Friday, December 02, 2005

Wild Horses

It’s hard to say who gets broken in the mornings, me or my wild pony Ian. Because, as I said yesterday, by the time I am lurching toward the car like a fevered hurtling train (as the Waterboys would say) I feel like my spirit, body and mind have been summarily broken.

Ian came into our room at about 3:30 in the morning, so he infiltrated my system early. Unlike other wonderful, loving, fabulous parents, I DO NOT like it when my kids crawl into bed with me. I LOATHE it, as a matter of fact. Because I am really weird about “boundaries,” even tho I don’t like speaking in psycho lingo. Boundaries. My bed is for me. It is for sleep. And whatever else you do that you know I do OTHERWISE I WOULDN’T HAVE THREE KIDS. But it is NOT an interim kiddie bed.

My friend Eve said, “Oh but sometimes it’s delicious.” Eve said that because she is an adoring, loving, doting perfect mother. And I am a grumpy mean nasty bed grinch. BED GRINCH ALERT!

Well, and Ian is not your garden variety kid. Or maybe he is, I don’t know. But he tends to suck the life, blood and marrow out of everyone he loves, and he doesn’t stop when he’s sleeping. He is 40 pounds of compactly distributed toddler body mass and he is the type of kid who barnacles himself to you in bed, no matter how subtly and deftly you try and pry him loose. And he is a big breather-in-the-face. That hot, salty, snot-nougat toddler breath. Mmmm. And he snores.

When he woke up he came tumbling down the stairs, grumpy and confused, already defying the day for starting. And we were off to the races. “I want hard boiled eggs!” “We don’t have any.” “YES WE DO!! I WANT HARD BOILED EGGS! Do I HAVE to go to Nina’s today?" “Yes.” “Why?”

Then I went upstairs for my shower. Woke up Daisy who sat in her crib with those precious swollen toddler bed eyes, staring at her blanket. Sweet girl. Nick corralled the younguns downstairs. He made them each a waffle and got them their juice. All hail Nick! I told him I didn’t know what the hell I would do without him. I said “hell.” I didn’t mean to. He was really appreciative.

I could just feel the morning unraveling, slipping away from me. I had to open yet another package from Eddie Bauer with appropriately “casual” wear for dreaded “casual” Friday. If I were nominated for an Oscar, I would spend less time getting dressed than I do for “casual” Friday. And let’s not forget, I have a NEW job and so I have to dress “casual” PERFECT. Matching jewelry, carefully calibrated “insouciance.” AGONY.

Last night at the table Ian all of a sudden starting singing this Beautiful South song about a cad who lists all these women’s names: Annabel, Jessica, Phillipa, Sue…I wrote this song for you…” Except he combined lyrics from U2 and that song, which Nick picked out. He sang, “Annabel, Jessica, Phillipa, Sue…no one gets hurt!” Which was a little disconcerting, especially coming from the Terminator. “No one gets hurt!”

I am very proud of m’ son Nick, as you might have discerned. He is very intelligent and polite and funny and just all around a splendid little boy. But Nick’s favorite talent of mine is his UNCANNY ability to decipher lyrics!!! Like, to me, that is the most exciting thing! Honestly, that kid can pick apart any song and he has some amazing taste too.

I showed him how to make his own CD from iTunes—he has his own iTunes list—and he made a very nice CD. He asked if we could listen to it in the car this morning. And it was so weird to be driving along, listening to my son’s CD. U2, Green Day, Outkast, Travis and then, just as I was turning into the garage, Jakob Dylan. My son’s selections. Next he wants to download The Killers’ I got Soul But I’m not a Soldier.

Anyway, as we were leaving the house, Ian burst through the door and let it slam right into Daisy’s face. He ran out into the front yard and said, “I want to run through the field!” And I thought how apt it was that I tell people I feel like I’ve been given a wild mustang every morning that I have to break by 8:00 a.m. There was my pony, running with his arms in the air through the “field” of our front yard. Daisy trotted out to the car. Nick was in the front seat, and I had to retrieve the mustang from the field and strap him into the car. At the babysitter’s he held onto me. My little anomaly—the wild spirited rebel, so full of love that he can’t break the tie that began at 3:30 a.m.

Then I drop off Nick at school. He sees another little boy and they race for the front door.


Cynicism is another word for reality

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