*kendraspondence*

I don’t think much about the aged, my fears about growing old, or the possibility of my own mother becoming a dazed, afghan-swaddled elder in an assisted living facility. I know these thoughts preoccupy some, but I either don’t allow myself to obsess about the long-term or I am frightfully optimistic about the health my family and I will enjoy as we grow old.

I haven’t spoken to my Nana in two years. The last phone conversation, she confessed that she cried the whole day when she did not feel well enough to come to our wedding. I was not bitter, I expected that she would not feel well enough. She was eighty-nine years-old at the time. It was a tall order.

I typically imagine that I will leave this life before John. I imagine my death will be swift, freakishly swift. I imagine that I may even see my quickly waning life flash before me and think, “But I just bought new moisturizer! On sale! Wait! I can’t die yet!”

My sister and brother have spoken to my Nana often over the past two years. My brother visits her and even looks forward to the prospect that she will come to live at the nursing home where he works. My sister has had long visits with Nana, and can quote back to you all of the hilarious sound-bytes she downloads from their chats.

Last night, John was tucking me in (he has a cold and is sleeping downstairs) and a sudden rush of fear washed over me. What if this is the last time he tucks me in like this? What if one day, I go all “The Notebook” on him and he is resigned to tucking in his bride who thinks he is a nice male nurse? Every night that he gets paged to the hospital, I say a prayer that no tragedy will befall him on his midnight drive there and early morning drive home.

My Nana does not know her sons. My uncle Bob, her first son, visited her recently, and she told him, “I haven’t seen you since I moved to Cleveland!” I don’t know how she intuits to turn on a light when it is dark in her apartment, and that in order to do so, she must first flick the switch. If she doesn’t know her own sons, how does she know what a light switch is?

I spend a lot of my time letting John know that I can do it myself. I am a broken record of, “Ehhh, I don’t need HELP.” Someday, I may miss him. Someday, I may long to pull close to me the arms that I pushed away. Someday, I may not be able to help myself. Someday, I may not know what a light switch is.

Over the course of the last year, I have been loosely engaged in some ongoing research on the long-term health hazards of nail salon workers. The Boston Globe recently featured an article on the Boston Public Health Commission’s Safe Shops program which is expanding its site inspection/health campaign to include local nail salons. I sent a letter to the editor applauding this worthy work, but questioning how in-depth and how long-term the scope of the work intended to be. I was pleased to have the letter published, but somewhat disheartened by how much editorial license was taken with it. C’est la media…

Since our friend Jane tantalized us shared with us her family’s beloved Cherry Party Pie, reserved in their home for Christmas morning, I have been dreaming about doing cannonball jumps off the side of an Olympic sized pool filled with deep layers of this sweet tart.

Jane shared the recipe with me and while I didn’t make a total messipe out of it, I can’t say mine was nearly as good. Lovey Loverpants went back for seconds today, so I can’t resign myself as a complete pie replicating failure. I enjoyed my virgin roll-out in making my first pie crust. Thanks to Haddy for sharing her mum’s fool-proof recipe. The process was time-consuming and pleasurable. I think I shall cringe anytime I see a pie being thrown haphazardly in the face of a clown, and envision the poor person who hand-rolled the crust.

I dare not share the precise details of this family formula. I can tell you that its main ingredients are: heavy cream, sour cherries, and a couple kinds of sugar. Bon apetit.

Lovely, but something’s missing…


AHA! The cherry glaze.

Pie of the people…

…and maybe of the Pug.

My mother describes my husband as one who does not show much emotion, and she is right. But she noticed how, during her recent visit, whenever our Great Expectation was mentioned, my husband would unconsciously begin to wag his proverbial tail.

Because I live with him, I don’t necessarily recognize my husband as an emotionally retentive, particularly because my hor-motional mood swings, unpredictable as they are, provoke lots of emotions from him which sometimes cause him to speak in a high voice, KENNY WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT???, or place both hands on my shoulders and look at me grimly, BABY? WILL YOU STOP?

But when it comes to events or milestones or moments where I expect a certain emotion to register for most people, such an emotion is often lost upon my husband. He remains cool in crisis, soft mannered even when cut off by a Masshole driver.

When we got home from the shower on Sunday, I began squirreling away all of the new layette, calling my mother to gush about all of the adorable uni-sex layette that the wee one will get to wear in just a couple of months. Hubs lounged on the couch, folded some laundry, caught the tail end of a James Bond marathon.

As I was washing my face that night, he stood in the doorway to the bathroom holding our new infant car seat. I figured that he would need to play with one new toy when we got home. But then I noticed that he had also opened the little sack of warmth that we will bundle our child in when he/she rides in the car or stroller during the colder months.

He started to pat the sack down into the carseat.

“See, this is where there will be a little baby,” he said, and as I saw his eyes registering the sight of a small Q-tip head with Asian-Irish eyes, I also saw a smile creeping out the corner of his mouth.

Papa got a brand new [diaper] bag.

Do you ever catch glimmers of the person you were when you were ten? Do you ever hear your fifth grade self squeal as though you just got invited to a slumberjam at the home of a popular girl? Do you ever taste vegetables like a six year-old with unsophisticated taste buds, or feel a little teenage cranky about having to politely answer pro forma questions from well-meaning adults?

It’s not often that I see the person that I was. I don’t severely repress the inner child, but I was kind of a pain in the icicle for at least the first seventeen years of my life, and we don’t really like to resurrect her that often.

More and more, though, I catch a flash of the person that I will be in the future, perhaps ten years from now, perhaps not even so very far from this moment.

A glimmer of this person has been captured here:

Um, apparently, I am geeked.

And really, the beginning texts to my child’s library are certainly legitimate sources of excitement. Like, this is my very first My Very First Book of Shapes! By the master of illustrative children’s lit himself! But is it necessary to project my elation with such arch enthusiasm? Do I really need to smash up all three of my chins against my neck and expose my dental fillings for all to see?

When I look at this picture, there are so many fearsome thoughts that go through my head. I can almost hear myself in six years when, after a morning spent picking out the perfect Classroom Parent outfit, I visit my child’s classroom and sit in a chair above a small group of wide-eyed first-graders, their legs wrapped like pretzels, and present to them with every fabricated ounce of Barney Joy in my power, the wonder that is the original work of Eric Carle.

“Boys and Girls, do you know that Mrs. Lee used to read this author when she was a little girl? WOWWWWWW!
That was a REALLY LOOOOONG TIME AGO, WASN’T IT?”