I will be traveling the next month or so, and posting will be slight or nonexistent, depending on the computers I am able to find, and the time. I will post if I am able, but don’t expect too much. It is what it is, and what it looks like now, is, that it will be a less is less scenario. See you in a month or two, or six or seven. I am not able to pin myself down, because I simply don’t know where life will take me, or what I will be doing. Regardless of not knowing that, I do know that I will miss you, and I will check in from time to time. It is addictive, sitting in front of a computer screen. Sometimes the words pour out from a bottomless well of ideas, and sometimes, it is a draught. Nothing is in the well, but sludgy half-formed ideas and leftovers; recycling is okay for some things, but definitely not for those of us that write or paint. For one thing, everyone knows, and that kind of puts paid to it right then and there. Even if they don’t know, something begins to sound overly familiar, and one is considered unoriginal, or far worse, boring. So just a short note to let you know that I am still around for the foreseeable future, but not in any predictable capacity. I will be more involved with life and less involved with posting and myself and my concerns. It won’t be any great loss to anyone, least of all, myself. Just think of it as an unpaid vacation from an unpaid, self-imposed job! Have fun, and I will certainly try.

When life gets in the way, you just have to go with it. Farewell, my lovelies, and I will see you when I see you.

They saw your face, and it was crumpled under the weight of the world. All the puzzles and mysteries of mankind were weighing on your small, slight shoulders. Your mouth was opened in a wordless cry of wonder and sorrow. Some wanted to take that from you, but found they could not. Instead they sat and watched, and wondered, crossing wondering fingers and hoping that in your travels, you found refuge and light. Hoping that you found love and peace. You need one to attain the other, so they wished that you would have both, and find that the world is not so bad in your small corner of it.

You are an old soul with ancient eyes, eyes so wise that others turn away in confusion, wondering who you are, and what made you so wise and so finished. Wednesday’s child is full of woe, they say, but I say it is knowledge and being privy to things that others can only dream about. You sailed into life on stormy seas but found a safe berth. You did not plan your arrival, but were swept into life so suddenly that it left you gasping. What is this strange new place where lights almost burn you with their intensity? Why are the sounds so sharp and clear, when you are used to the muted symphonies that you once knew? Where is the soft ebb and gently rocking tide that lulled you into sleep and wakefulness, and will it ever return?

This is what life is: a sometimes strange, frightening, joyous, adventure. Fortunately it is not all those things at the same time, because that would be very difficult to manage. I have no memories of being a baby, so I don’t know what it was like to bound into life, but I know what it looks like to babies. They all seem stunned by their strange new world, and are at a loss to explain it to themselves in any way that makes sense. Initially they must wonder how on earth they landed where they did, and like tiny explorers of a brave new world, they find their footing and set out to explore it. They begin to recognize the people who mean the most to them, and they flirt, they smile, with all the charm they can muster at their disposal. As an adult I envy them that easy charm and effortless charisma that they all possess.

Life is indeed an adventure and every baby’s first smile is the distillation of pure love and amazement, at finding themselves in such an interesting place. Life ceases to be frightening and becomes one long endless exploration of possibilities and certainties. The first steps, the first words, are all viewed and heard with wonder; the first time a tiny hand clasps a finger, there is a rush of love so overpowering that we adults are left to wonder at the power of someone so small, so perfect, and yet so human, all at once.

We want better things for our babies and grandchildren than we experienced ourselves. Even those of us with happy childhoods want the best for those we love, and nothing ever seems good enough for the intrepid, constantly amazed new citizens of our lives. The look of wonder on a baby or a child’s face can bring a smile to the most jaded adult face, and the sounds of soft sweet voices can stop us in our tracks. There are many gifts that we will give and receive in our lives, but nothing matches the joy and wonder we feel when we welcome a new member into the family. Every baby is important to their family, and all of them are part of the human condition, and just as important to the world. Some of them may become great on the world stage, some of them may become great on the stages of their own lives, most of them will live a life that is ordinary, and beautiful in it’s very ordinariness and simplicity.

Today we celebrate babies and their parents, and the courage of both. It isn’t easy being a baby or a parent, but both have their own rewards, so rich and indescribable, that you have to be one to appreciate it! If most babies could speak, immediately, they would probably want a long list of answers to a long list of questions, many of which would astonish us. On most of my baby pictures, I look solemn and owlish, and yet that was only the public face I wore. The one I kept for myself must surely have been different. Just as it is different every year of my life. Only now, the public face begins to match the private face and the life I live. I am a baby again, open to new explorations and people, open to joys and wonders I couldn’t imagine, open to navigating stormy seas, because I am loved. According to the old nursery rhyme, I was born on a Thursday, and thus, had far to go. It was an accurate predictor, because I have moved some 20 plus times in my married life. Only now has the wanderlust left us, and deposited us in a small place with the treasures of our lives. We never had money, and we never will, but the riches we find in our children and grandchildren are indescribable. Maybe a simple smile and an I love you can’t bring the world to it’s knees, but it can enrich and color our lives beyond measure.

