We were miserably tired, standing in an unhappy queue at Costco with a cartload of toilet paper, goldfish crackers, cleaning supplies and kitty litter; when Nick saw the sign advertising soft serve cones on the other side of the check-out counter. 

He asked me ever so sweetly, "Mom, can we please get some ice cream from the concussion stand?"

Nick: This is a dude robot!

Sky: Look! It can use Two-Faced machinery!  Here you go, dude!

Nick: Good for him.  Except for these Two-Face vehicles.  Then you need an actual person to use it.

Sky [sad robot voice]: Just because I’m robotic, doesn’t mean that I should be completely abandoned.

Nick: OK, you can be the copilot.

Sky: My arms and head are courtesy of General Grievous.

Nick: How generous, General Grievous!

Sky: This vehicle can throw a wide variety of hand grenades and sneaky missiles.  These missiles wait until you least expect it, then there is an explosion.

Nick: Sky, this is a Two-Faced machinery spear.  He has loads of specialized weaponry.  And this is Two-Faced plumbing.  Look! Water gushes out of the TV!  It’s attached to the Lego Batman Video game. 

Sky: Hey, that’s a good idea! Let’s let the mini-figures play the Batman videogame!

Nick: Sweet!  Attack the TV!

[Sound of stomping, stocking feet running back and forth between the bedroom and the den with much giggling]

I tell Death to blow his nose, it’s dripping, and hand him a small plastic-wrapped package of tissues from Trader Joe’s to tuck into a pocket of his black hooded cloak.

THANKS, MOM.*

He answers me without looking up from his book, the massive third installment of the Paolini dragon franchise: Brisingr.  His brother, Robin Hood, is deeply engrossed in A Far Side compendium, seated next to him as we drive to school on Halloween.

The air of our Subaru’s interior has a distinct chemical edge to it this morning – a reek of hair dye and ammonia, Sharpie® permanent marker and shoe polish – which overpowers the usual sour milk and wet sock scent of the aging upholstery.  I adjust the climate controls accordingly, increasing fresh airflow but lowering the temperature so as not to overheat my heavily robed passengers.

The wipers carve smooth shining half-halos from the grey stippled windshield, revealing a dismal, damp view of our morning commute.  Long columns of cars are stopped for as far as I can ahead along the tapering strip of freeway.

High above the dripping chain link and wet concrete, though, a lighter patch of clouds teases some hope for a break in the rain; a chance that maybe it will stay dry enough for the school parade this morning.  I worry about the Grim Reaper’s cold getting worse in this crummy weather.

Zoe is next to me in the front seat, listening to her beloved nano and playing solitaire.  My daughter's costume defies any easy definition.  It was derived from a meticulously detailed pencil sketch - complete with numbered arrows designating locations of specific fabrics, ribbons and skulls. We’ve been working on it for more than a month and it was finished just last night before midnight.  Her attire consists of many yards of black velveteen and white lace, with a black and white checkerboard print over striped leggings.  The end effect is somewhat, purposefully, visually distressing.  There are many more details, though, which are not obvious to a casual observer, such as the heated discussions concerning zippers versus buttons and why exactly four different kinds of lace were needed and, most importantly, when someone is trying their best to sew something for someone else how important it is to not treat that person like a complete idiot.

Anyway, Zoe’s vision of the outfit far exceeded my budget, patience and “mad” sewing skills (her adjective), but somehow, incredibly, it has worked out to her begrudging satisfaction.  She looks like a kind of Evil Alice in Wonderland or a character from a pre-Technicolor Tim Burton movie.  It’s also the first time I’ve ever seen her with make-up, in a petticoat and black heels. And the most truly frightening aspect of her outfit, is that she is wearing my shoes, which are a size 9-1/2 and fit her just fine.

I glance at her powder-white face and black-lined eyes bent over her ipod, relieved she’s silent for a while.  Earlier this morning, as I was trying to make lunch, she kept asking me “Do you know who killed me?” in a disturbing whispered monotone, with an unbreakable vacant stare. It went kind of like this:

ME: “Zoe, can you get the lettuce out of the fridge?”

ZOE (dully): “Do you know who killed me?”

ME: “Zoe, please, would you just hand me the lettuce?”

ZOE: “But do you know?  Do you know who killed me?”

ME: “No.  Stop it! You’re creeping me out!”

ZOE (approaching Robin Hood with the head of lettuce, zombie-like, whispering still) “Do you know who killed me?”

ROBIN HOOD: “Why do you want to know?”

ZOE: “So I can return the favor.”

The cars move forward in fits.  A bald clown in a white VW van glances over at us, frowning as we merge into the carpool lane, passing him. The thin light smear in the sky oozes wider as we slip north towards it.  Zoe sings a Leonard Cohen song, Famous Blue Raincoat, in off-key snatches.

Robin Hood laughs and reads a Gary Larsen caption out loud: “Historical note:  At first, Robin Hood robbed from the rich and gave to the porcupines!”  I laugh.  Death and my undead daughter do not.

The Grim Reaper’s breath is a syrupy gurgle.

“Nick?  Can you please blow your nose?”

He doesn’t hear me. He’s reading.

“Nick?”

Still no response.  So, with one hand still on the steering wheel, I reach back blindly for the page that he’s reading, patting the book and waving my hand over the words to get his attention.

WHAT?

“Can you please blow your nose?”

OK.

Death hands me a snotty tissue.





It’s later now. The boys are in bed and I am typing this from the couch in the front room.  The wind is rattling the sycamores and flinging rain against the windows sounding like tossed handfuls of dried peas in tin pans.  The storm which had held its breath all day, keeping the morning school parade dry, has now let loose in gusty bursts.  Jets flying into SJC echo loudly, as if they are flying right through the house; an atmospheric acoustic trick of this thick wet air.  Bass rhythms from a party down the street are punctuated by random screams and muffled howls.  Car doors slam, engines grumble to life and then fade into the hum of the rain.

