The Adventures of
David
Elizabeth
and Leif

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to digress.  It’s not even our anniversary or anything, but I’m reading a book in which some characters are driving across Oklahoma and it put me in mind of the first road trip David and I ever took together.  It was December of 1994, we had been dating since September I think, and we decided to do an extended road trip for Christmas break.  We drove from Atlanta to Dallas where I met his family for the first time, and then we hoofed it on up to Denver where he met mine.

It was during the second leg of our journey when, as things do on long trips in confined spaces over endless miles of flat plains, it began to feel kind of tense.  We weren’t exactly fighting or anything, just engaging in that siblingy kind of banter that ventures just close enough to offense to create a thickness in the air.  Who knows the subject of our banter, but at some point the car became very quiet for some long minutes.

A bit of background:  We hadn’t been dating that long, nary a kiss had passed between us and I think we both felt a little shocked that we wanted to venture out already on our own version of Meet the Parents (which, thankfully, lacked almost all of the cringe factor of the later to be made movie…). But I think we both felt that this friendship was worth looking into, for which, as everyone knows, a long boring road trip is indispensable.

So at this quiet point in our journey I’m thinking: Great.  Who’s idea was this?  We don’t even know each other that well, I can tell he’s mad at me, was it the thing about the green cars?  Are we too different?  Are we too alike? Etc., etc.  Then he says, “I need to tell you something.”  Oh boy.  It’s over.  I’m kind of surprised, I didn’t thing we were arguing that much, but maybe he just doesn’t like the back-at-ya type, I mean he is from the south, kind of—- “I think I’m falling in love with you.”    …

I don’t remember what my actual response was, but I don’t think I said anything at all.  Maybe David remembers better, but I’m pretty sure the subsequent silence just took on a new quality.  (Actually, now that I think about it, he was probably doing his own bit of mental gymnastics when I didn’t say anything back:  Oh, great.  Nice timing, smoothie.  You just had to go and blurt it out like that, didn’t you? And we have how many miles until Denver??? Etc., etc., etc.

Well, eventually it came out that I loved him too, and one thing has led to another, including a new little person on the face of this earth named Leif.  But two things stand out in my memory of the rest of that road trip: watching the sun set four or five times over the gently rising and falling Oklahoma horizon, and looking over at David, asleep in the passenger seat, and wondering if I might be with this new but strangely familiar person (strange, strange, very strange) for the rest of my days.  After 12 years of being married, moving steadily through the now predictable cycle of sunups and sundowns in our relationship– –the risings warm, inspiring, blinding, the settings dark, brooding, deep– –it turns out I just might.

Elizabeth here. With my recent shows and general mommyness, I’ve been a very bad blogster. Dear reader, please forgive me. I know you’ve been perched on the edge of your seat since last I wrote in…let me see…November. So sit back and allow me to make up some time by blurbing a few blogs I’ve been brewing. Or should that be blogging a few brews I’ve been blurbing? Anyway, here goes…

CHOICE WORDS
Ahh, Brooklyn. Where comments, advice and expletives flow freely from the tongue. The other day (now a couple of months ago) I was driving to the local pet supply store for a large bottle of, er, stain and odor remover (the need for which is fodder for another blog altogether, but I will probably spare you). In the roundabout, a big white para transit-looking van with the word “Courtesy” emblazoned on its three sides shouldered in front of me and into the left lane. But I, in a sunny mood, merely braked gently and made a mental note of the irony. At the light, I turned right and noticed that Mr. Courtesy had meant to stay in my lane and was now behind me. I approached the pet store, on my left, saw a prime spot directly in front of it and made a quick U-turn to grab it. I think I barely braked.

At this point I heard a screech followed by a shocking string of judgments calling into question my character, my anatomy, even my species. But instead of unloading his dirty outburst, shaking his head and moving on like any normal road-rager, the driver put his white van in park, rolled down his window and continued his commentary for (I’m not kidding) two or three minutes. [As an experiment, try cursing fluently for two minutes straight, it’s not easy…]

Some comebacks that occurred to me upon reflection (all, I am pleased and a little surprised to add, devoid of four letterers):
1. “So, I can’t make a U-turn in front of you, but you can sit there and rain curses upon me and my 1-year old for two minutes straight?” Not bad.

2. “Oh my, did I cause you to apply your brakes? I’m so sorry.”

3. “Oh, I see…you’re mad because you were actually trying to pass me across the yellow gore to make your left turn 100 yards ahead when I made my perfectly legal U-turn in front of you.” That one would have felt pretty good. (Though I’m not exactly sure that my turn was, in fact, what one would consider, strictly speaking, ahem, legal…but let’s not mince words here, people.)

