Dirty words. Yes, about Michael Jackson.

The night Michael Jackson died, Lil E was introduced to him. As the news was breaking on CNN, I was camped out on the couch with my son and my laptop, furiously trying to get up a post on his death. Lil E is quite used to the spontaneous ways I sometimes am called to work, and he invested himself in the story as much as I did. He watched, listened, peered over my shoulder at the images I was choosing.

And he asked questions. Lots and lots of questions. I tried to answer them all, but we all know there are many, many mysterious surrounding Michael Jackson that are probably left un-probed, particularly for a wide-eyed preschooler. I have this honesty policy with my child and so I answered as much and as best as I could for his age and for the time I had in between cutting and pasting links.

Once the conversation about him began, Michael Jackson seemed to move right into our home and daily life. Just the other day, weeks and weeks since the singer was memorialized but strikingly close to the day when he was finally (finally!) laid to rest, Lil E emerged from the bathroom with his hands up in the air surgical style.

I looked at him quizzically.

"I went potty but I cannot wash my hands" he explained in voice that would lead one to believe he had a very rational reason for letting those germs settle into his palms.

I couldn't ask.

"There is some kind of brownish-peachish powder on the sink." This time, his rationale was laced with the furrowed eyebrows of concern.

Still quiet, I went into the bathroom and investigated.

"It's make-up," I said, wiping it up with a sponge as I explained. "I must have spilled some powder on the counter. Big deal."

"I didn't want to touch it!" His response was too quick, perhaps slightly dramatized. But then his words eased back to that calm, cool, a-duh tone as he stared at me, rolled his eyes and left the room. "I don't want to end up looking like Michael Jackson!"

My make-up wasn't exactly jumping up to smother his little face and from what I could tell, his button nose was still attached to his dimpled cheeks. Still, he had a point.

Click to read more ...

Oh, Patrick Swayze. You did keep the guests happy.

Goodbye, Patrick Swayze.

It makes me sad that you are no longer pachenga-ing on this planet, that the man who made me look past tight, shiny pants to appreciate chiseled abs is no longer with us. I hate to wave farewell to Johnny Castle, who stands beside Danny Zuco, and was among the first to ignite the pangs of desire for bad boys with good hearts and deliciously greasy hair.

Thank you for giving me the words -- "No spaghetti arms!" -- that I have remembered in every single dance class I have ever taken and for giving me the scene that inspired first-prize lip-sync greatness with Jeff Barlow at the youth group talent show when I was a sophomore in high school ("Sylvia?!" "Yesss, Mickey?" "How do you call your loverboy?" "Come here, loverboy!"...it begs a reprise.)

Thank you for making me believe, realistically or not, that good girls can catch the eye of flashier boys (even if it involves breaking rules or being seen in a gigantic bra in the rear view mirror), that true love can overpower the time and space continuum, that marriages can outlast all the impossibilities of Hollywood.

Wherever your soul has gone, Patrick Swayze, know that you will be missed. I pray that your tired body is free to dance and sing and ride horses and waves and whatever is freest and fine. I hope that you have found that it is true: That it is amazing. And that the love inside, you really do take it with you.

Here's a great YouTube retrospective of the best work of a man who looked best in gauzy light.

Click to read more ...

When Monday finally fell

My Monday began at 1 a.m. I intended to be in bed much earlier. To have a long bath, maybe even really read the words in Real Simple magazine rather than just rub my fingers over the pretty, pretty pictures. Instead, I was making a ham sandwich on a mini bagel for Lil E's lunch, filling a snack bag with fishy crackers, trying desperately to think through the cloud of exhaustion rising up in my brain to come up with a poem and drawings to decorate the daily note I tuck in his "Attack of the Clones" lunchbox.

I couldn't do it. I was too tired and the note would have to wait until morning.

Ahhh, morning. Six short hours away. Five, by the time I straightened up, washed up, crawled into bed. It was not the restful sleep I needed, and it was my own fault for staying up to do more work and talking than I really needed to. Rather than dwell on what I could've/should've/blahblahblah, I put on a dress and red lipstick. My 4-inch heels didn't hide my tired eyes, but they helped me walk -- or run -- through my morning.

I sped through breakfast, coffee, traffic, preschool drop-off. From there, I headed downtown for a blogging event. I hunted for parking while on the phone with my mom, devising a list of party supplies for Lil E's birthday. I rushed into the event, drank more coffee, caught up with mama bloggers I haven't seen in a long time.

Although I had lovely mini-massage and a de-stressing cool stone eye treatment, I couldn't shake the tired-hyped feeling. I listened carefully during the presentation, asked questions, tried only to peek under the table a few times to survey the shoes of the women sitting around me. But my attempts to be quiet and still were disrupted when I knocked over my champagne glass, slashed my thumb, made everyone turn and look, and a few run for tissues, a bandage, a trash basket.

As the event wound down, my parting conversations took on a happy but high energy. I pulled myself away, rushed out the door, rounded the corner, and looked up to see the meter maid placing a ticket under the windshield wipers on my car. I was hurrying. I was too late.

The rest of the day had this pace. I felt pulled to get away from my laptop, turn off the noise, go for a long walk to stretch my legs and quiet my thoughts. But there was too much to do, and pretty soon, there was preschool pick-up and a trip to the park, dinner, laundry, a bath for the boy, and bedtime.

I only stopped when I had to.

Then, the stillness came as it often does, curled up with my boy in a single bed, with a book and kisses on damp hair, prayers of thanks for whatever kind of day it was, the same songs I sing every single night. Wrapped in each other, time unwinds, worries ease, everything seems to float out of the room. Nothing is left but the shallow breath of this child against my chest, the darkness, hours ahead to let everything else go.

There are some nights when I wish I had a partner to turn to, to ask to please go in and see why the kid is still not asleep. There are early morning hours when I have cursed the world that I am cleaning up wet sheets or tending to a sick child all alone. There are times when I wish there was someone listening adoringly on the other side of the wall while I am singing lullabies. 

Most nights, though -- this Monday night -- I wanted that bedtime all to myself. I wanted to soothe my son to sleep with the safe, happy routine that share nearly every night. I also wanted it to soothe me. Just for me. I wanted it to make the $50 parking ticket and big Band-Aid on my bloody thumb and blogging mania all disappear while we read about Henry and Ribsy, while I pulled him close to me, while I drifted off for a little while.

The work would wait another ten minutes. All of my choices aren't exactly right and I know I don't control very much anyway. No matter the mayhem, I can choose to end the first day of my work week in exactly the way I wanted to begin it. I can do that.

Click to read more ...