We Will Have a Perfect Life

Grams, post-fall, partakes of Easter Dinner with the aid of her royal scepter

Kinderstrasse comes to Bookseaboomband

How long has it been since your last confession? As Grace Paley put it in “Wants,“ explaining to her former husband why she never invited the Bertrams to dinner, “But really, if you remember: first my Father was sick that Friday. Then the children were born, then I had those Tuesday-night meetings, then the war began. Then we didn’t seem to know them anymore. But you’re right. I should have had them to dinner.”


And we should have blogged at some point in the last two months, but first this and that, and then the other.


It all started well, certainly. The Kinderstrasse crew came to visit just before Easter, and cousins gleefully reunited. Glee took on an unsettling cast in the case of Booker and Clara, who moved with ferocious speed through the phases of courtship, engagement, disillusionment and recrimination. Within an hour of Clara’s arrival, they were giggling and google-eyeing. By day two, they were holding hands and whispering secrets. By that night, they were avowing their commitment to all who cared to listen: “We will have a perfect life!” They shouted, in unison. And then one or the other would say, “And the rest is secret,” and they would walk away cackling.

The rest of us tried to go about our business as usual, but so much affection was obtrusive. Seamus, bereft of his usual target for sneak attacks and easy provocation, was inconsolable, until he realized that Ava was the keeper of the key to all wisdom and joy, and became her groupie. To our relief, Ava tolerated and humored this adoration.




As in a Shakespearean comedy, multiple storylines of impulsively blooming youth unfolded against a verdant backdrop on our outing to the National Arboretum. We elders blundered along blearily like Dogberry and Verges, content to be minor characters, if not necessarily buffoons.

Grams’s arrival the next day promised to restore some order to the kingdom, and we feted her with viands and garlands. But things took a turn for the worse on the next grand day out: there in the shadow of the Washington Monument, fresh from a picnic of sopresatta and strawberries, crossing 15th street with a grandchild on either arm, Grams caught a heel on the curb and took a tumble. She ended up in GW Hospital with two shattered elbows, a condition that she insisted on treating as a minor inconvenience on an otherwise delightful trip, not to be spoiled by a mere four-day spell in hospital.


The rest of us were not always such good soldiers. Tempers frayed on the home front, and Booker snapped at Clara for interrupting him, baring his teeth and shouting with such sudden ire that tears sprang instantly from her eyes as if from a garden sprinkler. It is always sad to watch the end of an affair, even when it comes as no surprise and something of a relief.

The Kinderstrasse crew, their wisdom imparted—at least as much as we had the capacity to absorb—packed their bags and headed west, to be sorely missed. Aunt Layne arrived soon afterwards to help see Grams through the most fragile days. I know that they say double elbow-surgery is really no big deal these days, but you’d be surprised how it can crimp your style. Grams rose to the occasion, keeping a firm grasp on civilization with the assistance of the extra long-handled utensils fashioned by Big John before his departure.






And then before you knew it, Grams and Aunt Layne were gone, also, to be equally sorely missed, and we stumbled back into the everyday routine of brotherly bonding, a process known to require liberal doses of mutual antagonism.


It would be easier if Seamus were not such a pigsqueak, according to Booker, and if Booker were not such a dummyhead, according to Seamus. But then, we are all dummyheads now, especially at three in the morning, when Mommy is an old dummyhead, and Daddy is an old dummyhead, and bed itself, especially, is very dummy.

Batten the hatches when Hurricane Seamus is coming. We’ve considered it a wise investment to make sure Booker continues the capoeira, so he can defend himself. His batizado was the social event of the season, with a packed house on hand to watch Booker, aka Labrador, display his skills in the ring. For his efforts, Labrador moved up from the ivory belt to the ivory belt with bright orange tassels, which he gazed upon wide-eyed for the remainder of the day.


Luckily, they did not, as Booker feared, have signed seats, so we were able to alternate attendance at the capoeira marathon with shifts in the playground outside, where Seamus vented his frustration at being excluded from the ceremonies by swinging maniacally on the monkey bars.
Seamus had his own moment in the spotlight a few weeks later, at his graduation from pre-pre-pre K. The main event was a teddy-bear parade, in which each three-year old lovingly placed a favorite plush toy in a box and then towed it around the Great Hall by a string. According to Mary, the other tots strode upon the boards with the well-trained self-assurance of Miss Venezuela contestants. Seamus, after leaving a puzzling gap in the parade, wandered aimlessly about for a few moments, one hand towing his stuffed dolphin, the other holding his crotch. Appearing to take notice of his audience for the first time, he then turned to the crowd, removed his hand from his fly and—before Mary could breathe a sigh of relief—promptly stuck his finger up his nose.


But that was all so long ago. Summer is now here, and we seized the last day before the annual plague of mosquitoes descended upon Silver Spring to host an unforgettable churrasco, so we can pretend we are not yet entirely consigned to the wings.


