Black Friday and Our New Friend Jeanne

November 27, 2010 By 11 Comments

Black Friday. To me, it sounds positively foreboding. In fact, the mere words coupled with the ghastly images that flash on my television each year cause the exact opposite of the intended effect. Thanks to countless newsreels, I am not that mommy foaming at the mouth to wake at an un-Godly hour and trek to the nearest toy store/mall/department store for a good deal. To me, the possibility of a stampede doesn’t sound like a good time. I have no desire to duke it out with someones grandma over something called a Zhu-Zhu pet or Squinky. Nope. Crowds are most definitely not my thing.

I’m come to realize that for me, Black Friday is different kind of freebie day. Our Black Friday was spent lounging in our jammies and watching cartoons. We ate pumpkin pie and french toast for breakfast and we played games. Joe helped me explore the boxes holding our Christmas decorations. He discovered the ornaments that he made in preschool and kindergarten and marveled at how long ago he made them. To him, preschool was eons ago…an entirely different existence than that of a worldly first grader.

We listened to Kate squeal with delight and clap her tiny hands at each thing we hung. She ran laps around the house pointing and dancing in place with the thrill of discovering Santa Claus or giant red bulbs. They weren’t there when she was tucked into bed for her afternoon nap. She woke up to magic and discovered Santa, who I assume remains a complete stranger, but enchants her anyway. It was a good day.

The best part about this Black Friday was my ability to take a giant chunk of my shopping list from the comfort of my kitchen island, with the convenience of my laptop, a steaming cup o’ Joe and the beauty of my early winter view. Which, by the way, was freshly dusted with our first snow. I calmly, quietly and with great thought searched for and purchased a whole bunch of toys sure to bring smiles on Christmas morning. I told the kids that I was e-mailing with Santa. He was just ‘checking in’ on their behavior and most coveted toys. They’re still young enough that they don’t question the ridiculous nature of my tale. In this day and age, it only makes sense that Santa would communicate by e-mail, no?

A few years ago, when Gwen was just four months old and celebrating her first Christmas, I had no idea what gift would be appropriate. I balked at the naysayers who said, “She’s a baby, she doesn’t need anything”. Clearly, the magic of Christmas was lost on those poor souls. Santa Claus would never overlook a child simply because she was a baby!

Thus began my quest for a simple, perfect toy that she might keep with her forever. The toy that she would sleep with and who would accompany her on first day of preschool. The toy that would wipe away her tears and store them inside of it’s warm, soft body forever. The toy that would earn that ‘forever’ place of honor on her bed and feel the loveliest of hugs. Somehow, my search led me to Sylvain. Sylvain is from France but when we met over the Internet, she was living in San Francisco in a toy store called Zebra Hall. She was on sale and she was just precious. She was renamed Bun-Bun when Gwen began talking and she has fulfilled all of my grand expectations. She is Gwen’s most prized possession. Bun-Bun has been a good friend.

Sylvain, er…Bun Bun, comes from La Grande Famille by Moulin Roty and she has quite a few equally irresistible family members. They appear to be a pretty tight-knit group who spend a great deal of time traveling in cool, retro vehicles. Good for them!

Last Christmas, Kate had not yet reached one year. Again, at a complete loss for a special and meaningful toy for our littlest girl, I went off in search of another special friend. My standards were the same as those I applied in my search for Bun-Bun. I searched all over the United States for La Grande Famille. Alas, Zebra Hall had closed it’s website and it seemed that La Famille elected to remain on the other side of the pond. Or perhaps they were just living off the grid.

Thankfully, our British friends are happy to ship overseas because when I finally located La Grande Famille, Nini Mouse and her baby were begging to make the trip abroad. She arrived unscathed and happily accepted her assignment of loving the baby. The toughest part of her existence has passed for Nini. She survived the drippy bottles and the sad possibility that she might not be “the one”. Last month, Kate renamed Nini. She now goes by “Moo Moo”. She’s the one that must be in the crib each night. She’s the one who makes Kate giggle when she dances. She’s just Moo Moo. Like Bun-Bun, Moo Moo is made of the softest velour and she is elegant in her simplicity. She can be washed. She happily shares a bedroom with Bun Bun and my girls.

Kate won’t be two until February and frankly, we have enough plastic, mass-produced toys for her to explore. Oh, I’m sure she’ll get a few goodies from that corporate giant that I so despise entering, but today I searched for La Grande Famille. Happily, I located them right back here in the states. With so many animals to choose from and at such terrific prices, I hemmed and hawed for a good 20 minutes. Finally with a little help (decisiveness) from Joe and Gwen, I decided that Jeanne should be Kate’s newest friend. Jeanne will be here next week. Can’t wait for Kate to meet her on Christmas morning.

Now, about her birthday…the chicken, the mole, the cat, the dog, the frog, the hedgehog…which to get?

Filed Under: la grande famille, moulin roty

The Comfort of Light

November 24, 2010 By 6 Comments

I was sitting in my hot pink beanbag chair, cocooned in its warmth and devouring On the Banks of Plum Creek. Mary and Laura had just come down with scarlet fever and the Ingalls were worried. I was fully absorbed in the story and the house around me was silent in the absence of family. There was no traffic on that rural route. No cars passing, no people walking. That late afternoon, it was just me and my book waiting for anyone to come home and make noise.

