This is the deal. Please hear me out a moment. I thought Blogger was broken. Or at the very least the view counter.
In five years of writing my blog, Randomonium, I had reached a new record low. Not even the very beginning posts were so poorly received.
This was truly a blow. I went from hundreds of views last month and now to this, ten.
And then someone told me, "Mother, it's the weird doll picture."
The story hasn't changed but the doll picture is gone.
This is a refreshing, sweet story about a little babyboy saying hello world. Here I am!
The deck has been questionable for some time. Deterioration has detoured any deliberate activity besides laying clothes out to dry in the sun, draped on old deck chairs or the occasional grilled burger. No wobbly feeling but still, loosened, ailing railings could look detrimental for the resident architect who had no part in the original construction.
The contractors bring their trailer for hauling the old wood to the dump. And anything else. I scurry under the house. In one area, there is room enough for a much discussed tornado shelter with access from the deck stairs. But maybe not enough time to spare when running for your life in the middle of the night down the stairs, trying to put on your tennis shoes and not drop your cell phone.
Even though the entry has a small door, it is still necessary to scrunch over halfway and put one foot inside. The land of rock is covered in Visqueen. The thick plastic covers small rocks littering the hard ground, probably byproducts of the 1978 origin. With a small footprint, my every step crunches trying to find secure footing. Standing upright makes my knees weak because I have fallen before, knees first.It is dry and musty and a little humid. But always cooler. Thankfully, I have only heard the naked grasshoppers jumping a few times. No other wildlife. But it is spooky. Even the dog doesn't enter with a casual "I'll run ahead of you!" Good light comes in for about three feet and then fades like walking into a cave. I always bring a flashlight. Boulders as big as cars amaze me. So they say, millions of years. A house built on rock.
I run ahead of Burt, determined to pitch out everything left under the house. But there is not much left. Two old, zippered garment bags. Baskets, from the basket error of decor, hanging on nails. Burt carries out a large, cumbersome television stand once admired for its plastic strength and its modern wood styling - found under our first house. Still serviceable, I'm sure there is a millennial somewhere who would pick it up off the curb, this mid-century relic. Without a remote or cable reception, the matching television would require two millennials to carry it anywhere. Gone are the days when seemingly every Coke, Pizza and bathroom break were measured by Flip and Telly. Goldie, Lucy, Matt and Kitty. Mary, Marsha, Bob and Carol. Little Joe. Colombo. JJ, JR and John Boy. Sixty seconds. Five-O. Twilight. And Ed.
Two large covered bins are sitting on the Visqueen, out of the light. Treasure or Trash? Imagine my surprise to see my handwritten label on the top of each box. I must have been in a highly organized state.
I have been a very, very good mother for thirty-one years. But I am not the mother who has saved every piece of paper just because my child pushed a pencil across it. Which is good, considering I have sentimental issues regarding my great-grandparents letters and diaries. I am the depository for my families.
The first box was full of elementary type items. The pencil thin annuals. A few handmade items. A stash of favorite books. A gallon size bag of every McDonald Happy Meal Toy which would make us rich someday. Gonzo paddle boat. 1985. Bouncing Mario. 1989. Monsters Inc. Door. The best find is the handful of papers my child pushed a pencil across - early hand drawn portraits of our family - her "Pre-Knee" Period.
The second box was full of dolls. Cate loved dolls, stuffed, plastic, homemade. She would name anything with two eyes. On our way to get a puppy at The Humane Society, she exclaimed, "Pepper for a boy. Penny for a girl." The second smallest pup, available that day, became our seventy pound mutt, Pepper.
And she would remember their names, every single doll and stuffed animal. After she started school, she began teaching those babies, lining them up around her room in chairs, on tables, on the bed. Then she would make a list complete with lines and check marks. She was a firm teacher. I loved to walk by the room and see her telling them what she was learning. "Now Babies," with a good pointy finger, calling the roll. She was exacting. Still is.
