Dec. 21, 2004

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Thought for the day: We parked way in back of the Brainy Borough post office, where parking is usually not allowed, because there was nowhere else to go. The postman-turned-traffic cop pointed and said, “Park there, go ahead, it will be alright, just be careful; there’s a pool of ice to cross.”

He must not have seen there was a 4-year-old in the car too, for when the little boy came upon the ice, he became Skaterman, flailing like a rag doll with wire for legs and tossing our parcel full of stampless Christmas cards to the wind on a truly frigid day.

Then they came from every idling car, from every direction: grandmothers, fathers in suits, men in postal coats, a fully cloaked woman with only eyes and foreign tongue, an elderly couple, two young women, all to help my son and to ease my harvest burden.

When all the cards were finally collected from ice-laden bordergrass and from underneath cars and postal trucks, two men in suits took the box of cards inside while I scooped up my child, carrying him into the warmth to wait by snaking rope line for “Next please” with lots of hugs and caresses for a barely bruised knee. And when we reached the counter, an unfamiliar envelope lay atop the pile of cards. Inside, a jumbled stack of mismatched one dollar bills with which to buy our Mary stamps. I didn’t know from where the money came, but it seemed like a quick collection, spearheaded by the men in suits perhaps, out of a sheer generosity of Christmas spirit.

A smiling glance back through tear-filled eyes at the strangers still waiting revealed that all those who had so selflessly helped in the parking lot had disappeared, their Brainy Borough postal business presumably completed, and that no one standing in line seemed any the wiser to the envelope full of money. I had wanted to thank those kindhearted souls, to wish them a Merry Christmas. Instead, the strangers still waiting received one mismatched dollar each — to help them buy their stamps.

Dec. 20, 2004

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Quote of the day: No chance I’d be subbing any graphics the night of the office party; I took the night off. But after 15 years in the eclectic graphics department, I knew the party drill: homemade food of various cultures and traditions, laughter, more food, more laughter.

Over the years, the Secret Santa gag gift theme has varied from the simple “hats” to the genteel “science and technology” to the easy-walk-down-the-street for “tacky Times Square trinkets.” (There was greater than usual laughter that year, and quite a few red faces, too.)

This year’s theme, “t-shirts,” was easy on the surface, ahh, but how to fit the shirt’s message to the giftee? That was the tricky part. Since I wasn’t around for the festivities, I opened my gift in quiet solitude tonight, no chance of being embarrassed should the gift-giver have chosen a message revealing of my darker days.

But I’m happy to report that my Secret Santa did nothing of the sort, choosing instead for me a sweet little soccer shirt in Columbia blue adorned with the message that defines my very existence here: “you’ve been subbed.”

Dec. 17, 2004

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Quote of the day: A group of seventh graders were talking about technological advances during the cold war. One boy, obviously familiar with cold war vocabulary and moods, spoke at length about the need for spy satellites and developing long-range missiles during that time. But a girl opposite him was quite confused. “Cold war?” she said, scrunching her eyes at me, “Snowballs shot from cannons and icicles used a swords?”

Could happen.

Dec. 15, 2004

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Quote of the day: The Christmas cards began arriving yesterday. As the precursor to the big event of Christmas Day, Gregory checks the mail pile and opens the colorful envelopes with anticipation and excitement, eager to hear from whom the greetings came.

The picture-card that arrived today was especially charming. Standing front
and center in red holiday dress, her dark shiny hair pulled back with a red band, little 3-year-old Sarah was surrounded by her two older brothers lovingly embracing her arms, escort style, on either side.

Considering the extremely active lifestyle Gregory has embarked upon in this, his fifth year of life, he stared at the picture for an unusually long and still moment.

I wondered what about it had intrigued him so, until finally, he spoke softly. “Oh mom,” he began slowly, decidedly, enchanted by Sarah’s eyes, or perhaps it was her smile, “She is just so, so beautiful.”

Dec. 14, 2004

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Quote of the day: They say legends never die. Of course, it helps if your picture’s printed in the margin of the dictionary. “Mom,” Bradley asked while perusing the d-section for vocabulary definitions, “Who was James Dean?”

“He was an actor.” (Short and to-the-point, I know; my patience with homework-stalling questions had grown thin.)

Eyes all aglow, Bradley responded, “Oh! He was that guy who played Kevin’s older brother Buzz in Home Alone!”

Buzz’s picture, in case you’ve lived under a rock for the last 10 years, could be in the dictionary next to “big nerdy bully.”

Homework-stalling tactic or not, my son could not live another second thinking that awful kid was James Dean. “Uh, no, honey, James Dean did not play Buzz in Home Alone,” I said. “Someday, I’ll tell you all about James Dean. When you’re 25. Or maybe 30. Yeah, 30’s good. Homework! Now! Next word: ‘distressed.’”

Dec. 13, 2004

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Quote of the day: “Dinner” is a book of laminated drawings, each page contributed by a member of Gregory’s preschool class. The teacher sent the one-of-a-kind book home for us to enjoy for a few days, then return to school for another family to borrow. On each page: an artist’s name and several adorable drawings of that child’s favorite dinner foods: plump purple grapes, juicy steaks, long luscious carrots, red apples with nary a worm, piles of green beans, cups of milk, stalks of corn to please the Pilgrims. Some pages are filled top to bottom. These kids are well-fed!

The book has been in circulation now for several weeks, but the day it came to my house was the first time I had seen Gregory’s page. When I saw it, I laughed out loud. There was truth, simplicity in his drawing.

And then I remembered the fact that — oh no! — all the other parents had seen his page too!

Underneath “Gregory” written in perfect preschool-teacher-block letters, a large wild scribble of Robin’s-egg-blue crayon mass with sporadic yellow scribbles near the top. Along the bottom: the two words my picky-eater son has repeated every day for the last two months when asked, “What would you like for dinner?”

“Mashed potatoes.”

Dec. 10, 2004

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Quote of the day: With the holidays in full swing, the students in Bradley’s fourth grade class were discussing gifts that can be given, one person to another, but that cannot be touched and cannot be put into a box and wrapped with a pretty bow. Making her way around the room Dead Poets Society style, the teacher asked Bradley to compose a sentence aloud, using a simile and something intangible like faith, hope or love.

He thought for a moment, then responded, “A world without caring is like the night sky without stars.”

I have it on good authority that the teacher was practically moved to tears and praised her student lavishly, reacting as any teacher would when a moment of clarity befalls her classroom.

“That’s lovely, Bradley, truly,” I said, touching my hand to my heart when he related this story to me after school. “I’m not sure I understand, though. Would you tell me what the simile means?”

“If all the caring people disappeared,” he said, “there’d be no happiness, no light in the world; everything would be dark and dreary.”

He’s 10. When I was 10, I believed The Brady Bunch was a real family and that Marcia and Jan really did have golden tans year-round.

Dec. 8, 2004

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Thought for the day: Like a ballerina in a twirl, 4-year-old Gregory was spinning around the kitchen. “Ahhhhhh . . .”

“Stop spinning,” I told him over and over. “You’re going to get dizzy and fall.”

“ . . . ahhhhhhhhh. OH!” (Plunk.) “OW!”

Dec. 7, 2004

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Quote of the day: When Gregory matures, he plans to work on construction sites. “I’m going to drive the construction truck,” Gregory told his father decidedly during dinner, “the big yellow one.”

Mike and I exchanged a dropped-chin-raised-eyebrows look. He squinted at Gregory, subtly pointing a fork in the direction of the child’s sweet potatoes. With a lilting voice and a nod of his head, Mike replied, “It’s a good way to pay for medical school, son.”

Dec. 6, 2004

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Quote of the day: One hour before deadline — “Liberals!" an editor on the south side of the newsroom shouts, his fist raised, “You people are skewing this whole (newsroom-specific expletive deleted) section to the left!”

Dec. 3, 2004

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Quote of the day: I heard once that Julie Andrews never sang lullabies to her daughter, choosing to serenade her child instead with “bawdy English campfire songs.” I find this hard to believe, since my image of Julie Andrews can never be anything other than her as God-sent governess to seven singing siblings. Ever since I heard about the campfire songs though, when I sing “My Favorite Things” to Gregory at bedtime, I can’t help imagining Julie Andrews dancing around a nursery belting out, “Wittgenstein was a beery swine who was just as schloshed as Schlegel.” Outwardly, though, I sing with Gregory as sweetly as I can, longing for the lull that brings even breaths and sweet dreams.

Alas, Gregory finds the “dog bite” and the “bee sting” to be a bit too much in a song that’s supposed to help him relax. So we make up our own words. On nights when I’m home, Gregory and I can often be found in a darkened room singing together:

Biscuits with butter and playdates with Marco
Hot Wheels and Matchbox and having a brother
Singing with you in the soft light moon brings
These are a few of my favorite things.

The other night the room brightened when Bradley snuck in to join the chorus. Remembering his own toddler days when we would sit together in the rocking chair lullabying and sharing our favorite things, he reminisced about his list back when he was four: yellow daffodils in March, going to preschool, playing checkers in the bagel shop window. (Some things never change.) “But now,” he said, staring at the chambray curtains adorned with galaxies and stars, “one of my favorite things is imagination.” He turned a palm size model of the space shuttle over in his hands. “In fact,” he added to the silent music of Gregory’s even breathing, “I simply can’t imagine life without it.”

Dec. 2, 2004

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Quote of the day: “These facts were very interesting to me,” Bradley wrote in the conclusion to his essay revealing all he’d learned about Chinatown via the Internet. And his final sentence — the thoughtful kicker, the pièce de résistance, the now-I-can-go-outside-and-play: “Were these facts helpful to you?”

“Bradley,” I said, “the body of your essay works nicely. You have indeed included many interesting facts. But your conclusion — son, try again!” As I was reading over his shoulder, offering my writing expertise, Bradley rolled his eyes and literally gave my arm a shove. “Go away,” he said. “When I want your advice I’ll ask for it. And anyway, I am not rewriting. Period.”

I pranced off into the kitchen, head held high. I was not going to let this little punk get the better of me. Still, deep down, I was a little hurt, and concerned. I knew he’d be bringing that essay back the next day with a message in red from the teacher. “Conclusion needs work,” it would say.

I was determined to find a way to encourage the painful rewrite sooner rather than later. Sitting at the kitchen table one room away from my homeworking son, I wrote him a letter on beautiful stationery and had it delivered via The Little Brother Express.

“Mom sent you this letter,” I heard Gregory say as he handed up the envelope.
After a moment of silence, Bradley called from the dining room. “Mom! Come here! What does this say!?”

I approached slowly, cautiously, feigning a rub of the shoulder he’d shoved. I looked at the paper. He pointed to a word. “What does this say?” he said again, with a bit of fury in his voice.

“Sound it out,” I said.

Slowly, he began. “A-neen . . . um . . . A-neen-a-bude . . . um . . . A-neen-a-bude-a-deed-a. Aneenabudeadeeda. Yeah, that’s it. Aneenabudeadeeda! What does it mean?”

“That,” I said with an air of satisfaction, “is the secret code word for free help. And you’ve just said it two, or was it three times. So, what can I help you with today?”

Gregory laughed raucously, then Bradley did too. “You tricked me!” he shouted, laughing. But his mood had been sufficiently altered.

After another moment: “Mom?” he said quietly, “Aneenabudeadeeda. Please?”

“Why don’t you try writing about the particular things you’d like to experience in Chinatown when you go there in person someday,” I offered.

Pencil and eyebrows hoisted, he responded, “Aha!”

Dec. 1, 2004

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TQuote of the day: Overheard in the elementary school hallway: Fourth grade boy to third grade boy: “Hey did you know I’m on Safety Patrol now?”
Third grader: “No.”
Fourth grader: “Fear me.”

Nov. 30, 2004

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Quote of the day: It was a stormy fall day. The tall and fearless father was not at home. We heard a loud crash in the garage. No one was there. Or so we assumed. Our eyes opened wide. I stared hard into my older son’s glare, then moved slowly to the younger boy’s shocked face, and back again to the older boy. “What was THAT?!” the little one and I exclaimed in unison. Bradley, the double-digit-aged safety patrol lieutenant who always has the answers, calmly explained the creepy crashing sound before biting into his ham sandwich: “Gravity often gets its revenge when no one is looking.”

Nov. 29, 2004



Quote of the day: When Bradley came home from Chinatown on Saturday, Gregory was fast asleep. But the big brother had not returned empty-handed, having used his own money to buy toys and surprises for the little brother who’d been left at home.

Today, while Bradley was in school, Gregory sat across from me at the kitchen table. “I was very sad,” Gregory said, “when Bradley went to Chinatown. I missed him and I was lonely.” He picked up one of the souvenirs Bradley had given him. “But he brought me toys and that was really nice. I love Bradley, mom. He’s a great big brother.”

I’m writing this story now because I know that one day soon it will be forgotten, lost in the work-a-day world of breakfasts, shuffling off to school, marathon homework nights, fighting over the big green living room pillow. I’m writing it so I’ll be sure to remember two little boys who care deeply for one another, brothers who, as adults, will surely be best friends, but for whom trying days are certain to come in the adolescent years. I’m writing it as my personal message of thanks to God for giving me two wonderfully smart, funny, sensitive, adorable sons. I’m writing it because when I suggested to Gregory that he tell Bradley how much the Chinatown surprises meant to him, he stared me in the eye and said, “No way, mom! Bradley might actually start to think I like him or something!”

Nov. 23, 2004



Quote of the day. Presentation editor, fed up with a particular graphic that had been subbed so many times it was doing the Hokey Pokey (put the graphic in, take the graphic out, put the graphic in . . .): “Hey listen, you’re only allowed five subs, no more . . .”

It was several hours before quitting time. “Great!” I said, “Since I am no longer needed, I’m going home.”

Nov. 22, 2004



Quote of the day: During every commercial break the refrain is predictable. Sixty seconds elapses, Gregory shouts from the living room, “I wanna get that!” Another 60 seconds: “I wanna get that!” He’s been this way for a few months now, wanting every toy he sees advertised, even toys he already has, even when it’s something he would not usually be drawn to like a hot pink make-up kit targeted at preteen girls.

Today my little consumer branched beyond toys. Despite news on CNN from the Congressional hearing room about the dubious safety of some drugs, Gregory was happily glued to the rhyming Patrick Stewart voice-over in the Seuss-like Crestor commercials. The swash-buckling starship captain, the Scrooge of Dickens’s dreams, the lead in any Henrik Ibsen play, Patrick Stewart, I’m convinced, can sell just about anything. He is the quintessential leader, the father figure, the mentor, The Voice. Even so, I doubt the drug company was targeting preschoolers when they produced the pitch for the cholesterol-lowering pill. When the bouncy ad was over, yep, Gregory repeatedly shouted, “I wanna get that!”

“What is it, exactly, that you want?” I said.

“That. That thing,” he replied. “That thing on TV.”

“What thing?”

“Whatever that was. I wanna get that. Please, mommy?”

“If you can tell me what it is, what it does, how much it costs, where it can be bought and why you think you must have it, I’ll give your request strong consideration. I promise.”

To this, my preschooler, who is really quite smart, turned off the TV and stormed out of the room, murmuring to no one in particular, “I wanted to get that.”

Nov. 18, 2004



Quote of the day: Attached to the “for sale” sign in front of my neighbor’s property was an “under contract” notice. A man holding a clipboard was out back measuring every detail, taking careful notes. After studying his movements for several minutes, I surmised that he must have been doing the required survey of the property. I always figured those survey guys were about as accurate as they come, until I noticed how he measured the distance from our fence to the one on the other side. No measuring tape in hand, he stepped heel-to-toe, heel-to-toe and counted aloud: “One, two, three . . .”

Nov. 17, 2004



Quote of the day: “Think of the years in your life,” the homework paper required. “How have you changed? What have you learned?”

Intriguing questions. So intriguing, in fact, that I was thinking back myself. Bradley filled in the blanks on his worksheet:

“When I was one,” he wrote, “I learned to crawl.

“When I was two, I learned to walk.

“When I was three, I learned to talk.

“When I was four, I learned what school was.

“When I was five, I learned that the world was round.”

It goes on, all the way up to his current age: 10. But I stopped reading, shut my eyes in pain, made a bit of a fist when I read what he’d written for age six.

“When I was six,” he wrote of the age he was on September 11, 2001, “I learned what war was.”

Nov. 16, 2004



Quote of the day: I asked my 10-year-old if he would like to go out, see a movie, get some popcorn. “Would I?” Bradley shouted with a grimace. Clearly, the excited tone didn’t match the furled brow. “What’s with the face?” I said. “Oh, that’s my sly face,” he replied. “I’m developing my mysterious side.”