In my periphery I saw her cloudy, vaporous form weightlessly move past my open door. My head jerked up and to the right causing my braids to swing. I peered into the encroaching darkness of the hallway. The shadows were growing longer and I prayed that I was still alone. I prayed on that day that her milky undulating shadow was a figment of my imagination. I longed for anyone to come home and offer relief with the simple noises of human existence. I warily returned my attention to my book and struggled to focus on the story. One of my braids found its way into my mouth and I absent-mindedly chewed on the end while trying to forget that I was alone in the old and eerily silent house. Dusk was closing in, reaching for me with long, murky shadows that seemed to expand with each passing second. My skin prickled with goosebumps as that familiar, dreadful energy began fill the air. My ears filled with the low buzzing sound that I’d experienced before and my head began to swim.

In a feeble attempt to keep the darkness at bay, I leapt from my bean bag chair and hastily turned on the lamp that sat on my bedside table. My pretty pink bedroom was immediately cheerful, warmed by the soft glow of my lamp and its frilly white shade. My comfort was fleeting. Standing there, bathed in my bedroom’s pink glow, I realized the hallway appeared even darker than before. Those hallway lights needed to be turned on before darkness fully settled in. Before evening stole the remaining light and left deep shadows in the angles of the hall, providing countless places for her to hide. Gathering my courage, I plunged into and across the hallway. My hands fumbled for the light switch for a moment too long and I felt a deep chill in my bones. Just as I became convinced that her hand was about to close around my wrist, my frantic fingers landed on the switch and flicked it upward. The long, empty hallway flooded with light made golden courtesy of the yellow paint on the walls. I sighed with relief, believing that the golden glow had worked to drive her back. The tensed muscles of my body slowly unfurled and my heart began to beat at a slower rate when, behind me, the clock radio in my bedroom audibly clicked and the alarm began screaming. I was 9-years-old. At that age, I had no use for the alarm attached to the radio so it took a moment to figure out where the noise was coming from.

Tears sprang to my eyes when I imagined her stealthy passage directly behind me and into my bedroom. Had she slipped past in the moment that I spent preoccupied in a panicked search for the light switch? Was that what brought the sensation that she was reaching for my wrist? Was it her proximity as she moved into my bedroom that caused my chill? I imagined that she had been lying in wait, for that moment when I began pulling air into my lungs for my sigh of relief, when she startled me with the blaring scream of the alarm clock.

I’m not sure if it was adrenalin or the fear of being driven mad by it’s repetitive wail, but I was propelled forward into my bedroom where I struggled to turn off the alarm. Finally able to locate the switch that silenced the box, I backed away and began a speedy walk to the staircase. As I neared my brother’s bedroom door, just feet from the landing, the clock/radio came to life again. This time, Riders on the Storm played at a deafening volume. Even from the top of the stairs, I was startled by the level of noise. If I ran downstairs to escape I would be leaving the radio on at full volume; along with some of the upstairs lights burning. That was the kind of infraction that brought punishment in my house, especially for the one who always seemed to leave lights burning in her wake.

On some level, the thought of that intangible woman controlling the clock radio was simultaneously offensive and mind boggling. Somewhere in the depths of my body I felt angry. Dread mixed with defiant anger and adrenalin fueled me as I whirled to approach the bedroom door once again. I stalked down the hallway screaming, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!”, and in the moment that my right foot landed in front of my door, the song abruptly stopped, ending Jim Morrison’s poetic lament mid-verse. The silence was pervasive.

I turned and I ran, sure that she was standing there next to my bed with her cold, dead fingers resting on the buttons of my clock radio. I clamored down the stairs feeling violated. She was in my space. She was touching my things. Her image flashed in my mind as I wildly raced to the bottom step. I saw her bemused expression. I saw her pale face, her dark grey, lace-edged dress and her dark hair as I turned the corner into the living room. My feet swiftly carried me through the dining room, into the kitchen, through the mudroom and out the door to freedom. I didn’t stop running until I reached the safety of the horse barn where I paused to flick on the bright overhead lights. The horses raised their heads in surprise at my sudden noisy intrusion. I climbed the ladder to the loft and crawled into the hay-filled area where I could watch the driveway and know when someone had finally arrived home. Cold, hungry and frightened, I waited and searched the windows of the house. From my viewpoint, the second floor windows were illuminated with the lights that I had left burning. Methodically, I scanned each window for her image and wondered if the radio was playing another eerie song.

From the comfort of the horse barn, I saw my bedroom light go dark.

Filed Under: barn, Ghost, Hallway

And….He Was Punched.

November 24, 2010 By 3 Comments

When Joe was just two months old, I sat in one of our living room chairs and cradled him on my chest. I relished the sensation of his warm, fuzzy wobbling head brushing against my cheek. His infant squeaks and gurgles softly touched my ears. His breath warmed my neck as he grew tired and succumbed to a nap in my arms. Babies sleep so deeply and that sunny afternoon, mine slept soundly enough that the short, quick rhythm of his breath lulled me into a state of bliss. I slowly pulled him from my shoulder to lay him on my lap. It was there that Dave entered to find me sobbing over the tiny, perfect body that was my newborn son.

David’s face registered a look of concern, “What’s wrong?” Struggling against my tears, I attempted to speak but my words were choked back by a spasm of fresh sobbing. He was across the room in three quick strides, his eyes zeroing in on the baby sleeping on my legs. He knelt at the side of my chair and put his big hand on Joe’s tiny middle, as if to make sure that he was still breathing. David looked into my eyes and took my hand, “What’s the matter?”

I wiped the fat, wet tears that were rolling down my checks and took a deep breath. I needed that air to speak without the interruption of hysterics. “Someday, someone is going to punch him”, I said as I exhaled. Immediately, I was overtaken with a fresh set of tears and squeaky crying. The thought of some boy hurting my perfect, tiny child was unbearable. To imagine that one day, someone might harm him was too much. David wanted to smile; I could see it glinting in his eyes, struggling to spread to his mouth. Instead, he hugged me and stroked our baby’s round, bald head. Together we watched him sleep.

