The Planet New York

The alarm on Beth’s iPhone went off at 6:30 on the day after Christmas, or as Noah kept reminding us, “the first day of Kwanzaa and the second day of Christmas.” I’d just finished nursing June and she and I were just drifting back to sleep. Beth and Noah were asleep in the dark of an overcast late December dawn. Moments later, we were all stirring, getting ready for a quick trip to New York. We’d spent Christmas at my mother and stepfather’s house outside Philadelphia and we’d decided to make the short hop up to New York to see my father and take in twenty-eight and a half hours’ worth of kid-friendly sights.

Two hours later we left my mother’s house on foot, toting only what Beth, Noah and I could carry in our backpacks. We walked to the Lansdowne SEPTA station (http://www.prrths.com/Phila_Lansdowne_Station.htm). Noah, used to buying Metro cards from machines, wanted to know why we were going inside the station. Beth explained we needed to buy tickets from an agent, “like in Frosty.” (We’d just watched Frosty the Snowman a few days earlier.) Noah was eager to watch the transaction and went up to the window with Beth while I sat on the bench and June climbed up and down a short flight of stairs, announcing “I climb stairs,” in case anyone in the station had failed to notice. We told Noah that Pop, who now works full-time renovating his and my mom’s house, had renovated the station twelve years ago.

At 30th Street Station, Noah was not terribly impressed by the giant Christmas tree or the famous statue of the angel with the fallen soldier (http://www.explorepahistory.com/displayimage.php?imgId=1495), but he was entranced by the spinning rows of text on the Amtrak arrivals and departures board.

The train was crowded and we had to split up so I could find a forward-facing seat. (Riding backwards makes me violently ill.) Beth and Noah sat together and I took June further up the car. Once we were seated, June was simultaneously lulled by the movement of the train and excited by the novelty of the situation. She would lean against me and start to nod off, then stand up and look out the window. I pointed out the boathouses on the Schuylkill River (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boathouse_Row) and other notable sights. “I on train,” she commented repeatedly. About twenty-five minutes into the journey, she collapsed in my lap and slept the rest of the way to New York.

Reunited with Beth and Noah at Penn Station, I inquired about his train ride. He said they had done some Mad Libs and pretended the train was a space ship traveling to “the Planet New York.” On the subway trip to our hotel, Noah noted which parts of the galaxy we were visiting as the stations flashed by on the lighted route map.

Walking into the lobby with its Christmas tree, poinsettias and bowls of ornaments and gold-painted pine cones reminded me that in similarly decorated hotels in Chicago, approximately nine thousand academics would soon be descending on the Modern Language Association annual convention (http://www.mla.org). I’ve spent the days right after Christmas interviewing for jobs or moping because I wasn’t interviewing for jobs at this convention more years than I’d like to say. I pushed the thought aside. June’s enthusiastic bouncing on the hotel bed, her mad dashing around the room, her laughing and squealing “I too fast!” cheered me right up. I called my father and made plans to meet for dinner, and before Noah had a chance to whine “Why do I always have to sleep on the pull-out couch” more than a dozen or so times, we were off to grab lunch at a burrito place and go see the Statue of Liberty.

My father warned us this trip would take a long time and he wasn’t kidding. We took two subways down to the Statue. As we switched trains, we just missed hearing a violinist and a guitarist who were packing up to move to another car. We arrived at the Battery (http://www.thebattery.org/) around two p.m.. There we admired a poster advertising plans for an aquatic carousel, skirted a rally, and got in a very long line that wound around Castle Clinton (http://www.thebattery.org/castle/) to wait for our tickets. About fifteen minutes into our wait, Noah decided to make a game out of it by having everyone guess how long it would be until we made it to the ticket counter. Noah, ever the optimist, guessed seven minutes. I guessed a half hour and Beth guessed forty-five minutes. Beth set the timer on her iPhone and Noah decided whoever made the closest guess could have the head of his chocolate reindeer. I pointed out that since it was already his, there was no provision for a prize for him if he won. He said he didn’t mind. I like things to be fair, but since I thought there was very little chance he’d need a prize, I let it go. While we waited in line, June napped in the stroller and we watched the entrepreneurs who had painted their skin green and donned robes to pose for pictures with tourists. Beth won the bet. It took forty minutes and twenty seconds from the time we set the timer to get to the ticket counter and complete our transaction. Once there, we learned you need special tickets to enter the statue so we’d only be able to ride the ferry to the island and see the statue close up. Noah was a little disappointed, but still excited to go. He’s been studying symbols of our country at school, which was the reason for the excursion.

It was a cold, damp day and we were chilled from standing in line, so it was actually a relief to go through security in the heated tent by the water. We caught the last ferry of the day, the 3:40, and sat on the top level, for the view and so I wouldn’t get seasick. After a scenic (and very windy) ride we arrived at the statue. She’s impressively large in person and really quite beautiful. We admired her and walked around the island. We paid a quarter for Noah to look through the telescope at the harbor, and then we got back in line for the 4:45 ferry. On the way back we opted for the heated lower level. We shared a warm soft pretzel, and Noah got a pair of Statue of Liberty sunglasses, much coveted by a little boy sitting near us.

