Dec. 21, 2004

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 Brad