Poem for the day:

On the Eve of Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving eve
While tucked into bed
He looked at me sadly
With a grim grin and said,


"How long until Christmas?
I know I can't wait
One thing on my list
Not six, three or eight.
The one, an accordion
With green and gold keys
But mom, oh why bother
I won't eat my peas
I cried for no reason
I spilled berry juice
I made you buy chicken
No Thanksgiving goose
Left cars in the kitchen
My blocks in your room
Downloaded a virus
My Christmas is doomed!
Oh why was I naughty?
Still time to be kind?
I'll eat what you feed me
And then bear in mind
I've got a whole month yet
To get it together
Write out my letter
And mail it to Santa
How long now till Christmas?
I know I can't wait."


Tomorrow's Thanksgiving
Green peas on his plate!

Nov. 24, 2005

Thought for the day: The preschool teacher asked her class to draw pictures of vegetables that start with the letter C. My son drew crackers and ice cream.


Nov. 23, 2005






Quote of the day: Bradley read Scripture as part of Worship Services on Youth Sunday. When church was over, the senior pastor complimented him. "Now that's the way to read Scripture!"

I have to admit, even though I may be prejudiced, that he did do an excellent job, enunciating and emphasizing just the right words, and delivering the verse slowly, which brought an extra ounce of emotion to a powerful message.

Later, at home, I asked Bradley how it felt to be standing in front of all those people reading from the Bible.

"Just before I went up to the pulpit," Bradley said, "I put my hand on my stomach, and I said a little prayer. It went like this: 'Oh God, just please, whatever else happens, please don't let me throw up.' "

Nov. 21, 2005

Thought for the day: About 11:33, when the newsroom was still, and growing ever quieter, I heard a loud, shrill scream coming from someone, a woman, on another floor. I was not alarmed. I knew instantly the cause for such a scream.

Mouse.

Nov. 16, 2005

Quote of the day: He walked down the sidewalk leading away from school wearing the Eeyore slouch on his back, bad day written on his face.

As he walked to the car with a noticeable limp, the story poured out like salt from a shaker with a loosened top.

A kid dropped a trumpet case on Bradley's toe during band, then stepped on Bradley's foot, and didn't even apologize. Later, another kid jumped out to surprise Bradley from behind a corner, spilling water all over Bradley's pants. Two hours after that, his pants were still damp.

At lunch, he opened his sandwich container to discover that mold had grown on the bread since breakfast.

He forgot to bring the essay he'd worked on for homework the night before. A day late, a grade short.

At his locker, he was trying to juggle too many books, and dropped his clarinet case on his toe, the trumpet toe.

Getting into the car, he slung his bookbag bursting with homework into his little brother's face, an accident for sure, but despite profuse and heartfelt apologies, the little brother was in no mood to forgive just then. Salt in Bradley's wounds.

He sat in the very back of the van, staring at the grey clouds. "I thought it was supposed to rain," he said bitterly. Then he said nothing more, a sure sign that his head was full of gloom.

Even so, only a few minutes after arriving at home, Bradley seemed suddenly chipper.

"What was it that cheered you up so fast?" I said.

"The cat didn't purr at me when I rubbed his fur just now," Bradley said. "But he didn't run away either."

Nov. 15, 2005

Quote of the day: Talking to a new friend, I said that it would be nice if I could go to South Carolina to visit my mom.

"Did your mom retire and move to there?" he asked.

"No, no, that's where I'm from, born and raised."

"Oh!" he said. "That explains a LOT."

I squinted and tilted my head to one side, wrinkling my nose ever so slightly, before heading home through a Northern town.

Nov. 14, 2005

Quote of the day: Gregory has not been well lately, coughing a lot and running a sporadic fever. Over the last couple of days, the cough grew worse, and he began to drag.

When we returned from visiting the doctor, Bradley asked about the diagnosis for his little brother.

"He's got a bad case of bronchitis," I said.

Bradley's face turned ashen. "Is that," he swallowed, dipping his head to the floor, "um, fatal?"

Nov. 11, 2005

Quote of the day: When the fire alarm sounded one night last week, no one on the fourth floor paid much attention, other than to look around and wonder. Should I leave? Was this another drill? Why were strobe lights flashing? Why was there no cheery security guard on the loudspeaker telling us, as usual, that this was a drill? We just had our fire drill last week. Why would there be another one so soon? Is this the real thing? We all stayed in our chairs, staring nonchalantly at computer screens, as in, If I look like I don't hear it, I won't have to get up.

The alarm sounded much longer, and seemed louder than the drills, plus, I don't remember ever seeing those strobe lights. From over in the photo lab, I heard someone say, "I don't smell smoke. I don't smell anything." Alisa, in the cubicle next to mine, was working late that night, and she and I decided, like everybody else, to stay put, a false alarm, we were pretty sure. But, as is standard practice, the fire trucks came roaring down the street anyway, sirens blaring. "Ooh!" Alisa said, wrapping her arms in her sweater and grabbing her purse, "Maybe there'll be cute firemen! Where's my lipgloss?"

Nov. 10, 2005

Thought for the day: Once upon a time there was a mouse in the newsroom of the greatest newspaper that ever was. I felt honored yet humbled to be an editor there, among journalists of the highest ethical and moral standards. Of course, this being a newsroom in the middle of Times Square, there were many mice about, as almost anyone who works there would know, but there was this one, in particular, who was bold. Fearless. Tiny.

I had been the only night editor on my floor for hours, working motionless one night a few years back. I remember it distinctly. I was quietly reading an article on my computer screen at two in the morning when I felt a strange sensation near my feet. I looked down just in time to see a tiny brown mouse in an upright stance that suggested he was about to jump on my shoe and climb up my leg. I screamed so loud, while instantaneously launching my entire body up onto my swivel chair, that the security guards three long floors below heard me and came running to my rescue. Oh, those big men in dark blue suits had a burly laugh that night, for sure, seeing a small blonde woman perched on her chair, shaking and nibbling her fingernails over a mouse that, by the time the men arrived, had disappeared.

I love to tell that story. Always got a screech or an "eeww!" And I've grown accustomed to being laughed at for screaming like a timid schoolgirl over critters that don't belong anywhere near my pants leg.

But timid little girl I am no more! Last morning, in the wee hours before dawn, as I worked on my computer in the lonesome newsroom, I heard a faint scratching. My desk was covered with clutter, as desks are prone to be, but I've outsmarted the family of mice that once found a cookie stash in my desk drawer — I bought a ceramic cookie jar with a lock-down lid!

