the book of joob

She keeps a journal. It’s in one of those old composition notebooks, the ones with the black and white mottled covers. Sometimes she lets me read it, sometimes she doesn’t, and I always respect her feelings on that. Kills me to do it, because all I want to know in this world is what’s going on in that little head of hers, but I do it all the same. I have to.

Sometimes it’s about what she did over the weekend. More often, it’s about what stickers or books or toys her grandparents bought her. And then there’s this one:

I love my dad.

I love my dad

becus he has no

joob and wen he

has no joob then

he sumtimes can

pic me up from

scool urly.

***

Sunday is Father’s Day – my sixth, incredibly. Each is better than the last, because each day the kids get more magnificent. Couple weeks ago they held a debate on the question of robot poop – Max says they poop cannonballs, but Mia says it’s more like screws and bolts. I think it depends on the robot’s diet. The jury’s out. And Saturday, Max drew a frog and named it Snort, and this is how he explained the name to his sister:

“My frog’s name is snort because he snorted one of his boogers into the ocean. He had a booger that was really good, and he snorted it, and it fell into the water.”

And in fact, there’s a really good booger in the water. See for yourself.

***

Mia learned to tie her shoes this week.

Max ate a 64-ounce clamshell of blueberries watching Caillou.

Max still comes into our bed at night, but not every night.

Max is uncommonly polite. He uses please and thank you like they were Skittles. He also farts a lot, and this makes him laugh. A lot.

Mia’s favorite food is Skittles. I have never given her Skittles.

Max doesn’t like pizza. It has sauce, and he doesn’t like sauce. He also doesn’t like ketchup, or white sauce, or spaghetti with red sauce. The only sauce Max likes is syrup.

And Fig Newtons. Which he described to me as “the thing with the sauce with the bread around it.” He likes Fig Newtons.

Mia and Max only eat the heads off broccoli.

Mia read a whole book in bed tonight. She called me in to tell me about it. Her smile kept the room lit even after I made her turn out the light.

Max is coming around on shorts.

Every night before bath, Max chooses a plastic animal or dinosaur to bring into the tub. And every night, he asks me if that particular animal or dinosaur swims, and if it swims underwater too. Every night, I say yes to both questions.

Max draws dogs. He draws cats. He draws bunnies. He draws mice. Yesterday, he drew a dog chasing a cat. Chasing a bunny. Chasing…no, not a mouse. A ball of yarn. The ball of yarn was chasing the mouse. The mouse was chasing an ant.

Mia refuses to tell me about her day. It’s because it’s her day, not my day. That’s what she told me.

Max still gets tired of walking. I get tired of carrying him.

***

And then there’s this: I got a joob. I’ve been working at it for five months, and right now I’m thrilled, but I’m not.

I’ve not gone to work for five years. I’ve worked, but I’ve not gone to work. I’ve written. And though this job is insanely close to home – close enough that I’ll commute on foot – it’s not at home, which means I can’t watch kids and still work. Which brings with it all sorts of complications involving daycare and after-school care and babysitters and juggling and I don’t know what else. I don’t know. We’ll figure it out soon, though. We’ll have to. I start next month.

It’s good. I’m happy. This is what I’ve been working toward. And it’s as close to a perfect situation as I could have imagined. It’s just.

Well. I like picking her up urly.

 

rome, if we want to

It’s Thanksgiving today, though you’d really never know it. Sarah worked, and Mia went to school, and I went to the market and poked around the meat aisle for some turkey cutlets, and that was the most Thanksgivingy thing about what was otherwise a very ordinary Thursday here. Sometime around 3, I turned to one of the moms out front of Mia’s school, a woman from Philadelphia, and offered up some warm holiday wishes. She squinted and cocked her head, then half-whispered, “Oh yeah.” It’s exactly how I felt.

Then again, Max ate a huge lunch and took a long nap, so at least someone’s in the holiday spirit.

Anyway, we do in fact have heaps to be grateful for, not least of which is the fact that we’re together, and last weekend, we were together in Rome. Sarah was there for a conference, so the rest of us flew down Friday afternoon to join her. And though we were conspicuously not invited to the Wedding of the Future™, we did happen past the hotel where Tom Cruise and his young detaineebride were staying, just as the Fresh Prince and Jada Pinkett Prince were leaving for the reception. Since I was surrounded at the time by actual paparazzi, and I was holding a camera, I naturally shoved my hand in the air and fired off a couple blind shots myself – when in Rome, right? Among my yield is the photograph below – I’m pretty sure that’s Will in the passenger seat of the Benz (click on the image for a lifelike close-up). Anyone out there wants to buy a copy, you just let me know, hey?

Rome was nice – nicer than I remembered. I still think it feels weighted down by its past – it seems like there’s always a ruin around the corner, and a giant stone monument between you and the ruin, and a guy dressed as a Trojan warrior between the two, shilling for cheesy pictures. But I remember it being a crowded and dirty and indifferent city, and while I’m sure it’s got its problems, the rain and the chill and the time of year made it feel cleaner and less claustrophobic than I’d remembered, and the Italians were anything but indifferent.

From the minute we got off the plane – and I do mean that first minute – Italy just felt warmer than Switzerland. It’s not meant as a whine about Switzerland – the Swiss are nice enough. But they don’t smile, not like the Italians do, and they don’t much care for kids. That fact was illustrated quite nicely the day before our trip, when Max and I were enjoying croissants with some friends at a local café and Max spotted a man at the counter quietly reading a newspaper. Max immediately identified him as Someone Who Didn’t Want To Be Bothered, and being two, he immediately set out to bother him. I pulled him away from the man the first time he sidled up and sat near his feet, and the second time as well. The third time, as I took Max by the hand and started to lead him out of the café, the guy huffed and puffed and twisted himself up into a model of Swiss pique, then muttered something indignant at me in German before slapping his paper, folding it with a great flourish, and stomping out the front door.

Quite a show, actually.

Now, let me be clear: Max was being a pest. This man was reading his paper in a café, and he had a reasonable expectation of being left alone, and Max was defying that expectation. He wasn’t pushing or poking or even touching him, but he was playing well within the guy’s personal space, and I really felt embarrassed about it – at least, until the newspaper man got all huffy on me. Then I just felt embarrassed for him.

In any case, it was a minor event, but it cast a shadow, and disembarking in Rome the next day brought the same feeling of relief I get when I walk in my front door after taking the kids to a restaurant. It was a burden lifted, an exhalation, and it presented itself immediately. When we arrived at the hotel, Mia insisted on staying with the revolving door for two extra go-rounds, holding up foot traffic for about 20 seconds. I looked at the doorman to apologize, but he didn’t see me. He was looking at Mia, and he was laughing.

May your holiday be as lovely as ours was uneventful. Happy Thanksgiving!

(Pictures from Rome. Click to see full size.)