"My wife is very small. Tiny!"

My sister, Elia, brother-in-law, Michele, and nephew, Leone, arrived from Italy yesterday around 4. Leone had a crummy respiratory thing and was coughing to beat sixty. El had forgotten his inhaler spacer on the airplane, so we cobbled one together until this morning.

I can't really imagine why one needs a prescription for a plastic tube, but fortunately, Dad's being a physician means he could call one in. He is a deeply honest man but didn't see the harm in getting this item for his grandson.

"Hello, this is Dr. N, and I need to call in a script for XYZ inhaler spacer."

"Who is the spacer for?"

"It's for my wife."

"Sir, this product is made for children ages 1-5."

"My wife is very small. She's tiny actually." Dad said this with a straight face. 

Mom, Elia, and Michele, overhearing this conversation, were at this point rolling on the floor and howling with laughter. Can you imagine hearing about Dad's tiny wife and, based on a general sense of things, realizing that he was attempting to bluff a pharmacist about a tot-sized plastic tube?

"Sir, who are you actually calling this in for?"

"Well, my grandson. He's Italian."

"I understand. It will be ready shortly."

What does that mean? Is it standard to understand that Italian grandsons regularly have favors called in on their behalf? Maybe she actually just understood that insurance is NUTS and a plastic tube isn't hurting anyone.

My biggest desire is to know precisely how she relayed this conversation to her coworkers when she hung up the phone. Because you KNOW that she recounted the whole exchange immediately upon signing off. 

I refused to go to the pharmacy later when El and Tom went. I couldn't bear the thought of somebody there asking if one of us were the "tiny wife."

We have cracked up repeatedly all day.

Mother of the Year

It is official. I am mother of the year. And here is why.

Two weeks back, my dear Jack was given a language arts assignment. He was to pick a poet and then do a biographical research project on said person. Though Jack is an avid reader, he does not tend to love language arts assignments, particularly when they involve writing. I know. They all involve writing.

Overwhelm struck him over the head, and he declared that there were NO poets he could possibly study.

"Um, Jack, you have always loved Shel Silverstein."

"God, Mom, you are totally right. I'm doing Shel Silverstein."

I smiled peacefully. I imagined we had successfully hurdled all obstacles and that at some point I would read a nice piece about Shel.

Next day: "Mom, there are no books about Shel Silverstein in my school library."

"Doodle, you need to check the public library then."

"I did, Mom. Nothing there."

"Jack, when do you need the biography?"

"Tomorrow."

Mother of...WHY do kids inflict such pain on their parents?

"Jack, what do you suggest?"

"Well, Amazon."

Amazon had three biographies. One had three pages. Literally. I don't understand (but maybe now I do). Another received horrible reviews. The last scored a fairly mediocre 3.5 stars. But, it was our only choice.

"Jack, I guess we can order this but it will, obviously, not be here by tomorrow."

"Mom, we are not supposed to buy the book."

SWEET BABY JESUS IN THE SKIES. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO? CONJURE A FREE, SUBSTANTIVE BIOGRAPHY FROM MY KITCHEN?

"Jack, please email your teacher and ask her advice."

Dear Jack, As you know, I was concerned about the lack of available information about Shel Silverstein. If your parents are comfortable buying the biography, you may go in that direction. You will need to have caught up by Monday. -Mrs. M

So, this was news to me, re: the conversation they had ALREADY HAD ABOUT THE SHEL INFO DEARTH. Mother of Mary! But now we're really behind and so after reading the reviews, Tom and I bought the dang book.

Saturday: the book arrives. "Jack, please start reading. You're a little behind."

"Ok, Mom."

This morning: "Jack, what have you learned about Shel?"

"Well, his real name is Sheldon, and he is from Chicago."

Excuse me people, is that $12 of information? Methinks not. But it was carpool time, and so we hurried to get ready. 

10:08am: I am wrapping presents, making cookies, and attempting to move at a slower-than-manic pace. I receive an email from Jack's teacher.

Hi Emily, I took a look at Jack’s bio on Shel Silverstein this morning. I was trying to help him determine which chapters would be most beneficial since he will not have enough time to read the entire book before the project is due. However, as I skimmed the chapters I realized that I would not be comfortable recommending any portion of the book. As it turns out, Shel Silverstein has a very interested past! He was quite involved with Playboy and there are a lot of references to sex and drugs throughout the book. There is also a lot of profanity. I do not have a problem with him reading the book as long as you are aware of this and feel comfortable answering some difficult questions. I explained my reservations to Jack in a very general sense and asked him to bring the book home to you to review. Let me know what you decide. Although Jack’s project will most likely be a bit skimpy, I think he can move forward without reading the biography. We will make it work. Thank you, Mrs. M

#PARENTINGFAIL

If y'all think that I did not simultaneously throw up a little for having sent a lengthy drug- and profanity-laced porn book into a Quaker fifth grade and laugh until I nearly peed and cringed because I really did read the reviews but clearly not well and it looks like I threw some money at my son's slight problem-o-laziness, well, I did. I did all of those things. At the same time. For a while.

