These are the people in my ’hood.

Clarification

Sat, 12 Dec 2009 11:30:06 -0500

Stella was walking slowly down the stairs, thoughtfully sucking her thumb. Suddenly she pulled her thumb from her mouth and turned back toward me.

“If I’m outdoors, is it okay to take spit out of my mouth?”

“No,” I said. ”You always keep your spit inside your mouth.”

“But I mean at trees and plants and stuff,” she said.

I wavered.

“It’s watering,” she insisted.

Snow Day

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 11:09:00 -0500

First big snow of the winter — and it’s heavy, sticky snow. The girls made snowballs, a snowman, and some kind of fort-type piece of snowy real estate before demanding hot chocolate.

I snapped this photo with my cell phone, loved it, and decided this should be our holiday card this year (yes, I’m this late ordering our holiday cards; it’s like this every year). But Chris protested; it wouldn’t look right blown up, he pointed out, since it’s taken with such a low-quality camera, and anyway, he’s always insisted we should take a picture of all four of us.

I’ve never sent out a picture with all four of us. I don’t like posing for pictures, I don’t like the way I look in pictures, and I don’t plan far enough ahead to have professional pictures taken in time for a holiday card, anyway. I prefer to send out snaps of our cute, fresh-faced girls; I figure that’s who people are really interested in seeing, anyway. No one needs to see our grizzled faces, right?

Every year I’ve gotten my way on this issue because I’m the one who actually deals with ordering, addressing, and mailing the cards. But this year, Chris dug around for our tripod, figured out the automatic camera feature on our digital camera, and rallied the troops for a shot.

So? The results:

Uncropped, but otherwise, that right there is the Official Shtemplin Family Foto.

And here, mostly for my own amusement, is the best outtake:

Happy Holidays!

Haircuts

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 16:23:00 -0500

The girls got haircuts on Saturday. This is a more loaded statement than it may appear, on first reading. Allow me to elaborate.

I happen to be the kind of mom who is mellow about some things — like TV on Saturday mornings, and snacks before dinner — and uptight about others, like the way my children appear in public. My pet peeves include sleeves with snot trails on the arms, fingernails packed with enough soil to support miniature chia pets, and unkempt, ratty hair.

The fact that my own hair is often fairly unkempt — ratty, even — is another blog post.

So, naturally, I’ve been combing their hair. This was not a problem when they were babies and had hardly any hair. (Lila spent her first two years of life essentially bald.) As preschoolers, their hair was so wispy and fine it took two passes of a comb and we were done.

But in recent years their hair has grown thicker, and their wills have grown stronger. Recently I realized it had become our unfortunate family tradition to fight over hair-combing, pretty much daily.

Chris suggested months ago that we simply get their hair cut. Reasonable enough. But I had, as I said, “feelings” about that. Combing my daughters’ hair — in theory, anyway — could be a moment of quiet bonding. And their hair is just so pretty. It’s the hair I always wanted when I was around their age. Of course, I didn’t have that hair myself because my mother always cut it.

I asked my mom a while back why she never let me grow my hair long. (Yes, I phrased it just that way, with the petulant, loaded “let.”) “Because you cried every time I combed it,” she said, sensibly enough. ”It wasn’t worth it.”

Finally I asked them: Haircuts, yea or nay? They instantly agreed (a rare occurrence indeed): yea. Forty-five minutes and twenty-five bucks later, they look freaking adorable, and can now comb their own hair successfully.

I don’t know what took me so long.

NaNoWhatNow?

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 18:23:31 -0500

I’m not writing because I’m too busy writing. To put it another way: The blog is taking a backseat at the moment to the novel. The novel which is bound to be bloody awful, mind you, because I am writing it in thirty days; see nanowrimo.org for the backstory on that. Still. I haven’t flexed my fiction-writing muscles in a looooong time, and I have to say, it feels pret-ty good.

Stay tuned.

Kitchen time

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 17:05:39 -0400

Lila has recently started wanting to help me more in the kitchen. Now that she’s tall enough to reach the counter and old enough to follow a recipe, her involvement has moved from “help” to genuine help. She can peel veggies, mix batter, knead dough — almost everything except wield a knife. An interesting side effect is that when we start cooking, she starts talking. Actually she’s pretty much always talking, but when we’re working together in the kitchen, she starts talking more deeply, sharing more personal thoughts.