Two subway rides later (trains #6 and 7 of the day), we met my father and stepmother Ann for dinner. Ann admired Noah’s new glasses and Dad asked me questions about Sensory Processing Disorder (http://www.sensory-processing-disorder.com/) and how Noah was doing. (The answer is just fine now that he has more compatible teachers.) Service was a bit slow, which was fine, since we were exhausted from running around. It was nice to relax, eat our pizza and pasta, and chat. Once we’d finished our meal, though, we needed to hurry back to our hotel and get our worn out kids to bed.

The next morning we met Dad for breakfast at Alice’s Teacup (http://www.alicesteacup.com/). I highly recommend this teahouse to anyone who, like Noah, adores Alice in Wonderland. Quotes from the book and photographs of people dressed as characters from the book adorn the walls. The bathroom walls are painted with scenes from the book. There’s also a library of kids’ books, so Noah spent much of the meal with his nose in a book about magical creatures. Every now and then he would regale us with facts about them. The Naga (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/N%C4%81ga),
for instance, is half-human, half-snake and causes floods when angered. “I think I worked for him once,” Dad commented. We feasted on crepes, waffles, scones, tea and coffee. Once everyone was sated, Dad took us to a toy store and let the kids pick out their Christmas presents. Noah got a pirate castle and June got some small stuffed animals (a bear in a chef’s apron and a snowman) and a bead maze. Dad, who’s an editor who comes in and out of retirement, had an appointment to discuss a job at an investigative journalism web site soon after, so we parted company.

Our next stop was Central Park. Both kids had been cooped up in trains or the stroller or standing in line and they needed to move. We entered the park at Strawberry Fields (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strawberry_Fields_memorial), and looked at the Imagine Memorial, which was covered in evergreen boughs and roses arranged in a peace sign. Shortly after entering the park, we noticed June had lost her little chef bear. (We looked for it on the way back, but we never did find it.) We walked along the paths and clambered on the big rocks. “I climb dis!” I climb rock! I climbing!” June announced as Beth and I scrambled to make sure neither child fell off the wet boulders. We made it to the Bethesda Fountain (http://www.centralpark.com/pages/attractions/bethesda-terrace/bethesda-fountain.html), which was turned off and Noah and June played inside its basin. We went under the arches of the terrace and admired the mosaics on the walls and ceilings. It was beautiful and smelled of urine.

It was time to head back to the hotel and check out. It had been misting all morning and on the way back it started to rain in earnest. Both kids are generally sturdy about being out in the cold and wet but June had soaked her feet in a puddle in the park and her face was getting wet and after a while she started to whimper. Then her whimpering turned to crying and as we wheeled her into the hotel lobby she was screaming. We had just enough time to change her diaper and her socks before grabbing our things and leaving the room. A desk clerk had called to inquire politely, “When will you be leaving?” so we needed to hustle. June had stopped crying, but we decided to warm up a bit in the lobby before going back into the rain. After we’d exhausted the kid-entertaining possibilities there, we shouldered our packs and left. Ducking into a near-by Starbucks, I noticed June had conked out during the short stroller ride there, so we decided to stay inside where it was warm and let her sleep a bit while we drank coffee and raspberry soymilk, did Mad Libs and watched New York walk by.

When the rain let up, we walked thirty-three blocks down Broadway to Times Square. At home in Washington, we can recognize the tourists because they block the walking side of Metro escalators. I think New Yorkers must recognize their tourists because we’re the ones blocking sidewalk traffic gawking up at the tall buildings. “Those are sky-scrapers!” Noah said in wonder. We stopped to read the news on the CNN building banner (all about Benazir Bhutto’s assassination), watched the ads on giant video screens and checked out the various theater marquees. Without having read any reviews, I was most intrigued by Mary Poppins and knowing how long some shows stay on Broadway, I made a mental note to keep it in mind if it’s still there when both kids are old enough to take in a show. I learned that there’s a whole store dedicated to M&Ms and M&M-themed products and a Hershey’s store across the street. I didn’t see it, but based on the number of eight to ten-year-old girls clutching dolls I think we must have been near the American Girl store. We frequently got separated in the crush of the crowd and June and I would have to wait for Noah and Beth to catch up. Beth reports that during one of their absences, Noah fell flat on his back on the sidewalk. This is not an unusual occurrence for him and he was apparently having a tactile under-sensitive day because he jumped back up without comment, spurring a teenage boy nearby to say, “Tough kid!” with some admiration. Near the end of our walk, I bought some warm nuts in a paper bag to much on while we soaked up the last few sights of our trip.

We got on the subway at 42nd Street, only eight blocks from Penn Station, but we were too tired to walk any further. In the café car of the Amtrak train, we did Mad Libs, snacked on leftover pizza and potato chips and took turns trying on Noah’s Statue of Liberty glasses as we sped away from the Planet New York.

