Because I don't feel like writing about the mile-square cemetery where I practiced driving in loops around stone angels and funeral procession gridlock made from blingin' cadillacs polished to somber shades of eggplant, saffron, and tamarind, several of which had matching "Compton's Finest" logos spelled in gold on their rear windows, and imagined that whomever they were grieving was probably too young to die;
and Because all that happened today of note was that Edie and I rode the Metro bus which is a wholly different system from Portland's Tri-Met which threw me into the role I've been trying to avoid, which is the new-to-towner who doesn't know how much to pay or where to pay it or what the transfer's good for or where to catch the number 3, forcing me to Talk To Strangers, which is one of the baby's and my favorite things to do but which has recently become a bone of contention among the Representatives of the House but even more recently has been resolved with a promise to be cautious and an assurance that you can take the girl out of Friendly Neighborhoods but you can't take the Friendly Neighborhoods out of the girl, so why fight it?
Um...where was I? Oh yes, because of all that, and additionally because today one of the riders on the bus, watching Edie play with A Stranger, said, "You know why babies love Peek-a-Boo so much? Because that's the nature of everything. It's here and then it's gone!" and then after watching more Strangers watch her stare back at them and bounce and flip upside down and make a monstrous face followed by an adorable smile followed by bellowing at the top of baby lungs, this Particular Stranger got up to leave and said "Thank you, I believe she just made everybody here's day a little better," and without an ounce of Motherpride I can say that it is true. She does make people's days better, everywhere she goes! Super Baby. Another Stranger said it almost made him want to have kids and then I laughed a Terrible Laugh and congratulated Edie, "Our work here is done, Muahahahaha!"
Anyways, because I don't feel like writing about any of that, I present you with a random story which has for no apparent reason been nagging at me lately. I've been thinking about Trevor the Tiny Farm Boy.
We had just gotten all the children settled down for Circle Time, after bringing them in from the playground, removing stuck sleeves from twisted arms, replacing accidented pants with fresh pairs, taking the potty goers to the potty, and changing the diaper wearers' diapers.
"Here we are together
together, together.
Here....we are together
together a- "
"Trevor!" My co-teacher pointed at the window, where the smallest boy in the class was drifting past in his coat, in the gathering darkness, with his tree branch rifle shouldered and ready.
"Oh my God, we left Trevor outside!" It had been nearly a half hour.
I kept the circle going as Stacy ran outside to get Trevor.
When Trevor came to circle, bringing the chill of an autumn afternoon with him, I asked him what he'd been doing out there, knowing the answer before he proudly replied.
"Nootin' Caiyotes."
Trevor was the only child of a Farmer and a Farmer's Wife. They were archetypal in their Farmerliness. Trevor's dad was about 12 feet tall, wore muddy boots and red flannel shirts with suspenders, and had a hearty, booming voice which sometimes caught in his thick brown mustache. He was the embodiment of rugged country masculinity, and it was obvious that he was Trevor's hero in every way, though Trevor resembled his mother much more closely. She was short and stout, with a high melodic voice and a quick, easy laugh. She always wore solid colored dresses with brown boots, and looked like she'd be right at home canning fruit and baking pies, most days. Trevor loved to follow his dad around the farm, checking on the animals, fixing the heavy equipment, stomping in the mud with bravado. He and his dad even took their guns to the edge of the property to see if they could spot any threats to the livestock. Coyotes. Trevor's favorite thing to do was shoot at the Coyotes, and this carried over into his imaginative play at school. It was getting to be quite the issue with the other kids, though, because in the absence of real coyotes on the fenced-in field of gravel that we considered a playground, there was only one reliable moving target. The other kids. I don't remember how many times the other children came crying, "Teacher, Trevor keeps shooting me with his gun."
