Susan Senator

(Sung to the tune of “Hips Don’t Lie,” by Shakira)

More whining…

Never knew my knee could make me feel so ill
It makes a woman want to take Advil
I want my Mama
My Papa
Should rest in mi casa

Oh body when you act like this
You make this woman go mad
I’m in — midlife crisis
I better — go ice this
And start reading the signs of my body

Oh I’m in pain tonight
My hip’s not spry
And my knuckles are turning white
But if I go
Real slow
Will it still hurt me like so?

Not a girl,
But I really got my body moving
Now it’s driving me crazy
And I
Didn’t have the slightest idea
Until I started belly dancing
And when I woke up from the dance floor
Nobody could ignore the way I’ve been kvetching
And all this pain’s so unexpected — the way it keeps on throbbing
Yet I just keep on shaking it.

Never knew a workout could be so much fun
Unless you count my Cape Cod run
No way I’m stoppin’
Motrin I’m poppin’
Makes me feel better than shoppin’

You know I ran today
It hurt so much that I couldn’t finish, no way
But tomorrow
I’ll still go
Baby I’m an Exercise Fanatico

Senorita
Such temerity
Now you got to go to
Physical therapy

No whining!

Sitting in the dark theatre
The Pirates on the screen
Boys right and left and behind me
Kiera Knightly falsely venting spleen

I waited for Johnny Depp to thrill me
Or for Orlando to make my lust bloom
But all that happened was a huge calamari
And pirates dropping from the boom

A strange black wench with inky teeth
Spoke gibberish in a swamp
I hoped against hope old Jack would have her
And treat us all to a lusty romp

But she only gave him a sandy bottle
And told him something about a heart
Before I knew it they were sailing full throttle
Fighting Orkish guys who were half men, half carp

When finally Kiera made out with Johnny
I can’t say I was happy with this
Because by then I was so confused and sleepy
And two of my boys needed to take a piss

We don’t even know if the Cracken is dead
Nor do we know for sure if Cap’n Jack made it
We don’t even know why the thing’s called a “Cracken”
But I do know I don’t really give a ****

Two thumbs up — Robert Iger’s ass

My parents are very funny people. Sometimes they mean to be, especially Dad. Most of the time, though, they are just funny being themselves. Often, as in Mom’s case, they don’t even know why I’m laughing. Over the years I have made a practice of Parentology, which is the study of one’s parents, so as to better understand oneself. In order to convey to you, my readers, as close a facsimile as possible, you have to hear them in your head the way I do. Dad offers a kind of running commentary on what’s going on around him. If you listen carefully, you will hear all kinds of dead-on observations and silly jokes, puns, all uncensored stream-of-consciousness comments. Dad’s voice is soft and mellow, kind of a Gene Kelly timbre, with a Brooklyn accent. He looks a bit like Gene Kelly meets Woody Allen. Mom is kind of an innocent, though extremely bright. Everyone loves her; she’s very dear and forgiving. Her voice is the tiniest bit salty, not quite as low as Lauren Bacall, not as much Brooklynese as Dad. She has a kind of way of looking at you with her almond shaped catlike eyes, as if she is trying to get what you’re all about. Or maybe that’s just me.

We have a lot of Senator family lore that I think I’m going to write about for real one day, but for now, I’m going to record for your pleasure and contemplation, the Senator Momilies and Daddages, in no particular order of importance:

I Can’t Give You Pennies Every Day (No Spoiling Allowed)
Never Go In Empty Handed (Be Economical With Your Actions)
Do Your Chores (Dad Made Us Do A Lot of Chores, Like Gardening, Which I Now Love)
Is This Okay? (Meaning, If I Feed it to You, Is There The Slightest Chance You Will Die?)
Control Your Voice (SUSAN is too loud again)
Do You Like it? (Meaning, If You Like it, It’s Fattening)
The World Doesn’t Owe You A Living (Stop Sulking)
Where Was I Going? (Mom in Her Car, and Now Me in My Car)
Activities of Daily Living Don’t Count as Exercise (Dad is a Very Macho Exerciser)
Know Your Car (Dad is a Car Yenta)
Don’t Say “Should” (Dad Hates Obligation But Lives By It Nevertheless)
Don’t Contemplate Your Navel (They Hate it When I Think Too Much)
Black and White are Not Colors (Dad is Very Opinionated)
It Must Be the Chinese Food (Eating Has Its Consequences)
That’s My Worst Sound (Dad is Very Opinionated)
What If You Never Tried Chocolate? (Meaning, Try New Things)
Did You Rinse That Before You Used it? (Mom Worries Needlessly About Taking Care of People Properly)
Clean Up As You Go, It’s Much Easier (Mom is Very Wise)
So? Don’t Bother With Them! (When People Get You Down — Both of Them Believe They Believe This, But Don’t Practice it)
Go Find A Friend! (Stop Contemplating Your Navel!)