Russ has gone to pick Zoe up from a Palo Alto party and they won’t be back until eleven o’clock. But I don’t think I can stay awake that late – I am still nursing my sewing hangover – so I plan to stay on the couch here tonight, a strange new couch because our old couch is in my new house.  This is just like when my parents were divorced when I was ten: He got the house, she got the furniture.

Zoe had looked at me funny when I told her my plan.  She asked me “Mom, isn’t it weird that you’re going to spend the night in your ex-husband’s house on the couch?” And I had immediately, reactively, said “No.”  But later, I thought that maybe I had not told the truth completely.

But it’s not a normal night.  It’s Halloween: a holiday that adults have crafted for kids to be decidedly not normal. Our neighborhood of turn-of-the-century Victorian homes usually puts on a good show for all ages of trick or treaters. After dinner, I pry the Paolini book out of Nick’s hands, insisting that it stay home when we go out to trick or treat.  He complained that he was almost done with it and he should be allowed to read the last 100 pages or so before having to put it down.  I disagreed, but noted that it was probably not normal 9-year old behavior for my son preferring reading to collecting free candy. 

After the boys had made the rounds of our block, they wanted to give out candy.  Once we turned the lights on, our front porch was attacked by midget zombies, glow-in-the-dark skeletons and vampires covered in fake blood.  There were also the prerequisite Spidermen, ninjas and monkeys.  A number of times we found the identical clone trooper child, manufactured by Target, with the only variation to their costume being the candy bag.  You have to marvel at the continued strength of Star Wars character licensing deals after more than two decades.

Honorable mentions go to the identical triplet Snow Whites who were shivering and adorable, but also very much pre-fab from Target. There were even two kids as Sarah Palin and John McCain – complete with tailored suits whose lapels were pierced with little flag pins.  I wasn’t sure if they were for or against the Republican ticket, although it was clear that they just wanted candy and were not looking for votes.

But after a couple hours, I was starting to be less enthused and more irritated with the trick or treating. First of all, there seemed to be more and more teenagers who didn’t even bother to dress up, they just held out their already half-filled pillowcases and slouched away. Some of these kids looked like they could easily be driving. Or they were maybe even legal voting age.  I wanted to ask for ID or put some kind of measuring bar at the top of our steps with a sign like you see at Disneyland that said you had to be less than so high to get any candy.

And this year, for the first time, I had a kid on a cell phone take our candy. She was a chubby prepubescent Cinderella in pink polyester, who did not even stop talking on her phone long enough to say “Trick or Treat”!  I was kind of stunned.

Finally, there was one really extremely fat child, not in a costume, just wearing his school uniform, which was a white polo shirt and blue slacks, who stood at our door holding out not one but two candy bags.  I had a moment where I almost could not give him candy.  But what was I going to say?  “I’m sorry you can’t have my candy, you are obviously unimaginative and overweight and greedy.”  Would I need to add a scale for weighing-in and a candy bag limit; in addition to the height requirement bar next year? Maybe he was collecting goodies for an injured sibling or sick friend.  Of course, I gave him two pieces of candy but I couldn’t help feeling like it was wrong, very wrong, like I was handing him some rat poison or a loaded gun.  All the while, his very large parents were standing on my sidewalk, in Raiders jackets, watching me.

It also didn’t help that as the evening wore on, I began to feel less than well myself.  Perhaps it could have been the six or seven or eight or maybe nine large Reese’s Peanut Butter cups I snitched from the piles of my own children’s candy.  The kids have an elaborate post-Trick or Treat sorting and trading system to eliminate the unfavorable strains of particular sweets. I imagine that this must have been what commodities trading was like before computers.  “I’ll trade you two tootsie rolls for those smarties!” “But that tootsie roll is smooshed.  I’ll take the Hershey’s bar instead.”  Since none of the kids like peanut butter these were fair game.  And now I felt lousy.

But it was something more than physical discomfort, it was my mind and spirit as well.  Nothing seemed right.  I decided that next year I would forgo tradition; we would hand out toothbrushes or vitamins or nickels or something, anything, non-fattening and non-cavity-forming.  It would be something good, and good for you, something good for all of us!  Basically, I vowed that I was going to buy and give away only items that I myself would not be tempted to eat to the point of absolute nausea.

So I stood looking out over the stoop that was no longer mine, feeling sick and terribly worn out as well as mildly pissed off with myself and Halloween in general; when a little girl came up our steps.  She couldn’t have been more than four.  She was dressed as a fairy princess, complete with a sparkling magic wand, trailing rainbow colored ribbons.  Over one small elbow she carried a little cloth pumpkin. She held onto the uprights of the painted wrought iron hand railing with a petite but determined fist, taking each step slowly with both small bejeweled feet. I could just make out her father who seemed happily normal sized, waiting at the foot of the driveway in the dark, hunched up in his jacket, hands in his pockets to keep warm against the chill.

The little girl made her way to the door where I stood holding the candy bowl and said in a tiny voice “Twick oh tweet.”

That is when I felt something hard and tight that I didn’t even know I was holding, melt inside of me.  It must have been my inner sap suddenly thawing.

Squatting down before her so she could see into the candy bowl, I offered up its contents to her silently:  Dozens of Mini Three Muskateer bars mixed with a score of gold-wrapped Snickers and some candy corn in little clear sealed plastic packs.