The preschool had an anti-weapon policy, of course. As teachers we were supposed to uphold a zero-tolerance policy regarding guns and other violent weapons, and we tried. We encouraged Trevor to build towers with blocks but they usually became guns which shot down other towers. We gave him playdough which became guns. Everything became a gun in the hands of this kid, unless it was a coyote. Nootin' Caiyotes was the only game Trevor wanted to play. He was bringing to school a big part of his life as a farmer. I understood that this family had a livelihood to protect, and that meant "Nootin' Caiyotes" every evening at dusk. (My sister and brother-in-law have taken a more gentle stance on the predatory deer that plague their fruit-trees, by hanging bars of Irish Springs from each tree, presumably because the deer prefer to stay dirty.) It was confusing to Trevor, who at the age of 3 had already learned to shoot a gun, to be in school and have everybody tell him that guns were bad and wrong. I felt for him, but I also felt for the other children, and most of all, the coyotes. It bothered me when he puffed out his little chest and boasted that he and his dad had shot 3 coyotes the day before. I didn't want to condemn his actions, since they were, to him and his family, a necessary part of life, but I did want him to consider another perspective.
So I made a trip to the Library (Public Libraries always save the day). I picked out a few books about wild animals, specifically coyotes, and brought them to the classroom. After lunch, as we were getting ready for Naptime, the kids were allowed to lay on their cots and read a book to help them settle down. Usually we let them pick out their own books but sometimes we'd pick for them. That's how Trevor found a picture book about coyotes on his cot.
A little boy wakes up in the moonlight. There are coyotes howling in the distance. The boy climbs out of bed, out his window, and runs to meet the coyotes on the hill. They greet the boy playfully, and spend the night running through the woods, having mystical coyote adventures. At the end of the night, the boy hugs the coyotes and returns to his bed, just as the sun is coming up.
When I made the back-patting/nose-rubbing/blanket-tucking rounds, I found Trevor lost in thought, staring at the cover of his book. He read it again. He was a child of few words, so I don't know what he thought of the story. I do know that he thought of it, which was all I'd hoped for. To plant a teeny tiny seed of something else inside that caiyote nootin' noggin of his.
the end.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Gender Bender
Boy oh Girl, does it ever mess people up when a baby is wearing the wrong color.
What is so mind-blowing about a girl wearing blue? Pink, for a boy, I can sort of get. Pink has been co-opted by the mass marketing monster as a beacon to the young girl - pssst...over here...away from the sporting goods....this here is your aisle, full of ribbons, and ponies, and barbies, and My First Makeup Kits! to the point where no mother with an ounce of love for her son could feel right about clothing him in pink dresses, unless for sport. At least, I don't think I could feel quite right about it, if my daughter were a son. It's much much much easier to challenge the gender coding system when your kid can pull off a blue plaid shirt and jeans one minute, spit up on it, then don a lovely summer frock in citrus hues without batting a pretty little eyelash. Thanks, universe, for giving me a girl to dress in a living representation of My Ideological Platform. May the whole thing never backfire in the form of Hannah Montana, High School Musical, or whatever ghastly incarnation lies ahead.
Today I noticed that Edie's Little Bitty summer frock felt a bit stiff, and scratchy. Starchy. Little Bitty is Costco's brand of retro styled infant clothing, designed to conjure up simpler times; Easy Bake Ovens and mountains of glistening Spam. A gorgeous, shellacked housewife, with her three darling, well-pressed children. I whisked the dress off and replaced it with a comfortable tee shirt, which Jessica sent from Tasmania. It has a picture of the island of Tasmania, a Tasmanian Devil, and a Tasmanian Tiger on the front. Oh, and it's blue. Because it's hot here, Edie's been rocking the no-pants look all the time, and no shirt whenever we can. Her diaper today happened to also be blue. Blue like her eyes...the ones with Maybe She's Born With It lashes, and oceans of charm. As we waited outside the grocery store for Kenneth, an old man sitting across from us struck up a conversation.
"How old is he?"
"Um, she's six months old."
"He seems sweet enough now, but wait until he's fifteen, then you'll want to kill him."
"We've agreed to renegotiate her contract at fourteen."