A friend asked me today why I had not yet written, really written, about the White House thing. I really don’t know the answer, but I knew that it would be like this. As voluble as I am, there are times when I get tongue-tied or feel like keeping my words to myself. I have enjoyed telling friends personally all about it. I helped Ned write all about it in his blog, too. Ned has an excellent moment-by-moment account of the entire evening, and I don’t want to rehash it here.

What has stayed with me is the supreme feeling of achievement I had, where I realized that I was there because of some pieces on the Special Olympics I had written for the Washington Post, thoughts inspired by my darling boy, my firstborn, my son with autism, my Sweet Guy, my Baby Delight, my athlete (I just looked over at him and he gave me his special smile, and then turned away), my Nathaniel, my gift from God.

Also, I loved wearing that dress.

Anyway, the other thing that made a big impression on me was Eunice Kennedy Shriver herself, the raison d’etre for the entire organization. Ms. Shriver (along some very well known brothers) grew up with Rosemary, a sister who, among many lovely traits, had a disability, and she was very close to her. I am endlessly fascinated with the legacy of living with disability, the good and the bad, as I am with understanding all sides to a story and all parts of a person. My therapist used to say that “the container is big enough for all of it,” so we should acknowledge all. Eunice Shriver freely acknowledges what her sister meant to her, and gives me hope that my younger sons will also thrive beautifully living as they do in and out of the shadow — and light — of autism.

Below, I give you the best part of my evening at the White House, with permission of Tim Shriver, Eunice’s son and Chairman of the Special Olympics.

Remarks of Eunice Kennedy Shriver
The White House
July 10, 2006

President Bush, Mrs. Bush
Members of Congress
Stephen and Jean Case
Peter and Carolyn Lynch
Athletes of Special Olympics
Distinguished Guests

President Bush: thank you for your wonderful remarks. I could have no greater honor than to be welcomed to this amazing house to celebrate the ideals I have held so dear, for so long. And I’m sure I will not be able to express how honored I am to be here on my birthday. But I am not telling which birthday it is.

President Bush, you have been so courageous in your commitment to compassionate action, especially in your response to the AIDS crisis in Africa. And in addition to your achievements in politics, you have also managed to control Teddy, at least some of the time. PLEASE, please: tell me how you do it!

Mrs. Bush, children who are reading all over this country know you as their special champion. May they enjoy a lifetime filled with libraries, knowledge, and imagination and thank you for it. We are so honored by your gracious welcome here tonight.

Yet no matter how honored I am to be here with all of you, perhaps there is a greater honor still. Many years ago, the prophet Isaiah wrote,

If you do away with the yoke of oppression
If you spend yourselves on behalf of the hungry
And satisfy the needs of the oppressed
Then your light will shine in darkness
And your night will become like the
Noonday.

Tonight, I thank each of you for I believe that the noonday light of justice is shining around the world because of your enormous generosity. For in your dedication to our campaign and to over 2.2 million athletes of Special Olympics, you have each sought the light of the prophet.

When the athletes asked us for better health, together we answered YES, and over 340,000 athletes saw a doctor at Special Olympics! When non disabled young people asked us for the chance to learn more about our athletes, together we answered YES, and over 1 million young people welcomed Special Olympics into their schools. When families asked us for more hope, together we answered YES, and over 30,000 family leaders created networks of caring.

And most importantly, when athletes asked for a chance to play, together we answered YES to the skill, the courage, the sharing, the joy of 2,250,000 athletes in 168 countries around the world. And they have triumphed in the noonday joy of sports -— Champion athletes! Champion citizens! Champion human beings!

Mr. President, the honor we celebrate here is the honor of being part of a movement that is working one village by one village; one person by one person, one attitude by one attitude to change the world. Special Olympics athlete leaders and Best Buddies leaders and all the family leaders remind us that it is not just about “them” but about each of “us” as we journey toward being the best we can be.

Tonight as we celebrate, we know beyond us lies a dangerous world. And sadly, throughout my lifetime, it has been so. World Wars, regional wars, ethnic wars, religious wars. O that they would cease! O that we could do better than war!

But one thing has changed in my lifetime. When I was young, my sister Rosemary was told “NO.” And I remember so well as my mother sought help. Over and over again, she heard “No”—no place here, no program here, no welcome for your daughter here.

