Susan Senator

Cheerful feelings upon awakening in the country.
–Ludwig Van Beethoven

One hour from now we will be on our way to the first visit of the year to Cape Cod, just for the day. Mom and Dad are already there. I can only imagine how happy they felt waking up this morning. Only something as beautiful as The Pastoral, Symphony #6, opus 68, can express it. If for some reason you don’t know what I mean, you must listen to it today. Do not deny yourself that exquisite pleasure. Then you will know how I feel right now, and maybe you’ll feel it too.

I’ve come to bury the film Sex and the City, not to praise it.
–Shakespeare (and me)

Ned and I had an argument when we were first dating, about what beautiful meant. In true Ned fashion, he told me that “there is no universal, absolute consensus on Beauty. There is only each person’s opinion.” Not at all satisfied, in typical Sue fashion, I had to dissect this. “But why? What is beautiful?” and all manner of questioning that was guaranteed to completely shut him down. He told me, “There is beautiful, and there is Magazine Pretty. You are not Magazine Pretty.” He said some other nice things but that particular phrase jumped out at me. Stung me, idiot that I was.

I found myself thinking about this question as I watched the movie Sex and the City last night. It was not about sex, or the city, or about anything actually beautiful or even fun. Carrie’s voice over warns you right from the start “Young women come to New York in search of the two L’s: Labels and Love.” Huh? Silly me, I thought that people come to New York in search of an amazing job or a more interesting life. So I should have realized it would not be about the city or even about good sex. It could have been called, Magazine Sex, Fashion and a Disneyworld Version of New York City, but that is not nearly as catchy.

I totally hated the movie. We had both loved the show. Ned wasn’t expecting that much from the film, so he felt it was pretty much like the show: enjoyable enough. I thought it would be like the show, a glimpse of a fantasy life of four friends working and playing in New York, and all the issues that come up in both.

But working did not enter the picture much at all, and neither did playing. Where in the TV show all four women’s jobs had been a fairly central element, in the movie, playing was remarkably absent, and work was non-existent. Even when the four go off to Mexico, it is a gloomy time interspersed with a little light-hearted diarrhea. Without any of those fixtures, you are left with some pretty vapid stuff, even for Sex and the City: a lot of branding, and a lot of “Romance”/blithering dialog about people cheating or not satisfying, rather than about love, friendship, careers, family problems, etc.

The movie wasn’t even actually about sex. The characters whom you mostly see having sex are abundantly-implanted-and-buff strangers in the apartment next door. Well, there is one very raw meat, up close glimpse of Miranda and Steve having sex, but that felt too much like stumbling upon your friends doing it. The television show managed to have a lot of provocative, interesting naked body sex scenes for all four of the women, that were part of the plot, but the movie shied away from that, except for the Miranda and Steve scene which went from zero to 80 in seconds. No sexual tension build-up, not even much conversational build-up. (Not even wax build-up: everyone’s apartments were just beyond perfect. Crazy perfect, immaculate, and air-brushed.)

Yes, the show was shallow, too, but at least in the show there were interesting episodes about issues such as how to deal with a mother-in-law who might have Alzheimer’s (Miranda); how to deal with a difficult boss even though the Vogue job is great (Carrie); breast cancer and sexuality (Samantha); an impotent husband who won’t admit to a problem (Charlotte). The movie’s main “issues” were more like Cosmo headlines: “I’m bored living in L.A.! (Samantha)”; or “I’m pregnant and incubating!” (Charlotte); or “Steve cheated on me!” (Miranda); or “Big built me the closet of my dreams but came late to our wedding, so I guess he doesn’t love me!”(Carrie)

And yes, the show was no PBS Masterpiece Theatre. The show was all butter-cream-frosted over with labels and cool clubbing, but at least there was a funky and creative vibe to it. So in this way, the movie was not even about The City. Where the show sprinkled in a little Tribeca and Village and four-flight walk-ups, the movie was all 5th Avenue and midtown. The movie was only whip cream, not even any cake.

It was a Dynasty version of Sex and the City, without any of the plot twists that Dynasty was famous for. Even the clothes were a disappointment. In the show, Carrie’s clothes were pieced-together blue-jeans-and-bra-straps-type of creative while Miranda wore lawyerly suits; in the movie, it was all 5-inch heels and the highest couture dresses for all of them all the time. (And what was with all the Charlotte and Samantha monochromatic dresses?)