"I've had two sons, and both of them were wonderful boys, and gave me five grandchildren. But when they were fifteen, boy I tell you."
"I believe it."
"What is his name?"
"Edith Emily. She's a girl."
At this moment he sees an employee of the store and seizes his opportunity to ask the young man if he could look for a book in the lost and found for him. The DaVinci Code. I notice that he has several volumes resting on the seat of the walker next to him. One is a book of American Poetry. The store employee runs into the store to inquire about the book, and I change the subject to the DaVinci Code. He admits that he's gotten around to reading it a bit late, and then he left the book at this store about a month ago. He just moved here from New York and donated thousands of books and cds to the Salvation Army. He's been making trips to Border's Books to replenish some of his materials, but the selection isn't great. The store employee comes out to say that he couldn't find the book, or anybody who knew anything about the book. It's a shame, because the old man spoke with someone in Lost and Found on the phone, and they said they'd hold it for him, but the employee insists that he knows nothing.
We chat a minute longer, and then a van pulls up. On the side it says "Sunrise Senior Living" with a phone number and a logo.
"There's my ride. It's been a pleasure talking with you."
"You too, good luck with your books."
"That's a beautiful boy you have there, take good care of him."
I laugh.
"Okay, I will."
Later, we went to Trader Joe's to catch up on some groceries. I stopped by the sample table to pay my respects, and the woman behind the counter squealed when she saw Edie. In the highest pitched baby voice I've ever heard, the Mariah Carey of baby voices, she praised Edie's good looks and asked me how old he was.
"Um, she's six months old."
"Oh, he's a BIG boy!"
Then a little boy, about 5 or 6, spotted Edie and shouted, "BABY!"
He came right over, as if magnetized, with eyes like fishbowls. He grabbed her hand and studied the size difference between his and her fingers. "Look at those little fingers! The baby's squeezing my fingers!" The boy's father stood back, a little apologetically, and said, "Be gentle, now...don't touch the baby's face, your hands probably aren't that clean."
But the boy was unreachable, admiring every detail of Edie's little feet, nose, hair, and ears, touching her skin reverently, as if he'd never seen a baby before in his entire life.
"Do you remember being that little?" I asked him.
He looked at me with a deep knowing in his face and just nodded.
"Okay, that's enough, let's leave the baby alone now," said his father.
"I need to see the baby's tongue! Show me your tongue!"
Edie obliged.
"Hey, I saw it's tongue!" the boy said happily, then followed his father down the produce aisle.
As we were placing our overfull shopping basket on the shelf at the checkout stand, the little boy and his father were getting into line a few lanes over from us. The boy caught my eye and yelled, loud enough for the entire store to hear, "IS YOUR BABY A GIRL?"
I smiled at him and answered, "YES SHE IS!"
Mystery solved.
What is so mind-blowing about a girl wearing blue? Pink, for a boy, I can sort of get. Pink has been co-opted by the mass marketing monster as a beacon to the young girl - pssst...over here...away from the sporting goods....this here is your aisle, full of ribbons, and ponies, and barbies, and My First Makeup Kits! to the point where no mother with an ounce of love for her son could feel right about clothing him in pink dresses, unless for sport. At least, I don't think I could feel quite right about it, if my daughter were a son. It's much much much easier to challenge the gender coding system when your kid can pull off a blue plaid shirt and jeans one minute, spit up on it, then don a lovely summer frock in citrus hues without batting a pretty little eyelash. Thanks, universe, for giving me a girl to dress in a living representation of My Ideological Platform. May the whole thing never backfire in the form of Hannah Montana, High School Musical, or whatever ghastly incarnation lies ahead.