Filed Under: baby, punched, son

Total Failure

November 22, 2010 By 5 Comments

I am a horrible mother.

It happens every time…just when I begin feeling like an honest-to-goodness and compassionate mommy I slip up again. This morning, I flopped into a chair in the family room, still reeling from Kate’s contribution to Barf Fest 2010. Not once in my single-girl days did I anticipate I would one day willingly hold a puking toddler for five straight hours. It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t fun, but I happily held my sick little (stinky) Katie until she was done and sleeping peacefully on my (equally stinky) chest.

As a result of yesterday’s illness, exhaustion overrode my “filter” this morning. If I recall correctly, my filter malfunctioned at the precise moment that Gwen demanded to be carried from the couch to the kitchen so she could eat breakfast. I’ll admit it, I snapped. “That’s enough! You guys are adults now,” I yelled, “so act like one! Get up and walk into the kitchen by yourself!” As soon as I finished saying one of the most idiotic things I’ve said in my career as a mother, I turned to Dave, “Did I just tell them that they’re adults now?” Joe and Gwen sat quietly blinking at each other in surprise. Gwen looked bewildered. Dave laughed. Joe’s face brightened and I recognized the sheer joy coursing through his little brain courtesy of my idiotic declaration. His eyes widened and took on a dreamy far-off glaze. He was drinking in the realization that I had just provided him with carte blanche access to Grown Up Land. Dave said, “Joe, since you’re an adult now, go grab the car keys and head over to Starbucks. I’ll take a black coffee with a shot of espresso and Mom will have a venti latte.” He wasn’t done. “Kate, you have about six more months to shape up, we’ve had just about enough of this baby crap.” Kate gnawed on her bottle and slapped Stella across the face. I went back to bed in an attempt to recover my ‘good Mommy’ persona.

I’ll fess up and admit that there are times when I say the completely wrong thing to my children. Like the time Joe came home from preschool and dished, “[boy name] wore a princess costume and pink nail polish to school today.” He stood there looking positively freaked out, waiting for my response. Having really enjoyed several sociology classes in college involving gender studies, my reaction was an unexpected and disappointing, “Jesus. That’s weird.”

[boy name] is, of course, a boy and he was five-years-old at the time. So what if the kid regularly wore princess gowns to pre-school. It didn’t matter that he threw tantrums when he realized he wouldn’t get a girl goodie bag at birthday parties, right? This is how I should have reacted, so I immediately reigned myself in and smoothed over my verbal faux pas by saying, “I mean, it’s weird because Halloween was over like three weeks ago…I guess he just really liked being a princess.” Dave and I made eye contact and winced a little. I was a bit disappointed in myself for that lapse in judgment. After all, at four and five years old a lot of children engage in gender-neutral play. It’s normal.

A few years ago, my niece was describing the odd relationship of a friend and her mother to my sister and me. As she described how stifled her friend felt, my sister appropriately nodded her head and pasted a sympathetic expression on her face. One that said, I’m listening to your story but I don’t judge someone else’s parenting style in front of my child. What was my reaction? Well, my mouth said, “Holy shit! Aren’t you glad you don’t live in that house?” and then I stuffed a cheese doodle into it. My sister choked on her coffee and quickly explained that perhaps that wasn’t the best and/or appropriate response. I saw her point. On the other hand, I knew that my niece thought something was odd too, so I went with it.

As long as I’m confessing my lapses in effective parenting and lack of a filter, I might as well talk about last summer’s mortifying incident involving the sales person from Invisible Fence. We had an appointment for 9:30 in the morning. With the well-meaning intention of maintaining our summer schedule, I requested an early appointment so we wouldn’t miss a beach day. I wrote the appointment on the calendar and….well, entirely forgot about it.

The morning of the scheduled appointment was atypically insane (meaning…far more insane than usual). Kate and I were returning to the kitchen following an especially traumatic diaper change and found Gwen attempting to fit a gallon of milk into a juice glass. Joe was standing next to the wide open patio door, staring at Scooby Doo in a zombie-like trance while Stella was clearly off wandering in the wild. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation or maybe I was just having an ‘off’ day . Whatever the reason, I lost it. I yelled really loudly at Joe, “Now you can go outside and find the dog while I clean up the milk!” I’m not sure what he was thinking in that moment, but Joe defiantly looked at me and said, “No.” I stood there dumbfounded and frozen. Joe looked oddly triumphant, but also like he might pee his pants in fear. Our stand-off ended when I lunged toward him and his six-year-old body responded with lightening speed. I’ll give him credit, his reflexes have improved and he has shaved a few seconds off of his top speed. He was out the patio door in a flash.

One of my finer moments of maternal tenderness captured on film

Right around the time that we were rounding the swing set and I was grabbing the back of Joe’s shirt to tackle him to the ground, the (forgotten) Invisible Fence lady pleasantly called, “Helllloooo?” She rounded the corner into our back yard as I stood and pulled Joe up with me. While I ordered him to his room, I spotted Kate, clad only in her diaper, running across the lawn with Stella in hot pursuit. Gwen was on the kitchen table mopping up milk with a solitary sopping napkin and noshing on a piece of bacon. The Invisible Fence lady stood staring, mouth agape before finally saying, “Ummmm…I just saw a baby running down the driveway.”

