Two weeks

We're in a state of suspended animation over here, lying in wait until school starts. The first day of school is in two weeks. 15 days, to be precise. Fifteen days and 10 minutes, as of this moment. Some of us are more excited about this than others.

This year is third grade, and Henry's worried. He's heard that there's testing. Also apparently there's some kind of dance the third grade class has to do in front of the rest of the school? I was pretty skeptical about this whole third-grade-dance-routine rumor, but his best friend, who's entering the fourth grade this year, confirmed it. Then again his best friend is not the most reliable narrator. Nothing against him, but I haven't met a kid his age who is. They're all a little confused, the dears.

Henry and I have been spending all kinds of quality time together, and while I look forward to resuming our regular routine and actually being able to get some things done, I am also enjoying the shit out of my kid. I said that to him! I said, "Henry, I am enjoying the ever-loving shit out of you." And he was all, "Aw, Ma." And then he rolled me my cigarettes just how I like.

It's fortunate for us that our child is extra-super-charming. Not to brag, but we kind of have the best one. Sorry, rest of the world! It doesn't hurt that August in New York, weather-wise, has been spectacular. We can go outside! And not want to die! We've been exploring Prospect Park and talking about Life and also which trees are best for climbing. (Henry then goes on to climb them. I stand nearby and try not to look absolutely certain that he will fall and break his body.)

The other day we encountered, in the park, a baby bunny. A baby! All by his/her (didn't check) lonesome! It was about the size of my palm and was hanging out with a gang of pigeons, munching on some grass. Henry advised me to steer clear, as I am known to stomp loudly and frighten away the woodland creatures, and while I obediently sat nearby he slowly inched toward the bunny. The bunny watched him from the corner of her (I've decided) eye, and once he was within a foot (while I cursed my decision to not bring my camera) they stood there and gazed at each other. It was hypnotic. I was fairly convinced he was going to mesmerize her and tuck her into his pocket before I could remind him that we have a bunny-murdering cat. (I'm guessing that's what she is. I've never seen her murder a thing. But she has it in her. I can see it in her eyes. Her blank, dead, shark eyes.)

Finally the bunny wised up and hopped off, and we continued on our way. Then I tried to convince Henry that he should be some kind of nature guide or park ranger or horse whisperer but he just wanted to talk about her little translucent ears and how she twitched her nose at him.

I do this every time my child shows a talent for something. He has an interest or an ability, and I immediately start projecting what this could indicate for his future. If he comes home with a painting, I imagine how I could nurture his talent so he can be a successful artist (and buy me a summer home) or if he writes a story that his teacher is excited about, I'm telling him that he could be an award-winning novelist someday (and then buy me a summer home). As if art isn't worth creating if there's not a future in it, or talent that isn't used for gaining income is squandered, or something. Or as if I just really want him to  buy me a summer home.  LISTEN. Is this so much to ask? I'm not asking for a place on the beach. Maybe a lake house, upstate somewhere? On the other hand the beach would be nice.

Hey! Let's catch up on some things!

I've received a few emails asking me what ever happened with my Crossfit attempt. Here's what! Nothing. Crossfit is kinda pricey, and I can't rationalize it right now, especially now that I'm working on some longer-term projects that aren't delivering insta-paychecks. Or actually any paychecks at all. At least not yet. NOT YET. So maybe later, Crossfit. Or maybe never, actually. I'm still considering my options.

I haven't even been able to face going back to the gym, for some reason. Actually I know perfectly well why. Before it got super-crazy hot, I got into running/walking/crawling-sobbing in the park--that's why. Also Henry was home, and he's definitely too old for the gym day care, so I was doing push-ups and so forth while he acted as my coach. He's the world's worst coach, I have to say. He kept turning off my timer when I was in mid-plank because he TOUCHED IT when I told him NOT TO TOUCH IT but it's my iPhone, so it's a magical thing that must be touched.

I have no excuses not to go since Henry's been at camp (he's returning in two days! My Littlest Excuse is coming home!).  Except that it's hot, which I know means it'll be crowded at the gym, and UGH. People. Am I right, folks?