Tonight, Rosemary is in heaven, and I miss her. But despite the struggles of her life, for 86 years, she was patient and kind; she never put on airs; she never judged, she always forgave; she loved to look pretty, she savored chocolate and she made everyone happy. She taught us all that adversity meant almost nothing—that it could always be fun to be together no matter what. And I know she is joining me from heaven in thanking all of you tonight.

When we wake tomorrow, let us not forget that we have miles to go to overturn the prejudice and oppression facing the world’s 180 million citizens with intellectual disabilities. But what joy for together we have begun.

May you each continue to spend your lives in this noble battle.
May you overcome ignorance.
May you challenge indifference at every turn.
And may you find great joy in the noonday light of the great athletes of Special Olympics!

Thank you and God bless you all.

Went to my doctor yesterday
He said I seemed to be okay
He said, Kid, you better look around;
How long you think that you can run that body down?
How many nights you think that you can do what you been doing?
Who, now who we foolin’?
–Paul Simon

Our mothers always told us to be sure to wear clean, nice underpants when we went to the doctor, right? But mine never prepared me for this one…

Saw my doc today about the blasted hip pain. He bent my leg this way and that and pronounced me in need of physical therapy due to musculo-skeletal distress. But he wanted me to get an X-Ray, just in case.

An X-Ray?! Yikes.
In case it’s “early arthritis.” Jeez. Pass the linament.

So I went downstairs to radiology. They checked me in, hospital bracelet and all. The radiology guy told me “Take everything off below the waist and put on a gown.”
Jeez. So I did as I was told. But the whole time I was wondering, “Everything?”

Now you girls know that when we are told by our doctors “everything,” it literally means “everything.”

But apparently this guy did not know that. I asked him, red-faced, if he meant panties, too.
He said, “Oh, that’s okay if they’re on.” Or something like that.
I said, a little too quietly in retrospect, “They’re not.”
Remember, this was for a hip and pelvic X-Ray.

I got up on the table. Everything okay so far, with him moving me to the center of the table. First he just poked my hip, and then he took the X-Rays from above. No problem.
Then he moved my feet apart an inch or two. Getting a little uncomfortable, there… more than a little…
And then he said, “Okay, now I want you to bend your knee. Like a 4.”
“Like this?” I moved my knee carefully upwards, gown in place. Total red flags waving now.
“No, move it way to the side,” he said. Was there a hidden camera from Saturday Night Live in the room? Or Monty Python? Pretty soon John Cleese was going to come in and insist I remove the entire robe and do a dance!
Enough was enough. I slid off the table. “Um, would you just give me a minute to put on my underwear?” I couldn’t even look at him.
“Oh! I thought you said you were wearing them!”
“No, I said I wasn’t.” I started rummaging in my bag for the panties.
He skedaddled.

A moment later, I called, “Okay, ready.” My face was totally red but my voice was light. I could tell this was weird but also funny and that once I got Ned on the phone I would actually laugh. But not yet.

Then he told me I had to put my legs in “The Frog” position. Thank goodness I was prepared. At that moment, any underwear would do. Getting out of there would do.

I must be way too young for arthritis. I’m clearly too young to get an X-Ray right!

So, here I am at the Hotel Monaco in Washington DC, only it’s practically a week later and I’m really home. But you know me: it is very, very hard for me to let stuff go. I have spent last week trying to get over it, my big White House night, and all I succeeded to do was maybe come up with another book idea and make my hip worse from belly dancing and running. I have had to sit with a stupid heating pad on various body parts and take Motrin around the clock because of this injury. Plus, two of my best friends are away until next week!

By Friday I had had enough. “Oh, it’s going to be a scorcher,” several friends told me. What does my mind do? Snaps into Cape Cod mode. Go find the sun. Call Dad and Mom, ask them if it’s okay if the five of us descend on them at their Cape house for the weekend. More laundry? No problem, says Dad. Shop for all your special food? Sure, says Mom. Yay! My parents totally rock. And so I go and throw the briefest of clothing into a suitcase or two and by the time Ned comes home, I have perfected my pleading eyes and the tiniest pout and we are on our way. (Ned would rather stay home because he’s always at work, but I tell him, I’m so BORED! And I miss my glamourous vacation, so I NEED this!!!) After 22 years, he still can’t resist. My husband totally rocks.

So we had two wonderful days in the hot sun. Ned and I had an all hors d’oeuvres dinner Saturday night at a favorite place in Orleans (seafood cakes, satay skewers, blackened shrimp and scallops, and shrimp and pork potstickers. Nice Kosher selection).

