The Song That Made Poppi Get Better

Monday night, just got off the phone with my Mom about my aunt, (Titia Concessao).  She'll be dying in another day or two.  That's what the nurse said, and nurses are always right.  At least they were when my Father was in the hospital.

But you wrote a song for your Grandfather, who has been in the ICU in Miami for 10 days.

"Sun Bright
Sun light
Put that Golden Light in Between
It's Happiness
What What
It's Happiness!!"

You sing it like a rap and you do a butt-shake dance.

It was adapted from a song about Pricker that you started to sing to me but I didn't get it.

Your Father was SO happy to see that his father was being taken off the respirator and could TALK!  (VERY drugged!)  He put you on and you sang your song to him.  But you said it was your song that got him better (you wrote it this morning or last night, in yellow marker)

You tried to engage me in a pillow fight, but you used the smallest pillow and it really hurt so I wasn't in the mood.  (And I try not to "rev you" up at night, your Dad finds it hard enough to get you to go to sleep.  So only pillow fights in the morning.)

And then you started calling me "Smelly Pits" and we played keep away in the hallway, between the glass doors.

And I have to go to Le Cheile for a meeting about TokoNoMAA moving from Taszo Cafe to the Hebrew Tabernacle.  That'll be the 3rd place it's been.  I don't know if my Mousetraps will go, someone has bought them!!

The Couch Says Ouch

E and T were trying to read a Spanish book, when suddenly E said: "I know what game we can play!! A game where we speak Spanish! Tu eres a bajo!!"  E means to say: "You are going down!" but something gets lost in the translations.

E and T begin chasing each other around the couch in the living room.

E throws a pillow at T and she says: "Ugh!  You got me!"
T throws a pillow at E and he ducks and says: "You missed!!"

The pillow hits the couch with great force.  Suddenly, a voice says: "OUCH!"

E and T freeze.

"Who said that?" she says, in her frightened Scooby Doo voice.
"It wasn't me.  And it wasn't you." said E.

"It was I!!" said the Couch.  "I said OUCH!! And I'm not going to take this lying down!"

"I'm Not Mad At You"

9:09pm  I can hear you and your Dad giggling.  We just watched part of a movie with Kevin Spacey, K-Pax.  Stopped at 8 so you could have dinner.  It's kinda late now.

Today, we got ready to face the cold together (your Dad forgot to tell me last night, but I'm willing to forgive him a lot now).  You are researching about Tigers for school.  You asked me how to spell "Natural Geographic", you hunt & peck for your letters.  I was like that once. I even took TYPING classes in high school. (Because that's when I had my first access to keyboards, the first essay I really typed was on an "automatic typewriter" which didn't have the satisfying click-clack of a mechanical typewriter, but it "remembered" the essays that you wrote (that means it could store up to 5 documents!!).  My father was a Technical Writer and was always bringing home computer stuff before other people.   If he hadn't died when I was 11, I would have had an EXTREMELY different life.  Did I mention I'm NOT a natural Developer/Programmer?  It's SEVERELY holding me back in my career.  But if he had lived, maybe I would have been a stockbroker, or a Harvard Grad with an English Degree (and I'd have 3 kids and a divorce by now).  With those typewritten essays, I got a $500 scholarship to go to USC (For the favorite Author Essay, I wrote "Dr. Seuss", and defended it well).  I also got into Harvard, but I couldn't go because it was too expensive.  I also got a free ride to the College of New Rochelle, which got me "45 Minutes To Broadway".  You'll be typing automatically by the time you read this.

You said that the book you read last night with your Dad was "Tyrannosaurus Reg".  You said pages were falling out and it was really worn down, "but it still works"!!!

Historic and awful (but not THAT bad) It got down to 5, which felt like -11 with the windchill.  I put on 6 layers and you put on your striped Dr. Seuss red & white shirt, your burnt orange hoodie, your tan fall jacket and THEN your winter jacket.  It was so cold that we waited in the lobby in a building at the bus stop, I brought Cody (who wore his jacket), so I didn't wait outside with the other grownups/parents.  Dagny (Or Dag-on-y, like you like to say it) and the others are so eager to kiss their parents when the bus comes, I try to do a high five or something.  Or I talk about our secret signal (sticking out our tongues and wagging fingers in our ears), because I want to replace the nothing with a SOMETHING.  If your Mom can't be here, I want you to remember an awesome roommate.  Or at least a big circle of grownups who cared about you.