I don't think of myself as a total misanthrope, but I had drinks recently with two friends (Hi, Sarah and Jennifer! I'm talking about you!) and I brought up the topic of Other Parents and how I hate chit-chatting with Them at school pick-up and what if they want to be FRIENDS, what do I DO, and from Sarah and Jen's reaction, it was clear I was alone with this feeling. Look. LOOK. I like lots of parents at Henry's school. I just don't like Parents as a category. I like people. It's Humanity I have a hard time with.

It's possible I'm just a dick.

Oh! Speaking of being a dick! Here's a little story for you that's been haunting me for, well, years. I was living in New Jersey, and I was at my then-psychiatrist's office. She was someone I had a great rapport with, so I felt chatty one day, and decided to (gently?) poke fun at this artwork that was on her wall. It had a purple flower on it, and it said, "Love. Faith. Believe." I was staring at it, and before I knew what was happening, I was saying, "Why 'believe'?"
"Excuse me?" she said. (Or something like that. Let's pretend I remember.)
"If you're going to write 'love' and "faith,' shouldn't it be 'belief'?"
Here I thought she was going to chuckle, as she was wont to do, and think, oh, Alice, that is so you. Or maybe she'd think lord when will this asshole leave my office, isn't her time up? But either way, she would appear to tolerate my antics.
Instead, she looked vaguely stricken, and said something noncommittal about not having considered that. I may have imagined the tension, but I don't think so. I am usually oblivious to tension that I've directly created, so for me to be aware of it really says something.  I left feeling like I'd turned into Larry David. Her MOM probably made that, you guys. And now I had ruined it for her.

And the next time I came in? It was gone. GONE. What could I say? "Hey, remember that print that you had up that I mocked? Why's it gone? DID I MAKE IT GONE?" There was nothing I could say. I thought about it every time I came back. You want to know the reason we left New Jersey? There you go. (Not really.)

Needles and the damage done.

So! I went to an acupuncturist. All the goodness and the excitement has been a bit too much for my delicate constitution. There are papers to sign and papers we can’t find that we need to find and enormous life changes to freak out over. Accordingly, I have spent the last week either shaking, crying, or hyperventilating. Or all of the above! Together! Which was quite alarming for Henry, although I did my best to hide from him while I was freaking out or convince him that I was either a) having an allergy attack, b) exercising, or c) crying out of sheer joy. He didn’t buy it. “But you cry when you’re not happy,” he said, and then he grabbed my face and said. “I love you. I. Love. You. Alice.” I didn’t know whether to cry or laugh so I did a little of both.

This acupuncturist came highly recommended, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to try, although my one and only other acupuncture experience had been traumatic. That time, the acupuncturist covered me from head to toe in needles, set a timer for fifteen minutes, turned the lights off, and left the room. I was wearing only a paper gown and I was so covered in needles that if I moved any part of my body, strange crampy pains washed over me. I couldn’t even move my face. Eventually I managed to relax. But then! The timer went off. And no one came to get me.

I waited. And waited. And waited. I tried not to panic, because when I panicked I tensed up, and then the pain started. I tried to relax. I was cold, and I was shivering, and the shivering was making everything hurt. I began emitting a noise like a dying yak. I could hear movement outside the door, but I was sure they had forgotten me. My dying-yak sounds grew louder. And louder. Eeeeeerrrrrr. EEERRRRRRR.

Finally, the door opened (TWENTY MINUTES LATER) and the light was turned on. And it was a horror show, my friends: the paper gown covering my chest was covered in blood. I have friends who get acupunctured all the time and one friend who practices it and they all say sometimes there’s a tiny bit of blood, but this was not that. This was like the bucker of pig’s blood had tipped over my head and I just wanted to be liked and AIIIEEEE! Now everyone will die!

It wasn’t good. The only good thing was that I didn’t have to pay.

I told this new acupuncturist about my last experience and she shrieked a little and clapped her hand over her mouth. I approved of her reaction. And then she assured me that she would only insert a few needles hither and yon, and that I was her only patient so she definitely wouldn’t forget about me. So far, so good.

But then while she’s sticking me, she’s asking questions about our apartment selling. And I tell her how we had all these bids on our apartment, which is great, but it also meant crushing the hopes of many nice people who had told us in no uncertain terms that ours was the apartment of their dreams. And the acupuncturist murmurs, “Let the agent deal with that,” and I tell her that we’re selling it ourselves because we can’t afford the agent’s 6% take, boo hoo, we have no money.

