Twenty-five cents each.

Woke up Saturday morning with a patio set on my mind.

Momentarily money conscious, I garage sale it, my mind focused down like a clamp: four black iron chairs, one tiny table.

Four black iron chairs, one tiny table. Four black iron chairs, one tiny table.

Do not be distracted by pretty sparkly things, I tell myself. By chandeliers and picture frames, linens and old wood.

Four garage sales later I have a single black iron chair, no tiny table and four perfect books.

Close Range, by Annie Proulx
The Brief and Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz
The House on Mango Street, by Sandra Cisneros
The Maytrees, by Annie Dillard

The chair was five bucks; the books were twenty-five cents a piece, sitting in a cardboard box with so many others, like puppies. I had to limit myself to four, an even number, a dollar.

I can't believe my luck. I open randomly to a page and gems fall out everywhere. Pretty, sparkly things.

From Close Range:

"He used to be a pretty good rancher, but his wife died and he's a dirty old boar in a boar's nest now," their father had said. "Stay away from there." Men had that flaw in them, Inez thought, to go over the cliff of events and fall precipitously into moral ruin.


From The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, page 117:

She tried to keep him out of her mouth but it was hopeless. Her forearm ached at the oddest of moments and she could feel his hangdog eyes on her everywhere.


From The House on Mango Street, page 57:

My Papa, his thick hands and thick shoes, who wakes up tired in the dark, who combs his hair with water, drinks his coffee, and is gone before we wake, today is sitting on my bed.

And I think of my own Papa died what would I do. I hold my Papa in my arms. I hold and hold and hold him.


From The Maytrees, page 122

Jane came back blinking. -Why is it always a big black snake? Have you ever seen a small one? Imagine their eggs. She looked at Lou, who had not budged. -Oh, you and your marble calm! Lou laughed and knocked down her water.

While I am doing this, Finn, my three year old just getting over the flu comes and crawls in next to me, his head on his blanket, his blanket on my keyboard. I try to explain all the books, the computer. I love words, I tell him.

Me too, he says. I love words. My favorite word is pumpkin, he says. But it comes out like "punkin."

My second favorite word, he says, is balloon. But it comes out like "bayooon."

My third favorite word, he says, is kitty cat. And it comes out exactly like that.

I have never thought of words so preciously. Even as I have loved them all these years, fussed over them, seen them in print. I have Sandra, Annie P., Junot and Annie D. to thank for that today.

And Finn.

Today, I am rich.

It just is.

As of yesterday, I had completed 79.7 miles out of my 240 mile goal and I was all on track: 11 miles a week until my birthday and whamo, done.

Then, I had this little goofy cyst taken off my shoulder yesterday and stitches were required. Of course they were. When they cut something the size of a small golf ball out of your shoulder (totally benign and harmless) it is going to require some stitching to pull that sucker together, right?

Anyway. I'm a bit slow on the uptake.

Bottom line: I can't run until the stitches come out. No running until April 20th, that's right. That means I lose ten days off my training time. Which means I need to tack on more mileage onto my already taxed running schedule once I can actually run again. And onto my taxed, still flabby body.

Did I mention I haven't lost any weight? Unless maybe that cyst weighed a few ounces.

I'm feeling sorry for myself, acting like I just missed my chance at the Olympics or something. And I'm dreading the idea of running MORE. Farther. And then I have delusional moments where I think of running a half marathon.

When I was at the doctor yesterday, I asked the nurse if she was grossed out by this surgery business. Is it gross, I asked.

"It's not gross. It just is," she answered.

There it is. Sage like words, I think. Not gross. Not lame. Not disappointing.

It just is.

66.

Happy Birthday Dad. Lucky 66.

I am reading Bonfire of the Vanities and thinking of you. I just bought way too many books and thought of you. I ate way too much chocolate today and thought of you. I listened to your grandson sing You are My Sunshine and thought of you. I think of you. I think of you.

We had an Easter egg hunt today, but it was pouring rain, so the Easter Bunny only hid eggs in covered areas - thoughtful chap - and your grandchildren darted around the patio with their cousins like little squirrels in hoods yelling out "Found one!" and "Over here!" to one another, carrying their overflowing baskets of plastic eggs filled with stickers and chocolate and gum.

We made it inside finally and they opened every egg, sorting their treasures into piles of coins and chocolates and toys. It was like Halloween and Christmas and a yard sale all in one. They loved it. The big hit was a chicken that pooped bubble gum. A riot, really. Oh and a whoopie cushion. Anyway.

Hey, the other day I got an email from an old friend of yours. He was sad to hear you'd passed away and shared with me this recollection, which felt dead on:

"Your Dad could be quite positive, and also quite crazy! I remember the night
he threw a TV in the pool at a hotel in Florida. I guess he didn't like what
was on."

