Capsule

Over the last few weeks, I 'd been channeling (or being channeled by) Pete Yorn - specifically his songs from Musicforthemorningafter. I just loved that album. Why were they spinning around my mind in an endless loop? Was there a meaning? Was Pete trying to tell me something? Anyway, on Tuesday, he was inexplicably supplanted by the Counting Crows when I heard this at T.J. Maxx. Remember that video? Back when MTV actually played music, I recall seeing it frequently.

If I had to pick a character in the video that I feel akin to, it would be the guy in the desert. I totally understand the sense of waiting, the need to stay busy with meaningless things, the loneliness. But I was also struck by Adam Duritz.

Watching him, I feel like I am looking back in time. There is Adam. Still there. I remember all his mannerisms, his silly dreads, his '90s black boots. Wasn't he dating Courtney Cox then? I know here's here now, even after all he's been through, but watching that video (like all old tapes and photographs) engenders in me the idea that a version of a person can be caught forever in a previous place. Adam is still standing on those railroad tracks on that day. Somewhere back then a woman is still schlepping a suitcase around Los Angeles.

And where am I? I am still driving my white Chevy Cavalier downtown, and around Cockeysville. I am still invisible inside a corporate cubicle. I am still wishing I were a grown-up, though I was in my mid-twenties. And I still connect with the girl on the car in the parking lot. I look back over my shoulder and see the dresses I used to wear and feel the summer heat in my apartment.

When JBL and I took J by 17J recently to show her Mommy's old place, I knew the creak of the door opening, and the musty smell of the hallway, even though we didn't go in. I knew the thud-thud-thud my feet would make walking up the carpeted steps, and I knew the semi-gloss of the brown door to the third floor apartment (on the left) - noticeably thick since it had been painted so many times since the '70s when Lakeside Living was built. I wouldn't knock even if I could have because I would want to open the door and see my pine table and giant old stereo, my TV and gauzy curtains, my shower curtain covered in roses and cherry rice-carved post bed. I am still in there - how could I possibly knock from the outside?

She said, "Shh...I know. It's only in my head." But where are you?

Touching base

"If you could thank God for one thing for today, what would it be?"

"Hmm."

"Peppermint Patties?"

"Mmm, but..."

"What else?"

"That my Momma loves me SO much!" (she says, snuggling into me)

Amen.

(*)

Lowest point ever two nights ago, and last night wasn't much better. I can breathe tonight. I feel good. Looking at some star fire lilies that are lighting up the room with their scent and beauty. They just 'are'.

Peace, however short-lived, is a miraculous thing.

In absentia

J has a knack for calling things like she sees them, and she seems to feel like she (and everyone else) should be entirely truthful and accurate at all times. There was a time not long ago when she was in a fibbing phase, so this penchant towards truthfulness was welcome at first.

Let me clarify: her truthfulness and joy in accuracy is always welcome, but....

Have you ever thought one word and said another? This happens to me all the time, so last week was nothing new. On weeknights there is not enough time for play-filled baths, so we force J to take showers, having done so since the beginning of the school year. Last Tuesday: "J, it's time to hop in* the bath."

"Momma, don't you mean shower?"

"Yes," (grumble, grumble), "of course I meant shower."

Or how about, "Honey, it's time to put your crayons away."

"Mommy, they're MARKERS." Well, sorry.

Her eye for detail is a bit more selective. Ask her to clean up the basement, and she'll consider herself done with precisely two-thirds of her toys put away, and will be genuinely befuddled when you point out forgotten items. Her facial expression implies said items appeared out of nowhere

However, when JBL left the bottle of handsoap destined for the basement bathroom upstairs for several hours, J felt the need to point it out every time she laid eyes on it. "Daddy still hasn't taken the soap downstairs?!"

It's this kind of critical comment that makes her seem like an old mother-in-law to me. Or my own mother. You will frequently hear her pipe up from the back seat, "Daddy, you're driving too fast!" And don't even get me started on her opinion of my hair. Too late - here I go...