There is no doubt who is now center-stage, is there? I had a dream last night that I was watching over Seamus in a twelfth-story apartment with a sliding-glass door leading to a railing-less balcony. Seamus stepped on something sharp, started to cry and ran towards the balcony. As I ran after him screaming stop, stop, he hurtled through the door, across the balcony and over the edge. I ran after him, vowing not to stop, and took the plunge. I landed on the soft cushions of the balcony one story below, where Seamus lolled about laughing. He then insisted on doing the same thing over and over, and I thought, does anyone else’s kid do this?

The young prince tyrant plots his next move. And the rest is a secret.

Cue the Mice

Seamus awoke howling in the early morning hours this past Thursday, but not for the usual reason. Usually it is because Mini Tooper has fallen from his clutches in his sleep. This time it was because his cracking toes were throbbing painfully. He had been wearing his green, frog-face rainboots most of the previous week (see Suburban Cowboys, below), usually without socks. He insisted, we caved. They are the only footwear he can get on and keep on by himself. Like so many things about parenting, it seemed like a good idea at the time—or at least a reasonable way to avoid hysteria. By Wednesday this haphazard cobbling had taken its toll. The poor boy had taken up lame, and uncomfortably so. Only when Mary took him to the doctor on Saturday did we discover—to our chagrin but not to our surprise—that this was not merely chafing, but raging athlete’s foot.

Not that she took him to the doctor because his toes hurt. No, that was for the double-ear infection. Earlier in the week, a different doctor had confirmed for us that Seamus is allergic to cats and dust mites. And so it was that following Saturday’s doctor’s visit, Mary reported to the pharmacy for a shopping spree, coming home with unguents, potions and vapors to treat him head to toe. It is fair to say that Seamus is a mess.

The mystery is how a boy can appear so robust and yet suffer so many maladies, or perhaps it is how he can require so many prescriptions despite his evident vigor . We are chalking it up to false spring—several times in the past six weeks we have had a day or two of warmth followed by a week of cold rain. It raises bodily expectations subsequently thwarted.

Booker has held up relatively well. If it weren’t for the faint clownish rash around his mouth—the result of a recently acquired nervous habit of licking his chops—you wouldn’t know he has been sniffling all winter.

In any case, the cherry blossoms have blossomed, so maybe the real thing is upon us, and we are on the road to Wellville at last.

As for Junie, she is gone. Jussara picked her up yesterday and carted her away to her new home in distant Crofton. So long, kitty. We’ll miss you. Exit cat. Cue the mice, stage left.

Suburban Cowboys

Kid Blondie rides into town....

The Sheriff in these here parts.

Guess you ride pretty good, Kid, but you’ll have to shake the dust off them boots to catch my shadow....

The Posse rides again.

Saddle up, pardner. Our work here is done.

Tomorrows, Yesterdays and Todays

For a long time, Booker could not remember the word yesterday, and so always used tomorrow instead, whether he was speaking of the recent future or the recent past. Confusion was compounded by his inability to distinguish the day after today from the day after tomorrow, or five days after tomorrow, for that matter. In addition to using tomorrow for mundane questions of schedule—tomorrow I go to school, I went swimming tomorrow—it was thus his wont to use it for grander and less precise hopes and memories—as in, the sun will come out tomorrow, betcher bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun. But also as in, tomorrow, love was such an easy game to play. There were, after all, many tomorrows for him, and few yesterdays.

This has now changed. On Friday, looking forward to the weekend, he said, “Yesterday I have capoeira.” Then he caught himself and said, laughing, “I spent so much time trying to remember yesterday I remembered it too much!” Suddenly, he has a past that weighs on his future, like his elders.

The photo shows Booker and Seamus on a recent tomorrow, running madly through the sunbeams that filter into Copley Lounge. Seamus remains caught in the undefined glowing present of the age of unreason, just beyond the reach of time and memory. Booker has now seen his shadow and crossed over.

Pink Cake

It was a week of momentous events, or what pass for momentous events within the foreshortened horizons of suburban parenthood. Seamus turned three, Booker graduated from “The Twinkles” in Suzuki violin. We could not be happier with each of these milestones, hoping they signal smoother traveling on roads ahead.

Above is infant Seamus with Grams in Brazil, many moons ago, already defiant, pudgy and besmirched. None of this has changed significantly.

And here is Seamus as we know him now, a tad leaner but with the same gleam in his eye, always ready for mischief.

For the past month, whenever anyone mentioned his birthday he reminded us that he wanted a pink cake. He expressed no other desire, just pink cake. I am sure we will never have it this easy again. He got his wish.

Here Booker and Seamus compete to see who can singe their eyebrows first, while Finn looks on. And below is Seamus, shirtless and eyebrowless, still licking the pink frosting from his rosy cheeks. Moments later all the assembled ruffians were tackling one another on the slide. Miraculously, we reached the end of the day with no torts.