A whole lot of garish, screaming nothing. As Ned put it, “There were way too many scenes of them screaming over Samantha showing up.” They would have been better off calling it Much Doo-Doo About Nothing.

Just woke up from a horrible dream. I’m heartsore from it. First there was the part where I just knew that a baby — I think it was a baby of mine — was in some kind of ocean danger, due to people not paying attention. There was something, inexplicably, about course selection, and that if someone chose a certain class in the following year, this baby would end up with sharks or would drown. I was filled with terror that this was my fault. I somehow made it back to the baby, and he was okay. Next thing I knew, I looked outside and Nat was up in a tree, about twenty feet high, standing on one cut limb that was obviously loose, while someone else stood in another tree nearby on two limbs, talking and talking to him. I was terrified, and helpless to help him. I felt that if I got his attention, he would fall. He seemed to be unaware of the danger. Or okay with it. I was so angry at the person in the other tree, for thinking so blithely that it would be fine to just have him up there with her. She was so irresponsible, so stupid!! Yet I knew she loved him, and had only been thinking of having fun with him.

I had to just wait, impotent, until he came down on his own.

I stood there behind the silent glass of the window, choking on my helplessness and anger. Next thing I know they were both safely on the ground. I rushed outside, hugging and hugging Nat. (I think. As I slurp my coffee I am losing hold of the dream.) I was so angry at her that I said that she could not be with him for a long time, because I couldn’t trust her. Then she just kept following me around with such mournful eyes. Everywhere I looked, there she was, wanting me to forgive her. But she had been so horribly irresponsible!!!!!

Literal stuff going on: class selection for fifth grade for Beastie, who endured so much fourth grade turmoil this year. So much angst over his class, so much personal growth. He is impressing me, moving me, every day with his insight, his care for Ned and me, his humor, his heart. He is growing up. His ankles are getting that long flat look of adolescence, even while his face is still smooth, small, little-boy-perfect.

Max is also in the middle of so much. He is taking the SAT2 today. The SAT2 is a relatively new monster, a subject test. Max found out about it on his own, told me we had to register for the chemistry test, told me what books to get him, and has been studying the material for weeks now. His girlfriend H is studying for the biology, even though her test is not until next year!

The other day I stood in the Borders and searched for the SAT prep books. All around me were fresh young moms and strollers popping with fat babies. Toddlers ran around as if it were a playground. I was just with myself, buying pre-college texts for my 6′ 3″ son.

I realized I was truly not one of them, those bouncy, tired new mothers. I was old. I was there for Max, not for me. And I was happy to be there, exactly how it was. That was a first; being happy as an old mother, being done with the giddiness of babies. I loved what I had, and why I was there.

Max has also been talking to me a lot about his course selection, and all the areas he wants to study, including philosophy. How to fit it in, how maybe he’ll take biology during the summer to have room in the fall for all he wants to take! I have such a lump in my throat listening to him. He is such an interesting mix of Ned and me. I can’t believe the young man he is turning into. Responsible, in love (with a truly dear, smart, terrific young woman), funny, caring. Still Max, but all stretched out into a Man.

And Nat. Of course, he is a man now, so competent in so many ways. Still doing what he can, as the Miniman song went (Baby Delight… he does what he can, he’s Miniman, it’s Baby Delight…). He is going off to live in the Residences at his school soon. He — and others — will be responsible for him.

He also goes off with his friends on Friday nights, so bursting with happiness, Joyful Parking Lot Stompies all over the place. Everyone who sees him smiles because he expresses his full heart better and more openly the way they would like to.

All his life, he has drawn people to him. We used to call it The Cult of Nat. So many love him and his golden aura just shines. But — I worry.

I can’t come back, I don’t know how it works!
–The hapless Wizard, in the untethered balloon (which, by the way, if you look closely, was purposefully untied by the Tin Man)

My longtime experience with various unstoppable rages and the resulting humiliation, and also with Nat’s inability to stop himself from aggression, has given me a bit of an understanding into Hilary Clinton’s issues. There is something about going down in flames that has a macabre, but perhaps human, appeal. I have witnessed Nat giving himself over to aggression, and I have seen awareness and remorse flash through his eyes, along with an understanding that he crossed a line. And yet, I have also seen him follow through with the violent act and in fact add to it. It is kind of a blood lust; once you start, it is hard to stop. Whether it is a pinching fit or attempt after attempt to “fix” a toxic relationship, or even to stop saying you won something that you have obviously lost.