Today I noticed that Edie's Little Bitty summer frock felt a bit stiff, and scratchy. Starchy. Little Bitty is Costco's brand of retro styled infant clothing, designed to conjure up simpler times; Easy Bake Ovens and mountains of glistening Spam. A gorgeous, shellacked housewife, with her three darling, well-pressed children. I whisked the dress off and replaced it with a comfortable tee shirt, which Jessica sent from Tasmania. It has a picture of the island of Tasmania, a Tasmanian Devil, and a Tasmanian Tiger on the front. Oh, and it's blue. Because it's hot here, Edie's been rocking the no-pants look all the time, and no shirt whenever we can. Her diaper today happened to also be blue. Blue like her eyes...the ones with Maybe She's Born With It lashes, and oceans of charm. As we waited outside the grocery store for Kenneth, an old man sitting across from us struck up a conversation.
"How old is he?"
"Um, she's six months old."
"He seems sweet enough now, but wait until he's fifteen, then you'll want to kill him."
"We've agreed to renegotiate her contract at fourteen."
"I've had two sons, and both of them were wonderful boys, and gave me five grandchildren. But when they were fifteen, boy I tell you."
"I believe it."
"What is his name?"
"Edith Emily. She's a girl."
At this moment he sees an employee of the store and seizes his opportunity to ask the young man if he could look for a book in the lost and found for him. The DaVinci Code. I notice that he has several volumes resting on the seat of the walker next to him. One is a book of American Poetry. The store employee runs into the store to inquire about the book, and I change the subject to the DaVinci Code. He admits that he's gotten around to reading it a bit late, and then he left the book at this store about a month ago. He just moved here from New York and donated thousands of books and cds to the Salvation Army. He's been making trips to Border's Books to replenish some of his materials, but the selection isn't great. The store employee comes out to say that he couldn't find the book, or anybody who knew anything about the book. It's a shame, because the old man spoke with someone in Lost and Found on the phone, and they said they'd hold it for him, but the employee insists that he knows nothing.
We chat a minute longer, and then a van pulls up. On the side it says "Sunrise Senior Living" with a phone number and a logo.
"There's my ride. It's been a pleasure talking with you."
"You too, good luck with your books."
"That's a beautiful boy you have there, take good care of him."
I laugh.
"Okay, I will."
Later, we went to Trader Joe's to catch up on some groceries. I stopped by the sample table to pay my respects, and the woman behind the counter squealed when she saw Edie. In the highest pitched baby voice I've ever heard, the Mariah Carey of baby voices, she praised Edie's good looks and asked me how old he was.
"Um, she's six months old."
"Oh, he's a BIG boy!"
Then a little boy, about 5 or 6, spotted Edie and shouted, "BABY!"
He came right over, as if magnetized, with eyes like fishbowls. He grabbed her hand and studied the size difference between his and her fingers. "Look at those little fingers! The baby's squeezing my fingers!" The boy's father stood back, a little apologetically, and said, "Be gentle, now...don't touch the baby's face, your hands probably aren't that clean."
But the boy was unreachable, admiring every detail of Edie's little feet, nose, hair, and ears, touching her skin reverently, as if he'd never seen a baby before in his entire life.
"Do you remember being that little?" I asked him.
He looked at me with a deep knowing in his face and just nodded.
"Okay, that's enough, let's leave the baby alone now," said his father.
"I need to see the baby's tongue! Show me your tongue!"
Edie obliged.
"Hey, I saw it's tongue!" the boy said happily, then followed his father down the produce aisle.
As we were placing our overfull shopping basket on the shelf at the checkout stand, the little boy and his father were getting into line a few lanes over from us. The boy caught my eye and yelled, loud enough for the entire store to hear, "IS YOUR BABY A GIRL?"
I smiled at him and answered, "YES SHE IS!"
Mystery solved.
All we had to do was ask.
He's back. He came home this morning at 5 am, presumably after seeing the 50 odd signs we posted up around the neighborhood in earnest. There's 15 signs on our street alone. We're going to leave the signs up for a couple more days, just in case, and also, because it's embarrassing to take them down right away. Oops, wait, nevermind, here he is.