The poet is a Rabelaisian, hail fellow well met type of character. His role in life, at least as he sees it, is to be amusing, and to be amused, and he has succeeded in making a cottage industry of it. Less well known about him, is that he is very intelligent; coupled with his charm, that can advance him beyond his wildest dreams, or trap him in a nightmare of epic proportions. What are nightmares but dreams turned inside out? What are dreams, but the side of the street less traveled. Our poet dares to dream and in living color, and is a man of many talents and singular tastes.

The knight is pale and intense, he is gentle, but ferocious, and focused. He eyes life with a certain mistrust and as something to be overcome. Does he see everything that we have forbade ourselves from seeing? Who is wiser then, is it the man who looks but doesn’t see, or the man who sees everything and does what must be done? The lady or the tiger, the knight or the poet? When the bells ring sonorously or with joy, who do they ring for? Whose footsteps on the ladder of life are joyful and whose are dragging with dread? Would you be surprised if everything that you thought was right, was wrong? You can read a book, but can you read people? Do you turn the pages or do you focus on the paragraphs they present to you? What have they left out in their rush to enlighten you and cut you off at the past? What have you left out when you gather the tangled skeins and attempt to weave them together? Would you rather be the poet or the knight, and how many tomorrows would your choices have? Would you gently go into that good knight and fight the good fight, or would you drift through life making merry and amusing yourself with intrigues? If the latter, then at some point, you will certainly need a knight, and not just at midsummer.

Do the bonds forged in childhood, in whispers and waves of laughter and imagination, last beyond their uttering, or do they go out into the world before you? Do you say pretty words and harbor ugly thoughts, or do you say little and feel much? Whether a knight or a poet, you will be subject to the same misinterpretation. Everyone cheers the poet on, even as they raise the metaphorical knife to plunge into his dreams and gut his golden tomorrows. The knight is armored with more than laughter and golden dreams, and is more often left alone. It may be his choice, or it may be a choice he is handed, after the decision has been made by someone else, but it is a reprieve, and he will take it with grateful, stoic amusement, and retire to make his plans again. His tomorrows are washed in streams of sweet water dappled with rainbows and fairy dust. He hangs them to dry as his standard, and they gently dance in the breeze, sounding as clear and musical as the silvery bells on fairy slippers.

We are not always a poet or a knight unless we are very young; as we age, we take on and slough off characteristics like a chameleon, fearing to be ourselves and fearing that someone will look into our eyes and see our souls, and name us. We fear that being known will undo us, when it is actually being believed that does us in. Belief means we need to be accountable, and many a poet or knight has floundered under such expectations as that. The rest of us, those who couldn’t pen a quatrain or defeat a dragon seem to manage much better. We live in reality much of the time and we learn to deal with life as it is, not as it should be. Our politicians are finally discovering that same fact, and it seems to terrify them. Perhaps they see themselves as would-be knights, but are instead, drunken poets incapable of crafting a logical argument, let alone a verse of rhyme or doggerel. Is there really a difference with people like that?

Good knight sweet prince and minstrel fair. We never knew you at all, but you never knew yourselves either. We can not mourn what we never knew, or shed a tear for a creature out of someone else’s imagination. Who were you and where did you go, and should we even wonder, or waste the time to wonder? Myself, I would bet on a knight that wasn’t a politician, and I might buy a poet’s book, but I would not invest in either. Still, I would hold a grudging respect for anyone who tilted at a windmill, as long as it was a windmill, and there was a method to his madness. After all, what is madness but logic and order turned inside out. They are distant cousins and we know them when we see them. The one we need to watch out for, is the person who calls madness logic and gets someone to agree with him. Those are the scary ones, and sadly, they almost always start with a knight or a poet, or someone who is neither, but carries a pen and a lance. Just in case. There are fools to conquer and worlds to claim, just don’t let them have part of yours.

Well, here we are, and it is still winter. The birds in my back yard seem terribly confused. Like little feathered Al Gores, they are convinced that there is massive warming, and they seem to have been convinced since November, when they inexplicably returned from their vacations a quart short, and a few months early. By a few months early, I mean a lot of months early. March is when I expect to see the beaked warriors taking over my yard and upstairs porch, not November. This year, the birds and squirrels seem to have disappeared in July. When has that ever happened before? I can’t remember a time in past or recent memory. Perhaps the birds know something that we don’t, but what that would be, I don’t know, since I don’t think it indicates global warming, or whatever they are calling it this time around. What is odd, is that they left when it was warm, and returned when it was cold. If it is too cold for me, how can it be warm enough for my little furry and feathered friends? I have been putting out pieces of whole grain bread and anything else that I think they might like, to help with the inhospitable climate. To thank me, they seem to have chosen a bizarre method: they cluster around the bedroom window, where an old and popular nest is built, and scream shrilly at 7 every morning. I suppose I should be grateful that it isn’t summer, because then they would be piping gladly at 6 a.m. I sometimes wonder what it is exactly that sets them off, but recently I have been wondering why they are so off their schedule. Surely they can tell that the light is not the same, and when the temperatures hover below zero or close to freezing, they have to know they’re not in Florida anymore.

