The ice cream man

The south Louisiana neighborhood in which I grew up was shaped like a horseshoe drooping long and oval under the pull of gravity. A street bisected the horseshoe crosswise, as if needing to keep the two sides together, lest they splay outward or implode. If the lowest point of the curved steel was south, my home was east-southeast, just below the intersection of the mainframe and crossbeam. 

To enter our neighborhood, Bayouwood, you had to go down one of two declines. As you drove deeper in, you approached Contraband Bayou, that winding waterway at the base of the shoe that called many neighbors' yards to an abrupt, beautiful stop. 

Because you couldn't go anywhere but back out once you were in Bayouwood, there wasn't much traffic, and, by and large, people drove cautiously in residential areas then, so my sister and I could play safely in our driveway and in the streets with the many other kids who lived nearby.

Around 4pm on any given afternoon, a distant tinkling would make us all pause. In that sudden stillness we'd realize how sweaty we were, how parched, how whooped in the way good outdoor play makes you. The happy jingle drew nearer, and we all scattered, racing for our mothers' wallets: "The ice cream man is coming, y'all!" flying in our wakes. 

Without fail, I got a Screwball -a plastic cone filled with pink "ice cream" and a gum ball at the bottom- or a Bomb Pop -that long, red, white and blue popsicle- or an orange Push-Up -the paper tube-wrapped orange sorbet that you'd push up with a plastic platform on a stick.

I loved each for different reasons. The Push-Up was like an Orange Julius in a handy, mess-free wrapper.What a pleasing color of orange! I always kept the clear plastic pusher after licking it clean. 

I was enamored with the cleanly delineated lines of the red, white and blue sections of the Bomb Pop. That white was so white, a wonderful counterpoint to the crimson red and wacky royal blue. I could never eat a whole Bomb Pop before it started melting and would then watch as red and blue rivers bled profusely down my hands, wrists and arms before dropping off my elbows, the white areas blurred out by the more assertive colors' quick trip.

And the Screwball came with a perfect wooden spoon nestled snugly in the cone's lid. I loved to gently dig it out, and run my fingers over its smooth, hourglass figure before scraping away my first bite of pink. I remember trying to eat the Screwball such that the surface remained flat the whole time. No tunneling or lackadaisical spooning for me, no! I kept things tidy, patient until the frozen gumball was mine. Inevitably, it crumbled, for gumballs really aren't made to live in a deep-freeze on wheels. It was the getting to it that was the fun.

This afternoon after school, I took the boys to a favorite playground. The sun was shining, and if we sat in just the right, unshaded place and waited until not a whisper of breeze blew, we felt warmth pervade our bodies. It was heavenly, and when the Good Humor truck rolled by, singing that old, familiar tinkle, I hoped the kids would plead breathlessly for some ice cream. Because I couldn't wait to get them some.

"Two chocolate chip cookie sandwiches, please!" Jack asked the man who was hidden deep and faceless in the van's dark interior.

"That'll be $6." he replied.

Money and ice cream were quickly exchanged, and my two little boys flew off yelling, "Mom, you're the best," as they ran back toward the monkey bars.

Tulips and two features

It was a gorgeous day here, though an assertive chill remains in the air. I refused socks and took advantage of the utter lack of precipitation to wear both high heels and a cream-leather coat that was my birthday present a few years back. I love to wear heels- they change my sense of the self I'm projecting to the world in such an interesting, powerful way.

"This woman is here," those shoes say, as I walk along with them. 

The coat is the creamiest, butteriest leather. Because of its color and quality and also its distinct styling, I wear it maybe three times a year- little boys are no friend to this sleek jacket. That's why it was such a special gift; because it's not overly practical, and I sure didn't need it. I wanted it. For its aesthetics and for the way I feel when I slip it on. It, too, affects my being.

"I am not a sweats-and-ponytail mom right now. No, indeed. I am, simply, woman!"

These long-stemmed tulips -advertised as French tulips; but of course- play much the same role. I look at them admiringly and can ignore, momentarily, the fact that spring is running a bit late. I can put aside the "wintry mix" of fleeting wet snow we're supposed to receive on Friday and forget that DC doesn't yet have any daffodils though we usually do by this time.

I love their slender necks and graceful bloom, and this color. Oh! A perfect pink. It makes me want to keep my heels on, long after the coat has been wrapped away once more and flannel pajamas have taken its place.  

"Spring will have to be bought and enjoyed inside right now," I think.

But my fingers twitch, eager for the ground to warm so I can dig and root and till and plant. I am ready for a change of season.

In the meantime, I will celebrate my Oliver turning six, my Jack going with wild excitement on his first overnight field trip, the quiet of my home right now, good leftovers, T, and the deep feeling of fulfillment that comes in having one's work recognized.

