Chuck it

The other day I started a chuck-it bonanza with Philadelphia, you know, AKA the BF.

 

We are in the car driving from NYC to Philadelphia. I warn him, “You really are going to have to let things go.”

 

“I know. I know.” he says.

 

He really will have to let stuff go. Because Philadelphia has a LOT of stuff. Sometimes when I really look the amount of stuff he has I think: I do not believe Philly has ever thrown anything away.

 

I tell him, “I am not sure you have ever thrown anything away.”

He rolls his eyes at me.

Just like a teenager.

 

Philly likes to pile his stuff. So not only does he have everything he has ever acquired, he ALSO plops things down wherever he happens to plop them.

 

Some people are comforted by their stuff.

 

I myself am a chucker.

 

But since Philadelphia is Philadelphia and is about the most generous person in this world and others, he is allowing this chuck-fest, even though he is a piler.

 

We arrive on Tuesday evening. It is late but I think it would be good to just get one room done. I choose the bathroom, since it is smallest. Philly says ok.

 

In the bathroom there are many, many shelving units. Shelving units that have maybe on one thing on them. Maybe two. I take all of those shelving units out of there.

 

Philly says, “Where will we put stuff?”

 

“Don’t worry.” I say.

 

I don’t REALLY have a total plan yet but I know how the space magic works. I trust the space magic. Over and over in my life the rearranging and the letting go has worked out even when I was terrified and could not see the end.

 

Next day comes and we begin on the bedroom. We take up the carpet and move the furniture around. Bring things up. Bring things down. When we are done you can see the beautiful old pine floors. I feel so happy I almost cannot stop working.

 

I go upstairs to the sacred room on the third floor. This room has PAPER. Lots of paper. I start organizing and sorting. Slowly a beautiful frosted glass desk appears.

 

Who knew it was under there.

 

Meanwhile, Philly is working in the basement. The basement has miscellaneous everything. It is not pretty. I stay away from there and let him do his thing.

 

Somewhere in here, we eat.

 

Day 1 ends. Still we have the whole first floor, now full of everything from the other floors AND the rest of the basement. Oh yeah, and the yard.

 

Not sure how we will do all that but I try to muster up the trust of the space goddess.

 

Day 2 starts late since Day 1 ended late.

I CANNOT believe it when we wake up at 9am.

 

9AM!

 

I have ideas for the two downstairs rooms, but they involve major furniture moving. I am expecting some resistance upon the receipt of this news but I encounter none at all.

 

Philly just says, “Ok. Let’s do it!”

 

God, I love him.

 

We do it. That and a whole bunch of other stuff. We are on fire baby! In half the day we have the basement and one of the rooms done.

 

“We can finish this.” I say.

“Yeah.” he says.

 

When he says yeah I fell like throwing him on the floor and kissing his whole head. But ok, I don’t because that would be really distracting.

 

We keep going.

 

We start moving books down stairs. I can see this is hard for Philly. I remember letting go of a lot of books and how much I felt like I did not know who I was without proof of my history.

 

“It will be ok.” I say.

“Ok.” he says.

 

Because he is like that. Flexible.

 

We bring all the books down and get ready for the last push. The last push is always the hardest. All those little items straggled around and almost no energy left to categorize and spatially relate.

 

Somehow, we make it. Done by 9pm. Indian food ordered to eat in our brand newish dining room.

 

“When did we start this?” he asks.

“Tuesday night.” I say.

“Wow.” he says.

“Yeah.” I say.

 

“Tomorrow the yard.” he says.

“Yeah.” I say.

 

I go back to eating. When he is not looking I peek up at him over the candles. I think: This is the most beautiful generous man in the whole wide world.

 

And then I think: AND he knows how to rock the chuck-fest.

And that’s my kind of guy.

Yeah.

ATYPICAL

The other day I had a procedure.

It is a procedure I have wanted to do for a long time but have chickened out a few times. I have chickened out because I am one of the .01% who has the atypical reaction or complication to almost everything.

Sometimes doctors think I make things up. But I do not.

So is the fear with this procedure.

But, this time I am doing it.