Animals have filled my thoughts lately, because they are hanging around the periphery of my consciousness and intruding way too early in the morning. My caged bird is behaving much the same as always, but her wild cousins are seriously confused. Besides the animals there are always questions floating around that remain unanswered. Why doesn’t anyone make a long nightgown? Some of us like the long ones, but they are difficult to find. Even a few years ago they were hanging out in every department store waving and winking at all comers with cheery insouciance. Now they are no more. I am not a pajama person, I am a nightgown person, and although I have jammys, I prefer nightgowns, especially long ones, and never more so than in the discontent of my winters. Stores are always geared toward the future, so that in February you can buy a bathing suit, but you can’t buy winter boots or gloves most places. Logically that would mean that in June, I should be able to buy a nice long cotton or flannel nightgown, but ixnay on that. Clearly stores do not have people who like to put on their gowns and curl up in a cozy chair to read an intriguing or even boring book, or watch TV of a winter’s evening. Clearly the buyers are geared toward a future I am already out of step with. Did people suddenly mutate and lose their legs when I wasn’t looking? Did they suddenly decide that they don’t need what I do?

In the same vein, why do all stores carry one good brand of anything, and a half dozen or more really bad brands? If you have allergies, this disparity is even more pronounced, and you have to learn to do it yourself, or do without. This past week, I grew disgusted with baked goods, and ordered a new cookbook. The danger of subscribing to group feeds on certain topics, is that someone is always telling you what they just ate, what they want to eat, or what they have just ordered, in the hope of eating again. I have bought three cookbooks that I didn’t need in the past few weeks, simply because everyone was talking about them and I could no longer resist the siren song of Amazon. My latest find tells me how to bake gluten-free, egg-free, dairy-free, nut-free and several other frees that I can’t remember. I made the chocolate cupcakes, and four days later, they are still moist, soft, fudgey and delicious, although on day one, I thought they were too chocolatey and wasn’t going to eat them. Clearly there is something to be said for baking without a long list of products and leaving things sit for 24 hours. My next project is going to be making the red velvet cake for my chief taster, for Valentine’s Day. I won’t be home that weekend, so he needs a reminder that he is loved because he won’t answer the phone. If he were threatened with death or dismemberment, or both, for not picking up the phone, I can assure you that he would be dead and dismembered, because he hates talking on the phone. So do I, but it doesn’t stop me from vocal marathons several times a week.

Other things that I ponder this week: why are babies all so cute, except the ones that I’m not related to? Those babies are not worth a second glance, but mine are worth endless glances and verbal raptures! When did I turn into the kind of woman who routinely whips out her trusty iPod to show total strangers pictures of her grandchildren? Actually I can tell you exactly when that happened: late October, and now there is one more little man whose pictures will be displayed to every willing and unwilling person I manage to accost. Mind you I don’t just automatically do it; if a person is breathing, then I consider them fair game. Otherwise I leave them alone.

I can even remember a time when I cringed in the presence of people like me, and it wasn’t that long ago. Now I am one of them; people like me are sometimes called annoying, but more frequently we are called grandmothers. It’s what we do and it’s what people expect. I am not in the habit of giving people what they expect, unless it is the opportunity to say how beautiful my tiny relatives are. Then I am more than willing. Perhaps if the birds in my windows would add me to their twitter accounts, and tweet me pictures of their offspring, I wouldn’t mind their endless chatter at 7 a.m. Then again maybe I would, unless they also found me a long flannel nightgown and another cookbook I don’t need. I’m a slave to comfort and self-indulgence, and it’s time the birds discovered that.

To my mind, there is nothing more sinfully delightful than taking off from modern life and indulging myself in a period piece. Jane immediately comes to mind. She is saucy, forthright, unflinchingly honest, and just a little daring for her own time. Jane lived in the past and observed it’s conventions, but she wrote for the future. She wrote for a time that she could see beckoning from a golden rainbow of promise, that was called tomorrow. Her heroines are uniformly modern in outlook; they are independent women stuck in a time of dependency and should and shouldn’t. For a woman in Jane’s time, there was a very proscribed and restricted life and sets of circumstances. Society was very much interested in the lives of others, and they were especially interested in commenting loudly and frequently on those lives. For a private person like Jane, it must have been anathematic to see and hear all that she did. She was a clergyman’s daughter, and lived a very restricted life, and must always have been forced to curb her lively imagination and tongue in the presence of others. Her times and mores would bring a modern woman to her knees, but she managed and was well liked, despite the pain of being Jane. She lived in the real world and skewered it mercilessly in her fantasy worlds where her heroines were lovely independent women who knew their own minds and acted on it. They had husbands and fathers, but politely and determinedly, lived their own lives, and without benefit of telling tales like Scheherazade, they were allowed some leeway and discretion in their choices.

Used as we are to our lives and doing as we please, there is still something in the heart and souls of those enduring heroines that catch our fancy, and beguiled us into watching endless adaptations. Some are good, and some are not worthy of our time and notice. I just finished watching an adaptation of Emma. Prior to this one, I have seen two other ones that I liked very much; both were done by the BBC, and were faithful to the book and the lady in question. I do not count the version with Gwynneth Paltrow because I found her to be annoying and affected. The problem with Emma is that actresses often make a simple uncomplicated girl with boundless enthusiasms, seem trivial and jejune.