You never were the most subtle guy. I like that about you. I liked that about you. And it scared me, too. When I think about how different we are, how I would never do what you did, I also think about how glad I am about the ways we are the same. How your appreciation for art and music and literature and children and kindness and animals lives on, in me and my children. How I see so much of your gentleness in my daughter's touch. And your determination and fire in my son's. And your humor and intelligence in them both. And there's hope: I keep aging and growing and understanding more, but you are always stopped where you were and now maybe I can catch up to your wisdom. To your vast heart. To your craziness.

I miss you. I love you. I wish you were here. Obla-dee, Obla-da.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Love,
G

And so it begins.

My daughter's first blow dry.

My sweet six-year old, the owner of ringlets so gorgeous you could cry, got her semi-annual trim yesterday and wanted the stylist to "make it straight" just so she could see what it would look like.

I let them flat iron my girl's hair. And, of course, she loved it. She is now bargaining for how long she can go until she has to wash it and return it to it's natural state. Like Cinderella at the ball, she doesn't want to go back now.

And I feel I failed her somehow. Never mind that I told her how beautiful it looked, that I still think her "real" hair is ever so much more beautiful. Never mind that I blow my own hair straight several days a week, but let it go curly too. Never mind that I finally reached my own peace with having hair that's different, just maybe a year or two ago.

Never mind to all that.

I want more for my girl.

I want her to want what she has. To love who she is. To see her natural beauty and not want to alter it one whit. I want for her not to struggle. Not to spend thousands on hair product. Not to process or sit with chemicals on her head for the next thirty years.

I want, as we always do, more for her.

And yet, I meant it when I said, she looks beautiful. Sitting in the chair yesterday, I watched her looking in the mirror at her reflection, loving it, smile beaming, head cocked. Her hair smoothed, I could really focus on her changing face, her skin translucent and clear, tiny dots of freckles on her nose and cheeks, just a sprinkling really, her eyes brown rimmed in blue and teeth in transition, some loose, one gone, one coming in.

Beautiful, like I said.

She has always been so lovely, but getting to see her step in and out of it like this, it's the first time really. She will try on things and I will be there to watch and witness. I will be there and I will want more and I will be quiet too. I will be there to say, Reese you look so beautiful, inside and out. And to mean it. To mean it with all of my heart.

And then, when you kiss, your cheeks explode.

This is what it is to have a son, I think. A three-year old son. Or maybe even a forty-year old son.

When I put Finn down for bed tonight, we were kissing good night and he instructs me to fill my mouth with air, cheeks puffed out, and we crash our inflated cheeks into one another crazily. We both fall over laughing on the bed and I wonder where the heck that one came from. So I ask Chris.

"Oh yeah," he tells me laughing a little bit, folding laundry, not in the least bit surprised, "that's the kiss where when you hit, your cheeks explode."

Oh, that one.

This is me in the Country for New Men. I am a visitor here, me a woman raised by women, the mother of a daughter, the sister of one sister, the friend of a hundred women, a girl's girl. I am traveling in a foreign country and I had no idea this place would be so, well, foreign. And so beautiful. As well as fart filled.

Boys are all about farts. There is no conversation with a small boy that does not involve some sort of potty talk.

And when we are not talking about farts, things are exploding. Things are flying. Things are running. Things are being stopped up and stopped down. There is water in places there is not supposed to be water. There is hugging that is really, really tight and looks sweet but might not be. There are a lot of corndogs. There are eight million balls, never ever enough of them though. We need more balls. Many many more are needed.

There is also so much sweetness. Infinite sweetness, but to catch it and hold on to it is impossible; it's in and out like light. Try holding onto light. You can't. You must just watch and remember.

There is also singing. He is standing in his bed, on his stage, lit only by his nightlight, his mouth and heart wide open.

"This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of mine. I'm gonna let it shine. This little light of miiiiiiinnnneee. I'm gonnnnnnnnaaaa let it shiiiiiiiiine. Let it shiiiiiiiiiiinnnne. Let it shiiiiiiiiiinne. Let it shiiiiiiiiiinne. "

It's a shooting star across my sky in my new country. My Country of New Men. Where both men and mothers are being made daily.

Three is the new two.

My son got married today and I wasn't even invited to the wedding.

Granted, it was at pre-school. Finn married Stella, a brown-haired sweetheart of a three-year old with a older brother named Gene who is five. The whole thing happened this afternoon and somehow, Finn ended up with the ring. I know this much because when I showed up today to pick him up, there was this little copper circle on his middle finger. He was holding it tightly, his hand a fist.

He didn't really want to talk about it, his wife that is. He wanted to do a "job" - that's Montessori speak for a special learning activity - but we couldn't because he'd already lost the priviledge to do a job way back last night when he kept slugging his older sister, my six-year old daughter. He'd lost the priviledge to do jobs, or pick out a book at bedtime, or pick out a special toy in the morning; I had been at a work event and by the time I got home, my husband informed me that he'd had to strip the kid of pretty much everything but his underwear after the night he'd had.