I knew he was just going to show up. Kenneth had 100 copies made of the poster he spent all morning trying to print with eventual success, and made me a secret BLT while I was napping with Edie, so that when I woke up, I wouldn't get mad at him for playing too much Grand Theft Auto. I didn't get mad until late last night, when Edie was caffeinated (honestly - caffeine in cream soda?) and I was unsuccessfully trying to get her to settle down for the night. I scooped her up and stomped down the hall to the room where it sounded like a war was going on - gunshots, screaming, panic, and a bad Russian accent - to lay on the thickest guilt trip yet.
"Remember when we both used to lay in the bed with our daughter while she was going to sleep, and we'd do things like read, and talk?"
"What? Oh. Yeah?"
"Just wondering. Enjoy your new life!"
As I walked away he promised he'd be done in 15 minutes.
So we picked out some board books to chew on: Goodnight Moon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and the minimalist White on Black (sequel to the bestselling Black on White).
Then, to my surprise and Edie's delight, Kenneth did emerge from Liberty City without a scratch, and resurrected our long-lost Lyra Belacqua from Philip Pullman's Amber Spyglass. Oh, hurry, Will, get Lyra and get out of there!
Edie reached for the pages with single minded focus. Man, can that girl crawl now, especially when she wants to crumple and tear something. She did fall asleep, after chapter 12. No more caffeine for me, and thus her, for a long time, maybe ever. Although, she was being pretty funny.
Now Jinx is back where he belongs, knocking over water glasses and biting our lips when we give him too many kisses. He's going to get even more spoiled for a while.
One other thing about the cats: Siddhartha finally used the cat door this morning. He was whining to be let out and I just scooted him over to the semi-open panel and let him come to the realization that outside was just a cat's initiative away and all he had to do was push, on his own. He stood with his head against the door for a minute while all the pieces clicked into place, and then slowwwwwwly squeezed his body through the hole. When he was all the way out I praised him and he turned around, looking embarrassed. Oh, that's how Jinx and Gerty keep getting in and outside when no people are home. Yes, Sid.
I knew he was just going to show up. Kenneth had 100 copies made of the poster he spent all morning trying to print with eventual success, and made me a secret BLT while I was napping with Edie, so that when I woke up, I wouldn't get mad at him for playing too much Grand Theft Auto. I didn't get mad until late last night, when Edie was caffeinated (honestly - caffeine in cream soda?) and I was unsuccessfully trying to get her to settle down for the night. I scooped her up and stomped down the hall to the room where it sounded like a war was going on - gunshots, screaming, panic, and a bad Russian accent - to lay on the thickest guilt trip yet.
"Remember when we both used to lay in the bed with our daughter while she was going to sleep, and we'd do things like read, and talk?"
"What? Oh. Yeah?"
"Just wondering. Enjoy your new life!"
As I walked away he promised he'd be done in 15 minutes.
So we picked out some board books to chew on: Goodnight Moon, The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and the minimalist White on Black (sequel to the bestselling Black on White).
Then, to my surprise and Edie's delight, Kenneth did emerge from Liberty City without a scratch, and resurrected our long-lost Lyra Belacqua from Philip Pullman's Amber Spyglass. Oh, hurry, Will, get Lyra and get out of there!
Edie reached for the pages with single minded focus. Man, can that girl crawl now, especially when she wants to crumple and tear something. She did fall asleep, after chapter 12. No more caffeine for me, and thus her, for a long time, maybe ever. Although, she was being pretty funny.
Now Jinx is back where he belongs, knocking over water glasses and biting our lips when we give him too many kisses. He's going to get even more spoiled for a while.
One other thing about the cats: Siddhartha finally used the cat door this morning. He was whining to be let out and I just scooted him over to the semi-open panel and let him come to the realization that outside was just a cat's initiative away and all he had to do was push, on his own. He stood with his head against the door for a minute while all the pieces clicked into place, and then slowwwwwwly squeezed his body through the hole. When he was all the way out I praised him and he turned around, looking embarrassed. Oh, that's how Jinx and Gerty keep getting in and outside when no people are home. Yes, Sid.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Where's Jinx?