I called my mother. We agreed this was the best of this sort of story since the children were returned by the FBI years ago for sneaking out to go find pinecones at 6am. I called two of my best friends. They wheezed and agreed it was a solid fail.

People, parenting is hard. It is always something. Who knew Shel was into such exciting things? Perhaps the school library as they have NO books on him which really should have been some sign to me.

In any case, this is pretty funny actually. And it's been lovely to guffaw like a lunatic. Hope this gives you a case of the shaking-chuckles too. It's good for us. Lordy knows most of us could use some lightness. 

Walking home with an eight-foot Christmas tree

Y'all may recall that I have sometimes referred to Thanksgiving as little more than a speed bump on the road to Christmas. This year (as I noted yesterday), Thanksgiving was really wonderful, and I was grateful for the slowing down, the taking pause, the bit of tuning out I was able to do.

On Sunday, however, I could wait to start Christmas no longer. I LOVE CHRISTMAS! On went the carols, out came the decorations, up went the wreaths. The kids and I were determined to get our tree.

Someone very important to Tom, a mentor of his not much older than we are, passed away suddenly just about ten days ago. It has really shaken Tom, and our hearts ache for the wife and children this man left behind. As he mourns, I have tried to give my dear T some extra love and care and space when he needs it. On Sunday, he desperately needed to burn some stress and so I sent him to the tennis court with a bucket of balls.

In the meantime, and because T always wants a smaller tree than I feel is acceptable, the kids and I walked to a Christmas tree lot that pops up each year just around the corner from where our new house stands. Isn't that a magnificent coincidence? 

We picked out a towering fir, and emboldened by the fact that there no sibling fighting occurred during the choosing of said tree, I said, "Boys, we are awesome. Let's walk this puppy home!"

As the man helping us gave our tree a fresh cut and shook all the old needles free from its boughs, I regaled the kids with the story of the Christmas in New York in which I bought a tree, dragged it several blocks up Lexington Avenue and up the four flights of stairs to my tiny studio, and set it up in a stand ALL WHILE WEARING a skirt and heels. 

"So you see, boys, we three have got this made."

I took the trunk end while they flanked the lighter top, and we started our 0.3 mile trek home. 

People, an eight-foot fir is not a lightweight item. We were all sweating and covered with sap and Ol said a branch hit him in the penis and Jack exclaimed that he was surely acquiring a bruise and we took many breaks and I am certain people were thinking, "WTF is that family doing!?!"

At some point, Tom called and asked where we were. I told him we were walking the tree home, and he was like, "You're walking the tree home? Do you want me to bring the car?"

"No," said I. "We are intrepid."

About 45 seconds later, he showed up in the car. We had gone approximately 0.2 miles. My arms appeared to have cramped into 45-degree limbs, and so I agreed to let T put the trunk of the tree into the trunk of the car, and then I insisted on walking behind the car so I could hold up the top of the tree so it didn't become disfigured in any way. 

You can imagine what this parade looked like. One dear neighbor put her hands on her hips and just laughed. I mean, what else would you do? I said, "Can you tell we didn't really think this through?"

And we all laughed together.

And now our tree is up and perfect and it makes Oliver and me deeply joyous and Jack a little bit less so, and I think Tom is totally ambivalent but he did buy us new lights because we lost the others in the move and now instead of five strands that I had to crimp together we have just one and it's full of LEDs and those things are both so nice.

Decorating the tree is one of Oliver's favorite life activities. Here we are having just begun.

The tree is now dripping with ornaments. Most of those are treasures that elicit a range of happy memories.

The glass typewriter I gave Nanny ages and ages ago after she had a stroke and couldn't write well and so started to type letters to me? Mom gave it to me after Nanny died, and I cherish it.

The perler bead ornaments that map the kids' passions over time? I love them- from utter nonsense to Minecraft to a periodic table, they remind me of my boys' curiosity and enthusiasm.

The many fleur-de-lis I've collected and been gifted? You know just whose tree this is.

The red cardinals? Those are a tradition in Tom's extended family, and I love the sweet material depictions of all a marriage brings together. 

The stuffed felt Enemen (enema men), courtesy of a Fleet pharmaceutical rep who visited my dad twenty years ago? Those are campy vintage awesomeness.

The collection of Bronners ornaments? Those have been given to us and the boys, a new one for each over the years, by my Mom. She has beautiful and fun taste. 

And on and memorably on.