The scratching noise was coming from the direction of my cookie jar. I peered over, craning my neck to try to see behind the shelf without moving anything. (Dare something jump out at me as this would still cause serious screaming.) It was dark behind the jar and under the shelf. I didn't see anything. I went back to my computer task, only to hear the scratching sound again moments later.

This time when I craned my neck to see what was making the noise, I saw a long brown tail, then a hairy little body, then one eye staring up at me, little whiskers catching a ray of dusty light as he sniffed my air.

"OH!" I said to nobody but the little mouse, "Do you actually think you're going to get inside that jar? You just go on ahead and try, you little varmit." I sat back down — calmly I might add — and went back to typing. Occasionally, I would stop to catch a look at Tucker (so named after the promiscuous mouse in "A Cricket in Times Square") and he would stop gnawing long enough to look up at me. "Why don't you check out Archie's desk," I told Tucker. "He's got almond chocolate butter cookies in a flimsy plastic container over there. Go on."

I must have been speaking some foreign language, because Tucker just kept on gnawing. (I don't get it; Tucker of the book understood English quite well and would have eagerly pounced on almond chocolate butter cookies and left a dollar for the donor to boot!)

Wouldn't it be interesting if young Tucker made his way inside through the bottom of the jar, and then one of my colleagues reached in to steal a cookie only to be surprised by the piercing pain of one long sharp incisor? Not that I would wish pain on any of my dear sweet, morally and ethically first-rate colleagues, even after they ate all the home-baked cookies my cubicle buddy Alisa made special for me. I just think it might be fitting if someone went on a cookie-stealing mission only to find a mouse in the jar instead.

Did you know that a mouse's teeth grow constantly?

Nov. 9, 2005

Quote of the day: Bradley worked all day Saturday to catch up on science reports that were due before the end of the first marking period. Come Monday morning, he left the folder full of work he'd done on the dining room table. If he didn't have those science reports in time for 8th period, he'd be toast.

I was heading by the school anyway, so I grabbed his folder, figuring I'd drop it by his classroom. The bell marking the beginning of 4th period had just rung. The halls, which had been thick with students only moments before, were now empty.

As rules dictate, I stopped in the main office to sign in. Suddenly, I felt a human presence directly to my left. I looked over, then slightly down. "Bradley!"

"Mom!"

"What are you doing in the office? How did you know I was coming?"

"I didn't," he said.

"But -- but how did you know to come down here?"

"I came to get my science folder."

"But how did you know I was going to bring it? And how did you know I would be here -- now?"

"I didn't."

Later, I told this story to a mom with many more years experience than I have. She had a one word response. "Magic."

Nov. 8, 2005


Quote of the day: I was the youngest of four and the only female child. My 5th grade picture could have graced the dictionary pages next to "daddy's little girl." But come 6th grade, something in me changed. It happened rather suddenly, one Sunday evening during the ride home from church. I remember it clearly because I still feel guilty for speaking to my father the way I did.

Dad was driving, and blazing through the windshield was the most beautiful azure-orange sunset I had ever seen. As he often did, Dad pointed toward the sun. "Look at the horizon," he said, "isn't that," he caught his breath, "amazing?"

It was amazing, and I was sitting in the passenger seat thinking about how amazing it was, but I was so suddenly in a mood to see things differently from my father that I crossed my arms in adolescent defiance and spouted, "Yeah, whatever you say, dad." I turned my head to look as far away from the glowing sky as I could possibly look, already feeling horrible for being so mean, but also, embarrassed for not having the courage to just apologize and acknowledge that yes, that sunset, which I can still see through the window of his '76 Toyota, was in fact, stunning. I remember that he asked me what was the matter, but I said nothing more, not a word. Thus, the mood swings and silent rebellion that haunted my teen years began.

Now that I have children of my own, I am grateful for the memory of how rude I was to my dad, if only because maybe I'll be sensitive to my boys' changing attitudes when the time comes. Fortunately, Bradley is only 11 now. I might have a few more months, maybe even years before he will begin to exercise independence from me, probably starting as some little rebellion, like refusing to read with me on the weekends or not letting me quote him anymore. (Gasp!)

So as we drove from school in the peak of autumn golds and reds today, the leaves from maples and poplars quivering with the soft breath of winter on the way, the gilded light sparking flames of leaves frolicking with the wind from our passing car, I asked Bradley if he appreciated the beauty that surrounded us. Even as I said it, I thought of my dad, wishing I could talk to him again, and wondering if he might someday forgive me for all those times I disagreed for disagreement's sake. There are many things I would say to him, if only he were not gone.

Bradley interrupted my silent meditation. "Oh yes!" he replied eagerly. I thought then how lucky I was to recognize and appreciate this moment of agreement! He's still a boy, I thought triumphantly!

Bradley pointed to a large tree a football field away from the school building. "Do you see that tree? The big, golden one? There," he said. "That's the one. That is one beautiful, yellow, tremendous tree!"

I thought, "Yes! What a wonderfully optimistic, soulful boy he is!"

"Looking across the field at that tree," he continued, "is the one thing that keeps me awake all day at school. Oh whatever will I do to occupy my mind when its leaves are all gone?"

Nov. 7, 2005

Quote of the day: Never say never, but it's a safe bet that 5-year-old Gregory will never be a doctor. He can't stand the sight of blood, not his, not anybody's; screams and covers his eyes. Even the tiniest of scrapes on his soft skin requires extensive cleaning and bandaging, and hugs while sweetly singing. But the other day, he was rummaging around in a dark corner of the basement where he didn't belong, and cut his finger good on a piece of broken glass. Blood was gushing, tears too. After the finger was cleansed and bandaged, and his shirt changed (dare there be any trace of blood on that), I held him, rocking, trying desperately first to calm him down, then to cheer him up.

I sang "Hush Little Baby." He loves that old lullaby, assumed the fetal position in my arms when I sang it, staring up at me with wide eyes that grew drier with each rhyme. Then I sang "Rock-a-Bye-Baby" and at the end, when the bough breaks and the cradle falls, I dropped Gregory on his bed with a thud. He screeched in laughter, then held out his gauzy bum finger and shouted, "Who wrote that wretched song?!"

Nov. 2, 2005

Thought for the day: I never would have guessed, on the glorious day Bradley was born, that I would be such a weird mom. On his eleventh birthday, I went to the middle school where he was, and while he was in gym class with 70 or 80 other fifth graders, I asked the nice lady at the front desk if she might page him.