This boy, a love of my life, he is giving us a run for our money.

He is smart and charming and handsome. He's got a smile that would melt your heart at 100 yards. He can whistle. He can write words. And do simple math. He loves animals. He's funny. He's sociable with everyone. Loves parties and dancing. He'll sit for hours with his 87-year old great grandmother and dance and sing for her, or just do a puzzle over and over. He loves tiny things and builds elaborate art installations, ones with real thought and structure and imagination. He skips. He pretends he's a frog. When his sister was crying tonite, he sidled over to her sweetly with a little square chip from the Scrabble game, an "E" and handed it to her: "For you, Reese. An 'E' for you."

Because he knew it would make her feel better and it did.

He is also the boy who argues with every single thing we say. His heart is NOT beating. He is NOT hungry. He does NOT like pizza. He does NOT want to get dressed. Or comb his hair. Or get in the bath. Or get out of the bath. He doesn't want to share. Or be shared with. It's his turn. It's not his turn. There is so very much angry crying. Lots of stomping of feet and breathing loudly out through his nostrils; a tiny, mad dragon in Converse, stomping on my hardwood floors. Then a moment later, he skips by:

"Look at what I made, Mama! It's a tower! It's an interesting house! Look at my tiny things!"

"I love you, Mama."

Looking up at me, all curly blond hair and long eyelashes. And I am disarmed, not ready for the next meltdown over who got their teeth brushed first, who got to pick out which book. And I try to remember: when did all this start? Sure, he's always been spirited, my boy, always an entertainer, a show man, a fiery love child. But this? A cantankerous grump, I don't know when he moved in.

Of course I blame myself. I went back to work six months ago. He probably is acting out, I think. He needs more love, more time, more vegetables. Maybe it's his diet: too many carbohydrates. Maybe we're giving him too many Cheerios. Or too little sunshine.

I know that my husband and I give our children every drop of love in our hearts; Chris is the best father a kid could have. I know that we send them to loving schools. Surround them in a modest but warm house filled with books and good toys. Play all kinds of music. Don't watch too much TV. Eat dinner as a family every night. Have dance parties in the living room, just us. We sing to them. We rock them. We hold them. They are the reason we exist. The whole point is the four of us and they know it. They also know that the world outside the four of us exists and that's it our responsibility to help, as much as we can. To care beyond our four walls. We give them the world and ask them to love it well.

I can only hope it is enough. I can only hope my sweet angel, my little boy finds his sunshine again. That if what he needs is to test the boundaries to know they are there, that we can be strong enough to hold them up, even as our hearts are breaking just a little. We wait for some light to shine through.

Chris says that I just don't remember: Reese was like this at three also. Intense. Feisty. Argumentative. What?, I say, I can't believe it. Don't remember it. But then again, what I had for lunch today is foggy. So there. Maybe there's hope.

I know this:

Tonight, Finn wanted Chris to do bedtime, not me. But then he asked if I would just lay with him until Dad got there and I did; he buried his face and his favorite blanket into my shoulder, his breath hot on my cheek. I felt his arm slide over across my chest, hugging me, both of us breathing, together. And I didn't question a thing.

"Did you win, Mom?"

Yes, I did, baby. Here's what I won during the half-a-half marathon (my first race ever) I did today with my beloved:

1.
A more tender attitude toward humanity.
On the course today, everyone was trying so incredibly hard, the runners and the supporters and the water giver outers and the lady who cleaned up all the cups thrown out by the runners. And especially this one little old guy, who of course passed me, and was trucking along like nobody's business, one foot in front of the other.

2.
A belief in the next generation.
A girl all of six was planted on the side of the course, her hand out for high fives for every passing runner. Her mom was standing behind her proudly, looking on and even though I was too far left to get a five from her, I felt a burst of energy just from her being there.

3.
A reminder to go at home.
Really, really long lines for the restrooms. Longer than the line to park, or leave the parking lot, I may have spent more time in line than actually running. But I met this really neat lady who had kids the same age as mine, so it was all OK and reinforced #1 yet again.

4.
A rekindled love for the beauty of my adopted hometown.
There is nothing more beautiful than the early morning light on the river here. And the gorgeous trees. And this morning, with every step, I remembered the first time I ever saw this place, how I couldn't believe my luck, it was so much more lovely than I ever expected. And today, Sacramento snuck right up on me again, pinching me with it's sweetness.

5.
A respect for my body.
It felt great today. Never once did I think I couldn't make it the six miles - further than I'd ever run. My breathing, my legs, my chest, my knees, they were all there for me, I was so incredibly grateful for the lot of them. And, I surprised myself with running a minute faster each mile than I'd dreamed of. Listening to Stevie Wonder helped too. Thank goodness for Stevie.

And thank goodness for Chris. And thank goodness for Finn.
And thank goodness for you Reese, my sweet: I can't wait to win again, next time.