Booker’s Twinkle graduation was just as thrilling. As a typical overscheduled Montgomery County five-year old, he had difficulty squeezing the big event into his busy agenda. I whisked him from capoeira straight to Ingleside Retirement Home at Rock Creek, arriving towards the tail end of the program. This meant that he had missed his chance to lead off the show with the other five-year olds, and had to be inserted amidst the most advanced students. A visible pall fell over the room, and not merely over the faces of the full-time residents, when it became clear that Booker’s “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” variations would be levered in between Monti’s “Czardas” and the Bach double violin concerto. When Booker stepped forward and announced that he would be playing all the Twinkle variations, from my privileged post backstage I could see the furrowed brows and downward stretched-mouths that accompanied the audibly sharp collective intake of breath. Fears were greatly eased when he corrected himself: “Well, not all of them. Just some of them.” He limited himself to three, played with gusto and greeted with relief. For the rest of the afternoon, he proudly displayed the blue ribbon awarded for graduation. Oddly enough, Mary was not given a ribbon.

A Case of Magics

B: Say “knock, knock”

S: Knock, knock

B: Who’s there?

S: Seamus.

B: Seamus Who?

S: Seamus!

B: No, it can’t be just Seamus. Say “Knock, knock.”

S: Knock, Knock.

B: Who’s there?

S: Seamus.

B: Seamus Who?

S: Seamus, A boy!

B: Noooo! Something funny!

B: Ok, say “knock, knock.”

S: Knock, knock.

B: Who’s there?

S: A boy.

B: A boy who?

S: A boy Seamus!

Booker might be more effective at teaching the concept of knock, knock jokes if he fully mastered it himself. The best he has been able to come up with so far is something on the order of, who’s there, when, when who, when are you going to give me a cookie? He has not completely grasped that the who has to mean something different the second time around. But he is intrigued by the idea of a pun, whereas Seamus remains pure slapstick.

The photos show Booker earning M ’n’ Ms by practicing violin, and Seamus failing to earn M ’n’ Ms by not being able to sit down for three minutes while Booker practices violin. He starts planted in the chair, is on his feet by bar four of “Lightly Row,” and crawling into the violin case by bar six. Then again, one can’t fault the boy, by bar six many members of the audience might be looking for someplace small and cozy to hide.

The last photo is more like it: Booker and Seamus play capoeira. Booker is doing a passable version of meia-lua de frente (although he really should have that left heel planted), and Seamus is in a surprisingly close approximation of cocorinha--surprising because his understanding of capoeira is mostly limited to flopping onto his hands and mule-kicking backwards, and does not exclude moves such as the face-slap and the hair-pull, considered unorthodox in most versions of the jogo bonito. But he loves his “capoeira pants,” a pair of satin pajamas, now split neatly up the backside after too many mule-kicks, but no less adored.

Perhaps it is not surprising that Booker has begun to fantasize about being magically transported to another realm. In a tone of hope fighting against doubt, he states that the next time he loses a tooth, the tooth fairy is going to give him magic. Lying in bed last night, just before sleep, he got more specific: the tooth fairy will deliver a case of magics to him, and he will use one to go into the tv, and travel to all the places inside the tv, starting with Dora the Explorer’s island. We asked how the tooth fairy would keep all the magics from running together, and he replied that she would put them in different slots, of course. But then he worried: when I open the case, will all the magics fall out?

I wish I could say no. Maybe we’ll stick with the quarter under the pillow.

A Normal Part of American Parenthood

Seamus is freaking out. It is ten of five on Tuesday evening, Mary is running late to whisk Booker off to gymnastics, but is also trying to seize her only chance to catch up with Carol about the day’s events with a quick chat in the kitchen. So I have yanked the boys out of the dining room, jammed their feet into their crocs and trundled them into the car. By the time Mary comes out, Seamus is in full meltdown and she stops to inquire: “Seamus, what do you want?”

“I want mine bed!”

“Your bed? Seamus, it’s only five o’clock, we’re taking Booker to gymnastics, no one is going to bed.”

“No! I want mine bed!”

“Seamus, what is it you want? Your bag?”

Seamus, red-faced and indignant: “No! Mine BEEEDuh!”

Mary, halfway in the car: “Seamus, stop crying and talk normally.”

Seamus, screwing up his features in apoplectic concentration: “Beyad!”

Mary, exasperated: “Okay Seamus, tell me, what does it look like?”

Seamus, tears running down his cheeks: “It’s on mine sandwich...”

After Mary stops laughing, she gets the boy his bread.

The photos show quieter moments: Booker and Seamus waiting for Mary to take the lemon squares out of the oven--Booker intently watching the second-hand to make sure he is not forced to wait a moment longer then necessary. And then, moments later, Booker and Puff preparing to slice the squares, no doubt using special magic dragon method. (The stuffed dragon can be used as a knife, but this is generally not advisable when the stuffed dragon belongs to your two-year old neighbor, and has been borrowed on delicate terms.)

When I came home Friday evening, I found that Seamus had thrown several dollar bills in the toilet, where they floated soggily undisturbed. I mentioned this to Mary, and she remarked, “Oh yeah, Booker told me about that, but then I forgot about it.” She was busy containing the consequences of the next adventure. There are several aspects of parenthood that I thought were merely metaphorical until I experienced them for myself--things like being tired of having your kids hanging on you, or trying in vain to stop them from bouncing off the walls. I want to thank Seamus for clarifying for me that throwing your money down the toilet, also, is not a figure of speech, but a normal part of American parenthood.