The fairy princess slowly looked at the candy, then looked at me again. Her big hazel eyes were fringed with a luscious awning of light brown lashes.  I felt huge and bloated, monstrously decrepit in her gaze. I noticed that my fingernails were actually stained black from the finishing touches I had put on Death’s costume earlier that day and stunk of petroleum solvent.  I tried to hide my hands from her as she leaned over, carefully picking out a package of candy corn. Her bent head of wispy honey blonde hair, was braided with pink ribbon and interwoven through a delicate ruby and emerald encrusted crown.  I caught myself disbelieving that this young child had stood still for the fabrication of such a complicated hairstyle. I would have had to wrestle or tranquilize any one of my kids in order to pull off something that involved more than a couple glancing blows with a hairbrush.

The perfect fairy princess dropped the candy into her pumpkin with calm precision.  We both watched it fall and then slide to a stop to lie snugly and safely on top of a colorful quilt of its confectionary fellows.  And then she looked again into my tired eyes, directly into my fractured heart, and chirped solemnly:

“Tane queue.”

I smiled and drew in the heavy wet air, cold and misty and sweet.  I could feel the hollow dry space of my mouth and throat fill up with a delicious tingle.  In that moment, I was transported to a past life, when my daughter was so little I could hold her with one hand, her small arms just long enough to wrap around my neck, her whole being glowing with barely contained exuberance.  I could remember from a time long ago, when everything was new and how the simplest things became utterly amazing when seen though her eyes.

And I remember when she believed, she really believed, everything I told her was true.














*See http://onehundredwordsforfog.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!6BE540E51F6BB3B0!446.entry

Zoe had had her braces painfully tightened by the orthodontist yesterday; so, when I was at Fry's today, I bought her some new earbuds for her beloved black ipod nano, Chaos Blossom.  They are very spiffy noise canceling earphones in aluminum and black with clear squishy plastic pillowy cushions that fit snugly inside your ear.

She squeaked in delight when she tore into the package, and then became silent as she tested out the whole assembly on Leonard Cohen.  What twelve year old listens to Leonard Cohen of her own free will?  Then she made me listen to him too. And then she tried to make the cat listen, but he was too quick and wiggly.

I explained that I had contemplated the available options of blue, pink or black earbuds, but I chose black because it would match her nano. 

Zoe replied: "Of course, you know - black is the new black."

We were discussing the current economic situation and Sky said "I'm really glad my allowance isn't tied to the stock market!"

This weekend a terrible fight broke out in our basement.  The entire Lego mini-figure population came under attack from alien Bionicles.  Fortunately, they were prepared. 

This typewritten note was found while I was packing up books to move to the new house -


Dear sir/madam:

It has come to the attention of some of us here at SanCo that you have committed several offenses against the well-being of yourself, others and SanCo. These offenses include:

      Kicking one A. C. Winkheimer in the shins, ankles, and groinal area
    
      Making rude hand and facial gestures to one Mr. M. McKlompel

      Removing company property without permission and/or proper form

      Causing disturbances in the workplace

      Causing small explosions and noxious fumes to exude from the Chem Lab

      Prodding one R. B. Jenkins in a "disturbing way"

      Being a danger to yourself and those around you

      Setting fire to Cube 6 (sector 1/4)

      Stealing children's complimentary candy on Take Your Child to Work Day

      Kidnapping and holding for ransom Terry the Tortoise, mascot of Cube 11

      Stealing children on Take Your Child to Work Day

      Stealing one D. Iyele's "comfort appliance" and dyeing it pink.

Zoe sent me this link from Improv Everywhere; urban pranksters who create funny scenes and film it.  This "mission" is to create a human "mirror" in a subway car.  More fun here.

More classic dialogue as heard at the lego table.  I don't write this stuff, people, I just write it down as I hear it.


Sky: Get away from my house!  Firing the missile launcher.  Nick, Nick, your house is on fire!

Nick: I wonder if I have a firefighter around here?

Sky: My firefighters eat fire!  They have big red bulging bellies!

Nick: Have a flaming hot pizza while you're at it!  Here's a flaming Pizza of Doom for you! Nice mixture of spiced meat too.  Glad to eat you!

Sky: Here's items I got in my inventory - Liquid flame, two pizzas.

Nick: There's a flaming hot ash plant

Sky: Thanks!

Nick: Damage to the base comes a bit late.  Maybe I should take back the natives I made if they are only going to kill me. Hmmm. I need something to hold my fire.  Can I use this?

Sky: Sure, you can put the fire right in the middle of it. Does that hold it? Let me demonstrate my idea to you. 

Nick: OK

Sky: I made a base for it. Maybe I should get some supplies

Nick: Getting supplies!  Getting supplies!  Getting supplies!

Sky: You can sell some of your berries.

Nick: I have a tractor with heavy duty tires that can start a farm.

Sky: Yes, we will need more land

Nick: Can I expand this? 

Sky: Yes, it will be farm land.

Nick: Let's put the land near the house.

Sky: You can place your house here and this can be the field.

Nick: OK, but it takes a while to move the bunker. Oooh. Tree, tree, valuable tree.  Over here.

Sky: What's that?

Nick: The Elixir of Life plant. 

Sky: OK

Nick: I have a very big house compared to the natives.  I think it makes them mad.

Sky: The natives are easily stompable.  But you have to watch out for the prickly spikes that protude from the dead corpses.  It will hurt if you step on them.

Nick: Hey, I am growing a pizza plant.  It's already blooming! 

Sky: Pizza plants rule!

Nick: I wonder if that farm person is going to come back?  Or if he's been killed?

Sky: I am making a Golden City.  It's not a very big Golden City.

Nick: I wonder if I can cross it?  I want to get to the other side.

Sky: That's the idea.  You come, you go.

