The state of the house

Some of you have been wondering about the state of our house, and if it's all back to normal.

So I thought I'd just give you a little update. In a word: NO.

We are waiting for two things: one, for Australian Builder to have time to fix these things, and also for us to summon up the fortitude to live through top-to-bottom construction again.

The one thing I think is cool is that you can see some very old wallpaper at the very top of the dining room wall. I'd actually like to get a better look, but of course I'm not up for ripping out more plaster.

It looks worse than it is to live with, except for the fact that my mother has a big rack of clothes in her sitting room because there's no point in putting them back in the closet with just a plastic wall between it and the hallway right now.

I also find it rather interesting to see some of the innards of the house.

Not so interesting that I'd have chosen this.

But now that it's all dry and there's no urgency, it's really not that bad. Just not so pretty.

Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

At our B&B in New Hampshire, Nick saw a brochure for biplane rides. Spoiler: he talked me into it.

You can't tell I'm twitching hard, can you?

Specifically, this biplane. This wooden-propellored, cloth-winged biplane named Francesca.

Flown by a charming, skilled pilot named Phil.

So Nick saw the brochure, and his eyes lit up, and he immediately said, "Please please please oh please would you go for a ride in it?"

To which I responded, "I think it's best that one of us is still alive to take care of the kids." And other things along those lines.

But I thought he was talking about a sea plane ("bi" standing for ability to land on ground or water, naturally), and I figured that if all went terribly, well, they'd just land in one of the lakes and we'd be fine.

Which I told Nick on the way there and he was all, um, no, not so much.

But Phil was very reassuring, and he promised not to do any flips. So, there we were.

Since the wings are covered in cloth, you have to get on in a very specific place, and in a particular way. Lest you step through the wing.

It's easier for the first (larger) person. But we squinched in just fine. Phil sat behind. We all had on headphones with microphones.

It was spec. tac. u. lar. It was actually quite relaxing, oddly enough. And the view was extraordinary.

 

I didn't take a lot of land photos because the wind was really strong and I was afraid of dropping my phone and killing some poor soul below. Which, you know, would be bad.

But the experience was tremendous.

In fact, halfway through the flight I said, "If you want to do a flip, I'd be up for it."

Alas, he couldn't with two passengers.

If I do it again, however, I'm wearing a scarf.

In TSA's defense, I've always said that one man's penis is someone else's suspicious package

So last week Nick and I flew - just the two of us!! - to New Hampshire.

There's much to say about the trip (using adjectives such as beautiful! fun! fantastic! and lots of exclamation points), but that's a whole nother couple posts.

Those of you who know me know I'm a twitchy flyer. My preference is to arrive at the airport hours ahead. I like to be securely on the plane with plenty of time to spare.

Whereas Nick is all, why waste time at the airport? Why get on the plane before you have to?

Well. So you have time to stow your luggage, securely fasten your seatbelt, read the safety instructions, locate the flotation device and make sure your seat back is upright and your tray table is in the locked position and then take out your snacks, your book, your bottle of water?

Anyway.

We celebrated by getting lunch at the airport TGI Friday's right outside of security. I wanted to get through security first - who cares where we eat? But Nick wanted to eat, and anyway, we had so much time. And security was like 10 steps away. Lisa.

But lunch took a little longer than anticipated. He could see me getting worked up, and kept pointing out that the security line - right next to us! - was short. It would take seconds!

What he didn't notice was that there was a trainee looking at documents. So we got in line and didn't move. And didn't mooooooove.

Finally, fiiiiinally, we got through, with me on the verge of shrill and pinchy.

We're both used to going through security, and thus efficient about shoes, laptops, etc etc. I was ahead of Nick. I walked into that machine that closes and they make you put your hands up, and then they had to pat my ankle or some random thing, and then I was done.

That part went rather quickly.

I put my shoes back on, gathered the various pieces of whatever that had been pulled out and put in separate bins...and then I waited. And waited.

Finally, finally Nick made it across the Rubicon.

He was laughing as he put on his shoes and fished his belt, wallet, spare change, BlackBerry, keys, and bag out of the bins.

Me: WHAT took you so long?

Nick: The TSA woman asked me to empty my pockets. So I did.

Me: And then?

Nick: Then I tried to walk through, and she stopped me and said, "You need to make sure your pockets are empty." and I said, "They are."

TSA Lady: Are you sure?

Nick, again trying to walk forward: Yes.

TSA Lady, stopping him: No keys? Change? They need to be completely empty.

Nick, giving her a look: They're empty. What are you implying?

