Something Specific

Remember the part in "Saving Private Ryan" where Tom Hanks tells Matt Damon to remember home, but that you can't just remember home as a generic, you have to remember something specific? Hanks says he remembers his wife tending the roses in an old pair of his work gloves. Damon remembers his brother getting busy with Alice Jardin in the barn.... ***

If I were soldier today, dispatched to a remote part of the world, trying to will myself to fall asleep against the din of fighter jets, I wonder if I could find comfort in the somethings specific from home. If I could warm myself by the light of their vivid memory, or if they would just flash like distant air raids across my mind...

*** Hearing the crescendo of bleating cries from Baby Girl in the morning as the first light of dawn warms the magnolia walls of her room. I see that little expectant bobblehead peaking through the slats of her crib, and then there's that half-awake smile that reminds me every morning of who I am to this world.

Or my husband's voice reading a Sandra Boynton book in the voice of Sean Connery to Baby Girl for the 83rd time this weekend.

Or voicemails from my brother which take up half the bandwidth of my voicemail capacity, which completely recap everything that we would otherwise phone chat about, but which always end with, "Okay, well, talk to ya -"

Or asking Lovey Loverpants if he wants milk to drink with dinner, to which he sometimes responds, "No, thanks. I'll pass on grass." Which doesn't make sense but which makes me double over, and incapable of pouring my milk into the cup.

Or Baby Girl deciding half-way through her diaper change that lying on her back is overrated and then taking to her knees and scooting away without a care about the moose tracks she is leaving on the bed.... ***

Holding Hands

Nine years ago this week, I met an Asian in Birkenstocks at RA Training. One of our first conversations took place in the hallway outside of my favorite dorm room: He: "I like your cool polyester clothes!" (Gestures thumbs up)

Me: "Uhh, why were you guys looking through my closet?"

Immortal words, huh?

***

The next year at RA training, he took my hand in his as we walked toward the mess hall along Lake Erie.

I love the feeling of someone holding my hand, particularly when someone grasps it, taking charge of the situation.

I have a weakness for strong men's hands. I once had to stop sitting next to a professor who had nice strong hands. I would completely miss the discussion.

We haven't held hands in recent weeks. It's hard to do, at least one of four hands pushing a stroller, or half of our hands grasping a warm bundle of adorable.

***

My eyes fill with tears while driving. I think of this past week, the unwelcome song of the pager, the violence on our street, the ache to hold one another close, Jars of Clay sings I'm coming home I'm waking you up In the middle of the night I will not give it up I'm gonna stay 'til we make it work We're not going down Even if it gets worse We'll work it out.... I need your light....

***

May 2000, our first picture

Dum Dum Didday

The other day I passed a book shop with big posters in its windows. Each poster had a big word on it advertising what I presume was sold within the book shop. The posters read, "PAPERBACKS." "SCONES." "MAGAZINES." "VIETNAMESE." I wondered what kind of shelving units they had, and how they were organized such that the Vietnamese section was just as prominent as the Paperbacks section. Was the Vietnamese rack right next to the Magazine rack? Upon closer inspection, the sign read "VIETNAMESE Spring Rolls."*** Every night that Lovey Loverpants and I are in bed reading before lights out, the age-old struggle ensues. Who will leave the warm cookie dough comfort of the bed to make the epic trek of three steps across the wooden floor to turn off the light? Lovey always makes the same clapping motion in the direction of the light. As a nod to the '80s stocking stuffer adverts for The Clapper. But we don't have The Clapper. But he claps as though we do.

It

Gets

Funnier

Every

Time.

***

Baby Girl is big into exercising the bounds of her voice, as I've mentioned. Her favorite vocal exercise is to shout MAMAMAMAMAM, and since it's sort of my name and since she does it on repeat while looking right at my face without really wanting me to respond, it sort of becomes one of those Chris Farley routines where he keeps asking Paul McCartney, "Remember when you were in The Beatles?!"

***

This is one of my favorite Fresh Prince moments ever.