9:15pm You guys just said goodnight.  Your Dad said in half Spanish: "'Night, Nino!" with a smile in his voice. It sounded like a sweet interaction.  Just as he closed the glass door (which is practically soundproof), you shouted for him.  And shouted.  "Dad!" like 10 times.  He came back mad.

This afternoon, after you came home from school, you were reading (! GOOD! And surprising) And your father was playing drums (Good!) And Amber was cooking food. I mention this (and everything) not because it is remarkable, but because it is unremarkable.  Because someday you will forget.  And so will I.  And so will everyone else.

I also wanted to mention this because I try to be social every now and then, but I find it HARD with your Dad and A. ("T&A"-a joke you might get when you grow up!)  Both are very much in love with each other, and aren't very talkative otherwise.  When I went into the kitchen, I mentioned one of the first times I had met her.  A place called "The Underground" (Bway and 102), your Dad was playing & had mentioned it to me and said she'd be there.  It might have been after she had already moved in, or before.  I just remember not knowing her well then and hoping to go make friends with her.

I mentioned it to her.  She remembered.  And didn't say much else.  I always try to make myself available for conversation, or I'll ask a leading question to start a conversation.  And if she's in the mood to talk, she'll talk to me.  But generally, it's:
"Hey, Toby's playing drums.  Do you remember that place we hung out at once, on Broadway, near 102nd? A gig he had?"
"Oh yeah!  I think it was called The Underground!"
"Right!  Did we even know each other then?"
"---"
"I remember thinking, great maybe we'll finally get a chance to talk-but the music was so loud . . ."
"---"
"Funny, we should go out next time he does a gig!"
"---"
And then I gave up.

Again, I'm telling you this because I think that's just how she is.  Quiet.  Polite and pleasant, but not a talker.  Or maybe she doesn't like me.  Although I don't think she hates me.  I used to think she hates me.  I think they both tolerate me, I mean-I try to give them their romantic space.  And I try not to horn in on family time too much-although tonight I got engrossed in the movie . . . The thing is, I don't really FEEL welcome.  I mean I like my room.  I LOVE MY ROOM!! My little oasis/sanctuary.  And I'll be SAD, sooooo Saaaad!!, to leave.  But I need to move on from this household.

It was SO lovely when I first moved in, because your Mom would SHARE everything with me.  Well, no, maybe after that first year.  The Summer of Her Whirlwind, she invited me to go to Vermont for the 4th of July with you guys. And to NJ to the Beach (that picture, "Sunny & Sandy").  But I think she knew she needed a friend.  Her highs and lows were getting extreme then.  But it was LOVELY being a part of your family, even for a little while.  I believe in extended families.  And sharing.  (When I have whatever family I end up with, I'm going to share food with everyone all the time!)

9:32pm, it's quiet now, for a Tuesday night.  The pipes are making a weird racket, a drumming and there's some kind of demon sound coming from the radiator as well.  Or maybe that's the tv in the living room.

During the K-PAX movie, I pointed out the words: Astrophysicist, Assemblage and Perturbation.  I like watching it with subtitles, but it annoys your father.  I think it also makes you (YOU, KID!!) read subliminally (and you can make jokes over the actors). I also tried to talk about Mental Illness, some of the different kinds.  The word "Psychotic" being a general term.  And that guy who is always telling everyone that they stink; you said he was horrible.  When he stopped it, your dad asked, "Now is he an alien?  Or is he Cray-Cray?"  Films and society simplify these things so much.  (Films in particular, where the patients get to explain themselves eloquently-which seldom happens in real life.  That's why we call people "crazy", because they are upset at things that the rest of us DON'T see.  It doesn't mean their thoughts are not valid)

You went in to eat dinner and I got some water. A was trying to listen to "This American Life" while cooking for you (the three of you were in there).  I said, "This is NOT something you want to listen to when anyone is eating!" (About "Dopplegangers" and using bung, pork anus as fake calamari) But she kept saying "Shhh, Shhh, I want to listen!"  I'm deaf, so I know how awful it is to have one person talking over a radio, but in rooms like that I just give up.