Where Santa is Real

We told Noah the truth about Santa Claus yesterday. You may wonder why we did this a mere sixteen days before Christmas. We didn’t want to, but he’d been struggling with his belief for weeks, turning it over and over again in his mind, and the longer it went on the less it felt like we were pretending and the more it felt like we were lying to him.

When Noah was a baby we weren’t even sure if we’d do Santa for this very reason. We wanted to be as honest with him as possible, but in the end tradition won out. Noah has always loved stories and pretending and magic, so it felt perfectly natural when we first starting talking about Santa the year he was two and a half. Earlier this year he asked why we celebrate Christmas if we are not Christians. It was a logical enough question. We told him it was because our families were Christian and the traditions were still special to us. He accepted that, but wondered why Santa visited us and not some other families who don’t believe “Jesus was a god.”

On Thursday night, Noah and I were snuggling in his bed and talking about our upcoming weekend trip to Rehoboth. We were going in order to Christmas shop away from the chores and distractions of a weekend at home and for me to get an off-season ocean fix, but for Noah there was one main attraction. He reported that some of the kids in his class thought it was strange we were going to the beach in December.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I said Santa will be there,” he answered simply.

Santa has a little house on the boardwalk where he visits with kids every weekend from Thanksgiving until Christmas. It’s scenic, the lines are short and you can take your own pictures for free. It beats the mall hands down.

“Last year I told him I wanted a microscope and he gave me a case that had not just a microscope but a magnifying glass and knives, too. Cool, huh?” (The scalpels are for dissecting specimens to put under the microscope. He’s not allowed to use them yet.) In his excitement, he seemed to have completely forgotten that he’d declared, “I think Santa is a fake” in the car on the way home from Thanksgiving weekend. Of course, that declaration was followed by a long soliloquy about how no scientists have ever found Santa or flying reindeer at the North Pole, but how not finding them doesn’t necessarily prove Santa’s not real, and how he did get the microscope he asked for, etc, etc. And it went on this way, on and off, for the next two weeks.

Every now and then during one of these monologues he’d ask, “What do you think?” in a casual, conversational way, as if he was consulting an equal for an opinion, not seeking a definitive answer from an authority. When I asked him where he thought the presents came from, if not from Santa, he ignored the question. I was testing him, seeing how close to the truth he’d already come. We decided he wasn’t quite ready, so we waffled and stalled, hoping we could make it until Christmas. We’d tell him then, Beth and I agreed. Meanwhile, Noah was making plans to stay up all night and watch for him at my mom’s fireplace on Christmas Eve.

We arrived at Rehoboth a little after seven on Friday evening. June had slept in the car and wasn’t sleepy at bedtime so after Noah was asleep I left Beth and June in the hotel room and went for a walk on the boardwalk. I walked down to Santa’s house, admiring the lights on the boardwalk, and stepping carefully through the slush on the wet boards. I checked the sign for his hours. Santa would be there starting at three on Saturday afternoon.

The next morning, Beth teased Noah, asking if he wanted to see Santa that afternoon or wait until Sunday. He was incredulous. “Today, of course!” he said. But then he told us he was going to whisper what he wanted into Santa’s ear, “so you can’t hear.” Bad sign, I thought. Now he’s testing Santa.

We spent the morning playing on the beach, hanging out in the hotel lounge and watching the fire while Noah worked on the rough draft of his oral report on Germany, and doing some shopping. Then we went to lunch and returned to the hotel for June’s nap. We were at Santa’s house almost at three on the dot. Santa was outside, posing for pictures. When he went inside, Noah was the first child to enter. Santa asked him his name, commented that he’d always like the name Noah, and asked how old he was. Then it was time to get down to business. “What do you want for Christmas?” he asked. Noah leaned in and whispered. Then Santa diplomatically promised to bring him something he’d like and gave him a necklace with a flashing red Christmas ornament dangling from it.

Noah seemed happy and satisfied with his visit to Santa. But as soon as we left the little house, he asked if it was possible that the person he’d seen was just someone in costume pretending to be Santa. We allowed that this might be the case. Beth pointed out that Santa couldn’t be everywhere at once so maybe he needed some helpers to visit with children and find out what they wanted. Probably, they would send an email to Santa with the requests. “But he just asked my name. Why didn’t he ask my address?” Noah was suddenly alarmed at the possibility that his information would be incompletely conveyed to Santa.

