Family

Lunch with Yoda

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ambience of the dining establishment

Left much to be desired.

 

Walls of cream and pastel green punctuated with

Primaries did not whet the appetite.

 

A selection of cheery, primitive art attempted to

Counteract the cheerless interior.

 

The lighting flattered neither

Food nor guest.

 

Classical music poured out of tin speakers,

Adding salt to wounded composers.

 

The maitre’d was surly, sour and

Bitter in her greetings.

 

She slow marched each party to their table

With enforced silence.

 

And although we were seated in a reserved section,

The other diners were a bit intrusive.

 

The meal itself reminded me why

I usually make my own.

 

The rice-undercooked and bland.

The vegetables-overcooked and bland.

 

The beef I’d ordered had a strange relationship

With a certain Dr. Salisbury.

 

Dessert.

The unnecessary death of a good peach.

 

I closed my eyes to offer a prayer

For this dining misfortune.

 

Grace found my companion and

The smile on his face before he left for recess.

Suckers or how we just ended up with a three-legged cat

We’ve always maintained special relationships with our various vet’s offices over the years.  They have provide excellent medical services for our menagerie of pets and we have been gullible enough to take the oddities that show up in their offices.

Shit Dog came from a vet’s office, as did our late, neurotic lab/dachshund Elisheva.

Our latest addition to the family came through the modern marketing marvel, FaceBook.

Pictures had been posted on Thursday or Friday of this week of a kitten that had been brought in to our vet that week.  I tend to be a curmudgeon toward pictures of cute animals, but something about this one caught my eye even though I didn’t look that closely.  I didn’t even read the captions.

We found out later that a good samaritan turned her in to the vet’s office after finding the injured, three month old in the street.  The samaritan couldn’t keep the kitten due to some unusual living circumstances, but managed to scrape together some funds to help pay for the surgery the little girl would require.  I think that is the definition of samaritan, isn’t it?

We weren’t looking for an addition, we have three cats and Shit Dog still.  Opportunities had come up before, but I just didn’t want to take on yet another animal.  We lost our cat Shai a couple of years ago, Elisheva this year and our cat Boaz and Shit Dog are on the short list now.  It’s tough to think new when the old are in such shape and the younger two are a bit onery (Southern for slightly ill-tempered).

But on Saturday when Bashert asked if I had seen the photo, I caved.  I said let’s go ahead and call to see if she’s been placed yet.  In our house that means we’ve adopted another one.

What I didn’t realize is that the surgery that the kitten had gone through was to remove her right front leg.  She suffered extensive nerve damage to the leg through what we hope was accidental means.  While Bashert was talking to the receptionist, I took another look at the three photos posted.  Sure enough, the poor thing had lost her leg all the way up, including her shoulder.  At that point any doubt was gone.  Suckers through and through.  She would be ours.

We went straight over to the vet’s to meet her.

On the way over we were already bouncing names around.

The tech brought her in a room for us to visit.  Bashert and I instructed Yoda to sit quietly and let her come to us.  Given that sitting still is a challenge as yet unmet by Yoda, we didn’t know how it was going to work.

Hesitant only at first, the little girl dove right into our hands, purring and insisting we give her love.  She didn’t flinch or run from Yoda’s excited vibrations.  She leapt up to the seat next to Bashert and cuddled into her lap.  She claimed us.

I was surprised when they said we could take her home that day.  The stitches looked ominous to me and she was still on twice daily pain meds.  I worried that in her fresh post surgery state, she wouldn’t be in any shape to be introduced to our resident beasts.

There was no need to worry.  This little girl can hold her own.  Our three full grown cats, 14 and 9 years old respectively, are walking on egg shells.  There’s been lots of hissy fits, but mostly they are avoiding each other.  I give them about two weeks and they will build up a tolerance for each other, that or split the house into their respective territories.  They’ll work it out.

Shit Dog has made his business to get close, but I think only because this is the only other animal in the house that is smaller than he – we have large cats.

We took about two hours last night to come up with a suitable name, at least the one we will call her according to T.S. Eliot.  We narrowed it down to four possibilities and then had Yoda pull one of those out of a hat.  We thought that an equitable solution since we all had our favorites of the four.

Her name is Ruthie.

Resilient, faithful, kind and good, friend and companion to Naomi, wife to Boaz and great-grandmother to King David.  I think the hat chose wisely.

Welcome to the menagerie Ruthie.

Ruthie

Boaz

 

You Know Who

Winnie the couch potato

Fat Pooh

 

Mea Culpa – Hear ye, hear ye

In my world of recollections, I have assigned nom de plumes to friends and family to 1. give a little distance and 2. have some fun. Well, as fate would have it, at least one assigned name has not been welcomed. (She also reminded me that she gave up the chance to take the win to tend to me when I broke my ankle  – the game was still on. – Thanks, sis! 🙂 )

It happens that my sister, erstwhile known in these pages as Raquel, has requested, due to reasons that shall remain hers, that I rename her character.  In our lively conversation, it was revealed that she has a great pirate name.