The sound rang in my ear. "Bradley Shaver to the main office. Bradley Shaver to the main office."

I remember the horrors of being called out of class, the raised brows, the endless questions. In my mind, I could hear them: "What'd ya do, Bradley?" "Oooh, you're in truhh-bull!"

I waited for him outside the office door and watched as he walked toward me down the long corridor. As he got closer, I extended my arms, then wrapped him in a hug, whispering long in his ear, "Happy birthday, my sweet boy. I love you."

"That's it?" he said. "You called me down here for that?"

"That's it."

"Mom." He shook his head.

Even as he turned to head back to class though, I could see, he was smiling that uncontrollable smile. I knew, because I was smiling it too.

Nov. 1, 2005


Quote of the day: Homework time, assignment's on the table, pencil, paper, it's all in place. The fifth grader needed to sharpen his pencil. Next he needed lined paper, stopped on the way back to rebuild a Lincoln Log house. Began to write, then stroked the cat. A cookie came next.

"All right, that's it!" I said. "Do not move from that chair until your homework is done!"

A few minutes later, I looked up from my book and saw before me an empty chair.

" B r a d l e y ! "

He ran back into the kitchen, plumped himself down, picked up his pencil with a violent jerk. "Boot camp," he said.

"The proper response is 'Yes Drill Sergeant!'"

Oct. 19, 2005

Quote of the day: Bradley's homework assignment was to find an article and report a current event to his class. On Monday afternoon, newspapers from the weekend were still in their blue plastic, piled by the back door.

"There you go," I said, pointing to the pile. "Plenty to choose from."

He grabbed the corner of one bag, moaning as he lifted it. He dumped the Sunday sections out of the bag and onto the table. They flopped over each other as they fell, creating a mountainous stack; some sections hit the smooth coated stock of the inserts, spilling off onto the floor, a volcano of Times Magazine lava.

"Aww mom," he said dejectedly, "Do I have to go through the whole Sunday Times? This could take days."

Oct. 17, 2005

Thought for the day: My "Lost" addiction has taken a breather. I missed the first episode of the season, so unless Apple sends me one of those new video iPods to test, and ABC begins offering cheap next-day downloads of television shows, I guess I'll be heading up to Costco come summer to buy the 2nd season DVD. Meanwhile, Hope is sworn to secrecy. She is not allowed to eek out spoilers!

This is driving her absolutely bonkers. She's dying to tell me about the tweaky twists, betray the backstories, give me just enough to pique my curiosity, get me to start asking endless questions. For she must, she MUST, keep me, the "Lost" enabler, addicted too.

When asked about her schedule availability, Hope told her new boss she absolutely, positively, sorry, no way, would not, could not work on Wednesday nights.

Good thing he did not ask her why, for this is what she might reply.

I would not, could not
Work through "Lost"
Not for the legs
Of Courteney Cox
Not for a tall black S.U.V.
Not for a Bloomies spending spree
I do not work
On Wednesday night
I will not, will not be polite
I would not, could not
Wednesday eve
I will not, will not, boss believe

I will not work then, I repeat
Not for a loft on Houston Street
Not for a cover shot on "Vogue"
I will not miss it! I'd explode!
I do not work in Wednesday dark
No co-op at south Central Park
Manolo Blahnik won't entice
Not even for a basement price!
I would not, could not
Wednesday night
I will not, will not, boss hold tight

Would you, could you
Think of this?
Close up shop! No fix to miss!

And Say!
Call Jules's boss up too!
So we can do a pas de deux!

When "Lost" is through,
It's off at 10
We can, we will,
we'll be there then!

Oct. 14, 2005

Quote of the day: Gregory, Hope and I were out when Bradley came home from school. His dad was there, but busy working. The house was quiet. Ahh, precious alone time. No Gregory to accidentally drop Bradley's favorite Lego starship. No Hope to steal the affections of the new cat. No Mom to pester endlessly and loudly and frantically about homework.

Later, when the three of us came home, there was just enough time for a quick dinner before I had to rush off to work. I found Bradley in his room and hugged him.

"I'll miss you," he said sadly. "I only got to see you for a half hour today."

"I thought you might have liked the break," I said. "A nice, quiet house for a change."
 
"Actually, mom, it was awesome. Could you do that, like, everyday or something?"

Oct. 12, 2005

Quote of the day: Gregory, now 5 years old and full of confidence, begged his big brother, "Let's have a drawing contest!"

BRADLEY: No.

GREGORY: Why not?

BRADLEY: I can't stand to see you cry.

Oct. 11, 2005


Thought for the day: My dad took me to Braves baseball games every summer. His parents lived in Atlanta, and by the time I was 13, dad put me behind the wheel of his little Toyota stick shift, and set me off driving the 4-hour trip on I-20 from our house in South Carolina. If we couldn't get to the stadium, or couldn't get tickets, we'd listen to the games on grandfather's console, all of us crowded around the glowing orange lights of the dial. In the years before we had TBS at home, we would sit out in the driveway and listen to the games on the car radio so as not to be distracted by laundry, or phones, or dinner. When I moved to the Northeast, I thought it would be difficult to remain a Braves fan, so I gave the New York teams a try.

Not a chance. You can take the Southern girl away from the Braves, but you can't turn the Southern girl into a Yankee.

Can't say the same thing for my son, though. No matter how hard I try, he just doesn't care about my team. He's a Yankees fan. I can't stand it. How could I let this happen?!

But today I was in a classroom at his school for an entire class period with children my son's age, friends of his from almost a decade of going to school together since preschool. One student made a presentation on current events and he read a favorable story about the Red Sox. There were boos and hisses, hands raised to cover ears, comments like "You're a RED SOX fan? I didn't know there WERE any Red Sox fans. How can you stand to be a Red Sox fan? YUCK! Go Yankees!"

So I projected this reaction on my son, assuming he might have once mentioned something about the Braves at school. He might have even worn a Braves baseball cap back when he was in kindergarten. I see now why he doesn't wear that hat anymore. I'll bet he was ridiculed all day, bullied into liking the Yankees. It's not that he particularly cares for the team; he's just trying to survive in a New York world.

Or maybe it's just the beginning of the rebellious years, loyalty to friends becoming more important than peace in the living room.

Or perhaps he really does like the Yankees.

Nah. He's a rebel.