I took the kids to the beach while Beth did some more shopping. Noah got too close to the waves while I was watching June and his boots filled with icy seawater. I found him sitting on the sand pouring it out. I winced a little to see him running around with only a pair of drenched cotton socks on his feet, but he didn’t seem to mind and we’d promised to meet Beth on the beach so I was afraid if we went back to the hotel room she wouldn’t know where we’d gone. It was actually his hands that got unbearably cold from piling wet sand into piles to make castles. They started to smart and he cried until I warmed them between mine. We put his boots back on and walked down the boardwalk hand in hand, looking at the lights. I held both of Noah’s hands in one of mine and one of June’s in the other. “Mommy, you have five hands!” Noah exclaimed with delight. When Beth came back, I suggested we take him back to the motel and get him into a warm bath instead of going straight to dinner as planned. Once he was warm and dry, Noah was disinclined to leave the hotel room, so we ordered pizza to the room and watched The Polar Express on television. Despite the film’s strangely menacing atmosphere (a complete contrast with the book), I still got a little choked up at the end when the skeptical little boy protagonist explains he is now an old man, but the magic sleigh bell still rings for him as it does “for all who truly believe.”

The next day as we lunched on sandwiches, fruit salad, smoothies and tea at a cozy little bistro, Noah launched into another Santa discussion. “Maybe you bought the presents,” he said. Beth glanced at me questioningly. I nodded.

“You’re right, Noah,” she said, placing her hand over his.

“What?” he seemed distracted, as if he wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

“You’re right. We did buy the presents. Santa is just a story we tell, for fun.”

I reiterated what she’d just said, since he still seemed not to have heard. Then he said, “Oh,” in an understated way and changed the subject.

On the drive home we stopped at gas station. As June and I waited outside the restroom door, a man approached. “Are you ready for ho ho ho?” he asked her. As usual when she’s addressed by a stranger, she looked slightly alarmed and started to back away. Not reading her body language, he came closer. “Is Santa going to come visit you?” he asked.

“She’s shy around strangers,” I said, holding out a hand for her to take. I was annoyed with him for getting in June’s space and for making assumptions about what holidays we celebrate, but still, part of me was comforted by the thought of having a few more years of ho ho ho. We are sentimental and inconsistent atheists, clinging to the traditions of our youth, not able to let go of the symbols, even after we let go of the substance behind them.

At home last night, as we lay in bed, talking about the weekend, Noah said, “I wonder if I’ll get what I asked for.”

“Because we didn’t hear it?” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Because Beth says Santa’s not real.” He said this as if Beth might not the final authority on the question and as if I had not spoken at all.

When he got off the bus this afternoon, Noah asked me, “Do you think Santa has glasses?” I was taken aback and didn’t answer at once. Did he still believe or not? “I’m just asking your opinion, Mommy,” he said impatiently. “Because Santa’s not real.”

“Do you mean how do I imagine him?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I don’t usually think of him with glasses.”

“The one I saw had glasses,” he commented.

Then he asked me if we could play a game that takes place on another planet “where Santa is real.” The game involved riding on Santa’s magic flying surfboard back and forth between the planet and its six moons. Noah and I stood on his sled in the damp grass of our backyard, knees bent, arms outstretched, flying back to where Santa is real.

Giving Thanks: Food, Water and Love

The day before Thanksgiving, Noah came home from school with a paper turkey he’d cut out and colored. It had three feathers with the pre-printed words “Doy gracias por” (“I give thanks for”). He’d filled in the blanks with “comida” (“food”), “agua” (“water”) and “mi abuela” (“my grandmother”). He’d included food and water, he explained to me, “because no one can survive” without them. He looked at the last feather. “I have two grandmothers,” he commented, as if I didn’t know. Food, water and love, I thought, that’s why we give thanks.

We drove to Wheeling on Thanksgiving Day, partly to beat the traffic and partly so Noah wouldn’t miss any school. We bought relief from his whining on the trip by listening to three unabridged Magic Tree House audio books. I actually fell asleep for ten to twenty minutes during the last one, even though I normally can’t sleep in the car unless I’m pregnant. I was pretty tired since June had been up for over an hour and a half in the middle of the night. (Unfortunately, this is not an unusual occurrence.) By the end of that wake up she was trying to sing herself back to sleep. Her version of “All the Pretty Little Horses” sounds something like this:

Hush bye, don’t cry
Go seep, baby
(Several lines of unintelligible babble except for the word “cake” pronounced clearly and with great enthusiasm.)

I wonder if this is how I sound to her when I sing it.

Anyway, my fatigue, combined with the astoundingly repetitive adventures of Jack and Annie recounted in the stilted prose of Mary Pope Osbourne knocked me right out. I missed several chapters.

We arrived mid-afternoon and dinner wasn’t until seven, so we had time for the kids to burn off some pent-up energy running around outside and for me to bathe June before we got the kids dressed for dinner. June wore a dress with a black velvet top and a puffy, gold satin skirt that a friend of Andrea’s bought for her. Andrea said she looked just like a doll. Beth’s brother Johnny and I both said, independently of each other, that she looked like the Infanta Margarita in this painting (http://www.artchive.com/meninas.htm). In either case, doll or princess, it was a new look for her.

