I probably got from squinting for all those years while I refused to admit I needed the glasses. All the time, not just for reading. Well, now I'm making peace.

It's time I learned to love my lines. Time to treat them, not like scourges on the landscape, but as badges of honor: something earned. No matter how that landscape evolves, the smile, I hope, will always shine through...

Falling for Franz

If a picture is worth a thousand words, then how many musical notes does it take to convey the powerful provocation of a given image? Far less, I imagine... Well, you might not call me an aficionado of the majority of his compositions (although certain pieces are quite moving), but I'm absolutely besotted by this portrait of Franz Liszt, painted by Henri Lehmann in 1839.

It happened by chance encounter one sunny afternoon a dozen years ago, at the Musée Carnavalet in Paris. I can't tell you much about my visit other than the fact that, in a tall-ceilinged room flooded with natural light, this canvas stopped me in my tracks. Long rays of sun mimicked and illuminated the original lighting of the scene. The painting, well, it glowed...

Liszt was a handsome-enough fellow, known to make ladies swoon, a virtuoso sporting a checkered romantic history. His face may have been his passport, but his power was in his hands. You can see how Lehmann captured that essence: the confident-yet-not-quite-insouciant posture, the unusual ring on his index finger, those puissant and perfectly formed digits.

Words fail, but his music still speaks volumes. And so does this portrait, with its nuances and innuendos indelibly etched in my mind.

To crack open the lid on Lisztomania, start with this NYT article.

Henri Lehmann gets a place in history, too.

Filaments

"When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers,

the moon and the stars which you have set in place,

what is man, that you are mindful of him...?"

Sometimes in the sleepless hours of a cloudless night, I play a game with myself. Staring at the western sky, I attempt to will a shooting star into my field of vision. I mean really, how hard is it for the Universe to nudge a bit of space junk into the atmosphere for me?

The object of the game is to go back to sleep, of course, by loosening those filaments of thought from their tightly wound configuration which keeps me up in the first place. If I focus on the space between the stars, planets, and moons, if I concentrate just hard enough, I might be rewarded with a fiery arc across the heavens. Or better yet, slumber. Or best of all, both.

I'm a tiny speck in the grand infinite. But once in awhile, in the evanescent skeins of a falling star, I feel my power. And then, If I'm lucky, I can dream...