And here, kids, is her reply, in the same soothing murmur: “That’s a common misconception, as agents are more experienced with the market and can accurately price your home. You may not have to pay the six percent but all that means is that you probably priced your home too low and now you’ll get less for your home than you would have with an agent. I’m all done with the needles, “ she breathily concludes, “and I’ll check on you in a few minutes.”

Then she leaves, and I’m lying there, in the dark, wondering: did I find the one acupuncturist/real estate broker in Park Slope? And at what point can I call her back in and tell her we priced it just fine, and anyway we got more than the asking price, and also, shut the fuck up?

There's no real point to this.

Tuesday after school, Henry and I headed to a nearby playground. When we got there he went straight for a seal statue that sits right in the center of the playground. It’s supposed to spout water in the summer, although I’ve never seen it work.

He sat down on it. “This is my favorite seal,” he said. “This is my best friend. My best seal friend.”

“Really,” I said, “You’ve never mentioned him.”

“He is my best friend, and his name,” Henry declared, “is Frompy.”

“Frumpy?”

“Frompy. I love him so, so much. I lie down on him, and I look up at the sky, and I dream. I dream of Frompy. At night I come here all by myself and I play with him.”

“Does he come to life?”

“No, he does not come to life.” He glared at me. I would never understand! About Frompy!

“I have to say, I’ve never seen you even look at him before.”

“And when I have to leave him I am so, so sad, I miss him so much because Frompy is my best friend ever in my whole world.” He started to tear up.

Then Henry leapt off the statue and announced that it was time to see “the crazy dancers.” The “crazy dancers” he refers to are African natives performing ceremonial dances; they can be seen on video at the Brooklyn Museum, which is mere steps away from the playground we were in. I happen to have a museum pass and I wanted to nip in the bud any Frompy-related hysteria, so I said sure! Museum it is!

Oh, dear god, was he happy. Time to see the crazy dancers! He loves the crazy dancers. He asks to see them all the time, and every time he does this spazzy little jig.

So we headed for the museum, and when we got there I let Henry hit the button to open the handicapped/stroller entrance door. Only nothing happened, because the museum was closed.

Joy turned to outrage and tears. “I am so disappointed,” he wept, “Why won’t you let me see the crazy dancers?” I tried to explain that I couldn’t make them open the museum, but he wasn’t buying it. We sat on a bench near the entrance and I held him while he railed against me and the museum and all the forces that were keeping him from crazy-dance appreciation.

Inevitably, a man with some sort of disability approached us. He was mewling in a disconcerting way, but then I looked at him and he had the sweetest expression, and he only wanted to help and I was a jerk for thinking I should get Henry out of there before he came any closer. He reached into his bag, pulled out a pack of Wrigley’s, and waved it toward Henry. “That’s okay,” I said.

He shook his head and started digging around in his bag. He pulled out a mangled candy bar. “Really, we’re fine,” I said, holding up my hand as he tried to give it to Henry.

Then he handed me a can of Chef Boyardee. Henry took notice. “What is he giving us?” he asked. “Spaghetti in a can,” I said, as I tried to shake my head in as friendly a way as I could manage. He rummaged and rummaged some more, and then he took out a biscuit. A completely intact biscuit had somehow managed to survive the contents of his bag. I said goodbye and Henry said “No, THANK YOU” to the biscuit and we walked away, but I kind of wanted to see what would come next. A layer cake? A roast chicken?

On our way home Henry kept trying to tell me something complicated about treasure maps, but I was pushing him in his stroller and all I could hear was his shouting “YOU’RE NOT LISTENING.” I stopped and leaned over to tell him I couldn’t hear him, and a man came out of nowhere, grinning at us. “What are you doing!” he said. “Are you having a problem!”

“We’re talking,” I said.

“Talking is good! I want to talk to you about Jesus today!” and then he handed me a pamphlet. I saw the words “End of Days” and I grabbed it because I love me the crazy pamphlets. “Thanks!” I said, and walked away. He was still talking.

“There are crazy people out today, Henry,” I said, and he said, “But are they dancers?”