Johnny organized Thanksgiving dinner, making cooking assignments that spread the work out among the diners. He and his wife Abby did the bulk of the cooking, making the turkey and stuffing, the mashed potatoes and a dish of broiled squash and parsnips; with Beth and me bringing the vegetarian gravy, green bean casserole and brandied sweet potatoes; Beth’s father John making the turkey gravy; and Andrea making the cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. Noah and I made turkey centerpieces out of apples, toothpicks, raisins, green olives and pistachios. Everyone got his or her favorite dish and Andrea exclaimed over and over again how thankful she was to have her children do most of the cooking.

Dinner finished up late so we let Noah and June eat their pie (or in June’s case, just the whipped cream off the top) before everyone else and we hustled them off the bed. I decided to forgo pie so I could get to bed myself. I paused only to put the kids’ cranberry-stained clothes to soak in the bathtub. I wanted everyone to get a good night’s rest. Noah was awake for a while singing “The Lion Sleeps Tonight,” but by 9:30 all three of us were fast asleep in our shared attic bedroom.

June woke at 9:45. I popped the pacifier back in and she went back to sleep. Noah fell out of bed at 10:55. I helped him back in. Beth stayed up late chatting with Johnny and came to bed at 11:20. At last, everyone was settled in. We slept until 3:15, when all hell broke loose.

It started out pretty normal. June woke and wanted to nurse. “Nap!” she insisted when I tried the pacifier. (Nursing and sleeping are so intertwined in her mind that this is her word for nursing.) I was still down on her mat with her when Noah woke at 3:25 and wanted help going to the bathroom. Beth got up to help him. And then neither of the kids went back to sleep.

Around 3:45, Beth and June switched places. The bed was a double, too small for the three of us, and I thought June might sleep better with me, but it took another hour to get her to drop off. Meanwhile, Beth slept fitfully on the mat on the floor and Noah was wide-awake on the airbed next to me. He rolled around in bed. He sat up and watched the numbers change on the digital clock. He made shadow puppets in the light from the nightlight. He sang softly, but audibly, under his breath. He whispered numbers divisible by both two and five to himself. He saw scary shapes in the dark and needed me to drape blankets over them. He got up to go to the bathroom multiple times.

I tried patiently telling him to lie still, be quiet and go to sleep. I tried scolding him. I tried ignoring him. At 6:00 on the dot he jumped out of bed and was dashing around the corner heading for Beth’s mat. I stopped him and he protested it was time for Beth to get up and play with him. He seemed to have genuinely forgotten that he hasn’t been allowed to wake us at 6:00 since July. The new time is 6:30. At 6:30, having just finished nursing June again, I got up to find him some socks (he’d been complaining of cold feet) and a book. I was meaning to banish him downstairs and try to get back to sleep after having been awake for over three hours. But June woke while I was searching for Noah’s suitcase in the dark room and her crying woke Beth and soon the four of us were all downstairs and up for the day.

And that’s how Beth’s forty-first birthday began.

Last year on the evening of the day after Beth’s fortieth birthday, we got even less sleep, at least she and I did. Shortly after going to bed that night she had a gallbladder attack. We were at my mother and stepfather’s house for Thanksgiving and my mom took her to the emergency room while I stayed home with the kids. They were there almost all night. I was sick with worry, thinking it was a heart attack and slept little. I cuddled with June all night, nursing her when she woke. Beth and my mom returned close to dawn with the news that it was her gallbladder and she’d have to have it out but she was going to be okay. When Noah and June woke I quickly got them dressed and fed and out of the house so Beth and my mom could get some sleep. We wandered around town all morning, hanging out in a local coffee shop and the public library. We came home around lunchtime to find everyone awake and Beth still alive.

I am often cranky and out of sorts after a bad night, but all that day I was deliriously, giddily happy because Beth had not been taken from me. I wondered if it would be possible to somehow hold on to that happiness, that pure thankfulness without an intervening crisis. I suspected it would not. The petty annoyances of life have such power to drag us down. Still, I wanted to try. It’s a year later now and I can’t say I’ve never been frustrated, bored or angry. I can’t say I’ve never lost sight of the big picture and forgotten all my blessings. But I often remember that night, and that day, two days after Thanksgiving, and when I do, I try to give thanks.

Noah and I decorated Beth’s cake right after breakfast. He had his heart set on a cake decorated like Buzz, the villain’s robot henchman from Cyberchase (because a Buzz cake is what every forty-something mom secretly years for). I wondered if I was losing a key pre-Christmas opportunity here to work on the concept of giving what the recipient wants instead of what you would want, but he was just so earnest and excited about the idea I caved. To compound matters, I also let him get her a pirate-themed game for her gift after he offered to chip in five dollars of his own money (more than a month’s allowance).