I smoothed my grass stained pajamas, pretended that my hair wasn’t exactly as I left it when I crawled out of bed and introduced myself to the woman who had witnessed my mothering skills at their worst. At least she hadn’t seen me sprinting barefoot across the lawn, trying to stiff-arm Joe….right? I was sure that she had seen and heard the WHOLE thing. As I shook her hand and invited her inside for coffee, Kate and Stella were finishing their lap around the house. I scooped Kate into my arms and called Stella, who thankfully came to me straight away. Ms. Invisible Fence stood planted to her spot on the lawn and said, “Wow. You could REALLY use an Invisible Fence.”

You think?

If you have enjoyed Narragansett No. 7 please vote for me at Top Mommy Blogs by clicking this link: http://www.topmommyblogs.com/blogs/in.php?id=kelli

Filed Under: bad mother, Failure, filter, Invisible Fence

The Fourteenth Step

November 19, 2010 By 8 Comments

In the late 1970’s my parents bought an old, rambling, white farmhouse in upstate New York. It was a beautiful white center hall colonial filled with nooks and crannies, staircases and four barns on two hundred acres. No one had inhabited the house for 11 years, leaving my parents with the romantic notion of renovating the home to its former beauty. On weekends we would drive from our summer home at Lake George and they would spend their days pulling down plaster, sanding floors and making the house habitable for our family of five. It was a beautiful home, and despite much-needed renovations, the past grandeur of the building was evident. I loved exploring the rooms and for a six-year-old, the place was a treasure trove of abandoned items and mystery. Furniture, old newspapers buried in the walls, peeling wallpaper and the faded remnants of what was once someone’s ornate art deco carpet laid behind the grand double doors of the front “parlor”. That would have been the room where past families gathered for very special occasions, including the wakes of deceased family members.

One afternoon I happened to find an old tin riverboat in the parlor. It was full of tiny, careful details not seen on my own mass produced plastic toys. I sat on the stairs in the front hall inspecting my find, thrilled with the discovery of this treasure from the past and wondering about the child who left it behind. Overjoyed at having something to play with while the grownups worked, I moved up and down the stairs, eventually landing in the alcove on the landing. The alcove offered a cozy, clean spot to play. As I pushed the riverboat around, opening and closing its tiny, intricate doors I was overcome with the sensation that my mother was standing behind me watching. When I turned to look up at her, she wasn’t there. Returning my attention to the riverboat, I was again quickly overcome with the feeling that someone was standing over me. Each time I turned to confront the trickster, expecting to catch my sister or brother as they darted into an empty room, my eyes only met thin air. Except the air no longer felt thin; it was thick and charged with energy that at the age of six, I didn’t yet understand.

Despite the undeniable feeling that something was off, I continued to self-consciously play while watching for my sister and brother. I was sure that they were trying to scare me. The silence became deafening and I realized that I could no longer hear my parents working downstairs. They had moved outside, leaving me alone in the house. Despite the warmth of the summer day, I grew cold. My skin broke out with goose bumps that I was inspecting when my scalp began tingling and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. My ears filled with a low buzzing sound and the pounding of my own heart. Having never felt this way before, I thought that I was becoming sick. Behind me the floor on the landing creaked with the sound of a footstep. I quickly twisted to catch whoever was torturing me. The landing stood empty, yet in my periphery there was a movement. A wispy, clouded form moved into the room that was to be my sister’s. The bright, sunny room stood to my immediate left, and suddenly the open doorway held the possibility of a terror that I couldn’t explain. I did, however, understand that to leave the alcove and reach the stairwell, I needed to pass that door. I sat frozen to my spot weighing my options, trying to clear my head of the buzzing sound and comprehend what was happening. I heard a rustling movement in the empty room where that cloudy form had disappeared. At that moment it struck me…my brother and sister weren’t with us that day. That distinct rustling movement was coming from an empty room.

Fueled by adrenalin, my body responded with flight. I quickly picked up the riverboat, and darted from the alcove. As I passed the doorway I threw a quick glance, bracing myself to see something that shouldn’t be there. I was sure that something was waiting to reach out and grasp at my t-shirt as I fled. My eyes were wild with terror as my foot pivoted to the right and I lunged toward the stairs. The grand formal front doors stood open at the bottom, promising admittance into the warm afternoon sunlight dappling the marbled walkway under the maple tree. I clamored down the fourteen steps and burst through the wide front doors into the mid-day heat of August. Outside and safely on the warped marble walkway, I whirled around to confront the person who I was sure had followed me. I was certain that I felt someone following me. Again my gaze rested on thin air, but I could feel a presence at the top of the stairs, standing on the fourteenth step and waiting for my return. I sensed her questioning my existence just as I stood questioning hers, only I didn’t know it was a “her” yet. Standing there, I was overcome with the sudden sounds of life outside. The cicadas buzzed in the fields, birds sang in the trees and I could hear the murmuring voices of my parents on the side porch. I realized that none of those sounds had made it to my ears when I was inside, despite the window and doors being wide open.

For the rest of the afternoon I played with the riverboat in the backseat of my father’s car. I was cold and drained. My thoughts seemed foggy. I fell asleep in the car and woke to hear my parents calling my name, frantic because they didn’t know where I was. I refused to go back inside, preferring to lay on the backseat in the shade of the maple trees. I laid there quietly playing with the riverboat, while the sunshine danced through the leaves of the trees. The car made me feel safe. It sealed me off from the blank, staring windows of the house. As I tried to recover from what I later realized was my first visceral experience with the woman who remained in the house, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched from the upstairs window. The corner window in what would later become my new bedroom.

