PRIDE 2009

Flashback to Gay Pride past. I’m young, outloudandproud and marching down 5th Avenue on a hot, sticky Sunday in June. There is a meagre handful of gay-haters with poorly designed signs void of poetry outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Laughable really. And as happy and vibrant and upstanding as we all must have looked to those earnest Christians, I’m pretty sure that when my friend and I decided to swap spit in front of them, they were not the least bit tempted to go gay. We just couldn’t resist taunting them. We were young. No one could tell us we’re wrong.

While we marched and chanted and sweat profusely, we’d come to a dead halt every so often. Perhaps a tranny had broken a heel or a launched baton got caught in a politician’s bullhorn. During those stalled moments, I’d imagine Prides to come. Family was always in my future. I envisioned my lady friend and I marching with a kid or two waving flags and beaming with love. Why, we’re the freakin’ poster children of gay families, and it feels good. The parade started moving again, and I returned to reality realizing that my current girlfriend is clearly NOT going to be the mother of my unborn children. Note to self: ditch crazy chick.

Our first Gay Pride as a family was in London. Asher was 7 months old, and he puked up pureed apricots a half hour into the parade, and we left early. Just as well. While there are many things about London I love and miss, London Gay Pride is underwhelming at best. The Brits are not a celebratory people by nature unless they’re piss drunk or cheering on their favourite footie team. Come on you Spurs!! And the notion that all gay men are tan, fit and the hottest dancers to shake their groove things is not universal-especially in London where the boys are pasty, beer-gutted and completely uncoordinated. Sorry, boys. Admittedly harsh but fair. Gay Pride London was sadly lacklustre compared to Pride in NYC.

Family Gay Pride of my dreams: Take 2. June 2006. Asher is 2 ½, and I was 5 months pregnant with Levi. Rainy day. Asher still napped, and we never pushed him through naptime. After almost 7 months of severe sleep deprivation, we sleep-trained with a vengeance and refused to ever stray from the sleep schedule. Needless to say, our short visit did not come close to fulfilling my Gay Pride Family Fantasy.

2009. Almost there. Levi did not care for the loud whistle blowing. I’m with him. Whistles are so Y1K. For the first 20 minutes, Gabriella and Levi stood away from the crowds in the storefront shadows while Asher and I were curb side. Eventually, Levi got with the program and joined us. The first float we saw was led by a U-Haul truck, but I couldn’t make out what it was pulling initially. “Look, Gabriella! A U-Haul! Must be the lesbian float.”

Asher particularly liked the floats with bubbles, balloons and/or roller bladers swerving around it. The men in black leather gimp suits did not seem to cause as much concern as the fact that there were cars in the parade where cars were not allowed. We spent more time discussing the parade-car loophole than why that man was dressed like a piggy.


Asher thought the costumes and dresses were very pretty and never cottoned on to the fact that the only people in dresses were men. As the groups passed, Asher would look at the banner he couldn’t read and ask what each one said.

GLIFAA Gays and Lesbians in Foreign Affairs Agencies “That one says that everyone should have equal rights all over the world.”

Cross Dressers International “That one, um, that one says that everyone should be able to wear whatever they want to wear....all over the world."

Butch Femme Society “Um, that one says that girls can love anyone they want to love, dress however they’d like to dress and strap one on if they want.” No! I didn’t say the part of about the strap on.

I was grateful that we missed the NAMBLA contingency this year.

Overall, the boys had a great time, and I think they’ll enjoy it even more next year though I’m going to have to prepare my explanations a little more thoughtfully. We’re such a colourful people. After a quick stop for dinner and a cupcake at Cupcake Cafe, we loaded up the mini-van.

Gabriella: Hey! Why are you rolling down the windows? The A/C is on!

Deborah: I want to look at all the gays.

G: We’ve been looking at gays all day.

D: I know, but I want to be a part of it a little longer-while I’m sitting down in the car. Never mind. We’re too far uptown now. Only fringe gays up here. So tell me, did you feel proud, Gabriella?

G: Yes. I was actually emotional at times.

D: Like when the Pleasure Chest float drove by, and they passed out wooden spanking sticks to everyone?

G: Yeah then.

D: It was so hot when you took one look at them and said, ‘Hey, they’d make great paint sticks. Grab one for me.’

G: Well, I need paint sticks if I’m going to paint the bricks around the fireplace.

D: That’s hot, Gabriella. Real hot.

G: How about you. Proud?

D: Yes. It was a great day with the family.

Once again I took a moment to imagine Prides yet to come. Perhaps we’ll be marching in the parade one year soon instead of cheering on the sidelines. Maybe the boys will want to march in the do-good section of their choosing one day. Perhaps Asher will choose to march down 5th Avenue sporting nothing but a leather thong and a ring in his nipple and Levi will be in full make up wearing his Carmen Miranda outfit and my gold Dior high heels. Hmm, best to focus on the present.