Nick: I think I'll trap myself in the armor plated house and starve to death. I want to stay inside. The natives have missiles!

Sky: I have three missiles!

Nick:  I have more.

Sky: Nick!

Nick: OK I only have 1 missile.  Sky what are you looking for?

Sky: Pieces. [sound of plastic being rummaged through]  Joy.  A missile part.

Nick: My Ninja escapes from the house. He gives the natives a chunk of meat and then runs for his life. Hey, Sky are you going to kill R2D2? 

Sky: I'm going to put it with the natives for safe keeping

Nick: The diamond was stolen!  I think R2D2 took it.

Sky: No. He returned the diamond. The natives blew their heads off for you. They hate you. Watch out! The wine is poison don't drink it!

Nick: The ninja put a drink dispenser in his house.  Now they won't kill me!

Sky: Here have a cup of lava - obvious poison.

Nick: No thanks. Someone gave me some spice.  I'm not revealing my sources so you won't kill them.

Sky: I have three potions.  They are healing. 

Nick:  My farm is armed!  The booby traps are spears shot with plasma cannons. They have optical sensors. That guy is called the Watchman, he is in a teeny room.  And there is a dark force guy.  He's a hover head gone mad - a hover head with a helmet.

Sky: The three potions are - Anitdote for burning pizza, insanely hot spice and I don't know what this potion is.

Nick: Here are the satellite tv connections for your house. Even though we don't even have a tv. 

Sky: This weapon has two safety locks for the heck of it.

Nick: Look, I have a theater TV now, it's very big.  Now the natives won't kill me.  Oh and I made peace with them by returning the diamond.

Sky: Yow!

Nick: I've got satellite TV!  He's going to give the natives a TV.

Sky: Are you rubbing it in that I don't? 

Nick: They will give you a flat screen tv plasma if you ask nice

Sky: How big is it?

Nick: It's the size of the faceplate for the glass building. It uses the tv at volume 5000. Once those guys are released from the room they have broken ear drums

Sky: This is the hover head of darkness.  He does short reigns of terror.

Nick: Why would he do that?  The natives will kill him.

Sky: But the natives fear him.  Don't ask why.

Nick: Your heart has been blown out of you.  Now you are a zombie droid.

Sky: But the light sphere cancels out darkness.

Nick: He threw a grenade!

Sky: No actually, it was just a cushion.  He threw it and a bunch of fuzzy kittens came out.

Nick: Fuzzy kittens are attacking!  And it's pink! How cute!  You still could be killed by cuteness!

Sky: These warriors are even more powerful than you.  Except when they are on their lunch break.

Nick: Hey, I now have an arm!  And it can hold a gun.  Now we can declare war on the natives.  But it would be very stupid to declare war on them because they have more missiles.

Sky: And nuclear subs. And giant plutonium bombs.  And pizza.

Nick: War is stupid.

Nick and I went to Barnes and Noble this afternoon to use one of his birthday gift certificates to purchase "Talking to Dragons", the fourth volume in a very funny and fanciful series by Patricia Wrede. 

I noticed that the cover was beautifully illustrated and asked if there were pictures on the inside of the book as well.  His answer is quoted below verbatim:

"No, there are no other illustrations. But the colorful adverbs and adjectives are more than adequate substitutes."

Last night I slept by the fire in Boulder Creek.  It would be the last night I would spend in that house for a very long time. The furniture is slowly being removed in trips by Subaru and pick-up truck and a borrowed trailer; so overnights there are now like an indoor camping trip; we sleep on the fold-out bed in the living room by candlelight. The house is not much more than a carpeted wood shell with some appliances and empty bookshelves until the new people move their stuff in.

I told myself that it was the cold, the beginnings of brisk March windstorm, which made me feel numb.  At least the heater was working still.  The storms knock out the electricity for hours and sometimes days.  But last night, the furnace turned on and off in bursts of whistling and rattling even though I put the thermostat back to the 60’s before I went to bed. The ancient fridge followed suit asynchronously making noises like a fickle lawn mower engine idling in the kitchen. And the rain.  The rain came down in loud smatters, ringing the tin gutters.  It sounded as if trolls on the roof were panning for gold by dropping pebbles into tin pans and shaking them, then throwing them down in frustration when they found only worthless black rock.   Around midnight, the mice came out from behind the hearth and tip toed across plates left on the counters, shuffling and clinking too. It was a noisy sort of night that sparked restless dream memories of all the awful places I lived when I was in grad school and had no money, leaving me shaky and still tired in the morning.

At dawn, all I could do was hope for the sun to gain some ground over the clouds, wait for the light to come out to outline the real world with solid lines.  I found myself holding my breath until the daytime came to replace the dark shadows with real, good things.



But tonight I am back in the old house in San Jose. The house is filled with furniture and kids and oodles of birthday presents.  There are new legos and remote control airplanes and just baked cornbread. I step over glued popsicle stick sculptures and sandy shoes spread over the parlor floor. At bedtime, I gently removed the books from the boys’ hands and tuck them each into their blanketed bunk bed.  They asked me to snuggle and fought over who got to have me first.

I helped Zoe with her homework, kissed her orthodontic headgear goodnight and then came upstairs.  The cat, who was lying on an old cashmere sweater, didn’t budge until I turned on the reading light.  Then he saw a spider and did that funny cackling sound that sounds like someone imitating a cat.  It is more like a crackle that goes like: “Ack ack ack!” It means, “I want to eat you, spider! But you are too high up and far away.  And I am too fat to jump.  Alas!”  This always makes me smile.  And now I am writing you about it.  The cat is still doing it.  I want to make a movie of him cat-cackling.