There’s been a lot of conversation about cancer here lately. Lila knows a child who lost her mother to cancer a few years ago, and another whose mother is very ill with it now. I’ve been trying to follow Lila’s lead in terms of how much to talk about it; her lead, it seems, is to talk about it a lot, especially when she’s helping me in the kitchen.

The other day we were making mashed potatoes, and I was pointing out that not everyone who gets cancer dies from it. Lila has two now-healthy grandparents who illustrate this point quite nicely. But Lila focuses on the grimmer statistics, and is clearly perturbed that something hasn’t been done about this. “When I grow up,” she told me as she peeled potatoes, “I will find a medicine that will cure cancer. And the cure will only take a few days, so it won’t even be a big deal anymore.”

I imagined this as I chopped the peeled potatoes for the pot — cancer as a mild bacterial infection, say. I’d like to see you, but turns out I have cancer, so I’ll be lying low this weekend. Let’s get together early next week, ‘kay? If only. It occurs to me how it must seem to Lila like grownups have made a mess of it — we must seem so incompetent, allowing diseases and other things to get out of hand. She’d fix it all herself if only she were old enough.

“What kind of medicine would it be?” I wanted to know.

“I don’t know. Some kind of plant, maybe?” Lila mused. ”Something we didn’t know was actually a cure, all along.”

When she’s not cooking with me or Chris, she’s often engaging in another favorite pastime — playing orphan with Stella. I suspect this is another expression of her underlying anxiety about her acquaintances who have, in fact, lost parents, but I don’t think she realizes the connection. As far as she’s concerned, it just makes for extra dramatic play: children in peril, getting by on their own wits, despite the lack of grownups in their lives — or sometimes despite the involvement of incompetent grownups in their lives. I hope and believe it’s a healthy expression of her innermost worries. I have to admit I prefer the cozy cooking chats, even when the topics are so sad that I try to hide my eyes from her, so as not to confirm how vulnerable the grownups really are.

Sunday morning

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 11:27:00 -0400

The girls were up at seven, and so was the dog. I fed and let out Sully; the girls helped themselves to the TV. Everyone seemed okay to me so I went back to my warm bed — and didn’t wake up again until nine, which is pretty much unheard of in these parts, these days. The girls had been left alone with the television so long they actually grew sick of it, turned it off, and began working on some art projects in the dining room. The term benign neglect sprang to mind.

Stella came in to snuggle — this is what finally woke us — and told us about a paper helicopter she was making in the other room. When snuggle time was over, she got out of bed and announced, “And now I’m going to go make history!” I wish I felt that way upon getting out of bed.

The morning art projects resulted in hundreds of minute paper cuttings all over the dining room rug. Chris told the girls they’d have to pick up after themselves before they could expect breakfast, which garnered predictable results — much whining, little action. When the floor was (kind of) clean, Lila whined for pancakes. When we asked her to repeat her request without whining, it seemed that Lila was literally unable to do it. She tried again and again, and the closest she got was a monotone drone. ”You sound kind of like a robot!” Stella shouted joyfully. Which led to robotics from both girls for the next ten minutes.

Pancakes were, of course, had. Conversation wound through Word Girl episode recaps to Stephen Colbert to Emmy awards to the Oscars. Lila saw ten minutes of the Oscars last spring, and recalled that Hannah Montana was there. ”But her real name isn’t Hannah Montana, you know,” I said. ”I know,” Lila answered, “but I don’t remember what it is.” ”It’s Jody Minnesoty,” Chris replied, which brought the morning back where it ought to have been all along.

This is one sick puppy

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 11:15:00 -0400

Sullivan ate something wrong. Something very, very wrong, judging from the fact that she ignored her breakfast this morning and ran straight outside to start gnawing on grass. She’s now sitting on my lap, despite the alarming sounds she’s emitting. I think she’d jump off before crapping all over me, but perhaps this is overly optimistic. Having had two infants, it’s not like I haven’t been there before, anyway.