Yesterday, all4women, South Africa's popular magazine for women asked to republish my recent Huffington Post piece and did. Today, I have an essay up on Mamalode, a publication I aspired to and am honored by. 

"Maybe this year, spring is starting from within," I muse. I'll take it.

Flying

I glance down at my hands in a moment's pause; they're shaking. Slightly but perceptibly. Another text pings and, as if in support, the washing machine's sing-song buzzer plays its tune. It's time again, the fourth today, to switch loads. 

I ignore the text and leave the mixer cocked open, chocolate cupcake batter dripping from the wire whisk into the bowl below. Downstairs, I transfer the clothes from the dryer to the basket-pausing momentarily in their womb-like warmth- and then the wet duds from the washer to the dryer. A buzzer sounds from the kitchen -the vanilla cupcakes are done- and I hurriedly shove the last pile of dirties to the briefly-vacant washer, pour in detergent, set all timers and race back up.

The vanilla cupcakes are golden and smell good, yet something nags. I cast my eyes towards my shaky hands and am seized with the realization that unless I was moving so quickly I didn't notice, I've forgotten to add the critically important tablespoon of vinegar. Shit. 

These cupcakes are wartime and depression-era treats, from times when eggs and butter were rationed and people figured out how to make do with oil for fat and the chemical reaction between vinegar and baking soda for the eggs. 

Another text illumines my iPhone screen, email and Gmail chat notices are flying left and right across my laptop's face, and I accept that I literally don't have time (or frankly, the inclination) to remake these cupcakes. In the past four days alone, I've already made Oliver muffins for his class snack last Friday and a double-layer cake for his birthday party yesterday. These vanilla pucks, now the lesser counterparts to their chocolaty kin still yet to enter the oven, will have to do for his school-based birthday celebration tomorrow.

There's always frosting. Which means, double shit, that I now need to make more frosting.

Percy starts barking -have I fed him?- and where is Nutmeg? Has he returned from his most recent venture in the neighborhood wilds? I glance at the clock; it's a quarter to three, I don't have on a bra, and school pick-up starts in thirty minutes. Go.

The chocolate cakes will have to wait. I change, shove some grapes into a container for the boys' snack and head to school. A slip of paper, a lonely to-do list shoved in my car console, catches my eye. I note that the dry cleaning is way overdue, I have two essays to read for classmates, and I've not yet managed to mail three packages that I so earnestly meant to. 

Green light. Grip the wheel. Go.

Oliver is beaming as he approaches me. My hands still momentarily, as I scoop him up and kiss his warm cheeks. Never has a child been so thrilled for his birthday. I can tell that our days-long honoring of him is deeply meaningful, and I'm glad. Ol asks so little really. He is an easy child, easy to love, easy to raise, easy to celebrate. I don't mind all the cakes and cupcakes and muffins. I'm just tired.

We get in the car so he can tell me a "secwet" and he begins to climb all over like a manic monkey. I see Jack coming, beam-smiling and fully engaged in a conversation with one of his teachers. I'll come to find that they were conversing as might have Powhatan and a Settler. This role play strikes me as a cool means of learning Colonial American history, and I am again grateful that my sons attend the excellent school they do.

By the time we reach home, a helmet of peevishness has affixed itself firmly to my skull. How many times must I say, "I CAN'T look at you when I'm driving!" before the kids stop asking me to do just that? Why does Jack narrate every second as he lives it? Why does it feel that so much is asked of me so often? Another text arrives.

We pull up, and I see Nutmeg waiting patiently by the front door. He's licking his paws. Oops. I forgot to check on his whereabouts before I left, but that cat. That cat! He might very well be the smartest, wiliest of us all. 

Oliver does his thing where he takes 85 years to get out of the car. It drives me batshit crazy, but I've read all the articles. I know I'm not supposed to tell my kids to hurry any more than I have to, and so despite my discomfort at leaving him, I do. I want to go inside and deal with those chocolate cupcakes. I want to finish one damn thing.  

Jack insists that we load up Ol's new walkie-talkies with batteries, and of course doing so requires both a screwdriver and not one, but TWO, elusive 9-volts. I find everything and put him to work. Shortly thereafter, the walkies are working and Jack is buzzing through every possible channel, tweaking and testing and making more and more and more noise. He is so curious, and I love that. But he is not so easy.

Oliver begins his thank you notes and after completing 1.5 of them has a head-in-hands sob-fest because his V looks like a W. I fetch the white correction tape and mend everything as best I can. Yet the sob-fest continues because the white of the tape does not accurately enough match the white of the card. 

I want to run. My hands start to quiver again. The cupcakes overflow the pan. The frosting. And once again, I'm flying.