Nov. 15, 2004



Poem of the day:

There is Logic in the Lingo

Somebody left lipstick on the ledge
above the lavatory in the ladies’ room.
I saw it there at eight.
At 11, it lingered, ahh, linked with mascara.
At midnight, a lady with literally lustrous bright red lips
put the lipstick back on the ledge.
“Oooh! Light and Lovely,” she said, eyeing the mascara.
“Somebody left these here!”
While lengthening her lashes one-by-one,
she lamented,
“Nah,”
then left, and left the lipstick on the ledge.
As the lady lumbered away, a distinctly mascara-tube shape
lifted from her left leg’s leather pouch.
Thus, the poet’s logic:
Lavish lipstick too luminous for lacy lashes.

Nov. 12, 2004



Thought for the day: Having spent a fair portion of his life looking after the little brother, six years his junior, Bradley assured me he would give serious consideration as to whether or not grandchildren would ever be in my future.

Nov. 11, 2004




Thought for the day: Making its way from the Queens printing plant, the newspaper’s first edition arrives at 43rd Street each morning at around 1:30. Nightside staffers often grab a copy on the way home; God forbid typos (or worse) might jump out at us that we didn’t catch for the late edition. “Tomorrow’s birdcage liner,” “fishwrap,” “papier-maché volcano” — these are phrases I personally used often on that day back in 1996 when I mistakenly labeled President Bill Clinton as representing the Disney Company instead of the country on page one of the Washington edition. (Nevermind today’s big red caption placeholder sitting on top of the page one Falluja story in some editions. Computers! Ugh!)

Still, we like to think people actually do read the paper we work so hard to create before it’s turned into tomorrow’s stuffed turkey centerpiece.

When I went to my car at 2 a.m. yesterday, the early edition, barely cool from the Queens press, was already spread out on the parking bay floor. Ironic, huh, that the page on top happened to be A13. A story headlined, “Bush Visits Wounded G.I.s and Families at Hospital,” was literally soaking up a pool of oil.

Nov. 10, 2004



Quote of the day: I can offer no explanation for today’s quote from my 4-year-old. “That’s it,” Gregory said flapping the tops of his ears. “I’m trading these in for a new set. Let’s go.”

Nov. 9, 2004



Quote of the day: Their offices line the windowless walls, administrators in small rooms surrounding the giant newsroom work pods like the walls of a zoo-based ant farm. Most of the doors remain undecorated. But not all. One has a clean copy of Rudyard Kipling’s “If” taped to the door. “If you can keep your head when all about you/Are losing theirs. . .” I’m thinking: you must be a terrorist kidnapper.

The door outside the copy chief’s office has a host of tiny postage-stamp pictures glued to tiny square magnets which she arranges to spell simple messages. Several weeks ago I started keeping track.

“BACK 9-26,” the door said in digital-esqe type formed with the little magnetic blocks.

Not long after the 26th, presumably on a bad day, it was changed to “YELL.”

A few days after that, ahh, it must have been a good day, for her door read, “YES.”

A week or so before the election, the blocks were moved around to compel door readers to “VOTE.”

By late last Wednesday, the day after President Bush’s re-election, the letters spelled, “HOPE,” presumably in the hopes of cheering up a bunch of depressed New Yorkers.

Nov. 8, 2004



Quote of the day: Elvira lives in the Halloween candy bowl year round. A fuzzy black spider with burgundy eyes, she’s soft to the touch and jumps on command. She’s quite skilled at scaring little ghouls when they reach into the bowl for their treats. One satiny devil ran screeching out to his parents waiting by the sidewalk. “Tarantula! Tarantula!” he said as he fell crying into his mother’s arms. Did I feel bad? Hmph. More candy for me, the sorceress in a purple velvet cape. Elvira, you’re a spider saint!

While I cut a creepy cat face with drippy little fangs into a pumpkin, Bradley, the phantom-with-red-flashing-eyes took over the job of treating — and tricking — the neighborhood monsters. Halloween bowl in hand, he stood at the door of our haunted home, his eyes flashing, repeating in a scratchy phantom voice, “Happy Halloweeeeen! Now don’t come back.”

A SpongeBob reached into the bowl. “Hey! Cool!” the spongeboy said. “I got plenty of candy. Can I have the spider?”

Bradley-phantom instinctively yanked the spider away. “You can’t have Elvira,” he said still in phantom voice. “I would never give away my mother.”

Nov. 5, 2004



Quote of the day: Gregory started out this Halloween dressed as a fleecy skeleton. On a trick-or-treat break, he returned home all in a sweat, and in a tizzy about being hot. He traded his costume in for jeans and a turtleneck. When trick-or-treating resumed in street clothes, Bradley, his brother-the-phantom with red flashing eyes, informed the 4-year-old that a good story should be at the ready for why no costume. “I’m a skeleton,” Gregory said, “disguised as a little boy.”

Nov. 4, 2004



Thought for the day: As the leftover Halloween candy is picked over by the much-fatigued election crew — and this is just what really tired people need: lots and lots of sugar — I think back to the trick-or-treating that produced the bountiful bag. The former governor of New Jersey, James J. Florio, who was defeated in his re-election bid by Christine Todd Whitman in 1994, lives around the corner from my house. Two doors down from him: our much beloved and highly respected pediatrician. Every year candy-dolers at each home treat with exactly the same item as was handed out the previous year. From one house: a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. From the other, always a full-size chocolate bar. Logic might lead to the assumption that the toothbrushing appliances are coming from the doctor, and the full-size candy bar from the politician.

It’s the other way around. Can’t help but wonder if the Florios own stock in the Colgate company. Or maybe his family gives out toothpaste as punishment because we sent him to the Political Graveyard. Why, Mr. Florio’s probably showing John Edwards (the failed vice presidential candidate) all the other tombstones even as we speak.

Nov. 3, 2004



Thought for the day: The results are in. With every vote counted at Bradley’s school: Kerry won with 313 votes (51.8%). Bush received 286 votes (47.4%) and Nader received 5 votes (0.8%). No punch cards, no hanging chads. All votes were hand-counted (maybe even double counted!) by the honorable Ms. Repke herself. We swish our hands and call it a day.

Still, since Bradley’s school is not a swing state, please go vote.

Nov. 1, 2004

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Thought for the day: 7 p.m. Cars are descending toward the Hudson River crossings from every imaginable direction, many of the occupants likely headed to dinner in the city, a Broadway show, dancing, clubbing, band-hopping. Some of us are headed to work, annoyed at being delayed by leisure-seekers.

Traffic is barely moving. In the last 10 minutes, my car has advanced a whopping 25 feet.
The foursome in a top-up white convertible idling next to me is loud, obnoxious, and I don’t know what it is three of them are drinking from those brown paper bags, but what’s the use of a bag if the drink’s not alcoholic? “The nerve,” I’m thinking. They aren’t even making an effort to conceal it. What’s worse is that the driver has replaced the can in his bag twice since I started spying. I am incensed. What to do, what to do?

Still idling next to me, the driver sends the convertible’s automatic top back with the push of a button. The minute the top is fully open — I swear it is the very same minute — a swarm of starlings flies by, pummeling all the cars in their path with little bird bomblets.

The foursome next to me screams!

Sticky whitish globs have dappled my windshield. Windshield wipers in the birds’ path bounce back and forth like electrons in a lightening storm. The occupants of the convertible are trying in vain to pull the globs from their hair, smearing instead, and uselessly trying to swish their Sex-in-the-City clothes clean.

I am trying very hard not to laugh.

Amid the commotion, the bag around the driver’s beer can falls away, reminding me of my drinking driver suspicions. I stop laughing, mouthing to the sky: Good one. They deserve it!

But all four of them are in desperate need of showers, stuck in traffic with no way out. And the women are crying. The driver takes a really long chug, then opens another can, doesn’t even bother with the bag.

Suddenly, I know what to do! I roll down my window. “I’ll trade you a box of baby wipes for all your beer, every can. And, you,” I said, pointing to the woman who hadn’t been drinking, “you’ll drive, not him.”

They consult with one another briefly, still trying desperately to remove gunk from their hands, then nod in agreement. They pour out the cans, then hand over six more. Drivers switch places.

Upon the hand-over of the rectangular plastic box in baby blue, horns being to sound, a wild commotion. And people in the cars surrounding this little Friday night drama applaud and cheer.

I thankfully remember that I refilled my windshield washer fluid recently. And I’m grateful to know that on the spiraling helix toward the Lincoln Tunnel on a Friday night, drinking and driving is resoundingly unacceptable, even among leisure-seekers.

Oct. 29, 2004



Quote of the day: Campaign posters are everywhere. But you might not recognize the names. Bradley said he’s still undecided about which boy should get his vote for student council president. Two of the candidates have been close friends since preschool. He simply can’t figure out which one he likes best. “This is not a popularity contest,” I said. “What are the issues? You need to base your decision solely on issues.” Bradley agreed, and said he would listen carefully when the candidates make their speeches in front of the student body. “But if either of them even mentions weapons of mass destruction,” Bradley added, “that’s it. I’m moving to a new school.”

Oct. 28, 2004



Quote of the day: Bradley angrily slapped a stack of homework papers on the kitchen table. I crossed behind him to snap off the far-too-familiar noise on CNN: President Bush attacking John Kerry who had earlier attacked President Bush.

“I . . . can’t . . . wait,” I said decidedly, “until this election . . . is . . . over.”

Slamming his pencil atop the homework pile, Bradley retorted, “I can’t wait till summer.”

Oct. 27, 2004



Quote of the day: Bradley was telling me about a boy at school who has body piercings and desperately wants a tattoo. Thus, the latest peer pressure discussion began. “Needles poking in body: bad idea,” I said. “And while we’re on the subject, parental permission and supervision for any sort of body alteration is a basic prerequisite for all people under the age of 18 and/or receiving financial assistance who desire to live unrestrained in our home. Got it?”

“Oh please,” Bradley said, rolling his eyes. “We’ve been over this a hundred times. I have no plan for piercing. Me and tattoos? Ouch! Cigarettes? Stink. Drugs? No way. Alcohol? Bleah.”

After a moment, he looked up slowly, gently stirring a French fry in honey mustard. “Uh, mom? I, uh, have something I need to say.” He squinted. “I, um, well, I bowed to, um, peer pressure the other day.”

“Spill it, dude.” (I waste no time.)

He shoved his yellow Live Strong bracelet at me. “All the kids are wearing these,” he said in that Kids-Are-Powerful voice of his. “Isn’t it just horrible that kids everywhere are donating money for cancer research? Learning about Lance Armstrong’s example for hope and courage? And to think it’s because of peer pressure at my school. You must be so annoyed!”

Like I said: Needles poking in body: bad idea.

Oct. 26, 2004



Quote of the day: Running to greet me after school, Bradley threw his backpack down on the grass and jumped up for a full body hug like he did back in his toddler days. Picking myself up off the sidewalk, I noticed he was now rummaging through his books. “I gotta find it,” he said. “Gotta find it. Where is it!”

“What?” I said, “What are you looking for?”

“Aha!” he shouted, producing a rumpled piece of paper that appeared similar to a certain test he’d given me a few weeks ago. Only that time, he hadn’t handed the paper over so eagerly.

“Bradley!” I shouted, “You got a 98 on your math test! Wow! This is great!
All that studying you did really paid off!”

After a snack break, my fourth grader took over the kitchen table for homework time. Enter the little brother. “Let’s play I spy,” Gregory said, looking out the window. “I spy something red.”

“Can’t play games right now,” Bradley replied while busily writing fractions. “I’m on deadline here.”

Happiness. Next to the word in the dictionary, they should print this story.

Oct. 25, 2004



Thought for the day: 2:14 a.m. “Attention,” a male voice says over the intercom, “at the sound of the alarm, a fire drill will be conducted on the fourth floor. Please report to the designated exiting area, then follow the instructions of your fire warden.”

It was fourteen minutes ago when Mr. Sheridan’s train whistle signaled the final goodnight. The newsroom was promptly deserted of the nightside staff. Except for me, the lone holdout on the fourth floor.

“Be-eeep. Be-eeep. Be-eeep. Be-eeep.”

I am confident there is no fire. I know where the exit is. I hide behind my computer.

The fire warden, dressed all in blue, a staffer from the engineering department, is scanning, eyeballing for living souls among the ghosts of the upper newsroom. Anxiously, I slump. He whisks by at a brisk pace, clomping through the huge open space in sturdy patent leather engineer-man shoes, in record time. He clomps within 40 feet. Our eyes meet; my slumping has not been effective. But no words are exchanged. CLOMP. CLOMp. CLOmp. CLomp. Clomp. clomp. SLAM!

2:16 a.m. “Attention. This completes the fire drill on the fourth floor. A round of applause for the engineering staff, please.” Spattered intercom clapping precedes dead silence.

I conclude: Fire drill drill.

Oct. 22, 2004



Quote of the day: Weeks ago I was sitting at my kitchen table chatting with Jan, my neighbor and fellow writer, when 4-year-old Gregory (a k a 24-year-old Dash) interrupted our conversation to dub us all with new names.

— “Raydia! Crusher!” Dash shouted, “Emergency! Come help!” But Raydia was on her coffee break. She glanced at Crusher, also on break. The two women shrugged shoulders and continued chatting about their heavy work load preparing the Mars station for space tourists. Dash insisted. “Raydia! Crusher!” —

I was glowing at my new name, “Raydia.”

“Dash” was a fitting name for the handsome fellow dashing in and out of
the conversation.

I felt sorry for Jan.

Oct. 21, 2004



Quote of the day: “Dad got me a D3 trike,” Gregory said, showing me his new tiny toy car with three big wheels.

“Oh really?” I said.

“Dad got Bradley one too, a red one, a red D3 trike. My D3 trike is blue.”

“What color is the D3 trike Dad got for me?” I said.

With a stern look, he replied, “Dad didn’t get you one.”

“Why not?”

“You’re a girl. Girls don’t play with toy cars.”

“Oh yes they do,” I said. “Why, when I was a little girl, I often played with toy cars and trucks and Lincoln Logs and Legos and Frisbees and footballs.”

“You did?” he said, scrunching up his little 4-year-old mouth.

“Uh-huh. Dolls and action figures too. But we girls don’t call them ‘action figures’ you know. Some of my dolls, believe it or not, even had their own cars!”

“Nuh-uh,” he said, angrily. “Girls don’t play with toy cars!”

“Well, this girl does.”
His eyebrows rose. “O.K. then. You can borrow my blue D3 trike,” he said, handing me his prize new car, “as long as you give it back.”

“Thanks!” I said.

Watching me roll the car back and forth on the floor, Gregory shook his head, scrunching one eyebrow, adding softly, “I’m a silly boy.”

Oct. 20, 2004



Quote of the day: Late Sunday evening and the traffic was heavy on Route 1.
(Is the traffic on Route 1 ever not heavy?) Our minivan full of pumpkins idled beside a large white truck with no distinct markings. Gregory announced that he had seen that very truck before. “That’s the same truck I saw back when I was a baby,” he said.

Bradley, the older and wiser brother, instantly rebutted. “There’s no way that’s the same truck you saw when you were a baby. There are so many cars and trucks in New Jersey, it would be almost impossible to see the same one again.”

“So Bradley,” I said, wondering if my resident fourth grader really did know everything, “how many cars and trucks do you suppose there are in New Jersey?”

“Oh, about a hundred.”

Perhaps he misunderstood the question. He must have thought I asked how many cars and trucks he could see at that moment, and without turning his head.

Oct. 19, 2004



Quote of the day: Saturday morning. 7 a.m. The boys wake their dad. I’m asleep, but I’ve done the morning routine once or twice. I know what it’s like.

Mike responds: “Go back to sleep.” . . .

“O.K., then get dressed.” . . .

“Eat your breakfast.” . . .

“Get dressed.” . . .

“Brush your teeth.” . . .

“Get dressed, now.” . . .

“Make your bed.” . . .

“Get dressed, now.” . . .

“Brush your teeth, now.” . . .

“Make your bed, now.” . . .

“Get dressed and put your shoes on . . . NOW!” . . .

“If I have to tell you again I’m going to (thinking: jump out the window) take away your Legos for the entire day!” . . .

10:30 a.m. Mike wakes me. The boys are supposedly getting dressed in their room. As I rub the sleep from my eyes on this particular Saturday, Mike reaches into the pocket of his jeans. “I’ve got $21,” he says oh-so-calmly. “If I give it to you, will you stab me through the heart with a kitchen knife, please?” I nod and smile my Mona Lisa smile.