Joseph Campbell said once “We get to do it all.”  He said that in each person is a child and an old person, a warrior as well as a nursemaid, a caretaker and a thief.  We will be in turn loved and despised.  We are both generous and greedy.  We contain all the elements for great success and crushing failure, abundance and terrible need.  To experience all of this, he said, is to feel each in whatever measure it may find us.  This is what it is to be fully and truly human, he believes.

And so I tell myself:  Don’t forget this, even though it may not bring you any comfort right now.  By the end, they say, we will have done it all.  All that is placed in our path.  All we were meant to do; nothing more and nothing less.

This week Nick and Schuyler turned nine.  I asked Nick what he thought of his last year of single digit age and he said "I have two words for you, Mom:  Teenage Rebellion!"

Nick and Sky are playing in their room with their Playmobil castle set and some Lego(TM) Starwars mini-figures.  I believe the setting for this dialogue is an intergalactic 15th century trading post run by a rat.  It also appears to be populated by robots and unicorns.  The rat's name is Sir Edward Rat.

Link to droidika photo - http://flickr.com/photos/balden/29206156/


This is a super trading outpost. You can get anything you need. Do not touch the cannon balls!

[Robot voice] Me useless here.  Me useless here.

You’re not useless!  You can guard my mailbox!

OK

The black mailman delivers blackmail and explosives.  Get it?  Blackmail!

Here is some gunpowder!  KABOOM!

Hey, why did you just kill my rat?

Ooops, sorry.  Look the rat is back up!

And it’s selling teabags!

I thought it was selling cannon balls?

How about oatmeal and mineral water?  There are a lot of nutritious minerals including calcium and vitamins.

Alright. I’ll take some!  How much?

Oh, a million dollars.

OK.  Here you go.

He sure is a rich battlebot.

Chew chew chew chew.

And this unicorn gives great milk.  Would you like to buy it?  It’s fur is so silky soft.

I’d like to buy the small droidika instead.

But the unicorn has a valuable golden horn.

Oh no! Look! The ballet dancer attacks the unicorn.

Use your cannonball in defense!

The two horses talk to the unicorn.

The explosion produced cinnamon.  Do you want some?

Shake shake shake.

Yes, the droidika stores it in his shell.

He has supplies for his mobile home!

It’s also selling this crowbar and cookies made of cinnamon.

The Store of the Unknown has exactly one rat.

Give it some cinnamon and sugar.  Now it has a shinier coat!

It is selling iron and this pink-scented dummy.  It is an I Love You Test Dummy.  Hit it in the heart and it goes “I love you!  I love you!”

Cool! Blast it!

Watch out!  The battleship is coming to town!

Oh no, we’ve been hit!

Battle stations for the droidikas!

The force field is too strong!  It’s jamming all the signals!

They battle!  The droidika hits the training dummy!

I love you!  I love you!

He has a Spanish accent!

[Robot voice]  Yes, we’ve been hit, sir!

When the smoke cleared, he was on the ground not moving.  He was gravely wounded.  It was mortal.

Oh no!  That’s an uncontrollable attack that should never ever be released into the world.

Doom score!

Maximum power!

Mage weapon!

There’s silver on the cinnamon!

What a mess!

Do you like the new droidika head I gave you?

Yes.  It has three different power levels.  It is capable of four thousands shots per second. And the attached cooling tubes keep the cooling constant.

Did I mention I put a special enhanced artificial intelligence chip in his brain?

No.

It is surgically implanted to allow him to have super intelligence.  Nothing can defeat him.  What else is there to buy?

He’s selling fishing rods, fishing nets and fishing spears.  Arrows are not included.  And for dummy accessories he’s selling perfume spice and a perfume upgrade.  Oh and there are pocket bots.  They are the small droids.

I would like three.

Sorry.  You can only get one pocket droid per person.  They come in black and red and black and green.

I wanted grey!

OK, here you go.  They are custom multi-colored.

Thanks.

But that pocketbot will tear up your pocket to expand it.  Be careful.  Even though he’s small, he’ll rip it to shreds.

No problem.  My pocket is endless.

The first time I saw you, my son, you were the shadow of a skeleton lost in space, a cloud of pixels floating in and out of the endless empty void.  You were a tablespoon of powdered sugar spilled into an ocean of octopus ink, a smudge of moonlight in a darkened room, a friendly ghost.  The first time I saw you, my child, you were on The Other Side.

I remember lying on the plastic covered table with that cold, hard electronic device pressed against my bladder, stretching the skin of my stomach like pizza dough under a baker's fist.  The antiseptic stink of the clear conductive lubricant filled the air. It worried me that the stuff looked like the same stuff we used to seal the bathtub grout.

I asked the woman, the electronic equipment operator, what was going on and she said she wasn't sure.

She called for the doctor and that man called for another doctor and that doctor called a graduate student and suddenly a crowd of balding men in white lab coats were standing over me, not looking at me even though I was almost naked.  They huddled around the small black and white blinking screen like they were South American villagers watching the World Cup playoffs and not MD's in a prestigious teaching hospital.

I asked them again, what is it?

There is some news you should sit down for.  This was news you needed to be lying down for.

They told me:  There are two.

And then one of the doctors said they were looking for your penis.

It would not be easy because it would be very small.

The doctor gave instructions to the woman holding the electric shaver looking thing into my stomach. The only sound was the buzzing of the machines and some low toned medical mumbling as I felt a cold chill in my bones. Time slowed and divided into different flavors of desire and helplessness. Later I would know that this strange feeling was caused by the sudden disappearance of an idea that I had not even known I had had. What had abandoned me in that moment was a profoundly wrong thought that I had developed throughout much of my life because I was a competent and successful person.  What left me then, suddenly in those seconds, was the belief that I was somehow in control of my own body, my life and the future of my children. 