Oct. 9, 2005


Thought for the day: We talked about it for a year, thought it through, saved, planned and budgeted. And today, we did it. We adopted a cat, no, a kat. He was "Captain Carl" at the shelter, but the consensus was he needed a new name. Hence, he became, and this is his full name, sure to be shortened in conversation, "Kaptain Kool Kat Karl With a K."

I might have attached of photo of The Kaptain, except the minute he was released into his new home, he darted into the pantry and inside a storage box where the old checks are. No thoughtful posing today. Maybe tomorrow he'll show off his gray whiskers and wide white cheekbones, for he really does have the face of an old sea hunter, like he belongs at a cliffside house in Bar Harbor where he could watch the sails float in.

Oct. 5, 2005


Quote of the day: One corner of Bradley's fifth grade classroom is draped in all things green. As I sat at his desk on Meet the Teachers Night, his teacher said with as straight a face as I've yet seen: "Not a Jets fan? Not to worry. As long as your child doesn't mention a Jets loss in class, his grades won't suffer, not much."

Sept. 23, 2005


Thought for the day: "I don't pretend," I said to the classroom of 7th graders. "I'll be as tough on you as I would on a piece I was editing for The Times." Many of them stared at me, some of them frowning at the challenging days to come, some visibly shaking in their seats. Some were staring out the window. One was digging through his bookbag.

As a writing coach, a volunteer gig I first signed up for three years ago, my goal is for this new bunch of students to learn that no piece of writing is ever finished, that rewriting is essential to the process. This is a concept young people are usually loath to grasp, but in my limited experience, I've found that feedback from an impartial outsider like myself -- not a parent, not a teacher -- makes students feel as though their writing is finally being taken seriously.

And it is.

I read one paper today written by a young man who told me at the outset with dejected shoulders, "I really didn't intend this paper to be entertaining. I just wrote it for myself." As I read, I was quickly captivated by the opening paragraphs of his autobiographical essay, a chess tournament exposition. Still, he sat in the opposing desk, eyeing me suspiciously in the back of the classroom, alternately eyeing a paperclip on the floor, and making verbal excuses. "I just wrote it so I could remember the tournament," he said. "I didn't know anybody but my teacher would read it. I know it's boring."

"Aha!" I said, "but that's where you're wrong. First of all, everything you write should be entertaining to somebody. And even if you're only writing for yourself, you don't want to be bored or embarrassed when you're reading back over your middle school essays someday in the distant future, do you?"

He shook his head.

"And anyway," I said. "Shhhhh! I gotta find out how this tournament turns out!"

By the end of our session together, he was red-lining the jargon, nodding, making direct eye contact with me, circling the parts we thought were especially good, crossing out whole paragraphs and making notes on details he could add that would make his essay, which was already quite good, an excellent one.

When he stood to return to his regular desk, he snapped his shoulders to attention and reached out to shake my hand, a change of mood so abrupt, it caught me by surprise. "Thanks," he said, smiling.

That smile has brightened my entire day.

Now if you'll excuse me, this little essay about being a 7th grade writing coach needs some reworking . . .

Sept. 19, 2005


Quote of the day: We refer to the cluster of half-wall cubicles where the news graphics staff sits as the "graphics pod." The name harkens back to the days when the department was an eighth of its current size and was tucked in a back corner of the third floor newsroom. We were packed in tightly, elbow-to-elbow, like peas. When the newsroom was expanded to include the fourth floor, the graphics pod expanded too, but kept its name, at least for those of us who've been around a while. We're still in the newsroom, though comfortably removed from the section desks where day after day of breaking news can have the tendency to -- um, let's just say -- increase tensions.

I feel safe when I'm in the pod. But occasional ventures to the outside, I mean the national desk, are required. I was only on the third floor for a moment tonight before the swarm of beetles attacked. "That's not uptown, that's downtown!" (Actually, no, it's uptown, but I'll get my source map and prove it to you if you like.) "The numbers in your graphic don't agree with our story." (Maybe the story's wrong.) "Where did you get these population numbers?" (Lemme see. The Census Bureau?) "That's not the name of that road; I've been there before." (We checked three source maps; the name stays.)

In another setting, such questions might seem tame, but on a deadline measured in minutes, it can wreck nerves.

Walking up the big green staircase, I breathed, four short puffy breaths, followed by one long sigh. "If I have to go back down there again," I told my fellow peas upon returning to the pod, "I'm going to need a Lamaze coach!"

"What?" a man pea said. "I don't understand."

Childbirth was easier than that minute in the pit.

Sept. 15, 2005


Thought for the day: Rain. It finally fell, a pouring, drenching, soaking rain that turned dust into mud on my windshield. Between the rain and the wipers and the long Turnpike drive to work, my brain began to fade, luring everything around me into a slow motion 70 mile-per-hour blur. The radio announcer droned the story of the latest bombing in Iraq, saying that a bus had driven up to a crowd, the driver promising jobs before exploding the bus. "At least . . . a hundred . . . people . . . were killed," the announcer said. I blinked, then turned my glance to the right as a long white bus passed by just then, the silhouettes of passengers making shadows of the amber windows. Out of respect or out of fear, I don't know which, I looked down, away from the shadows, unavoidably reading the large logo painted black on the side panel: "TNT." I blinked, wondering if I was hallucinating. I squinted and read it again. "TNT Transportation."

I turned the radio off, inching alongside the bus, thinking it would be weird to cry just now for hundreds of nameless strangers thousands of miles away. I wanted to pass the bus, to forget, to blur the tide with the cleansing rain.

As I drove ahead, the bus driver looked down to watch me pass. With a bold nod of his head, he winked.

Sept. 14, 2005


Quote of the day: When I came downstairs in the morning, a paper was posted on the refrigerator: "RESTRAINING ORDER: This order hereby restrains Gregory and Bradley from running, jumping, roughhousing, and all horseplay until their father is done with his shower and all other after-shower activities and until their father tells them they can continue roughhousing through the day. Anyone who resists to follow this restraining order will receive dire consequences." The paper was signed by both boys, and stamped, "Active."

By the end of the day, the paper had been ripped from its magnet and was found on the floor with yet another stamp: the shoe print from a smallish sneaker.