Like Butter

Friday night. Sitter booked. Tickets purchased. We were going to see the comedian July Gold in the city. A friend of Gabriella’s whose husband’s sister’s friend who knows...I don’t know. I lost track. But somehow, there was a very distant connection to someone who sleeps with or has slept with Judy Gold, and when we got the email promoting the show, we decided to make a night of it.

All gussied up in our summer linens, moderately high-heeled sandals, lipstick and our white, Right to Marry ribbons fastened neatly to our tops. We were the poster children for Bridge & Tunnel Gay Moms. Traffic was awful, but we had given ourselves ample time to drive in and park. Gabriella has fantastic parking karma. Not an easy feat to find street parking in New York City-especially for the mini-van. We walked the half a block from the car to City Winery arm in arm and ready for a good gay laugh.

“May I help you?” asked the hostess.

“We’re here for the Judy Blume show,” answered my sweet Gabriella.

“You mean Judy Gold?” the hostess asked before I had a chance to explain to my lady friend that we had bought tickets to see a comedian rather than attend a reading about a girl’s first menses from Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret.

“Oh yes, Judy Gold.”

“Judy Gold was last night. Tonight is our Michael Jackson tribute.”

“What? That couldn’t be!” Gabriella does not like to be corrected. She immediately whipped out the phone to check the dates in her email confirmation in an effort to somehow change reality.

“We’ll just have a drink.” I said guiding Gabriella to a table so that she could continue her efforts to prove that the Judy Gold show was that night, and everyone else there grooving to the Michael Jackson video medley on the monitors was sorely misguided.

Gabriella was understandably irritated. Money down the drain. No Judy Gold. Failure to pay attention to details. Gabriella was on to her next project-making dinner reservations online via her Blackberry. She was determined to salvage the evening and refused to raise her head from her 2 inch monitor until dinner was booked. Occasionally, she’d move to the beat of whatever Michael Jackson song was playing. The girl cannot resist a good tune. “Woo hoo!” she sang out while scrolling through the online booking screen.

“Done! We have an 8PM dinner reservation at Butter.” Michael strikes again, "Ben, the two of us need look no more. We both found what we were looking for...”

“What song is that?”

“Remember when the Jackson 5 had a cartoon show?”

“Yes.”

“Michael had a pet mouse named Ben and he sang that song to him. I hated that song as a kid. Too slow and sappy...I'm sure they'd think again if they had a friend like Ben..”



“Wait a minute, you got a reservation at Butter on a Friday night? That’s fantastic. We’ve got to go now! Drink up!!”

“Mmmm, this wine is good. Musty.”

“Like your...never mind. Let’s go!” And away we went. Gabriella is a big foodie. She could watch TV Food 24/7, well at least when she’s not watching public television. She knows all the TV Food chefs and their restaurants, and Butter has been on her list especially having found out that I went to college with the executive chef, Alex Guarnaschelli.

As soon as we walked in, Gabriella asked if the chef was in. “Deborah is a friend of hers from college.” “No.” I interrupted. “Well, she might remember me through our mutual friend from school.” Gabriella was impatient. “Can you please tell her that Deborah is here? We’d love to say hello.” Chefs are like rock stars to Gabriella, so she had to try to meet Alex even if it meant pushing me to exploit my college connection. “She’s in and out,” said the hostess, “but we’ll tell her if we see her.” Dubious.

Sitting down to eat, we took it all in. Funky space. Perhaps because of the local, seasonal dishes on the menu, the designers saw fit to create kind of a rustic, natural environment. The back wall is a mural of birch trees, and there are enormous planters throughout sprouting branches touching the tall, vaulted ceilings. Our two-top table was separated by the two-top next to ours by a waist-high wall of cut logs. We appreciated the authenticity as a piece of log bark came off of in Gabriella’s hand. We quickly stuffed the bark into my bag as a souvenir. “Gabriella…got wood?”

I spotted Alex peeking out of the kitchen handing a server a plate. “She’s here!” I announced to Gabriella. “Go get her, Deborah! Go tell her you’re here.”
“She’s working, Gabriella, and the restaurant is packed. Let’s just eat our dinner and wait until things slow down. She’ll come out again.” Gabriella was not happy with my response, but she took a sip of wine and turned her attention to our meal. The food was fantastic. Each course was flavorful and highly satisfying. Mid-way through the main course, Gabriella excused herself. “Don’t go! What if she comes out of the kitchen?” I said. “What, I can’t go to the bathroom? I won’t take a long time, and if she comes out, tell her to wait.” And wouldn’t you know it, as soon as Gabriella was out of sight; Alex appeared from the kitchen, walked purposefully over to me with an extended hand. “Hey. I’m really sorry it took so long, but I’m down 2 of my best chefs, and the kitchen is nuts.” Shit! Shit! Shit! Please hurry, Gabriella. “That’s ok! Thank you so much for coming out. Can you stay a minute? Gabriella ... my partner ... is a huge foodie and has seen you in every TV Food show, and ... I can’t believe she’s not here. Oh, by the way, the food is amazing, Alex.”