So hence forth, let it be known that my sister shall be called Calico Nell.  That is until another is requested – I am quite flexible and hopefully you, dear reader will be as well.

This piece is also a call to any of my other cast of characters. Hear ye, hear ye!  If ye should want a different pseudonym for yourself or need an explanation as to why I chose a certain moniker then by all means come forth.  I shall entertain all comers.

So far my cast includes:

Mom

Dad

Mama: my grandmother

Tricia: my aunt a.k.a. Bad Dancing Jenny

Bashert: my partner

Yoda: my son

Nené: my daughter (of various spellings)

Calico Nell: my sister

M’pudi: her husband, my brother in law

Epic: my nephew, their son

Noël: my niece, their daughter

Stravos: my older brother

Money Penny: his wife, my sister in law

Ernst: my younger brother

There are others to come, so let me know family and friends.  I welcome you to my little world.

Where CRS meets ADD

“Where are my keys?”  “I can’t find my shoes!”  “Why are all the cabinet doors open?”  “Where’s my phone?”  “Have you seen the t.v. remote?” “Why is there a wet towel in the sink?”  “Why do we have six boxes of ________?” “I have an idea…”

Welcome to my home.

Living in a house where it is normal to find your child sitting on his head while watching t.v. is a bit of an adjustment for some. Its just another day in our house.

We are a house of ADHD.

Over the years I’ve become accustomed to various, almost empty containers returned to the fridge, while the entire pot of roast sits languishing on the counter overnight.  I’m used to the linen closet that was full on Monday being devoid of fresh towels by Wednesday.  I’ve also become inured (well, almost inured) to finding the sink that was emptied of dishes that morning filled to the brim with dish ware later that afternoon.

Incomplete conversations are a speciality in our house.

“I was talking to Money Penny the other day and she said that Stavros…did you see that tree?”

“What tree?”

“That tree.  The one shaped like a pirate with the parrot on his shoulder standing next to a treasure chest?”

“No, I did not see that tree.  Where was it?”

“Over there.”

“Can you be a bit more specific?”

“OVER THERE, by the green fence with the spikey tips, surrounded by English Ivy, that looks like snakes crawling up a wall.”

“Oh, that tree (insert snarky sarcasm).  No, we passed by too quickly.”

“Never mind. That’s why Stavros can’t make it to the party next week.”

“Excuse me?  Why can’t Stavros make it to the party?”

“I told you just a minute ago why.”

“No, you started to and then we were talking about the tree.”

“Wasn’t that tree great?!  I’m going to have to come back with my camera and takes some photos.”

Becoming accustomed to all this does not mean accepting.  Oh, no, my brain bubbles over.  My patience is sucked dry so that it turns inside out.  I sigh; I scream; I mumble incoherently to myself and Shit Dog. I call my therapist.

I tried joining a couple of support groups on line, but all they did was whine about their “dear husband’s”  or “dear wive’s”.  There never seemed to be any practical advice on how anyone, let alone a same-sex couple, was to stay sane and together and maintain any kind of balance in the roller coaster ride of a life time.

Once I got passed the, “Oh, wow, there are other people like us” effect, it wasn’t much use.  It just added another layer of frustration, so I gave up and I ate cake.

Now, I’m no total innocent in all of this.  For example, there was a time when I adamantly denied ever entering a Schlotzky’s deli.  I could have passed a lie detector test, I was so convinced.  But all it took was for me to take one step inside and lo and behold I had been there before.

Growing up, whenever someone couldn’t find anything around the house, the universal cry was, “Have you checked Halfc’s room?”.  I tend to collect things.  And I can be messy.

I am also horrible remembering people’s names.  I’ve worked with some people almost ten years and if they don’t have their id badges name out, forget it.  Its all-embracing “hey you” time.  This frustrates Bashert, who can remember intimate details about people from  first grade.

Speaking of frustration, they get put out with me, too.  I don’t always get it or I seem to blame all things on their disorder.  Since I can’t see things through their eyes its their prerogative to voice that dissatisfaction.

For me, stress, sleep depravation and age have all amounted to what’s referred to as associative ADHD (a proven phenomenon) or as my family calls it CRS – your basic Can’t Remember Shit.

Where my tendencies and acquired traits leave off and their ADHD picks up can be a fine line at times.

I have added to my resume ‘finder of things lost in obvious places’ and ‘tester of hard hats’, as I can often be found in the corner banging my head in frustration after being asked “what did he say?” during movies and missing the next entire segment of dialogue.