Eventually, the renovations were complete enough for us to move in. It was March 1978. Coming from our tiny vacation home, the place felt enormous and I was thrilled to have my own room again. At the top of the staircase, a long hallway carried me to the right and to the end of the corridor where my pretty pink bedroom stood waiting. From the start, I sensed her penetrating, watchful presence. As I played in my room, I would often be interrupted by the sudden and extremely intense feeling of prying eyes. More often than not, the feeling of being watched was accompanied by movement glimpsed in my peripheral vision. I would quickly turn to see who might be standing in the doorway spying on me, always hoping to find my brother or sister but would only catch a gossamer trace as I turned. If I ran to the door and peered into the hallway, it was always empty of life but filled with the sensation of presence. This was almost a daily occurrence for the entire six years that we lived in that house. I stopped complaining after being made fun of or, alternatively, reprimanded for acting like a baby or making up stories.

I came to dread dusk and the call for dinner that meant I would need to exit my pink sanctuary. I would be forced to enter and navigate the long, murky hallway, descend the fourteen stairs, and make my way through several more rooms before finally reaching the kitchen and my family. I was often scolded for taking so long to reach the table. They didn’t know that I was in my bedroom listening to their calls, too terrified to step into the hallway and risk being touched. It took time and willpower to step out of my bedroom and when I finally did, I would race across the hall frantically searching the wall for the light switch. I’d flood the hallway with light and stand for a moment, scanning the shadows. Then I would run…looking over my shoulder periodically to make sure that she wasn’t behind me, reaching out to stroke my long hair with her lifeless fingers.

In a cold sweat, I would run through the house, stopping outside of the kitchen to collect myself. My family didn’t believe in ghosts then. They didn’t start believing until the night we heard the voice calling from the empty stairwell, but that voice we heard wasn’t “the lady.” The voice we heard was deep and powerful as it called the name. It was the staunch, gravel-filled and ethereal voice of a man who spoke the name shared by my father and brother.

If you have enjoyed Narragansett No. 7 please vote for me at Top Mommy Blogs by clicking this link: http://www.topmommyblogs.com/blogs/in.php?id=kelli

Filed Under: Ghost, renovation, tin riverboat

The Bad Finger

November 18, 2010 By 2 Comments

Right around the time that she began walking and babbling, I had Cookie’s number. She quickly made it clear that she was a mischievous tease when at 12 months of age, she toddled over to Joe and swiped his favorite monkey. She dangled the monkey in front of him and then with an impish glint in her eyes, she took off as fast as her tiny legs would carry her. I sat back in awe and observed my little Cookie as she ran laps through our tiny apartment, maniacally laughing as Joe followed in hot pursuit. He was screaming too, but evidently his opinion of Gwen’s game wasn’t quite so high. Unfortunately for Joe, his protests only fed Gwen’s good time and encouraged future monkey swiping. It was right around that stage of her growth when I predicted that Gwen was destined to be our lightening rod for trouble.

The girl has no filter. She can swear like a sailor and on a few occasions, she has let a word or two fly. Thankfully, up to now any profanity-laced indiscretions have been reserved to the confines of the house or car. That is, until today. This afternoon I was slightly early for pre-school pickup which provided me with the opportunity to spy. (Don’t you love those “fly on the wall” moments when they have no idea that you are there and watching?) I stood outside of the preschool peering in through the big glass window, trying to remain unseen. I covertly scanned the roomful of noisy children until my eyes finally came to rest on a small group in the corner. They were oddly subdued in comparison to the rest of the kids. Of course, I was immediately suspicious and even more so when I realized that it was Gwen who was holding court. A group of boys sat in a semi-circle around her. Nothing good comes from an unchaperoned, silent and barely-moving brood of preschoolers.

I squinted through the glare on the window trying to figure out what they were doing. The boys were enrapt as they watched Gwen perform some trick with her hand. My angle was bad, casting a glare on the window. For the life of me I couldn’t see, not to mention that one of the kids was blocking my view to Gwen’s hands. I saw her mouth moving and she shook her head ‘no’ at the boy in front of her. I thought I saw her roll her eyes and sigh with impatience as she shifted to the left. Finally, Cookie was in full view and to my horror I realized that my sweet little Cookie, the girl wearing a fancy dress and a big red bow in her hair, was teaching a group of boys how one properly ‘flips the bird’.

Right about now you’re thinking, “Well, who in the world taught that sweet little girl how to give someone the finger?” Joe did it. He came home last week with a long and sordid tale about how “So and So” from his first grade class was sent to the Principal’s office for “showing his bad finger.” He sternly proceeded to demonstrate the bad finger for Dave and me in precise detail and inquired as to its meaning. We barely attempted to hide our laughter at his solemn display, but then explained that using “the bad finger” is akin to saying the “F” word. His eyes widened and he immediately dropped his bad finger, but not before looking at it with horror. It appears that Gwen simultaneously absorbed the conversation and missed the message that The Finger is BAD.

I recalled that moment of parental failure today in the seconds it took me to lunge toward the door. I was still helplessly mid-lunge as I watched Gwen demonstrate her new found expertise to the group of followers. While I was I still turning the doorknob, she held her right hand up and began closing her little fingers one by one. She even pushed the disagreeable stragglers down, allowing her middle finger to stand proud and tall. I saw a boy giggle and raise his hand to his mouth to stifle his laugh at her naughty ability. Finally, I was able to jerk the glass door open and call, “Hey, Cookie!” She gave a startled jump at my interruption and gazed at me blankly for a half second. A happy look of recognition washed over her features but almost instantaneously, fear flickered through her eyes. She knows my “I saw what you were doing” glare well. She stood up slowly and stepped away from the boys who were now wearing expressions of wide-eyed terror. I pulled Cookie to me and gave her a giant hug while whispering, “I saw that!” in her ear. She pulled her face away and peered into my eyes with that mischievous glint I know so well. I made sure her entourage overheard the stern reprimand that followed before they ran for the hills.