“Thank you. Thanks. Listen, I’ll come back later, ok? I can’t really stay just now.” And she hurried back into the kitchen where she was clearly needed. Our server (and up and coming actress, Rachel Rusch), stopped at the table to check in. “Alex was here! And she missed her. I can’t believe it.” Gabriella returned, and I had to deliver the news. “But she said she’d come back. We’ll just hang out until she does.” Gabriella turned to Rachel. “You have to remind her to come back. In the meantime, we’ll check out the dessert menu.”

We ate some more. Chatted with the British couple on the other side of the wall-o-logs who was in town for a birthday. The newly 23 year old young lady had taken her boyfriend on a 3 hour Sex and the City tour followed by dinner here at Butter because that’s where the Gossip Girls ate. Who knew? Obviously not the New Jersey moms over here. We finished our wine and worked on a delicious piece of carrot cake with cinnamon sauce. And all the while, we kept an eye on the kitchen. Eventually Rachel returned with the final blow of the evening. “I’m so sorry. Alex went home.” Gabriella sat there stunned. “She wanted to come back out, and she told me to remind her, but I missed her. I’m really sorry.” Gabriella was still speechless. “We’ll come back, Gabriella,” I promised. “She was really frazzled because they were short in the kitchen. We’ll come back when she has a chance to really chat. Ok?”

Poor Gabriella. She was only gone for a minute, but you got to know when to hold it. We went to see Judy Gold, and all we got was some matches and a piece of bark...and a pretty phenomenal meal at Butter. We’ll be back. We’re coming for you, Alex! Oh, and we can glue the bark back on if you'd like.

Moving Up: Part III

After the screening was successfully put behind us, we had still to look forward to the Moving Up Ceremony at pre-school. Before I had children, the idea of any kind of graduation ceremony outside of high school or college seemed ridiculous. Actually, it still seems a little ridiculous, but I have to stop rolling my eyes completely. Asher spent every school year and every summer at his pre-school for 3 years. He grew up there. I’m not going to go into details about all the milestones and challenges and whatnot. Gabriella got teary reading the last two entries, and friends accused me of being vulnerable. Can’t have too much of that. But I can see now how significant the pre-school experience is for both child and parent. So, bring on pre-school graduation! Where’s the punch?

Before graduation, we were invited to the Pre-school Art Show. Of course, we were absolutely thrilled about attending. I mean, given the choice of sitting on my porch swing reading a good book during the heavenly quiet of Levi’s nap or shlepping over to the pre-school to gush over the doodles of 3 and 4 year olds while they run around chasing each other like wild animals until some kid scratches another kid’s eye out or something equally horrifying and messy, clearly I would choose the pre-school art show.

When it comes to Asher's art, Gabriella is the saver, and I’m the pitcher. I show her the painting that Asher made in school that day, and she looks at me with those proud mommy eyes, and I say, “Yup, I’m throwing it out.” That being said, there are a couple of projects he’s brought home throughout his pre-school career that I have deemed worthy of saving. Most, however, end up in recycling. Oh, quit your tisk tisking. Asher had a delightful time painting that yellow splotch overlapped by a green splotch that he entitled, “Train”, and we had a proud moment during which we praised him for his use of colours and technique. Everyone’s happy. Buh-bye “Train”.

Asher had mentioned the art show frequently in the weeks leading up to it. We were happy that he was excited. As mentioned on numerous occasions, he’s usually the one kid on a lap during most programs at school. We rallied. Camera, video camera, relatively clean clothes-in the words of Jodie Foster in Contact, OK to go! OK to go!


You’ll have to believe me as a cynical and cranky mom, the show was amazing. Every parent who walked into that auditorium a.k.a The Gallery had to scrape their jaws off the ground when they realized what had actually been going on in art class throughout the year.

Each project was an interpretation of the various artists the children studied. The art teacher showed a famous work of art for which the artist was known and walked them through their techniques. Every child then created their own masterpiece in the spirit of the artist du jour. During the lesson on Picasso, the children used pictures from magazines to make their own Picasso-esque piece. Paper was taped underneath tables so that our budding artists could put themselves in Michelangelo’s shoes (or scaffold) when he painted the Sistine Chapel. Creative dot art inspired by Seurat. And the Pollack required each child to stand behind a chair and whip paint at an enormous canvas. The Pollack pieces were displayed with titles. “Little Sweet”, “Six”, “White and Black” were some creative names. Asher’s? Well, while he did, in fact, entitle his Michelangelo piece “Asher’s Train”, his Pollack was called, “Mom”. Kvelling! I wonder if I will have the same reaction when Asher chooses to tattoo MOM on his forearm?

