Rooful.

Mama's boy.

"How's it going, honey?"

"Well, he's really tired. But he won't sleep. He seems to have stopped crying, though, so that's good."

"Yeah."

We all sat for a moment at the edge of the bed.

"I think he just wants to be with us. I've heard this is a big age for separation anxiety and stuff."

"Yeah. Poor little guy."

"Well, I think I'll leave you two to it."

Cue slow-growing wail.

"Um, honey? I think it's you he's missing."

"Really?"

I came back and sat down. The wailing stopped.

"Um, yeah. He misses his mama"

J handed him to me.

"Oh! Well, I'm sure he just wants both of us together!"

"Really? Let's see."

He got up and walked out to the hall. Nothing.

"Oh."

"I'm trying not to be hurt by this!"

"He turned and watched you the whole time you walked away."

"Hmphm."

Pause.

"I've read about this, sweetie. It comes and goes. Sometimes it'll be you he'll want to be with, and I'll be the one feeling left out."

"Yeah. I know."

"You know, sometimes when you and he are playing, he laughs so hard, harder than he ever does with me, and it makes me feel like I must be the boring, no-fun parent. But maybe we each have our thing. Maybe you're super-fun, and..."

"And you're comfort."

"Maybe. That's not so bad, right?"

Blossoms.

Come see our tour of the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens
this past Saturday.

This tree won our prestigious "Tree of the Day" award!

It was very pleased.

(And so was I.)

Do you remember the first time you caught the scent of lilacs?

I'm glad I'll remember his.

We interrupt your regularly scheduled program for some words from my day.

I got a jogging stroller!

When I got the go-ahead for my mask project, I decided I would set a little bit of my earnings aside as a present for myself-- and I've been wanting a jogging stroller for months.

Like most exercise equipment, jogging strollers are the sort of thing a lot of people buy but then rarely use. Plus, there's a relatively narrow window that they're useful (since kids don't stay little for long.) So I went online to look for a good second-hand.

I found a contender on Craigslist. The seller lives on the East Side, in Midtown-- which was great, because it meant I could see the stroller before deciding to buy it, and I wouldn't have to pay shipping. He texted me his address for the meeting.

"Apartment PHB?"

"That means Penthouse B."

"Oh, he lives in the penthouse, blah blah blah."

"Well, that doesn't necessarily mean what you think-- New York realtors are famous for calling the top floor of anything the penthouse."

"So the sixth floor of a six-floor walk-up would be the penthouse."

"Yeah. And sometimes, they'll even call the top floor Penthouse A, and then the second-top floor would be Penthouse B..."

"So you're saying it's not necessarily schmancy."

"Yeah. I mean, it's in the Fifties. It's not like it's the Upper East Side."

The three of us were damp around the edges from some unexpected Sunday-afternoon rain, when we arrived at the address. A bevy of doormen ushered us in. The security guard was more like a concierge-- gave us a genteel glance across his expansive desk, announced our arrival in quiet tones, and gestured towards the bank of elevators. We passed through an understated but chic lobby, paneled in honey-toned wood, with low-slung modern settees upholstered in cream leather.

We waited as our elevator made its silent approach. "So-- not schmancy at all."

"Hmph."

The seller seemed like a regular guy-- fit, about our age. He explained that the stroller was a little damp because it had just been outside.

Because they have an outside. A penthouse with a terrace.

I shot J a look. He pretended not to notice. Sprog didn't care.

Anyway, the stroller looked good. Despite my class-oriented self-consciousness, I made him an offer about ten percent off what he'd been asking, and he accepted. Yay!

Well, getting it folded up and on to the subway was a bit of a trick.

"You know, it's bigger than our regular stroller, but still, this just confirms for me that wearing him is so much easier all around."

"Yeah, I don't know how the two of you would have managed if you hadn't asked me to come along."

"Well, that's one of the reasons I asked you."

"Oh, I see."

Anyway, we all got home, and spent the money I'd saved on some tasty take-out. I considered it carbo-loading for the run I was going on the next day.

Monday morning, I settled Sprog in his bouncy seat and answered my phone.

It was Mom. "Hi!"

"Hi, Mom! How are you?"

"Well, we're on the Jersey Turnpike, so I'd say we'll be there in about an hour."

