A boy and the waltz

In the not too distant past, I caught Jack eating chicken noodle soup with his hands. 

A couple weeks later, a friend mentioned that she was considering registering her son, one of Jack's pals, for cotillion. Might I be interested?

I am from and of the south but not wholly. I wasn't a debutante, I dislike snootiness of all stripes, and I chafe against traditions that feel antediluvian and exclusive. That said, I much admire manners, social graces, men who can dance well, and any excuse to put on a dress (and men, suits or tuxes), and when I saw Jack fetch a chunk of chicken from his soup bowl with a pincer grasp, well, let's say I realized I needed to call in the troops. Cotillion.

Jack may have been one of this fall's earliest registrants. When, two months after signing him up, I fessed up, Jack was not pleased.

I let him forget about it. Indeed I forgot about it. Until today when I realized that he did not have anything to wear to Night 1: The Waltz. 

And a smart new outfit is how I attempted to bribe enthusiasm into my dear Jack this evening. 

"This blazer and tie are the ONLY things OK about Cotillion. I love them. I cannot believe you're making me do this."

"Jack, some things in life are not negotiable. Learning to ride a bike, being kind, learning to dance, and not eating soup with your hands. I really believe you will thank me one day."

"I will never thank you. These clothes HURT."

I decided I would not make him take off those white athletic socks. 

The drama. Did I have the heart to tell him that next month's class is entitled Pumpkin Shuffle? I did not. But I'm still laughing my ass off to myself. Thank god some of his friends have also been Cotillioned by their parents.

And it was worth everything to watch Tom teach Jack how to tie a real tie. Look how dear these pictures are. 

I overheard, during the tie-tying tutorial, Tom say, "You know, I wouldn't have wanted to go either, but I do wish I could dance formally."

Hark! What do mine ears hear? I might suggest couples dance lessons for Christmas!

Funday

"Today was the best day ever!" said no one ever whose husband is on Day Any # of a Man Cold.

I am not even kidding y'all. If all the men in the world got a cold on the same day, everything would seem so pitiful and half of everything would quit or wilt or die, and there would be so much drama and blowing of noses, snoring and moaning, unending hours on the couch and in bed, utter incapability of doing anything helpful, and then miraculously, because IT'S A COLD, everything would soon get better and the wonder of it all would be amazing. And then a woman would get a cold and it'd be like "Um, keep going!"

People, listen. Colds suck. They can make you feel truly awful. Having had a cold for five days last week, I can fully attest to this. And yet, I persevered. I got a nosebleed on the way to a school meeting and felt thankful that my dress's pattern was just busy enough to obscure the dropletty stain. I went to my exercise classes and made dinner every night and kept the house tidy. 

Life went -gasp!- on. 

While on the way to the market this afternoon, I said, "Jack my love, I have an important life lesson I would like to teach you."

"Yes, Mom?"

"Jack, do you know how when people say Male Refrigerator Blindness everyone gets it? Like, they all understand and know?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Ok, well similarly, there is a thing called Man Cold. It's where a man gets a cold and acts as if he is dying and is very dramatic and becomes incapable of doing anything except moaning and playing Candy Crush while fully horizontal on a couch. Long story short, Jack, it is not an attractive thing."

"Hmm. Does Dad have Man Cold right now?"

"Yes, Jack, he does. And let me tell you, with all the love in my heart, that so far in your life, you are well on the Man Cold path. The last mouth ulcer you had? It sounded for five days as if you were actively having your skin pulled off by chihuahuas. It was really pretty irritating. I mean, I understand that ulcers suck, but seriously. 
If you can, on the contrary, act with forbearance, you will be even more amazing than you already are. You will be so surprising and appealing."

"Ok, Mom."

I swear to G that if I manage to raise my children to NOT demonstrate Man Cold behavior, I will have done some effing stellar parenting and should likely be awarded some sort of Peace Prize. Legit, I think that.

Thank the lord tomorrow is Monday. Bye-bye family!

Gardening saves the damn day. Also, tucking in and then cooking a squash.

