*kendraspondence*

…who came…took a turn around the party, and then decided to bounce…..

Nantasket Beach, Labor Day 2010

We got to the theater 5 minutes after the show had started. It was dark. Baby Girl isn’t exceptionally afraid of the dark. She’s much more afraid when cartoon characters crash their skateboards than she is of the dark.

We were there to see “Toy Story 3″ which we’d already seen before. But who can get enough of Woody, Buzz, Slinky and Barbie for that matter? I had popped popcorn to smuggle in. This theater had an ice cream parlor in it.

We had left Little Man at home with Daddy-o. Girls Rule and Boys Drool type deal. She was going to get to sit on my lap and we’d whisper to each other that we liked Mrs. Potatohead’s violet eyeshadow and yellow earrings. All of the tension over having to share me with a sibling would dissolve into thin, dark, movie theater air.

All of this is to say that I was going for Mother of the Year, or at least membership in the Mother of the Month club.

Until.

I couldn’t tell you what.

Only that I accidentally bumped Baby Girl’s leg on a chair when we were being seated.

TORRENTIAL TEARS.
OVER THE TEARS IN A BARREL.
FEMA WOULD FEAR THE DAM BREAKING ON THESE TEARS.

We sit down. It’s dark. The Pixar short is playing.

I WANNNNNA GOO HOOOOOOME.
NANA!
DADDY!
I WANT DAAADDYYYYYYYY!!!

I quiet her. Stuff some popcorn in her mouth. She’ll be into it once she sees the “Toy Story” trademark.

I WANT GEORGE!
I WANNA GO HOME!

We march back out to the car to get Curious George. Why would I not bring George into the movie theatre? Why would George not want to meet Woody? Duh, Mama K.

We use the loo.

We return to our other seats.

There are deep breaths. There is talk about how Andy is leaving for college and how Woody and Buzz need to get back before Andy leaves for college.

I WANNA GO HOME.

Somewhere from the back of the theatre, the voice of someone who wants to rightfully watch the movie for which he paid his hard-earned ten moneys.

SO GO HOME!

Fifteen minutes later…

We do.

We drive home.

But not before we stopped for a pizza moon.

Which is best eaten with 3D glasses on.

The insomnia has returned and since I am not a counter of the sheep nor a committed nighttime reader, I suppose I’ll ride out the Sandman by making another list.

I always notice:

- dimples. (Uggh, I love those retarded muscles!)

- gaps in teeth. (I adore people with gaps in their teeth! Oh those enviable gappy teeth!)

- shoulder tattoos. (I am way too conservative to get one, but I’ll confess I really think shoulders are such a beautiful body part, and tattooed? I think they’re pretty.)

- your name’s spelling. (Whether you’re an Alyson or an Alison or an Allison is important to me.)

- the books on your shelves.

- eye make-up. (I may even ask you for some tips.)

- whether you used the correct subject or object pronouns (who/whom, I/me, he/him, she/her, etc.).

- the tone and octave and rhythm of your laugh (I remember laughs of people I haven’t seen in 15 years.)

- whether or not I’m given a receipt. (I always ask for one if I’m not.)

- Asians. (What can I say? I’ve got yellow fever.)

- when you don’t finish your sentence.

- in sitcoms, when they don’t shut a door or close the cereal box or leave something unfinished. (Annoying!)

- when “Forrest Gump” is on TV. (And I watch and sob every.single.time.)

- symbolism and object lessons. (Well, not always, but often.)

- interior improvements to your home.

- when peeps use the word “irregardless.” (Ew.)

- Dairy Queen and whether it’s a Brazier franchise or not.

- whether someone is a radio listener whilst driving a car, or not. (I definitely am.)

- Ann Taylor clothes, particularly items that I sold when I worked there from 2004-2006

***

I never notice

- architecture. (Until my husband points it out.)

- handbags. (I’m not a handbag kind of gal, shocking even to myself.)

- where I put my glasses last. (Even though I only put them in 2 places in my house.)

- panty lines. (I think thongs are dumb.)

- that you like me. (I generally assume you are humoring me.)

- when bands are in town that I’ve always wanted to see until it’s too late. (Gah!)

- when my kid is about to whiz on the couch (until it is too late)!

Hey, September, how yoo dooin’?

September, here’s what: I’m happy you’re here. You always bring with you the smell of U-Hauls and giddy college students, the sounds of wonky high school trombone players, “Haa-yaaang on, Sloopeh, Slooopeh, Hang Onnnn!”, freshly cut football fields. Your days start to slope, the sun waning, 7:30, 7:15, on on on down to 6:30 p.m. and by the time your turn is almost up, there is a coziness to the night and an acquaintedness with new school textbooks, while still a hopefulness that there are big things still to accomplish this year.

