Reach Out

I still have my grandmother's phone number programmed into my cell. I pass it by every time I go to call my friend John.

Or my parents.

I just scroll down and there it is.

I can tell you her area code was 315. I can tell you the rest of the numbers, but it probably belongs to someone else now. Sometimes I'm tempted to call it, just to see how many times it rings. Or to see who answers. And I could tell that person that I used to be good about calling her, despite how often she'd try to get me off the phone, because she didn't want me to spend money on that. On her voice. And of course, I could tell that person that's the one thing I want to hear, and sometimes cannot fathom that my chance is gone.

I can now go for days without thinking about her. But not much longer than that. Not weeks. Something will always happen. Her mass card will peek out of my wallet, or the girls, going through my jewelry box, will see one of the pins she gave to me. And they ask questions.

I've had two dreams that I remember. In one, she was younger, wearing horn-rimmed glasses, and looking sadly at me. I woke up wishing that my brain hadn't conjured that one up.

In the other, Lillian brought her to me, through a doorway, and said, "Look, it's your grandma."

Friday morning, at Hannah's Halloween party, I saw an older woman that reminded me so much of her. There was something about her face that caught me by surprise, even though I was certain she wasn't Italian. Maybe the shape of her nose, and how her hair was styled.

There are times when I'm in my in-laws' house, and I see a picture of my mother-in-law's Eastern European mother, smiling and in her late 60s, and I can see my grandmother there. They look strangely alike.

Driving to school the other night, I heard the Four Tops singing Reach Out, and there she was. Well, actually, both of them, my grandmother and grandfather, because at some point I'd heard this song at their house on a radio, or with them in their car, and hearing it again brought back the love that is there always.

And what it also brings back is the sight of them on their patio preparing green beans for freezing, or the smell of their house, the candy dish, or the raspberries along the fence line behind their garage. I think of these things and the love comes, and the longing, and it fills everything, right up to the entire surface area of my skin, and then I think I must release some of it.

The love and the longing, like scent molecules in air. It clouds and disperses, and I wipe away some tears and go about my business of being. Here.

In the Spring after her death, while we were raking the front yard, the kids were laughing and playing around us, and when I looked up and saw my girls, I also saw something else. In my head, I could see my grandparents sitting in their patio chairs watching their great-grandchildren romp around, giddy with Spring fever. I knew exactly what look my grandfather would have upon his face, the same face that seldom revealed much. I knew that he'd smile and nod. And my grandmother too, nodding her approval and love and affection with each bob of her head. It all left me a little breathless, like I'd been granted a gift, but the kind that you open and take in quickly because it will melt away.

I've been thinking about departure. I see the previews for Hereafter, and yes, I'd like Clint Eastwood to answer for me what happens after death.

Do you feel lucky, Kelly? Do ya?

I'd like to ask him and Matt Damon and the lady that survives the giant wave that swallowed up Indonesia. Where are my grandparents? Where is my husband's brother? Where did they go? I will take the light and love category, that set of beliefs. I will take the foggy but infinitely bright reunion, where the once sharply defined human form becomes amorphous. All the better to float around in complete happiness with.

I will take Heaven for $1000, Alex.

That's what my grandmother believed in.

This morning, while I was grocery shopping, someone said her name. And I smiled as I walked past the cold chill of the freezer cases, with a cart full of whatever.

That's the way they come back. That's the way they say hello, using the only voice they can.

That's what I believe in.

Happy Birthday Lillian

Dear Lillian,

For bloggers who often write about their children, I have committed one of the cardinal sins of the blogworld.

Your birthday passed, without the ubiquitous letter I was supposed to post. I kept meaning to sit down, and it was certainly on my to-do list, but I had two tests in the span of a week, out-of-town guests and a party to plan, lots of things to bake and cook. It fell by the wayside.

Well, that, and every time I considered how to begin, I kept coming up with things like:

To my beautiful demon, or

Dear Child-Who-Keeps-Waking-Me-Up-At-4:30am-To-Use-The-Bathroom, or

Dear Lily, You're getting a little bit nicer these days, or

Birthday Girl, I'm almost over the PTSD brought on by your infancy.

And then I was like, birthday letters are supposed to be nice and lovely and filled with flowery language singing the praises of one's child. Not a run-down of all the things you were supposed to outgrow after turning 4.

But listen, I don't think there's any crime in telling the world that you're still a...challenge. You have been from the get-go. Most kids are, in their own unique snowflake kind of way.

Our chief priority is getting you to understand the world is a better place if we're all not assholes to each other. This includes trying to get you to realize you shouldn't close your sister's arm in the car door, or draw on her pictures, call her a poop poop, or throw things at her. I mean, I know she's not perfect either, but I'm estimating the bad behavior is really about 80/20, and guess who's the 80?

