a rugs life

Eric is a lucky boy. For his birthday today, he’s getting this card from Rada:

Its a Celtics player slam dunking the ball. Note the arrows pointing its trajectory. The player is #20, apparently of great meaning to a devotee such as Eric.

The inside of the card further celebrates Celtics pride:

with a trophy in the upper right corner.

My daughter’s and my entire life revolves almost exclusively around 20 square blocks of Cambridge, Somerville, and part of Boston. Our primary modes of transit are walking, biking, taking the bus or T, and occasionally driving when necessary.

This week has been different. My daughter is in special day camp in Winchester and my mom is taking the train to Philadelphia.

This is what I did on Monday:

Trip started in Somerville, proceeded to Winchester to drop off daughter, on to Concord via Rte 128 to pick up mother, from there to train station in Westwood to drop mother off, and then back into town via Rte 93 and 3. Traffic was sluggish on Rte 93 north and there were bad traffic jams on Rte 128 and Rte 3. Total trip time 3.25 hours.

On Tuesday the circle was in the other direction:

First was the warm-up trip to Winchester and then back to Cambridge; from there proceeded to Newton for afternoon conference at BC, after which I tackled the 128 ‘C’ up to Winchester to pick up daughter and then back to Somerville. Exacerbated by rain and hail, the traffic on 128 slowed to a crawl. Trying to skirt some of the horror, I cut off to Rte 3A south only to run into a bumper-to-bumper parking lot from Woburn to Winchester, and adding insult to injury: 93 South was jammed going in to town at 6:15 in the evening. Total trip time 2.45 hours.

Today is Wednesday and I am driving the streets with constant homicidal urges and barely constrained civility. Rte 93 at 8:45 am will do this to a person, as will Rte 128 at 5:15 pm and Rte 3A south at 5:45. I do not understand how people can drive these roads day after day and remain halfway sane.

All over the house I constantly discover animals and things arranged as if in a still life or tableau:

Unicorn with plastic bottle.

Polar bear with hair clip and elk.

Dance party.

T-rex giving two baby bears a ride.

She sets them up absentmindedly, and then forgets about them. Aren’t they cool?

This evening, Rada decided she was a wise old dog named Shadow. I poured her a bowl of water which she messily lapped up from the kitchen floor. Then I set out a bowl of ‘dog food’ (actually dried apricots) which she knelt before and happily dug in.

After that, she decided she wanted to lick the floor to clean it, like any good dog. I quickly stopped her, explaining I didn’t want her tummy to get sick from the germs. Turning to the fridge door, she said”OK, I’ll lick this instead”. But I had to stop her, since the fridge door had not been cleaned since, um, the previous millennium. Then she said, “OK, I’ll lick the folding chairs by the table.” But I had to stop her from that for the same reason.

I offered plates and pans, but they weren’t what she wanted. Frustration finally overtaking her, ‘Shadow’ collapsed in the middle of the kitchen floor, sobbing uncontrollably, looking at me with intense betrayal and anger because, horrid mother that I am, I had been unable to provide her with furniture or a part of the house to lick.

Realizing that there was nothing I could do (short of a purgative cleaning which was unlikely to happen in my lifetime, let alone hers) I told her to snap out of it, stop being ridiculous and would she like to listen to her Chitty Chitty Bang Bang CD. She nodded yes. Sniffling, ‘Shadow’ sat down and started to eat dinner.

Ten minutes later she’d forgotten about it. I write these things because they are so implausible. Who knew that I would have ‘Shadow’ the dog in my kitchen this evening?

This morning, Rada and I walked to her school in the gentle, warm rain. Chatting and twirling our umbrellas, we made our way up the hill, over the train bridge, and then down the other side where her school came into view at the end of Webster Ave. She turned to me and said, “Mom, you don’t have to kiss me goodbye.”

Blinking, I looked at her, uncomprehending. What was she talking about? I always kissed her goodbye in the morning. She said, “No, its OK, Mom. Please don’t kiss me. You don’t have to. I’ll say goodbye to you here.”

Shaken, I helped fasten her backpack on her shoulders and waved goodbye as she walked the rest of the way alone.

Of course, I don’t have to kiss her goodbye. Of course she doesn’t it need it anymore. But I do.

I was counting on a few more years before she pulled away. What do you think? Should I insist on planting a goodbye kiss on that deliciously chubby cheek of hers … or should I let her go?