I did want to like Masterpiece Theatre’s latest efforts in that direction, but I was doomed to disappointment. I did like the hair and makeup, which were simple and seemed representative of the period. I hate it when ladies of the early 19th century are made to look like tarts and painted dolls, so it was refreshing that the maquillage was simple and understated, pink eyeshadow not withstanding. The casting was well done except for Emma and Jane Fairfax. Jane should be a more sober and deliberate character as a counterpoint to Emma, but alas, was given to gushing. Poor Emma was a silly girl who was given to making bizarre expressions over and over again. She smiled and gaped. Excessively and tediously. She attempted to master, but never did, a third expression of dull surprise. She was dull and I was surprised, because how does one make Emma so dull and lifeless? Emma looked more like a fish gasping for air than a flesh and blood girl. I missed part one, but sadly I didn’t miss anything but two hours that I will never regain.

In the past, if there was one thing that the British did well, it was the past. Alas, it is not always the case. What they did get right was the look of the period. There is something so very much like a fairytale about that period, as though people were dream walking through their lives and times. I like slipping in and out of people’s lives whether they are flesh or blood or ink and paper committed to celluloid. I do not consider myself a song or a symphony, but more like a leitmotif. One minute I am definitely there, and the next, I am just gone with no intention of staying longer or mounting a return. I have no interest in sustained interest, if you will, which is why I must find the fictions and facts of others so fascinating. I was born to observe and live life through a veil. Sometimes it is sheer, and sometimes it is opaque, but always, it is a safety net, reminding me that like Jane, there are places that I can not, and should never venture to go.

Despite the horrors of bad casting, and worse directing, I am giving the adaptation a pass. It was a welcome refuge from the present, and a lovely trip to a time that seems like a distant, unknown country to modern eyes and lives. It is always a delight, though sometimes a muted delight, to travel to the early 19th century with Jane. She lived quietly, and quite often through her spirited heroines, but despite an early death, she lives on today in books, minds and hearts. We cheer her ladies every success, and suffer through their mishaps and disgraces, but most importantly, we are cosseted and endlessly spoiled by a woman who was ahead of her times, and perhaps even ahead of our times. What, would she make of us, and what would she write about if she were here today? Would her satirical eye land on us and expose us to her trenchant wit and observations, or would we be too tedious for her to contemplate, and would that force her to look beyond us into a world of tomorrows that might never come? Whatever the case might be, Jane would be writing and thinking, and if a small sly smile played upon her lips, could anyone blame her? I always think of Mr. Darcy as the man that got away; maybe even now she pursues him with her thoughts and wistful dreams. I would like to think that someone who gave so much should be rewarded sometime, so I will think of Jane in a huge mansion, sitting at a desk in a cozy room. Mr. Darcy mends her pens and fetches her paper, and is her muse forever, and beyond. Sometimes he does even more for her, but we won’t talk about that. It wouldn’t be proper for the discussion of a clergyman’s daughter. Instead we will smile and wish her all the best. She gave us all of her best, so we will wish her ours. I am content with my Mr. Knightley/Mr. Darcy, and I am sad that the lively girl with the wicked pen and ready laugh couldn’t find her own. Good day my lady, and may all of your tomorrows never end, and may night never fall on the light of your imagination. After 200 years it still shines brightly, and we are mesmerized by your dreams and secret hopes. Wherever there are books, there will always be Jane, and her coterie of not so secret admirers. We are a vocal group and we pursue adaptations of her work as voraciously as we turn the pages of her novels. We even, in the privacy of our own thoughts, think of her as Jane. She is very rarely Miss Austen or Jane Austen, she is simply, sublimely, perfectly, our Jane. Somehow, I think that suits her. I can almost see her smile through the mists of time, and incline her head as she graciously accepts our delighted, smiles, tears, and laughter. Then too, I can see her horror on viewing one of the less successful adaptations. Like Queen Victoria, Jane would not be amused.

Today marks a new chapter in the song of my life. Another baby arrived with fanfare and good wishes from the angels as he begins his life on earth. He is as prepared as most of us were. He has two hands and two feet, two eyes, two ears and one mouth. Most importantly, he has two parents who love each other and will love him for his entire life, no matter how long or short it is. In other words, they are in it for the long haul, and he will learn some wonderful and amazing things from them. He will learn that truth and love are not only beautiful, and amazing things, but that they are important in every journey. He will learn that the love of his parents is what brought him here, and it is what will help him in his journey as he passes through the years. No matter how good or bad the years are, we couldn’t do it without love. John Donne famously said that no man is an island, and nowhere is that more true, than when the island is a sweet little man who still has stardust and God’s kiss on his brow, when he arrives. Nothing in the security and warmth of his pre-birth accommodations will have prepared him for the amazing carnival that is life. Nothing ever really prepares any of us for the lives we are thrust into, until we are older and have exercised our freedom of choice as an entree into that life. For babies, life may seem more random, but God knows what he is doing, and the best babies always have the most exceptional parents.