I’m sitting here expecting a phone call from an angry mother. Something tells me that if it comes, it will be the first of many in Gwen’s school career.

If you have enjoyed Narragansett No. 7 please vote for me at Top Mommy Blogs by clicking this link: http://www.topmommyblogs.com/blogs/in.php?id=kelli

Filed Under: mischievous, Preschooler

In The Hallway

November 16, 2010 By 3 Comments

My eyes opened to my bedroom, heavy with darkness and filled with a crushing silence. As my eyes struggled to adjust and I got my bearings, a terrifying dread washed over me. I knew this wasn’t a sleepy awakening to simply plump my pillow or roll over because a burst of adrenalin suddenly coursed through my body and every hair stood on end. My heart was pounding and my head spun as I lay frozen in my bed. It felt as though an electrical current was coursing through my body, charging every nerve and putting me in a state of hyper-awareness. At the same time, the air was thick and left me with the sensation of being pushed down onto the mattress. I was paralyzed. Out of fear, I willed my eyes to adjust to the dark as I manically searched for her whereabouts. Then, remembering that I didn’t want to see her, I squished them shut as tightly as possible and started saying my prayer of protection. 

Hail Mary, full of grace… Mary wouldn’t let her touch let me, would she? I knew she was in my room again. I could feel her standing over my bed, inches from my face. She stared but never said a word. In the seven years I lived in that house she never spoke to me. She simply watched with great, looming intensity.

Nobody could protect me. I was utterly alone as around me, both the house and my family slept. To a nine-year-old, the hours until dawn seemed infinite and the distance to my parents bedroom, insurmountable. There were no lights to offer comfort in the countryside. No streetlights. No headlights. No soothing sounds as the living went about their business. In that moment, in that house, there was only me and that lifeless woman who never left.

As I endured her ghostly movements in and out of my room, I continued to pray and desperately tried not to move, not even to wipe the tears that silently rolled from my eyes, dampening the hair at my temples. Maybe she didn’t know that I was awake… Her whisper-light feet methodically creaked the wide planked floors of the hallway as she paced back and forth. Again and again, she crossed the door jamb in and out of my bedroom, pausing to stand over me for moments that felt as though time had stopped. Her face inches from mine, her proximity suggested that I should feel her breath. If I opened my eyes, what would I see? Would she speak? Would she touch me? Could she steal me away to another world entirely? One where souls roamed helpless and lost?

As she finally moved back into the hallway, I willed myself to call out to my mother for help. My screams  came out as a nearly breathless whisper. I tried in vain to call to my mother once more despite fear that my noise would draw the wrong woman to my bedside. Still unable to speak above a weak shaking whisper, I willed my hand from beneath the covers to the light switch on my bedside table. My body refused to respond to my command. I was terrified that she was lurking in the dark waiting, fearful that she would enfold my hand in her cold grasp and pull me away into her cold, lonely existence.

I could hear her steps pause at the top of the stairs. I had one more chance to make my voice work and summon help before she returned. Inhaling deeply, I counted to three and attempted to yell. I was left with a weak and shaky, “Mooooom!” I quickly tried once more before my voice failed, and urgently yelled, “MOM!” I immediately heard my mother’s feet hit her bedroom floor. The terror in my voice caused her to move quickly. The hallway light clicked on and, I hoped, drove the woman back to wherever she hid when she chose to remain quiet. Relief washed over me along with the illumination of the hallway light. My mother entered and, with concern on her face, sat on the edge of my bed. She swept the hair from my forehead, “What’s wrong?” Freed from my paralyzing fear, my tears began to flow. My body relaxed as the tension of the woman’s presence was dulled by the light. I inhaled, “There’s a ghost in my room.”

She stroked  my forehead, trying to deliver comfort. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

My eyes shifted to the right and behind my mother. I knew she was there, waiting in the hallway. I challenged her to show herself in the light and prove existence to my mother. I couldn’t understand why no one else could see her. After all, she flitted in and out of my vision almost daily, preferring the confines of the hallway during waking hours. Her obvious form was made up of a milky iridescence visible in short, jagged bursts. I’d see her there in the hallway watching me as I played. Often I would stay trapped in my room for hours; I was too fearful of crossing her chilly path on my way downstairs to where the living were moving.

Sasha, our well-trained and vicious German Shepard, refused to climb the stairs and accompany me to my room. She would alternatively growl and whine as she scratched at the door pleading for release. Upon escape, she would quickly run through the hall and down the stairs, stopping at the bottom to bark up at me, calling me a fool and telling me to hurry up. I often did run, sure that the woman’s long, cold fingers were inches from my back as I plunged forward. More than once, I fell down the stairs in my haste.

In the dead of night when I felt her at my bedside, standing close enough to touch, I had no escape. There was nowhere to run for relief from her presence in the darkened house or yard. Who was she? Was it only me who she watched or were the others simply able to sleep through her intense curiosity? My mother attempted to assure me that there was no such things as ghosts for several years; until the woman grew strong enough to make her presence known to everyone.

Filed Under: dread, Ghost, Hallway

Payback’s a Bitch!

November 13, 2010 By 7 Comments

There was a game that we played as kids; I think we made it up. It was called The Tasting Game. It involved a blindfold and anything edible as long as it wouldn’t kill or maim a person. It was a game of trust or, alternatively, an opportunity for a sibling to exact her long-awaited plan of revenge.