The boys had a great time. Nat loves listening to my music on his iPod
shuffle.

And the puppies, well…

You were my summer angel
Your eyes, how they shone
Just last night we were talking about
How much our love had grown.
–Carly Simon

He calls her “flower fairy,”
She laughs
But with him she is,
Sitting perched, awaiting, wings humming —
The sting of wanting, spark and tingle on rounded enchanted skin
The flow of nectar
Pink and radiant
The buzz around them, heavy, warm, and close
Summertime, though late
Still happy.
–me

It is 12:22 pm and yet the clock is striking midnight. The airplane is turning back into a pumpkin (or maybe a banana?) and my handsome prince has long shed his tux and is back at work. My beautiful ballgown is hanging in a bag for the drycleaners and I’m about to go food shopping.

… See my Tabblo>

Dreamt about Nat last night. He was throwing a chainsaw at people and then he ran away. I was screaming at his teachers that they had to find him, and they seemed not to even know that he had a disability. Finally I got him to come back by yelling, “Natty, I’m going to give you chocolate when you come back.”

When he got back he was an old man, with a shaggy head full of silver hair and a beard. The teachers made him sit on his hands. I wanted to cry when I saw this but I felt I should let the school do what they do.

As you can see I am a bit anxious about Nat’s placement and progress, and about my ability to help him in time. He is almost 17!

Nat is in an ABA school; ABA is very big where I live and in many parts of the country. I have my reasons for putting him there (read the book) and I am reluctant to move him. However limited their approach, they treat him like a star there and they will train him for jobs and (perhaps) independent living. I hate the underlying assumptions of ABA, which imply that the student is a creature made up of behaviors, both desirable and undesirable. It is far too simplistic and black and white for my view of people. And I just read Autism Diva’s post on the TEACCH method and it made me wonder further if I should try to find such a program around here since moving to North Carolina is out of the question for now (Ned just got a wonderful new job in January and I feel like New England is in my blood, for better or worse). I contacted our school district liaison a few weeks ago with concerns about Nat, and she gave me a little bit of a run around. She’s a good egg, but still I wish she would get over the idea that nothing can get done during the summer.

In the next few weeks I am going to educate myself more about TEACCH and the use of visuals around our home. A friend has offered to help and when I get back from this adventure in Washington I will take her up on it.

Oh, Natty. It is so hard to know if I’m doing right by you.

Going home today. We have a lot to attend to prior to our trip to DC which is coming right up. Here is the gown I will probably wear; Dad and Mom bought it for me as a gift and Ned loves it. Here’s the best part: it is a Bloomingdale’s designer dress, bought at — Filene’s Basement!!! How’s that for Yankee style?

But with me, nothing is ever simple. I still want to go to the mall on Sunday to see if a particular black one is there (black column, jersey, rhinestone straps and rhinestone spider webbing across the back). But I do love this one. It also goes with my political leanings (slightly pink).

Yesterday was rainy. I felt a bit out of sorts because my whole right side, from my hip down, aches. (Probably from the new exercise, bellydance. I am overdoing it, as I always do new passions.) I took naps and used a heating pad.

We tried to go to the ocean anyway; you never know around here, what it will be like right at the beach. There is often totally different weather there! But not yesterday. The sky was overcast and at first Max wanted to simply shut himself in the car rather than try it. Once on the beach, Nat had a bit of a pinching fit and kept telling us he wanted it to be hot and sunny. Ned held onto him and told him that we all did. I said that the weather is from the sky, not Mommy and Daddy.

We set up and all tried the water, which was cold. The cold felt good on my leg, so I stayed in. After a bit, I set up a chair with my legs in the water and read the newest Glamour, which promised to tell me the 40 all time Do’s and Don’ts of fashion! I love and hate those. I laugh when I see the dont’s, and yet I also feel angry at the narrow confines of what’s acceptable in fashion and this culture, and this kind of “Do” and “Don’t” is a main contributor.

The heavy drops hit me a few minutes into reading. Ned and Nat were out there, of course. I ran for the blanket and started gathering stuff up. Everything was getting soaked. Ned and Nat arrived. We made a fast exodus along with all the other crazy beachgoers, back to the parking lot.

The rest of the day was spent indoors, reading, talking, trying to fix my leg, and making arrangements for our Washington trip. I talked to all my friends about it, what to wear, etc., and I think we’re coming home a little early to take care of Ned’s tux and my dress. My friend Emily has an old bridesmaid gown she thinks might work, and I looked at what Bloomingdales has.