It's completely not easy being 5: having snacks brought to you, school days involving paint and glitter and dry-erase boards, watching Curious George and going to friends' houses to occupy afternoons.

(Wait a second, that sounds amazingly easy AND magical. It's a world I want to inhabit, now.)

But I have seen some improvements. You're at least willing to entertain logic. If I give you the chance, you'll often make the right decisions. You apologize more willingly for your infractions these days, and somehow you're sticking to your decision to be a vegetarian despite having one day that was full of bacon. That one is difficult for you. You love animals and want to protect them, so why do they taste good? It's a question I'm unable to answer for you, love.

God knows, you keep me all kinds of entertained.

The night before your party, we were all watching a stand-up routine by Jim Gaffigan on Comedy Central. It was generally kid-friendly, and you and Hannah enjoyed the bit about camping, and how crazy the entire concept is. Listening to you both laugh at his mannerisms and inflections killed me. On the way up the stairs to bed, you tried out your own routine on me, borrowing heavily from the material you'd just heard, and trying your best to mimic his every blank look and perplexed affectation. It's funny how sometimes you crave an audience. That's your personality: song, dance, comic bit, you like to have people's attention.

Except when you don't. Like when people sing Happy Birthday to you. I had to hold you for this year's song. One day, I believe, my children will be able to hear that tune without crying.

Lillian, I give you a hard time. And you give me a hard time. But I love you and couldn't live a day without you. (Well, maybe a day or two, provided you were hanging with your grandparents. I'd try that.)

You really are so special, and I know one day your creativity and assertiveness will suit you well, and turn you into a kick-ass woman.

Happy 5th Birthday, belatedly, on the blogosphere, to my girl.

Love, Mama

Untitled Miscellany

What I have is nothing.

Nothing to give you, at least.

It was totally supposed to not be raining today, so the meteorologists are a bunch of lying liars. I just completed my application to the University of Pennsylvania School of Nursing, and instead of feeling relieved, I feel like some sort of poseur. Seriously, Kel? Seriously? (If you cannot tell, it's one of my 'off' days.)

I'm counting down to the cats. I have about two weeks until Anatomy & Physiology foists a dead cat upon me, ready for me to make sagittal or transverse or God knows whatever else kinds of cuts to, and I have to say, I'm disturbed less by the idea of cutting a dead animal than thinking about exactly where that animal came from. That bothers me.

And I'm a dog person. Probably these are cats from kill shelters? I don't know where else they'd come from, unless people who've had their cats euthanized can consent to donating their bodies to science? I find that less plausible than my former idea. Maybe because it's raining, and I'm feeling not-so-very confident in the world.

Also, I burned the hell out of some apple muffins this morning. Their bottoms were as black as coal, which is highly undesirable in a baked good. Although I'd like to pretend otherwise. (What, you've never heard of Martha Stewart's 'Mostly Fine Except for the Hideously Blackened Bottom Muffins'?) They actually were tasty and moist, if you ate it with a fork and stopped 1/2 inch above the bottom. Which is so NOT how to eat a muffin.

This led to three smoke detectors going off at the same time, and I frantically ran back and forth between rooms trying to fan them with an old New Yorker. Finally, I had to climb a chair and just take them off the wall. I had really good follow-up skills though, after finally ridding the house of the smoke. I actually went around and put all three back in their places, ready to call me out on my iffy baking skills some other time.

In other news, I've started and stopped an open letter to gay kids like seven times. Maybe eight. Why? I don't know. Well, I know the 'why' in terms of why I'd be writing one. Because I don't want any more kids to jump off bridges or hang themselves in their rooms or shoot themselves in the head. I don't know why I keep stopping the letter. It's really an epidemic, and we're sending these kids horrible mixed messages. On one side, there are the people I consider the smart ones, telling these kids they have value and inherent worth and need to stick around. And then there are the others, who are in favor of silly policies like Don't Ask, Don't Tell or who campaign on overturning such silly policies, and don't. When we're still trying to define what makes a legitimate couple, on a state by state basis...it's all rather disheartening. And we want to do something about bullies at the school level. Wouldn't the top be a great place to start? Government? Laws? Equality? I feel like wishing for a superhero to save bullied kids is actually more plausible than waiting for anyone in government to actively make a change that will stick.

It's raining, like I said. Maybe I'll try again when the sun comes out.

Squawkers Owes Me One

Meet Squawker McCaw. This computerized bird is as close to a pet as we're going to get here, until I'm gainfully employed and we can potentially afford $500.00 teeth cleanings for a non-shedding, non-yippy, non-drooly, very Zen dog that exists in some magical universe. I'd love a pet, personally. I've been lobbying for a guinea pig for years, to no avail. For a while, I was very hung up on a beautiful Border Collie found on Petfinder. I even wrote to inquire about her, only to find out she probably would not find my two small children delightful.