I didn't remember putting these dolls away. Now I was faced with a box full of scrungy baby dolls. As I put them on the den floor, looking at their dirty faces, crooked eyes and crumpled clothing, I realized I was mucking about in mold. I put them on the chair for a quick pic. Poor Miss Madame Alexander was already on life support by the kitchen sink. A couple of these looked like they were auditioning for Children of the Corn. Creepy.
There was no choice. They either got better or it was the trash. But I knew all the names and I had memories with each one. The little brown bear was in the crib from the beginning. The first little doll always tight fisted but sturdy. One of the family favorites, Baby Catherine. Second Christmas. Half as big as my little doll. Super shiny doll hair. Baby Catherine went everywhere but church. Sometimes she traveled in arms but most of the time she went by the top of her hair, held by the hand of a two year old. In short order, her locks twisted and twisted, giving her a new name, Whoopie Catherine.
These dolls lived with all of us. On the couch, stuck in the chair, sitting on the back steps, under the covers at the foot of the bed, under the dresser, missing in the closet. They shared clothing without complaining and took turns in the Wizard of Oz stroller. They studied around a table with four chairs and squeezed into a vintage high chair. For afternoon naps, they reclined on a lovely wicker chaise lounge. At bedtime, they piled into a doll bed resplendent with eyelet bedding. And a couple of the dolls fell asleep on soft pillows, just inches from the sleeping princess.
Black and white. Brunette and blonde. Sleepy eyes. Green, blue and brown. Floppy crochet, plastic tummy, fabric body, eyelashes and painted cheeks. And open arms.
I had to give it a try. I put them in the washing machine, poured in Tide and punched the button of no return, here's a chance and we shall see. Hot water.
They all survived. Remarkably well. I became terribly distracted and had to leave town rather suddenly. But I put them in a bag on a box (of which there are several) in the garage.
We jumped in the car after loading the much anticipated suitcases, hanging clothes, pillows, snacks, chargers, unopened presents, umbrellas, computers, large opened boxed presents. We were to the brim.
We tried to drive all night but even when traffic is light, on the much travelled interstate, the body wants to rest although the mind could keep going from excitement.
When Mc Donald's has turned off their lights, you know it is the middle of the night. It was after 1:00 a.m. when we pulled off of the highway and into the brightest gas station that looked open. That is the main detriment to all night travel. Everything closes.
Watching Grandad pump gas, I stood and looked up at the moon and was overcome knowing this would be your day. There was a beautiful moon greeting, beaming down on yours who were waiting.
An hour later, when I put my head to the pillow I wondered how I would sleep, dreaming of holding you, now just hours away.
Too few hours later, we headed down a new road, floating. And waiting for the hundreds of miles in front to zoom forward like the little guy on Google maps. But we seemed to inch along in our ebullient anticipation of the moment. A phone call here and there and then great silence.
At another gas station, inside, milling around with people stopping to refresh or buy a Diet Dr. Pepper and Coke, maybe a slice of pizza. In this most unceremonious location, we welcomed you with teary eyes and snotty noses, touching the screen without thinking but hoping, in the middle of people with debit cards and Little Debbie's and roller hot dogs on buns, you were the center of the universe - the place where our world would forever change.
And the next few hours seemed faster but still not fast enough. Down the road, but not there yet, we stopped and changed into our baby boy blue clothes to help us join the party. Outfits purchased and held out just for the occasion. Actually, your Mamie had eight but who is counting?
As we drive into the city of your birth, I marvel to think this will be your start. Crossing the bridge, down below, the rapids of the Potomac seem to jump higher. Waiting again, for another light to change, a nearby tree seems patched in foils of olive, tan and grey. I want to jump out of the car and say, He is here! But I know that would be very embarrassing for several people and this is really not the spot.
Another light but at least we can see the destination. A million years in every corner of a parking garage. We don't run through the shining lobby because we are grandparents now. Restraint is hard.
We stand at a locked door with a black eye looking down on us. Please let us pass. Finally, after all the days since mid October and a couple of inside peeks at you, we open the door.
And it is not what you could imagine because it is better and it is nothing you have ever experienced. Two people you love dearly lift up the corner of a blanket .
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| Six days new, wondering about your Mamie! |
