Happy New Year

Ghost Blog

Hey. Anyone out there?

Sorry I went AWOL for a few weeks. I've been taking a memoir writing course with Jami Bernard via Mediabistro. It's been great. I've been working on a memoir. A memwah. My m'mwah. Go ahead, say it out loud.

The First Annual Secret Lake Pumpkin Carving Extravaganza

The carving was held at the firehouse. Everyone took it pretty seriously.


First, slice off the top.


Then, dig in.






There's an ick factor.


Eyes on the prize.


It takes focus. Volunteer fire fighter focus.


Make the face you want your pumpkin to have.


Intense . . .


. . . or easy-going.


It's also a spectator sport.



A few of the final products on display.

Beat

Covering the election is hard work.

Feelings, schmeelings

Robert was just about to get on the school bus this morning when he burst into tears and refused to board. He was inconsolable. I told the bus driver I would take him up the mountain myself. I cuddled him and helped him back into his booster seat.
Me: Honey, what's the matter?
Rob: Waa!
Me: Why are you crying?
Rob: Snuffle.
Me: Please tell me!
Rob: I don't want to.
Me: You have to talk to me about your feelings! It's very important. How do you feel now?
Rob: It's hard to explain.
Me: How about if I say some feelings and you tell me if I got it right?
Rob: 'K.
Me: Are you sad?
Rob (After a moment's consideration): No.
Me: Are you angry?
Rob: No.
Me: Are you . . . uncomfortable?
Rob: Yes.
Me: Did somebody do something that you didn't like?
Rob: Yes.
Me: Was it one of the big boys?
Rob: Yes. It was X.
Me: Did he use words, or his body?
Rob: His body.
Me (If Robert had lapels I'd be tugging on them): Tell me what he did to you!
Rob: He accidentally bumped my lip with his backpack while he was getting on the bus.
Me: Huh. Pause. Is it OK now?
Rob: Yup.
Me: Hmm. Well, I wonder why that was so hard to explain. Perhaps we should practice talking about your feelings more. Remember that lovely haiku you wrote for Ms. D about the heart-shaped flowers?
Rob (With feeling): I see six red hearts. They are very lovable. They are very good.
Me (Sigh): What a beautiful poem.
Rob: Yeah. You have to have five syllables in the first line, then seven, then five. Know what M wrote?
Me: What?
Rob (Cracking up): I see six red hearts. I think I will eat candy today. I like to eat food.
Me: That was very sincere.
Guess M didn't realize the assignment was to charm the teacher.

The Science of Parties

As has been pointed out to me, we are birthday party over-achievers. We’ve had the Music Party with hired performer and guitar cake, the Farm Party; big red barn cake, animal print-outs to color and mini pumpkins to decorate (do you know how much pumpkins cost in NYC?), the Space Party; nine cakes made approximately to scale to represent the solar system, black play dough with glitter, a moon room with glow stars on the ceiling, the Winnie the Pooh Party; pin the tail on Eeyore, a Pooh "hunny" pot bean bag toss and a Tigger room with mattress to bounce on—oh, and Pooh character Pez dispensers for party favors. Greg has made and served mac 'n' cheese to half the kids and bloody Marys to half the parents in Brooklyn.

Why do we do this? Because as soon as people find out your kid is gifted they assume he has no friends.

I can’t say there haven’t been issues. When Robert was three his preschool teacher told me he wasn’t interacting with his classmates.
Teacher: We’ve taught him to go up to other children and say, “Can I play with you?”
Me (Heart in throat): What do they say?
Teacher: Well. Most of them can’t talk yet.
Me: What does Robert do?
Teacher: He often will sit in our reading corner and read a book.
Me (Thinking): Dear God, he’s a freak . . . like his parents. Our secret is out. Everyone in the neighborhood will soon know that his father spent high school playing chess. That his mother has been wearing glasses since the age of ten . . . the same year she read Pride and Prejudice . . . for the first time.
The teacher recommended a shrink. For Robert. I already had one.