Maybe the compulsion to go on and on is about the fear of losing face. (What an odd expression that is: to lose one’s face. Where does the face go? It kind of disappears behind this mask of ongoing terrible behavior. The mask is an awareness that you are wrong and you have to admit it. In doing so you will “lose” your face.)

What happens when we lose face? What happens after we yield? I think there is some kind of calm that follows the storm. The air has cleared. The act is complete. Even though there are residual feelings, It is over.

I have had lifelong struggles with letting certain things go, with ending something. Sometimes I will return again and again to that sore spot, even though it hurts, tears me apart, just because the prospect of the new, living without it, is somehow even worse than the horrible pain of continuing the self-destruction. It is hard to change.

I think it is psychologically and emotionally hard for Hilary to let go of this insane grip, even though all signs say she must. I’m not saying she is right, I’m only saying I think I understand. She doesn’t know how to save face; she doesn’t realize that by letting go she will find some peace, if not redemption. But at least Nat and I are beginning to understand that.

I tried to reprise what I had learned from yesterday’s double-veil and spinning workshop, trying it all out in front of Ned, of course. Because the veils are so voluminous, we had to take it to the backyard. It went okay until I tried to do some barrel turns, and suddenly, the ground tilted up at me.

This is a picture a friend took at yesterday’s workshop, of Petite Jamilla and me! The whole event sings inside my head as one of the best days of my life so far. A dusty old VFW building in Medford (“Med-fuhd”) Mass., about thirty sweaty women, and one gorgeous lithe young thing (PJ), explaining her magical moves, and finishing every explanation with, “Does that make sense?” So adorable!

And it did make sense. I learned how to spin two veils vertically, one side, then the other, making a vertical figure eight with them across me; I learned how to spin in a star shape with the veils rolling overhead; how to roll the veils like the wind, around me; how to part the veils and step inside and spin in the “floating skirt” move; how to take a veil in each palm and spin in a paddle turn and then a barrel turn, the most exquisite of all. Crazy fun.

Then, after we were all finished, I went down the road with a friend to get some flatbread pizza and wine. We sat and ate and ate and drank; we were so hungry and thirsty after about 6 hours of dancing! We toasted performing.

Came back to the VFW and ran into Ned! With his camera and his smile. Then we went into the dressing room and changed with all the other girls, including the two bellydance superstars! This was fun, the sisterhood of dancers, helping each other with make-up, pinning torn costumes, laughing over spiderlike false eyelashes. I felt giddy with excitement.

Dressed in our cossies, we wrapped ourselves in coverings, as is the custom. Other dancers are not supposed to steal attention from the one performing. It is tacky to sit around in your cossie.

So when Za-Beth announced me, I shed Ned’s bathrobe and strode down the aisle in my Pharaonics pink, to the front of the audience. I smiled at people, and then my music started. But it was not my music. “Uh,” I said, “That’s not my song.”

A few minutes of Za-Beth and her husband messing around with CDs, and there was I, with my arms raised and a genuine smile on my face. It was funny, after all. But when the first drums of “I Put a Spell on You” started up, my body took over and then there was only movement and a sea of friendly faces. They even started clapping along with me when the music picked up. It was fantastic to have an audience to respond to!

I wonder how I can find a way to dance again…? Tomorrow is the last Baby Bellies class and I can’t wait to show them the double veil stuff!!

“You have come at the best of all the year, we will have herb pudding and sit in the sun.”
–Timmy Willie

It is the best of all the year. You don’t get much better than a sunny June 2 here in Boston. Every worthwhile plant is blooming. God is in His Heaven. Even the rain is wonderful. As Timmy Willie says, “When it rains, I sit in my little sandy burrow and shell corn and seeds from my Autumn store. I peep out at the throstles and blackbirds on the lawn, and my friend Cock Robin. And when the sun comes out again, you should see my garden and the flowers–roses and pinks and pansies–no noise except the birds and bees, and the lambs in the meadows.”

I can still hear little Nat saying, “Oh, oh! cried Toomy Woowee,” as he recited The Tale of Johnny Townmouse, one of his all-time favorite books. Or, “Rabbit tobacco, tobacco, tobacco,” he’d go around singing, which was what rabbits apparently call “lavender.” Those beautiful little Beatrix Potter gems: nothing like them in all of creation. These oddly colloquial, dated stories give you a slice of olden-time life and modern human foibles (shown mostly through animal characters), served up with gorgeous, soft, delicious and not at all overly-sentimental illustrations. Remember The Tale of Two Bad Mice? How Hunca Munca and Tom Thumb invaded a dollhouse? And found that all the food was fake? “And then, there was no end to the rage and disappointment of Tom Thumb and Hunca Munca.” They tore the house apart, only later to realize that they could loot the place first!