The boys, still in pajamas, enter the room jovially, pushing through Mike’s legs, wedging under his arms as he stands in the doorway. The children dive under my warm comforter, snuggling, wiggling, kicking. “Mommy,” the older boy says as he flings my rag-doll arm around his shoulder, “Daddy took away my Legos. Can you get them back for me?”

“There’s only one thing that could get your Legos back,” I say.

“What’s that?”

“A kitchen knife.”

Oct. 18, 2004



Quote of the day: Gregory announced today that back when he was in heaven, he went by a different name. “The angels all called me Peter,” he said. “The angels fed me turkey, chicken noodle soup, chicken and diet coke.”

“They have diet coke in heaven?” I said. “All right!”

“They also have chocolate-covered macadamia nuts from Hawaii,” he said, adding that he still had connections to these angels, and that the possibility existed that he might be able to swing some chocolate-covered Hawaiian macadamia nuts for me, but only whenever I called him by his angel name — Peter.

Who knew that a Google search for “legal ‘name change’ form” would return 160,000 hits?

Oct. 15, 2004



Quote of the day: My son is 9 years old, soon to be 10. He knows everything. “Did you know,” he said the other day, “that back in ancient Germany . . .”

“Ancient Germany?” I said. “Exactly what do you mean by ‘ancient’?”

“Like the 1950’s,” he clarified, “or maybe it was the 1800’s or the 1910’s. Anyway,” he continued, “did you know that back in ancient Germany, families would write a complete history of their lives? A page per person per day.”

“Interesting,” I said. “What would they write about?”

“Oh, everything. Anything. ‘Billy ate a pebble — the goats were sad,’ that sort of thing.”

I was taking notes, because I tend to write this family history sort of thing too, page per person per day, something like that. Started back in the 1990’s, or maybe it was the 1960’s, anyway, since I was taking notes and preparing to document this little tidbit extolling my son’s extensive knowledge about ancient Germany in my family history book, I wanted to know specifically how I should punctuate the example. “Were the goats sad because Billy ate a pebble?” I said. “Or are those two separate ideas, like, the Billy thing would be on Billy’s page, and the goat thing would be on — hmm, did the family goats back in ancient Germany get a page of their own? Semicolon between the thoughts, or a period? What do you think?”

“Mom,” he said, his eyes rolling, “you’re driving me crazy. Of course the goats were sad because Billy ate a pebble! Why else would goats be sad?”

Semicolon then; I never knew goats were so emotional back in the ancient Germany of 1950.

Oct. 14, 2004



Quote of the day: “I hate The New York Times!” my neighbor’s houseguest exclaimed upon learning where I work.

“Really?” I replied, certain I was about to be the victim of yet another media-bashing session. In my head, I began to prepare my standard arguments for the newspaper’s goal of unbiased reporting, how I believe my colleagues in the news pages actually do try to be fair, going to great lengths to remain neutral despite inhuman deadlines and a never-ending news cycle. And yet, in general, it does seem that people who are drawn to journalism as a career tend to be somewhat liberal-minded. And we can’t help but make choices about what seems “important” in any given story based on our individual worldviews. But, that’s why we have editors. That’s why we have fact-checkers and researchers and managers who read and reread in an occasionally vain effort to expel subjectivity.

Still, I was curious. I wondered what in particular this man meant. Was he a supporter of President Bush who has grown disenchanted with the unrelenting Op-Ed page? Was he an avid reader of one of those Web sites that “expose” the newspaper’s “liberal political agenda”?

“Please tell, me, sir,” I said, “What exactly is it that you dislike about The Times?”

“Too many typos!” he exclaimed.

Oct. 13, 2004



Thought for the day: The basement was a long way from the homework table. But thanks to the furnace ducts, Gregory and I clearly heard Bradley’s pleas for help despite the noise of the water gushing into the washing machine. “Mom!” Bradley said, his voice echoing with a metallic timber. “Come up here and help me with this math problem!”

The dreaded math problem. Why, oh why do teachers give math homework? Why, oh why doesn’t my son listen carefully during class instead of coming home and expecting ME to know how to help him? Why, oh why doesn’t the textbook have a “Parents: Review Your Fourth Grade Math Here” section?

During the split second those thoughts were racing through my mind, Gregory, who just turned four last week, hopped down from the stool upon which he stood while helping load the whites. “I’m coming, Bradley!” he shouted. “I’ll be right there to help you with your math!”

As Gregory raced up the basement stairs, it struck me as profound that he was humming the tune to “Mission: Impossible.”

Only I wasn’t sure whether it applied more to the 4-year-old’s mission to help his brother with math, or to mine.

Oct. 12, 2004



Quote of the day: Gregory had big plans for the Target gift card Lauren sent him for his birthday: a purple lighted jack-o’-lantern and a Matchbox police station. But as we approached the toy department by way of the Halloween display, we were taken aback by the abundant twinkle lights in white, the lighted reindeer taking mock drinks from mock snow mounds, the etched glass ornaments sparkling from behind strings of red and green globe lights draped across the back of the store. Bradley instantly grabbed his little brother by the shoulder, covering Gregory’s eyes with his palm. “Don’t look!” Bradley squealed. “It’s barely October! Your dear sweet young eyes should not have to see such shameless Christmas commercialism! Give us back our oranges and browns! It’s FALL!”

Oct. 6, 2004



Quote of the day: I was shocked.

“I think there’s something in here you need to sign,” Bradley said, handing me a pile of papers from his backpack. Sure enough, buried among the P.T.O. flyers and the study sheets and the aced health quiz, was a math test with a line on top for my signature. Next to the line, the score: “62.”

“Bradley!” I shouted. “You failed your math test!”

I did? Lemme see that. Oh, yeah, I just didn’t feel like doing the work,” he said matter-of-factly, “so I guessed.”

Observing no sign of remorse in my fourth grader, I knew this bad-idea test-taking strategy must be nipped as quickly as possible. Punishment: no television, no computer for a week, plus: math worksheets would be provided after regular homework and on the weekends.

He was shocked.

After dinner, I left for my night shift, and left strict instructions. No TV. No Computer. Worksheets on the dining room table.

Upon my return at 3 a.m., under the lamp routinely left on for me, was a hand-written note. The letters were capital, each stroke repeated at least four times over:

“DOWN WITH PUNISHMENT!
UP WITH PRIVELEGE!”

I added to the note, and left it under the light: “Those with PUNISHMENTS ought to spend their free time checking their spelling.

“So much time.

“So many words.

“So few PRIVILEGES for those who fail math tests.”

Oct. 5, 2004

Quote of the day: During the wee hours of the morning after Gregory’s 4th birthday, he awoke, and was crying. In justifying his misery, he whimpered, “I ate my birthday cake.”
Knowing my son as I do, I was quite certain he was not bemoaning a tummy ache, but feeling deep regret that an entire and pristine cake would not be available come morning.

Oct. 4, 2004



Quote of the day: The countdown started last Saturday. “One more week,” I’d say. “Just seven more days, then you’ll be four!” Gregory was so excited wondering what gifts he would receive, what flavor cake to request, what to wear.

What to wear? Preschoolers don’t usually worry about such vanities. Mine surveyed the closet he shares with his brother, ripped clothes from shelves, perused the old duds Bradley had out-grown. “I just don’t know what I’ll wear on my birthday tomorrow,” Gregory announced again today with a determined air. “We must go shopping.”

This uncharacteristic neurosis over birthday apparel had me scratching my head.

Until I put two and two together.

Bradley’s birthday falls on Halloween.

On Halloween, Bradley gets to have cake and wear a costume.

Aha!

Birthday equals costume!

In Gregory’s almost 4-year-old world, there would be nothing odd about wandering the town as an alien with a bug-eye mask while accepting candy from strangers on October the 2nd.

Oct. 1, 2004





Quote of the day: The Enrichment Program at Bradley’s school pulls students out of classrooms for a while each day to give them more challenging work than the rest of the class. But Bradley was under the impression that the program’s goal was to help students who were lagging. When I explained that, no, enrichment was for the “smartest kids, the ones who want to be challenged,” Bradley frowned and replied, “But I’m smart!”

“That’s true,” I said; “you are smart.” And then I paused for a moment to contemplate the frustrating hours Bradley spends on homework each afternoon. “You should realize,” I continued, “that students in enrichment have more homework than you do.”

Bradley’s eyes popped; his shoulders tightened. “No, no, mommy,” he said, whining dramatically in his class clown persona. “Please don’t make me do enrichment. I’m a good boy. Truly I am. Oh please, please don’t enrich me!”

Sept. 30, 2004



Thought for the day: I received a bill from the hospital at which Gregory was born for $3,993. Since Gregory will be four years old soon, I immediately called the hospital. “That was a mistake,” the apologetic accounting lady said. “Our computer is acting up again.” Two weeks later, the bill arrived a second time, with a tersely worded late notice.

Sept. 29, 2004



Quote of the day: This is a big year. Fourth grade, a “senior” at the elementary school, turning the big one-oh in a few weeks, advancing to double digits. But all of that pales in comparison to the radiation my son emanated the first time he was allowed to walk home from school solo. Bradley had it for sure: The Freedom Glow.

But I had made a deal with John-the-crossing-guard. “You get him across the street,” I said, “and I’ll take it from there.” And there I’d be: standing on the sidewalk at the edge of our property. Every day, I watched Bradley cross with John. Then I watched every step straight down the sidewalk, the only hitch the side street he had to cross alone. I was an eagle: Would he look both ways twice? Look behind? Check again? The happy truth is, he was handling this taste of freedom like the responsible fourth grader I knew he was. I had made my decision. My child was worthy of my trust.

Until yesterday.

2:55 — John-the-crossing-guard stands alone.

2:58 — John crosses with some other kid.

3:01 — Some short people with backpacks are clustered and coming up the sidewalk. I squint. Is that Bradley? Not him.

3:02 — No sign of Bradley. The search begins.

3:02:30 — Bradley’s dad heads toward the school on foot. I stay home to mind the phones and squint at every smallish person walking, every car driving, every van racing, all the while jotting license plates and pacing.

3:03 — I call Bradley’s dad on the cell. “Do you see him?” “Nope.”

3:04 — Staring in a southerly direction, squinting, pacing, I begin to pray. “Please, God, where is he?”

3:05 — “Mom!” I turn around. He is on the opposite side of the street, having approached from the north, and is facing me, waiting for crossing help, a grimace painting his face. I whisper, “Thank you.” I yell, “where have you been?!”

Zip. Zip. Fast forward to today.

2:55 — As Bradley and I approach the crosswalk, John-the-crossing-guard shakes his head back and forth, back and forth. He shoots a knowing glance in my direction, and says quietly to Bradley, “Took the long way, huh?”

Sept. 28, 2004



Thought for the day: In the radio business, the kiss of death is dead air. I learned this fact of life at a very young age in the studio. My father could stop a conversation, all forms of laughter or crying, simply with a cutting glare and a raised hand followed almost instantly by an “on air” sign flashing red over his shoulder. He was your morning drive companion in those days, and in the summer, when I sometimes would wake at 3:15 to watch the sun rise over the microphone with him, I learned the basics of radio life: One — Listeners change the channel when a station goes silent. Two — Advertisers pay the bills. And three — Advertisers pay somebody else’s bills when listeners change the channel.

As I was listening to 1010 WINS on the way to work tonight, you guessed it: Dead air. Nine solid seconds. I counted. I counted because I grew up in the studio where four seconds of dead air could cost an announcer his job. It was a learned instinct. Dead air? Count the seconds. When the 1010 WINS announcer finally returned, there was no explanation, no “Oops, sorry about that,” no mention of a power failure or a problem with the tower or an emergency trip to the bathroom, or, gasp, the hospital. Just this: “Nonstop news. All the time,” followed immediately by another round of deafening silence.

The tension was building. Would a reason be given upon the station’s return to life? Would it return at all? And then it dawned on me: The reason for the silence was my excuse for sticking with it. Staring at the digital display, I begged silently, Tell me the reason for your dead air! I just had to know: What could possibly cause 1010 WINS to stop the nonstop news?

Ahh, finally, after 20 seconds — I counted — he was back: “Nonstop news. All the time.” No explanation given.

This non-nonstop news was making me long for some dancy music, something, anything to put an end to this unnerving silence, to dump the announcer with no respect for his worried listeners.

Advertisers listen up: I changed the channel.

Sept. 27, 2004



Quote of the day: Nails scratching on a blackboard pale in comparison to the sound of a fork dragged across a glass plate. (My teeth ache just from typing that sentence.) Unfortunately, my children know this to be my main weakness. When Gregory scratched the surface of his plate the other day, I grimaced and screeched, much to his delight. “Stop! Please stop!” I said. “Why, oh why, do you torment your dear sweet mother?”

The 3-year-old answered with a somber tone, “It’s my only power.”

Sept. 24, 2004


Thought for the day: Teaching children the value of coins is no small task. So when Gregory began helping around the house, I sought teachable moments, rewarding him with various coins in exchange for manual labor. Putting away the silverware or wiping down the baseboards equaled a jingly quarter in his pocket, often followed by a walk downtown to Roberto’s Pizzeria. In no time, his quarter would be fed into Roberto’s gumball machine, leading to not one, not two, but three gumballs!

Yesterday Gregory mistakenly put a penny in the slot, panicked when he realized it wasn’t a quarter, but couldn’t get the penny back out. So he simply turned the handle.

Much to my dismay, all my lessons about the varying value of coins lost, the rickety old gumball machine spit out three gumballs anyway.

Sept. 23, 2004



Plea for the day: I was leaving a grocery store recently with Gregory following just behind. Somehow, the automatic door closed with me on the outside and him on the inside, not heavy enough to trigger the door opener. My efforts to open the door from without were futile, the in-door was 50 yards away, and I wasn’t about to let my child out of my sight.
Meanwhile, adults who had finished their shopping were gathering behind my toddler, forming a line behind him, standing patiently, waiting for him to proceed through the door, supposedly not realizing that he was stuck there, and supposedly not hearing my glass-muffled cries for help. I wasn’t quite panicked, but I was shocked that none of those adults were paying attention to what was going on around them. And not one bothered to ask the lone child what the problem was. He was, to put it simply, completely ignored. Ten people of varying ages amassed before, finally, the store manager was alerted via loudspeaker to a “problem by the exit.”

Fast forward a few weeks. That time, both of my sons and I were on the second floor of a large bookstore headed for the down escalator. I went first; my children followed. Or so I thought. Once I boarded, I turned to see that Gregory had a sudden case of escalator fright and wouldn’t board the turning stairs. Bradley, his brother, was holding Gregory’s hand, gently coaxing, but the little brother just froze. So, there he was: stuck at the top. And there I was: slowly falling away from my child, my arms reaching up but growing ever farther away.

I shouted at Gregory, “Come on! You can do it! Put one foot in front of the other! Come ON!” I started to panic. The only rescue solution was the “up” escalator on the other side of the store.

As my children blocked the entrance to the down escalator, adults piled up behind them, seemingly insensitive to my Burgermeister Meisterburger shouting.

I even started to sing “Put One Foot in Front of the Other” using my best Winter Warlock impression in the hopes that Gregory would be so amused as to, well, put the one foot in front of the other one and come down the stairs already. But he wouldn’t, and none of the adults standing directly behind would help.

So, I beg of you now, dear reader, next time, go ahead, just give my child a little nudge, hold his hand, pay attention. I promise: I won’t sue.

Sept. 22, 2004



Thought for the day: Blond hair and contact lenses. Stereotypically speaking, I was already in trouble. I trotted into the local eyeglass store, my broken glasses in a black case. A large bespectacled man sat on a stool behind the counter. “The screw fell out,” I said, handing him my frame and the fallen lens. “Do you have a minute to put this back together?”

As I browsed the store, just killing time, I attracted the attention of two saleswomen. “Will you be buying today?” one of them asked crassly. “No, just looking,” I said, chuckling to myself at my not-so-clever pun.

A minute later, the technician approached with my repaired glasses. “All fixed,” he said. “Here. I tightened them up for you.”

I put them on. “There’s a serious problem,” I said. “I can’t see a thing!”

The technician and the two saleswomen alternated glares at each other.

“Oh!” I laughed, “I forgot. I’m wearing my contacts! Boy, do I feel silly!”

“I told you,” one of the women said quietly to her coworkers as I made my way out the door. “Never fails. Blonde in contacts comes in here with broken glasses, she tries them on, then complains when she can’t see a darn thing.” They all laughed again, like somehow blond hair and contacts also compromises a girl’s hearing.

Still, I left happy. Walking stereotype or not, I was armed with fixed glasses, my alter ego in a black case.

Sept. 21, 2004



Quote of the day: “Better watch out,” Gregory said.