I have also added ‘appreciator of creative thinking’.  Yoda has created the universe many times over in our living room out the most mundane of articles and he has written, illustrated and occasionally performed, imaginative stories about dinosaurs and dreams to entertain Bashert and me. He is an incredible mimic, who can pull off almost any accent he hears.

Bashert creates works of art that decorate our home and other’s.  She invents marvelous and ingenious ways of teaching kids to further their artistic potentials.  She gives people imaginative and workable ideas about how to improve their companies.  Her ‘Sweet Chair-ity’ last year was amazing in how she wrangled all those artistic egos and business people. And she throws one heck of a party!

Just a small sample of Bashert's quilling

Yoda and Bashert can also think very quickly.  Their thoughts are like gazelles to my plodding elephant.  I often get lost in their mazes of synapse firings and leaps, but I hang on and hopefully, end up in the same place or in the close vicinity.

There has been many a time when I’ve flopped down exhausted at the end of a day when I have done practically nothing except try to keep up.

My family’s ADHD may drive us all a bit nuts and lead to exhaustion on many levels, but  it also gives them passion, drive and creativity out the wazoo.

Would they have accomplished what they have, Bashert in particular, if they didn’t have ADHD? Probably.  But it wouldn’t have been the same.

It wouldn’t have been the same at all and that would have been a shame.  So we shall continue on valiantly, losing toothpaste tops, checkbooks and keys, creating beauty out of chaos and building a world with a slightly different view.

Oh, look a baby lizard….

Roller Derby Mama

Yoda has been invited to a roller skate birthday party.  Bashert has bravely stepped up to attend with.  I don’t do roller skates anymore.  She, however can be a glutton for punishment.

Now, once upon a time, roller skating meant family time.

On Saturday’s mornings, a four year old Nenè and I would join my sister Raquel and her family at one of the local skating rinks.  The Starlight offered three hours dedicated to kids under the age of 10 and their parents for around $1.50 a head plus skate rentals.

Imagine that – a good and cheap way to have fun with your family.

The routine was basically the same every Saturday.  We’d go in, the elders of us would rent our boots and hit the hardwood rink ready for about a half hour of precarious balancing.

In Nenè’s case, I buckled on her Fisher-Price “learn to skate” skates and she would walk around the rink – never was much of a risk taker in those days, Nenè.

We would all skate to the fantastic urban beat of “Ice, Ice, Baby” and “Ghostbusters”.  Those of us feeling brave enough would mime out the letters to “YMCA”, while still rolling.

After the half hour of free skate, the games would begin.

I always enjoyed the Hokey-Pokey, except for the turning about.  Turning about makes me motion sick, so I would end up doing some strange version of jazz hands while remaining in place.

They used to give out Tootsie Rolls at the end of that segment, but the floor ended up too gunky, so that had to end.  Too bad, I like Tootsie Rolls.

The next activity arranged was usually some sort of race.

The race that became my downfall, figuratively and literally was Red Light/Green Light.

For those of you who may not be familiar with this particular game, it goes as such;

The Moderator instructs everyone to line up at the start.  The Moderator then turns their back to the assembled racers and yells “Green light!” at which time all the participants run or in our case skate, like mad demons to get as far as they can before the Moderator turns and yells, “Red light!”  Anyone caught moving after the red light call is put out of the game.  First one across the finish line wins.

At the Starlight, winning usually meant a token for food or free skate rentals.  Stuff that brought out the competitive spirit of all those kids and parents.

So there we were, all lined up and ready for fierce competition – my sister Raquel, her husband M’pudi, daughter Noël, son Epic, me and Nenè.

Recall that Nenè is wearing skates that have stops on the wheels that prevent them from free movement.  We would not be in competition for first place.

“Green light!”  And we’re off.  “Red light!” We stop.  “Green light!” Another few feet for Nenè and me – Raquel has zoomed to the front of the pack.

“Red light!”  I positioned to brake and felt my knee with the torn cartilage start to give. As soon as I shifted my weight (which wasn’t so considerable back then) to relieve the knee, the world went black and down to the floor I sank.

I vaguely remember trying to avoid crushing Nenè as I came down.

Nenè began to cry saying she hurt her elbow.  My ability to speak was hanging in the air with the little bursts of light circling my head.  I eventually managed to squeak out a feeble, “Are you okay?”

It took the field of play a moment or two to realize that a player was down for the count.  Raquel often reminds me that she was about to cross the finish line first when I my accident called a halt to the game afoot.  She still hasn’t forgiven me totally.

M’pudi helped get me up off the floor and rolled me over to the side lines.  There I removed my skating boot and witnessed a rather large egg size swelling on the outside of my right ankle.