Ned spent a few hours helping format my father’s new Haiku book. He is submitting it to IUniverse, a self-publisher with a very lovely product. My former agent is a Senior VP there and is taking good care of him. Still, the formatting is a pain, so Ned to the rescue. Then, the Internet kept failing here, so no one could do anything online (Max and me), so Ned had to talk to Verizon for a while. Mom kept picking up her friend’s poetry memoir and showing us various poems she liked, in an attempt to get us to think about better stuff. But I was too stressed about my upcoming trip and Ned was preoccupied. I realize I hardly talked to Mom all day! Very unusual.

Hard to keep Nat occupied on such a day. Ned and I were very distracted and Nat was so disappointed about the weather. He and Ben and Max did a big floor puzzle, and Nat was amazing at it! Max was reading Fahrenheit 451 for — High School!!!! And B was drawing a lot, plus trying to get people to play bocce with him.

Mom told me Ned and I could go out to dinner. I jumped on it, but knew that Ned would be a bit reluctant about the money. It is very hard these days. We continue to be in spending mode, even though we should be in saving mode. I am bringing in very little with my freelance, so now I am trying to get a job teaching at a local college. Anyway, I convinced Ned we’d go light somewhere.

As we were leaving, I heard Mom offering to read to Nat. He kept saying, “Grandma will read it, Grandma will read it.” We knew that this meant he did not want to read with her. Nat said, “Grandma will sit over there and read it.” “It” was a Doctor Suess book. Mom finally just took the book, sat down, and read it to herself! Because Nat had asked her to.

I hope that blogging this doesn’t somehow jinx it, but I have just been invited to dinner at the White House. Yes, the one down in Washington, D.C.! The President is hosting a dinner for the Special Olympics in honor of Maria Shriver, and I am to be a guest. I am sitting here in the middle of my parents’ Cape house, shucking corn, and my legs are shaking. Ned is napping, Nat is pacing, the Puppies are playing on Max’s computer. Life goes on, but I am going to the White House!

What the heck am I going to wear? It is black tie; I was told that Mrs. Bush wears long formal gowns to these things. I have no such thing but you bet I will get one!

Other than that, I suppose I will hand the Prez an (autographed) copy of MPWA, just to make double sure he is aware of autism as something other than a tragedy people are trying to extinguish. I will show him pictures of Nat getting his medals and at his bar mitzvah! I am allowed to bring a guest and we will see if my parents can look after the boys so that Ned can go — that is, if I can pursuade him to put on a tux!

I woke up to an overcast sky this morning and felt my high spirits teeter slightly, but I said to myself, “Oh well,” and started to imagine the stuff we could do here on the Cape on a cloudy day. In the past we’ve gone to Provincetown and climbed Pilgrim’s Monument, which is something I did as a kid so it is one of those wonderful connections to my distant and happy past. Laura and I would go up as fast as we could and then run down, hoping to get into P-town as fast as possible so that we could get candy. I would get fudge and she would get — wax lips! Well, she was not much of a candy eater, so being a natural clown, this made sense.

Anyway, the sun burst through somehow and I did not have to think of something for us to do. The beach is the obvious choice when it is this beautiful out. No exercise for me this morning (except I would ride my bike the long way to the beach through the woods and the salt marsh); I did a lot of belly dancing last night and the 4 1/2 mile run so I was a bit achey. (Last night Ned downloaded Ravel’s Bolero from Itunes which makes great belly dancing. I know, I know, it has those connotations from the movie Ten, but that was not my intent.)

So we amassed at Nauset Light beach, very uncrowded for the third of July, and set up our beach tent, and tried the water. It was 58 degrees, typical early July at the Cape. Difficult to get used to, even with a wet suit. So, for a while we played in the sand until we were so hot we couldn’t stand it.

And then, a wonderful thing happened. All five of us went in, really in. (No picture, alas, because, well, we were all in!) We had four boogie boards and the waves were becoming just right (almost, but not quite, low tide). We have never before been in the water altogether. Ben has usually shunned the deeper waves and stayed sandbound. But this year, the fish switch was turned on, and he is suddenly a swimming boy! 

Ben even confessed that “once, he peed in the ocean,” a sure sign of comfort with the waves.

Ned and I took him out to the bigger waves and tried to teach him how to catch them just at the right moment with the boogie board. He didn’t quite get it, so Ned realized he had to launch him, same as he did once a long time ago with Nat and then Max. He would toss the boy into the breaking wave at just the right point and they would catch a perfect ride.
Ben’s expression was a mixture of ecstasy and fright — a perfect combination of emotions for a day in the Atlantic.