Left in its place was a frightening void which seemed to be in direct contradiction with my currently overcrowded physical condition.

Then they said two boys. Boys! Two boys! They are both boys.

The doctor joked that I must have done something evil in a former life. I laughed or snorted or coughed, I can’t remember anything except that this movement hurt more than his words, because they were still pressing the end of that machine into my intestines. But I had always thought it was true. I knew I couldn’t help being such a bad person. This explained so much.

And then the man turned the screen so I could see you better.  This one here, said the specialist, you see him? He has no fluid.

Your skull, the bony helmet perched on the tiny dots of your spine,  was compressed, pulled tight by a curving white line, terribly tight.  You were like an astronaut in a too small suit, or a goldfish in a plastic bag, crowded by my anatomy.  You sucked your thumb and then vanished peacefully from the screen as they pressed the button for a screen capture.

The woman pushed the cold instrument against my stomach, pressing harder, chasing you through my skin.  I winced and held my breath again.  I understand now why they pushed so hard.  It was a teaching hospital.  Their job was to help me learn about discomfort and waiting and not knowing. 

They would stick needles into my abdomen.  They would take vials and vials of blood.  They would put all kinds of things in my private parts.  They would take my urine.  They would leave me alone hooked up to machines in a cold room for hours.  They would try to make me eat some unrecognizable glop in plastic containers they called food.  And then they would take more blood. They would tell me that you were failing to "thrive".  They would discuss the possibility of killing you so that your brother would have a better chance.  They would tell me that I was a bad mother for not being cooperative.  They would glue wires to me.  They would give me more shots. They would tell me that I was wrong for not letting them do a C-section so that you would be born two months premature.   They would take more blood.  But I know that were only trying to teach me things I needed to learn.  And I know now that The Other Side does not give up its most precious gifts so lightly.

But back there in the room, they decided to talk to me.

This is what is called, the doctor said, twin to twin transfusion.

At that moment, I remember being outside of this crowd of strangers watching you, overwhelmed by the number of them outside of me.  And realizing too, that I was also doubly outnumbered by you and your brother inside of me.

It was at that moment that I ceased to be me and became a diagnosis.

My youngest child crawled into bed with me after taking a bath last night.  His hair was still damp and sweetly soapy smelling.  He curled up next to me in his pajamas and put his head on my shoulder.  I could feel some of the tension I had been holding all day start to melt away with the warmth of his cheek next to mine.

We lay there in the strangely quiet house in silence for a while.  I try not to fall asleep during my children's bedtime, but sometimes it seems so hard not to.  My kids know, pretty much, that their bedtime is based on when I need to go to sleep, not them.  Then Sky looked up at me with those big brown eyes; looking at me intently from under the luxurious canopy of his long dark eyelashes and asked me an important question.

He said "Mommmm?" in that way that kids make a single-syllable word sound like a whole sentence or a one word song.

"Yes, sweetie?" I replied drowsily.

He asked me:

"Mom, what causes internal bleeding?"

Zoe's list of five things you could say to telemarketers the next time they call -

1.    Listen patiently to their spiel and then say in a heavy accent:  “I’m very sorry, but we only buy Elvish brands.”

2.    Tell them that the person for whom they are asking has been eaten by killer unicorns.

3.    Sing “Banana Phone” loudly until they hang-up.

4.    If they want you to buy something, tell them that crocodiles have consumed all your money. Start crying if they say that they don’t believe you.

5.    Before they start speaking, say that you belong to a religious cult that doesn’t believe in telemarketing.  And if you talk to them you will go to hell.  If they keep talking to you, start screaming like you’re being burned.

The security guard glides towards me in the nearly empty parking lot, on my way into work on the day after Christmas.

He is a slight Indian man who is wearing a black uniform, a plastic badge and a shiny black bicycle helmet trimmed with silver reflective tape.  The man is carefully piloting a gleaming white Segway with the word “SECURITY” stenciled in bold letters across the front fender.  He slows down as he gets closer.  I slow down too, thinking that maybe he wants to talk to me.  I worry that maybe he is going to pull me over for walking.  Perhaps they are discouraging walking now and I should be scootering or biking or segwaying myself because it’s more high tech. And I work at one of the highest high tech companies around now. Just walking is not enough if you work here, I guess.  But then I see that the man is concentrating on the speed bump that lies between us.  It’s a half-baked speedbump, barely a bulge in the asphalt, but painted in broad angled golden stripes to resemble a much more serious speed bump.  I wonder if they have watered down these speed bumps where I am walking and this makes me momentarily angry that someone would trade pedestrian safety for vehicular convenience.  But I don’t know that for sure.  So I can’t say it for sure. I shouldn’t write it here unless I know it for a fact.

You see, I know something about speed bumps. I used to live on a college campus, where traffic mitigation is serious business; I knew all about bollards and those one-way tire piercing pointy grates. But speed bumps mattered to me mostly because my father drove a very expensive car with extremely low ground clearance and I was responsible for making sure any chosen route was passable.  So I know you can’t just take a forgiving suspension for granted.

As I watch, I can see that the security guard has chosen not to go over but to go through a notch in the speed bump.  Based on my experience, I think that this is a wise choice. I think he knows that I am thinking this and judging him.  I think he likes having an audience, for having navigated the gap, he now guns it, whirring by picking up speed.  He nods confidently to me as he passes.  Although a burst of brisk wind from the baylands hit us both on the skin of our exposed necks, he does not falter; he does not lose his balance.  Before I go into the building, I turn around to check.  He is doing donuts in the far corner, making fast tight circles, trying to get the thing to skid or wipe out. 

