30 Years from Now and 75 Years Ago

I wrote something, but then I edited out all the unnecessary words and all that was left was this:



And then I wrote something else:

When you're seventy-five and the whole world thinks you're old, I'll laugh and I'll ask you if you remember thirty years ago when I wrote you that one thing but all that came out was "I love you". And you’ll laugh too and pat my hand and say of course you remember, even if you really don’t.

27 Years Have Passed Since Then.

Has anyone had that ideal age that they can't wait to reach? For Lyra it's eight. She even had me type it out on the keyboard tonight: "Lyra is excited to be 8 years old." Yeah, well, me too, Lyra. I'm sure you'll be just as cool when you're eight.

I used to be a pretty devout Catholic, and as such (or perhaps, not as such), I used to believe that God would do me favors. If I prayed really hard, why wouldn't he grant me a simple wish? Not being satisfied with the limited life of a kid, I would ask, very nicely, to be shown images of the future: to dream of my life when I'm 27. Because that was the perfect age.

He never followed through.

But one thing he did, if he did anything at all, was allow me to create 27. To become 27. To still be alive, to have this rich and wondrous life. Or maybe I did dream of it, of sitting on the bed typing away, next to my husband, next to my dog sucking too fervently on his blanket, my child asleep in the other room: maybe I saw all this, and didn't recognize it as my own.

And that's fine. I suppose God deserves the benefit of the doubt.

A Moment of Peace

Photographs I took from the airplane on our way to Italy.

Lyra's Philosophy

"Teddy thinks I'm his toy, but really, you, me, and Teddy - we're all Barbies. God's Barbies. And when he loses us, we die!"

New Blog

I have a new blog, hopefully temporary as this agony slowly lifts. It chronicles my new and final attempt to quit smoking, hopefully providing me some sort of accountability and, perhaps more importantly, a distraction. Feel free to read it, but be warned: I don't know how much you're going to take away. It's necessarily ego-centric and self-absorbed. But maybe it'll be useful for someone, either in commiseration or if someone needs to take a good hard look at someone even more desperate than they are. That makes people feel better sometimes.

So here it is: Breathe.

Lyra Speaks

Lyra: So pretend I'm a nice little girl.

Me: You are a nice little girl.

Lyra: No. Pretend I'm a different nice little girl. And pretend that this - (waves a stick) - is a gun. Pretend I'm a nice little girl with a gun.

Me: Oh dear.

Lyra: A nice little girl who shoots baddies. Pow! POW POW POW! Umm... Mom?

Me: Yes?

Lyra: Actually, let's just pretend I'm a horse.

When Fevers Run High

...make cookies.

Life here has been a whirlwind and annoyingly still all at once. I'm slowly getting organized and settling into the idea that I do live here - no, it isn't an extended vacation; yes, I can make friends and engage in various activities and more or less feel at home. I can get a job, even. Go to school. Those are the generalities.

The specifics are much hairier. We closed on the flat and managed to squeeze most, if not all, of our stuff inside. Boxes still line the door outside my office area, and I imagine they'll be there for quite some time. Ron comes and goes to his conferences and meetings, and Lyra and Teddy and I walk the beach and collect seashells and I, at least, beg the skies for warmer, drier weather. Lyra goes to her hippie school and comes home with all-organic artwork. And so it goes.

Until one day - last Saturday - Lyra wakes up covered in red spots. By evening, her forehead is blazing. The doctor asks her to stick out her tongue and the next thing I know I'm filling a prescription for ultra-strength penicillin to treat scarlet fever. Scarlet fever! None of the British I've told seem surprised or even curious at the diagnosis, but my limited knowledge of European history allows me to conjure up little more than DEATH! when I combine the two innocent words "scarlet" and "fever". I consult with my American friends and family, and we all agree, yes, DEATH! is the right word. But the British were right.

Right now Lyra's howling at the television in the other room. She's a "magic angel dog", she says, and occasionally she gallops on her hands and knees down to the kitchen where, for the price of an orange popsicle, I can get her to swallow her medicine.

In other words, thanks to modern medicine, scarlet fever has had no impact on Lyra's life - if anything, she'd say it's been a vast improvement. Two weeks free from hippie-school, and near-infinite popsicle treats. Plus cartoons!

As for me... let's just say I miss those quiet hours when she's at the hippie school, busily crafting away some new gift whose purpose I can't immediately comprehend (see: my mother's day present). But despite the sudden infiltration of howling, prancing, and galloping in my daily life, I remember to be grateful that we live today - with medicine! with internet! with fine processed ingredients for chocolate-peanut-butter cookies! - in a world where scarlet fever can be little more than a blip on the screen.