4. “It’s a shame that ours is such a reality in which one must SHARE THE ROAD!”

Those are all well and good–amazing how a little hindsight can do wonders for an atrophied Whyioughta muscle–but here’s what I did say:
Me: “What is wrong with you?”
Him: Bleep bleepbleep bleeeeeeeep…YOU CANNOT TURN LIKE THAT!!…bleepitty bleep!, etc., ETC.!!!!
Me: (Nodding, waiting for him to take a breath, and then…) “You know, your sign says ‘Courtesy’.”

Simple. Pithy. Not a big wallop to be sure, but on the whole fairly respectable. It actually felt just right. And at least it got him to–finally–shake his head and just move on.

MILITARY YOGA

So the other day (it really was the other day this time) I tried out a yoga studio in a fairly schwank part of Brooklyn. On my way I passed a lovely young hipster displaying her toned body in a pair of bubble gum pink leggings and a periwinkle spaghetti-strap tank top. Her hair was knotted in two pert little knobs and she was smacking a piece of gum. I smirked, internally, and rolled the insides of my eyes before realizing that I was probably just jealous of her I’ve-never-had-a-baby-so-I-can-keep-this-figure figure. I proceeded to yoga, paying an extra $1 to rent my “mat”, which was a crumbling styrofoamy rag of a thing, and picked my way through the crowded studio to a spot from which I thought it the least likely to slap or poke my fellow yogis. Breathing, breathing, slow stretching, trying to get “centered” and shed the judgment quotient that yoga so wonderfully eschews.

In walks Miss Pink Pants. She’s the teacher. Really friends, there should have been a drumroll, because after a few requisite om’s, she launched us into the most whip-cracking yoga class my hamstrings have ever had the privilege of recovering from. Now, I’m all for a serious workout. If you know me at all it won’t be hard to believe that it’s easier for me to force myself into any number of painful contortions than to sit calmly with a cup of tea. But this lady…wow. Between wandering through the class pulling shoulder blades resolutely together and cranking a leg higher here and there, she sat at the rear of the room barking stern instructions to her exertively obedient class. I half expected her to yell, “DROP AND GIVE ME 20 RELAXING BREATHS–DO IT NOW!!!!!!!”

I shouldn’t be too hard on her. She did give me a couple of helpful adjustments, and the rest of the room seemed to be eating it up, albeit in a sort of predatory, rip-the-tendons-apart-so-the-rest-of-the-pack-will-know-you’re-the-alpha sort of way. But I must say I was relieved when it finally came time for the ending relaxation known as Corpse Pose, in this case appropriately named. But as I focused on sinking into the floor, trying to release all of my now tightly wound muscle groups, Pink Lady came around to me with some final guidance, shoving my shoulders down to the ground and plastering my sweaty eyebrows apart with her forceful thumbs. (Even her thumbs were forcefull??!)

Alas, the attendant at the front desk looked pityingly at me as I declined the offer of saving 20% by buying a 10-class card right then and there. “No thank you, I’m not ready to do that today,” I said. And as I made my way toward the door (with a somewhat frantic desire to leave the joint), I noticed a chalkboard on which was written the inspirational phrase for the day: “Determination is freedom.”

On Saturday, Mommy was busy, so Daddy and Leif decided to attempt another adventure. It was 60 degrees at 9:00 am — incredibly beautiful weather — so we headed out the door to our favorite kid-friendly breakfast place in walking distance. When we got inside it was like 85 degrees. They needed to turn on the air conditioner. We got our food to go and jumped on the subway, heading for the Staten Island Ferry.

Unfortunately, the ferry was not running on schedule — I think because of the fog. Leif was getting impatient, so we took a walk out on the balcony. Here’s what we saw.

We decided to go to the playground across the street at Battery Park. I shouldn’t have been surprised that Leif like the puddles more than anything else there.

I succeeded in getting him to climb a little bit, but he quickly returned to the puddles.

Thursday was an incredible day. I swapped days off with a guy at work, so technically I was “off” (although I was answering emails all day…).

Leif and I jumped on the F-train for an adventure down to Coney Island.

After a 30 minute ride, we got off the train and onto the beach.

Leaf acknowledged the presence of the ocean…

… surveyed his surroundings …

… and got to work.

After a while, he decided to explore.

He soon discovered a bird. “Bird!” He exclaimed! (It sounds like “Dah!” In fact most of his words sound like “Dah!” It’s sort of like his sound for *.* in DOS … or “.*” if you’re into regular expressions)

He gave chase for a while and soon bored of the futile pursuit.

He was happy to get back into the stroller.

We had a couple hot dogs (Hot Dog = “At Ga” in Leivish) and fries, and then hopped on the subway home.

It was a really fun day.