I don’t actually mind her being on my lap right now because it’s so goddamned cold in this house. We haven’t turned on the heat yet — a combination of Yankee pride (you call this cold? I’ll show you cold!) and procrastination (we put off having the furnace checked until, um, next week). So Sully is a portable furnace, just the right size for a lap. A noisy, potentially smelly furnace, but she does the job.

I have another coping mechanism for this 58-degree house: My forty-year-old red & white wool poncho. My great-aunt Temple knitted it for my mom back in the late sixties or early seventies; when I was in high school, going through my faux-bohemian phase, I swiped it from Mom’s closet. I’ve had it ever since, and it always does the job. It’s really scratchy, and the fringe makes it thrillingly dangerous for me to, say, cook over an open flame, but MAN IS IT WARM. It’s generously sized, too — I could have worn it throughout my pregnancies, had I not already been equipped with the portable (nonremovable) heaters that are babies in utero.

Another effect of wearing this poncho is that I am flooded with memories of Aunt Temple. It was at Aunt Temple’s house that I ate my first pancake. Aunt Temple also gave me my first pinwheel, on my seventh birthday. Aunt Temple lived several hundred miles from us, but there was a spare room at my grandmother’s house that was understood to be hers, and it was always pretty and tidy — and clean, exotically so, compared to the rest of Granny’s house. And cats. Aunt Temple brings to mind, for me, cats. Cozy cats. Cats that sit in knitting baskets piled high with soft wool, or maybe in your lap, like this puppy in my lap, right now.

Hot yoga

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 20:24:16 -0400

I’m pretty sure today was my last day of hot yoga. I bought a punch card for ten visits when my usual yoga classes were unavailable, after the Y fire. And today was number ten. I’m not buying another anytime soon.

I never really could come to terms with the amount of sweat in that studio — my own (a shocking, unprecedented amount) and everyone else’s (slipping and sliding in someone else’s perspiration on the floor, after class? Having someone else’s sweat drip onto my water bottle? Thanks anyway).

Being the fairly social animal I am, though, what I liked about the place — aside from the yoga itself (top-notch instruction, really) — was running into all the people I know. It’s a small town, and hot yoga is hot stuff. There have been some sessions when I’ve known eight or nine of the other yoginis in the studio.

Today it was just two: Sasha, a Wondertimer, and Jodi, mom of one of Lila’s classmates. This meant I started out the session with fresh discussions of job searches and classroom dynamics on my mind. Clearing out all the fluff in my brain is not my strongest skill. I’m not the best at being here now; I’m too busy being wherever it is I need to be next, or finishing up wherever I’ve just been. As I’m twisting into triangles or contorting into eagle poses, my mind is pretty much anywhere else it wants to be.

An hour and a half later, the yoga class ended with me in a sweaty heap on the floor, and my mind had wandered off on random topics, one of which was the desire to go do a little shopping.

Which is why I ended up at Goodwill early this afternoon, buying a leather jacket with generous fake-fur trim, and now I’m wondering if it was a yoga-induced haze that led me to think this was a reasonable purchase. Too young? Too retro? Too…too? Not sure.

Will think about it as I wear it to my cool yoga classes at the Y.

Truth fairy

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 20:50:16 -0400

Here’s how the conversation went. We were walking out of Cedar Chest Kids and heading back to the parking garage when Lila said, “Mommy, is the tooth fairy real? Tell me the truth.”

I stalled. “What do you mean? Did somebody say something?”

“Some kids on the playground were saying that the tooth fairy isn’t real, that it’s really moms and dads. Is it real?”

It took me a while to speak, and when I did, I spoke slowly: “Do you…want…the tooth fairy to be real?”

Lila huffed. “I want you to tell me the truth,” she repeated.

So I took a deep breath and laid it on her: It was really moms and dads, just like she’d heard on the playground. “But please,” I added, “Keep playing along for your sister.”

I watched her face for disappointment or — worse — disillusionment. But instead I saw something else: hints of a conspiratorial spirit.

That was several months ago now. This morning, she lost another tooth. And she’s been playing it up big, using her sweet-syrupy voice, opening her eyes up extra wide, as she expresses concern that the tooth fairy might forget to come tonight, and maybe she should write a note for the tooth fairy. And boy does she hope the tooth fairy knows the amount most kids are getting these days.