Since such a declaration begs the “why” question, I obliged.

His arms tightly embracing the sides of his head, he replied, “My imagination guys are about to come out of my ears!”

Instinctively, I began to back up.

Sept. 20, 2004




Quote of the day: We were relaxing on a downtown bench drinking a semi-cold Gatorade when a pack of M&M’s was the next suggested purchase from the Main Street convenience store. “You go,” I said to Bradley.

“No you go.”

“No, you go.”

“Why should I go?” Bradley said.

“Because. I’m old and I’m tired. I got four hours sleep last night for the fifth night in a row. I washed all your clothes, bought your groceries, cooked your dinner, gave you an allowance, and if you recall, I even gave you your very life. You go.”

Leaving me to enjoy my semi-cold Gatorade in peace, I heard him mumble to a passing stranger, “That woman can be very persuasive.”

Sept. 17, 2004



Thought for the day: My new neighbor provided a telling answer to the question, “Do you have any children?” “Not yet,” was how the female half of the couple put it. Meanwhile, my 3-year-old had stripped to his waist and was running down the sidewalk screaming at the top of his lungs, “You can’t catch me,” and laughing sadistically. I finally chased him down, redressed him, and brought him back to stand before the new neighbor in an attempt to rescue a good first impression. “This one is 3. Can’t you tell?” The boy wriggled away again, repeatedly screaming, “I hate you,” and running down the sidewalk throwing off his clothes.

I stood before the neighbor, all chances of decent impressions down the drain. “You sure you want one of those?”

Sept. 16, 2004



Quote of the day: Parents added to the crowded halls on the first day at Bradley’s school, hugging their children and waving goodbye. A few minutes after the opening bell, though, the parents were still there, chatting loudly with one another outside the classrooms.

From the loudspeaker: “Parents, please leave the hallways. The students need to learn now. There is free coffee for you, courtesy of the P.T.O., in the library.”

Bradley reported that within thirty seconds, another announcement caused his class full of fourth graders to explode in laughter: “Janitor to the library. Janitor to the library.”

Sept. 15, 2004



Thought for the day: Gregory’s first full day of preschool ended with a half hour of running around the playground with his new friends. When it was time to leave, he reached out for my hand with his, which was hot and coated with sweat. “It’s O.K.,” I said, “You’re a big boy now. You don’t have to hold my hand all the time.”

But instead of letting go, he held my hand tighter.

Sept. 13, 2004



Thought for the day: My personal advisors vehemently suggested mass transit to combat the traffic nightmare caused by the Republican National Convention. But the fact is, mass transit does not cater to 3 a.m. commuters. To drive was my only choice, and so the weekend prior to Day One became obsessed with anxious questions. Assuming I made it past security and into the city, where would I park? How close would I get to Times Square? If I had to park far away, would it be safe to walk back to my car at 3 a.m.? What route would best avoid protesters?

Seemed to me the solution was to just stay home. Alas, not an option in this business. So, I paced. I checked the traffic cams. I called commuting friends who’d already completed the trek. I channel-surfed the traffic reports on every radio and television station.

Just as I was about to leave home, a black cat cut across my driveway. My usual gas station was closed; my tank was sitting on empty. The road out of my town was jammed because of repaving. On the helix outside the Lincoln Tunnel, a pigeon suddenly crashed into my windshield. (I swear it was screaming at me: “Go home! Go home!”) Finally in Manhattan, my van was singled out for a random search on 44th Street. (Blonde in a beige minivan, no racial profiling there.) And, I ended up behind a police escort for some dignitary in a black stretch limo. Police abruptly closed the street. Only half a city block away from the Times building, I spent 25 minutes staring longingly at the bay where I would ultimately park.

One day down; three to go. Is it too early to book my hotel room for the 2012 Olympics?

Aug. 30, 2004



Thought for the day: It was about 1:30 a.m., the wee hours of the second morning of the Republican Convention, when a thunderous crash shook the newsroom and sent the late editors scrambling for gas masks, some of us running to the windows to see what had happened in Times Square, and some of us calling down to the security desk to make sure somebody was still there (and alive). As it turned out, city sanitation workers on the other end of the block had hoisted a large dumpster, then accidentally dropped it onto the street from several feet up.

As I was leaving through the lobby an hour later, a security guard, still clutching the shirt over his chest, was making mental notes of everyone who works late and knows how to work a defibrillator.

Aug. 31, 2004




Quote of the day: Several months ago, one of Bradley’s spelling words was “lawyer.” I’m not sure why I think of this tonight, maybe it’s because I’m writhing from political overdose, but I clearly remember that when Bradley asked me how to spell the word, I asked him if he knew what it meant. And since he was unable to spit out a coherent answer, I began explaining.

Bradley’s response to my longwinded “lawyer” exposition seems also a fitting summary of the political conventions, with the exception of Barak Obama’s inspirational speech to the Democrats and Zell Miller’s fiery one to the Republicans: Shaking his head in a mock-awakening, Bradley muttered, “Uh, uh, how long was I asleep?”

Sept. 2, 2004




Thought for the day: I was in the mood for celebrating the end of the Republican National Convention, feeling relief at having made it through four anxious days, traffic-wise, with only a few troubles. And so when friends Jan and Jen invited me to lunch at the Café Paris in Metuchen, I eagerly trotted along. To sit outside the café on Main Street and watch the people passing while chatting with friends seemed like a nice way to pass the time before heading off to traffic-choked Manhattan one last time in this hectic week.

With Jan and Jen, just before the dawn of fall on a beautiful Friday, we decided to luncheon outside, the pretty mosaic table needing just a little help in keeping balanced.

“Turkey on a croissant, hold the salad,” I told the brute waiter in a crisp white
t-shirt, his oversized silver cross glinting sunlight from above the awning.

As if my choice was not interesting enough, the kitchen tossed on a fruit salad of melon and grapes, the frosted silver cup topped with orange and green adding appeal to an otherwise bland display. My waiter apologized for taking the liberty while watching me remove three slices of Swiss cheese for which I did not ask.

I’d made it through half my croissant, all the while brushing away a black and gold pest who was after my cantaloupe when suddenly, I felt a tickle on my toe, then an intense stinging pain.

I stomped, stomped again, jumping backwards chair and all, desperately ripping the Velcro to remove the sandal from my driving foot, thereby freeing the stinging pest.

Just then, another friend, Penelope, approached. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said sounding a bit like Anthony Hopkins. She instantly absorbed the body language of the stung toe and offered the old Welsh remedy advice of vinegar on the sting site, “Straight away.”

But the kitchen, oh-so-helpful, had no vinegar. And so the top of my foot was doused with a lovely brown vinaigrette, a toe salad packed in ice and propped on wrought iron under a window etched with a silhouette of the Eiffel Tower. Passers-by gawked. What was Café Metuchen serving up today?

And there it was, black and gold, inching away toward my good foot. “Get him!” And Jan did, stomping the life out of the nasty wasp who would make my final commute into the city the most painful one of the week.

There’s an old Japanese saying, “The wasp stings the weeping face” — troubles seldom come alone. And don’t we know by now, wasps always sting the driving foot.

Sept. 3, 2004



Quote of the day: A red rose, fully bloomed and deliciously sweet, was clipped from the rosebush in the backyard. The gift of the rose was regally presented to Gregory. “I think I’ll name you Harvey,” he pronounced to the blossom. “And you will live with me forever and ever.”

It is occasionally fortunate that 3-year-olds have very short attention spans.

Sept. 1, 2004



Quote of the day: “This ice cream is just like the Golden Gate Bridge,” Bradley said, trying in vain to prevent the inevitable melting.

“Just like the Golden Gate Bridge,” I said. “How do you figure?”

“When they paint the Golden Gate Bridge, by the time they’re done, they have to start up all over again,” he said, “or else the bridge will fall apart.”

“So let me see if I got this straight. The bridge will fall apart if it isn’t constantly being painted?”

With a confident crunch into the waffle cone, my son replied, “Yep. That’s what I heard. Right into the bay. Sploosh.”

Aug. 26, 2004



Quote of the day: They should make it a national holiday. Tarzhay Day. Everybody takes off in late August and shops the back-to-school sales. Ahh, freshly sharpened pencils, pure erasers, untattered folders, 5-subject spirals with the dividers still flawless and true.

Bradley’s had the label maker humming for his first day in fourth grade, marking the subjects, color coding the folders; he even filled out the hokey six- by four-inch nametag he’s supposed to wear draped like a mugshot placard on day one, the day after Labor Day. (Personally, I would ditch that ugly thing.)

I was excited too. “Be a sponge,” I said, taking my son’s hands into mine. “Make the choice right here, right now. You can loaf around, mope around, drag through school, just get by. OR, you can be a sponge!” I arched backwards, throwing my hands up in a spirited cheer. “Soak it all in, say Throw it at me, I wanna LEARN, I wanna learn EVERYTHING! Be a sponge, Bradley! Be a sponge!”

“Yes!” he shouted with equal cheer. “I’ll be a sponge! And all my friends can start calling me SpongeBob!”

My arms fell. My eyes rolled. That kid really knows how to burst my bubble.

Aug. 25, 2004



Quote of the day: “You have a mouse,” 3-year-old Gregory said.

“No, I don’t have a mouse,” I said.

“Yes you do have a mouse,” he insisted.

“No, no I don’t have a mouse. I do? Where?”

“Mouse. Right there on your face,” he said.

“On my FACE?” (I did not panic. O.K., maybe I panicked a little bit.) “Huh?!”

“Right there,” he said, and this time when he said it, he was careful in his pronunciation and while pointing at my lips, added, “There, mommy, your mouTH.”

Sometimes Gregory is really good at being three.

Aug. 23, 2004



Quote of the day: It is often difficult to accommodate newspaper staffers who want a holiday off, this being a 365-day-a-year enterprise. One manager for the business section, who shall remain nameless, designated the Labor Day loser based on an intense competition of rock-paper-scissors. In fact, the manager now tells me that this method worked so well, she has decided to incorporate rock- paper-scissors “whenever there is something important to decide.”

Aug. 20, 2004




Quote of the day: Standing before a full-length mirror in his “new” handed-down jean jacket, Gregory held his thumbs up in a universal Fonz gesture. I knew my 3-year-old was a bit confused, however, when he admired the turned-up collar by saying, “I look so chilly.”

Aug. 19, 2004



Quote of the day: The toy phone has occupied a place in Bradley’s room since he was three, and now Gregory plays with it too. Push any one of the yellow buttons on the tiny device and a voice says something in Asian-influenced English that sounds a bit like “Operator. May I help you?”

The other day Gregory was imitating the words, only he clearly wasn’t hearing the same words I have been hearing from that made-in-Japan phone for the last six years, so I tried to correct him. But when I did, an argument broke out, me against the kids.

“No, mom!” Bradley shouted. “You are so wrong.”

Gregory agreed, “Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!”

“I’ll bet you all the money in my bank,” Bradley said.

“Me too!” Gregory added.

“Aw, come on guys, you actually expect me to believe that all these years that voice has been saying ‘Operator. Can I hug you?’”

Aug. 18, 2004



Quote of the day: In the penguin house at the Central Park Zoo on a Tuesday at noon, the zoo guide (“zoo guide” was embroidered on the sleeve of her khaki shirt) held a microphone and answered visitors’ questions: “Why do penguins walk funny?” “Can penguins fly?” “Do penguins get cold?” I sat on the bench in the back observing my sons while they darted back and forth following a juvenile swimmer. “Do penguins have fur?” One tiny girl asked, “Why do they wear wedding clothes?” The guide answered all of these questions and more with ease and skill, including this one, asked by a young mother pushing an infant stroller: “Where did you get those cargo pants?”

“Oh! There’s this little boutique,” she said, never flinching to pull the microphone away from her lips. “On 40th Street, I think, in the fashion district. Check this out!” And then she demonstrated the special “zoo features,” as she called them, and hidden pockets, the drawstring which sat at the perfect height for keeping her walkie talkie in just the right place.

The crowd was closing in. Young mothers fighting for position, lemmings in the quest for cargos with pockets perfect for pacifiers and Ziploc bags stuffed with snacks, a loop for the cell phone, a hook for the keys, a pocket by the knee big enough for a spare diaper.

I heard it asked several times: “What’s the name of the boutique?”

To a depressed “Awwwwww,” the fashion guide finally answered through the mike to a hushed crowd, “I don’t think they sell to the general public.”

Within seconds, the penguin house was deserted.

Aug. 17, 2004



Quote of the day: A colleague brought in Chinese food for dinner at his desk. Realizing he had not been given proper utensils by the restaurant, he called out to the bullpen, “Does anybody have any chopsticks?”

Another colleague teased, “What’s the matter? Don’t know how to use a fork?”

Aug. 13, 2004



Quote of the day: I took my two sons to the movies on a rainy afternoon in summer, splurging on the summer combo special of two large drinks and popcorn. (Seven bucs cheaper than two small drinks would have cost, go figure.)

About halfway through the movie, the 3-year-old, not unexpectedly, announced, “Mommy, I need to go to the bathroom.” So I took him. The bathroom floor was slippery, and the child thought this was really fun, so it was a struggle to get his hands washed and back into the theater.

The minute we returned, the older boy, not unexpectedly, had to go. Not long after that, the younger one said he had to go again. “No you don’t,” I said, certain that he was just trying to get out of having to sit still and be quiet. This kid can last for several hours between bathroom stops. I was so proud of myself for being firm and resolute in my conviction that this child was not going to make me miss any more of the one movie I’d been to in the last three years, or was it four? A few minutes later, he was tugging on my hair. “Mommy, I want to go to the bathroom.”

“Shh, be quiet and watch the movie.”

Another minute went by, and the child had pulled off his shoes and was handing them to me. What was I supposed to do with the kid’s shoes? Ugh!

Next thing I knew, he was handing me his socks. Pew!

“Mommmmeeeeee,” he said, not whispering.

Into his little ear, I whispered, “What? Sit down, honey. Isn’t the movie funny? Now let’s be quiet and watch.”

A few seconds later, he was standing up, pacing barefoot — ew, on the movie theater floor — in front of his seat. I reached out for him and sat him down on my lap, sweetly whispering to him that the people behind can’t see through him. This must have been a cozy arrangement, because he finally settled down, quietly holding my arms around his tummy, stroking my hair every so often and whispering sweet “I love yous” into my ear, sprinkled now and then with an “I want to go to the bathroom” followed each time by, “I just took you five minutes ago. Shh.”

After a few minutes, though, he started to squirm again. “Mommy, can you please take me to the bathroom, please?”

“No, Gregory, I just took you,” I answered, determined to win this little bathroom ruse.

Abruptly, he stood directly in front of me. “Mommy,” he shouted while hopping up and down, “if you don’t take me to the bathroom right now, I’m going to pee on you!”

Get the shoes! Quick!

Now I remember why I don’t go to movies.

Aug. 12, 2004



Quote of the day: Sitting next to the home computer was a note written in the hand that distinctively belongs to my 9-year-old son. There were a few differences in the hand-writing, though. The strokes appeared more deliberate than usual, the ink quite dark and full, as if written with an intense amount of pressure on the pen. “To Disney CD Co.,” the note said, “for not being cooperative in making my Atlantis game work. Fine: $200,000.00.”

Aug. 6, 2004



Quote of the day: The Northeast Corridor tracks lie less than 20 feet north of the church playground. While my sons pretended to be rescue heroes on the playground’s open metal firetruck, a loud tone sounded, followed by an announcement intended for the Manhattan-bound people waiting on the platform just a few feet away. “Attention,” the transit worker said in a dutiful announcer-voice. “In light of recent terror threats, it is always useful to remember the old trusty railroad saying you were probably taught back in school: ‘Stop, look and listen.’”

Just after the word “listen,” during the announcer’s speech about terrorism, the church bells began to ring so loudly it was impossible to hear what he was saying. In the brief intermission between the 12th toll and the noon hymn as rung on the church bells, the announcer could be heard again. “So please report all of these suspicious activities by calling 1-888 . . .”

Just then the hymn began, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”

Aug. 5, 2004



Quote of the day: A colleague mentioned, “I’ve bought at least three squirrel-proof birdfeeders, none of which have worked.” (Which presumably is the reason for the second two.)

Aug. 4, 2004



Quote of the day: Preparing to build a model made from a tiny plastic punch-out kit, Bradley held out his hands and said, “O.K., fingers, brace for impact.”

Aug. 2, 2004


Quote of the day: The dinosaurs of the movie version of Jurassic Park awe most 9-year-olds, but it was the mathematician Dr. Ian Malcolm to whom Bradley was most attracted.