My sister and brother really knew how to dole out the crap and, being the youngest,  I endured a fair amount of it. They had a knack for enticing me into a “fun” game with promises of candy and magic, but usually had a pre-determined agenda to make me the fool. For example, the time we happened upon a treasure map in the yard. It was the real deal, complete with authentically burned edges on aged parchment and a big red X marking a spot. Okay, I made that part up. It was actually crinkled up notepaper that they charred with a Zippo lighter. Nonetheless, I nearly peed my pants with excitement! I pursued that map’s circuitous instructions for what seemed like hours. My anticipation intensified with each step that brought me closer to the promise of riches. I told them that there was probably gold…pearls…diamonds, even! They were giddy with excitement –  slightly too giddy, in fact - but I was too involved to notice.

Finally, we found the ‘spot’. There it was, in a hollowed out tree trunk – a glistening gift miraculously delivered from the sea!

I feel compelled to point out that the Long Island sound was at least an hour away. 

But there it was… a golden treasure box that oddly resembled a cheap, gold foil-wrapped cardboard jewelry box from Reeds. With deep reverence for the history attached to its contents, I slowly lifted the lid from the box and gasped at the treasure inside. Three elbow macaroni and note reading, “Here’s your treasure noodle brain!”

Traci and Billy fell on the ground laughing and I stomped off, pissed at the world for impeding upon my fantastic imagination. Strike one, suckers!

Respectively, there is a difference of seven and five years between my sister, brother and I. So forgive me if, on the random day they suggested a game of hide and seek, I was gung-ho. I had no playmates! Shame on me for being so daft. Exactly how many times did I hide in the toy box before realizing that it was simply their golden opportunity to entomb me? Like clockwork, as soon as the counting began, I would run to the toy box and hurl toys across the room until there was sufficient room for my little body. I’d climb in and quietly close the lid, chuckling at the genius (predictability) of my hiding place. I would lay there trying to ignore the odor coming from Baby Alive’s putrid, moldy diaper and wait. I never waited long. As soon as the lid shut, I’d hear them running. They always threw themselves on the top of the trunk, sealing me inside that claustrophobic box. Ultimately, the amount of time they held me captive was determined by their eagerness to listen to me plead and cry. I finally learned that faked hyperventilation coupled with spastic thrashing got their attention. Following up with a death gasp and complete silence earned me a hasty exit. Strike two, you freaks!

The Tasting Game was a bit like Russian Roulette. If you agreed to play, you had to expect that you would be fed some unfathomable concoction from the refrigerator or pantry. Sometimes simultaneously.  Suspiciously, we often played the game when my father had stocked the fridge with tongue or pickled pig’s feet. Blindfolded and helpless, I recall being fed a heaping spoonful of jelly coated with mayonnaise and generously sprinkled with cayenne pepper. Strike three, you sadists!

With age, my cunning surpassed theirs. One day, when my now teenaged sister suggested that we pass the time with The Tasting Game, I agreed. I had been biding my time. I suggested that this time, perhaps she would like to go first.

Mwuaaaah-Ha-Ha-Ha

Clearly, she wasn’t anticipating my newfound smarts. I silently laughed (refer to above-referenced evil laugh) at her pompous belief that I’d simply feed her some spicy mustard. I played the game as she expected. The first spoonful was a benign and somewhat tasty mixture of jelly and cinnamon. She guessed the tastes with a smirk, thinking I was an idiot child. The second concoction was a blend of spicy german mustard and horseradish. She made a bit of a face but again, guessed the ingredients. I could see that she was impressed at my ability to take it up a notch with a little spice. That, my friends, was when I pulled out the big guns.

I pulled the refrigerator door open for the noise effect, then ran to the bathroom and dipped a cup into the cold, refreshing toilet water. I brought the cup back to the kitchen and made stirring sounds before I poured a spoonful of the chilled water onto a hefty soup spoon. “Are you ready?” I asked, as a depraved smile of triumph spread across my ten-year-old face.

The spoon moved through the air and toward her lips in slow motion speed. I watched as her lips slowly parted with a smile of anticipation. Quickly, I poured the contents of the soup spoon into her mouth. She swished, swallowed, and then made that tongue-smacking sound a person makes when they are attempting to determine a taste. “Its water”, she stated in a tone that suggested I was a rookie fool.

“Yes, but what kind of water?” I asked while slowly backing away. As I moved toward the door I could see her expression change beneath the blindfold. As realization struck, I heard her yell, “TOILET WATER? YOU JUST FED ME TOILET WATER?!”

She ripped the blind fold off her face as she hopped off the counter, but I was already gone.

Filed Under: brother, revenge, sister, Tasting Game

Hello, Mr. Pretty Mantis

November 11, 2010 By 2 Comments
As I sit in the kitchen gazing out the windows, I hear the wind howling. I can see it moving through the skeletal remains of the deciduous trees and watch as it bends the pines. It’s grey and damp outside. It just looks cold. It looks like November. I’m already longing for summertime as I notice that I’ve forgotten to take my pots inside for the season. The one that remains on the porch steps holds the last vestiges of summer greenery. That was the spot that Mr. Pretty Mantis called home.

The praying mantis wasn’t shy at all. He moved in and made himself highly visible to the neighbors (us) right away. His favorite perch was the highest, feathery fern, to the right of the clover and overlooking the lavendar. Each morning, he was there to greet the warm morning sun with me. I’d enjoy my coffee and allow him to sit on my leg. We’d chat and I’d marvel at his big buggy green eyes.