Sept. 13, 2005


Quote of the day: Hope has brought many new things into our house. Crabs, the hermit kind that live in decorated seashells, a ready supply of Double Stuf Oreos, bucket upon bucket of makeup supplies (not that she needs any). There are stacks of "Seventeen" magazine, "Actor's Guide to New York," price lists of manicurists in town, all professional reading for an aspiring model/actress. It's a whole new world having this new person in the house. Three months she's been here and the time is flying! We've taken her in, and I've expected her to adjust to our schedule, to meld into our lives, to live in our world as it was before, to watch my "West Wing" DVD's with as much fervor as I do.

Hmm, I'm beginning to realize it's not going to happen. Who knew teenage girls could sleep so much? But who am I to complain? One day, many moons from now, she'll be inducted into the over-40 suburban mom, minivan driving club too. Sleep will be oh-so-elusive, only ever sacrificed in the name of watching that one television show she can't live without. (She will scream when she reads this, "I will NEVER drive a minivan, Aunt Julie!")

In the meantime, I am doing what I can to fit into her world. The other night she called a family meeting. "I'm sorry," she said, "but starting next week on Wednesday nights at 9 o'clock, I own the TV. The new season of 'Lost' starts and I simply won't miss it. Sorry, but that's the way it's got to be."

She's addicted. Her cousins cowered.

"Lost?" I said. "What's that about?"

Her jaw dropped, her voice lowered. "You've never seen Lost? Oh my God. You've got to be kidding."

"I'm at work during prime time. The only prime time show on my TV is Larry King Live. No. I've never seen Lost. My West Wing addiction is a DVD thing. I'm two seasons behind everybody else, and don't you dare tell me what happens!"

So the big sell began. For two days, that's all Hope talked about. Lost this. Lost that. Something about a plane crash in Australia and people trying to survive in a tropical jungle with polar bears.

Polar bears? In the jungle? Now you've got my interest.

"That's what's so GREAT about the show!" she insisted, loudly. Very loudly.

"But I missed the whole first season," I said, sitting at the kitchen table and thinking that we'd have more in common if I could catch up, wriggle my way into her Lost world.

Meanwhile, the TV was on in the background. A commercial came on, whispering something about "Lost, The Complete First Season" on DVD.

"Turn that up!" Hope screamed.

Waving her arms like Miss America just won the contest, tears in her eyes, screaming, "You've GOT to get that! Jules! Look!" She was seriously crying. "Jules! Come ON! It's like -- it's like The West Wing, but with TREES!" she waved her arms. "BAD PEOPLE!" she waved her arms wilder, "AND POLAR BEARS! JULES! GET IT!"

Girlfriend, you ought to be in commercials.

Sept. 12, 2005

Thought for the day: First day of preschool, Gregory was so nervous, he woke me up two hours before the opening bell. "Mom!" he said, shaking me violently. "My heart's going to jump out of my shirt! Wake up! Am I going to die?"

When I turned to check out the situation, he held his hand over his chest. I put my hand over his, and sure enough, his little heart was racing doubletime; I could feel it through his hand.

Preschool anxiety attack. Come to think of it, I used to get seriously nervous before the first day of school too -- serious practice for driving through Times Square every night.

Sept. 9, 2005


Quote of the day: As most parents do, I worry about my children. Take today, for example, Gregory opened the freezer to find a snack, didn't close the door, then when he turned around again, banged his forehead -- smack! -- into the door's bottom corner.

Ouch! Double ouch!

Luckily, the ice was near; he wouldn't want to meet new friends on his first day of preschool tomorrow with a big bump on his head. But the bump, since it was relatively minor after the initial sting, was nothing compared with how I worried last year when Gregory went to his first preschool class. Many days when I would pick him up, the teacher would express grave concern about Gregory's "lack of fine motor skills." "He can't even write his name," she would say. "All he ever does is scribble all over the paper. You should have him assessed." I worried about Gregory because I believe the teacher treated him unfairly, like he was slow or intellectually compromised. I knew otherwise. Last year, Gregory could do many things with advanced maturity, like call my cell phone, type "www.nickjr.com" to get to his computer games and start a load of whites all by himself. What's the use of learning to write if you can get what you need by pushing buttons? And since I knew he had another year before he would be old enough for kindergarten, I wasn't nearly as worried about his crayon skills as was his teacher. I figured he'd learn to write when he was ready. I hoped.

So with his new preschool class starting tomorrow, I decided to give him a little assessment test of my own. I suggested he draw me a picture with his back-to-school supplies, a new box of crayons and a stack of plain white paper. "O.K!" he shouted, pulling the bright yellow box off the shelf, "I'll draw a picture of you and me on a summer day." Since I'd been a bit sleep-deprived this week, I handed him the paper and promptly took a powernap. A few minutes later, he was asking how I liked his picture. Shortly after that, he was calling Mike on my cell phone. "Dad! Dad! Mom's crying!" -- pause and a smile -- "She's crying because I wrote my name on my drawing!"

In upper- and lowercase letters as clear as if he'd been writing them for years: "Gregory," the proverbial ice pack for my worried preschool head.

Sept. 8, 2005


Quote of the day: Homework. Already. The assignment: Interview people of varying generations about their shopping habits when they were your age; for example: how is shopping for groceries different now from what it was when your grandparents were young? Bradley called my mom. She was thrilled.

Grocery shopping in 1944, rural South Carolina, meant approaching the counter of "the A and P" and handing over a list to the store manager, whose three word name Mom still remembered. "You only asked for the bare essentials," she said, the implication being that you didn't want this fellow spreading rumors about frivolity. Shopping for shoes meant gathering into jelly jars the molasses you'd been making for the last week, and the eggs you collected from the chickens, and the butter you churned late into the night to trade with the man who owned the shoe shop. With ten children in her family, a new pair of shoes was purchased once every two years. (She remembered the shoe man's name too, but I didn't write it down.) Mom recalled the beautiful sandals her own mother had bought for her, spending actual money -- $2, a small fortune in the 1940's -- and then having to take them back the next day when it was realized that the shoes were too much a luxury. "I was heartbroken," she said, admitting through a choked voice that there might have been a good lesson in there somewhere.

The discussion enthralled me. Mom continued on about growing wheat and watching her father as he milled it for their bread; hunting quail for their Sunday dinner and preparing the elaborate meal on Saturday since work was not allowed on Sundays; holding the cow's tail out of the way so her sister Ruth could get the milk without being swatted -- "Ruth had to do the milking because I was too little." I hadn't realized my mom's memory of her childhood was so vivid. That's because I never bothered to ask her detailed questions before. To think it all started with, "What was shopping for groceries like when you were 10?"