Ian’s skeptical attitude, his sage theories about chaos, his uncanny ability to predict certain failure, his black clothes and dark sunglasses, all these combined to make Dr. Malcolm especially interesting and mysterious to my son, whose only surefire assumption about his own grown up life is that he’ll be some sort of scientist.

By the time Bradley was a skilled reader, he had seen the movies that make up the Jurassic Park trilogy several times, even had several scenes memorized, would spend dinners discussing Dr. Malcolm’s chaos theories and explaining all the reasons why the new dinosaur cages he’d built out of Legos on the shelves in his room were sure to fail.

Now that Bradley’s reading skill has advanced into the adult world of Michael Crichton’s Jurassic Park — The Book, he came to believe that Dr. Malcolm is the intended star, not those scene-stealing dinosaurs of the movie version. In the book, it is Dr. Malcolm’s thoughts that drive the story, his quotes on the opening page of each chapter offer brain twisting takes on the dangerous developments at every turn of a page.

Near the end of the book, Dr. Malcolm dies, or so readers are led to believe. Bradley was in shock. “What? That can’t be! He didn’t die in the movie! He’s the star of The Lost World! He can’t die!” Bradley was so upset by Ian’s death that he couldn’t sleep, was distracted and moody, said he had an empty feeling in his chest. Still, he couldn’t wait to finish “Jaypee,” as he called it, so he could start reading The Lost World, if for no other reason than to find out who the main character could be, since it couldn’t possibly be Ian; Ian was dead and buried.

Then one day recently while on the train to New York, Bradley had moved on to The Lost World, sitting quietly beside me in a window seat. He read the introduction, which included what seemed to be references to Dr. Malcolm from the past. The reintroduction of his long lost friend was heartbreaking and confusing to Bradley so he asked for my help. After I read over the intro, I thought: flashback. “Maybe Crichton is using retrospective to remind us of old theories presented in the first book, or to tease us with new ones,” I said.

But by the prologue, I was proven dead wrong. On page one, Malcolm has clearly established himself as the main character, easily solving the literary dilemma of his untimely death by saying, “It turned out I was only slightly dead.”

Bradley was beside himself with joy!

He stood up, smiling uncontrollably, jumping up and down shouting, “Malcolm’s not dead! Malcolm’s not dead! Yeeee Ha! He’s ALIVE!” People on the train car sat up tall in their seats to see what all the commotion was. Bradley slumped down for a moment, opened the book back up, soaked up the wonderful words again: “ . . . only slightly dead.”

He called his dad on the cell phone. “I’ve got GREAT news!” he said, now standing again. “Malcolm’s not dead!” This time, my son accepted the stares of the people on the train who by now were thoroughly enjoying this joyful distraction, probably thinking the mysterious “Malcolm” of whom the child spoke was a real person.

Bradley quietly summarized the ease with which Crichton wrote Malcolm back into the story by stating simply, “And THAT, my friend, is the nature of chaos theory. Life found a way.”

July 30, 2004



Quote of the day: The boys ride in the back of the van while I drive, my face always turned away. I listen to their conversations though, roll my eyes, express genuine shock, eavesdrop. Sometimes I even take notes, all with complete anonymity. Occasionally I participate in the exchange when things start to get out of hand. Take the other day, for example. Driving home from the zoo, the older boy asked the younger one to hand him a particular toy. When the younger obliged, the older placed a cracker in the younger’s mouth, saying, “Here you go, get the snack! Good boy!” And he patted him on the head.

I thought, Ugh! How demeaning. How could he treat his little brother like that? Poor kid’s going to grow up with an inferiority complex. Of all things, to praise a person like you would a dog! I was incensed!

In the split second those thoughts were spinning, and just as I was beginning to reprimand the older boy, the younger one responded to his Pavlovian cracker treat with three rapid pants and a quick, high-pitched, “Arf!”

July 29, 2004



Quote of the day: Making our way into Nordstrom the other day, Bradley ran ahead to hold the door open for Gregory and me. Once inside, I turned to make sure Bradley was close behind, but he was nowhere to be seen, lost in an extended family of foreign-language speakers who passed me by one by one. I stood there, scanning the crowd, squinting, jerking my head about. “Bradley? Bradley?” Finally, an elderly woman picked up my hand and held it gently in both of hers. “Your son,” she said in broken Asian-accent-English as she pointed through the people toward the door, “he still hold door. He keep say, ‘you are welcome,’ over and over and over.”

And she smiled at me.

July 28, 2004



Thought for the day: I sat in an orange lounge chair in the children’s room of the local library reading “Pictures for Miss Josie” (Greenwillow Books, 2003), the story of Josephine Carroll Smith, a direct descendent of ex-slaves who spent her life teaching young black men to believe in themselves. The picture book follows a fictional boy (presumably a composite character of real-life people) who has a natural gift for drawing; it is Miss Josie who implores him to follow his dream, and he later tells his own son while standing in the glow of one of his paintings, “If it hadn’t been for Miss Josie, I might have given up trying to be what I am.”

Josephine Carroll Smith died in 1997 at the age of 103. The book was written in tribute to her dedication to the education of young people, celebrating her spirit and extraordinary influence on a personal level, especially on the people of the Shiloh Baptist Church of Washington, D.C., and on the author’s own father.

“People are alive as long as we remember them,” the backpage says, quoting African folklore.

And tucked cattycorner behind the end flaps, on discarded printouts from the library computer: two small crayon drawings of the unusually tall Miss Josie walking hand in hand with a small boy, one signed “Katie, age 7” and the other, “Geordie, age 5.”

This is how legends begin.

July 27, 2004

Thought for the day: Was it prophetic? Just 10 days ago in this very space, my son wondered if it could possibly be true that North Dakota is a "myth." In fact, in tomorrow's early editions, a chart locating the state delegations at the Democratic Convention failed to point out any seats for delegates from the Flickertail State. (In the later edition, you can see that N.D. delegates -- assuming there are any -- are seated just slightly in front of the ones from American Samoa, and that their seats do seem somewhat better than the ones allocated
to "Democrats Abroad.")

July 26, 2004

Thought for the day: The outdoor board by the Lincoln Tunnel helix advertising Panasonic's latest wares never changes in two respects: one, huge blue lighted letters spell the company's name atop the ad, and the other, a large number at the bottom that only lights up after Thanksgiving. "Shopping days till Christmas," it says nearby in small print.

The ticking down of the numbers day after December day was always a surefire sign, along with the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center, that the holiday season was in full swing. And for as long as I've been driving into the city -- 14 holiday seasons and counting -- the sign chided my Christmas list procrastination. Twenty days left, 15, 10, 2 -- oh NO!

Last night as I was driving home long after most of the city lights had been dimmed, the large white numbers unexpectedly glowed: "21"

What?

How could that be?

Twenty-one shopping days till Christmas? In July?

Somebody's messing with my head.

Driving back in this evening, I was able to see the revised small print in the light of day: "Countdown to the Olympic Games."

July 23, 2004

Quote of the day: It was an unusually hot and humid day. How hot was it? Bradley explains, "I'm a piece of toast and all the rest is the toaster."

July 22, 2004

Quote of the day: Waiting in a parking lot one afternoon, Gregory, 3, investigated the knobs and buttons on the dashboard of my car. "What's this?" "What's this?" What's this?"

He knocked on the door of the glove box. "What's this?" then, "Why is it called a glove box?"

"Why do you think?"

"It holds gloves?"

He pulled on the latch and the little door flipped down. "Mom?" he said, examining the stuff that spilled out onto the floor. "They should call yours a junk box."

By the way, my pictures of Metuchen's new borough hall are up on my tree Web site. http://www.coffeedrome.com/jtree2m.html (Scroll down past the sycamores to the zelkova serrata trees

July 21, 2004

Quote of the day: An intense game of Monopoly Junior was spread out on the living room floor. Me against Bradley. Whenever he landed on my properties, I would mercilessly shout, "SHOW ME THE MONEY, BABY!" (Because after nine years of being soaked by the kid, it was sheer pleasure to take money from him for a change, even if it was only play money.)

The junior version is amusement park-themed; you pay to own the ticket booths for various rides. When players land on owned booths, they must pay up whether they want a ride or not. Whenever Bradley landed on my ticket booths -- "Show me the money, baby!" -- he would hand over the little yellow two dollar bills, looking endearingly at his money, kissing each piece of paper as he lamented dramatically, "I barely knew ya. Oh, I barely knew ya."

July 20, 2004

Quote of the day: Friends from South Carolina were touring the newsroom just before the first edition close a while back when I pointed out copy editors off in the distance busily at work on the Metro section. As the tour guide for the night, I thought it might have been nice if something exciting would happen, like at the zoo when you woefully wish the polar bear would wake up and jump in the pool while your kids are watching. Alas, no coup d'état down at city hall tonight, no sudden walkout by thousands of subway drivers. The biggest Metro story focused on a budget impasse that meant fewer summer jobs for low-income teenagers, more sales tax on clothes and shoes, and tuition confusion for the college-bound.

Still, my tourist friends were not bored.

They soaked up the human reality behind The Times, staring nervously at one reporter's desk covered desk-to-cubicle-height in papers, folders, books, newspapers, framed autographed photographs, toothpaste, suntan lotion, a plastic hamburger atop the computer monitor and a stuffed Oscar Meyer wiener there too. Bags and bins stole the space underneath next to the trashcan overflowing with half-eaten food spilling from a cafeteria tray. Directly where the reporter's feet would most often be while working in the office: evidence of multiple coffee stains, and still more stacks of newspapers, books and reporters notebooks haphazardly cast aside. The smudged receiver of the phone sat off its base near a tape recorder and computer keyboard, all of which rested precariously near the edge of the desk. But there was room enough for a 6-inch world globe (a must for every Metro reporter's desk) and a bit of wall space for a raunchy motivational quote set in large type and stapled to the cubicle fabric. (In "The Right Stuff, " Alan Shephard's character expressed a bit of self-doubt just before launching into space, much as reporters do just before turning in deadline stories, I suppose.)

"Oh man," my friend said while digging excitedly through her bag. "I gotta get a picture of that desk!"

July 19, 2004

Quote of the day: On a late afternoon walk in the golden sun and lacy shadows, 9-year-old Bradley suddenly shattered my serenity when he posed the question: "Mom, is it true that North Dakota is a myth?"

July 16, 2004

Thought for the day: After two days at the Jersey shore during torrential downpours and knock-you-over wind that some in the next county were calling a thousand-year storm, my car was coated with a thick layer of salt and sand. I should have cleaned it before heading to work, but I had made it home from my mini-vacation just in time to throw on clean clothes and start for the city. And anyway, it was still raining. In an ill-conceived notion, I thought, "What's the use?"

Upon my arrival to 43rd Street, I realized that my side view mirrors were so thick with slime and rain dollops that the level of difficulty increased tenfold when I tried to back my car into the Times Square parking bay. Plain and simple: I couldn't see a thing. My windows were chicken gumbo; my mirrors clam chowder. Even trying to clear off a tiny viewing space with my thumb was useless and only served to smear the soup.

The security guard who was helping me park was baffled by my unusual slowness. "Come on. Straight back. You got it. No, turn left!"

"Oh please tell me I'm not running over anyone," I shouted to my guide. Besides the frantic attempt to avoid pedestrians, I was also trying to avoid the big steel column that holds the building up, but I simply couldn't see it. In and out, right and left, turn the wheel, back out to the street again. The security guard shouted at me, "What's the matter?"

"It's my mirrors," I called out through the rain, "they're coated with salt from my vacation at the beach and I didn't have time to clean them before I left. I'm sorry! Please just help me get my car in here!"

Finally, with patient assistance from my guide and savior: success. No tourists smushed. Not a scratch on my bumper.

Several hours later, the newspaper put to bed, the sky finally resting, I was back out at my car for the long trip home. First thing I noticed when I slid into the driver's seat: my mirrors were sparkling clean, not a smudge of salt or rain spots to be seen, a bottle of Windex and a wad of murky papertowels perched sub rosa on the ledge by the bay door.

July 15, 2004

Quote of the day: We were lucky to get a seat on the Saturday train into New York City, cram packed with people heading to Yankee stadium for an afternoon game against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Gregory sat on my lap the entire way, dodging the arms of the people standing above him in the aisle and eyeing a half-eaten donut under the next seat. On our way to join friends from Atlanta who were visiting Manhattan, my son and I felt a bit out of place amid the sea of navy blue hats with the distinctive interlocking NY logo on the front.

Near the end of the line, the conductor made the usual loudspeaker announcements: "Next and final stop: New York, Penn Station. Gather all of your belongings from the overhead bins," then added a few phrases not heard on the train everyday: "Ain't nobody staying on this train, 'cuz, like I just said, this is da last stop. "And by the way," and now the announcer was shouting, "GO TAMPA!"

All the people wearing those logo hats began to hiss and boo very loudly. I ducked, shielding little Gregory's face just in case a riot was about to break out.

But after a few moments, it was clear there wasn't a conductor within miles who could possibly be a Tampa Bay fan, those Yankees do tend to enjoy a practical joke now and then. The announcer-conductor began to shush the crowd. "Now. Now. I've got a few things to say. Shh. Let me talk. Shh." Growing ever curious, the riders became quiet and attentive to the conductor's prepared speech. The exact words escape me now, but it was, apparently, the 40th birthday of another conductor on the train, and we were being asked to greet the birthday boy when we stepped from train to platform. "I don't think he's too happy about turning 40," our announcer said, "so maybe a little song would help too as we make our way into Penn Station."

Not to be deprived of this New York moment -- and I'm sure it wasn't exactly in unison, spanning over 8 or 10 train cars -- but I do believe the entire roll of thousands of passengers joined in an enthusiastic rendition of "Happy Birthday" to our 40-year-old conductor, Gregory and me included.

July 14, 2004

Quote of the day: Heading down to the Lincoln Tunnel in theater traffic on a Friday night, I idled against the bumper of the car in front, studying its brake lights. To my left I couldn't help but notice a BMW Z9 silver convertible. The driver wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves folded up midway to reveal a deep tan that highlighted the golden tones in his yellow power tie. Inching forward ever slowly, he punched the keys of his Blackberry while the first movement of Brahms' Third Symphony, the vigorous Allegro con brio, sang out from his speakers. What a different life the driver must have from mine, me in my faded jeans and fisherman sandals heading to work in a minivan, a booster seat and folded up stroller in the back, the radio still sadly set on 1010 WINS just in case a traffic reporter might offer a useful alternative route tip. (Dream on.)

I was in the right lane, and Mr. BMW was in the middle. He inched forward just a little. Then me. Then him. Then him some more. As his car made it past mine, I could see that the convertible's plastic rear window was in drastic need of repair, held together by pieces of ragged duct tape, peeling from the top and flapping in the wind. As he inched ahead slightly more, the small subtle bumper sticker read: "Never judge a man by duct tape alone."

July 9, 2004

Quote of the day: The fruity smell of the cereal bar enveloped Gregory's sensors immediately after the wrapper's airtight seal was broken. "Oooooo. Sweet!" said my 3-year-old son. And with a little self-hug, he added, "Just like me."

July 7, 2004

Thought for the day: The newsroom technology crew installed new e-mail software recently that automatically filters suspected junk mail into a "junk mailbox." When I finally did peruse the "junk" in the box, I discovered that nestled among the several hundred messages for Valium, Vicodin and who-knows-what were several e-mail messages sent by the technology chief instructing staffers on how to use the new software.

July 6, 2004

Quote of the day: The inflatable pool that sometimes reigns in our backyard has an ocean of friendly fish on its side: smiling rays, happy sea stars, bouncy jellyfish, cuddly turtles, clown fish with big Disney eyes, whales with fat stubby tails. 9-year-old Bradley loves the pool, but wishes the ocean scene had a dose of realism. "Those jellyfish would eat those sea stars," he said, "and why are they all smiling? Fish don't smile. Especially when they're about to be attacked by a big-eyed shark. I just don't get it. The artists who draw these things should do some research!"

July 5, 2004

Thought for the day: At 7 p.m., the 1010 WINS announcer said the weather in New York was: "Raining." From Fraternity Rock on the Turnpike, a high point, terrain-wise, I could see pretty much all of Manhattan, and it was clearly not raining. In fact the sky over my car was fair as far as my eyes could see, the sun just beginning its descent behind distant New Jersey hills in my rearview mirror.

At 7:28, I turned the corner leading out of the Lincoln Tunnel and onto 36th Street. Again, the same radio announcer: "Raining in New York." Even with the tall buildings blocking the majority of sky, the swath I could see was deep blue, a few puffy orange clouds floating serenely by the building-top water towers. People, cars, the street, pigeons pecking at bread crumbs, they were all completely dry, no umbrella nor makeshift soggy newspaper hat to be seen, not a drop of glistening evidence to suggest a recent rainfall.