He's not at home.
Hasn't been since some time yesterday afternoon.
I love him a lot.
I hope he comes home.
Gerty loves him too, she came with us down the street to look for him. Usually she stays put.
My friend Jen's missing cat came home while she was playing his favorite song on the piano.
I was cranking the little music box (La Vie En Rose) just now, Edie was rocking back and forth and there was a meow at the door. It was Siddhartha.
But maybe Jinx will recognize the song if we play it during the quiet part of night, like now. Kenneth put the little music box, which wasn't really a box at all, but a throat, a voice, just the mechanism with a handle for cranking, into a little wooden box that used to house tea. Blueberry Tea from Canada that Sarasvati gave us in a set. Now it plays La Vie En Rose and smells like blueberries.
Jinx, please come home. We need you to keep nuzzling the baby when she cries. We also need you to follow us, meowing pitifully, when we go for a walk. And Jinx, if you don't come home, who will find the tiniest, remotest hiding places to curl up in, only to look up, annoyed, when we find you? Seriously, kid, this is a tough neighborhood and you can't be out running the streets like this. Get your furry tail back here and I will even let you drink from the toilet, unlimitedly.
she is MOBILE!
oh, the horror. Suddenly there are death traps at every turn. This morning she very cheerfully scooted off the bed (not so fast...we sleep on the floor to thwart head trauma) and lay with her head propped on the mattress, chewing something. She looked like Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer, lazing in the grass with a stalk of wheat between her teeth. Only upon closer inspection it was an electrical cord, plugged right into that gummy little mouth of hers.
We've been working on her, laying her down on her belly and putting things out of reach, then watching her turn red and flop around, grunting, then whining from the frustration. Then we walked to the holy tree at the hospital, the tree with long roots dangling from the uppermost branches like the gnarled beard hairs of an ancient monk. We found a place clear of the strange little fruits it sheds, something between a plum and a fig and small enough to choke on, and sat down to relax. Edie sat scraping her hands on the rough grass (it feels like astroturf here - it's gotta be tough in order to survive the weather) for a while, then crawled over to where Kenneth held out a dinosaur book. Wait, crawled? Yes. CRAWLED.
And because we haven't taken any pictures down here yet, I present you with some from Leann's camera, taken a couple of days before we left Seattle for LA.
We've been working on her, laying her down on her belly and putting things out of reach, then watching her turn red and flop around, grunting, then whining from the frustration. Then we walked to the holy tree at the hospital, the tree with long roots dangling from the uppermost branches like the gnarled beard hairs of an ancient monk. We found a place clear of the strange little fruits it sheds, something between a plum and a fig and small enough to choke on, and sat down to relax. Edie sat scraping her hands on the rough grass (it feels like astroturf here - it's gotta be tough in order to survive the weather) for a while, then crawled over to where Kenneth held out a dinosaur book. Wait, crawled? Yes. CRAWLED.
And because we haven't taken any pictures down here yet, I present you with some from Leann's camera, taken a couple of days before we left Seattle for LA.
Friday, July 25, 2008
By the way...
Thank you to everyone who is reading this blog. Thank you for all the encouraging words and thoughts. It has meant a lot to me to stay connected in such a big noisy road-ragey place. Sometimes the stress is palpable, so I dive into the laptop screen to pick out what I want to from the chaos of the day, and while a simpler, quieter version of events unfolds, everything around me drops away and there is silence! Or, at least, the sound of waves constantly erasing and rewriting time and time again.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?"
"Uh....no. I'm working on the blog."
Thanks, Blog.
LA is both better and worse than I expected. Which is always to be expected, when expecting.
"Didn't you hear what I just said?"
"Uh....no. I'm working on the blog."
Thanks, Blog.
LA is both better and worse than I expected. Which is always to be expected, when expecting.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
It was the best of days, it was the worst of days.