When I go past my gardens — and I have many of them, because I am insane about gardens — I have to stop and stare. I look and look and look. I cannot believe my eyes. Or my nose! The smells! The colors! The shapes! Tiny little blossoms climbing up a miniature butterfly bush; popcorn-like snapdragons. Grape-like Wisteria that smells like wintergreen candy; round pink roses that look like a Southern belle’s hoop skirts. Any plantable spots must be filled with fleurs. I lust after part-sun to full sun. I will raze decade-old trees to get some of that good stuff (well, only if they are growing into my foundation, which happens a lot here. Once or twice I have seen a vine growing out of my basement wall! Not a good thing.)

I mowed the lawn for the first time today. It was so long it felt like a meadow fit for Timmy Willie. Yesterday, Max wistfully said how he would rather mow that lawn than prepare dinner for his brothers, but he knew that he had to make dinner. I was at my recital and Ned had to go see me perform, and the sitter had not shown up. Max rose to the occasion, as he so often does, and he made my old fallback dinner: hot dogs, noodles, and carrots. He is my hero.

And Nat did not feel uncomfortable without us there. He was fine. And Ben continued to work happily on his latest Lego project (I can’t wait to reveal it; suffice it to say that it is magnificent. He is a Lego Genius, and I am not biased, even though I am his Mommy. No, really!).

I feel blessed to be starting summer. And for my memories of my boys when they were little. And also, for the wonderful men they are becoming.

For many of you, this story is already old news. I, too, heard about the Monstrous Kindergarten Class weeks ago but was in the middle of my own shit and could not process poor Alex Barton’s as well.

Today a friend sent me the story and I looked at it, felt bad, and then I noticed the date of the report: May 21. Just a few days after Mother’s Day. And suddenly my heart just dropped. Happy Mother’s Day, Mrs. Barton. We can’t stand your child. I sighed, and felt like crying. I went into that moment. I saw a five year old boy, with sensory issues, kicking and screaming on a regular basis, and imagined the distress he must have felt to respond to his environment in that way. I wondered, enraged, “Why was nothing done for him? Why not get an FBA, (Functional Behavioral Analysis) look into TEACCH, a compassionate aide, something, anything? But no, this class and teacher decided to view this boy as a troublemaker and a creature. A monster.

In reality, they were the monsters.

And yet, of course, they are all just people. Poorly-trained teachers, scared and uniformed little kids who turned to bullying as a defense, and were encouraged to do so.

There is still so much misinformation about autism, about difference in general. Still so much helplessness among teachers, especially in mainstream education. So much being reactive instead of pro-active. Such a need for professional development.

Such a need for empathy in this world. Why is it so hard for people to get it? Well, Alex and Mrs. Barton. I do. I get it. And I hope you find some peace in your love for one another, and a better teacher next year.

I should be working on my book but I can’t right now. I have Town Meeting tonight and dinner to make and everyone’s around, so blogging is the thing. And of course I should probably write about yesterday, but as often happens when things are very big, I just can’t. I have to go sideways into it. Oblique = less threatening

So first I will tell you about this little funny sweet thing Ned found yesterday. It is images from the Disney movie Alice in Wonderland (or Allison Wonderland, as some in my little family say). These images are set to music that is really chopped up bits of dialog and sounds from the movie! Very weird. Gives me the same strange, flinchy feeling as the movie itself.

When Natty watched it, he was mesmerized. Allison is one of his favorite movies, though as I said I think it is too weird and it gives me an icky feeling everytime, a kind of cringing dread mixed with Pepto-Abismol pink saccharine boredom. But Nat watched this little vid and he had the strangest little smile on his face — kind of Cheshire-like.

So, yesterday. The thing that sticks in my head is when we brought Nat in, at the end. We did this because he is 18 and we have not completed the guardianship yet, so I thought we ought to bring him into the process somewhat. So he came in, after a lot of the difficult details of his upcoming education plan were ironed out (goals like improving his ability to perform household tasks; beginning work at a Papa Gino’s (!); conversing about what he has read; use of a debit card and cell phone). I felt so proud of all of the plans we were making. It sounded to me like a very full life, one that would interest, prepare, and delight him.