They studied Monet, Mondrian, Cezanne, Matisse and Van Gogh, Robert Motherwell, and the results were spectacular. Alright, let’s tone it down, Mom. The results were wonderful because this art was beyond what any parent imagined their child capable of creating. There may be a parent or two who will protest and swear that they absolutely knew that their sweet child was a gifted artist. Most were pleasantly surprised. Each painting is a keeper.





Graduation followed the next day. The children sat on the bimah of the synagogue (the stage), and Asher performed all of the songs with a big smile on his face and did not once petitioned to join his moms. When he accepted his Certificate of Completion, he gave the pre-school director a huge body hug that evoked a number of AAWWWs from the crowd. And when it was all over, we were invited to join the rest of the pre-school for lunch. Asher was ready to go. We obliged and left on a high-successfully avoiding a melt-down. Very proud, indeed.

Ok, Levi. you’re next!

Moving Up: Part II

Though Asher’s freak out felt monumental at the time, the dust settled, and we all had a good night sleep. Our drive to pre-school was uneventful. Asher usually fills the journey with “What happens” questions. He’s not a “Why” kind of kid. He’s less concerned with explanations and more focused on cause and effect.

Ultimately, I think he’s trying to manage his own expectations while looking for constant reassurance that everything’s going to be alright. I get that. That’s my M.O., too. Just tell me what’s going to happen even if it’s bad news so that I’m prepared. He hasn’t quite learned to focus on the big ticket subjects like “What happens if we continue to occupy Afghanistan?” That day’s topics were, “What happens if we have to live in a purple house?” and “What happens if a police officer sees someone changing lanes without using the directional?” His questions were particularly significant that day because I was still processing the kindergarten screening freak out. Obviously, the boy needs to know what’s around every corner because new things are scary. These questions also reminded me that Mom is an idiot for expecting any behaviour other than the kind he demonstrated on that emotional day.

Eventually, I artfully segued into a conversation about the screening. “So, how about we go back to school and do the screening?” Artful, no? Asher didn’t skip a beat. “Ok.” “Great. We’ll go this afternoon.” I knew better this time. I decided not to assume that we would make it there or that he would actually participate. I left it alone.

After I picked him up from school, we had about 2 hours until the next available screening slot. Asher was looking forward to his do-over. “Mo-om! When are we going back to school? I wish we could just go to school already.” I told myself not to listen. He may sincerely be excited about going to school, OR he might be over compensating for the terror building up inside-a more likely explanation. I said nothing. “Can I bring my new bicycle bell to show the teachers?”

“Oh, why did he get a new bell?” asked my sister Rachel during a phone call that was interrupted by the constant ringing of the bell. “Because Mommy is unemployed and can’t help amusing herself by buying crap for the children every time she runs an errand.”

The bell says ‘I ♥ My Mom’ on it. “HE picked it out!” Gabriella swore when I gave her a look that said, “Really??”

That afternoon’s screening was a family affair. Mom, Mommy, Asher and little brother Levi would all attend round 2 of “Asher’s Kindergarten Screening”. There was no time to revisit strategy. Once again, promises were made. We’d all go out for dinner together and have ice cream afterwards when and only when Asher completed his screening.

I was calm-or did I mistake calm for completely drained. So what if he couldn’t get through the screening? He’d still be at kindergarten in the fall. If he flips out, we’ll just turn around and go home.

As soon as we opened the school doors, that little bugger marched right over to the registration table and presented his bicycle bell to the teachers. “WELL, HI!!" They welcomed him with surprised smiles. "We’re so happy you came back!” At least he’s memorable. Asher demonstrated how his ‘I ♥ My Mom’ bell worked, and the teachers pretended to be very interested. “Do you want to tell them your name?” I asked under my breath. “I’M ASHER!” “Excellent, Asher!” said the teacher. “I’ve got your folder right here, and I want to introduce you to April. She’s going to play some games with you in her classroom.” April extended her hand and that little shit took it without a second of hesitation. As they walked down the hallway on their way to April’s classroom, I stood and watched – dumbfounded.

“I can’t believe it.” I said to Gabriella unable to take my eyes off of Asher. “I can’t even tell you how possessed he was yesterday.

“I know.” She said. “I’ve been there, too.”

Mostly, I was relieved. He would be screened, after all, and the teachers would remember a delightfully, sweet boy. But a small part of me wanted to kill him. Such angst. Such drama. How dare he put me through the ringer one day and be completely happy and compliant the next.