From his father, he will learn the strength of love, and feel it when two blue eyes look into his and communicate in silent wonder and benediction, for the miracle that is his life. He will always feel secure with his father’s arms and presence, and he will learn to laugh, to ask questions, and the true meaning of courage. He will also learn the meaning of the word irony, and of the word sarcasm, and some day he will delight in putting those two together to form amazing puzzles of his very own words and thoughts. He will learn that the strongest men know how to be gentle, and how to love, and it is a lesson that he will carry with him all of the days that number his life. He will learn that his mother is strong and has courage as well as love and whimsy, and he will grow secure feeling safe in the house that love built. He will learn from both of his parents that laughter is a wonderful companion, and that sometimes it can chase away the darkness and the pain. He will also learn that sometimes laughter is just laughter, and is good for it’s own sake, but that it is also a song on the hearts and lips of those who stride from today into tomorrow, without fear, without guile, without regrets.

I envy him learning his life lessons at the feet of two such lovely people. They will know him for who he truly is, and not just the face that the world sees. His heart will be safe in their hands, and he will never forget them. It is not good luck to have good parents, it is the best luck, and it is only granted to a few lucky people. People that swim in moonbeams and hitch rides on transports of the purest starlight, are the lucky people that have good parents. The rest of us just have parents, and whether we know it or not, we have missed something so basic, that we briefly mourn it when we know. Even if we don’t name what it is that makes our souls weep, some part of us knows, and wishes us luck with our journey down gray streets, towards the golden light of happiness and freedom. It is ever so much easier when you are born of love, into love.

He will learn that love, laughter, understanding and hope can get him through the darkest days and nights. He will learn that those same things are what make the brightest days so wonderful. He will find life and his parents so entrancing, that he will tell them songs and stories, and be surprised that not everyone can tell their parents everything, without fear of reprisal. It will surprise him that not all parents are as wonderful as his, and he will treasure his extended family for who they are, not for what they are. He will learn to hear the invisible music of the heart and to dance with it fixed firmly in his mind and heart. He will be light and agile on his feet, both physically and mentally. He will be vulnerable, but brave, and he will ask the most astonishing questions of everyone he knows. Not everyone will know the answer, but he will earnestly tell them to talk to his parents: they know everything, and they do. If they don’t know, they will find the answers, and he will never go wrong trusting or believing them.

Life will be a feast because his parents are intelligent, and they also know how to cook and enjoy life. His mother will make him wonderful food that is good and nutritious, and on holidays and his birthdays, she will make him wonderful edifices of sugary delight and enchantment. He will find a willing friend and companion in his cousin, and he will find his Aunt and Uncle equally enchanting. All of his aunts and uncles will be treasured, but some more than others.

He will learn about the mouse king and his consort, the angry duck and the magical kingdom, and will want to go there frequently, and once he does know, he will never want to leave there. His memories will be stored in the album of his mind, and he will view them frequently with all the pleasure and awe that a joyful heart can muster. He will always be real and never have to wonder who he is, because he is loved, and he always will be. His name will suit him and be his alone, no matter how many or how few others wear the same name. He will learn to be proud of himself and his accomplishments but not arrogant – his parents will see to that. If he is really lucky and looks in the right places, he will always have a shooting star to guide his footsteps and his mind in the right direction. If he just asks his parents, they will show him all the love, magic, and wonder that his searching, eager heart can hold. That is the best of luck, and maybe it is not luck but destiny. Whatever it is, it is his forever, and his eyes and heart will always know it and be grateful. Sleep well little man – the world is yours for the asking, as long as you say please and thank you. You will be born knowing that; lucky you and lucky us. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, and it’s going to be a wild ride, so fasten your seat belt and your smile. You are going to need both, but practice the smile first – it is the seat belt of your soul. In case I didn’t tell you that we love you, we do. Welcome, Jack, and may your life be nothing short of the miracle that it already is. You are my four leafed clover forever.

I have a post all ready to go, but I am waiting for the little traveler to arrive safe and sound before putting anything up, since I am a Celt, and therefore superstitious, not to mention wary of tempting fate!

In other news, it is another cold snowy day, even though today was advertised as warm, and that the snow was to stop last night just around midnight. Now I know why the Russians are just plain mean most of the time. Too much snow and not much of anything else. I don’t mind the snow or the shoveling these days, just the nasty cold and the wind. The bird who is much better equipped, and wears a feathered coat all year round, is too small to shovel, so that leaves me. I don’t blame the Russians for their foul manners and behavior on the world stage, considering what they have waiting at home for them. I am beginning to think of my home state as the antechamber to Siberia, and nobody wants to go there. If I had to guess, most people would put it on a par with Hell, although I think I’d rather be too cold than too hot. Every year when the seasons change, I debate that very subject with myself, but find that as soon as enough time has elapsed, my opinions waver somewhat, and I have never decisively come down on one side or the other. Still, I think that I prefer the heat of summer to a Siberian winter and/or Hell. Hell will never get cooler, although the summer eventually will. I’m already dreaming of lemonade, salads, fruit, cotton clothing, sandals, and the feeling of floating on currents of warm sticky air, perfumed with the songs of birds and the sad churning of butterfly wings.