"You, wait. What? You're visiting?"

"Yes! We told you."

"Well, no..."

"You don't want us to come?"

"No, Mom, of course we want to see you. I just... I didn't know you were coming today."

"We told you we were coming."

"Well, I knew you were planning to visit at some point, but you never set a day."

"Yes I did. I left a message...your phone is... I told you."

"It's okay. It's just, I had plans for today. But I'll change them."

[quiet sob.]

"Mom, don't. It's fine. I'll see you guys in an hour. Sprog's going to be thrilled. I love you."

So I spent the next hour getting us presentable and trying to hide the mess and getting some ice cubes made and...

It was a nice visit.

That evening, after we got Sprog down for some much-needed sleep, J turned to me and asked, "Do you ever think your Mom is just... from some other planet, where she's never had to interact with actual humans?"

"Well, yes. Yes I do. But I'm not sure what particular circumstance is prompting this question."

"She took Sprog in her lap, and then hunched down, frowned, furrowed her brows, and started clucking at him. And then she was surprised when he started to cry. So she furrowed her brows and clucked some more. And he cried more. So she decided he must not like her."

"I didn't see that. I knew Sprog was crying, and you took him. I thought he was just tired."

"He was. But I don't know what your mom was thinking."

"I can picture the face you're describing. My sister makes that face, too. Do I make that face?"

"No, you're like most normal people. You smile at babies."

"Well, that's good. Funny, it never occurred to me... I guess I'm the last person who's going to think the face my mom makes at babies is weird. She probably made that face at me."

"True."

...

Today I took the stroller out for its inaugural run. I fiddled with straps and stowed a diaper bag and got Sprog bundled up and we headed out for my customary tour of the park.

I say customary, because I used to run that course three times a week. But I haven't been out since... just before Xmas.

Holy crap am I out of shape! I barely made it to three-quarters of a mile before I had to drop back to a walk. Then it was little bursts of running interspersed with walking the whole way home. My lungs felt worse than when I'd just quit smoking.

But Sprog seemed to enjoy the ride. The stroller seat swings a little, like a hammock, and the shocks are good-- he slept until we got home.

It was fun. We're going out again tomorrow. Hee!

Unbiased.

I'm in love with my baby. Besotted. I just composed a long list of ways he's wonderful, and realized that, well, it's unlikely anyone else will be enraptured by my enumeration of all his charming behaviors, his beautiful eyes and lashes and fingers and...

I'll spare you.

But J knows where I'm coming from.

"Thanks for making such an awesome baby."

"He really is an awesome baby."

"Yeah. He's the best baby ever. I think I can say that objectively."

"Well. I can say he's the better than any baby I've ever met. Or any baby that ever was or will be. So I guess you're right. He's the best baby ever."

"He is the best baby."

Go ahead and disagree. But I don't know how you could refute such a conclusive argument.

When the Zombie Apocalypse comes, I'm gonna look fantastic!

"I had a zombie dream this morning."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I don't really remember it. I guess it wasn't that scary. The main thing I remember from it is coming to the conclusion: I really need to focus on losing weight."

"Lose unwanted pounds on our exclusive Zombie Diet Plan! Watch those extra inches melt away while eating nothing but human brains!"

It's true!

And staggering around with your arms outstretched really strengthens your core.

Sunday style section/ animatronic dolls.

I'm sitting on my couch, across from my son, sitting in his bouncy seat. He's chewing on a new board book his grandparents brought yesterday. I'm watching Oscar pre-show coverage, hoping to see some pretty dresses. I haven't seen the movies in question, for obvious reasons, so tonight the show will be pretty much all about fashion for me. Well, fashion, and actors I've loved forever, who I will be judging on reputation and whether or not they seem like righteous folks.

J is napping. I think he needs it, after what sounds like an awkward visit from his parents yesterday.

I'm so glad I missed it! And I got hoodies and yoga pants and new tank tops and some pretty but machine-washable blouses and a pair of skinny jeans-- not to mention socks for the Sprog and new pajama pants for my honey. Oh, and a new purse. So I'd have to say yesterday's diabolical plan (wherein we pretended that last week's exam was yesterday so I could avoid the in-laws and spend my X-mas shopping money instead) was a rousing success.

I still need new bras and underthings. And some shoes. But those can wait.