Nat came in and everyone sighed in happiness, because he is just so sweet and beautiful. He is very well loved there, I am always so impressed and moved by that. He sat down and our liaison summarized the meeting for him, and asked if felt it was okay that Ned and I made the choices for him about his school work for the coming year. He said, “Yes.” We asked a couple more times, to be sure he had processed the question, and then he signed his own IEP! “N-A-T, Nat,” he said. “B-A-T-C-H-E-L-D-E-R, Batchelder.” And it was done. I felt a bit odd, like I had fallen down a rabbit hole myself, but also hugely relieved to have it be over, and so smooth.

Is it any wonder that I love him?

It is time.
–Rafiqi, from The Lion King

Nat’s IEP this morning. Oh, God. The goals this time are to be not only what he does during the school day, but what he does in the Residences. I am also bringing a document regarding the guardianship. It is the formal disclosure to Nat about what is going on. In essence, a neutral person must read to him the plan for our guardianship. I think his teacher could do this, being a dear and sensitive person. “A lot going on!” as my mother would say.

I am afraid I am going to be very emotional, either during or after this meeting. I have so many feelings about it: eagerness to formulate really good goals; nervousness about the un-anticipated, the surprises; relief to get this discussion going; and of course, such bittersweet pangs. But I also feel like I’ll be okay.

While I was riding my favorite bike ride on Sunday, the song Melissa came onto my shuffle (I ride with one ear bud in and sing while I ride). Melissa, by the Allmans — that powerful brotherly duo before the peach truck ended Dwayne’s life — is the song that I most connect to Nat. It is the song that was on my Labor Tape, which Laura and I made together as part of my birth plan for Baby #1. Of course we never used the Labor Tape, but I played it a lot in my car while waiting for that baby of mine to arrive. I didn’t know I was having a boy, even though he had shown himself to me in a dream. I was always reluctant to read the signs, way back then, to trust my intuition. Anyway, I thought that if it was a girl, I would name her Melissa. I was so eager to have this baby, and I would express this impatience to my Grandma, who would always say, “In a gutte shu (?) (It will happen when the time is right).”

The beautiful opening strummed chords of Melissa came on, and I did not push the button to skip it, as I often do these days when I want to stay pumped. Instead I plunged into the treacle; I got sucked into the sweetness of sadness indulged and wallowed while the endorphins and adrenaline worked against this and kept me going. I listened to the words and let all those powerful feelings descend. “Crossroads — will you ever let him go?” And it came to me that we really do have to let our children go, as people are always telling me. It’s like we are given these beautiful souls to take care of for a brief time (that seems endless when they’re young) and we nourish them and learn from them, and they from us, and then they go on their way.

So I suddenly felt like, yes, it is okay to let Nat go. It is time. To let him move out, even though that is not necessarily his plan right now, and give him the opportunity to grow and learn among others. To live his own life apart from me. And then, to come back and visit and reconnect in new and unknown ways.

As I always tell Ben, when he is scared to try something new that I know will help him: It will be okay. This is what I knew, at last, as I pedaled home.

Oppressed by the wide open glorious day. I have no excuse to feel this way. Purely ornery. It is a lovely weekend, nothing needs to be done. Even my children are obliging by showing their best selves. Nat and I talked before he went to bed last night about the situation with lights, and how if he was calm and quiet this morning, we would make pancakes.

So he was. So we did. I ate none of them. I had eggs, Atkins style. Back on that for a little while to reduce the belly that even hours of bellydance and other ab work cannot seem to flatten. My trophy from successful childbirth? Great, but did I have to win the grand prize?

Sometimes I feel like my socioeconomic peers — all of whom seem to have wonderful plans for this Memorial Day weekend — are the people who do everything more beautifully than you, like the character in that Sylvia comic who ages terracotta pots with yogurt and monograms her children’s underwear. Most everyone around me seems to know how to drink beer and “hang out.” Ned and I don’t really “hang.” He doesn’t go out with The Guys; he never has. We both have a few very very close friends, but that’s it. There isn’t much hanging out to be done. We see our friends here and there, but it’s each other that we hang out with. And when one of us is glued to the laptop, then the other one has to fend for his/herself.