After his screening, April and Asher returned holding hands – both smiling big. “Look, Mama! I got a bear sticker, and I got another one for you.” “Thank you, Asher.” It was the My Kid Put Me through Hell And All I Got Was This Lousy Sticker prize. Never mind. He did it, and he wasn’t traumatized...well at least not as traumatized as I was.

We all held hands and left the building triumphant. Asher shared with us his thoughts surrounding the entire experience. “Today I was nice. Yesterday, I was not nice.” Gabriella and I burst out laughing. “We love you always- even when you’re not nice, but we’re glad you had a good day, today.”

Moving Up: Part I

I didn’t get emotional about Asher’s last day of pre-school. I thought I might shed a tear acknowledging these past 3 years at his first school. Perhaps I was too concerned about whether or not he would make it through the Moving Up Ceremony at school. He has never been comfortable in large groups and prefers to stay close to Mom and Mommy whenever we’re at a party or event where there are a lot of people-even if the people there are classmates and parents he’s known for years. And, in all the 3 years of holiday programs at school, he has never made it through a performance or event without prematurely ending up on one of our laps. Our expectations were low-even lower after the debacle of the kindergarten screening.

Each kindergarten invites its incoming class to come to the school and meet with a teacher for about 10 minutes so that they have some basic information about each kid before the school year begins. I had a feeling things would not go well. After talking about it for days, everything seemed to be going so smoothly, until we actually opened the doors to the school.

There were two very pleasant looking women positioned behind the sign-in table waiting for the children to register. Asher ducked behind me pretending to hide. We waited for our turn while Asher popped out from behind me and shouted, “BOO!” Nervous energy. I ignored him. “BOO!” I let him carry on though I was irritated. But when he lifted up the back of my shirt to reveal my bra strap in search of a better hiding spot, I snapped. I’m not a shy girl, but I don’t especially like to expose myself in elementary schools, and I definitely do not enjoy exposure at the hands of my 5 year old child. Furthermore, the bra, beige and practical, was not one of my finest. “Stop it, Asher,” I hissed.

“BAAAH! I’m playing hide & seek!”

“That’s fine. Just please keep your hands to yourself.”

“And what’s YOUR name?” asked the pleasant lady. He was suddenly rendered immobile; frozen and unable to speak. He stared at her with a forced smile-the one that usually precedes a melt-down.

“His name is Asher,” I answered because I knew he was about to lose it. The nice lady handed me a clipboard with a questionnaire attached regarding the basic skills of my child. Can he write his first name? Can he count to 20? Etc. I sat down to complete it, and Asher threw his arm over it so that I was unable to write. “GO HOME!” he shouted. Here we go. At 5 ½ years old, he reverts to baby talk when he is upset. As a mother, I find his outbursts unpleasant. As a writer, his inability to form a complete sentence makes my blood boil.

“Asher, we’re not going home. We’re here to meet the teachers and we’re going to stay for a few minutes and then go home.”

“GO HOME!” He was yelling now. The other mothers buried their heads in their clipboards pretending that they can’t see what’s going on right in front of them.

“Don’t you want to meet the teachers before school starts?”

“GO HOME!! GO HOME!!”

I was not born with a full tank of patience, and I saw the needle tickle Empty right before my eyes as I strangled my impulse to yell and forced myself to remain calm.

“Asher, this is not a choice.” And then I went there. “If you co-operate with the teacher, you can have ice cream when we get home.”

“I WANT ICE CREAM!” I immediately regretted the offer.

“You have to go with the teacher for a few minutes and then you can have ice cream.”

“I WANT ICE CREAM NOOOWW!!”

The pleasant teacher walked over to Asher. “Are you ready? I have some really fun games to play in my classroom. Can you come with me?”

He ran to the doors sucking his thumbs (he’s a double thumb-sucker) and planted his 13 ½ sized feet into the school welcome mat. I scooped him up and followed the pleasant teacher into the library. Normally, the kids go without parents, but she realized that he required my presence. I was angry, and I was sweating, and I couldn’t figure out what I was supposed to say or do to help him get past his own fear. But I knew that there was little hope. He’d worked himself up in a tizzy, and there was no reasoning with him. The teacher was understanding and kind. “Can you tell me your name again? Is it...Bob?”

Asher stood with his back to the teacher. He smiled but refused to turn around. “I think your name started with an ‘A’. Is it Alan?”

He let a silent snicker escape one corner of his mouth still gripping his thumbs with his teeth. He realized he was softening and instantly compensated. “I WANT ICE CREAM!”

“Apparently,” I said, “his name is I WANT ICE CREAM!”

“NAAAAHHH!!!” He whined and then took off to hide between the bookshelves.

“He’s really very friendly. He’s just not good with new situations.”

“He’s like my husband,” said the teacher. “He never likes parties or meeting new people.”

“Is your husband a Scorpio?”