She doesn't like the way I look when I wear my hair up, which I do roughly 80% of the time (what can I say? I exercise, I garden, I have to clean, and a big mop of hair in my face is irritating and hot [not in a good way, either]), and will take any opportunity to remind me. The first time she told me her opinion, I laughed it off. How cute! A 4-year-old critiquing me!

"Mommy, I don't like it when your hair is up in a pony tail. I don't like the way you look."

Heh-heh, yeah. Subsequent comments began to get under my skin. Finally, I calmly sat her down and explained that I am aware of her feelings, but that continued reminders are impolite at best and hurtful at worst. Consider your opinion duly noted, I said, and let this be the last we speak of this.

Did the topic end there? Come now. Don't be foolish. J simply substituted passive and none-too-subtle tactics that only a woman could employ. She began the heavy compliment of the behavior she preferred to see. Every time I come downstairs after preparing for a Date Night or a business meeting, I get to hear it. "Mommy, you look so pretty! And your HAIR! I just love it DOWN!"

Sometimes she'll talk about me in the third person, as she did last night while snuggling on my lap after dinner. I'd just taken out the clip which had been holding my hair up while I slaved over a hot stove. Read that while imagining me with the back of my hand against my forehead, my face pitifully woeful. J grabbed handfuls of my locks while murmuring wistfully, "Mommy looks sooooo pretty with her hair down..." You can tell she just can't help herself, and yet... I wanted to scream. Or at least roll my eyes and storm out of the room in a huff.

Her comments garner the same reaction in me as when I was a teenager and would come downstairs in the morning to be met with my mother's pursed-lipped comments ("You're not going to wear that belt with those pants, are you?"). Or like when I was a young adult and would come home for a visit to hear, "You've plucked your eyebrows too much! You should let them grow in a little more. Oh, sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

OK, I'm exaggerating, but J's comments do make me cringe a little. Isn't it funny that over your whole life you just want to feel safe and accepted by those closest to you, no questions asked? I guess there's a lesson for me in this - after all, I spend my time with J peppering her with advice, suggestions, and direction on everything from table manners to how to properly wash her hair.

Ok, Mom, I hear you....

*To 'hop' in or on something is something my dad used to say. It's a funny phrase to use, but it sounded to me then as now as being less demanding and more suggestive when I am trying to get the girls to do things around the house. See, I do try to be nice sometimes.

The season

Spring, you are my favorite. Mornings that begin at 38 degrees, afternoons that top out at 65. Lush, lush green everywhere you look. Every day is better than the last, what with growing amounts of sunlight and explosions of flowers, overflowing their planting beds. The air is thick with pollen and promise.

Spring, you could be described as a temptress. The instant J finishes breakfast she begs to go outside to be enveloped by you, to commune with you. 'Can I go without shoes, Momma?' she begs. There are few things more appealing to her than your soft grasses and warm pavement underfoot.

Even my favorite childrens' books tout your charms:

"Spring Spring Spring!" sang the robin. It was Spring. The leaves burst out. The flowers burst out. And robins burst out of their eggs. It was Spring.

Jemima Puddle-duck* became quite desperate. She determined to make a nest right away from the farm. She set off on a fine spring afternoon along the cart-road that leads over the hill. She was wearing a shawl and a poke bonnet.
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And I am tempted by your charms as well. The season has already found me practicing yoga on the patio, weeding feverishly between the stones of our walk, and planting peas and lettuces. I dream of new perennials to be acquired, and meals to be enjoyed al fresco. I schlep houseplants out during the day and back in at night so they, too, can get some fresh air. Your days offer none of the sinking feeling of fall, when the bright sunshine and blue skies are a precursor to weeks of unrelenting cold and colorless landscapes.

I am aware that I opine frequently about this season, but isn't my affection warranted?

*On an unrelated note, I adore the language in Beatrix Potter stories (though it is depressing how it highlights that we have dumbed-down our current childrens' books to an abysmal extent). Where else will you read the word 'perambulator'? Where else do your kids hear of one character describing another as being 'superfluous'? And ah, the subtleties: 'Jemima Puddle-duck was a simpleton: not even the mention of sage and onions made her suspicious.' LOVE it.