I’m glad she’s keeping up appearances for Stella, but she’s laying it on pretty thick. The tooth fairy might have to write a little note telling her to take it down a notch.

Nut desegregation

Tue, 06 Oct 2009 21:17:00 -0400

Stella is allergic to nuts… OR IS SHE?

Backing up a bit: When Stella was a toddler, she ate some cashews. Quite a few cashews, in fact, before I caught up with her and took away the bag. And a few hours later she broke out in a set of angry hives, all over her little baby body, and we landed in the Cooley Dickinson ER at nine o’clock p.m. for a shot of epinephrine and good ol’ cry.

The allergist handed us a few Epi-Pen Jrs and the directive to avoid not just cashews but all tree nuts. And, he said, also peanuts. Because even though peanuts and tree nuts are totally different animals, it was just simpler that way.

Simpler for him, maybe. Not simpler for us. Not simpler for anyone around us, either. Stella was that kid — the one who forces an entire preschool classroom to avoid PB&J sandwiches for a whole year. (It was not my idea. I swore I was okay with other kids’ allergenic lunches. The director insisted! I promise!)

But the allergist also said this might not be forever, this nut segregation. When Stella was about age five, she could be retested.

Today was the big day. We’ve avoided all antihistamines for a week in preparation for this. I picked Stella up from kindergarten early so she could get a series of scratch tests on her arms and back. And the results were negative! My heart leapt for joy until I heard the next step: bloodwork.

Let’s put it this way: Stella’s not stoic about shots. She puts up an impressive fight against any and all needles. I knew I’d need backup, and the phlebotomists came out in force to make the bloodletting as quick and streamlined as it could possibly be. What I didn’t bargain for was how pathetically articulate — and LOUD — she would be throughout the whole thing. I can only imagine what it was like for people in the waiting room to overhear her: “NO! STOP! AAAAGHHHHHH! TAKE IT OUT OF ME! BLOOD IS STREAMING OUT OF ME! AAAGHHHH! TAKE IT OUT! TAKE IT OUT!” And when it was finally over (thank effin’ god) she marched out of the office with what she termed her “bloodtaking” arm held ramrod straight in front of her and her face streaked with tears. Not a confidence-building sight for any new patients.

So. If that test is also negative, we move on to the “food challenge” — which involves three hours of eating ever-increasing amounts of cashews, and if that ends up being positive I imagine it will be no big deal, because Stella will be so heartily sick of cashews she’ll never want to eat another one anyway.

(I brought her to Sweeties afterwards. I sprang for the two-foot-tall rainbow twisty lollipop. You would have, too.)

Layoffs

Mon, 05 Oct 2009 20:58:00 -0400

Magazines have been dropping like flies for a couple years now. When I was at Wondertime it seemed like every couple weeks we learned about another title that was folding. And then of course it was our title that folded.

Today it was announced that Conde Nast is closing several more titles, including Cookie. This one is particularly noteworthy to us Wondertimers. We saw Cookie as one of our main competitors, moreso than other parenting magazines, because it was taking an unconventional approach — as were we, although those approaches were very different. I imagined I’d feel some satisfaction that Cookie was closing — if we don’t have jobs, neither should they, darn it! — but I actually found myself feeling bereft. On and off all day I’ve been imagining the editors and designers packing up their desks, as we did at Wondertime nine months ago. I imagined those people had been working on their next issue, as we had been at Wondertime when we found out the news. I remember very well how it felt to go back to my desk after the big revelation — surprise, you’re unemployed! — and see the meaningless work lying there as if it somehow still mattered. So, Cookie employees: Good luck. Unemployment can suck. We know.

(But it can also be kind of nice. Just sayin’.)

And who shall I say is calling?

Sat, 26 Sep 2009 22:07:00 -0400

Tomorrow night’s Kol Nidre, and Monday is Yom Kippur.

There have been times in my life when I’ve felt more observant than others. Preparing to become a bat mitzvah, for example, was a time when I felt very in touch with my Jewishness. In graduate school I began going to Friday night services every week. But mostly Judaism is a backdrop for me. Some years it has been a very pale, subtle backdrop.