I awoke with a vise-like headache and the familiar achiness of a cruddy cold coming on. My body felt stuffed with cotton, my humours peevish and off. Tom was sneezing and sounds raspy. The boys had circles under their eyes and were both listing toward the wrong side of behaved.

One slammed my bedroom door and stalked off to nowhere. I don't know why. The other set up an enormous fake-food snack bar called Buttville on the floor next to my bed. He forced me to buy pizzas and sandwiches and to consider making something with his blender. 

There were moments of promise. Ol decided that I should have a real breakfast in bed, demanded I stay put, and asked Tom to make coffee and chocolate chip pancakes. He made place cards, brought up TV trays and joined me to dine. We are "table 40" because "you're 40, Mom." Indeed.

But there was also world war level bickering, and at some point, we all blew. I grabbed Oliver and desperately zoomed to the nursery. 

I off-gassed for the entire drive, fuming silently about how damn hard it is, more than ten years in, to complete a newspaper article or two on a weekend morning, steaming about just how stupid (and therefore even more irritating) sibling squabbles can be.

As we turned into the nursery's parking lot, I felt my blood pressure start to drop. We chose a cart and hurried through Annuals, slowed momentarily in herbs and veggies, and then regained focus: Perennials. 

It is still quite hot here, but a definite tinge of fall is in the air.

I sense the awakening of my acute need to roast and eat huge quantities of root vegetables and their kin. This happens every year, and I always go big before gastric distress reins me in to reasonable quantities. For christ's sakes, I roasted a huge butternut squash last night (try this recipe!)and almost finished it at lunch today. (As an aside Oliver had become very attached to this squash and actually shed a few tears when I cooked it which I only did because he'd been carrying it around for days [we even tucked it in next to his bed one night; not even joking; WTF?] and dropped it several times and it had a small crack which would have turned into rotting nastiness and so duh, I cooked it.)

Heirloom pumpkins, decorative gourds, and to-be-Jack-o'-lanterns spill from bins and tables. Halloween decorations seem to have bred overnight; ghouls and ghosts and gravestones beckon from every variety store in town. And with it all come new plants, bulbs, grass seed, and towers of folded leaf bags. 

It's all very exciting in some way, and I felt my heart skip a beat with anticipation. (Then I blew my nose for the 93rd time. Damnit.)

Long story short: perennials, dirt, composted leaves, a white pumpkin, renewed spirits, an absence of inane anything, and we returned home.

Several hours in, Tom called from the front door: "Don't you think you're overdoing it a bit out there, Em? You have a cold. Drink some water."

I gave him the hairy eyeball from behind the enormous, gas-powered saw I had vrooming, vroomed it with gusto, and returned to the hedges and trees like Sweeney fucking Todd on speed.

"Honey, you've really been out here for quite a while," he called another hour later.

"Help me put on this backpack leaf blower thing, man."

"Mom, can I stuff Pop-Its in my Nerf gun and fire it and see what happens?" Jack asked. "Sure, hon." I replied. "Just stay over there in the median."

I really think that kid was working off some negative energy today. 

I blew and raked and dug and planted. Two neighbors drove by slowly and said, "Do you know your children are in the trunk of your car?"

"Yes, thank you."

The neighbors looked a bit confused.

"They'll be fine. I'm over it!" I said in a tone that I now believe sounded slightly insane.

They drove away.

I shoveled and hacked and fertilized (organic, natch) and mulched.

A couple walked past. "Say, aren't you flexible! Those knees!"

"Thank you." Lovely and a bit odd.

When my arms started shaking and I ran out of mulch, I considered it might be time to go in. Turns out it was 5:30pm.

Mother of god. I think I had some negative energy to work off today. Thank god the soil is such a generous taker. I don't know who or what I'd be without land to work.

I showered, sat on my bed, blew my nose for the 154th time, realized I couldn't quite get up because my legs felt wobbly, and so ordered a side table. You'd have done the same.

And now, a couple hours later, I'm back in bed, this time with Tom, Oliver and Nutmeg too. Ridiculous, sweaty, and slightly delightful. Just like today. 

**Bonus pics.

Waiting for the birds.

Celery, fennel and apple salad; bacon chicken done in a cast iron pan; lightly creamed kale with toasted breadcrumbs.