Johnny and Abby took Noah out to lunch and to a science museum in Pittsburgh and they were gone six hours. Andrea’s sister Sue, her stepdaughter in-law Melody and Melody’s eighteen-month-old daughter Lily visited in the morning. After lunch, June and I crashed, taking a long nap. Beth and Andrea braved the Black Friday crowds and went shopping. Andrea bought Beth an iPhone that consumed her attention for the rest of the day and a pointer light to amuse Scarlet the cat. I think Beth’s dad had as much fun making the cat chase the streaking red light as she did chasing it. June and I watched five deer (which June insisted were camels) graze in the backyard. Johnny, Abby and a very sleepy Noah returned from their adventures (he’d slept all the way home) and regaled us with tales of the model trains and the real submarine they’d seen. We had Chinese takeout and cake for dinner and watched an episode of Fraggle Rock, which Johnny remembers fondly. (He was eleven to Beth’s fifteen when it came out and he actually watched it back then, which neither Beth nor I did.) Johnny’s a real Renaissance man, appreciating both seventeenth-century Spanish art and 1980s pop culture. I like that about him.

Just before bed, when we brought the kids downstairs to say goodnight to everyone, Noah and Andrea sang a duet of the first two verses of “Down in the Valley.” (It was late and he had to be dissuaded from singing all five.) When they got to the line “Angels in heaven know I love you,” Andrea enveloped him in a big, grandmotherly hug.

Even with a nap, I was crazy tired all day and not beside myself with joy, but still quietly, deeply, truly thankful, for food, for water and for love.

All the Little Monsters and Beasts

At 5:30, I could hear Noah singing out in the yard as I poured orange jack-o-lantern lollipops into a bowl.

Everybody gettin ready for Halloween night
And the streets of Castleblanca made a freaky sight
But somethin’ kinda creepy’s taken over this place
And caused a spooky situation here on Cyberchase

That mean, rotten Hacker brought the gargoyles to life
To scare everyone away on Halloween night
The CyberSquad is freaked the party’s up in the air
Thanks to that borg’s goofy gargoyles and their dastardly scare

C’mon and howl
At the Halloween Howl

Everybody get ready
For the Halloween Howl

All the little monsters
And beasts that growl

We’re all gonna go
To the Halloween Howl…

(http://pbskids.org/cyberchase/)

I brought the bowl outside and set it down on the round table on the porch. Noah and June were playing in a pile of leaves under the dogwood while Beth watched.

“I think Mommy wants us to come in for dinner,” she observed.

“Why don’t we go TOTing instead?” Noah wheedled. Yesterday one of the characters on Cyberchase referred to trick-or-treating as TOTing and he’s been doing it ever since.

“Because we have to eat dinner and I have to fix your costume first,” Beth said. Noah’s storm cloud costume was a little worse for the wear after last weekend’s Halloween parade. As he walked down the three quarters mile-long route, he’d left puffs of gray spray-painted fluff behind him and one of the lightning bolts had come loose from his head.

It’s quite a costume, one of Beth’s best efforts and she has made some great costumes over the years. When Noah was three and taking Suzuki violin lessons he was a violin and last year he was the sun. My mom, who marched in the parade with us, repeatedly predicted his costume would win a prize. It didn’t, but a picture of it appeared in the Montgomery County Gazette (http://www.gazette.net/). “I’m famous all over Takoma Park,” Noah said, when he saw it. Like the doting mothers we are, Beth and I, independently of each other, both snapped up a couple extra copies from newspaper boxes yesterday and scoured the Gazette web site for the photo. Alas, it isn’t there.

We had a quick supper of grilled cheese and soup. While we were eating, Noah announced that there was trick-or-treating at his school tonight. Beth and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. This was the first we’d heard of this. We’re always hearing things like this from him at the very last minute. I wondered if he wanted to go. He didn’t ask, so I decided not to say anything one way or the other and play it by ear.

Once dinner was eaten and the costume repaired to Beth’s satisfaction, Noah started lobbying to leave. We were all sitting out on the porch. It was not yet six, still quite light, thanks to the extension of Daylight Savings Time, and we hadn’t seen any other trick-or-treaters out and about. Beth was worried that if they set out too early, no-one would be home to answer their doors, so she talked him into waiting until at least 6:15. He considered making a menu of candy choices for our trick-or-treaters while he waited, but he lost interest in the project before implementing it.

At 6:13 Noah went inside to change into the flannel cloud pajamas Andrea made for him to wear under his costume. While we waited for him, I thought I spotted Xander, one of our two jumbo-sized black cats, in a neighbor’s yard. We don’t like for him to be out on Halloween, for fear harm might come to him, but he’s sneaky and fast and almost impossible to keep inside. Here I’d like to offer my sincere apologies to the Montgomery County Humane Society (http://www.mchumane.org/). We signed an agreement when we adopted the cats four years ago that they would be indoor cats. Matthew, Xander’s more sedate brother is, and we tried for years to keep Xander in, but it just wasn’t in the cards for him.

At 6:21 Noah emerged from the house with his pajama top on backwards. After a brief argument about whether the v-neck went in the front or the back, he agreed to let Beth turn the top around.

“I wonder if people are waiting to go out because it’s so light,” Beth mused. “It’s messing with the natural order of things.”