 

I make the appointment for 9am. So I can be first. Because there is always a long waiting line at this doctor’s office.

 

Philadelphia is driving me there. We get up and are ready to go on time. We get out to his car. He turns the key and nothing.

“Really?” I say.

“Really.” he says.

“I guess we are calling a car.” I say

 

I call the car and it comes in 5 minutes. We take the BQE and in 15 minutes we are there.

 

“Woo!” I say. Because we are 10 minutes early.

 

We walk in and we are the only ones there! Young Doctor comes out and says, “I will be right with you.”

 

When she comes back out she gives me the pre-medication. I take it. I ask, “Can Philadelphia come in the room with me?”

 

I am counting on this really.

 

“I am sorry. No.”

 

Crap. I cannot believe it. Now I will have to be brave all by myself.

 

I go in. They give me 2 shots and prep me. Young doctor stars the procedure. It hurts. I wish I could say more but I am sorry I cannot.

 

It hurts more. Then Part 1 is done.

 

YD tries to get over to the other part of the procedure but she cannot visualize what she needs to visualize. Even though I am in excruciating pain I tell her, “Keep going. Try. TRY!” Because we have come this far.

 

I lean up to see the screen.  I start telling the doctor, “Go this way, go that way.”

I quickly realize I have no idea what I am talking about so I shut up.

 

I say, “I have no idea what I am talking about.”

 

YD laughs.

 

“It’s ok.” she says.

 

“We can try one more thing.”
“DO it!” I say.

 

She tries but it does not work. Sadly, I will have to come back.

 

“You are just a little atypical.” she says.

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” I say.

 

“I know. Atypical.”

 

Philly comes in and offers comfort. I try to receive but I just feel so disappointed in my body and so tired of being off the norm curve. But I know I have to let it go. It has been this way my whole life.

 

“Let’s go get breakfast.” he says.

 

“Ok.” I say.

 

And I think: God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

The courage to change the things I can,

And the wisdom to know the difference.

15 is far away from 14

The other day was daughter’s 15^th birthday.

Can you believe it? I myself cannot.

Suddenly 15 seems so much older than 14.

 

It is 7pm and we are planning on a dinner at La Villa. Daughter loves LaVilla. Since it is her birthday she gets to choose the restaurant. Son is coming even though he hates La Villa.

 

Really, as a milk protein allergic person the place is filled with cheesy poison for him. But he is son, so he says nothing and plans to come along.

 

7:30 rolls around and we are waiting for Philadelphia to arrive. He is late. I start to feel annoyed and think about chewing on resentment but then I let it go.

 

You know what they say about resentment: It is like taking a poison and expecting someone else to die.

 

Yeah.

 

So he gets here. We plop his stuff down and head out around 8:30.

“I bet it is going to be crowded in there.” I say.

 

La Villa is always crowded on Friday nights. Well, really most every night. It’s just that kind of place.

 

We walk in and there stands a gaggle of hungry Brooklyn people. I decide to hover around Hostess to make myself known. Sometimes this works.

 

I flash Hostess my best Brooklyn smile. “How long will it be?” I ask. Then I add, “It is my daughter’s birthday. She is 15.”

 

Hostess smiles back. “30 minutes.” she says.

 

GOD! 30 minutes! 30 minutes seems like an eternity. I turn and I add, “Ok. We’ll be over there.” And I point to the front of the restaurant where there is a teeny-tiny little space.

 

We stand. Then we sit. We look at the menus. Philadelphia says, “Don’t look at the menu. You have to wait until we sit down.”

 

“Really?” I say.

I did not know this rule. I put down the menu.

 

After awhile, son says, “I think you should go back over there an exert your influence.”

 

!!!!!!!!!!!

 

Mild-mannered son not so mild mannered! “Ok.” I say. And I walk over.

 

“Just checking…how long now?” I say.

“You are 5^th on the list.” she says.

 

“Oh.” I say. “It would be great if they put bread out.”

 

Hostess says, “Would you like me to get you some bread?”

 

“Why yes!” I say. “That would be lovely!”

 

; )

 

Hostess brings back the bread.