But let me tell you about this past summer, September, the one you’re sweeping up for me in your wake. I’ll be frank. I thought this summer 2010 was going to suck. I thought I was going to be all soaking bedsheets with milk and wandering zombie-like around my creeky home at 3 a.m. But this past summer was awesome in its unremarkableness. It was just lovely, and smooth. We didn’t go anywhere spectacular (Newport? Cleveland, anyone?). I don’t even think we went out to brunch somewhere splendid. We just ate a thousand popsicles on our cruddy patio, watched the airplanes overhead, and wasted a lot of sprinkler water on ourselves, which, if you ask me, wasn’t a waste at all.

Sure, it was no party when Loverpants got pneumonia. And the hematoma thing I could have done without. But I’ll always remember Fourth of July, sitting with Brother Greg watching the “Boston Pops” on our couch and talking about how his blanket and law textbook were waiting for him on the Common, but instead he was sitting watching the performance with us on TV.

I’ll remember chicken parm night with my old man and Julie, defining bummerooski with my mom and Goobs, and just being so grateful and shmoopy to come home from OH and come back to my life with my hubby.

I’ll remember getting to know the girl that Baby Girl is now at an articulate 2.5 years-old, how she used “I’m sulking” totally appropriately, how her sapphire eyes, framed by her pixie cut, look out at a world and see not a complicated planet but only the ripe cherry tomatoes in the box garden, the sequined pink slippers on sale at Target, the travesty that is the removal of the “Shrek 3″ billboard on Gallivan Blvd.

Most obviously, though, I’ll remember the ease and wonder I felt for 104 days of meeting this new Little Man in my life. I don’t know what angel interceded in Heaven so that I could have this little boy with a halo all summer long, but I am grateful. He is so marvelously adaptable that holding him – which I try to do as many seconds of the day as I can – is a tranquilizer, it’s possibly the best drug a hospital lets you leave with, no prescription necessary. Just hold Little Man for a minute, ohhhh those soft little cheeks and fluttery eyelashes! And you will know.

So all that is to say that life until now has been wonderful, and welcome to you, September 2010. 30 more days in this month of turning 30. Yahoo.

***
Some snaps that our new friend, the talented Dr. Paul Yoo took at Boston Temple in the Fenway.

This past sabbath, we had to bid a fond farewell to our friends of the past four years. The Kims moved here from Korea so that Peter could complete a smartypants master’s residency program thing for dentists at BU, and so Helen could come and be my friend and have two babies (who are American-born U.S. citizens, huzzah!) and throw parties with killer kim-bap.

On Saturday, I just kept telling Helen how much she inspired me, and I think she probably thought I was just bidding my best American Hallmark adieu, but seriously. She is good people. Peter is good people. Their kids are sweet little muffin-faced muncharoos that always share their snack packs in church. Good people, Kim family.

Peter and Helen really have It when it comes to being those super successful people who immigrate to a foreign land where the primary language spoken is not their own. They just have What It All Takes. They are incredibly positive, and such students of culture and geography and nuance. Helen especially is my hero. I would constantly see her at the most random corners of the city, just hoofing around kicking up dirt with her stroller. Of course, I am also a bit of a gypsy (or I wouldn’t also be at those random street corners), but when I, for instance, find myself at Harvard Square without my wallet and zero dollars left on my MBTA pass and no frigging clue how I am going to get home in the rain with a babe in a stroller…I can call people who work at Harvard Square who will come downstairs from their office perch and spot me $5 (thank you, Josh Poupore). Helen, on the other hand, did not have it so easy. But girlfriend was still a total intrepid. And she probably had some killer kim-bap in her back pocket to boot.

Oh and did I mention that Peter and Helen had a baby last year whose heart valves were not connected properly and totally watched a miracle named Olivia go through open-heart surgery at 2 days-old? Because they did. In a country that is not their homeland. Speaking with doctors who do not speak a lick of Korean. Operating on their daughter whom they had only just met. Today Olivia outweighs my 2.5 year-old and that is just riiiiidiculous. God’s hand has truly been at work in their lives. Their faith, their mettle has been tested so much over the past four years, but they have emerged and they have taught me so much in the process.

I think the only thing I ever taught Helen was the concept of “monster-in-law.” So naughty. You’re welcome!

***
Sweet Olivia and Papa Peter

Baby Girl making lovey eyes at Justin