Firstborns

Twenty-seven years ago, a redheaded woman rocks her daughter to sleep. The daughter, only two months into her little life outside of the womb, has peach fuzz for hair, and blue eyes like her father. The redheaded mother sings all of the songs that her mother has taught her, the same songs that her mother's mother probably taught her. The redheaded mother is twenty-seven years-old. Soon, she will have to go back to work full-time. But she will always be there at night to rock her daughter to sleep, humming the classic lullabyes that her daughter will remember for a lifetime.

Twenty-seven years later, a redheaded mother visits her daughter. The daughter is expecting her first child in two months. The daughter is twenty-seven years-old. She causes her mother to recall that time, twenty-seven years ago, when she herself was a new mother, the mother of "the most beautiful baby" with the porcelain skin and the easy smile; the little peanut that would begin to walk and cause people to wonder how an infant just picked herself up to hobble around, since the little peanut was still so tiny and bald.

My mother is her mother's firstborn. I am my mother's firstborn. Twenty-seven years separates my mother and me. Twenty-seven years will separate me and my child, my firstborn.

Oh, Canada!

My girl MaVic and I were concurring over some tea and cider last evening: How big and amazing are this lovely planet's varied landscapes?!? Ya heard? MaVic had been non-profiteering her way through Mexico and Nicaragua for the last year and found these countries so lush and verdant. She being an Argentinian, I figured, like, "Duh, you are Latina. You should know this." Because by virtue of her indigenosity to a Spanish-speaking country, she should totally have the topographic map of ALL Spanish-speaking countries memorized. Sometimes I'm so plainly the Ugly American. Pass me that latte so I can go spill it on myself while driving my SUV and checking my text messages, and then go sue Starbucks for making its coffee so dang hot.

Despite my ugly, ugly, dastardly ignorance, I really do love to learn about the countries of the world. I love to learn the eleventy million ways people greet one another, the way the sun sets in its way, which is the same but somehow so different when it is behind an infinitely cresting set of mountains or casting shadows on red clay plateaus.

MaVic said that she had only recently discovered the jewels of Canada. She said that she went up to British Columbia, that she went to Nova Scotia and yelped, "Who put this here? WHO put THIS here?"

I have had the absolute same reaction every time I've had the chance to cross the northern border. And to think I lived along the Great Lakes for 18 years and it has only been since I moved away from the Great Lakes that I've gotten to acquaint myself with Canada. Oh, Canada. You're gorgeous. And pure, there's something very pure and unblemished about Canada. Toronto? So urbane AND clean. Banff? The air smells like Febreeze. Montreal? Sensational culture without the fabricated Vegas-y pretense.

Here's just a few memories of my recent visits to Canada. Please try to focus on the backdrops while I marvel at how I could once fit into those jeans.

Banff, Alberta

Montreal, Quebec

Showtime

Mr. Loverpants and I redirected funds from the baby's college savings to our entertainment budget on Saturday night. And I have no regrets. We went to see the Brothers Affleck's newest cinematic rendering of Boston life. I have to give them kudos because they always manage, i.e. always as in "Good Will Hunting" and now in "Gone Baby Gone" to capture some mannerism native to Boston that I had not otherwise been able to articulate. In "GBG," the mother of the missing daughter lives a very low class, self-indulgent life but she punctuates every sentence with, "Gawd fah-bid," or "Gawd buh-less them" which is so!! familiar to me!! after 2 years of service to East Boston, where every other person you meet is an Italian-American who wants to be a gangster and wears a giant golden crucifix on a chain and doesn't ever appreciate the irony. Oh sweet sanctimony. How rich are your fibers in Beantown.

The only aspect of the film that caused some cognitive dissonance is the fact that the film is set in my 'hood, Dorchester, the finest ghetto of Boston, where the Vietnamese per capita is noticeably higher than elsewhere in the city. And yet, as the review from Slate notes, the Brothers Affleck managed to completely evacuate little Vietnam from the film set. What the?

I highly recommend this flick, even if you don't live in Dorchester and didn't work for the City of Boston for 2 years and don't have any fascination with Casey Affleck's clear complexion.

I also recommend texting your friend Balger to tell him that you're going to see "Gone Baby Gone" and enjoying the laugh later when he tells you that he thought that was some chi chi baby shop that you were venturing to on your hot little Saturday night. HA!

Also, I saw a preview for "Atonement," based on Ian McEwan's master work. I recommend that you get hip to that book right now because the film version looks to be quite faithful to the novel, and there's nothing better than being a smug literati who cries in a muted theatre voice, "That's not how it ended in the book!"