One year, the first year I had a job, I decided to work on Yom Kippur. I’m not especially observant, and I got very few days off from this job, so I figured I’d just go.

That was the first and last time I did that. I felt like there was some electrical forcefield of wrongness surrounding me, all day long. I recall looking at the front page of the paper and reading some headline about how Jews the world over were observing the holiest day of the year, and I felt almost as if I’d shunned myself by not being part of the observance. In retrospect, it was probably the year that I did the most atoning, but I don’t want to repeat that experience.

Each year I’ve been in Northampton, I’ve gone to the Conservative synagogue in town. Philosophically I think I fall more in line with Reform Judaism, but circumstances have conspired to bring me to CBI instead. Strangely enough I have more Jewish friends here than I had in New York or Boston — why? I couldn’t say — and so synagogue is always something of a social hour. With the kids I spend at least half the time out on the playground, anyway, and there’s always a lengthy meet-and-greet before and after services.

Come Yom Kippur, though, I tend to feel more introspective.

And so I say to all of you, forgive me. I am human. I make mistakes. Sometimes I know I’ve done wrong; sometimes I do it inadvertently. Please accept my apologies. And happy new year.

And who by fire, who by water,
Who in the sunshine, who in the night time,
Who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
Who in your merry merry month of may,
Who by very slow decay,
And who shall I say is calling?

—Leonard Cohen

If you say so

Fri, 25 Sep 2009 08:59:29 -0400

Lila’s sick. Third day out of school. It’s the kind of sickness that I find especially confounding — she seems fine during the day, but once she goes to bed she spikes a fever. The especially cruel irony is that Lila wants nothing more than to be at school. Stella, meanwhile, would be overjoyed to have a legit reason to skip kindergarten. She has fun once she’s there, but convincing her to go again, morning after morning, is a job. She clearly has doubts about the entire educational enterprise.

“You think you’d like to stay home, but you wouldn’t really,” Lila said huffily to her this morning. ”It’s not as fun as you think. After having to stay home for three days, going back to school would feel like the best day of your life!”

Stella shrugged her skinny shoulders in reply: If you say so.

Anyway, Stella had other things on her mind. To wit: “Why do people say Jamie is a boy?”

“Um…because he is one?” I answer.

“I mean, why do they say he’s a girl? Is it because his hair goes down” —Stella swirls her hands around her ears to her shoulders— “instead of staying in a circle on top of his head?”

“Maybe,” I say. “But it’s okay if his hair looks different from others boys’.”

“I know,” she says. But there’s that same skinny-shouldered shrug: If you say so.

It reminds me of a time years ago when Lila and I were discussing a reality of living where we live: Many of her friends have two mommies. She’s so used to this arrangement that it never occurred to her to question it or find it strange. The day same-sex marriage was legalized in Massachusetts, I walked Lila downtown and we saw a couple of women marrying on the steps of City Hall. I stopped and pointed out the scene to her. She saw nothing noteworthy about it. I tried to explain to her to significance — that there had been laws against this, and that sometimes laws are wrong and have to be challenged.

“Some kids have a mommy and a daddy, like you,” I pointed out. “And some kids have two mommies, like Jessup and Jack. And some kids have two daddies, for that matter.”

“Two daddies?” Lila stopped in her tracks. This was surprising. “Two daddies? How would that even work?”

I mentioned adoption, then considered trying to explain surrogacy, but she’d moved on. We were near Herrell’s, and thoughts naturally turned to ice cream.

That was years ago now. Today she’s lying on the couch, watching a little PBS Kids, fretting about what she’s missing in class today. If she feels well enough later I may bring her out to Herrell’s again.

Apple pickin'

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 19:12:00 -0400

Fall in New England means school field trips to apple orchards. It’s unavoidable—not that I’d try to avoid it. I volunteered to “be one of the mommies” on Stella’s class trip today. I somehow managed to get lost (which upset one of my riders greatly — Stella kept telling him her mommy would be able to fix the situation, but he clearly had little faith), and forgot to bring lunch (the trip was 10:30 to 2 pm), but despite everything, I did learn a lot:

When you cut an apple in half, you find a star. (“I knowed that,” said several of Stella’s classmates, perhaps a bit impatiently.)
When you plant an apple seed, the tree that grows is a different variety of apple. (None of us knowed that. Not even the grownups.)
Oranges are actually a berry. So are bananas.