 

I the bread over to the son, the daughter and Philadelphia. We eat. Sadly, because of his food allergies son cannot partake.

 

“Do you want me to get something else for you?”

 

“No mom.” he says. “It’s ok. I am used to it. This is my life.”

 

I have a little sad moment about this. But then I let it go. Son is right. And I need to focus on daughter.

 

I walk back over to Hostess. “Ok.” she says. “They are cleaning the table.”

 

I trot back over to the group and tell them. “Let’s go!”

 

We look at the menu. We decide.

Waiter comes over. “We are ready.” I say.

 

I order for everyone. Ravioli for me. Ravioli for daughter. Pasta Fagioli for Philadelphia. Straight pasta for son.

 

More bread comes. Daughter is chowing. Daughter loves this bread.

I smile. I am happy she is getting to eat at the restaurant of her choice.

 

The food comes. Both of the teenagers outpace us and finish in 8 minutes flat. I look at Philly. “They are done.” I say.

 

“Yep.” he says.

When Waiter comes back I tell him, ‘It’s daughter’s birthday!”

“Oh!” he says.

He knows what I mean.

Heh.

 

Daughter looks at me and says, “Mom! I can’t believe you did that.”

But she smiles a little.

Because after all it is her birthday.

 

Daughter and son start doing brother and sister picky-pokey joking. We sit and wait for the embarrassing moment. Soon I see Waiter come out form the kitchen with a delicious slice of mud pie with a candle sticking out of it.

 

Inside I think: WOO! Singing time!

 

Waiter puts the cake down in front of daughter and we all sing. I look at her sitting there; blushing, and I think she looks so grown-up.

 

Everyone says it will go fast. When they are babies and toddlers it seems like it will never end: The nursing, the sleep deprivation, the complete loss of one’s time. Every day seems like a million years.

 

But then suddenly, it is gone. They are sitting in front of you, blowing out a 15-year-old candle, blushing and laughing and telling grown up jokes with their brother.

 

We sing.

“Make a wish!’ I say.

 

Daughter hesitates a minute and blows out the candle.

 

When I look at her I can see the 20-year-old woman she will become.

 

I know it is just around the corner.

TEAMWORK

Last night I went to daughter high school parent-teacher conferences.

 

If you live here in NYC, and you have children, you may have some experience with the stampeding insanity that high school parent-teacher conferences can be.

 

It is not pretty.

 

It is 4:45 and I am just about done teaching after school. I text daughter: Have you left the house? You have to meet me here. Leave now.

 

Daughter is supposed to meet me here at school so we can team it for PT conferences. We will leave straight away to get on the R train to the Q train to turn back around and go to Avenue M. Because that is how you have to do it. There is not one train that goes from where we are to where we need to be. One has to back track.

 

I hate back tracking.

 

However a car service is $14. So we plan on the back track.

 

4:50 and daughter arrives. We walk to the R train. Daughter does this ride every weekday. Daughter says, “We should go to DeKalb and transfer.”

 

I say, “But that is one stop past Atlantic and we can transfer at Atlantic.”

 

“Yeah, but at Atlantic we have to walk through the whole terminal.” she says.

 

I look at her. I say, “I don’t know if I agree with this idea. I mean, seems like a time waster.”

 

“Mom.” she says. “I do it everyday.

 

I go with it.

 

When we get past Atlantic the train starts to crawl. I think: I KNEW this was a bad idea. We could be walking over to the Q right now but instead we are sitting in this stupid tunnel. AND I bet the Q is passing us by right this very minute on the way to the Atlantic Avenue stop.

 

I turn to daughter. I say, “I KNEW this was a bad idea. We could be walking over to the Q right now but instead we are sitting in this stupid tunnel.”

 

She gives me the daughter-look-of-death face.

 

I shut up.

 

Finally we get to DeKalb. Ok, I cannot help myself. I tell her, “Atlantic Avenue is a hub. Trains crawl in and out of there. This is a time waster. You should not do it this way. You are wasting time.”

 

Whatevs. We get on the train. Newkirk, Avenue H, Avenue J, Avenue M. Daughter is making fun of the new trains with the little automatic pleasant voice. So different than the old crunchy garbled–never-to-be-understood NYC Subway Person announcements.