To the delight of the passengers in the truck idling next to me at the intersection with Eighth Avenue - they must have been listening to 1010 WINS too - I yelled at the radio on my dashboard, "Get up and go look out the window, woman!"

July 2, 2004

Thought for the day: My new Lands' End catalog came today, the cover sporting a bright flower power palette of pink petals outlined in bold white on a sea of pale turquoise. "Sneak Peek," the large type says, new swimsuit designs! At first I thought how strange that a catalog would arrive on the first of July offering a "sneak peek" at summer apparel. In the fashion world, it's the dead of winter, the summer supply dwindling to make room for turtlenecks and jean jackets with mysterious color names like pistachio and canyon. So what's wrong with these Lands' End people? Why are they sending out catalogs showing new summer clothes in July? By the fashion calendar, everybody would have bought their swimsuits back in February!

Aaah, but not me. I'm a minute-by-minute girl. If I'm going to the beach tomorrow, I'm buying my tankini today! Planning ahead means scouring the closet at midnight for something to wear to my best friend's wedding tomorrow. Flower power swimsuits in February? No way! In February, I'm hopelessly rummaging the racks of freshly ironed khaki shorts for long jeans that fit my toddler right now. I never understood why only shorts could be found in the stores when it's 25 degrees out and snowing. So yay for Lands' End, I thought. New swimsuits in July! Finally, a company that's got it right!

Wait a minute. There's small print on the catalog's cover. That sneak peek? It's of the swimwear for the summer of '05

July 1, 2004

Quote of the day: For years, John-the-crossing-guard has stopped traffic while Bradley made his way to and from the elementary school. "See you after school." "See you in the morning." "See you next week." These were the phrases most often repeated, always followed by John's standard reply: "I hope so."

Every time I heard John say "I hope so," I thought it sounded a lot like a prayer. "See you tomorrow" while standing in the middle of the road protected only by a Day-Glo orange vest ought to be followed by a quick "Dear God, I hope so," especially here, on the road that leads morning commuters to the 8:35 city-bound train.

So at the end of the last day of school two weeks ago, John held his hands up in the air and moved into the crosswalk. An 18-wheeler slammed on the brakes, barely managing to stop before John motioned for Bradley to proceed. And drivers from two other directions seemed put out, as they almost always do, at having to stop suddenly. "Hey John," Bradley said, slapping the old man a happy last-day-of-school high five in the middle of the road. "See you in the fall."

The expected reply came: "I hope so."

As Bradley walked the rest of the way home, he glanced back at John several times. "Everyday, twice a day, rain, snow, freezing cold, wind enough to knock you over, John's there. It takes a certain kind of person," Bradley said, "to use his body to stop traffic just so people can cross the street. He risks his life for me, mom."

"John knows what he's doing," I said. "He'll be fine."

Clasping his fingers together, Bradley looked past the rim of his baseball cap and whispered, "I hope so."

June 30, 2004

Quote of the day: Walking up to geese in a park, Gregory scolded his big brother, "Bradley! Don't get too close. They'll charge you!"

Bradley walked even closer to the little family of geese; his rebellious side strengthens when the little brother gives orders. "Someday," he growled to Gregory, "you're going to be a perfect little mommy."

June 29, 2004

June 28, 2004

Quote of the day: Yesterday Gregory wore the t-shirt he got at Hershey Park last summer. Passing by a mirror, he stopped to check himself out. "Mom!" he called out as he ran his hands over the reflected letters. "You didn't put my shirt on right."

June 25, 2004

Quote of the day: In line at the post office for two books of stamps, I observed as other patrons' requests were processed by the all-too-helpful clerk. An Asian man (he dropped a pink post-it on the floor with scribbles of an Asian script) was asked if he would like the stamps that commemorate the Korean War. "No," the man said. "Too depressing."

He left holding a book of standard American flag stamps.

Two elderly women approached the counter together. The clerk tried to entice them with stamps bearing the impressionist art of Mary Cassatt. Holding the book mere inches from her face, one of the women peered at the stamps for a moment, then said in a low, raspy voice, "I can't see it. What's on here?"

The clerk replied, "Impressionist art. Those are famous paintings of little girls in the late 1800's."

The woman shoved the stamps back toward the postman. "I don't want that," the woman growled, shaking her head. "Can't you tell I'm not into sweet paintings of little girls? Grrr."

He tried the new World War II Memorial stamps. This time, it was the other woman who balked. "Why did they have to make the picture so morbid?" she said quietly. "It's feels so sad."

The women left holding two books of standard American flag stamps.

When I finally approached the counter, my younger son squealed at having been pulled away from the soft velvet of the winding rope line and my older child played detective, squinting to make out what was going on behind the tall counter. "Aha!" the clerk said excitedly when I told him I needed two books of stamps. "I've got just the thing for you!" He pulled out a book of stamps bearing the art of Walt Disney. "Disney stamps!" he said, and under his breath, he murmured, "I know I nailed this one."

But I literally shuddered. The reasons are too many, too personal, too painful . . .

O.K., I'll spill. I cried when Bambi's mother died; had nightmares for years after Pinnochio fell down Monstro's throat; was horrified when Simba watched as Mufasa was violently killed by Scar; and ever since my first child was born, I have choked at the shameless way the Disney company brainwashes little children to pester their parents for everything from exhausting and financially draining trips to Disney World to the movie merchandise tie-ins that are instilling a "gimme gimme gimme" mentality in children throughout the industrialized world.

Me buy a Disney stamp?

I left holding two books of standard American flags, the clerk shaking his head and saying out loud, "American flag stamps. American flag stamps. Everybody leaves here with American flag stamps."

June 24, 2004

Quote of the day: Aha! For several weeks, Gregory has been deathly afraid of bees. To my knowledge, he'd not been stung, knew no friends who had been stung, saw no stingings on television. The fear had gotten so bad that he wouldn't even go outside to play, and would scream if the door was opened. Yet I couldn't figure out why, all of a sudden, a bee phobia. Then one day recently, he told me that he had a dream about a bee. I assumed that in the dream, the bee had stung him. But several days later, he explained why the door must not be opened. "The bee will come into our house," he said, crossing his arms and pulling them tightly to his chest, "and then the bee will take all my toys and take all Bradley's toys, and then what will we do when we have no toys? Oh what will we do?"

That must have been one big bee. A Hitchcock bee!

June 16, 2004

Quote of the day: 3-year-old Gregory was nestled in my lap while we read "Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel" (Virginia Lee Burton, 1939) for at least the 20th time. When we reached the part where the hard-working duet of Mike and the steam shovel, Mary Anne, begin a last ditch effort to save themselves from certain obsoletion now that newfangled diesel and gas diggers were all the rage, Gregory suddenly grabbed the book from my hands. Fanning the pages to scan the exciting scenes back when Mary Anne's technology was the hottest ticket in town -- excavating skyscraper cellars, cutting mountain passes for railroads and making way for boats to sail through a grand canal -- Gregory closed the little paperback to examine the cover, saying, "How about we just click back to the home page?"

June 15, 2004

Quote of the day: Parked in the sun, the car was getting hot and I was growing increasingly bothered while 9-year-old Bradley ever-so-slowly slurped a chocolate milkshake while sprawled on the tailgate. "We need to go," I said impatiently. "Are you done yet?"

It would have taken me a while to conjure a convincing reply, but Bradley's clever answer was instant. "No," he declared, glaring at me while savoring the crystals of chocolate ice on the outside of his straw. "I'm still feeding on the nectar of this rare flower."

June 14, 2004

Quote of the day: Two young girls were riding down the street on a motorized scooter. The girl on the back was wearing extremely baggy nylon pants of a caution-sign yellow color, not particularly flattering (though certain to be seen by drivers from miles away). But when I commented to Bradley about the strange pants, he wasted no time putting me in my place, saying, "What do you know of girls' fashions, old woman?"

June 11, 2004

June 8, 2004

Quote of the day: It is Sunday night and tomorrow is one of only two Mondays left before summer break. Bradley is tired of third grade. He snuggles under his covers, remembering the weekend freedom -- the rainy Saturday playing inside all day, the Sunday brunch with friends, the late afternoon walk that ended in impromptu playdate with several neighborhood boys and a couple of playful dogs. He is sadly anxious about the looming Monday rush and longs for summer to hurry where free play rules the day. I remind him to say his prayers. He laughs a devilish laugh and whispers, "I'm praying that tomorrow's a snow day."

June 7, 2004

June 4, 2004

Quote of the day: Bradley's seat was opposite a wall of windows in the music room's semi-circle formation. In winter, when the winds rattled and the songs were of snowflakes, he loved his after school chorus rehearsals. But when the beautiful weather of spring blossomed, he stared at the sun streaming through those windows and longed to be outside following ants through the grass, or digging up earthworms, or playing swingball. Early in the spring, he told me he was planning to quit. "Chorus is boring," he said, shoulders drooping.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm not telling your choir director this news. You're telling her."

"Oh no," he replied, feeling sudden panic at the thought of confrontation. "I'll just finish out the year."

He went to every rehearsal, never again complained.

Today's music concert marked the end of having to stay after school for chorus. I asked him if he was glad he stuck it out.

"I really wanted to quit," he said. "But I'm glad I didn't. I mean, rehearsals are kind of boring, but when I'm on stage during a performance, like I was today, and I'm singing a song, it's as if I know a secret, and I get to tell everyone in the audience all about it. I love that."

June 3, 2004

Quote of the day: Gregory, 3, took off his shoes and discovered his big toe was poking through a huge hole in his sock. "Hello, toe!" he said. He turned to me in dismay. "Mommy," he cried, "it doesn't talk!"

June 2, 2004

"What do you want? Oh, wait," he said, "I mean, Ruff ruff ruff ruff?"

May 31, 2004

Quote of the day: Gregory is holding my keys, threatening to push the red panic button. He only wants to get a loud reaction from me, so I purposefully ignore him. He holds the keys up to my face, raises his eyebrows, mock-pushing the button. "Don't do it," I say. "It'll be really loud and it'll scare you, and you'll be sorry."

"No I won't," he says.

"Whatever," I say. I leave the room.

Several minutes later, the alarm sounds, cutting through the quiet neighborhood like an axe.

"Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. . . . "

I run through the house, grab the keys from my young son's hands, reset the alarm. After 10 or 12 more beeps, ahh, finally, quiet.

Gregory is standing 10 feet away now, face turned down, eyes turned up. I am standing over him, arms folded, my silent motherly glare determined not to add any more noise to this attention-seeking strategy.

It has been 10 solid seconds since either of us has moved a muscle. Face still turned down, big droopy eyes still turned up and staring into mine, he finally utters softly with a lift of his brow and shoulders, "Oops?"

Intense pressure from my teeth on my lip is the only thing preventing my giggling.

May 28, 2004

Quote of the day: Gregory was screaming bloody murder because he wanted to play with the exact toy that Bradley was holding. Gregory tends to do this quite often, screaming being an effective way of getting what one wants when one is three. "Fine," Bradley said. "Play with it, you little headache on legs."

May 27, 2004

May 26, 2004

Quote of the day: He told me his third grade Superstar math homework (word problems, yuck) was "optional." Though I wasn't quite certain I believed this, I let him off the hook. "It's a beautiful spring day," I said. "Go outside and play." But an altercation with the little brother resulted in a time out for the older child, nine solid minutes alone in a chair. "Or," I said, "You could do Superstar math. "He chose the math! Woo hoo! Twenty minutes later, completed worksheet in hand, he vowed breathlessly never to yell at his little brother again.

May 25, 2004

May 20, 2004

Quote of the day: Gregory, 3, is lounging comfortably in "his spot" on the fluffy green pillow in the living room when his older brother, Bradley, says, "Hey Gregory, go see what's on the couch."

Gregory pops up, runs to the couch, turns over every pillow, throws off both blankets, ditches every cushion. "I don't see anything."

Meanwhile, Bradley has assumed the coveted spot on the fluffy pillow, resulting in a predictable response once Gregory sees him there. "Hey! Get up!" Gregory shouts. "That's my spot! Move!"

Yelling soon prevails over the noise from the television and the pasta boiling on the stove as the brothers fight over the pillow.

Gregory, though six years Bradley's junior and several feet shorter, has learned that strong arms are an asset, and he eventually wins back his spot on the floor, thanks to the sheer might of an I-was-there-first-mentality.

Moments later Mike calls from the computer room, "Hey Gregory! Come here. I have something to show you."

But Gregory has gained a decade's worth of wisdom in the last several minutes. He rolls his eyes and hunkers down into the secure arms of comfort. "I am not falling for that trick again."

May 19, 2004

Quote of the day: Following in his mother's footsteps, Bradley has begun to record the everyday sayings and interesting things that happen in his life. But I didn't know that until today when I was gathering the laundry and found a tiny folded piece of paper left in the back pocket of his jeans. Since the quotes and thoughts that appear in this space often originate in exactly that form, curiosity
overtook me and I unfolded the paper.

"Dan is talking," the note said in Bradley's distinct 3rd-grader handwriting. "Mrs. Donohue is checking for notes sent from home. I am listening for lunch count. I am not buying today. Everyone is quiet.

"One of the girls is now gossiping. Lila is getting unpacked.

"Jonathan is playing with his feet while Mrs. Donohue is talking
to the class. Halle mentions a school luncheon coming up for the
teachers.

"Messengers are leaving now to report the lunch count and kids
who are absent today.

"We are saluting the flag. We are leaving for math."

Sounds so simple, so honest. I can just picture the students at the end of homeroom gathering their things, Bradley putting away his pencil and folding the tiny piece of paper before stuffing it into his back pocket and rushing to catch up with friends.

I have always dreamed of being an invisible witness to the things my son does while at school. Now I feel as though I have, if only for a moment.

May 18, 2004

May 17, 2004

Quote of the day: Far away, in a distant corner of the newsroom, a man seems to be having a conversation with another person, though only one voice is heard by the silent recorder of all things said out loud. (That would be me, slumping in my little cubicle while tying up the loose ends for the Saturday skeleton crew.) The man off in the distance talks loudly. He says to the other person, "It's Friday night. You've been working for 16 hours. It's well past midnight. Your page is closed and they're not going to let you sub your story again. What are you still doing here? (pause) What? You're paying your bills? Now? Oh for the love of Pete, go home woman."

May 14, 2004

Quote of the day: 3-year-old Gregory printed out a map of Africa while playing a geography game on the computer. When he brought the map into the kitchen, I said, "That's a map of Africa."

Hands on hips, he glared at me. "How did you know that?"

May 13, 2004

A moment later he caressed one hand with the other, murmuring, "Ow. Man that hurt."

May 11, 2004

Quote of the day: Demonstrating an understanding of the hierarchy of the animal world, 3-year-old Gregory announced that his dog name (the name he prefers to be called while pretending to be a dog) is "Barkey." His cat name, however, is "Mr. Barkey."

May 10, 2004

May 7, 2004

Quote of the day: Bradley and I were lounging outside the local ice-cream shop in the cool breeze and watching the cars process down Main Street when a van took the parallel spot in front of us. Out popped a young woman in short shorts and pale pink tank top carrying a prom dress, her mother shouting instructions for the dry cleaner, "Tell them about your tanning lotion, Missy!"

Bradley watched the girl's every leap and step: to dry cleaner, through sliding back into the front seat of her mother's beige minivan. And I watched him watching her. As the van pulled away, my 9-year-old son confessed, "Being around teenage girls makes me nervous."

I had a feeling it was something like that.

May 6, 2004

Quote of the day: 3-year-old Gregory and I had been out scouring all the nearby office supply stores for printer ink for my crusty old Apple printer. "Out of stock." "We don't carry that anymore." "We can order it for you." By the time we had hit our fourth store (we were desperate for printer ink) Gregory wanted to make sure I knew he'd had enough of this shopping excursion. "I have to get home," he said, "I have to go see my dad and my Bradley now."

May 5, 2004

"But we don't care about Mother's Day," a boy on the front row shouted out. "Mother's Day is all about YOU."

The teacher/mother standing in front of him responded, "Just remember, without us mothers, YOU wouldn't exist."

The boy tried a clever retort. "Without us kids, you mothers wouldn't have anybody around to annoy you."

May 4, 2004

My young sons and I had spent an hour in the children's section of the Menlo Park Barnes & Noble. Now, Bradley, 9, and Gregory, 3, were passing the time, both of them snuggling in one big green and beige striped fraction-couch, while I perused the Fiction and Literature section for a particular book title a friend had mentioned. Because children, who do tend to be noisy, belong in the children's section, and not here, where adults are studying and reading and relaxing in the quiet solitude of watching the rain falling from the huge gray sky, I begged of my sons, "Please, please be quiet."