Discussion ensued among the parents: Was Johnny Appleseed a complete fabrication? Which apples are best for crisp, which are best for pie? And anyway, how has your kid been transitioning to school? It still feels new to Stella, and to me, this big-kid day that she has now. I think about how new shoes at the beginning of the year leave blisters, but a month later they are as comfortable as being barefoot — you don’t even remember not having them.

On the way back to school every passenger dropped her bag of apples on the floor at some point. I tried to collect each apple and put it back in its original bag (the kids were in agreement about whose apple was whose, astonishingly) but I expect to find a lone apple in that car some months from now, wizened and half-frozen, and I will think back on this first full day of autumn, and maybe remember that bananas are berries, and hope that by then Stella’s school day feels as comfortable as being barefoot.

Triptych by Lila, age 8.

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 14:25:07 -0400

Triptych by Lila, age 8.

9/3/09

Tue, 08 Sep 2009 12:52:24 -0400

And then some days I hardly see anyone at all. Days like today, where I go so long without talking that when I do finally speak, I have to clear my throat to get my voice going again. I could probably do with more days like that. The weather has been most unfair this year in that just as the kids have gone back to school, the weather has turned effin’ gorgeous. Low 80s, no humidity, sunshine all the time. I walked downtown in my flipflops and sunglasses, picking up some cherry tomatoes and pignoli for a dinner with my aunt and uncle tonight. I hit the Woodstar, State Street Market, and even popped into Faces for a moment to check out fall bags. But I saw no one, spoke to no one, even though it seemed everyone was out. Some days you’re alone in the world.

9/2/09

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 21:36:00 -0400

Dropped the kids for their first day at school — and suddenly the morning feels quiet and still. Not in a bad way — there’s just a calm, expectant feeling hanging in the air. Chris and I come home, toss the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, and I walk downtown to meet my old coworker Laura for coffee. A project from St. Martin’s awaits me on my desk, but…you know…priorities.

Woodstar Cafe: Wendy

As I’m bringing my latte outside to chat with Laura, the director at Lila & Stella’s old preschool stops me to say hello. Of course I’ve taken cellphone pictures of Stella’s entree into kindergarten, so I put down my things and yank out my phone. Wendy recalls that the last time she saw me here at the Woodstar, Stella was with me. Last spring — after I got laid off — I had taking Stella to the Woodstar for a little alone time with her, since Lila got dropped off at 8 and Stella didn’t get dropped off till 8:30. Prior to my layoff, I hadn’t had a chance for those kinds of outings with her very much — she’d been in all-day care since she was in diapers. But now that’s all over. Wendy gives me a hug. Her kids are in college now, but she remembers how it is.

Woodstar Cafe: Roz

Shortly after I sit down with Laura, my friend Roz, whose daughter is in the same kindergarten with Stella, comes by and we compare notes. Neither Roz’s daughter nor Stella were feeling certain about school starting. I tell Roz how this morning I said to Stella, “Do you know what today is?” and Stella answered grumpily, “Saturday!” But both girls seemed happy when we left them.

Woodstar Cafe: David

Once Laura and I start talking in earnest, the conversation distracts me and I only give a brief hello wave to an acquaintance, David, who rides up near us on his bike. I love that this town is bike friendly — and that so many people I know are on their bikes so much of the time. And it occurs to me that since my girls aren’t with me, it would be easier for me to bike into town, too. I make a mental note to remember that tomorrow. When my kids are back in school, again. Hallelujah.

9/1/09

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 21:35:00 -0400

Last day of summer vacation. It was crisp, clear, and sunny, and it put me in mind of a similar day eight Septembers ago. That day I walked downtown, too, with six-month-old Lila in the stroller. I had spent the morning frantically trying to get ahold of all my family and friends in NYC. After everyone was accounted for, I went out for a walk, hoping to clear my head. All along the way, people seemed dazed and distracted — and there were *tons* of people out on the sidewalks, talking, hugging, staring into space. Many people sat in parked cars, listening to their radios. It was the same route to town I walked today.