 

“Avenue M” the voice says. And we get off the train.

 

2 blocks over and we are at daughter high school. We are a half and hour early but still there are about 30 people clumped together by the school doors freezing their behinds off. 2 security guards stand securing the doors lest we try to charge in early.

 

“God!” I say. “I don’t know how I did this alone all these years when you were both in the NYC public school system at the same time.”

 

And in that moment I have a little chink–in-the-amour moment of gratitude: I DON’T have 2 kids in this system anymore. One is in college. There are no PT conferences in college!

 

WOO!

 

Daughter and I get a room listing for all of her teachers. We plan our route: 1^st Global on the 3rd floor, then Science also on the 3^rd floor, then ELA, then up to 4 for Spanish and down to 1 for Piano.

 

Thank GOD daughter is here. I would NEVER find my way around this institution of 4000 students without her.

 

It is 1 minute till door opening and the crowd has grown considerably. People are beginning to take their perch, readying for the stage crush stampede that will happen when security opens the door.

 

The door opens. The human sea of pushing begins with a bang as we are shoved through the narrow door opening and catapulted into the lobby. I feel like a fish that someone just dumped out of a bag into a fish tank.

 

I find daughter. “Let’s go!” I say. And we scramble past a few meandering parents, up the stairs, around the corner and right to Global.

 

“WOO!” I say.

 

It is 6pm. We are the first ones there.

 

We meet with Global Teacher. I get all the information I need and we take off down the hall for science. We get there and we are SECOND!

 

“I can’t believe it!” I say.

I take a moment to say thank you for this good fortune.

 

3 minutes and we are done with science. Did I mention all you get is 3 minutes?

Yeah.

 

Out the door and down to ELA. And yes! We are SECOND again!

 

“We are rocking this!” I say.

 

She smiles.

 

We see the rest of the teachers AND the guidance counselor and are out of there by 7:03pm.

 

Can you believe it?

 

We eject and hold outside the building just for a moment. I look over at daughter, standing there, all high school accomplished.

 

I give her a little high five.

 

And I think: That daughter. I sure am glad she is on my team.

Yeah.

Sobriety ruins everything

Today I went to the dentist.

 

It has been A DAY with the daughter.

I wish I could tell you about it.

But I cannot.

 

I pick her up from school early and am now dragging her along with me to the dentist.

 

I get there early and they take me in anyway. Early.

I love my dentist.

 

Nice Russian Cleaning Lady asks how I am.

I tell her the daughter story. As much as I can.

 

She feels for me, I can tell.

 

I am sitting in the chair and she is talking. I look at the tray of pointy instruments and I think: What I need is NITROUS.

 

Because after all, I am a little bit addicty.

 

Nitrous is a free ride, right?

 

I say, “In Florida they give nitrous for a cleaning. You know, because of all that high-pitched noise in your head. So nasty really.”

 

She asks, “Does it bother you?” Then she says,  “We can give.”

 

My ears perk right up.

 

“Yeah?” I say. “Because I thought here in NYC I could not get it.”

 

After I say it I realize I should not have said it.

 

Now she hesitates.

 

Dammit.

 

The devil appears on my shoulder: Just ask again. Tell her how much you hate the noise. Tell her how you have sensitive gums. Look very, very scared.

 

Then sober angel appears: Do not do it. You are just looking to get out of your feelings from this day with daughter. You do not need nitrous. No, you do not.

 

I go back and forth, back and forth.

 

Oh ALLRIGHT.

 

For God’s SAKE!

 

Goddamn sobriety ruins everything.

Make my day

The other day I had a giggle fit in the art room.

 

It is morning and I am cranky. The first class of the day is 3^rd grade. The 3^rd graders are a rough bunch this year. This class is the roughest of the bunch.

 

They file in and take their spots on the rug. I am sitting in the teacher chair. Teaching Partner is in the other teacher chair. Educational Assistant comes in with the class and stands against the wall to my left.

 

“Good morning!” I say to the 3^rd graders.