There is no reality check in the world that compares to trying on swimsuits. I made four trips to the dressing room today.
"Maybe just one more size up this time..."
And then it dawned on me.
They're making everything smaller now.
The next big reality check came in the shape of some waves that smacked me in the face and I flailed my arms like a monkey who has seen people swim on television a few times. How long has it been since I've swum- no, swam- no...swimmed? I can remember an instructor demonstrating the back stroke with one leg and both arms, while standing on the other leg, a crowd of dripping nine year olds shivering around her, waiting to cannonball back into the pool. So, a billion years, then. I haven't been in a body of water bigger than a bathtub in four years. I think maybe we'll check out "Swimming for Dummies" or see about some classes. Surfing is a far off goal, yet. Gotta swim first. I can still do somersaults, anyways, and a pretty good Frog Stroke. It was FUN.
Edie thoroughly enjoyed the sand. She spent an hour grabbing handfuls and letting it stream out from her fists. When it was my turn to watch her so Kenneth could play in the water, she tipped over forwards and came up sandy-faced, but unfazed. By the time we left, salty and tangled and burnt, we all had a little sand in our diapers.
We walked down the boardwalk where people can ride along the coast and talked about finding a baby seat for Edie so we can bike to Venice Beach and buy trinkets like the little blue bird whistle we bought last time. Then we saw a baby riding on the front of his dad's bike and Kenneth chased him down to ask about the seat. It was an iBert. Then a kamakazi squirrel ran right by us and we headed for home by way of bubble tea. Which is when tragedy struck.
I didn't see it happen, I only saw the man running at the crosswalk to scoop up a white towel in the middle of the road, and Kenneth said something about a dog. We made our turn and could see that the towel he was carrying was actually a broken dog, a wee tiny dog, the kind you can fold up and store in your armpit. Kenneth parked across the street and we ran over to see if we could help. The man was kneeling on the sidewalk, holding the tiny dog and looking kind of broken himself. There was nothing to say so we put our hands on his back. Another woman came running out of her car to see if she could help. There wasn't really anything to do. She asked him if he needed help and he said he didn't know what to do.
:(
It was his mother's dog. She was going to be devastated.
:(
:(
The dog's name was Obi. They had been at the park across the street, having some off-leash time, and Obi just didn't want to stop running so he tried to run home. What does a pocket dog know about LA traffic when there's running to be had?
We gave the man one of our beach towels to wrap him in.
He slowly walked his mother's dog back to her apartment around the corner.
We slowly walked the long way to the bubble tea cafe.
We talked about not knowing what to say or do.
Then I thought of something that I wished I'd said to him.
We didn't have enough money for bubble tea and a crepe, and we were hungry, so we split a crepe and just smelled the bubble tea. We always forget that the place is cash only.
On the way back we started whistling as we got close to the apartment building where the guy said his mother lived. Whistling past the graveyard, I thought, trying not to look to closely at the windows, trying not to wonder too hard what was going on in someone else's life. Are we interested in other people's tragedy because we feel genuine compassion, or because we have a morbid obsession with things that could have happened to us and didn't? Whatever our motives for gathering around it, I know that if it were me I wouldn't want to cry alone on a city sidewalk. If Jinx were suddenly limp in my arms, I'd be grateful for the hands of strangers at my back, letting me grieve not-alone. Whoever the driver was, they didn't stop. Maybe they couldn't face it just then. It was a busy intersection and to suddenly stop would likely have caused a worse accident than the tiny broken dog in the road. Maybe the driver had a screaming baby in the car, or an audition to get to.
It took me and Kenneth both a second before we noticed the young man sitting peacefully on his knees in the yard, folded beach towel laid out before him. We shared a moment of awkward silence, wondering whether to say anything or not, and then I grabbed my chance.
"Did you guys have fun at the park today?"
"Yeah we did."
"Make sure you tell your mom about that."
"I will. She's on her way home now. Thank you for your help, I appreciate it."