My favorite part of the discussion came, however, with Mom's response to Bradley's followup question: "Did you have the internet back then?"

Sept. 7, 2005

Quote of the day: Today was Bradley's first day of middle school. Not take pictures? Not a chance. Not only did I make him stand out in front of the school sign before joining the rest of the students processing nervously inside, I then made him come back and give me a hug. Right in front of a crowded school bus. "Ma-ahm!" Then his little brother screamed, arms extended, and Bradley had to return to give him a hug too. "Mom! This is SO embarrassing!"

Later, Bradley told us during dinner about his first day. "Good news is there aren't any supernerds in my class."

"Just one," I said.

"Nuh-unh. Who?"

"That kid standing outside before school having his picture taken and hugging his mom and little brother."

"Mah-ah-ahm!"

Sept. 6, 2005


Thought for the day: For a newshound, like myself, to really go on vacation, the TV must not come on, newspapers left on the racks. A real vacation means, therefore, returning to the daily news grind ignorant of current events. When I came back to work today after a week's vacation, boy, did I feel ignorant. My colleagues summarized the week in a word -- "chaos."

Ignorance can be less depressing than knowledge.

Sept. 5, 2005

Quote of the day: Bradley's first day of middle school is still two weeks away . . . two weeks away . . .wait a minute. Stop writing. This little essay was going to be about how excited Bradley was today after the orientation, and the tour through the building -- the music room with its stadium levels and high windows, the science lab with the pristine fish tank and bright orange fish, the computer lab filled with rows of brand new sleek black screens, the art room drenched in white light waiting patiently for bobbing heads in hoodies to spill a little paint. It should have been a happy time for me, what with such fine classrooms, stacks of shiny blue assignment books in desperate need of a dog-ear or two. But from the moment Bradley asked, "Can I go sit with Connor and Ben?" I just felt sad, like part of me was peeling away. Not that I have anything against Connor and Ben, it's just that I can't believe my baby is starting middle school, the next step toward complete independence from me. I know I still have a few years, and a few book reports to help with, maybe a science project or two to save old newspapers for, but I just can't imagine him going to middle school, a place where EIGHTH graders are not ALLOWED in the fifth grade bathrooms!

Aug. 24, 2005


Quote of the day: Walking along the Beech Glen Trail of Holmdel Park, Gregory was kicking rocks into Bradley's sandals, forcing him to stop and shake out his shoes. One time while he was shaking, Gregory and I went on ahead. At the top of the hill, I ducked behind a tree, shooing Gregory across the trail to hide behind another one, a planned ambush that would set the tone for a day of surprise attacks. Only Gregory didn't want to hide behind the tree. I had to beg him. O.K., I forced him. "Come on!" I whispered, "It'll be fun! Get behind the tree! Here comes Bradley! Go! NOW!" Gregory went, reluctantly.

"I know you're hiding behind that tree," Bradley said, trudging up the hill.

Some surprise.

But in that instant, Gregory's arms were flailing as he ran back to the trail. "Spider web! Get it off me! Get it OFF me! Aaaauuuugggghhhh!"

We brushed and swatted, finally sweeping away the web that covered his arms and neck. "Is it gone? Is it GONE?" We brushed some more, and the spider fell to the ground, a mean looking beast with spikes for an abdomen.

Gregory screamed, "IS IT GONE NOW?"

"It's gone, honey, everything's alright now."

"No, it's NOT alright. I wanna go HOME."

From that point on, Gregory wrapped himself around my arm as we walked through the newly dubbed "Spider Forest," holding onto me with such force that my fingers were turning numb.

"Oh come on, Gregory," I said, "nothing bad happened. The spider didn't bite you. Don't be afraid anymore. I'm not afraid. See? I'm not afraid of anything. Come on, BE A MAN!"

"NO!" He held tighter.

Flash forward 30 years: "... Thank you, doctor. You can send the bill, and the ones for the next 11 sessions, to my mother's address. She's not afraid of anything."

Psychotherapy (and mice on my keyboard) excepted.

Aug. 18, 2005

Quote of the day: Studying a dead cicada being devoured by ants, Bradley marveled at the beautiful complexities of the natural world. "Isn't Mother Nature amazing?" He then wondered aloud how Nature came to be regarded as female. "What is the difference between Mother Nature and God the Father?" he said.

"Just because God created nature, that doesn't make them the same," I said.

Then, contradicting my Protestant upbringing, I added, "While I most often refer to God in the male pronoun, I believe, actually, that God is genderless -- neither male nor female."

"Oh," Bradley replied. "You mean like Michael Jackson?"

Aug. 17, 2005



Thought for the day: The battery-powered kid-size car gathering dust in our garage is missing its key, has been for months. Who needs a key? It doesn't work anyway, ever since the day that 130-pound fourth grader came over and burned out the engine. But today, shortly after another one of Bradley's friends came over to hang out (10-year-olds no longer have "playdates"), Bradley dashed into the kitchen junk drawer, taking away one screwdriver. Moments later, I looked over the sink out the window and saw the little SUV roving the backyard jungle, just like it used to back when the boys were preschoolers. I ran outside. "What? How?" One boy held up the screwdriver while the other smiled a devilish smile.

Suburban carjackers.

Aug. 16, 2005



Thought for the day: The "nondrowsy" antihistamine I took for my ragweed allergy needs to carry a warning: "*If already sleepy, this medicine will knock you out."

Aug. 15, 2005



Quote of the day: Section editors are trying to close their pages by midnight. It is 11:30. Time is running out. The news designer is working fast, clicking around on her screen as fast as mice eat cheese. The phone rings. "Mom?" (pause) "Mom, I can't talk right now; I'm closing the section." (pause) "Mom. I'll call you tomorrow." (pause) Meanwhile, I am standing behind her while she positions my graphic on a page and people are shouting from three directions. "Did you set that page yet?" "How many lines over did you say my story is?" "Don't set page 3; there's a bad headline!"

The news designer's voice becomes tense. "Mom, really, I'll call you tomorrow." She hangs up.

I could not help but overhear her side of the phone conversation. I offer sympathy. "Knowing I was on deadline, my mom still would have said, 'You mean that newspaper is more important than me?'"

The designer turns away from her computer briefly, extending her arms in a mock hug. "Sister!"

Aug. 12, 2005


Thought for the day: Peacocks run free at the Philadelphia Zoo. No cages, they sleep in the trees and eat from feeders placed throughout the park. They generally don't try to escape. Why would they? Life is good in the zoo (as compared to the streets of Philadelphia).