You can tell that it is very quiet at work the day after Christmas.  That is why I am writing this now.

Later, I got a little bit cold so I went back out to the car to get my sweater.  I was relieved and disappointed that the security guard was gone.  There were no skidmarks.  No wreckage. No blood.  But by squinting, I could see some gravel spilled from the bike trail that cuts into the parking lot in the far corner.  The low green hills sprawled invitingly on the other side of the solar panels; past the valet parking signs and the uneven oleander hedge.  I looked for the security guard’s silhouette on the Segway heading out beyond the buildings, leaving the parking lot behind, gunning it into the hills.  A ragged vee of Canada geese struggled against the wind, like a single flying letter escaping an unseen airborne word.  The shape itself becoming hyphenated, broken, coming apart and falling sideways, silently, out of sight.

As I shut the car door I was reminded of the other day, when I was getting out of the car in another parking lot with my daughter. She said something to me that sticks in my mind like a splinter.  I forget what I said. I think I was talking about the story that I was writing; how I thought it might be good. But she shook her head and said matter of factly, “Mother, you’re an engineer.  You make computers. You went to school to study math and art.  What makes you think that you can write?”

The boys are drawing websites.  Yes, you read that right.  This is the hurriedly typed transcript of their discussion around our old pine table in the parlor where they were drawing on paper with markers their own version of a computer website.  I think they had been watching their sister buy things in the the Neopets virtual marketplace.

Below is a snippet of Nick and Sky drawing and talking together.  I didn't have time to parse who is saying what and add quotation marks, so please just read as alternating dialogue.



Would you like to have a sale?

I’m not going to tell you when there is a sale – only a super special sale

Look! There’s a space sale!

I’m going to check this website pointlessly

Let me guess, you’re looking for a space sale.  That’s when the shop starts flashing.  By the way, do you like this new look?

Oh by the way, have I mentioned that the locks have changed?  Some keys disguise themselves.  They change every twelve minutes.  But they only do it in the shop, when you own them they don’t. 

It’s a sale!  A super sale on gold stuff!  A golden shield!  A sword!  A square! 

Here is a place you can store three items.  I’ll only put stone items here.  Or pieces that give you luck.  There are golden numchucks.  And armatrix.  That changes air into fire. And a two-handed sword.

A two-handed dork sword?

It’s a dark sword! Not a dork sword!  And there’s another single handed sword.  And a simple necklace of eternal darkness with a locket.  You can store stuff in it like stardust.  And here is the key for it.

My guy bought every single one.  He tried to get into the mystery locket.  But the dude didn’t get any information.

Ha!  You didn’t do it right. Your enemy is locked in a time void.  He is so confused!

He needs the dark key staff to get out!  The staff is ancient and heavy.

When he tried to use the key he twisted it and the key said “Ow!”  It talks.  It’s a talking key.

Can we have him do an insane amount of damage?

Yeah!

And the staff will do things like bop people on the head when they get near!

Ha!  And then he can time travel.

I added World War Two.

Whoa, hey what’s that? – is that a pet? 

Yeah.  I added pets.  I’m going to have a pet sale next.  I’ll draw your pet here and make this your home page.

It’s been totally deleted.

I’ve added an orb to the staff

Why do you think my dude likes shopping here? He has an insane amount of money.  And he likes to care for pets.

Here is a puffy pet.  I drew it for your dude.

It’s fluffy!

I’ll add some feet

And eyes.

He’s a Cyclops.

He’s so cute!  A cute fuzzy Cyclops! 

Add claws.

It’s ghostly!

He’s a dark mystic clawed dude.

Use some mystical colors.

OK.  How's that?

He floats around purposelessly.  He’s quite inconspicuous.

He has a new potion.  It’s a mutation potion.  It’s called Jade Head.  It turns your head into precious stone and allows you to fight orbs. 

Did he drink it?

No, I changed my mind. It wasn’t a mutation potion. It just looked like it.

It’s raining, so give him boots.  Bigger boots.  They’re thunder boots.

Can you draw something that is completely blank?

Sure! How’s this?

Oh, he doesn’t look like that at all.

Oh, sorry.

Hey, what about this?  Here is a totally angry pet. He only gets angry at your enemies.  He is capable of great rage.  He can increase the attack with special tornado force.  And fire.  Or water.  And the pet glows.  Would your dude like to buy that?

I’m selling a rocket named Mr. Exploder!  It’s a nuclear bomb.  I think that it will be a popular item.

How much does it cost?

Zero cents!  Just click on it!

It comes with a raging inferno spell.  All enemies are blasted into the cosmos!

Wow, Sky, that is so cool!

Zoe and I have been playing alot of Jonathan Coulton lately.  Her favorite is "The Portal Credits Song:  Still Alive" which you can see and hear on youtube.  I love the song because it rhymes "data" and "beta".  I feel as if it was written for me.  Actually, the more I think about it, the more I'm sure that it was.

Also, I'm torturing everyone with the French version of "Re: Your Brains" which is now "Re: Vos Cerveaux".  I particularly like the part where they all start singing "Alouette".  Jonathan Coulton notes on his blog that he was interviewed for the Chinese online edition of Newsweek in an article about internet music that mentioned another favorite of mine, Radiohead's In Rainbows.

We're meowing along with my new friend, Schaffer the Dark Lord, on his song "Cat People."  He was playing in San Francisco with the rapmaster of the Penny Arcade scene, MC Frontalot.  Zoe is devoted to the Penny Arcade webcomic even though she says that she's not really a gamer.  She is currently spending all of her computer time on Sims building and furnishing extraordinarily expansive houses.  I've noticed that I've been humming the soundtrack from Animal Crossing too. It's very comforting in times of stress.