Yesterday I was so oppressed by the laughter of my happy neighborhood, floating over my way that I told Ned I wanted to move. He said, “Okay.” I went upstairs and lay down. Ned came up and softly rested his hand on my hip while I slept it off, like a bad drinking bout. He knew it was just something I was saying, because I didn’t know what to do with my feelings.

Today he said of one particular friendly-sounding get together down the street, “Let’s just walk over there,” and I said, “Okay.” And then we both looked at each other, a little wide-eyed. I truly understand my shy and perhaps anti-social or otherwise labeled children, because I am one of them. They came from us, after all. And here we are, at our dining room table, typing away while Nat marches all around the first floor, chatting himself up, and Ben plays the Wii; we are each our own island, for better or worse.

Today began rough, just like yesterday. Nat is completely on edge again, unable to relax. He is very upset about a light that is on in the distance, at a neighbor’s house. They are probably out of town for the holiday weekend. I had to explain to him, after he bit his arm and lunged at me, that this is what happens on some weekends. People go away and they leave lights on.

Just as last summer, hearing the explanation after the initial outburst seemed to help. The rest of the day was better, with Nat going off with Gina (his other Northeastern buddy) down to Weymouth where the mini-golf lady treated him to a free game and free ice cream! Another fan for Nat! We also adore Gina. Ned said, “If only we could get her here at 5:30 a.m. when Nat is stomping around and screaming about the lights outside.” Or a be-be gun to shoot out the lights.

I went to Mahoneys with my friend while Nat was out. I bought two clematis vines to put in the sunniest spot in the front garden. It all looks heart-swellingly beautiful and smells like chocolate and blossoms because of the cocoa-hulls mulch. Got really tired and ate some chocolate (the power of suggestion).

Nat came back in a great mood and settled in for the rest of the afternoon here. We had fresh corn and sausage and salad, and ate a lot.

My mind turned to dancing as it often does after dinner. I realized that in exactly one week I will be having my Petite Jamilla workshop, at long last. This will be a six-hour workshop, half of which will be on double-veil and spinning. The other half is with Bellydance Superstar Kami Liddel, who is more of a tribal bellydance girl. That will be okay, too. Tribal is a great way to gain control over your body, with all the snake-like and slow movements.

This is the workshop which ends with a Bellydancing with the Stars segment, where the girls who take the workshop can do a 3-minute routine for the Bellydance Superstars! I got the reminder email and it looks like I am second in the dance line-up (listed as “Lilia.”) I will be dancing to the Natacha Atlas version of “I Put a Spell on You,” of course. I practiced the piece for about 25 minutes today, with Nat watching about half of it, and with Ned filming me so I can critique my performance. I’m pretty happy with it, but I’ll spare you. I have been sufficiently chastened about blogging since reading the NYT mag today.

I figure that I’ll be able to get through this recital (my first) because it will be after a long workshop and that builds camaraderie. Plus I’ll have some wine.

For the last few months, usually on Saturdays, Nat has been going out with his Northeastern buddy Julie, and with his friend Scott, and Scott’s buddy Christine. Their travels usually include eating somewhere like California Pizza Kitchen, or Chinese food.

It is a delightful foursome. Julie and Christine enjoy each other’s company, as they oversee Scott and Nat’s interactions with the world at large (usually downtown Boston). Nat and Scott are very comfortable with each other. They have known one another since they were eleven, having first met at the Special Olympics gymnastics team, both of their first SO experience. They have always gone to different schools, but they have similar interests: sports, bowling alleys, hanging out with lovely young women, and fine dining. Oh, and apparently, massage chairs.

It was after 9:30 p.m. I was finished dancing and about to shower, when I realized that Nat was pacing a lot downstairs. This is often his reminder of some aspect of the nighttime ritual that has not yet occurred. I rushed over to the little kitchen, which houses all the food and storage stuff for the kitchen. I pulled down the pillbox, assuming this was next.

There were no Thursday night pills. Pill-cutting is an arduous weekly task around here, and because of all the little pills and the differences in dosages and times of day, it is easy to forget a time slot. I assumed I had forgotten Thursday night, and I muttered this with Nat looking, interested, over my shoulder, while delving into the Friday night pills to pilfer from there. I poured the orange and white tidbits into my hand, but Nat did not get his glass of water.

“You already had your pills!” he shouted.
“What? Oh,” I said, and poured the pills back into Friday, yelling, “Hey, Ned! You already gave him the pills, and didn’t say anything!! I almost gave him another bunch!!” What, was he so involved with his computer? I was poised and ready for a little fight over this.
“But Nat told you,” Ned said calmly.
Nat told me. I was shaking as I considered this, three little words that change everything.

