Life skills

Yesterday I became the proud auntie of yet another perfect, beautiful niece. As I was dropping my first two perfect, beautiful nieces off at their house to spend the night with their grandmother it was discovered that one of the children (I suspect Owen) had, earlier in the day, locked the knob of the door that was supposed to be open and we therefore had no way to get into the house. As my brother's father-in-law raced off to the hospital to retrieve a key, I raced back to my car to retrieve a credit card. When I opened the car door, my phone was ringing. It was my brother.

"Do you know how to do the credit card thing?" he asked.

"One step ahead of you," I said.

Ten seconds and one library card later I had broken into my brother's house.

"You know how I know how to do that?" I said. "Remember when you were pet sitting that horrible dog for our neighbors and you locked the keys in the house? I watched Dad break in with a credit card."

"Yeah," said my brother. "That's how I knew about it too."

My brother and I both called Dad later to thank him for the valuable like skill.

His response: "Did I ever teach you how to hot wire a car?"

He didn't. I'm bitter. Once he had taught me about breaking and entering, why shy away from grand theft?

Update, of sorts

Things currently in the back of my car:

• One bag of assorted bathing suits, towels, goggles, and a Star Wars bathrobe for Owen's twice-weekly Mommy and Me swim lessons.

• One bag of snow pants, gloves, long socks and a bike helmet for Mia's twice-weekly ice skating (and my once-weekly ice skating).

• One bag holding a bat, t-ball tee and an incredibly heavy first base that honks when you stomp on it, plus a large barrel holding balls, ice packs, and a first aid kit for Owen's t-ball team of which I am somehow the manager.

• Two cases of beer and seven bottles of wine for my Bunco group, which I am hosting next week.

• A new toilet fill valve and flapper for the powder room toilet which has taken to singing when you flush it. Anybody wants an operatic toilet let me know and I'll send you the old parts.

• A roll of paper towels, because you never can tell when somebody is going to puke in the car.

• A full change of clothes for both children, see above.

• A picnic blanket, because you never can tell when you will need to have a picnic.

• Eight reusable grocery bags.

• Four crayons, three goldfish (one smushed), a fruit snack wrapper, rogue bits of mulch from the last time I hauled mulch, a lone Elmo Go Fish card, half of one of those gelatinous window stick on things which I believe used to be an Easter egg, and an ice scraper.

  
  

Ten Years On

I had dinner last night (with my husband, you remember him) at a restaurant where I once had dinner with you. It was strange. It has been so many years since I have been anywhere that smelled even faintly of you, and thinking back I believe that was the only time we ever had dinner together, at opposite ends of a very long, very crowded table. Mostly it was cigarettes, with a view of the parking garage, and drinks, coffee and sodas to make it through the work day and beers on all those Friday afternoons when we stole away from friends and loved ones who expected to be invited and had our kindred hour together.

I don't talk about you anymore, other than those rare times when my daughter (she's six now, can you even imagine) asks how she got her name and I tell her a simple story from when we were young. I hardly even think about you anymore, and when I stop to think about that it makes me sad, because I swore, as we all do, that I would never forget, and yet I have. I have forgotten so much, so many details, all of the conversations, other than a bit here and a word there. I wish I could remember it all, but maybe I had to forget so that I could forgive you for dying.

I wish you were still here. I wish your kids could play with my kids and we could still sneak off, once or twice a year, for that quiet beer that nobody else ever quite understood. Or even if we wouldn't be friends anymore, I would like the world just a little bit better if you were still somewhere in it.

Secret Word

Mia has a secret word, let's say it is Tulip. If someone she is not expecting shows up to pick her up from somewhere and says "Hey, your mom asked me to come get you" she knows to ask them for the secret word and run screaming in the other direction if they can't tell her it is Tulip. (Clearly this is for someone she knows, for strangers she knows to run screaming immediately.)

Owen knows the secret word too, but doesn't totally understand its application. So when we are playing Tickle or Wrestle or Chase or Trap Owen (his favorite) and Owen is done playing the game, he shouts out Tulip! Tulip!

So yes, my three-year-old has a safe word. As you can imagine, I am quite proud.

Question from Owen

Owen (three and a half, in case you have lost track) has an important question that I am unable to answer, so I offered to ask you.

"If The Hulk was frozen in carbonite, would he be able to use his strong muscles to break out?"

(There's more, but it gets even more complicated after this one, so I've decided to stick to the basics, such as they are.)

First Day of School, Child 2

First Day of School, Child 1

She can read, write, add, subtract and do some basic fractions. She can swim, ride a two-wheeler, make her own lunch, carry a tune, hit a baseball, and tell a joke that is actually funny.

She's six. She's awesome. She's a first grader.