My husband is really stubborn about practical matters! Like the fact that woodchips and saltlicks for a rodent probably are not in the budget.

So I got this parrot for Hannah for Christmas a few years back. It's so lifelike (if you ignore the sounds of gears working) that Hannah has taken to telling people we have an actual parrot. Once, in class, she told everyone that her parrot was sick. Prayers for Squawker's well-being were commenced, and I had to gently tell her teacher that Squawkers runs on a shitload of double A's, gets the hiccups after 'eating' a biscuit too quickly, and farts via remote control. So it is a pet in the way that my children have strong feelings for it, but it is not a pet in the more traditional, beating-heart kind of way.

Poor Squawker's right foot has been broken for a while. Dropped by an overstimulated Lillian one afternoon, it came off. David has tried valiantly to repair the fracture over and over, and announced the last time it came off that one more break and Squawkers would unfortunately have to take up residence in the nearest landfill. I was not around for this proclamation, or if I was, I tuned it out as just another shit-said-by-dad kind of thing.

Well, yesterday was the day.

Squawkers, with right foot severed once again, was placed in the trash and taken out. This was done without anyone's knowledge but the offending party's. After the original McCaw-Destroyer had gone to bed, I found David and Hannah in the sunroom creating a Tinkertoy airplane.

Casually, David brought up Squawker's new whereabouts, and instantly, Hannah started a trembling cry, looking for me to intercede. Which I did.

"That thing cost me $75.00."

"I said it would be trashed the next time the foot came off."

"The kids really love it."

"I'm tired of trying to repair that foot."

"It's really a great toy. You know, if we can't get a REAL pet."

"It's in the trash!"

With an amazingly dramatic sigh and a few curse words, David made his way out to the trash cans. The brightness of the outside garage light silhouetted him as he lifted the lid. I watched as the dark shape of him blended in with the trash can and the bag. I watched his movements for a while, wondering if Squawkers would be covered in some kind of post-meal debris. I envisioned pizza sauce all over manufactured wings, or cantaloupe seeds in a mechanical beak. Finally, I saw David lift it up and turn, the hooked beak of our toy-shop pet recognizable in the spotlight.

Squawkers was back home, broken foot and all, completely clean. Down into the basement David disappeared, coming back up a few moments later with Squawker's foot wrapped tightly in wire. The bird leaned a bit to the side, but turning it on, we were greeted with a loud "Hel-lo!" and then a "What-ever!"

Apparently, it doesn't hold a grudge.

Hannah went to bed happily, without holding one either.

An Ode to Late Summer

I love late summer.

I'm probably not alone or unique in my adoration of this particular part of the season. But I love it for its glimpse of the future and its rather steadfast hold on the present. Right now, as I type, the kids are playing outside with jackets on. And shorts. In an hour or so, the kids will abandon them, leaving outerwear strewn on the deck as the summer sun does its job.

We've dug out the blankets: Hannah with her baby quilt that doesn't even cover her body when it's stretched out lengthwise, and Lillian, with her crocheted orange blanket made by her great-grandmother. In the mornings now, we might need them. With windows open, the house feels pleasantly chilled when we wake.

And I like this dichotomy. The need to cover-up and the need to shed. Cold and warmth, all in the span of a day.

The kids still have a sense of their freedom, and I suppose in a few days, the changing of the calendar to September might put a damper on that. But now they play with zero sense of impending doom. Now they play like it's June.

This weekend, with more heat approaching, we'll probably see friends and grill. And also find a place to stack the gigantic pile of firewood. The sun gives off signs of its impending hibernation. It hangs around less, its visits truncated. When it goes away, we light fires. And sit by them. We go through firewood like candy, and usually, when we go to bed, there are still embers glowing orange.

I look forward to this, but knowing I'll miss the particular fire of the sun.

We still have some trips to go. An amusement park up North. Ocean City, NJ. We go when everyone else leaves. We shun long lines and crowds. I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'll miss summer, the kids driving me insane, the heat, a relatively unfettered schedule. I'll miss an outside welcoming and accessible, Coronas with a wedge of tart lime, people walking by. I'll miss iced coffee. I'll miss the trees, full and vibrant and green.

But there's still something about the bare tree, stately in its exposure. A group of them, all packed in together, as if for warmth, does something to my heart.

Skeletal in the waning light, the winter-bare tree merely goes to bed early. It's right there with us. Waiting for the sun.

Things I'm Currently Wondering

Why is The Real World still on?

Because according to MTV, the 'real world' consists of an expensively decorated loft done just so for a group of 20-year olds, who will promptly vomit all over it as soon as introductions are made.