So as you pass through your day, remember to say a prayer for the safe arrival of one very young man; his other grandmother and I are leaping out of our skins whenever the phone rings, and the phone has been ringing all day, at both houses. It will be a welcome diversion when the right call rings through and the rejoicing can begin. Babies are like Christmas, in that it seems we are waiting forever for them to arrive, and for the celebrations to commence. Unlike Christmas, babies aren’t over in a day, and we can rejoice every day, although I still haven’t heard any really good baby carols. Come to think of it, I don’t believe I have heard any at all. I think those are the songs without words that we hear in our hearts, and that make us glad all the days of our lives.

Yesterday I went to the dentist and picked up the new partial plate that he had ordered for me. It is supposed to correct my bite, something which previous dentists did not attempt, so today I have even more empathy for teething babies than I formerly had, and believe me, with three children, I had a lot of empathy for teething pains, both theirs and mine! I was told rather sternly that I had to keep the plate in for at least 24 hours in two days, when the good doctor will check for sore spots. Does my entire jaw and the sides of my face count?! I have never been one to do something half way, so this is a full on assault to my senses. There is not any actual pain, per se, but the feeling of something there, and something that is fixing a problem is undeniable.

I returned home from the dentist hungry and ready to chow down on the first thing I found. The first thing I found was a potato chip, and I soon gave up on that idea. I am beginning to think that it will be pudding and pureed vegetables for me for the next few days. I have a huge stock of juices and the ever present water, so it shouldn’t be very difficult, but I do wish that I hadn’t bit the side of my cheek trying to chew. Perhaps I should have just stuck to liquids yesterday, but I didn’t. Now I know better, not that I will ever have another partial plate to get used to. I don’t really like going to the dentist but I have found one that is personable, kind, and offers discounts to those who need a lot of work done. Those are all in themselves excellent qualities, but a word of advice on eating would have been equally appreciated. I suppose that they assumed I should know what not to do, but in that case, they guessed incorrectly, and so did I!

Still, I am living every child’s dream. The dream where something happens to you and all you can eat is ice cream, or some other form of sweet stodgy goodness. I would never say no to pudding, but I am beginning to think that I should not say yes either. Too many empty calories would impede the weight loss process, and after a week at my son’s house, I returned home with my jeans considerably looser. There is something to be said for eating good food in small amounts several times a day. For one thing it is wonderfully satisfying and your body craves it. Left to my own devices, I will resort to the monotony of eating the same thing for days at a time. I have also been known to actively look lustfully at candy and cookies. The cookie thing doesn’t rear it’s ugly head very often, but it does on occasion. Still, I don’t know anyone, and that includes my husband, who can eat more than a serving portion of those. If my husband, who can and does eat sweets obsessively can stop at one or two, you know you don’t want to be anywhere near those particular treats.

Today feels like a drinking day; I will no doubt have consumed at least a gallon of water and juices before bed time. At least for breakfast I can make a smoothie. I had those several times for breakfast at the Monkey’s house, and I felt awesome afterward. I returned home with sparkling eyes, rosy cheeks, and an undeniable sense of feeling really well. My husband even commented on my improved looks. Happiness and good food will do that for a person. Spending time with loved ones who can cook is wonderful; factor in a darling little man who is given to cheerful cooing and gummy smiles, and you have reached nirvana. At least I had, and it lasted for days. I am still in the afterglow of familial affection and better eating habits, although it wouldn’t take much for me to slide back into eating half a gluten free English muffin with soy cheese, a slice of bologna, and the ubiquitous pickle plank for lunch every day. There is something so effortless and seductive about low standards and laziness, so I have to fight the good fight, and remind myself that I actually am a functioning adult, and not a three year old.

I will deny my inner three year old even when I can chew again, and stick to things that are varied, delicious, and nutritious. No doubt I will have some detours along the way, but since I have more dental work scheduled in the near future that will also require me to keep my mouth and teeth out of commision for several hours, I should have a good running start at behaving myself where food is concerned. The main reason I am getting everything fixed is because I want to be able to eat more crudities, nuts, and healthy foods. I also want to be able to smile without scaring people, myself included. It is more than a little ironic that said work precludes that for the near future, at any rate. What is life without a soupcon of irony and a dash of mockery? I can tell you one thing: it would not be my life without a little of each.