I desperately scheduled play dates after every school day. But the more I foisted friends on him, the more he quietly retreated into his favorite activities. Finally, after much reading and reflection I realized—he’s not a child with autism—he’s an introvert.

Last year (our first spent in exile) we had a Pirate Party with a scavenger hunt, pirate chest piñata, and pirate ship cake. This one was a turning point because Rob actually participated. Oh, joy in the morning! Or afternoon, rather.

So now I can relax. Except for the fact that I have set the bar a little high. Rob started talking about this year’s extravaganza two months prior to his birthday. Originally he wanted a math party. I delicately steered him in the direction of a science party, without ever once saying, “What do you mean math party? Nobody has math parties—you know why? Because math is boring and no one likes it except you!” Instead I offered to let him stuff a tube of Mentos into a bottle of diet coke. That sold him.

Greg drove 45 minutes to a godforsaken post-industrial wasteland to buy dry ice.

We made atomic cupcakes and a brain birthday cake.

The kids made rubber balls from borax and Elmer’s glue and lava lamps from oil and water.

Robert ate so much food coloring that the next morning he did a green pooh. He thought that was pretty cool. You could say it was the icing on the cake. It probably was.

That’s it. No more themed house parties.

Me: What do you want to be for Halloween, Honey?
Rob: A squirrel. With a tail that I can really wiggle.

What's the Mutter?

I seem to have developed a bad habit of muttering under my breath. No doubt it’s because I am under a lot of stress right now. I am throwing Rob a science birthday party this weekend, which means I have only days to find a supplier of dry ice, and learn science. Plus, I have to admit I am kind of ashamed of our house. As I said to Greg, I don’t mind people knowing we don’t have much money but I don’t want them thinking we have crap taste. Unfortunately, our landlord does (I mean, he has crap taste not he thinks we do. Or maybe he does? Hard to know.)

Ivan (our landlord) favors a look I think of as “cheap motel.” Not that I haven’t some had fun times in cheap motels . . . but, seriously, coffee is a good color for a beverage, not a carpet. I’ve been taking revenge on ours by not vacuuming. Hah! I wash my hands of you, brown rug! You are no carpet of mine! I’m hoping in this way to persuade it to leave the house of it’s own accord. Perhaps I can explain this strategy to my guests.

The week after the party, the Oompa Loompas will be putting on Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. In theory. Right now they are just driving me crazy and making lewd gestures with the props. To eleven year olds this is hysterical. Too bad they will be performing for their grandparents and a local kindergarten.

Also, I was provoked. Last Monday I was accosted by an acquaintance in a parking lot.
SW: We bought a house!
Me: Congratulations. You picked a good time to buy.
SW (Wide-eyed): Oh, no. It was a very expensive house because it’s a nice house and very big and conveniently located. (Shaking head, and inhaling dramatically) It was very expensive.
Me: Well, it’s a good investment.
SW: Yes. Because it’s real estate. REAL estate. Not stocks!
All our money is in stocks right now.
Me: You know, some people got caught out by real estate in the sub-prime mortgage crisis. (Like us, to an extent.)
SW (More head shaking): That was due to greed. Sheer greed, and extremely poor judgment. How could people be so foolish? That wasn’t real money—only indebtedness.
Me: Hey, (I am tempted to say) it was accepted at many fine stores and restaurants.
Instead I say:
Me: OK, have a nice day!
But I am muttering, Smug Wanker.

At times like these, as Greg and I brainstorm ways to restore the fallen fortunes of the house of Us, or retrace our steps over the last two years to figure out where-we-went-wrong, we just can’t think of another route we could’ve taken. We moved away from a lucrative job market so Robert could go to a school that he loves. And he’s happy.

According to almost everything I’ve ever read about profoundly gifted children, he’s supposed to be a miserable, hollow-eyed, bow-tie-wearing little Edward Gory illustration. But he’s not. He sings in the shower. And he likes the brown carpet.