“Good morning!” they say back.

“What are we doing today?”  “J” asks.

I begin to tell them what they are going to be doing today.

 

I get two sentences out and “J” interrupts me. This is not surprising; “J” is one of a few boys in this class with a behavior plan.

 

I remind him he needs to raise a quiet hand if he has something he wants to say.

 

I go on.

 

A few more sentences and “J” is taunting “L”. “L” is one of the other boys in this class with a behavior plan. Somehow they managed to get next to each other on the rug and I missed it.

 

“J” is really trying to get the attention of “L”. “L” however is doing an amazing planned ignoring job.

 

I have my eyes on them and just as I am about to reseat “L”, he looks over at the Educational Assistant who also has been watching this astounding planned ignoring of the 8-year-old “L”.

 

And then he does it. He WINKS at Educational Assistant.

 

 

As in: See how I am handling this? Eh? See? I really have him duped.

 

I look at her just as she starts to lose it laughing. She looks over and says, “Did you see that?”

 

“I DID!” I say. And I start giggling. I am looking at EA and EA is looking at me and we are both cracking up.

 

I think the kids are confused.

 

I try to pick back up on the lesson but I cannot regain control. TP takes over.

When I get it together I look up at “L” sitting there on the rug.

 

When he looks back I can’t help it, I shoot him a wink.

 

He actually gives me the thumbs up.

 

HAHAHA!

 

That “L”.

 

He made my day.

 

Yes he did.

Stopping

The other day I tried to run.

 

Again.

 

I have been trying to run for a few weeks now. Somehow I seem to have injured my right hip. Or leg. Or foot. Or maybe all of them. All I know is that when I try to run I can only get a few steps along before I am in shooting pain.

 

The first time this happens I pretty much ignore it and run anyway. I wind up limping.

 

I wait a day.

I try again.

 

Same thing.

 

Still, I am not going to give up. Beside who wants to stop anything anyway?

 

Son says, “Mom. You have to rest it.”

 

I ignore him.

 

I get up the next day to run. I can tell just by the way I am walking I should probably not run. I put on my running gear anyway.

 

Son is up. He sees me in my running gear. Son says, “Mom. You are NOT going running!”

 

“Oh, just a little running.” I say. And I walk out the door.

 

Halfway up the hill to Prospect Park I am thinking: Wow. This is serious. I may have to actually stop running.

 

I stop for a minute and walk.

 

Then I think: Nah. And I keep going.

 

When I get back I decide to let it rest for a few days.

 

I try again.

 

Son sees me. Son says, “MOM! You cannot run yet! A few days rest is not enough. You are really going to hurt yourself!”

 

Somewhere inside me I know he is right. But still, I cannot stop.

 

I go out there anyway.

 

This time I have to stop like 4 times. While in the park I am wondering if I am going to have to walk the whole way back. I decide this would take much too long and I just run through the shooting pain anyway.

 

When I come in limping son is shaking his head in I-told-you-so disgust at me.

 

“I KNOW!” I say. And I walk into my room and shut the door.

 

Really, I don’t know what I am going to do. Oh ok, maybe running is a little bit of an addiction but keeps a girl like me not too tightly wound. Discharged. Generally, less. And without it I am pretty sure I will get all wiggly AND I will go bonkers. And so will the people around me.

 

“Do more yoga.” Friend 1 says.

“Yeah, yeah.” I say. “But yoga is not running. Yoga is yoga.”

 

I circle around my apartment trying to figure out how to force my body to heal. Now.

 

Nothing is coming. I decide to do more yoga. I will do more yoga and I will only run twice a week.

 

I tell son of my plan.

 

Son says, “Mom. You have to not run at all.”

 

I know I should listen to him. He had an actual trainer and was on the Cross Country Team. Plus all that Ultimate Frisbee running around hoopla.

 

“Sorry.” I say. “I cannot stop.”

 

I can tell he is at his son-wits-end.

 

“Anyway, I think I am getting better.” I say.

 

Son raises a son eyebrow.

 

“Ok.” I am lying.” I say. “It still really hurts.”

 

Then I say, “Maybe I will try a week off.”