Very softly, Bradley began to read "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs" (Judi Barrett and Ron Barrett, 1978) to his little brother. Seeing that they were comfortable and behaving, I edged away. My plan was this: keep my sons within ear-shot or eye-sight, one or the other, if not both. As I turned the corner from the B-authors to the C's, I was aware that Bradley's voice was louder. It didn't seem too loud though -- yet -- so I continued leisurely browsing. But when I turned from the E's, and within line-of-sight again, I realized that a crowd had formed. People behind and beside, listening covertly: three grad students with spiral notebooks of scribbled algorithms; a gym teacher from Bradley's school; a husky middle-aged man in brown plaid flannel; a hip-hopper, his headphones removed. All tallied, there were eight adults (nine including me) hearing the tale of a town where food falls from the sky, the daily menu doubles as weather report.

Facing the window, and only a foot in front of it, Bradley had no idea the audience consisted of anyone except his little brother.

The book ended, and all went quietly back to their studying, no applause or fanfare. Several minutes later as we descended the escalator, though, I glanced back in the direction of the rain-dotted windows (and thought it fortunate they were not dotted with maple syrup today). A woman wearing a Maya Angelou costume of elegant head wrap adorned with pale yellow silk roses, a long string of large white pearls and full-length dress in beige and black, sat at a mahogany table by the windows. She was surrounded by a treasure trove of open books, a love of reading being something of a requirement for spending Sunday afternoon entrenched at Barnes & Noble. Realizing that our eyes had met, she raised a thick hard-cover into the air with one hand, glanced quickly down at my children, then nodded one emphatic time, silently, only to me.

May 3, 2004

"Don't worry, if I'm not living when you're an adult, I'll still exist in your heart," I said sweetly, patting my hand gently on his chest, "and in that little voice inside your head that says," and I changed my tone from sweet to stern, "'Bradley, get dressed; we're late'; 'Bradley, stop talking and eat your dinner'; 'Bradley, I thought I told you to clean up this mess an hour ago; Bradley, close that Website this very minute, do you hear me?'"

"Ugh, mom, when you put it THAT way . . . "

April 28, 2004

April 23, 2004

Quote of the day: The way 3-year-old Gregory says the word "girl" would be written, "grill," except he adds a slight pause and barely audible vowel sound before the r: "guhrill," which might be better represented like this: "g'rill." The other day he was telling Mike that there's a distinct difference between his "boy hair" and his mother's hair: "g'rill hair."

Mike said, "Your mother has gorilla hair?"

April 22, 2004

April 20, 2004

Quote of the day: Standing on a wooden ladder in the backyard and wearing a yellow construction hat, Bradley was talking into a garden sprayer, answering questions at a make-believe press conference. As president of Cookiemouse Land, he was facing a throng of reporters from around the tiny nation who were grilling the leader on issues ranging from water emergencies to the state of the nation's militia. "We have the smallest number of soldiers each town can have," the president said into the garden sprayer. "Any smaller and the trade federation could wipe us out in a second."

When the press conference was over several minutes later, the president's mother complimented her 9-year-old son on his ability to handle the reporters' tough questions.

"Thanks, mom," he told her. "But really, tell me honestly, how did I do?"

"You handled that better than even George Bush himself could have," she said, patting her son on the back.

"Oh please," he responded, "an ant could have handled this better than George Bush."

April 19, 2004

Thought for the day: I'm sitting at a red light in a Times Square intersection. On one side of the street is a high-rise residential building, on the other, a large luxury hotel. A New York City police car idles next to mine, waiting for the light to change. It is 3 a.m.

Across the street, on the opposite intersection 50 yards away, five uniformed police officers are walking in a northerly direction, perpendicular to the path in which the police car is pointed. All of a sudden, the police bubbles begin to flash; the sound of a quick siren-burst causes me to jump. Using the car's loudspeaker, the driver-officer shouts, "Where ya headed?" The officers walking on the opposite street point their arms north. Loudspeaker: "Pizza?" An across-the-street officer flashes an affirmative gesture.

Loudspeaker: "Make mine pepperoni. Mike wants, whaddya want, Mike?"

Another voice speaks into the microphone, "Sausage and veggies, everything, whatever, and a large Coke." The driver speaks again, "Yeah, large Coke, make that two. Meet'cha in ten." One of the officers hits the siren one last time; a decrescending squeal provides the conversation's exclamation mark.

There's a reason they call it the city that never sleeps.

April 16, 2004

April 7, 2004

Quote of the day: Enchanted the first time I read "My Side of the Mountain" (Jean Craighead George, 1959) when I was 10, I couldn't wait to share the book with Bradley. Much to my surprise and delight, when searching a bookstore for it last spring, I discovered that two more books had followed over the decades to form a trilogy. Our brand new hard-cover encasing all three books, I started reading it to Bradley last summer, a little bit every weekend night. And much to my delight, my son was equally enchanted. What young nature-lover wouldn't be? It's a story of a boy who leaves his crowded New York City apartment to live alone in the base of a hollowed-out hemlock tree in the Catskill Mountains. Once the boy, Sam, gets settled (after a night of crying and doubt and many nights and days setting up camp), he acquires a young peregrine falcon, Frightful, whom he intends to train into an effective huntress for the long winter months ahead.

We finished the first book in about a month, and completed the second one in record time. Unfortunately, we hadn't quite finished the last hundred-or-so pages of the third when school started in September. As with all summer activities, "Frightful's Mountain" (1999) was cast aside to make way for homework, rehearsals, clubs and assigned reading. But when we finally did pick up where we left off, it was as if we had embraced a long-lost friend; no detail forgotten, reviewing unnecessary.

It took us three nights to finish it, and when I reached the last sentence, I snapped the book shut.

"No! No!" Bradley cried, "tell me it's not over!"

Grabbing the book from my hands, he caressed the cloth over the cover and fanned the 600-some-odd pages. Turning back to the beginning, he read out loud, "I am on my mountain in a tree home . . . ," then hop-skipped to the last page, recalling Frightful's migratory adventures and Sam's longing for her to return to him someday. Bradley read the last line again, about Frightful's daughter perched in the old wooden box where her mother had gotten her
on-wing: "She called for a mate."

With the high emotion of a boy deeply moved by literature, he choked back a rush of tears and said, "This is the best book any nature-loving boy could ever read. No doubt about it."

I was touched, feeling certain that the boy who came of age on the side of a mountain would forever be imprinted on my son's memory, just as Sam Gribley and Frightful still are on mine.

April 6, 2004

Quote of the day: The final week before Easter and the passion of the Peeps has begun. Three boxes of the little yellow sugar puffs were left under the television by a generous someone on the day shift. Night shifters drifting by had their thankful fill. Except for Margaux, who, instead of popping a peep, said, "Diabetic coma in the shape of a chick. No thanks." (Have you ever noticed how their eyes are all different? Creepy peeps have creepy peepers.)

April 5, 2004

True. I still have a hard time imagining my mom as a toddler. Nope. She was my mom - Elizabeth Montgomery hair, Loretta Swit lips -- the day she was born.

April 1, 2004

Conversation of the day:

BRADLEY: "How many presidents were named George?"

ME: "Well, let's see, there's the Georges Bush, that's two, and obviously George Washington, so that's three." (Tapping my finger on my chin) "I think maybe that's it."

BRADLEY: "So that's three. How many presidents were named William?"

ME: (Starting to feel a little uncomfortable in my presidential history knowledge, I began to squirm) "Well, let's see, there's Clinton, Taft, and hmm, somebody else, I think, Harrison, and, um, oh, McKinley."

BRADLEY: "So that's four. How many presidents were named Abraham?"

ME: "That one's easy. Just Lincoln."

BRADLEY: "How many were named Bradley?"

ME: "Well, one day, perhaps many, many years from now, a mother and her young child will have this same conversation, and the answer to that question will be: 'Just one. Shaver.'"

BRADLEY: "Hey! That's MY name!"
(I smile)

BRADLEY: "But mom, I might not want to be president. I might want to be a marine biologist, policeman, firefighter, or anything else, only God knows. Being president means making tough decisions, going to different countries, living in the White House, all that stuff. But if I were a marine biologist, I'd get to see the world's oceans and meet lots of cool fish."

ME: "Oh well, then, no contest. I'd pick cool fish over the White House any day."

Wouldn't you?

March 31, 2004

Quote of the day: 3-year-old Gregory flopped down into a chair headfirst. With feet wiggling in the air, he muffled a shout. "Help me! I'm the wrong way!"

March 30, 2004

Quote of the day: Bradley pointed out beautiful white clouds in a cyan sky, but Gregory said he didn't see any clouds. "How could you not see them?" Bradley said to his little brother. "Those clouds stick out like Braille."

After relating this story to a colleague, he replied, "That's why he couldn't see them! (he laughs) I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That's just sick."

March 29, 2004

From a parent's point of view, there are no more trips to BJ's to lay out 35 bucks a month for diapers (plus another 20 for three tubs of baby wipes). No more schlepping the diaper bag to every place the child goes. No more strange smells eeking from underneath four layers of clothing seconds before a winter outing. No more sudden explosions during that one time the diaper bag was left at home.

But what exactly does a 3-year-old's sense of triumph sound like? "Mommy, listen." Gregory said today. I bent down, leaned in close, turned my ear toward the sound of his voice. "Listen," he repeated. "Shhh."

I listened carefully, but heard only silence.

Very quietly, he whispered, "That's the sound of me controlling my body."

March 25, 2004

Quote of the day: Regressing to the days when he was the little one, 9-year-old Bradley was sitting on my lap pretending to be a baby when 3-year-old Gregory marched up to us. "Get up!" the little one shouted to Bradley. "That's MY mommy!"

March 24, 2004

Quote of the day: Over a hundred years ago, Nora Perry wrote a poem in which she pondered, "Who knows the thoughts of a child?" Here's what 3-year-old Gregory was thinking today, exactly as spoken by him: "I'm thinking about ducks floating in the pond (he pauses), and the beach (pause) and Peter Rabbit (pause). Do you know how to write Peter Rabbit?" (I write it for him.) He looks at the words, "Peter Rabbit." He pauses again, then continues thinking out loud: "The end. Write 'the end' mom."

"The end."

March 23, 2004

Thought for the day: Brothers down to their bones, 9-year-old Bradley and 3-year-old Gregory were arguing about something, but nothing really.

Bradley: "You!"
Gregory: "You!"
B: "You! You!"
G: "You! You!"
B: "You! You! You!"
G: "You! You! You!"
B: "You! You! You! You!"
G: "You! You! You! You!"
B: "You you you you you you you you you . . ."
G: "You you you you you you you you you . . ."

The older brother ended it with this one: "You infinity. I win."

Do conversations between siblings ever change?

I'm almost certain my older brother, Bill, and I had this very same altercation 33-some-odd years ago, probably centered on the basic question of which one of us had the lower I.Q. In fact, Bill would probably respond to this message with a simple "You!" resulting in a week's worth of "Subject: Re: You" messages that grow longer and longer, but I'm going to go ahead and put the kibosh on the argument right here and right now.

Hey Bill! You infinity. I win.

(I've waited 33 years to do that. Now if only it were true, I'd be in good shape.)

March 22, 2004

Quote of the day: Gregory was spinning in the kitchen, just spinning around and around and singing a monotone. Bradley and I sat motionless, watching the little boy, then looked at each other with expressionless faces. "You used to do that when you were 3," I said to Bradley. "I know," Bradley replied. "That's because we're the Weirdo Family." He then sang, to the tune of the Addams Family theme song, "He's creepy and I'm kooky. Mysterious and spooky. We're all together ooky. We're Brad and Gregory."

March 19, 2004

Once upon a time, a woman came down the stairs and saw a monster.

"Yeeeeet!" she screamed.

The monster made an angry face (because monsters don't know how to make faces other than angry faces) and then the monster screamed right back, "Yeeeeet!"

And so the woman said, "Would you like some lemonade?"

And the monster said, "Yes I would."

So the woman poked around the kitchen for a minute, then said, "We're fresh out of lemons. Let's go grocery shopping."

So the monster and the woman walked down the street toward the grocery store. As they walked, they came upon another woman who saw the monster on the sidewalk. The woman yelled, "Yeeeet!" When the monster made an angry face, the woman ran away very fast.

Inside the grocery store, customers were yelling, "Yeeeet!" all over the place and running away and pretty soon the woman and the monster had the store all to themselves and their groceries.

They bought lemons and sugar and biscuits and sausage and paper towels. (Because monsters do tend to be messy sometimes.)

When the woman and the monster went to the checkout line, the sweet old man behind the cash register saw the monster and yelled, "Yeeeeet!"

The monster made an angry face.

The woman quickly threw down some money.

The cashier said nervously in a cheery voice, "Thank you! Come again!"

On the way back to the woman's house, another woman, Peggy, saw the monster carrying grocery bags full of lemons and she yelled, "Yeeeeet!" And the monster made an angry face and yelled right back,"Yeeeeet!"

And Peggy said in a cheery voice, "Oooooh, I forgot all about that, and I do love a nice lemonade!"

So the woman, the monster and Peggy went home and had lemonade and sausage biscuits, all the while yelling, "Yeeeeet!" which -- and not many people know this -- in monster language means, "lemonade yummy."

March 17, 2004

Quote of the day: Holding a plastic dinosaur carrying an empty cage in its talons, 3-year-old Gregory said, "Look mom. The pteradon is carrying the spider back to her web site."

One can't help wondering if he refers to a physical site where the spider catches her food, or to the invisible spider's virtual home in cyber space.

March 15, 2004

Quote of the day: Bradley and Gregory were in the kitchen imitating basketball fans trying to distract the foul shooter. But instead of distracting some imaginary basketball player, they were simply bothering me. "All I want in my life is a little peace and quiet," I said glumly. Bradley stopped jumping and yammering long enough to respond, "Aw come on, mom, you get plenty of peace and quiet when you go to work."

Oh yeah? Here's what happened at work: "Ten minutes" should have been "three"; my computer crashed; "Richard" should have been "Robert"; my computer crashed; I missed my deadline; my computer crashed; the news desk yelled at me; my computer crashed; the foreign desk yelled at me; my computer crashed; I sliced my shift finger on the edge of a piece of paper; my computer crashed; a desperately needed story couldn't be found on the new newsroom network, which is so unwieldy it caused my computer to crash; because of my computer crashing, my scheduling file corrupted; and, my mouse hand hurts from where I slammed it down on the desk after my, you guessed it, computer crashed again.

Two little miracles saved the night. The first: a sweet 4-year-old boy from my church choir paid an unexpected visit to the newsroom tonight, and he gave me a great big hug, and the second is the fact that this message exists at all! That's worth two points for the foul shooter, right?

March 11, 2004

Quote of the day: Being a parent has afforded me the opportunity to look at things in a whole new way. As 3-year-old Gregory stood directly underneath the ceiling fan in his room, neck right-angled to look straight up, he said, "Fan, aren't you tired?"

Despite the fact that the fan stays alive all winter to push the heat down, I'm pretty sure it can't talk. To be sure Gregory understood that, I said, "You do realize the fan can't talk, right?"

Gregory answered by spinning his head around wildly in a dramatic "no" response.

"Well what does the fan say to you?" I asked.

Again, Gregory spun around, no-ing, and mimicking the motion of the fan, indicating that the one word the fan knows is "no."

So we look up and ask again. "Fan, aren't you tired?"

The answer: a rather obvious "no."

March 10, 2004

Thought for the day: My favorite biscuits were in the oven, ahh, the aroma was heavenly, but time had run out and I had to leave for work before they were done. "Don't worry," Bradley said, "we'll e-mail you one!" I thought, yeah, right, I'm so bummed, it's not fair, I want a biscuit, oh woe is me. Aloud, however, I said, "Thanks! That'll be delicious! Mmmm!" Bradley laughed and said, "Oh, mom, I was just kidding!" But when I arrived at work and checked my e-mail, there it was, thanks to the digital camera, a hot off the presses photograph of said biscuit, right out of the oven, steam floating atop the perfectly browned crust, a touch of butter trickling from the cumulus cloud sides. I had longed for my biscuit all the way to work, and here it was, virtually, mouthwateringly, delicious.

I would have attached the actual picture, but alas, mere crumbs remain.