When my sons and I visited the zoo a few weeks ago, we were treated to dinner in a peacock nest. But you won't find this on your zoo schedule the next time you go. See, it turns out peacocks are quite interested in pizza. Once we had our slices, the picnic tables were swarmed with bees and wasps, so we found a shady spot on a wide hill of grass, a bushy serviceberry tree as our headrest. As we quietly munched our pizza, a mother peacock approached with a very little baby waddling in her shadow. They both looked at us, then at each other, then approached closer. We didn't move a muscle. Bradley held out a piece of crust and after what seemed like 10 minutes, the mother popped over and ate it, leaving a small bite of it on the grass for her baby. Then the two of them pecked the ground around where we sat, seemingly comfortable with us now. Looking carefully into the serviceberry bush, I could see what looked to be a nest, and seeing as how these two birds were so comfortable there, I assumed we must have invited ourselves to dinner in their home. Maybe it was rude of us, but we lingered there, a life moment to savor.

As zoo guests passed us on the paved walkway, one little girl tugged on her guardian's shorts. "Look mama, a peacock family." Life is good in the zoo.

Aug. 11, 2005


Thought for the day: Some of us collect sand from places we've visited. Others collect pencils, hotel notepads, t-shirts, rocks. Bradley collects flat pennies. He looks for the flattening machines everywhere he goes, loading two, sometimes four quarters into the machine along with his penny in return for the chance to squash a new design over Lincoln's face. (He means no disrespect; the best results occur when the original design shows faintly through the new one.) Bradley even flattened a penny at a service area on the New Jersey Turnpike -- now there's a keeper! When he buys something, he asks the store clerk for his change in shiny pennies so he'll be ready whenever a flat penny machine beckons.

At the Camden aquarium, two flat penny machines, side by side, stood all alone in a dark corner, just waiting for Bradley's quarters. I couldn't understand why he stuffed his pockets with 18 pennies; he would have needed 36 quarters to flatten them all, and he only brought four. But the answer became clear just as he'd spent all his quarters smashing pennies for himself and his little brother. The flat shark-head pennies, still warm from the metal gears, had just been tucked away in their pockets when a woman approached the flat penny machine. She put two quarters into the slot, then realized she had no pennies.

Without hesitating, Bradley reached into his pocket and handed her one of his shiniest. "Here you go," he said brightly.

He might as well have given the woman a million dollars. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she hugged him and thanked him, smiling at me as if I were a queen bringing up the sweetest prince in all the land. I smiled too, a quirky smile, astonished that my son would instantaneously give away one of his prized shiny pennies, and to a stranger no less.

Not many people would interpret the gift of a penny as so generous. I think it was the spontaneity of the gesture, the sheer unexpectedness of a random act of unselfish kindness by a 10-year-old boy that led to the woman's emotional outpouring over a simple penny.

A simple penny. I don't know about the woman, but I, for one, am still looking for ways to match it.

Aug. 10, 2005



Thought for the day: Our fourth failed attempt to visit Belvedere Castle resulted in a long morning spent perusing the banks of Turtle Pond. Because it had rained, not many people were out. But the turtles were out in droves. Who knew there were so many wild turtles living in the middle of Manhattan?

The morning grew brighter as time wore on, and one by one, other people joined us marveling at the vast number of turtles at the top of the water.

Suddenly a young boy of about 18 months began to cry. His sandal had fallen off as his mother held him over the water, and try as she might, she could not reach it. Giving up, she put the child in his stroller. "Let's go home, William," she said to him. "Don't cry."

"Wait," I begged. "It just takes teamwork. Bradley," I said to my son, "you and Gregory go see if you can find a stick or a branch." While my boys and the other onlookers searched for sticks, I reached as far as I could, pursing my shoulder against the dock railings, flexing my fingers, in need of a hook at least two feet long. While I was sure the kids would find something to help fish the floating shoe out, I wasn't so sure the sandal would stay close enough in the breeze, just strong enough to make a steady ripple in the pond. The sandal was blowing away, slowly, into the reeds, soon to be lost until a freeze or a dredging for trash. Bradley and Gregory came back with sticks of various sizes, all of them too short. A woman who had not been there before approached with a longer one. "Try this," she said.

I held hers out, but it too wasn't quite long enough now that the breeze had blown the sandal farther. "Needs to be longer," I said. She, and all the others, disappeared. As I lay alone, arm extended, the stick at least eight inches away from the sandal's Velcro strap, I stayed very still, waiting patiently for the breeze to shift in my favor. "Come on," I whispered. "Sandal, come on."

I looked into the rippling water and suddenly, several turtles had surrounded the sandal. I held steady, not moving lest I scare them away. "Bring me the sandal," I meditated. "Bring it to the stick. Come on you can do it. Bring it. Teamwork."

When the party of stick searchers returned and saw the dripping sandal hanging on the end of a short stick, they refused to give any credit to the turtles.

But I know the true paladins of Central Park that day were the turtles of Turtle Pond. And little William could finish out his summer in two sandals, not one.


Aug. 9, 2005


Quote of the day: The Cub Scout beach camping trip is history. Our souvenirs included one leg-full of poison ivy, 21 mosquito bites, at last count, and a customized map provided by one of the coffee-desperate dads detailing the location of every Dunkin' Donuts within acceptable driving distance. Dunkin' Donuts was, I suppose, a reasonable substitute for the planned Starbucks-Run, given that no Starbucks could be found near enough to drive there without collapsing from withdrawal. And here's an interesting little campsite tidbit: the instigator of the failed Sunday morning Must-Have-Starbucks campaign was a no-show. But a tall mocha Valencia sounds better than poison ivy to me too.

Aug. 5, 2005


Thought for the day: It's a little bit scary when you realize that what you write has legs. The other day, I blasted my local police department for rather extreme insensitivity after showing off their submachine guns to four-year-olds on a police department tour. Was it really necessary to tell the children about their neighbors who hoard more rifles than the official town supply? I wrote, and people all over town read it. I think somebody forwarded it.

Last night when I was nearing home, I crossed the border into my town and suddenly found myself with a two-car police escort. No flashing lights, just two squad cars, one in front and one in back. At the time, I considered the possibility that this could be just a coincidence, the three people in town who are still awake at 3 a.m. are all turning left at the same intersection. But when I pulled up to my house and stopped on the street, I realized that this was no coincidence. The squad cars pulled over too. I was being stalked. (Either that or I watch far too many episodes of The West Wing.)