I felt a blog post rumbling around inside me like gas. I am achey and bloated and avoiding. There are so many things I don’t want to face. So I’m eating and eating and trying to stay full, but the thing is, there is a big fat juicy elephant in this dining room. Nat is moving out on July 28.

Big exhalation of air. My fat full belly pushes against my belt buckle, my shoulders hunch and my hands are splayed like giant crabs across my keyboard. Crumbs everywhere, boys scattered all over the house. I want to sleep to get away from my head.

I have been forcing myself to do things with Nat, to keep going, to keep interacting, but I just feel as if I’m behind a wall. Every now and then I just stop him during his insanely quick pacing, and I give him a soft kiss. I stare into those endless Natty eyes and I just keep wanting to cry, cry, cry. How sorry I am that I could not do this myself, that I could not teach him everything he needs to know to get along out there. That stupid world. How I hate it. How I hate my inability to ease his disability.

I don’t want to deal with this. I focus on his IEP goals, spelling out specifically to his teachers what he can work on in the residences. I fill his weekends with social group and trips with his Northeastern U. buddies, chores, and walks with Ned.

But I am not looking at him as much because I feel guilty. He doesn’t know yet. I don’t know how we are going to tell him. We are going to discuss this issue at the IEP meeting next week. We’ll have ideas then. Until then I feel heavy with my gorging and my secrets.

Tuesdays are full and crazy, but I luvs them. Tuesdays are when I have my Baby Bellies, and when I have to make the school newsletter, Lincoln Lines. It is a lot of working getting through both, and there are times when I have wanted to quit, but I am proud of myself for hanging in there.

Today was a good day, albeit busy. In the morning I got an email from a dad at the school who is also a good friend of ours, and he had at item for the newsletter about the Pumpkinfest Golf Tournament. Pumpkinfest is our school’s biggest fundraiser, and it is crazy busy and successful. There is, among many things, a silent auction, and the tournament was one of the prizes to bid on. I was psyched when I got the email about it because now I had my lead story. I told Ned and he said, “You are such a huge dork.”

Well, yes. But he doesn’t understand how much fun it is running a tiny media empire. I love amassing school news items from various sources: the main office, the front door notices, the school website, and parents and teachers sending me emails. Most everyone gets stuff to me by my Monday deadline, and by Tuesday afternoon, after the Baby Bellies, I can take an hour or two and lay it all out online. I come up with attention-grabbing headlines; I decide what is front page news and what is stuck in the back; I edit things so that they fit and are clear; and I get Ben to do art for a story or two. Sometimes I use Clip Art, but that stuff is so corny. Ben’s stuff is edgy and powerful, like this one he did for the golf tournament: [if no image, Blogger sucks]

I was in some kind of zone today, because it went well with the Baby Bellies. It has not gone that well much this session; there are 13 girls, plus occasional playdates come along, and I have had a hard time with all the chaos. I talked to a friend who runs an afterschool baking class like mine, and she said that the thing to do is hold them off on the snack as long as possible, and only expect to be able to teach them 30 minutes worth of stuff. The rest of the time is eating and running around.

But more than that stellar advice, there was also my expectations being too high. These are very little girls, for God’s sake. What was I thinking, that they had to learn so much bellydance? It hit me like a clap of thunder today: let them play with the veils, who cares? That’s pretty much all they like, anyway. And who can blame them? They are floating color! Candy on the breeze! Silken rainbows!

But I could not let go entirely. I still made them practice the “fold and hold” (making a pocket around themselves with their veils folded sideways and held in one hand) and camels (S-shaped body waves stepping forward). One of them insisted we call the camel move “Figs,” after her pet dog, whose belly apparently undulates in the same fashion. So then I said that we should do the camels — er, Figs — into the center of the circle when we do our recital piece, instead of the hip-lift-walk that becomes an utter mess when they try to do it.

This was easy to teach, too. You push your lower belly out, leaning back on your heels, then push your upper belly forward, followed by your chest, bringing your foot forward in a stepping motion, then pulling your shoulders back and lower belly forward again. That is how you get the “S” shape.