But today is only about ice cream. The girls and I trek down to Herrell’s, order up some cones (burnt sugar and butter, of course), and go outside to sit on the concrete wall and eat. Now I want a coffee.

Crossing Main Street: Mystery woman.

I recognize this woman, but cannot place her for the life of me. Worse: When I smile a wordless greeting to her, she gives me a sprightly “Hi, Naomi!” in return. Oh god. She knows my name? Who IS she? As the girls and I continue to the Woodstar, I go through the possible ways I could know her: Is she a Schechter mom? Does she go to CBI? Was she on a former Disney staff? Pediatrician’s office? Dentist?

Woodstar Cafe: Kristi and Kai.

Kristi and I used to see each other at the Parents Center when Kai, her son, and Lila were toddlers. Kristi looks the same, but Kai is unrecognizable to me now — so tall and grownup looking. I notice Kristi looking at Lila and I realize Lila is equally unrecognizable. Well, of course — she’s quadruple the age she would have been when she and Kai played together.

Woodstar Cafe: Dan.

As I’m paying for my iced coffee, my next-door neighbor, Dan, walks into the cafe. It’s always kind of funny to see him out of context — which is to say, anywhere other than our driveways. We chat for a few minutes about the coming of school tomorrow, although this isn’t a big part of his life yet — his boys are too little. I think of saying to him (but don’t), “It goes even faster than you think it will.” Lila and Kai are walking proof.

About four hours later it comes to me: The mystery woman is a salesperson at Cathy Cross. Where I shop maybe once a year. Damn, she’s good.

8/31/09

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 21:32:00 -0400

End of summer, two days before school begins again. The girls are at each other’s throats; I’m thinking lunch at Bueno Y Sano is cheaper than hiring a short-notice nanny. I toss Stella in the stroller, even though she’s well past five years old; I don’t want to dally, and I don’t want to listen to whines about how much farther. Lila grabs her scooter and we’re off.

1. Halfway to town: Julie and her daughters.

“It’s not just that I want to be in your blog,” she says, and yet here she is, number one on the list of people I meet downtown. Lila and Leah catch up at the same time Julie and I catch up. Subject: Cost of school supplies; Hanna Andersson’s extremely liberal return policy; whether we can believe anything the Sigg company says after the big BPA scandal. After they drive off, Lila tells me she gave Leah a lucky penny.

2. Post office: BethAnn.

BethAnn has super-cool glasses; I tell her so. We compare: LGA starts Wednesday, while the Campus School starts a week later. I am SO GLAD we aren’t waiting another week, and I somewhat insensitively share this with BethAnn. We discuss jobs: part-time jobs, freelance jobs, poorly paid jobs, faraway jobs, the ever-present lack of any jobs, the insanity of all of it. I mail off the damaged backpack to Hanna Andersson.

3. Crossing Main Street: Sally.

My old Disney coworker — FamilyFun, though, so she’s still employed. I imagine she’s on a lunch break. My whole life these days is a lunch break — and there’s worse things. We say a quick hello but don’t stop to chat; the kids are hungry. (So am I.)

4. In front of CVS: Sarah and her kids.

Georgia and Lila haven’t seen each other in a while; they give each other shy smiles. Sarah and I immediately start catching up before realizing we’re blocking traffic—two adults, five kids, one large stroller. We plan to make a plan for coffee.

5. In front of CVS: Pam’s kids.

As we’re talking to Sarah, Lila’s old friend Talia spots Georgia and they give each other a big hug. I briefly feel for Lila — she knows both kids, but doesn’t see either of them regularly enough to feel comfortable and at ease. Talia waves a friendly hello to Lila, though. I’m probably (definitely) projecting my old social awkwardness on Lila, and make an inward note to cut that out.

6. Heading back home, in front of Fitzwilly’s: Gretchen & Marina.

Gretchen used to do a lot of childcare for us, so the girls are always overjoyed to see her and her daughter, Marina. We’ve just left Sweeties, so the girls offer their spoils to Marina. Gretchen and I compare notes on schools: Hartsbrook starts a week after LGA. Again I thank the forces that be for LGA’s earlier start date.

Total time downtown, including walk to and fro: 1.5 hours.