Vacationy knowings

Yesterday, late in the afternoon, in the still hot sun, the kids and I took turns choosing songs on Youtube on the tablet in the backyard. Naveen wanted Baby Beluga even though I thought for sure he’d ask for this one we’ve been forced to listen to again and again upon his insistence. Deaglan couldn’t think of something on his first turn so I suggested this, only because I remembered how it made me feel that first time he told me he LOVED it: Surprised, and then suddenly in love with it because it reminded me of him.

No new thing I chose this.

If there’s any chance I can get them onto Springsteen I take it. This age of no records and tapes, and practically extinct CDs makes it harder to exert any influence. I love the story-ness of an album; I lament these 99 cent moments ITunes offers.

I sipped ice cold Chardonnay while they sucked the juice out of  freezies.

I’m sort of picky about white wine. Not expensive picky. I adhere to two specific criterion: Hot, hot summer days. Glacially cold Australian Chardonnay. I’m slightly more flexible with red. At 42, finally (!), I have accepted that I’m a happy-hour drinker. Through my twenties and half of my thirties, I tried to believe I was something else: Fun and witty at parties. Charming and enduring at bars. Always lively into the night.

None of these things are true about me.

Instead. I know I’ll be asleep before the good shows come on. And more than two drinks on any given night ruins my next morning.  I’m shy. And in most situations I feel I have nothing to offer. I’ll probably never go vegan or start spending more on jeans. I love this song because I know Pink’s onto something even though it’s true, I don’t get her hair. Mascara and eyeliner is my version of putting on my face.

And I tell my little boys all the time that I’m sorry. That it’s okay to cry.  That feeling grumpy is normal.

Not because I’m modern and cool.

I just want to make room for my own imperfections.

 

I had last week off. We celebrated Aunt Pat's birthday. Gramma remembered how much we love that cake from Costco.

 After, we all watched Naveen play his final game of Blastball. Pictures to come.

 We spent some time with my sister and her family in Northern Michigan.

 
I go back to work tomorrow and although I'm sorta ready for it, I'll miss happy hour Youtube videos.

An open letter to Raffi

Dear Raffi,

what kind of voodoo-magic hocus-pocus did you weave into your riffs that has my boys mesmerized? I thought it was just dumb luck that first time with Deaglan, when after 40 torturous minutes of head-splitting wailing on our way to Sarnia, I slipped in one of your CDs, that he mercifully (excuse my bluntness) shut his pie hole.

So then I started using (you) when I had to take a shower and leave him in the crib; a little peanut butter sandwich made with jam, and he was quiet as a mouse. And I thought that would be it. But no; I found myself getting greedy, taking hits (of you) on shorter drives - some take me out to the ballgame and presto, a stress-free ride to Walmart.

I also noticed your music having calming effects on my husband's driving, so that pretty soon we were both singing along with you, sometimes at the top of our lungs.  And just like riding a bike, the words came back, even though it had been thirty years since we'd heard you last. There were moments when I'd hear  apples and bananas in my head while doing the dishes and happily start whistling. 

Convinced your hold over my son was going to be short-lived, too good to be true, I got desperate. I needed more. More albums. I was going through CD's one after another and there were always songs that struck a chord. There was the shake your sillies out phase, and the now-infamous tingalayo phase. We sometimes had to give him six or seven doses (of that song) where he would dance naked (and maniacally I might add) around his toddler bed, butchering the lyrics.

Then with the birth of Naveen, I told myself to not get my hopes high; I certainly wouldn't be able to train him to be addicted to (ahem) - enjoy your music. But it didn't take much repeated exposure. It was like giving candy to a baby. Like a fish to water, he just took to it, like he'd been listening to you since the womb.

Why, just this morning, while driving Deaglan to daycare, Naveen decided that being up all night teething didn't make me candidate-for-the-loony-bin enough, he started a riot in his car seat making me wonder if I didn't maybe accidentally pinch his finger into the seatbelt buckle when you came into my mind like some sort of metaphysical zen instructor. Grampa's Farm, Grampa's Farm you seemed to be chanting. And just like that I pressed play and that tiny motormouth CANNED IT.

So thank you, you pied piper, you shutter-upper of babies and toddlers, you magic man. May I just say you get more and more attractive to the likes of mothers like me. Suddenly short trimmed beards are kinda sexy, Armenian men alluring, the lyrics to Kumbaya intoxicating - if you know what I mean. Okay, I'm not sure I know what I mean with that...but still, thank you.

Sincerely,

Mother of two, impatient-in-the car, haven't-let-me-sleep-in-three-years, it's-all-about-them, boys.

I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.