“Actually, YES!” I couldn’t help feel a little relieved. She clearly knew that his behaviour was written in the stars. I got up to look for Asher who had not come out from behind the shelves. “Please don’t make me home school,” I begged. She gave me an empathetic smile and assured me home schooling would not be my fate. As if I would ever! (I say that with the highest respect for home schoolers who can stand spending that much time with their children and who are far better educators than I could ever be.)

“Let’s go home now, Asher.” “I WANT ICE CREAM!” “Well, you can’t have any.” Asher started crying uncontrollably. Nose running, jumping up and down in protest, he was a mess. “We’re going, Asher,” I announced matter of factly. I took him outside and returned the clipboard to the nice ladies. He ran up and down the hall screaming. I WANT ICE CREAM NOOOOWWW!!!” “Yeah?” I muttered to the nice ladies. “I want a valium.” They laughed. I wanted to cry.

It was all a bit too much.

I know it’s not just about Asher. It’s about my baggage. There are hard truths that most parents have to face when they have children. I’ve mentioned this previously, but I feel it’s worth repeating. Asher pushes buttons that no other child can push not because he’s a bad kid but because so often when I look at Asher, I see myself. I used to be that painfully shy kid who was the life the party in my own house with my own friends but who dreaded new situations and meeting new people.

I try not to regret any part of my life, but I can’t help wonder what happened to all the dreams I had as a child about pursuing various noble or out of the ordinary professions. Maybe if I hadn’t been so afraid. If I hadn't been so intimidated. If I had been able to take more risks. If I hadn’t been so concerned with following rules as opposed to making up my own. If I had had more confidence in myself. I could have accomplished anything. What if Asher denies himself his passion because he is afraid? Because he is uncertain? It’s painful watching him, yet I have to remind myself that we are not the same person. That he is only 5. That he is who he is, and he is amazing and special. But at that moment, I was unable to talk myself down.

I took his hand and led Asher to the car as if he were a stubborn dog I had to drag down the road. He’s still scryming for ice cream. (scryming: screaming + crying). I was unwilling to look at him and unsure what to say. He was riding the wave of anger and fear, and I could only wait it out. I cranked up the volume on the radio to drown out Asher’s screams which were now on automatic pilot. Celebrate Good Times, Come On! I never liked that song. Too many memories of Bar Mitzvahs past. I turn off the radio and spun my head around glaring at Asher. Jaw clenched, voice raised just enough to indicate severe anger without actually losing control.

“Stop screaming right now or I’m taking away the Wii!” He was immediately silenced as if I had just slapped his face with my empty threat. Ice cream bribes and Wii confiscation-not my finest moments. That being said, we drove the rest of the way home in complete silence. I am positive that neither one of us was proud of our behaviour.

I delivered him to Gabriella and explained that Asher was not to have ice cream. I didn’t realize how shaken I was until I saw myself reflected in Gabriella’s pained expression.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Nothing! And I mean nothing. There was no screening. He didn’t make it. I think there’s something wrong with him. I really do.”

“Are you ok?”

“No. I’ve got to pick up some wine to take to the dinner party tomorrow night.” I needed to get out of the house and allow The Incredible Hulk to exorcise himself out of David Banner.

After my errand, I parked the car and called my sister, Rachel. While we are very different creatures, we cannot deny the bond that forever seals us having been raised in the same house by the same crazy-ass parents. And, there are some things I can say to my sister that I can’t say to Gabriella or anyone else. “Either I’m a failure as a mother, or there’s something developmentally wrong with him!"

“Isn’t there something in between?”

“Like what?!?”

“Like he was scared out of his mind.”

“Yes. He was really scared.” It was actually my Incredible Hulk that began to evaporate during our conversation. “It’s my own stuff. I know.”

“And what happens if he doesn’t go through with the screening?”

I hadn’t actually asked that question. I should have. “I’m sure nothing happens. He still goes to kindergarten.” And that’s when I finally let it all go. My kid freaked out at his kindergarten screening, and we all lived. Lesson learned.

Art By The Ferry

After 15 years, I’ve finally let Gabriella off the hook. Every year, Gabriella asks me, “What do you want for your birthday, honey?” And every year I answer, “Nothing, sweetheart. Just get me a card. Write something from your heart, and that will be gift enough.” Ok, I don’t actually call her ‘sweetheart’, but it seemed rude not to reciprocate the ‘honey’. “I always figured that I was doing her a favour by sparing her the task of buying the perfect gift. What could be easier than buying a card and jotting down a little something from the heart, right? Wrong. I now admit aloud what I’ve known for years. Gabriella gives bad card.

She can pick out a card just fine. I’ve received all sorts of beautiful cards. Some I could frame and pass for art. Others have thoughtful prose written in fonts simulating letters from old typewriters printed on handmade, textured paper. I will also say that her handwriting is, like Gabriella, neat and easy to read. The handwriting is important because I can think of little else to say about what is written mostly because little else is written. Gabriella is talented and smart and capable in many areas, but writing is definitely not her thing.

