Leave a Message After the Beep

Saturday, January 30, 2010

12:00 p.m - Phone rings
"Hello?'
"Hi.  Did you just call me?"
"No, Mom"
"Oh.  Well it says I missed a call.  It says unknown number."
"Mom, I'm not an unknown number."
"Okay, bye."

12:05 p.m. - Phone rings
"Hello?"
"Hi.  It's me again.  I will pick Superman up from Polish school."
"Thanks mom."
"Also, please go outside to breathe the fresh air."
"Okay."
"And is your babcia doing okay?"
"She's fine."
"It's so nice outside.  Go outside.  Get fresh air."
"Okay mom."
"Call Mike.  Tell him I pick up Superman. Tell him to eat next time he donates the blood.  He will feel better."
"Okay mom."
"This air is so fresh today!"
"BYE MOM."

12:15 p.m.
"Honey, my mom is picking up Superman from Polish school.  Can you call her to say thanks?"
"Sure."

12:15:45 p.m.
"I tried calling and the phone went to voicemail."
"No problem.  I'm sure she'll call back at some point."

12:15:48 p.m. -Phone rings
"Hello?"
"Hi Mike, it's Dad, did you need something?"
"No.  You called me."
"Right.  Have you talked to Mom?"
"Just tried to call her and now she's calling me on the other line."
"Did you notice how fresh the air is today?  So Fresh!  Hold on.  Mom's calling on the other line."
"Mike?"
"Yes?"
"Why were you calling Mom?"
"To thank her for picking Superman up from school"
"Okay.  I will tell her."
"Thanks."
"Oh.  And Mike...."
"Yep?"
"Maybe some fresh air would do you all some good."

12:17 p.m. - Phone Rings
"HELLO?"
"Hi Mike.  It's Mom.  Did you call me?"
"Y. E. S.  Just wanted to say thanks for picking Superman up from school."
"No problem.  Go rest.  Get some fresh air.  And call me if you need anything."

12:18 - Phone Rings
"Hello.  No one is available to take your call.  Please leave a message after the beep."
BEEEEEEEEEEEP
"Hi everyone.  It's mom.  I 'm so glad that you're finally enjoying the fresh air.  Don't worry about calling me back.  I'll just try your cell phone."

Modify This

I am sitting across from a pretty little thing, hair pulled back behind her ears, a stack of papers in front of her, large solitaire diamond ring on her left hand. 
She is alternating between praising my "adorable" son (I can't say I disagree) and going over proposed goals for the new year.

I wait until she is finished to ask if there is anything we could be doing at home to facilitate his Occupational Therapy program.

She tells me to buy bigger legos.
Lighter playground balls.
Specialized scissors.
"Think modified" she says.

I do.

I think about the fridge door that has to be bolted shut because monchichi thinks muenster cheese slices are appropriate couch accessories.

I think about the safety-locked bathroom and cupboard doors beacause my Trader Joe's Peanut Sauce kept making it's way into the bathtub and cooking dinner with the mystery cans was becoming the culinary version of russian roulette.

I think about the youtube video on repeat, a daily ritual to help get the anti-seizure meds down his uncooperative throat.

I think about the giant orange construction fence used to block the driveway on lazy summer afternoons.

I think about the pre-cooked bags of noodles in the fridge, waiting to be doused in melted butter, because the bags under his eyes are finally fading and he might have actually gained a pound or two this month.

I think about the coaxing, the hand holding, the 853 times we've had to sing Happy Birthday in the past six months.

I think about missed playdates and midnight pharmacy runs, paranoid calls to the doctor and therapist-supervised community outings. 

I think about how someone else might look at our life and wonder what the hell is going on and that it makes no sense and why aren't we pulling our hair out and drinking our breakfast on the rocks?

I think about not being able to get out of bed in the middle of the night to pee without feeling a tug on the perpetual umbilical cord and that maybe I could do without a toilet companion.

I think about how it's all we know and that our love is a force more powerful than fear or anger or resentment and that mystery can dinners aren't nearly as awful as they sound.



I look across the table
at this pretty little thing
as she smiles sweetly
obviously proud that she has given me this sage advice

"Honey," I say, smiling sweetly right back at her, "it's a modified Life."