TSA Lady: I...Nothing!

Nick: Are you sure you're not implying something? Just tell me if you are.

TSA Lady: No!

Nick: Well, this is awkward.

TSA Lady: Go ahead.

And then she let him go through, and he was so delighted with the whole thing that he even stopped to tell the ticket-takers at the gate even though we were the absolute last people on the plane with NO MINUTES to spare.

And now you are FOUR!

Dear Jordan,

For weeks now, when people have asked you how old you are, you have enthusiastically responded, "Free! And then I'm going to be FOUR, and then I'm going to be FIVE!"

(And I have thought, oh, to be in the hurry-up years! Because leading up to my birthday, I certainly wasn't saying, "Forty-three! And then I'm going to be FORTY-FOUR and then I'm going to be FORTY-FIVE!)

But back to you, my sweet love.

You've said these words with so much gusto, and with the proffering of the appropriate number of fingers - FOUR! - and the whole hand - FIVE! - which almost knocked you over over every time.

But now, now you are FOUR.

You are my first born, the one who made me a mama. You are charming and lovely and hilarious. And sweet. Boy howdy, are you sweet.

Your sister follows you around, and wants to be everywhere you are and do everything you do. She wants to hold whatever you are holding, play with whatever you are playing with, and eat what you are eating. Right off your plate.

When you see her coming, you gather up your things and get all panicky. She will walk over and grab and shove. This, understandably, upsets you no end.

I want to tell you to just haul off and whack her, but it seems inappropriate.

The other day she was pushing or pulling you - I can't remember which. You started to shriek, and I finally cracked. I said, "You're bigger than her! Just shove her!"

And you replied, "But Mama! I'll hurt her!"

Today, however, I saw you fighting back. I see this as a positive.

You refer to her as your baby. As in, "My baby and I like to eat waffles."

She drives you pure up the wall, but you also love her tremendously, and you don't want her left out of anything. But she does need to stay the fuck away from your Lego. And your cement mixer. Oh, and your crane.

You still love all things construction, and you are quick to correct when I refer to an excavator as a backhoe. It was a word I did not know until you learned it. And now they're all backhoes to me.

You and Daddy once got caught in the rain and had dinner at the bar at the Hilton, and now sometimes, when you're not interested in what's for dinner, you'll turn to him and say, "Why don't we have dinner at the bar at the Hilton?"

It sounds bad, my friend.

You are so kind and loving. You're effusive. You make proclamations like, "I really enjoyed that!" and "That would be just perfect!"

You love your mama and your daddy and your baby and your nana.

You love waffles, Oreos, and cupcakes. You love mac and cheese and grilled cheese, even though you hate cheese. You love McDonalds' Happy Meals. And milkshakes. Except when they're too cold.

You love cars and trucks and the aforementioned construction equipment. You adore monster trucks. You love Mater and, as you call him, Lightening LaQueen (as my friend Jeanne says, "a true drag car.")

You still have a slight lisp, and you pronounce many words with a New York accent. And lisp. For example, "cars" is pronounced "cwaath."

It is charming. We do not know where this comes from.

You love your purple crocs - which you chose - and truck and car and bulldozer shirts and the pink hat with the butterflies.

You love rocks and sand and you would dig all day if you could. You love spraying the hose on the deck with Nana. You absolutely insist on being naked for this activity. When we have company and are sitting out back you keep your clothes on as long as you can, and then you hit a point where you can bear it no longer.

I take it as a sign that you are very European. Naturally, I'm in favor.

You have always loved books, and now that you watch videos, you love Bob the Builder, and Curious George, and Fireman Sam, even though they have those Welsh accents.

You are my lovely lovely boy.

I realized this past weekend when I met so many of your dad's camp friends, many of whom he has known since he was maybe 11 or 12, how fast you will grow up and away from us. I need to savor these times. I need to embrace the fact that you still want me to kiss your knee when you bump it, and you believe that makes it better.

You are four. I mean, FOUR! (Too soon you will be FIVE!)

And I love you more than sunshine.

Love love love,

Mama

So please tell me I look like a French tourist because I am trying very hard to do so

So a week or so ago I asked Nick what he thought about these silver sneakers:

Nick suggested that it's perhaps not the highest and best use of our money (translation: dislike). But I kind of love them.

But I decided to be practical and get them in black (see above).

I opened the box with delight, put them on, and asked Nick what he thought. He made a face. He said, "I'm not a fan. You look like a French tourist."

I thanked him. I said, "That's one of the nicest things you've ever said to me."