"No problem, man, sorry."
Sorry.
"Maybe just one more size up this time..."
And then it dawned on me.
They're making everything smaller now.
The next big reality check came in the shape of some waves that smacked me in the face and I flailed my arms like a monkey who has seen people swim on television a few times. How long has it been since I've swum- no, swam- no...swimmed? I can remember an instructor demonstrating the back stroke with one leg and both arms, while standing on the other leg, a crowd of dripping nine year olds shivering around her, waiting to cannonball back into the pool. So, a billion years, then. I haven't been in a body of water bigger than a bathtub in four years. I think maybe we'll check out "Swimming for Dummies" or see about some classes. Surfing is a far off goal, yet. Gotta swim first. I can still do somersaults, anyways, and a pretty good Frog Stroke. It was FUN.
Edie thoroughly enjoyed the sand. She spent an hour grabbing handfuls and letting it stream out from her fists. When it was my turn to watch her so Kenneth could play in the water, she tipped over forwards and came up sandy-faced, but unfazed. By the time we left, salty and tangled and burnt, we all had a little sand in our diapers.
We walked down the boardwalk where people can ride along the coast and talked about finding a baby seat for Edie so we can bike to Venice Beach and buy trinkets like the little blue bird whistle we bought last time. Then we saw a baby riding on the front of his dad's bike and Kenneth chased him down to ask about the seat. It was an iBert. Then a kamakazi squirrel ran right by us and we headed for home by way of bubble tea. Which is when tragedy struck.
I didn't see it happen, I only saw the man running at the crosswalk to scoop up a white towel in the middle of the road, and Kenneth said something about a dog. We made our turn and could see that the towel he was carrying was actually a broken dog, a wee tiny dog, the kind you can fold up and store in your armpit. Kenneth parked across the street and we ran over to see if we could help. The man was kneeling on the sidewalk, holding the tiny dog and looking kind of broken himself. There was nothing to say so we put our hands on his back. Another woman came running out of her car to see if she could help. There wasn't really anything to do. She asked him if he needed help and he said he didn't know what to do.
:(
It was his mother's dog. She was going to be devastated.
:(
:(
The dog's name was Obi. They had been at the park across the street, having some off-leash time, and Obi just didn't want to stop running so he tried to run home. What does a pocket dog know about LA traffic when there's running to be had?
We gave the man one of our beach towels to wrap him in.
He slowly walked his mother's dog back to her apartment around the corner.
We slowly walked the long way to the bubble tea cafe.
We talked about not knowing what to say or do.
Then I thought of something that I wished I'd said to him.
We didn't have enough money for bubble tea and a crepe, and we were hungry, so we split a crepe and just smelled the bubble tea. We always forget that the place is cash only.
On the way back we started whistling as we got close to the apartment building where the guy said his mother lived. Whistling past the graveyard, I thought, trying not to look to closely at the windows, trying not to wonder too hard what was going on in someone else's life. Are we interested in other people's tragedy because we feel genuine compassion, or because we have a morbid obsession with things that could have happened to us and didn't? Whatever our motives for gathering around it, I know that if it were me I wouldn't want to cry alone on a city sidewalk. If Jinx were suddenly limp in my arms, I'd be grateful for the hands of strangers at my back, letting me grieve not-alone. Whoever the driver was, they didn't stop. Maybe they couldn't face it just then. It was a busy intersection and to suddenly stop would likely have caused a worse accident than the tiny broken dog in the road. Maybe the driver had a screaming baby in the car, or an audition to get to.
It took me and Kenneth both a second before we noticed the young man sitting peacefully on his knees in the yard, folded beach towel laid out before him. We shared a moment of awkward silence, wondering whether to say anything or not, and then I grabbed my chance.
"Did you guys have fun at the park today?"
"Yeah we did."
"Make sure you tell your mom about that."
"I will. She's on her way home now. Thank you for your help, I appreciate it."
"No problem, man, sorry."
Sorry.
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