The last card I received for our anniversary included a lovely poem about the beauty of love, and I really did smile when I read it. Gabriella added her sentiments at the bottom in her neat and legible handwriting. “I couldn’t have said it better myself. Love, Gabriella.” And that was, in fact, true. How cruel I am now that I think about it. Asking Gabriella to write any more than her name is like asking me to cook anything more than scrambled eggs. It’s torture. So we’re going green. We’re sparing the trees and I’m sparing Gabriella from a future of stress-filled hours coming up with yet another way of saying “Ditto” or “True that” at the end of someone else’s love poem.

If I needed some sort of written proof that Gabriella loved me, I suppose I’d be more upset about abandoning the card exchange. I’m good with it. She laughs at all my jokes, and she cooks my favourite meals upon request. She never complains about my general state of slobbery. She is my biggest fan. Nowhere did that become more evident than at the reading at the Art By the Ferry Festival this past Sunday.

I was asked to do a 15 minute reading from the blog by the curator of The Spoken Word segment of the festival, Marian Fontana. I held previews Erev Festival (the night before the day) to an audience of one, Gabriella. In order to fill 15 minutes, I pieced together a couple of blog entries, and threaded them together with a little bit of new stuff. Aside from the new bits, Gabriella was listening to the reruns. While I stumbled my way through the reading, editing along the way, Gabriella laughed at all the appropriate moments as if she were hearing it for the first time, AND as if it were actually funny. And at the end, she clapped, immediately turned tomato red and covered her mouth with her hand. Gabriella was crying; a bit of a concern because I didn’t write anything that was sad. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m just so proud of you,” she sniffled.

At every piano or ballet recital, my mother would sit in the back row and sob throughout the entire performance. She would wear these enormous sunglasses in an attempt to hide her tears, but her heaving shoulders gave her away. I was mortified as a child, but now that I am a mother, I can fully comprehend that overwhelming pride. It was the highest of compliments, and I felt ready for the big time.

I don’t know that you would refer to a reading for 20 people in the old Fish’s Eddy warehouse in St. George on Staten Island as the big time. But it was my little moment in the spotlight, and I loved every minute of it. Gabriella recorded the whole thing and still managed to applaud longer and louder than anyone. She has always had quite the heavy hand. I don’t mind telling you that I find that quality attractive in a partner.

After the reading, I cleared out to make way for Don Cummings and our friend Mark Chambers who did a beautiful reading from his memoir about saving a puppy during his cross-country motorcycle ride. A little man darted over to me with such purpose I thought I was about to be served with a court summons. “That was great!” he said. “You were even better than that Ellen.”

Now, I’m not going to tell you that I agree with the man. I think Ellen is superhuman clever. I’m in awe, frankly. It’s possible that this man had an underdeveloped sense of humour or that he was simply hard of hearing. I blushed anyway and thanked him profusely. It was such a wonderful thing to hear regardless of how deluded.

The next day, life would go back to its regularly scheduled programming. “How does it feel to be with a celebrity?” I asked Gabriella.

“Where did you put all the tissue we just bought at Costco, Madame Celebrity?”

“It’s up my vagina!”

I don’t know why after 15 years she insists on asking me where things are. Everything is ALWAYS up my vagina. And if you’ve noticed something that has gone missing recently, chances are...yup, it’s up there, too.

"It's amazing how much you can get up there."

"I'm no Ellen, but I am amazing in my own small way."

"Yes, you are, honey."

Part I

Part II

Up your nose with a rubber hose

I’m not one for lists. I take that back. I love lists when I’m trying to organize my life. All over my house, lists upon lists. The home improvement list has just joined my collection of lists most recently, and it gives me great pleasure to add to it, review it and imagine my home once all projects are completed. It will no doubt be a source of motivation for a long time to come given the state of this house. I am not, however, a great composer of lists on this blog. Perhaps I’m all listed out once I come to write. Perhaps I’m unsure that you will find any of my lists to be inspiring or of interest. Perhaps I should compile a list of all the reasons I don’t tend to compose lists for your reading pleasure. Or, I could just throw caution to the wind and do it.

Without further delay, I offer to you my first list. The Up-The-Nose-List. Here is a list of all the items which children have shoved up noses as relayed to me by teachers, parents or adults who were the actual offenders themselves...as children, of course.

* A pebble
* A bead
* A crayon-colour unknown
* A plastic army soldier like the ones in Toy Story in its entirety
* A Lincoln Log. OUCH!

Asher models a Lincoln Log for those of you who are unfamiliar. As far as I'm aware, he has not shoved a Lincoln Log up his own nose.


