Three Parts

I

On Friday evening, I headed off to my once-a-year singing gig with at the Conservative Party Banquet right here in Rochester, New York. The Conservatives, being relatively conservative, do things the same way year after year. Therefore, I know every May I can make $100.00 singing Gershwin and Cole Porter tunes at the Rochester Riverside Convention Center. I get to sing with my dad, which is lovely, and Joe, a saxophonist who was also best man in my brother’s wedding, and this year a bass player I’d never met before. I’d love it if we were a real band. Sadly, we’re a once-a-year phenomenon. My dad is threatening to quit altogether, even though I came up with a great name for our would-be jazz ensemble. It’s… wait for it… Improversations! (Improvisation and conversations put together.) It came to me in a dream. I thought I was incredibly witty for coming up with it on my own; I then found out Michael Scott from The Office first coined the term. (The subconscious is a strange vault of information.) Nevertheless, I think it’s a name that would look good on a drum. (On a related note, Improversations could use a drummer.)

This year we made the evening news.

I am famous. Again. Surprisingly, the phone calls aren't pouring in.

You can see me and Joe a few seconds into the segment. I am singing Porter’s “Let’s Misbehave,” which is always an appropriate pick for any political event. (Though our gigs so far have been limited to right-wing political events, don’t be fooled. We would be happy to play at your wedding or bar mitzvah.)

II

On Saturday, Caleb and I went with my dad and stepmother to see Peter Pan in Stratford. This was Caleb’s first theater experience, and he loved it. After every scene ended, he turned and asked if the play was over. He wondered if the pirates were actually real pirates, because they certainly looked real. He clapped loudly when Peter Pan implored the audience to help save Tinkerbell’s life. He gasped when it appeared the Jolly Roger would sail right into the audience, and stared amazed at the starry sky from which Wendy, John, and Michael flew home.

It was a fantastic performance, despite the fact that Tiger Lily and her Indian friends were turned into Amazons. (Political correctness is destroying the theater!) The Amazons were all female and looked an awful lot like Xena Warrior Princesses.

It was a treat to spend the whole day with Caleb. Speaking of treats, my dad and Sigrid stuffed that kid full of sweets- cookies, hot cocoa, ice-cream, and candy. And, when Caleb had to use the potty five minutes after we left Stratford for home, my dad didn’t scold him. Not even a little. I’m only mentioning this because it’s not how I remember my dad acting when Holly-of-the-very-wee-bladder had to stop some place to use the potty on car trips.

Before the play, we took a walk by the river. This couple was making out in a disgusting fashion. So I took a picture. (That'll learn 'em.)

Caleb, oblivious to the couple on the bridge, is excited about feeding a mass of swans.

Here's the boy in action.

III

Yesterday, we had a full day of church, naps, and an evening visit from friends. I went to bed last night feeling full of warm fuzzies. I love my children. They are good people.

It is my job to check on them before I start my own getting into bed process, which is long and complicated. Sometimes, I don’t check on them. I climb into bed, start the process, and John says, “Did you check on the kids?” I sigh and get out of the warm covers and take a peek at them. Inevitably, Ella is stripped down to her diaper, though on occasion, her diaper is off completely and that, of course, needs to be remedied.

Why doesn’t John check on the kids? I’m not sure. He seems to think it’s his job to remind me to do it. It’s strange how over time couples get relegated to specific, inane roles. For instance, it’s John’s job to fill up our nighttime cups. When he’s out of town, I reach for my cup and feel disoriented and confused when it’s not filled with fresh, cool water.

My bedtime process consists of adjusting the covers just-so, applying hand-lotion, taking my happy pills, drinking my cool water, flossing my teeth, and then reading until I get sleepiesh. I must wear pajama bottoms to bed and the sheets must be tucked in correctly.

This is why I don't get my kids. When I go to check on them, they look like this:

Daniel has completely removed his sheet, and is lying on top of, instead of under, his quilt. His feet aren't even on his bed.

Ella's feet are hanging out of the crib. Note that she has stripped out of her pajamas. Her blanket, at least, is not covering her face like it usually is.

So, last night I dressed Ella, put Daniel in a position that made me fairly certain he wouldn't wake up with a neck cramp, and went to bed, still filled with the warm fuzzies. A lovely weekend.