March 9, 2004

"I'm having such a nice time doing my homework today," Bradley said. (I stopped writing checks long enough to write THAT one down!) As Bradley laboriously wrote out his essay in longhand, he spoke each word out loud. "Hey - give - me - your - lunch - money - punk." (He writes - very - slowly.)

I drifted back into bill paying, half listening to the painfully slow story, half writing the painful checks.

"It just makes me so happy," Bradley snuck in, "to know that you are listening so intently to my story!" (Oops, what was that?) He continued writing, "Then - I - flew  - out - of - the - boy's  - hat - and - bit - the - bully - right - on - the - nose." (Now that's a useful stag beetle, I thought.)

Looking down at my own work, I realized I had scribbled something about stag beetles biting the noses of bullies on my check to PSE&G.

March 8, 2004

"The spider's not dreaming," Gregory corrected. "It means you're scared of spiders."

In contemplating his song anew, I get chills imagining my son's scary spider dreams, and yet, I am in awe of the child's ability not only to understand the shadows of his mind, but also to verbalize that understanding with poetic vision.

March 4, 2004

Tonight, just when the clock struck midnight, the computer at my colleague's desk suddenly switched on. Things on the screen started to move, and the computer was making all sorts of noises: clicks, bongs and beeps. I stood motionless for the longest time staring at the computer, waiting to see if the computer's mouse, or maybe the keys on the keyboard, would also move. They didn't. Then it occurred to me: the owner of the machine must be controlling it remotely! YES! That's got to be it. No ghost is going to scare me, no way. But just as I turned to sit at my own desk, a quick brown mouse scurried away, running between my shoeless feet and under my desk. I screeched! (Though not to be heard or helped by any living humans). Right about then my colleague's computer suddenly went black with a loud clang. I could think of only one thing: Yikes! My shoes are sitting right in the place to where the mouse just ran!

People are always saying, Wow, you work at The New York Times; that must be terribly exciting. I always say, You don't know the half of it.

March 3, 2004

March 2, 2004

Quote of the day: The other day Gregory smelled a strange odor in his room. "It's Grill Hobstein," he said. Grill Hobstein. Grill Hobstein. After days of mind-numbing puzzlement, Mike, Bradley and I still have no idea who Grill Hobstein is, or why he (she? it?) smells so bad. In any case, if you ever find yourself in the company of a member of my family, and somebody says, "Grill Hobstein," it will likely be code for "something smells yucky in here."

March 1, 2004

Quote of the day: It seems appropriate to follow yesterday's sweet quote -- Gregory had shared his displeasure over the fact that I married his daddy instead of him -- with this one: "Mom," Gregory said standing with his face directly in front of mine, my nose only inches away from his cute, young, one, "your eyes are old; your hair is old; your cheeks are old; your mouth is old; your nose is..."

"All right !" I sputtered, "I get the picture!"

As I walked slowly away, gently caressing the lines by my eyes (hoping for a smoothing effect), I was pretty sure I had aged at least a decade in the brief moment I had just spent with my son.

Feb. 27, 2004

Quote of the day: Toddling, squatting, studying thumb-high daffodil stems poking from muddy mulch, Little Gregory and the warming sun coaxed together, "Grow, flowers, grow!" Standing tall, arms exploded in V-for-victory, the boy shouted to the treetops, "Yay! It's spring!" Then squatting again, watching the yet still thumb-high stems, he drooped in lament. "Oh no. They didn't grow." Forecast for tomorrow? Thumb-high snow.

Feb. 23, 2004

I agree; the homework does get tiresome. Even reading, one of his favorite subjects, can be a chore when it's required as homework. Sometimes I cheat and read to him, giving him a bit of a break while hopefully showing him how much fun reading can be, especially when a bit of drama is added to the words.

Yesterday's homework was the usual heavy load for a Thursday: an essay to write, math, spelling and reading. But we ran out of time and didn't get to the reading before I had to leave for work; the thought of telling him he'd have weekend homework made me shiver.

The book is "Ben and Me: An Astonishing Life of Benjamin Franklin as Written by His Good Mouse Amos," by Robert Lawson (1939). Pen in paw, Amos, the gentlemanly mouse wearing low rectangular glasses and a frock coat, recalls the life and achievements of his "lamented friend and patron," Ben Franklin. (Turns out the Franklin Stove was actually Amos's idea, and he had a bit to do with the invention of the lightning rod, the usefulness of bifocal glasses, Ben's philosophical writing and some other things as well.)

So every day after school, Bradley has read a chapter to me. No cheating, this time it's all Bradley. I have listened with rapt attention. I laugh; I smile; I curl my brow; I shake my head in disbelief. And when the chapter of the day is finished, I applaud my son's performance. "What fun we are having!" I shout truthfully. "I
can't wait until tomorrow!"

Bradley hastened home from school today -- Friday: Freedom Day -- but his entrance did not include the expected groaning at the thought of weekend reading. He had barely removed his coat before he plopped down beside me and started right where we left off on Wednesday: "Chapter 8: That Kite."

Listening to my third grader dramatize the story on a Friday afternoon, not a single complaint or tear, I knew that all the years of reading to him had paid off. Just like he'd heard since he was a baby, he read with drama, varying his intonations and punctuating his sentences aloud. And when he reached the chapter's last four words, he accented each one as he raised one arm triumphantly into the air: "and Ben -- sailed -- alone."

(Because, of course, Amos refused to test Ben's theories on how a lightning rod would work on the sea after he had been tricked into riding on the string of that -- awful -- kite.)

Feb. 20, 2004

Thought for the day: A huge picture on the front page of my local newspaper showed a burnt orange sky criss-crossed with the pale orange vapor trails from at least four airplanes. Maybe it's the printing, but there's also a pale green cast to the sun, and more pea green circles, progressively smaller, from the lens reflecting the light. Along the bottom: the silhouette of traffic on a highway -- a big shadowy truck, an SUV and the fuzzy haze of pollution stirring in the dusk.

My first thought when I saw the picture: Traffic congestion, land and sky. Exhaust. Cold. Dirt. Burnt orange. Pea green. Yuck.

The caption writer must have been a serious optimist though: "Rush hour drivers on Route 287 in Edison enjoy a scenic sunset." (Take a survey, buddy, and I'll bet you'll find that the vast majority of rush hour drivers on Route 287 don't enjoy much of anything.)

Feb. 19, 2004

Thought for the day: Kermit the Front Desk Guard Frog had a new companion today: a like-sized Miss Piggy joined to her lover by a single strand of pearls draped around both necks. Our security guards must be having a bit of fun with the famous muppet couple. But will there one day be a little Frog-Piggy by the electronic gate? A little mouse, perhaps, with Disney eyes, a pig nose and legs that always stay behind the lobby desk?

The other day, Kermit was reading The Daily News. Traitor.

Feb. 18, 2004

Feb. 17, 2004

Quote of the day: Passively supervising Bradley's toothbrushing last night, I became lost in a far-off land of rustling palms and straw hats. I stared at the mirror reflecting the distant wall's wallpaper, but saw instead lanterns glowing at the end of a tropical sunset while the beat of steel drums mingled with dancing firelight. A lone cloud passed over the moon as the little daisy tucked behind my ear fluttered in the ocean breeze, then twirled gently to the sand. Hopping off my rickety stool to pick it up, I ditched the flip flops to walk barefoot in the moonlit dune and calypso out by the sea, the salty spray misting my ...

"Mom?" Bradley interrupted, his brow furled. "You look like you're about to burst out crying."

I didn't say anything back to my 9-year-old son, just a look and a shrug. I thought how odd that he would see a tear-burst looming when what was truly in my heart was a song-burst, for at any moment I might have spontaneously started that Caribbean dance. But perhaps what he saw on my face was truth. After four straight months in turtlenecks and long socks, my winter uniform is feeling quite restrictive. I'm utterly weary of windswept debris on icy streets still bordered by foot-high mounds of brackish snow. My skin is dry; my legs are pale; my lips are chapped. And the only music here is the rhythm of the brushing of Bradley's boundless smile; the only spray the splats of toothpaste slinging from the ends of his bristles.

"No," I said finally, lying. "I'm perfectly happy."

He shook his head in knowing disbelief, muttering to the mirror, "She's the prototype for the strangeness of Momkind."

Feb. 16, 2004

The quote of the day can be found on page 21 of The New York Times Book Review, Sunday, Feb. 15, 2004. Gregory is the 3-year-old. (Looking online? Find the review of "Language Visible.")

Feb. 15, 2004

Feb. 5, 2004

Quote of the day: Ever since Gregory was a baby, we always sat together in front of the fireplace to read books. I sit on the floor, legs crossed, then Gregory plops down to nestle in my lap. This is a cozy little habit, so I usually use the opportunity to give my son a hug and tell him what a sweet baby he is before we begin reading. Today, he grabbed a book for us to read, but I sat on a chair instead of the floor. Big mistake. He grabbed my arm and pulled me off the chair. "Remember? We read books on the floor," he said as he brought my arms around his tummy. "Because I'm your baby."

Feb.4, 2004

Feb.3, 2004

Quote of the day: My minivan was parked on 43rd Street flashing its hazards while I ran into the Times lobby to talk to a security guard. While I was inside, tourists crowded the sidewalk, pointed at the signs over Times Square and posed for pictures in front of the Times building. When I came back out and jumped into my van, a little boy of about 6 years old wearing an Ohio State cap opened the passenger side sliding door and started to get in. A woman pulled him back abruptly, then instantly pushed the obscure little button inside the door that automatically begins to close it. "Alex," she shouted as she flashed an apologetic smile in my direction, "that's not OUR minivan!"

Jan. 30, 2004

THE SCENE: A news conference before the Super Bowl.

THE PLAYERS: A sports reporter and an athlete.

SPORTS REPORTER: How does it feel to be in the Super Bowl?

ATHLETE: That's the dumbest question. That's the dumbest question. You knew the answer to that question even before you asked it. Why would you ask that dumb question?

WHAT THE ATHLETE COULD HAVE SAID: I'm so glad you asked that question! I've waited my whole life to be asked that question by an accomplished sports reporter such as yourself. Let me ask you, as a sports reporter, it must be the Super Bowl of all sports reporter assignments to be assigned to cover the athletes at the Super Bowl! So, thanks to you, my life-long dream has come true -- because I'm sitting here being interviewed by the guy who got the SUPER BOWL ASSIGNMENT! So you tell me, how does it feel to be in the Super Bowl?

Jan. 30, 2004

Quote of the day: Sometimes Bradley needs to be reminded that he's still a child. Unfortunately, he no longer believes this to be true. "I'm not a kid," says the 9-year-old. "I'm a preteen."

Jan. 29, 2004

Quote of the day: I was watching my favorite television show, "The West Wing," when two characters gracefully flowed from some high-level policy discussion into emotionally touching romantic comedy. I was watching this at the kitchen table, sitting across from Bradley as he studied for a spelling test. The television was muted so he could concentrate on his work; and I was listening using my headphones. I was so engrossed in the romance that I think I might have been smiling as I stared at the screen, and maybe even my eyes began to well a little bit. I may have giggled.

Even though Bradley couldn't hear the program, and couldn't see the screen, he must have been equally engrossed in studying my face and scrutinizing my physical reactions (instead of studying spelling words). He shouted to his dad on the other side of the kitchen: "Dad! She's crying again. Look at her eyes. West Wing. I just don't get it."

Jan. 28, 2004

Jan. 22 2004

Quote of the day: Gregory has the basics down for learning how to read. Check for clues in pictures; look closely at letters; try sounding out words letter by letter. Yesterday he ran into the living room holding a jar of baby food. "I want to eat this," he said. "I'm hungry."

"Tell me what's in the jar," I replied. "Read the label." It did seem that "Vegetable Turkey Dinner" would be a bit of a challenge, and so I thoroughly appreciated the 3-year-old's creative response.

As he looked closely at the picture of a baby squatting in a field, he ran his fingers over the letters and said, "Mystery Food."

Jan. 21, 2004

Quote of the day: Any amount of accumulating snow always meant an instant holiday when I was growing up in South Carolina. Just a dusting, even, could spell a day off school and serious frolicking with children of all ages wearing a smorgasbord of winter garb grabbed from a dusty coat closet.

So imagine our collective depression when forecasted snow never materialized, or started as flurries, but melted on contact, or started as a heavy squall, but quickly turned into rain that washed the dusting away within minutes.

Despite living in the northeast now, I still get that "instant holiday" feeling when I see the first flake fall. (And then reality sets in and I know I have to get wherever I need to go anyway.) This is one reason the Dan Fogelberg song, Same Auld Lang Syne, leaves me feeling melancholy this time of year. It starts out with the happiest of all notions for a southern girl: "The snow was falling Christmas Eve·" And ends with the saddest: "·the snow turned into rain." In my girlhood, snow-turned-rain equaled holiday gone; and the chance of another southern snowstorm in the same year was effectively zero.

This New Year's Eve the Fogelberg song came on the radio again and my 9-year-old son, Bradley, listened with mild interest. At the end, he saw my gloomy face and reminded me of two basic differences between us: First, he has a perpetual glass-is-half-full philosophy and second, HE'S growing up in the north.

"What's there to be sad about?" he said. "Last year it was still snowing in APRIL."

Jan. 7, 2004

Quote of the day: 3-year-old Gregory seems to be in a snuggling phase -- a stroke of the hair, a nestling hug and butterfly kisses all day; forget food, sleep, television, books, even Nick Junior.com. "Mom!" he called from the kitchen, "Get over here and give me some eyelash!"

Jan. 6, 2004

Quote of the day: During the final winter break outing before school was to begin again, I reminded Bradley of the full list of activities in a regular weekly schedule: getting up early, school, chores, homework, choir rehearsals, more homework.

"Actually," he replied, "I'm rather excited about starting back. I'll get to see my friends, have lunch in the lunchroom -- you know how I like that. I'll be busy all day, be away from Greggy for a while -- you know how I love my little brother, but how he annoys me sometimes. Then when I come home, I'll see you all again and be even happier to be with you since I've been gone from you all day."

I was thinking: Hello? Who are you? My little baby can't possibly have matured this much from two weeks of pure leisure time. "Let me see if I got this right," I said aloud. "You're happy about going back to school tomorrow?"

"Well," he answered slowly, "if only there was no such thing as math."

Whew. There he is. That's the Bradley I remember.

Jan. 5, 2004

Quote of the day: Bradley, 9, rarely goes to bed before 9:30 p.m. and even then, there's a requisite amount of prodding to get him to go. "But I'm not sleepy," he says routinely.

On Christmas Eve we were driving home from church when Bradley said, "I think the Sandman poured a whole bunch of sand in my eyes because I've got to get home and get to bed right away. And it's not because Santa comes tonight and I need to be in bed or else he won't leave me any toys. That's not why I'm saying this. It's because I'm really, really tired, mom, honestly."

Yeah sure. I looked at my watch. 7 o'clock on the nose.

Jan. 2, 2004

Thought for the day: New Year's Eve is the only day of the year that New Jersey Transit offers train service out of Manhattan all night long. Fearing foul-mouth drunks crowding the 1 a.m. back to New Jersey, I decided to hold up at the office until the masses had thinned. Trekking through the streets of midtown at 3 in the morning, it did seem that the people had dispersed a good bit. Unfortunately, I think most of them had gone to the same place I was headed: Penn Station.

Just as I arrived, I caught a glimpse of the Northeast Corridor Line's status report changing from "on time" to "now boarding on Track 9." I made a quick dash for it; I didn't want to have to stand the whole way. Bouncing into my seat, happy to be near a window, I watched as my car filled to capacity within minutes; people streamed down the aisle in hopes that the next car would be less full.

As they streamed, many asked the lone man sitting in a 6-seat cluster across from me to clear his bags from the empty seats. "No," he said, each time flashing six tickets to prove his point. "I'm saving these seats for my friends."

Once the train reached standing-room-only capacity, a woman pushed away the man's ticket-flashing hand and sat down anyway. "But I'm saving these!" he shouted. "You have to move!" Four more people followed the woman's lead and sat in the remaining seats, resulting in offensive shouts from the desperate man. "You all have to stand up!" he declared with a hefty dose of profanity. "My friends are coming now! Get up!" Of course, nobody budged, but the fool would not be quiet.

After a few moments of this hullabaloo, a large man pushed his way through the passengers standing in the aisle. He was about the size of Lawrence Taylor, seemed just as experienced at tackling people and looked to be just as merciless. Suddenly, LT plopped down to rest on Mr. Offensive's lap, seriously squashing him. Nearly everyone in the car burst into cheers, laughing and squealing, "Happy New Year!" Not another word was heard from Mr. Offensive; LT was still sitting on top of him 45 minutes later when the train arrived at my stop.

Jan. 1, 2004

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