I started to get nervous. Were my brake lights in working order? Had I forgotten to use my turn signal? In silence, blue and fuchsia bubble lights began flashing. One of the officers opened his door and slowly, suspiciously, he approached my car. I sat very still, preparing mentally for the ultimate glovebox search through the crammed mess for registration and insurance papers. "Oh man," I thought, "when's the last time I saw those?" Then memories of the submachine guns they carry in those cars flashed in front of my eyes, and in my head, I heard the sudden CLICK-CLICK sound of a shotgun, as the officer had said at the police station tour -- "when somebody's about to shoot you." But I remembered what my husband had taught me about police pull-overs: Don't make any sudden moves. Leave the window up. Don't get your papers out until the officer asks.

Tap. Tap. Tap. "Mizzhaver?"

Oh no. They know my name. I put down the window. "Yes officer?"

"We just wanted to make sure you got home safe. Goodnight." He tapped a hand on the firearm in his belt, then walked slowly back to his car, looking in every direction through the darkness.

"Um, thankyou!" I shouted. He motioned for me to move from the street into my driveway. I pulled into the garage and let down the door, snug inside my cocoon.

With that, the bubble lights were switched off and my Constitutional protectors drove away into the night.

Aug. 4, 2005

Quote of the day: Friday morning we were planning our day-trip vacation week, which commences Monday morning with a train ride into the city on the 7:18. So it's Monday, Central Park; Tuesday, Philadelphia Zoo; Wednesday, Camden Aquarium; Thursday, Jenkinson's Boardwalk; Friday, Holmdel Park. Order of attractions subject to change and in case a day turns out to be rainy, it will be a Jurassic Park Day -- all three movies on the DVD: must buy popcorn.

Still, Gregory was concerned. "But what will we do today?" he said. "What is today anyway?"

"Friday."

"Oh," he said, lifting a finger high into the air. "Today we fry."

July 22, 2005


Quote of the day: The menu at Virgil's in Times Square promised "old fashioned iced tea, sweet," but I was sitting across from Hope, a woman who knows sweet tea like she knows Carolina pulled barbecue is supposed to be yellow, not red. She quizzed the waiter. "Is it real tea? I'm dyin' for some real sweet tea."

"Oh yes," the waiter replied. "We brew it here ourselves, takes hours. I'm sure you'll like it. Might not be just like your mama's tea, but it's real old fashioned sweet tea alright."

He continued telling her how the tea is brewed by the restaurant staff back in the kitchen, but Hope had turned her attention to the rest of the menu, trying to choose between barbecue nachos and Carolina crab cakes.

A few minutes later, the waiter presented her tea glass, waiting for her response, confident that she would approve.

But I had been listening throughout the tea recipe discussion, and, being a native Carolinian myself, knew that his "sweet tea," made with "half lemonade" would get a turned nose response. Sure enough, she tasted it and handed it back. "No. Lemon? This is not sweet tea."

Later, he brought another glass and a handful of brown sugar packets. "Try this unsweetened one," he said. "I cut the lemon flavor by watering it down for you."

She glared across the table at me. "I'll have a Dr. Pepper."

July 21, 2005

Quote of the day: Hope was staring deep into Gregory's eyes, studying the unusual variations of brown in her little cousin's irises. "You have rings," she said, "like the trunk of a tree."

Bradley wondered aloud, "Are there four and a half?"

July 20, 2005


Thought for the day: In response to the cub scout camping trip quest-for-coffee drama, several readers have inquired as to what I'll be doing while the men are away, hopelessly foraging for frappuccino and whipped cream. As it turns out, my dear friend from high school will be visiting New York and staying in a posh hotel. She has invited me to join her, and to bring along my beautiful niece, who has instantly become "one of the girls." And just to rub it in to my dear readers who happen to also be cub scout dads, according to MapQuest, there's a Starbucks a mere six-one-hundredths of a mile away. (That's about equal to the distance from the tents to the latrine, I'm guessing.)

July 19, 2005

Quote of the day: With the the cub scout camping trip mere days away, the volley of e-mail messages about the quest for Sunday morning coffee continues. Seems the men may not be waking to the smell of frou-frou frappaccino after all because an intensive Web-based search returned the devastating information that no Starbucks was within reasonable driving distance. So somebody was to come up with a plan B. The following message contained the obvious solution: "I am getting a price quote on a gasoline powered espresso machine."

With these examples of well-thought-out pre-planning, our young cubs will grow up to be resourceful men, brave and resilient, going to great lengths to provide the necessities. Why, even if plan B fails, the dads have a caffeine plan C, known as the "We Should Be Real Men" plan and likely learned from boy scout camping with their own fathers back in the ancient days of flint knives and computer punch cards : "No-Doz dissolved in lukewarm water."

July 15, 2005

Thought for the day: The construction workers on break along the curb of West 22nd Street couldn't take their eyes off Hope. Making her way toward Fifth Avenue, she may not be as tall as Kirsty Hume, but with that long hair blowing in the breeze behind her, she owns whatever sidewalk she's on. This scene has happened over and over in the last two weeks of Hope's pavement-pounding agency blitz. Security guards in buildings from SoHo to Times Square have winked at her as she pushed the elevator buttons, for they have all instinctively known THAT girl was headed to whatever floor the modeling agencies were on.

Walking beside her has made me realize several things about myself. I'm old. I'm short. I'm plain. But I'm me and this is who I am at the moment: an organized, driven "model mom" determined to find the right agent for my niece. Still, through our grand tour of New York City agencies, I couldn't help but think about all the women watching her and wishing they'd been blessed with those peachy cheekbones and 34-inch hips. Everywhere we've been, everybody's been looking at Hope. I've consciously chosen to ignore the fact that I suddenly feel invisible.

So imagine my surprise when, as we walked along Varick Street today, a young woman dashed at us from inside a Greenwich Village salon. "Are you ladies in a hurry?" she said. "Because I really need to try out this blow dryer and you have PERFECT hair."

"Sorry," I said, glancing at Hope, "she's got places to go today."

"I meant you," she said.

Moi?

A slight skip pause in my gait was followed by a small grimace. "We've got six minutes to make it to Broadway. Gotta run!"

A few moments later I turned to glance at the little salon, and in the window of a passing store, I saw the reflection of my hair blowing in the breeze, just a tad more bounce than before.