 

Son looks at me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks right into my eyes.

 

“It’s a start mom.” he says, with his old-man-son wisdom.

 

“It’s a start.”

Thank you Philadelphia

The other day I got engaged.

I know right?!

Philadelphia and I have been talking about the possibility of making this thing legal for a while now. We have even talked about dates we might make it legal.

So we are headed down this road. But we are headed without some of the traditional steps. Steps that I want.

God. This is hard to write.

I ask for these steps. I tell Philadelphia, “Are you sitting down? Because this is very difficult for me to ask for. But it would be meaningful to me to have an engagement period.”

Philly nods. “Absolutely!”

2 weeks pass and we go to a jeweler Philly knew years ago. When we get there we find out the jeweler died.

Did I mention that even though February is supposedly over, it was really cold and cloudy out?

We stand there in the cold and cloudy.” “Now what?” I say.

“Hmm.” he says.”

He says that a lot.

“What’s that place, Jewelers Row?” I say cheerily.

“Ok.” he says.

We drive down there. On the way, Philly is mumbling this stuff about blood diamonds, blood diamonds. I am confused since I do not wish for a diamond. I wish for a sapphire.

But ok.

As we are paying for parking he says it again.
I think: Why am I here?

We go into the store anyway.

Everything is very, very shiny. Too shiny. Counter Person with perfect cuffs asks, “Can I help you find something?”
I look at Philly. He doesn’t say anything.

We look around and walk out. When we get in the car I say, “When I told you this would be meaningful to me you agreed. However, you seem to be resistant to this idea, so let’s just skip it.”

The whole rest of the ride is quiet, and even though it’s not that far to our next stop, it’s endless. Each new minute I try to let go of this little girlie dream I have had of getting engaged, the right way. Not like it was with Wuzzy: No proposal, all slammed together. Functional.

Next stop isn’t a jeweler. We stop at Philly’s veterinarian to pick up some medicine for Dog 1. I wait in the car in the parking lot.

Philadelphia gets back in the car and starts to back out of the lot, then stops the car.

He looks at me. He takes my hand and says, “I know I have not asked you to marry me yet. So I am asking now.”

I say, “Is there a question?”

HA!

He says, “Yes!” Will you marry me?”
I say, “I will.”

I am pretty sure the clouds lift.

He spies a green ribbon in the pile of stuff in the car, picks it up and ties it around my finger.
I smile.
Then I cry.  I can tell he almost cries. He starts to but something stops him. He halts.

“Let’s go to the other jeweler in the small town I know.” he says.
“Ok.” I say.

We drive to the little town. The jeweler turns out to be a very nice man with a lot to say. Nice Jeweler tells us all about his recent life events as he shows us different ring settings: traditional, curvy funky, twisty, skinny, thick.

At first I like curvy funky. But then I start to like traditional. Philadelphia likes twisty. I feel kind of twisty. I take a harder look at twisty. I look back and forth, back and forth.

“Twisty it is!” I say.

We figure out wedding bands, including Philly’s custom-made Lapis band. Then Nice Jeweler shows us the numbers. Now we have to figure out money.

“We will figure something out.” Philly tells Jeweler. And we walk out. It’s almost evening now, and we can actually see some sky.

Later when we are back at the house we go up to the sacred room. I cannot say more about this room, save that it is a very special place that I am very glad exists.

While we are in there, Philly asks me again. I say yes again. This time I REALLY cry. I think he does a little too.

Less halt, more cry.

The whole night is still and waiting. I look out the window into the night sky and I take a little mind-picture of this moment.

This girlie moment I have been offered.

And I think: Thank you Philadelphia.

Thank you.

This blog graciously edited, contributed to and generally embellished by none other than Philadelphia himself.

Morning Moments

 

The other day I had a daughter morning moment.

 

It is the night before the daughter morning moment and daughter is on the iPhone. I say, “It is almost 11pm. You get up at 5:30am. You are going to be tired.”

 

“Mmmm.” she says.

 

“You are always tired.” I say. “In fact, you are chronically under slept.”

 

“Mmmm.” she says again, with iPhone face.