In the meantime, I will behave myself in the present, and look forward to a future with everything in tact, dentition-wise, and a visit to another sweet baby, his parents, and three saucy kitties. Could life be any more blissful? It would be if I could get back to eating a snack of pistachios and carrot slices, as I contemplated kids, cats, and the meaning of life at the same time. All things considered, the journey is always worth it whether you are en route to loved ones or changing your life in some way. Change is not always a good thing, but neither is it always a bad thing. The older I get, the more I realize that life is more interesting with speed bumps and detours, if we can only manage to learn something from those bumps and detours. I salute those of you who routinely do learn something, and I am joining in to see what I can discover. It’s a good thing that life can last a long time, because I am going to need and enjoy every minute. As for now, I have a blueberry smoothie and a trip on the treadmill with a saucy bird, to look forward to. The speed bumps will be rescheduled until after lunch. Hopefully, they will be. I am still deciding who the bird and I will see on our travels today. I’m thinking Amsterdam, cheese, tulips, and Queen Beatrix, because we hold the Dutch to a higher standard, and Holland is very picturesque, quaint, modern, squalid, clean, and eclectic. But especially because we hold the Dutch to a higher standard, and if you don’t know that, you’re Better Off, Ted.

I read an article the other day that said it is all very nice to have someone say that they love you, but even nicer when they show you in concrete ways that they love you. All of us that are in relationships already know that, but it is important to remember on those cold gloomy days that someone loves us enough to stretch out a hand when we need it, and not expect anything in return. For me, it bears remembering, because I didn’t always get to hear those endearing words as often as I wanted to. My husband may never remember to take out the garbage without being prodded, but he has learned the charms of a disarming phrase or two, with, “I love you”, being at the top of the list. If he also wants to fib and tell me that I’m beautiful, it’s much appreciated, but not exactly practical. It has however, disarmed me from cataloging his faults on more than one occasion, so it is practical in regards to my beloved.

Practical love is doing the dishes or a load of clothes when the other person is too tired or too busy to do it. It’s not a substitute for those three magic words, but it does stand in loco parentis, for those times when something more than three little words are called for. It can do more good than all the sugar coated words in the world. Most recently, he not only said he loved me, but he got up at four in the morning, and got me up at the same time, for a trip to the airport. That was real, selfless love, because he had a full day at work ahead of him. At our house, full day implies indentured servitude. It means he gets to work at six in the morning, and will come home at ten or shortly thereafter, in the evening. This kind of loving sacrifice also took into account that it is often easier to rouse a slumbering wildebeest than to touch my shoulder and gently whisper, “Time to get up”. He never knows whether he will find the lady or the tiger, although he generally has discovered that it means dramatic declarations and vile expressions. He wakes up tired, but is a perfect angel, and I, alas, am all too often, something from another region, entirely.

Practical love is showing someone that they mean the world to you without saying a word. That kind of love is almost always selfless, because it sometimes means leaving a warm hearth and the comfort of a recliner that is molded to your contours, just to venture out into inclement weather to do something, be it lofty or mundane for the object of your affections. It means venturing out as the temperatures plummet ever downwards because someone needs an onion, a birthday card, a pair of mittens, a bag of apples, or a bill mailed. It means that something for someone else is more important than a nice quiet peaceful evening with the backlog on the DVR, or the last thrilling bits of an adventure movie, or munching an apple and hugging yourself like a six year old as you decide which new book to read.

In my case, it means that I take out the garbage, fold the laundry and put it away so that someone else doesn’t have to venture into the basement at 5:30 in the morning to look for a pair of socks. You may argue that it is my job anyway, which it is, but allow me to point out that when laziness or the muse takes me, I can easily be persuaded that anything is more important than what I am supposed to be doing. It also means cooking a real meal instead of making a sandwich and a salad, and being rewarded with a soft smile of genuine delight, and the fact that he considers my cooking better than any restaurant he has ever been to. Even better, he really means it. He has been to some awful restaurants, and some excellent restaurants, but he believes that I am Super Woman in the kitchen, which is great for my ego.

He puts up with my neuroses and palpitations with good humor and kindness, and is always the first to reassure me that an evil cabal of terrorists is not likely to be on my airplane, or hiding in the basement. He wearily climbs out of bed with me tiptoeing and hissing behind him, and investigates noises that cause me to come down with the jitters. He examines every nook and cranny of the basement and all the doors and windows, and with a patient expression, tells me that we need to go back to sleep. Generally he sleeps first, while I strain my ears to listen for noises to indicate that the bogey man or an evil cabal is creeping up the stairs. He has put up with me turning every light in the house on after an unwise viewing of a scary movie at ten p.m. He never says “I told you so”, but he closes his eyes, snuggles up next to me, and puts up with my idiotic persuasions that there are ghosts, vampires, witches, axe murderers, or some other big bad just waiting to break into the bedroom, to scare, bite, hex, kill, or whatever the particular big bad is inclined to do. In general, that doesn’t happen very often these days, because there aren’t too many movies that have the power to scare me any more. Real life is worse, and if you’ve seen one scary movie, you’ve seen them all.

When I want to do something nice for him, I let him take long naps and don’t fidget and sulk because he is tired. I appreciate that he works long hours to keep our household going, and that even though it means I won’t see him for a few precious hours, it means that he can rest and not be pestered by me. Jools is generally quiet during those times, so no loud hooting and avian imprecations and perorations will rent the air and disturb his slumbers. The bird and I retire to the upstairs office/guest room/entertainment center. She sits on the speaker to the computer and I blissfully read or type away, while down the stairs and to the left, someone sleeps and unravels the fabric and threads of his day.

