M. started a blog. He doesn’t want anyone to know about it and that’s fine. But I’m excited because now he gets it. He understands the compulsion to post. He understands the giddiness when stats hit a certain point. He understands the analysis of what makes people visit.
Even though I started blogging to break through the mommy-brain that my head runs on, all of the above things have crept into my consciousness whether I wanted them to or not. Before you know it, this exercise in blogging has you thinking about bigger implications. Just look at blogs that have become books or even movies. Think Julie & Julia and I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. But for me and M. our blogs are personal exercises in writing. Luckily, our blog-sphere view is now the same.
Recently, I got paid. For most people this is a regular occurrence. Every two weeks or on the 1st and 15th of each month, they get paid for the work that they do. And here’s the kicker, it comes whether they do their jobs or not.
That is not the case for me. As a freelance writer, I do the work and then, depending on the contract, I get paid once the work is accepted or published. The reality of it is that I might see a check 30 days after a submission, or 120 days after a submission, or as in one case, a year and counting after a submission. I know this, I plan for it, I have accepted it. So when the postman does deliver a check, I deem him or her the check fairy.
You see, the check fairy is a lot like the tooth fairy. Both are imaginary but have real people doing their work. Both leave monetary surprises for work done. [Making teeth is a harder than we might think, just ask my son.] And, finally, their visits are happy occurrences. In the case of the check fairy, bills can be paid, money can be saved and presents—whether for yourself or others—can be purchased.
Getting paid the old-fashioned way, while nice, wouldn’t nearly be as interesting. Thank you check fairy. I hope you visit more in the coming months.
I love the winter Olympics. When the games are on, you can bet that I am watching. It’s been this way since I was a girl in the 80s.
Way back then, I just happened to live around the corner from the grandparents of a boy who was the object of my adolescent crush. Actually, I really liked his family too. All of the kids had names that started with A. His mother was elegant and nice. His father was very warm. As a family unit, they were perfect (at least from my perspective). Anyway…during the winter Olympics of that year (which exactly I am not sure), I would go to the grandparents house each night and watch the games with my crush and his extended family. We cheered. We ate. We debated performances (since you can do that with figure skating).
It is a memory that I cherish. And was able to relive a bit of it when I watched the opening ceremony with my family in Chicago. Now, I watch the Olympics alone. M. isn’t into them and A. is too young to get involved. But I look forward to when he is older and hope that we enjoy the games as a family, just like the Crush’s.
When I was a teenager, my dad used to go down to Bolsa Chica state beach—about a mile from his home in Huntington Beach, California—at 6 AM to claim a fire pit. This was a tradition when I was in town with my friends. We would join him later (about noon) and in the afternoon, he would return to the house to get the food for that night’s bonfire. Girlfriends from high school remember the police coming to make sure that we weren’t drinking; an old boyfriend remembers watching the Queen Mary fireworks from one of those fire pits. The whole thing is a very Southern California summer picture.
So you can imagine my disappointment at the news that the city of Huntington Beach will possibly remove nearly half of the 165 fire pits on the beach. Unfortunately the state of the economy is having its way with these memory makers. And the city council will vote on the fire pits’ fate next month. I hope that for the residents there, they remain untouched.
After being in the Midwest for nearly two and a half weeks, Baby A and I are home. We’re sleeping in our own beds with our friends (his, stuffed; mine, purring) and in separate rooms. And now, it begins—resuming our schedule. So far, he has woken up at 5 AM and slept most of yesterday. I took a two hour nap yesterday and could barely keep my eyes open past 10 PM last night. While all of this is a bit of a PIA, traveling is worth it.
During those 17 days, Alexander was surrounded by people who loved him (and it wasn’t just M and me). He played with other kids for hours. He experienced snow, played with puppies and ate boxed mac n’ cheese. All things that don’t happen in our home. He laughed and laughed and laughed. He made others do the same. And now that we are home, I miss the family, the cold weather, the impromptu dinners, the conversation and the constant playing. I’ll try to keep up with my son’s insatiable appetite for play that was fulfilled by numerous cousins these past couple of weeks. Luckily, I know I can keep him laughing.
Tonight I sat on the couch with my son watching television. Nestled in the arm-shoulder-torso junction he sat quietly as we watched Olivia. (She and her brother were dancing with their grandmother, which is apapro since it is reflective of this trip.)
His small head rested on me and I could feel him breathing. For once, we were just still together. The busy boy that Baby A is normally had been quieted. The clingy baby boy that has surfaced in the last week was just near. And while we sat and watched this cartoon pig on her adventures I was transformed to the days when A. was an infant and the rhythm of his breathing and his peaceful energy would lull me to sleep.
This moment was the highlight of my day (and possibly my week). I hope that we have more moments like this one.