Remember back in the day when they actually had people with personalities on that show? Remember Heather B? And Julie from somewhere down south? Remember Pedro? I loved Pedro. They actually filmed people with jobs and aspirations. Jud was a comic book writer. Pam was a med student. The ubiquitous hot tub hadn't yet arrived on scene.

Remember how Rachel tried to hide her belly button piercing from her very Catholic, very traditional mother?

Can you imagine a time when a navel-piercing was controversial?

Do I sound like a curmudgeon? Because I totally feel like a curmudgeon.

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How do stink bugs get inside my house? I find their little carcasses on the wood floor, turned belly (thorax?) up, and sometimes I hear them plunking against a window.

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Why all the froth over the Ground Zero Mosque? And who was the wizard that came up with such a hyperbolic name for what is essentially a community center? It was probably Mama Grizzly herself, what with her 'stabbed heart' and all. She acts like Osama Bin Laden himself is the project manager. Sheesh.

This blog shows some places that are in the same general vicinity as the proposed house of worship, whose congregants which would worship, you know, God, and not planes flying into buildings, as Mama Grizzly would have you believe. Then perhaps they'd take a swim and a shower, and see a show in the proposed auditorium, and then buy some snacks.

So, just to be clear, we're down with sex and gambling on 'hallowed ground.' That's rockin'. But none of them Muslim folk. Gotcha.

Shouldn't we encourage voices of moderation? Shouldn't we listen to Fareed Zakaria when he says, 'If there is ever going to be a reformist movement in Islam, it is going to emerge from places like the proposed institute.'

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Will the roofer show up on time to give an estimate of slate roof repair, chimney repointing, gutter replacement and all manner of other things that make the sound ca-ching? Or will I be spending all afternoon wondering where the hell he is?


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What is up with all the 'Girl With' novels? Are these something I should be reading? I've gotten the cautious go-ahead from a trusted friend with impeccable literary taste, and heard family members talk about how good they are.

But, without even having read them, I'm wondering if the late author was a misogynist dressed up as the opposite. I'm not sure I have the stomach for them right now, although hearing that Daniel Craig is going to be playing a lead helps. I have zero problem with reading a book that allows me to envision him at length.

Still, with all that's happening in the world, The Girl Who Purchased an Ice Cream Cone and Ate It Under A Shady Tree is probably more my speed.

GI Kelly Seeks to Impress Denzel Washington

Last night, my chemistry professor said we remaining kids were the Navy SEALS of summer students.

That's right. Not only was I able to slide under the 'kids' umbrella, but I can now compare myself to a guy that willingly jumps off a boat into the rough seas -- harnessed to a hell of a lot of gear -- who somehow has to swim to shore ready to bust out an AK and mow down evil-doers.

I was grateful for the comparison, without the requirement of a buzz cut.


We started out a class of 27, and now 14 remain. This shit is hard, yo.

And also last night, some asshole in my lab was trying to copy our figures last night. This is the same guy who decided to schedule a 9-day vacation in the middle of a 6-week summer course. And he wanted the professor to give him a make-up test for the one he'd be missing. And our professor was all like, "Um...no."

I wanted to take him aside and say, 'You're not Navy SEALS material, son, otherwise you'd know that you cannot copy our figures for your own acid/base titration. Now drop and give me 20, and then get the hell out of here.'

Speaking of push-ups, I had a dream about Denzel Washington last night. We were in a long hallway in some building constructed by the architects of my subconscious, and I was trying to show Denzel that I could do walking push-ups. (You know, where you do a plank and then walk forward and then do a push-up, walk forward again and then do another push-up? No? Okay, well I know for a fact that Jillian Michaels does staggered push-ups, so this is my own personal variation on them. (Note to self: copyright the walking push-up today.))

But get this. My hands were just covered in lotion. Just covered. And how can you impress Denzel Washington with your athletic prowess if your hands have just been dipped in a big ol' vat of Curel?

The answer, of course, is that you cannot. My hands were slipping on the beautifully finished wood floor of my brain, and so I had to stand back up and, rather embarrassingly, wipe my hands on my shorts.

I don't recall Denzel's dream expression, but I like to think it was this:


Practically smoldering. Despite my slippery palms, despite my questionable fitness routine. He was impressed, my friends. Totally. And then my subconscious was all, 'That's quite enough Denzel, Kelly,' and that was it. Gone, and most likely, never to appear again.

I do think Denzel would really enjoy the fact that I can do real push-ups, and not those wimpy on-your-knees variety. And I think he's be impressed by my Navy SEALS-like tenacity when it comes to chemistry.

I'm just not going to wait by the phone for him to call and congratulate me.