The girls were very good at the Figs, and the move looked much better in the piece, as I thought it would. I was so happy with their progress that I let them have their donut holes a little early and sat back while they chased each other, all wrapped up in my veils. Two of the youngest fell and got a little hurt, so I said we had to stop running with veils. I could tell that the oldest ones, whom I had kind of yelled at last week, were trying extra hard to listen to me, and I felt moved by their sweetness and it made me feel very loving towards them. And they responded by seeming happier in class than ever. One of them actually started going through my songs and picking out the ones she liked, and getting the others to just dance to them. I figured this was as good as anything else, just getting them interested in World Music, rather than shlocky pop. We only have two classes left, and as long as they practice their fold and hold and their Figs, we should be in good shape. Even with 8 donut holes per BB.

Old friends
Sat on the park bench like book ends.
–Simon and Garfunkel

Appearance is a funny and misleading thing. I visited an old college friend in New York this weekend, because I was giving a talk and I needed a place to stay. This is a guy who was actually so dear to us that he was one of the ushers in our wedding party. He was one of my favorite people in my dorm way back when. Ned’s too. He could imitate Mick Jagger and many others — and so could I — and that was something we used to do often into the late hours of the morning. For my birthday once he rented “Funny Girl,” my favorite movie, and gave a viewing for all of our friends in his dorm room, where he had a VCR (no one owned those back then!) and a large t.v. Another time, he got us all to watch “The Shining,” a movie that had scared the crap out of me the year before (freshman year), and he got me to appreciate it and even laugh at it. Ned and I had so many great times with him.

He and his partner own an apartment in the Dakota, and when he invited me to stay with them, I was very excited. I was also surprised by how intimidated I felt at first! Partly because I am not used to staying with friends without Ned, because it has been decades since I hung out with this friend for so long, but also because of his amazing digs and lifestyle. I am a creature of comfort, I love beautiful things, and I get kind of swept away by fame sometimes, I’ll admit it. And this place! The apartment itself, the square footage, is bigger than my house. Same era as my house, a time of heavy dark woodwork, large spaces, high ceilings, sumptuous fittings everywhere. A shower bigger than my entire bathroom at home. First apartment building on that part of Manhattan. John Lennon lived there. Yoko Ono still does. Central Park, literally across the street, is the view from most rooms.

I was full of excitement and a little dread over all the glamor, but I got back to my old feeling with him, however, within minutes. We walked a little in the park, and then had a fun dinner in Trump International Tower. It was a heady feeling being there, too, in this restaurant where celebrities dine, and where everyone knew my friend. But in the end it was just a good place to eat, very friendly and warm, not at all snobby. Later we walked home in the light rain. Tons of people going places, because it was Saturday night in New York.

I think one of the best moments was waking up, my heavily shuttered enormous window open slightly to the sounds of the rising city on a Sunday, the sun lighting up the trees below; each one seemed to be a different shade of green. I felt like Eloise. My friend was in the kitchen making a pot of coffee and emptying his dishwasher. Sitting with him and talking during my favorite time of day before doing one of my favorite things (give a talk) was just bliss. It is just so bittersweet to reunite with an old, old friend and see what is the same and what is different. I was so happy for him, to see him, to get to know his partner and see how well-matched they were, finishing each others’ sentences, laughing so much, having New York at their feet. But it was, in the end, the same old guy.

When I walked outside to catch a cab, there were tourists photographing the building. I was standing in the front gates with my sunglasses on waiting for the cab and some of the tourists were looking at me. I have to admit I felt kind of like a star at that moment, but little did they know — it was only me, on my way to Queens!

Hey Neddy, you got the love I need
maybe more than enough
Oh darling, darling, darling
Walk a while with me
You got so much, so much…

Over the Hills and Far Away, Led Zep (and me)

That is what I ran to this morning. Thinking about Ned. So special. Golden, commanding, quiet, brilliant. Loyal, true, like a fairy tale prince. I was thinking, how is it that love lasts? Given all the mistakes and human ugliness? I hear so much about how it fades. You merely coexist. For the sake of continuity, for the sake of the kids. For something else. But I feel so, so, so grateful that for us it is not like that. Sometimes I cannot believe the blessings in my life.
(Knock wood).

It is my turn to help him. I want his birthday to be great, fun, exciting, peaceful, whatever he truly wants. I want his Father’s Day to be fantastic, because he is such an amazing father. But those events always coincide, and are also the same days as Nat’s State Games. How do I make each celebration really count for him? How can I make him as filled up with me as I am with him?

Beth, a writer-group friend for many years, sent me this terrific send-up/sum-up of what it’s like to be published…