Sometimes it just means that the best love is leaving someone else alone. After all these years, we understand that we are both inclined to solitude at times, so I don’t disturb his TV viewing, and he doesn’t intrude when I read or play Dig Dug and Burger Time. He also ignores it when I bellow “Filthy whore!” after being killed once too often by a poached egg, a pickle, a hot dog, or a gaggle of subterranean creatures. He knows that it has nothing to do with him, and routinely ignores the verbal assaults on his senses and jacks up the volume to drown us out.

We are still waiting for the bird to show us some practical love by not laying any more eggs, but in the meantime, we will settle for a soft feathery head brushing against our cheeks, or the sight of her slumbering peacefully and not attacking paint or woodwork. That’s probably as practical as she will ever get, and for us, it is enough, because we love her, and she loves us in her own particular way. Recently during my trip to the east coast, my husband took care of the bird. When I came home, I found her to be more relaxed and less inclined to follow me everywhere. I don’t know how he did it, but it was a lovely gift, in that he gave Miss Jools and us independence from each other, without intending to. He is down stairs sleeping, and she is curled up with her head tucked beneath her wing, and slumbering on the speaker. They delight me with their love of sleeping, and I would love to emulate them, but they both know it isn’t likely. Later, after his nap, and after she is tucked away for the night, we are doing a little shopping that will be followed by dessert at one of his favorite restaurants, and the chance to kick it back and smile, and quietly ponder the wonder of life and each other. It doesn’t get better than that.

What is it about people and living, and why is there such a huge divide over what is and isn’t living? Why do people with the least regard for human life cling to it so desperately, doing everything in their power to cling to it, and extend it well beyond what they need or should have? Why do those with the most reverence sign up for the military or police, and put their lives on the line every day? I think it’s something called honor and love for their fellow man. Why do some think life begins at conception, and others think that murdering that life is just fine, even wanting legalization of post-birth abortions? At least they are consistent, since many of them think that euthanasia is also a great concept. They have no respect for anyone’s life but their own, and they cling to it desperately. All those serial killers that exhaust the appeals process, and then go wailing to their deaths, appall me. If they had had half as much pity for their victims as they do for themselves, they wouldn’t be on death row regretting that the system had “failed” them. I think they actually believe that, because they have heard over and over again from politicians and ordinary do gooders, that they have never had a break. A lot of us haven’t, and we don’t murder other people because we don’t consider them of any consequence. We just pick ourselves up and keep trying until we succeed. We don’t expect others to pick up the tab and overlook our bad behavior, we learn to govern and control ourselves. Maybe politicians should have to prove that they can do the same before they are elected.

It must be an abysmal exercise in futility and horror, to visit the mind of a murderer or politician. I’m not sure that there really is any difference in most cases. Neither one cares for anything but wielding power and being someone important and they both enjoy the notoriety equally. Some are lauded for literally getting away with murder, because the person or persons they murdered, weren’t anyone that the murderer considered important. Yet on their death beds, those idiots cling to life as it fades away, and they still don’t consider anyone but themselves. Some of them think that belonging to a church or being an elected official takes away any obligation to behave themselves. Therein lies the crux of their disconnect from logic. They know that when they die, they will meet God’s wonderful and terrible justice, and that nothing can save them. They don’t want to go there, but they want the best that life has to offer for themselves.

Most of us know that life is a gift and something to be treasured. We celebrate every new birth with joy and awe, because it is an occasion for joy and celebration. There is something wonderful about a baby, and it’s even more wonderful when it’s a grandchild. They are a collision of the past, present and future, and they are absolutely wonderful. The future looks rosy when I see my grandson’s happy little face and shining eyes.

All of our hopes and dreams and tomorrows are contained in one small sweet package of love and redemption. We have something to look forward to in a new generation, and we hope that in most cases, their choices will be smarter than ours were. Life is difficult, but lived well, it is a gift that keeps on giving, both to the ones that give, and the ones that receive. Until life is held sacred, it will continue to be thrown away cheaply by those who should know better. I don’t know which would be easier to change: a politician or a murderer, but I would be interested to find out. They both have so many things in common that it would be difficult, if not impossible to separate one from the other, and maybe that is as it should be. We shouldn’t be so trusting, and we should ask more questions, and hold people more accountable, instead of excusing everything because they have told us they mean well. If they really did, wouldn’t they do better by us? If we treated politicians like we treat our family members in most cases, wouldn’t they behave better; instead of us giving them respect and deference that they haven’t earned, shouldn’t they have to earn it? I’d rather kick someone else in the pants preemptively, than to have them kick me somewhere down the road. Shakespeare was right, and so was the person who first said, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.”

Living well is the best revenge, and I intend to get a lot of revenge and make sure that future generations do as well. That’s something we can all believe in, and you can take that to the bank, not Washington D.C. They haven’t earned our money, we have, and we know what we need. They don’t, and they don’t care. They don’t need it, they just want it, and then they find all kind of things to need once they get it. Since it’s almost tax time, I find myself loathing greedy politicians more and more. Too much is never enough for them, it’s just a drop in the bucket, and the well is running dry. What will they do then? I shudder to contemplate that.