Ned and I had our 22nd wedding anniversary on July 1st. To celebrate, we did a number of fun things, most of which I can describe here. 😉

We went out to brunch at Zaftig’s, a Jewish deli kind of place in our town. Zaftig in Yiddish means “voluptuous,” so it was very apt, considering what I ate. It was a totally carbed day, so I had a bagel and cream cheese and a side of pancakes! I cannot believe how good that stuff tasted. I hardly spoke to Ned because I was in a haze stuffing my face. I did not eat for the rest of the day (except for a perfectly ripe spotted banana, also verboten on my usual cockeyed diet) because I was so full. We lazed around in the sun and also did a lot of odds and ends to get ready for our vacation on Cape Cod, which is where I am right now. Ned had to make sure the bike rack fit on the Amazon, which we have never yet taken on a vacation. The old car, the Party Slipper, could not be used with any old bike rack so we jerryrigged a Thule one and always felt nervous whenever we hit bumps. Lo and behold, the Amazon worked with our bike rack! We could not believe that something happy and easy could ever occur with that car of mine, considering all the headache she has been (although I still love her look, her ample space, and her power). She is very high maintenance, but then again, some of the most worthwhile people in the world are…

At 6:30 we got ready to go to Tangierino, a Morrocon restaurant in Charlestown where they have bellydancing. Because I did not wear it to the wedding (grrrr) I wore the red dress out to dinner! Finally. Loved how I looked, and so did Ned.

The place was amazing. Inside were maroon gauzy veils hung with little lights, festooned from the ceiling, creating little tented booths, and little corner tables of heavy carved stone and sumptuous burgundy velvet chairs. The waiter was flirtatious and charming and the food was fantastic. I had “Sultan’s Kadra,” a lamb filet with carmelized apricots and figs and cheese-filled eggplant. Ned had salmon with olives. Also a chocolate molten lava cake, which was exquisite.
The dancer was beautiful and very fluid. She had a ponytail which had an I-Dream-of-Jeanie bit of hair wrapped around it (I want that!) and a gorgeous burgundy beaded top and harem pants (I need a good website for this stuff). She did not use a veil, probably because the space was narrow and the tables had candles. I studied her moves and I noticed/overheard that just about every other woman around us was doing the same. It seems most of us were taking bellydance classes! I had a really great conversation with a B-dancer from Tampa, and she was very encouraging to me.

The only thing I didn’t like was that the owner put money in the dancer’s bra, which turned the whole thing into something a little gauche. The place seemed far classier than that. I truly loved it and wish I could dance there but I would never let people put money in my clothes that’s for sure! Hand me a paycheck at the end of the week, thank you very much.

We drove to the Cape after that. I slept in an overstuffed stupor most of the way. Got to the house in good time and it was so lovely to be here!

Woke up to beautiful sunshine and despite a crick in my neck, I ran 4 1/2 miles, to the ocean. What could be better than July on Cape Cod? Not much.

I was sitting here in front of Precious thinking I had to start dinner, when up popped this email:

Softball!!
We hope that the rain is going to hold off!! Unless it starts to downpour we are going to attempt to get practice in. Hope to see you all at 6:00

I looked over at Nat who was a parallel boy-version of me, lying on the couch doing nada thing. He seemed calm, his teachers said he’d had a good day, I had an hour or so before I really, really had to make dinner, so I said, “Hey Natty, you feel like trying baseball?”
“Yes!” He shouted and jumped off the couch; always a good sign.

Off we went to the high school, blasting my new Shakira CD which we both love. [I feel a bit embarrassed playing hip-hop from inside a Volvo, taking my kid to baseball practice, but what the the F***, it’s my midlife crisis and I’ll continue to make a fool of myself until I’m done.]

We did not see anyone we knew on the entire field so we just sat on a bench for a little while. I watched the groups who were playing catch, trying to figure out if any of them were Special Olympics groups. Something caught my eye about how one of the groups was having a catch; a grown man with a beer belly and a younger man. The older man seemed to drop every other ball, which struck me as odd. Aha. I walked over, and sure enough, I heard another person say, “I thought there would be more people here,” which is what every SO team says at some point. Still, to be as polite as possible, I figured I would say, “Does anyone know where the Special Olympics team is meeting?” rather than, “Are you the Special Olympics team?” I’m always happy to be part of a SO team, but you never know what stupid issues the general populace might have.