I went back to my room.  A few minutes later I was about to go back in the kitchen when I stopped at the living room door & saw that there was A SCENE going on. You were standing up and covering your eyes, and your Dad was like "She's NOT mad at you" and she said it too, holding her hands up in a gesture of surrender.  But it WAS a little curt, and she sounded stressed, but not angry.  Maybe you were crying or upset from something she said or did.  I don't know what your relationship is like, or will be like, but I hope you guys can learn to read each other better in future.  I turned around and snuck back in my room.  I wasn't that hungry. 9:46pm

January 6, 2014, Blue Monday

Well, kid.

Today you got back into the routine for the year.

I walked you to the bus this morning.  After urging you to finish your cereal, and somehow we got into a game of writing a nonsense grocery shopping list. Including "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious".  and a bunch of your words.

It's been cold for the past week (20 degrees and lots of snow before you returned from Mexico).  Today it was 55 degrees.  A thaw, rainy and wet soaked through.  Tomorrow everything will freeze; they are warning people about it on the radio.

5pm Your father came home, exhausted.  I had texted him, asking him to get milk (although I feel so guilty everytime I ask him for anything).  He told me about how the antibiotics aren't working for his father.  He keeps sighing.  I didn't know what to do, so I offered him a hug.  He accepted it and graciously accepted a long hug, until I thought he was going to cry.  Don't worry, there's never been anything between us, except shimmering moments of friendship.  He told me--when I first moved in and was complaining about Amber having moved in without me being consulted, etc--he told me that I reminded him of your Mother.  I've tried not to ask for anything since.

6:30 You and I had searched my room for colored pencils.

I had to dig into my Art pile, which I honestly haven't touched in too long, months.  Since before I changed my room and pushed the bed against the closed window and put the green couch across from the door.  Before that, my bed was facing the door and we had to draw in the space between it and the window and the couch.  Yesterday, your father offered me two oriental style bowls and asked if I had any clutter to use them for.  Everywhere he pointed was clutter.

Of course, you found a package to play with, Glow in the Dark Markers.

Of course, my colored pencils were with YOUR colored pencils, on your desk, in the hallway.

7pm We dived into a coloring game, which we haven't done in forever (You have a tight schedule, kid, Little Red Rockets Afterschool program until 6, then homework, then dinner, then bed at 8).  The markers were slightly dried out (because I'm always SAVING things to be used one day, so even though the package was pristine, which you kindly pointed out, I was happy to use it.

I might have bought it for Scrumpy's Mom, Dawn, when she was coming out of the hospital.  But today, I've decided not to be friends with her anymore.  She gets VERY insecure when anyone gets mad at her, or is upset for any reason.  How can I be friends with someone who won't let me feel my feelings? And if I can't tell her what's wrong, how can we ever fix it?  That's what she should feel insecure about, losing friendships because the minute someone says that things aren't perfect, she begins to cry.  I don't want her to cry, so I don't tell her.  And pretty soon, like now, I stop talking to her entirely.

You did a GREAT Vampire Face (just the face part) and I was happy with the outline of a cat I did in a room, but which looked spooky as a single line and a mouse when it glowed in the dark.  You might remember that you did a paper airplane, which you could watch fly in the dark.  We kept running into the bathroom to check on our masterpieces.  They will only glow for 4 hours (or less, in the case of the back of my hand, I drew a face and it was gone in 15 minutes, by the time we showed "my Dad and Amber".

He got mad (at me) because you were having such a good time (and so was I) but he then had to be the "bad guy" and pull you away to have dinner and do homework and read before bed. (These are the years which will slip away so fast.)  He just finished all his classes a month ago, so maybe he can get some more rest.  (And when his father gets out of the hospital . . . )  You and I haven't had a day like this, coloring and playing and we were both so excited.  Your dad sees your energy level and knows it will be a struggle to get you into bed. Sigh.  No wonder he gets mad at me.

8pm I hide in my room while you eat your salad.  I write this and play an episode from CUNY's English Dept about Billy Collins and Paul Muldoon, the Poets.  I'm generally lonely and happy and unemployed and writing and having fun playing by myself.  (But I sense I need to move on when they get married)

8:30pm Your father just read a terrific story to you; I can hear his voice fluctuating wildly, exaggerated and fun.

Now you both are laughing, his laugh is low, but yours is a high giggle.  Juggling your laughter, like you'd buoy up a balloon in the living room.  It's lasting awhile.  I'm glad.  He's not feeling like the bad guy anymore.  I think he won you over.