Anyway, J's parents brought all sorts of nice things for Sprog-- new pants, a stuffed lion, some books for him to chew. Which was very sweet of them. Even though there's one book I'm not too keen on-- with scenes about how it's bad not to draw in the lines, and how daddy's the one who burns supper. Maybe it's silly to worry about that-- not like Sprog understands books at that level anyway.

I think I'm going to look for a good place to donate it, all the same.

Apparently, when Sprog went down for his nap yesterday, FIL decided to bring up the letter I wrote him.

"She wrote me a letter, and I left you a voice mail about it, but I never heard back."

J said something to the effect of, "Well, I don't know why you haven't contacted her about it."

He said, "Well, I thought it'd be so much better if all of us were here to talk about it-- MIL and me, you and her."

"Why?"

"... For support."

"So you could feel comfortable. This isn't about you feeling comfortable, Dad. It's about her."

"Well, I guess... I guess you've got a point there..."

"I remember both of the things you said, Dad, and frankly, I need to do a better job speaking up about those things when they happen. But as far as talking to roo about it, well, you could apologize. But the focus really ought to be on how things are going to be from now on. How you need to be considerate about other people's feelings and not just say whatever comes into your head when you feel uncomfortable."

"I just don't want to feel like I have to walk on eggshells."

Well. If FIL's only two options are to either say wildly inappropriate and hurtful things, or have to walk on eggshells constantly, that really is a tough break for him.

You know, Michael Scott, Steve Carell's character from The Office, seems less and less like a caricature the older I get. People really are just that ridiculous.

J looked so worn out when I got home last night. We ate some take-out Chinese and then he went to play his online spaceship game until he was ready for bed. I didn't even bother asking him how the visit went until today, after coffee.

There was more tiresome stuff, about his sister. I didn't ask him about that. I've finally learned that sometimes it's better not to know.

Better yet not to have to see them at all, though. I'm still patting myself on the back for that move (although I fear I may be forced to pay some terrible price for enjoying my deception. Where's some wood to knock?)

Well, my sister-in-law, C, hasn't been in the same room as FIL since she graduated high school. "I don't know, sweetie-- I think she may be on to something."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, she might be smarter than I've given her credit for. Maybe you should do it too."

"Just leave them with Sprog?"

"Maybe."

"Poor Sprog."

Maybe some really lifelike dummies...

But why Charles?

Were any of you wondering?

I need to frame this discussion. Where I grew up, a little less than an hour outside Boston, there was a local television station that filled up its hours primarily with rebroadcasts of Taxi, Cheers, and M*A*S*H. Every day, after my paper route and before dinner (and Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune-- which we watched while we ate) I took in a couple episodes of the life and times of the 4077.

Even before that, I used to listen to the strains of the theme song, "Suicide is Painless," drifting up (well, blasting) through the floorboards to my sister's and my room, back when it was still an original series that aired after my bedtime. (There are a couple themes I feel close to for that reason-- the one from "Hill Street Blues" is another. I used to play them both on the piano. Badly.)

J's experiences with the show were similar. It's rare that we see an episode we don't remember. And considering the series ran longer than we've been married, that's saying something.

I don't know what it says about us, or the current state of basic cable, that a show that's been in syndication since we were in elementary school is still frequently the most appealing thing on.

So, I thought I'd explain why, when I said J would be Charles Emerson Winchester were he a character on the show, he accepted it with little demur. Not to mention why I saw that connection in the first place.

Because it doesn't seem like a flattering comparison, does it? After all, Charles came on to the show to replace Frank Burns as the annoying roommate in the Swamp. But Charles is no officious buffoon or sycophantic climber. He's a Boston Brahmin, of the first order. He doesn't care about military rank-- he's a legacy from Harvard Medical School.

He's a snob. You can tell, because he sways a finger in the air while he listens to concert music on his portable turntable. You can tell, because he will tell you himself. He's an elitist and he feels no shame for it.

Americans generally don't cotton to someone like that. But there's something brave about a person who's willing to assert that what he likes is better than what other people like-- and here's why. There's something attractive about someone who fully owns his sense of taste.

I'm not saying Charles and J like the same things-- just that they share a sense that there are finer things, better things, that are worth valuing, and worth holding out for. And they can be equally sharp in their dismissal of things that don't hit the mark.