They all had gathered by 6:00, a good dozen grown-ups and one or two teens. These guys could really play. I was the only mom there. Everyone else had come on their own! Total Major League. I had to keep introducing myself as Nat’s Hovering Mother (Has a nice ring to it, anyway.) They started out having a catch, and Nat was really good. I could not get enough of watching my gorgeous smiling boy throw like a guy with those lanky tan teenage arms. I never learned to throw so it’s always such a magical, natural, almost sexy thing watching a guy scoop up a baseball and easily lob it back, really far, totally nonchalantly.

Then they split up and some batted while others caught balls, and Nat completely spaced out. He kept throwing his glove onto the oncoming ball; he just did not get it! It was so bizarre that I could not help laughing. No matter what anyone said, he did not understand what he was supposed to do, but God bless him, he just kept trying, silly-talking his whole way through it. I have to get a good beginners’ baseball book for him; suggestions, anyone? Or, if anyone wants to take a stab at doing a Nat book on playing baseball, please do!

When it came time to bat, it was the same problem. “Raise your arm, Nat!” He would raise the wrong arm, then just lower it. “Put your hands closer,” He put them farther apart. “Stand like this.” He acted as if he had not heard a thing and stood where he was, silly-talking and puppet hand with the bat. Then I tried hand-over-hand and bodily positioning him. That worked okay. He took a swing. He got a hit after the second try! He ran to first base (past it really because he did not know from touching base) with the helmet on and the bat in his hand. “Drop the bat!” I yelled, and he threw it really, really far. Everyone cheered.

The only mistake I made was in yelling, “Go, Sweet Guy!” The coach laughed and said, “There’s no ‘Sweet Guy’ in baseball, Sue.”

I am officially an obnoxious sports mom. At last!

I have much more to say about Sarai’s wonderful wedding than those pictures in the previous post, which were supposed to have been worth a thousand words. Sometimes you need a thousand words to get it all out.

The things flying around in my brain are many, from the ridiculous to the sublime: my sister-in-law Sarai, how Nat was at the wedding, what the officiator said, how Ben was, how Max was, and a dumb thing like how I looked. I’ll start with the dumb thing: the weather was awful, humid and rainy, so my hair looked terrible. I’ve been trying to let it go au naturel lately, which for me only means using a curling iron to augment the natural curl, and a different (non-straightening) product. But all the Kerastase goop in the world was no match for that humidity. That, along with the overly plunging neckline made me look a bit like a floozy, which was not at all my intent! I thought the strategically placed flower would take care of what I consider my blessing and my curse but it flopped unceremoniously downward. I was really annoyed at myself for wearing that black dress and for getting the hair all wrong.

Okay, but then there was Ben, utterly charming. He looked adorable in a navy jacket that was too big for him, and with his hair gooped out of his eyes. He was my little sweetheart the whole time; he kept making me laugh and he even danced with me! He even seemed a little shy when we danced, like maybe he’s in some kind of Oedipal phase or something. So delightfully cute.

Max, taking photos with his Uncle Patrick’s big Nikon (Patrick, a.k.a C.B., is a professional photographer), everyone commenting on how handsome and tall he was. Mingling, making conversation with people, drinking Shirley Temples.

And Nat was smiling the whole time. We did not have to worry about anything for the day because we could tell he was really with us. Still, Ned and I figured out a contingency for the ceremony, in case we had to take him out quickly; last ceremony we attended with Nat was Great Uncle Skip’s memorial service and Nat started screaming when the hymns started. My guess is that we had told him it was going to be “like going to temple,” and so Nat had expected Hebrew, and instead got Onward Christian Soldiers. Anyway, he was just fine during Sarai’s ceremony, smiling and quiet while babies and toddlers screamed all around us. Not only was I bursting out of my dress, I was also bursting with pride!

The ceremony started with the fanfare music from the beginning of a 20th Century Fox movie! We all laughed. Ned and I wondered why no one ever did that at their weddings? It was so original! Then it switched over to Here Comes the Bride and Pacelbel Canon; not original, but sweet.

What I enjoyed the most was what Mark, the officiator, said about marriage. He went way beyond the tired-and-true “in sickness and health, for richer and poorer,” that we all have heard a million times. He said that you were going to fall out of love with each other sometimes and that you had to find your way back to loving each other. That you would discover things about the other person that you really did not know before, and also about yourself, and that you would have to figure out how to accommodate that discovery. He talked all about how you would have to explore things and deepen because of them, not leave. He really made me think about all that I’ve been through this winter and spring, my much-belabored mid-life crisis, and how I should stop beating myself up for it all. How I have to learn to accommodate myself, take care of myself, just as much as Ned has learned how to accommodate me. These words made me come back to our Sweetie Treaty and how the number one item is “Don’t feel bad about feeling bad.” That kind of guilt trip makes difficult phases so much worse.