“Maybe we’re just not going to get many people this year,” I said. “Sometimes we don’t.” Our street’s a main thoroughfare and a lot of people prefer the quieter side streets. The number of trick-or-treaters we get varies a lot from year to year.

Beth speculated next that people might be leaving later since it was not a school night. (Today was the last day of the first marking period and students have Thursday off so the teachers can work on report cards. Either that or they just don’t want to try to teach over-tired kids who overdosed on sugar the night before and they came up with a likely sounding excuse.) Around 6:40, I convinced Beth to leave already so Noah could get home in time for the long bedtime ritual preceding his strict 8:30 bedtime. I told her if hardly anyone answered, she could always drive him over to the school. When Beth gave Noah the okay to leave he was off like a shot down the porch stairs and out the front gate, clutching his orange plastic pumpkin.

“Noah,” I called. “You’re not wearing your costume!”

“Noah,” Beth called. “You don’t have a grownup with you!”

He came back, got into his costume and they left. About thirty seconds later, they called to me from the sidewalk, wanting me to come to the fence and hand them the hand-held lightning bolt he’d left on the porch.

June and I sat on the porch and waited for trick-or-treaters. Xander sauntered up the porch stairs and and rubbed against my leg. I scooped him up and deposited him inside the house. I rummaged through the candy bowl, unwrapped a Hershey’s miniature and gave it to June, selecting a lollipop for myself. Watching me, she immediately pointed to my mouth. “Try dis?” she pleaded, “Some?” I bit off a piece too tiny to be a choking hazard and gave it to her and then another and another. When the lollipop was gone, she was thirsty. “Juice? Juice? Milk?” she said. I opened the front door to go get her some milk. Xander dashed back outside and down the porch stairs. “Uh oh,” June said, “Fast cat.”

At 7:25, Beth and Noah returned. Noah’s plastic pumpkin held a modest haul of candy, popcorn, pretzels, a rubber ball, crayons, tiny spiral notebooks with Halloween designs and other non-edible trinkets. No need to go to the school. We had not had a single trick-or-treater while they were gone and they had only seen a few. Beth reports his costume was much admired (though one person took him for a dust bunny) and someone even requested his photograph. Noah told a lot of people he was in the Gazette and then subjected them to a long dissertation on his candy-selection criteria. He picked the miniature Milky Way, for instance, because the Milky Way is up in the sky, like a cloud (“but much higher up”).

Finally, at 7:35, we got our first trick-or-treater, a red power ranger with his green-skinned, horned monster dad. Xander came to the gate to greet them and Noah followed with the candy bowl. “We’ve got Reese’s and M & Ms….” He ran down the choices. They picked some candy, admired the ghosts in our tree and left.

We stayed on the porch a little while longer. Noah ate the three pieces of candy he was allotted (he chose all Reese’s peanut butter cups). At 7:50, we all went inside, leaving the bowl of candy on the porch stairs so we could put the kids to bed without having to answer the door. Beth spilled the candy trying to transfer some of it into another container to take inside. (We wanted to have some reserve candy with which to replenish the bowl if someone got greedy. As it turned out, this was a wise move. Later that night a couple kids emptied the large bowl and took off running.) As we gathered up the candy to put it back it the bowl, Noah picked up a rock off the porch floor and in his best Charlie Brown voice said, “I got a rock.”

As Noah was getting ready for bed, Andrea called. They chatted about his evening and the novelty of having his picture in the paper. Right before he got off the phone, he told her, “I already know what I’m going to be next year. A light bulb. No, not a lightning bolt like you’ll see in the picture. A light bulb. A fluorescent light bulb.”

I heard Xander meowing outside and went to let him in, wondering how Beth will transform Noah into a fluorescent light bulb. But she has a whole year to get ready for that Halloween night.

John Brown’s Body

On Saturday morning instead of diving right into our normal weekend chores, Beth set up the wading pool and the sprinklers in the backyard. We had an extra day of weekend due to the Memorial Day holiday and the day had a relaxed feel. June amused herself stepping in and out of the pool over and over again. Noah ran through the sprinkler. Beth took pictures and she and Noah shot a little movie, a new pastime of theirs. (For a look at their first effort see www.noahsmovies.com. They even composed the music!) Neither of us wore a watch, but we both suspected it was getting on lunchtime. I knew I should feed June so she didn’t melt down before her nap, but I didn’t want to get up out of my chair. It felt like one of those study breaks in the library in college when you went down to the basement to get a snack from the vending machine and you ran into friends hanging out and talking and all sense of time and responsibility melted away and all of a sudden it was an hour later and you still hadn’t done your reserve reading.

We did linger too long, but it was Noah who had the tantrum. Something was wrong about the movie. He hadn’t shot the right scene and for some reason he couldn’t go back and do what he wanted. He lay on his back in the grass and cried.

“Do you suppose this happens to Martin Scorsese?” Beth asked. I shrugged and took June inside. A minute later I was back with a couple slices of baby Swiss for Beth who was waiting out the tantrum. I figured it would be a while before she got any lunch.

Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning we passed the kids back and forth while we cleaned and grocery shopped. Beth took frequent phone calls from her mother. Andrea and her three sisters (Carole, Susan and Jenny) were taking a long weekend road trip through West Virginia and we were planning to meet up with them in Harper’s Ferry on Sunday afternoon. Their plans kept shifting and failing to coalesce, however, frustrating Beth, who wanted to make hotel reservations for Sunday night.

We left the house at quarter to one on Sunday afternoon without firm plans. We had hotel reservations, but we expected to cancel them and make new ones in a different town. After an hour’s drive and a short shuttle ride from Harper’s Ferry National Park (www.nps.gov/archive/hafe/home.htm) to the actual town, we met the four sisters. Everyone exclaimed over the kids, how tall Noah was getting and how cute June looked in her West Virginia University jumper and socks. Noah proudly showed off his star-spangled American Idol sunglasses, the first reward he won with his good behavior stickers at school. June eyed the sisters with the suspicious look she gives anyone she thinks might pick her up.

The sisters pointed out that we should really make those hotel reservations, and then they vanished. Andrea headed for the restrooms and the others went off in search of bottled water. We were left standing on the sidewalk. I let June out of her stroller so she could stretch her legs in the shade of a tree and she began picking burrs up off the ground and shaking them enthusiastically. Eventually the sisters returned, reservations were cancelled and new ones made and we set out to hike a short stretch of the Appalachian Trail, along the Potomac River.

After our hike, on the way to get ice cream, we passed a Daughters of the Confederacy monument to an African-American man who’d been the first person killed in John Brown’s raid on Harper’s Ferry. A teenage girl skimmed the text and told her younger brother, “It says it’s for the blacks who didn’t fight back.” Not a bad summary, really. It was then that it hit me what an appropriate place Harper’s Ferry was to visit over Memorial Day weekend, several years into America’s involvement in another country’s bloody civil war. Suddenly the park employees in period costume and the renovated Civil-War era storefronts seemed more connected to actual people and events, less a quaint backdrop for the crowds of twenty-first century tourists taking pictures and standing in line for ice cream. Andrea wanted to see the gallows where they hung John Brown, but it wasn’t in Harper’s Ferry. Beth pointed out John Brown’s Coffee and Tea shop and I made a joke about John Brown’s body lying a-moulderin’ in the coffee shop, but it fell flat.

We needed to eat early so we could get the kids to bed so Andrea accompanied us to a Mexican restaurant and we left the aunts at the hotel. We rejoined them in their room after dinner. June showed off her walking prowess, toddling all around the room. Jenny taught Noah how to play hangman. Susan gave unauthorized hints over Jenny’s protests, saying she couldn’t help it if she knew the answers– she was smarter than Jenny because she was older. When Beth said she’d have to stop, Noah said, completely in earnest, “She can’t help it. She’s just really smart.” As we talked, we shared the strawberries Beth had bought at the farmers’ market that morning. They were the first really ripe, locally grown strawberries this year, the kind that remind you what strawberries are supposed to taste like. Beth had bought three quarts. Juice dripped down June’s face and hands and when she grabbed the white coverlet for balance, she stained it red.

The next morning we lingered in the breakfast room. Noah, clad in shark pajamas and Halloween pumpkin socks, sat with the aunts and listened as Carole told a childhood story that ended, “And then my mother said, ‘You were supposed to be watching Susie and now she’s sitting in a bucket of water.’” I’d never heard anyone refer to Susan as Susie before.

On the drive back home, Noah chose to listen to his Banjo Man cd. Banjo Man (www.banjomanfc.com) is a Takoma Park institution. His repertoire consists mainly of kids’ music, but like any bluegrass musician worth his salt, he also plays some Stephen Foster and some twentieth-century songs about the Civil War. Certain lyrics jumped out at me:

When we grow up we’ll both be soldiers
Our horses won’t be toys
And maybe then you’ll remember when we were two little boys.

Back home, I watched Noah and June in the backyard again while Beth ran to the grocery store for corn and watermelon for our Memorial Day dinner and baking mix for strawberry shortcake. Noah had piled the wading pool full of objects he found in the yard in an experiment to see what sinks and what floats. June sat in the grass and watched him. It was a beautiful afternoon, but I felt melancholy. I couldn’t help but think of the soldiers in Iraq, so many miles from their own families this holiday weekend, and of the moms and dads who watched their kids splash in the wading pool twenty years ago and now have only photographs and maybe some grandkids to remember them by. And worst of all– because of the sheer numbers– the almost unfathomable number of Iraqi families shattered by the violence of the past four years.

June was fussy after dinner so I took her to the front porch to swing in the sky chair. I sang her one of her favorite songs, “Clementine,” a song that used to reduce me to tears as a child.

Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine
You are lost and gone forever, dreadful sorry, Clementine.

None of my friends or family members is serving in this war. I am almost untouched by it. But I am dreadful sorry.