 

“As a matter of fact, I would say you are EXHAUSTED.”

 

Silence.

 

“GO TO BED.” I say.

 

Daughter gets up off the purple couch like I have just asked her to clean the whole house instead of just to put herself to bed for GOD’S sake.

 

I go to sleep.

 

I wake up and it is 6:15am. I see no light on in the living room. No light on in the living room means daughter is not up, which means daughter is oversleeping since she gets up at 5:30am.

 

I go marching into the daughter cave. I say, “Daughter. It is 6:15!”

 

Daughter pops up in alarm, like she always does. “What? What? Really?”

 

“Do NOT lay your head back down on that pillow.” I say. Because at least 50% of the time this is exactly what she does. Pops up, and lays right back down again.

 

She gets up. I go about my morning yoga business and coffee consumption.

 

I walk into her room. The room looks like someone took an entire pile of laundry and threw it way up in the air just for fun. I walk out.

 

By now it is almost 7:30am and daughter is just standing in front of the mirror staring at herself.

 

Did I mention school starts at 8am? And that it is a 45-minute subway ride away?

 

“I have nothing to wear.” she says.

 

Really, I don’t know what to say to this since we have had this conversation about a zillion times.

 

“Just put some clothes on your body and walk out the goddamn door. It is 7:30!” I say.

 

Yes, I really say that.

 

She stomps off.

I don’t care. I let it go.

I am used to the stomp off. The stomp off happens on a pretty regular basis now that she is almost 15.

 

“You are going to be late again.” I say. “You know when we move to Philadelphia you are just going to have to leave the house however you are at that moment. Pants or no pants. Shoe or no shoe.”

 

I hear her mumble some teenage mish-mash but I don’t even ask what it is. I tire of these daughter morning moments.

 

I just walk out the door.

Because I have to go to work.

On time.

 

Teenagers.

They really help you to let go.

You’ve been warned

The other day I had some ice cream with Oreos.

 

I like to take the Oreos straight from the Oreo box and crumble them right into the ice cream container.

 

This time, I almost did not have the Oreo part because someone ate my Oreos.

Even though they were clearly mine.

 

Philadelphia has just arrived from Philadelphia. I walk into the kitchen thinking we are going to get to share some of the vanilla ice cream and Oreo crumble deliciousness.

 

I turn and reach my hand out for the spot on the shelf where I left the remainder of the Oreos from last night’s ice cream escapade and I am shocked to find nothing there.

 

“Who ate my Oreos?!” I ask the kitchen.

 

The living room yells, “Son did. Son ate them.”

 

Son yells back, “Shut up daughter!”

 

“What?!” I say. “WHAT?! You ATE my Oreos? All of them?”

 

“Sorry.” he says.

 

Just like that.

 

“Sorry? No sorry.” I say. “Replacement. Now. Replacement Oreos.”

 

“Mom!” he says. “I am busy.”

 

“I don’t care!” I say. “You ate my Oreos. Now you have to do the right thing and go get me replacement Oreos.”

 

“But I was the one who went out last night and GOT you the ice cream and Oreos in the first place.” he says.

 

This is actually true.

 

Still, I don’t care.

 

“GO!” I say.

 

Philadelphia is not saying anything but I can tell he is a little shocked by my parenting.

I look over at him. I think: Yeah, you deal with this crap for 18 years. But I do not say that. No, I do not.

 

Instead I shoo son out the door. Since this is Brooklyn and he only has to walk across the street so in only a few minutes he comes back with the Oreos in hand.

 

“Thanks.” I say and I go off into the kitchen to make the ice cream goodness happen. I decide to bring the whole container out with the Oreos so we can crumble right there in the living room.

 

Philadelphia says, “Have Oreos always been this good?”

“Yes.” I say.

And we eat more.

 

Soon it is time to stop so we have some ice cream left over for tomorrow. I put the Oreo package back on the shelf. I decide to draw a little skull and crossbones warning post it with the word NO in caps on it and stick it on the Oreo box just in case.

 

Son goes in the kitchen.

 

I can tell he is reading my warning.

 

I certainly hope he has learned his lesson.