When he first moved in, he was still a little guy so I kept him a secret for the first few weeks. As he grew, I introduced him to Joe and Gwen and let them look from afar. I explained how special a Praying Mantis is and instilled enough awe in their little minds to ensure there would be no panic induced squishing. As I invited him onto my hand, Joe whispered, “Cooooool.” Gwen made a tiny gasp and said, “Can I hold Mr. Pretty Mantis?”

From that day on, we all greeted Mr. Pretty Mantis with a smile as we passed. We often paused to say hello and let him crawl on our bare skin. We liked how he would raise his front legs and poke them out at us as if to box. Joe giggled at how tickly Mr. Pretty Mantis was becoming as he grew.

One day Mr. Pretty Mantis disappeared from the pot. I explained that he had probably moved on to a bigger, more comfortable home in the field. The kids were sad to hear about his move. “He didn’t say goodbye”, Gwen whined. Joe wondered what area of the field he relocated to and went off in search of his friend.

Sometime in late August I was weeding the garden near the front porch when I saw something move in the leaves of the lilies. It was large enough to make the leaf it was walking on slightly sway. It took a moment to locate him, but I would have recognized him anywhere. It was our old friend Mr. Pretty Mantis! He sure had grown. Out of habit, I held out my hand and he hopped on. He was heavy now and his sticky feet felt slightly creepy on my skin. I tried to be cool and he stood still. “Hey, guys!” I called to my family. Dave and the kids came around the corner and I told them that Mr. Pretty Mantis hadn’t moved away after all.

As I held out my hand, Mr. Pretty Mantis took off up my bare arm. His (several inches) long insect body suddenly felt too heavy and his sticky feet grossed me out. After my long “be careful” talk with the kids earlier in the summer, I struggled to maintain my calm demeanor. Dave saw a crack in my cool and started smirking. I looked at him, eyes pleading to come get this BLEEPing bug off me…NOW! He laughed. Mr. Pretty Mantis was on my shoulder now and heading toward my face. I screamed and stuck my face and shoulder in the hydrangeas to avoid squishing him. As I performed a frantic get-this-giant-bug-off dance, I carefully flicked him off my shoulder and onto the bush.

Having saved myself from Mr. Pretty Mantis, I pulled my body out of the hydranges and turned to face my family. The children were looking at me like I was insane and my husband could barely contain his laughter. They all turned and walked away. “Hey, but don’t you want to see Mr. Pretty Mantis? I called. “He got really big!”

Filed Under: hydrangea, Praying Mantis, Summer

I Just Heard Myself…

November 10, 2010 By 3 Comments

I just heard myself and realized I am precisely the kind of jackass that I would make fun of if I overheard her speaking to her children.

Here is an example of why:

“Cookie, please don’t let Birdie eat that food from the floor.”

Really? Cookie?….Birdie? Did some waspy, old-school bitch from Greenwich possess my body at the country club buffet? Seriously, I have no idea where those nicknames came from. Even worse is that I have no idea why they stick, but they do.

Back when Gwen was still cooking away in my belly, Dave and I kicked some names around. Payton was high on the list. I really liked Payton. That is, until the day that Dave and I were in the Chestnut Hill Mall and overheard a waspy, new-school bitch from Newton hailing her spawn. “PAAAAAAAYTON, Paaaaayton. Come see Mommy, Payton.” At first it was difficult to understand her because of her locked bottom jaw. She was also speaking through her nose. It took a moment, but I realized that she was using one of our ‘maybe’ names.

I’m a people watcher but that day, I stood, mouth agape and stared at the woman who embodied exactly what I didn’t want to become. There and then I vowed that I would never morph into a 30-something woman who frequents the Chestnut Hill Mall with her designer babies and a nanny in tow. You’ve seen her at any number of upscale shopping malls. She’s the one who lounges on the couch outside of Bloomingdales/Neimans/Nordstrom in a Juicy Suit and Tory Burch ballet flats. She silently critiques the other women who pass by. She very obviously performs a dismissive once-over and a sneer while chatting on her iPhone and completely ignoring her infant. Do I need to mention that she always has the latest Bugaboo baby stroller and her baby is likely swathed entirely in Burberry or head to toe Oilily?

Payton was hastily scratched off of the list as I stood watching that woman as if she were some rare species of animal.

So here we are, four years later with two little girls who have perfectly nice and carefully chosen names. Nothing off the wall and nothing unpronounceable, but there’s that issue of the nicknames. They must have started somewhere around the time that I riding a doped-up, post c-section euphoria because I don’t remember the genesis of either moniker. I just know they were my creation. Back in the days when were spent our days at home, the nicknames were okay. House confinement meant that the names were private. That is, until the social obligations of my children required that we all leave the house together.

Last year I stood in the library of our tiny New Hampshire town at story hour and called out, “Cookie, get down from that table right now!” The (abnormally silent) mother next to me with the kids who didn’t speak or move, simultaneously jumped and rolled her eyes. She then turned and looked at me as if I was the most ridiculous ass in the history of ridiculous asses. My first inclination was to flash her one of my signature filthy dirty looks. Then my eyes moved to her poor, semi-comatose children pointlessly writhing around on the carpet and I decided that it just wasn’t called for. She had enough to contend with.

However, I did immediately recognize from her eye roll and wary expression that to her I was “that” woman. To the lady with the comatose kids I was the Juicy clad, new-school waspy bitch who had just rolled into town from the city. I shrugged my shoulders and told myself that her opinion meant nothing. After picking some lint from my Juicy sweat suit, I pulled our Maclaren stroller from the rest and began to walk home. On the way, we passed the General Store. I asked Birdie and Cookie if they wanted a lollipop and marveled about how comfy my ballet flats were.

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Filed Under: Bugaboo, Juicy, WASP
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