* I have two examples in the collection department:

1. One child ended up in hospital after it was discovered that she had been storing bits of fuzz from her secruity blanket inside her nose over a few months time. It was a strange odour that tipped off parents to the violated nostril. ew.

2. Another child also collected the cotton fibrefill pills off her fuzzy pillow up her shnoz. The thought of blocking my own nasal passages and inhibiting the intake of fresh air makes me gasp for air like a fish out of water, and I have an uncontrollable urge to blow my nose.

* When my pediatrician father had to bring my sister into his office after hours so that he could take a long, large instrument to her nose, he asked her how the button got so far up there. “It bounced!” answered my sister. Poor Rachel. The story never gets old.

* A friend’s Facebook status revealed to me recently that her toddler had shoved a blueberry waaaay up her nose. She chose to take her to the Emergency Room rather than try to blow it out of her via her mouth. Good choice, but I can’t help but laugh at the image of expelling a blueberry by blowing into a kid's mouth.


Might you have an Up-The-Nose story? Just noses please. Yes, we should just pick noses... While I was offered a couple of In-The-Ear stories, they just weren’t as amusing. There’s something especially comical about imagining both the act of nose packing and the misshapen nostril that has been stretched by fingers and objects. And I don’t think we need to discuss anything that got stuck in other orifices. I’m sure those stories would be welcome on other kinds of blogs.

Book club gone wild

Sunday, I returned home from a retreat with my book club ladies at about 1PM. One of our members was kind enough to offer her weekend house in the Catskills and host a getaway. Our monthly meetings of literary critique and philosophical debates are so often cut short. Though we would prefer to spend hours analyzing each month’s book selection, we all have to wake up bright and early the next morning and be responsible mothers and/or employees regardless of how late we inspire each other with enlightening and thought provoking conversation the previous night. Also, we tend to run out of liquor at about 10PM.

This weekend was actually not about the joy of reading. We agreed to pursue other joys-like eating, drinking and behaving like sorority sisters. Not ever having been in a sorority, I imagined that girls behaved in sorority houses as they do in girls’ boarding schools and women’s prisons. Sadly, I had been misled.

Despite the fact that we did not engage in hot oil wrestling or re-enact the film Girls In Prison,





we did manage to let our hair down and have a fantastic time. How could we not? No kids. No partners. No evidence. I actually think we could have embarrassed ourselves a lot more than we did, but we managed to maintain a respectable level of decorum-or at least that’s the story we’re telling. I’m not going to be the one to say otherwise.

I can tell one truth that will not betray anyone in particular. Suburban mothers are dirty, and it makes me proud to be a member of the sisterhood. Thank you, ladies, for a fantastic weekend. Next time, we’ll all jump in the water instead of this one brave soul who shall remain nameless.

After a weekend of civilized debauchery, I arrived at home unwashed and exhausted but fully expecting to have to relieve Gabriella from her single motherhood duties, and she says, “We weren’t expecting you until later. Why don’t you go take a nap?” I know, I know, I’m so lucky...Gabriella is so good to me...She’s so selfless and thoughtful....blah blah blah. She does have flaws, you know, but now is not the time. It was a pretty amazing offer, and I didn’t protest. Sadly, I was unable to fall asleep. I’m bad at naps no matter how tired I am. Wasted opportunity.

I spent much of my restless quiet time thinking about the week ahead. Not very relaxing, I admit, but I’m a planner, and I need to be on top of things. Well, I try anyway. This week I must focus on pulling together enough material from the blog to use for a reading or perhaps write something new altogether. I’ve been invited to read during the Art By The Ferry on Sunday, June 7 at 1PM at the Fish’s Eddy site in St. George, Staten Island. Art By The Ferry, as you’ll read on the site, is a festival that “highlights the wide variety of excellent visual arts, crafts, spoken word and performing arts on Staten Island in spaces provided by local real estate developers, restaurants, galleries and the Staten Island Museum.” The festival runs June 6,7 & June 13,14 from 11AM to 6PM.

Staten Island is not just about land-fills and Mafiosos, you know. Well, I didn’t know until I found out about this festival. There’s culture pulsing through the veins of that borough, and you'd be stunad to miss it. If you’re local, check it out. There will be music, art, activities for kids, food and performances this weekend and next. Check out the site for details. And after my reading, I’ll be throwing my thong underwear into the crowd and raffling off one of my children. Ok, not really. But I will sign your ass with an indelible marker as long as you bring the marker. Times are tough, you know.

On a completely separate note, many of you have inquired to my friend Mark’s response the roast he received after begging me to literarily and publically paddle his naked bottom with a wooden spoon. Mark has since responded to his spanking in the comments section of that entry and I feel has added the maraschino cherry to my Shirley Temple...or should I say mustard to my relish? Confused? See post.