And what else? The kids have suffered patiently through weeks of my Christmas caroling practice in the car.  We, the wandering Peninsula Parents singers, performed at school today for the Annual Holiday Craft Faire.  It was really cold.  Really cold. We sniffled alot and towards the end I lost all feeling in my ears.  But Merrill didn't elbow me more than a couple times or smack me with the song book this year, so I think I did alright.  There was only one song where we lost it completely and had to stop because Bizzy and I were laughing too hard.  We were lucky enough to be joined by Dagmar again this year, who is a native German speaker and professional musician.  She led us in "O Tannebaum" (Oh Christmas Tree). I thought my grandma would have liked to hear that one.  I even recorded a couple songs with my new spiffy mini-digital recorder.  I'll try and figure out how to post them for your enjoyment.

There you have it.  An actual blog-like post for a change.  Hope you liked it.

Today is the day for planting daffodils. This is a seasonal ritual we do every year in Boulder Creek after the first rain and before the first frost.  Do you want to help?  You can if you like. Here’s all you need to do:

Don your oldest fadedest blue jeans, the dirtier the better.  Find a pair of worn-out deerskin gloves from the pile of gloves in a basket by the door.  It’s hard to find a pair that match, but if you dig down there should be some to fit you.  Put on some sturdy and very un-sexy black rubber boots, the kind that my grandfather used to wear to feed the pigs – tall, dark and covered in shit.  With these boots, believe me, you can go anywhere except some place fashionable.  I think they truly bring out my inner farmer.

Then follow me, climb up the path to the meadow. 

You can’t help but look up when you step outside, away from the house, out from under the trees and onto the flat. The sky is clear today; bluer than believing against the dull brown of this Novemberland.  The hillside is fringed in stubborn evergreens: oaks and firs and pine. Scrawny buckeyes shiver bare-naked with silver branches dangling plump horse chestnuts like brass ornaments.  The madrones seem to have set themselves on fire, glowing orange and deep magenta.  On a day like today, though, it’s the sky that stops you for a bit.  It's rare, I realize, but it happens here.  I get interrupted by the sky; I forget what I'm supposed to do. Maybe it's because there's just so much of it.  You forget that it's really like this and suddenly, you're reminded and surprised by how much that you have forgotten.  You stop and stand, looking up, the length of your tender neck exposed to the chill air and hidden predators.  It’s ok.  Take your time and just look around.  There’s no one to complain that you’re late here, that you’re in the way, or that you’re being lazy.

And sometimes you become aware of standing, just standing under the far edge of heaven; you feel the fragile boundaries of yourself, you feel small, dizzy almost. But it’s not bad.  It's a relief to not be very big or at the center of it all.  You notice that there are things smaller than you here and more vulnerable, too.  The tiny emerald-chested finches zig-zag overhead.  Fat black carpenter bees buzz by slowly like miniature motorized dirigibles.  The first pale green tendrils of winter grass quiver in the path at our feet; delicate, bright and vulnerable.  And even though you may have never been here before, you can't help but sense that you’re a part of this place. Even though it's all unfamiliar, you feel like you belong. We could stand here for a long time, and we probably do.  Because we don’t have to do anything here except to breathe.  You don’t have to do anything except be.

Let me know when you want to get back to the bulbs.

I carry the scratchy burlap sack of 150 bulbs over my back, like a skinny off-season hillbilly Santa Claus.  Now we dig shallow trenches under the twiggy fruit trees, parting the lifeless turf with our steel spades.  The blade makes a nice sound; a muffled metallic shush, silencing and cutting open the victim earth in one swift motion. You can step on the shovel like a pogo stick to get it to go in deeper, unearthing abandoned snake tunnels and gopher holes and once in a while a fossil.  These hills were under water once although now we are more than twenty miles from the ocean.  Once in a while we unearth hibernating potato bugs or salamanders. Try to dig carefully, please, because there is a lot more in the ground than meets the eye. 

But go ahead, make your trench and then kneel down, stripping off the gloves and with bare hands place the peeling papery bulbs into the crevice.  It’s like making a sacrifice, giving a gift to the dirt.  Even dirt needs something nice, a little love, once in a while.  Then take a break.  Listen to the breeze rustling the trees, you can see the wind coming across the meadow in waves, shaking the tree tops in turn, rippling over the ridge and then suddenly not.  It’s strange to watch something invisible disappear.  When the wind stops all is still except for your own heart.  It's so quiet you can hear it beating.  When was the last time you just listened to your own heart?

Now stand up and kick the soil back over the wounded earth, sprinkle on a little chicken shit and stomp upon the freshly made graves. Doesn’t that feel good now? I bury bad feelings: I plant some seeds of hope, I commit an Act of Faith. You supply the clichéd metaphor here but just know that somehow, simple and strangely, it works.  No matter if you don’t even believe it will. You don’t have to worry about it or even think. It took me years and years but now I’ve learned that all I have to do is to do my part and everything else just takes care of itself.

And even though we do this every year, it is still kind of a surprise when the narcissus bloom in March because by then we have forgotten this all.  Blame it on post-Holiday traumatic stress syndrome or the long dark days of winter or just failing memory, but I can never remember where the bulbs were planted.  And every year there’s more of course; they spread.  They call it “naturalizing” in the bulb catalog - which seems kind of funny to me since they are pretty darn natural to begin with. There are probably more than a thousand different bulbs now in the meadow, from years and years ago, buried underneath the oaks and all around the fruit trees.  But each spring it still surprises me that after months of being ignored, abandoned to the freezing nights and dismal wet grey days, these flowers invariably show themselves in such perfect long-stemmed profusion.

I wish you could be here to see them too.