Ned always tells me that if I want to change something, to change just one small thing first and then you’ll at least be a little better off than you were. And, he’s always been the one who has told me to go ahead and do what I need to do to be happy. When we were first married, he’s the one who said to me, “You want to be a writer? Just write, then!” He has always given me the freedom to be exactly who I am and who I need to be.

I felt so lucky sitting there in that beautiful wedding hall, watching my sister-in-law get married to a really good guy, doing exactly as she pleased, while I was surrounded by four beautiful men who give me so much, too. After all is said and done, Ned says I was beautiful at the wedding, and I really wasn’t; he doesn’t hear me when I point out my flaws. He calls me “The Deluxe Model Woman” and he means it. I thought of that while I sat there listening to Mark’s wise words, and felt so strongly that this is close to as good as it gets. Ned has always wanted for me just to be happy, then and now; I think I should listen to him more often, and not to my demons. [Although next dress-up event, I will use the flatiron and I should have worn the red dress!]

On Saturday, June 24, this piece of mine appeared in my favorite newspaper, the Washington Post. Go Nat! Go Post! If any of you readers subscribe to the paper version, please contact me so I can get a “real” copy.

A little mountain goat
he is nimble and lithe and impossibly brave
stretching slim limbs with hidden muscle
thoughtlessly over toothsome rock.
A man already;
hides his tears when he’s been hurt
doles out kisses, holds tightly to affection
secret fears harbored in a sea of misconceptions
Instead of me he pours his passion into a million pages
his life’s questions play, fight, maim, and die there
some of his demons, and mine
have been defeated
though there are a few left —
just for spice.
Somehow, though,
in the small sweaty palm of his hand
I can now rest.

I have completed a fair draft of my novel, which I’m calling Dirt, A Story of Gardening, Mothering, and a Mid-Life Crisis. I have given out four copies to friends and only one of them has gotten back to me. I expect my sister will have some feedback tomorrow when I see her at my parents’ Cape house (I’m going for the day with Benj and Max; Nat has school).

As always, I am looking for a new project — by the way, the Washington Post has accepted a piece from me which should be out any day, I will post it here when it does — and I stumbled upon something wonderful. I wrote a novel thirteen years ago, when I was in the throes of mothering little Nat and baby Max, and it was based on a lot of what I was going through at the time. This book is about a young mom struggling with nascent OCD, (true), a faintly abusive husband (total fiction) and two small children, the older of whom seems to be a bit off in his development (hmmm). The book also dips into past life stuff and Tarot (I used to have a friend who was heavily invested in past-life beliefs and I went to an aura reader with her a couple of times. All very interesting, but not my cup of decaf. Tarot, however, is a lot of fun, like horoscopes, not in that it tells you the future, but it does tell you what is important to you just by the way you choose to read the cards.)

I realized that this book could be the prequel to my current one! This could very well be my summer project. I may decide to throw out the past life stuff and I’m not at all sure what to do about the husband; he’s different from the newer one. I have the summer to figure it out. Here is the very beginning. It used to be called The Scent of Violets, but I’m thinking now I should try to relate it somehow to Dirt.

Chapter One
It was the third time in two years that Emily’s husband had dislocated her three-year-old son’s shoulder. It happens easier after the first time, the doctor had said laughingly, nervous laughter, as if he needed to reassure himself as much as he did her that this was not child abuse. She sat stoically in the tiny examining room at Mass General, looking beyond the doctor’s shoulder at a tall box that had been placed on the sink counter, ominously labelled “Sharps”: discarded needles, a grim treasure trove.
“You snap it back in place, a little gruesome, a shock of pain for a second, and then it’s done,” the doctor went on. He set the boy in her arms, on her lap. Emily tensed, sat up straighter, ready to do what she had to. But secretly she hated when doctors pulled her into her children’s medical procedures; it seemed so primitive that in the midst of all the high-tech medical protocol, technical jargon and distant doctor attitude there should be this need for her to hold down frightened twitching limbs so that they might be pierced, pricked, Tine-tested. Jack was thankfully taking his cues from his mother and was sitting marvelously quiet, especially considering that his arm was dangling like a broken twig. Only when the doctor touched his shoulder gently did he give a tiny cry, a sucking-in of his breath, and Emily felt tears start in her eyes. She tightened her grip. The baby slept in the backpack, his little mouth wide open and sending forth puffs of milky breath, a sweet comfort during this entire ordeal.