These are things I'm talking about here-- I'm not talking about a dismissal of people. Because neither of them do. Charles... I think Charles gets lonely at camp, because there are so few people to talk to that take an interest in things he cares about. Every now and then he'd encounter someone who really excited him-- a woman who surprised him by playing Rachmaninoff, when he'd thought she only did the boogie woogie. Someone who knew how to appreciate an exceptional meal...

And Charles cares very deeply about his patients. In marked contrast to Frank Burns, Charles is an exceptional surgeon. In his very first episode, though, we see how that excellence is Charles' particular cross to bear.

He's scrubbing his hands. People tell him to get a move on. He informs them, "I do one thing. I do it very well. And then I move on."

But this isn't Massachusetts General. This is Korea. This is meatball surgery.

Charles gets knocked down to size. And that costs him, in that particular respect, much more than any of the other surgeons. Consider Hawkeye, writing letters to his doctor father back in Crabapple Cove, Maine. Hawkeye is a good doctor, a very compassionate one. But don't you think he was cut out to be the local doc? The county GP who delivers babies and sets broken bones and occasionally gets paid in bushels of corn?

Not Charles. Charles became a surgeon, because that was his way to be an artist.

He's very frank about it, in an episode that is my favorite Charles episode by far. A young man in his care had suffered a blast, and Charles tells him with pride how he was able to save the man's leg (I get the sense, watching this, that few of the other doctors would have had the skill, or would have taken the time in the rush of casualties, to do so.)

The man doesn't care about his leg, though. He can't move his fingers.

Three fingers on the right hand were paralysed. Charles assures him, "It will look perfectly normal."

But the young man doesn't care. He was a concert pianist. His life is ruined.

Charles tries to bring the man out of his despair. He orders some sheet music of Ravel's compositions for the left hand. But that's just a token, to open up a discussion about art and music and identity.

Charles tells him how long he tried to learn to play well. "I could play the notes, but there was no music. I didn't have that gift. I have hands that can make a scalpel sing. But music... isn't in the hands. It's in the brain. It's in the heart."

Ah, I'm paraphrasing here. But this scene makes my heart break for both of them.

Charles enjoins him to remember he can compose. He can conduct. He can teach. He can write.

Slowly, the man begins to play. Then he starts to play with more confidence.

Charles watches him, with wistfulness. Then the music leads him to something that looks like transcendence.

Charles Emerson Winchester is a beautiful man.

That's why I could see my husband in him.

She said "I almost dropped the Archangel Michael on his head."

Never mind that.

J and I have just spent the last five minutes or so trying to remember what Archangel Michael's qualities were. It's much easier to remember Gabriel, with his trumpet and such.

Neither of us felt like actually looking it up, though. Is he God's mouthpiece? That's the best we could come up with.

Well, J came up with that bit. All I could add was, "He's deadly, right?"

"Well, all the seraphim are."

On a related note, on his way to the tub our son looks just like a putti (putto? not sure of the singular-- chubby little Renaissance angels that I think actually were used to indicate sexytimes.) Except his hair is wrong-- properly, he should have ringlets, instead of downy fuzz that sticks straight up.

The day after Valentine's.

"Don't fart right in my face."

"Oh, so the only person who can fart right in your face is Sprog."

"He doesn't fart right in my face. He's too short."

"Harumph."

To my valentine.

Don’t run anymore. Quiet. How softly it rains

On the roofs of the city. How perfect

All things are. Now, for the two of you

Waking up in a royal bed by a garret window.

For a man and a woman. For one plant divided

Into masculine and feminine which longed for each other.

Yes this is my gift to you. Above ashes

On a bitter, bitter earth. Above the subterranean

Echo of clamorings and vows. So that now at dawn

You must be attentive: the tilt of a head,

A hand with a comb, two faces in a mirror

Are only forever once, even if unremembered,

So that you watch what is, though it fades away,

And are grateful every moment for your being.

Let that little park with greenish marble busts

In the pearl-gray light, under a summer drizzle,

Remain as it was when you opened the gate.

And the street of tall peeling porticos

Which this love of yours suddenly transformed.

--The Two of You, by Czeslaw Milosz

I still remember, honeypie.


I love you.