It was agreed that I should go to the emergency room and have it checked out even after a physician who was there with his kid looked at it and said it was most likely just badly sprained.

Yeah, badly sprained doesn’t make you want to throw up when you put the least little pressure on it.

M’pudi and Raquel loaded me into the car and M’pudi took me to the emergency room while Raquel took the kids on home.

Long story short?  Four hours later I was in surgery having two screws placed in my broken ankle and spending the night in the hospital, while my mother packed her bags and began her drive down from Virginia to come help me for two weeks.

About six years down the road, I got back on skates just to prove a point – what and why I’m not sure, but I did it.

Nenè was skating on her own and Bashert was with us.  That may have been the night that Bashert broke her coccyx, trying to avoid slamming into a small child.

Nope, I don’t do roller skates anymore.

Rules of Engagement – Don’t Bleed on the Rug

A friend posted on FB some joke definitions of what her Mom taught her. (Thanks, Michigan Blue)

What my Mom taught me:
Religion – “You better pray that comes out of the carpet”
Logic – “Because I said so, that’s why”
Irony – “Keep crying and I’ll give you something to cry about”
Wisdom – “When you get to my age you’ll understand”
Justice – “One day you’ll have kids, I hope they turn out just like you!!”

Moms or any parental unit for that matter, really don’t realize what power they have over their children or how literal those same kids can be.

Bashert tells the story of the time their father told her sister to “stand right there” in the store.  He moved on to the next aisle and she didn’t.  It took him several aisles to realize that she hadn’t moved with him – she stood ‘right there’.

It got me thinking about the one edict that rang loud and clear through our household:

Don’t Bleed On the Rug

I’m not really sure where this stemmed from initially.  I have visions of dastardly deeds being performed and having to remain spotlessly clean so as to not leave any trace for the CSI team to discover.

Fortunately though, I don’t think my family is that full of intrigue.

I do know that it was a rule that I took hard and fast.  I know because I was tested.

Let us return to the time my family resided in Phoenix, Arizona.  If memory serves me right – and that’s a challenge – I was about nine at the time.

Once again, most of the kids in the neighborhood were outside playing.  We lived on a cul-de-sac and as long as we stayed inside that confine we were all good to go without much direct parental oversee.

This promoted independence and stupidity.

There were only two front yards we could really play on in the cul-de-sac, ours and the Kam’s.  Everyone else either had rock yards or the parents didn’t want their grass (a precious commodity in the desert) destroyed.

So, there we all were in the Kam’s front yard doing our thing.  Chasing each other around, playing catch and popping a rake.

Popping a rake?

Ah, a game of reflex and skill that only experienced gardeners and unwise children undertake.

You see it involves placing the rake on the ground with the tines facing upward at one’s feet.  One then stomps on the tines with just the right angle causing the rake handle to pop upward.   The object is to catch the handle before it whacks you in the face.

Keith Kam (all the Kam children had K names: Keith, Kathy, Karen & Kim – go figure, maybe it saved on monogramming) was deep in the game with a steady series of successful pops.  I, on the other hand, was only marginally aware of this when I heard my mother call for us to come to supper.

Dutiful child that I was, I, ahem, ‘immediately’ dropped whatever I was doing and headed home.

As I made my way, I crossed in front of Keith’s field of play.  At the exact moment he popped the rake, I stepped into the strike zone.  The handle came up with a force, I’m sure I could figure out if I had stayed in my summer Physics course.

It struck a glancing, but firm blow right across my kisser.

Blood began to flow – steadily.

I ran the rest of the way home hands cupped under my bottom lip.  By the time I reached the garage entrance to the house I had a handful of blood collected.

I stood at the door calling out for Mom as best I could with the injured lip.  She replied for me to come in.  I yelled back that I couldn’t.

The shock on her face was quite vivid as she came around the corner to see what could possibly prevent me from entering the house. It didn’t take much to realize that I was holding fast to the number one house rule.

She dragged me into the house and the little bathroom off the garage.  I think she may have laughed a bit.

Forty years, oops, forty-one years later my lip still has a scar, but my pride stands tall.

Nary a drop of blood was spilled on that rug.

Iratus Pennipotenti

Yoda declared “best day ever”.  Again.

We opted to return to a smaller, at home birthday party this year.

But the older Yoda gets the more space his friends occupy, the smaller our townhouse becomes, so we decided to make it a pool party.

The theme, chosen by Yoda – Angry Birds®.

For the most part, Bashert prefers to make decorations and whatnots rather than purchase stock merchandise. The past several days our house has been awash in fabric markers, paints, paper cutouts and multicoloured sprinkles.

I generally stay out of the way of such craftiness.  It works to our mutual benefit.

Bashert creates wonderful, imaginative decorations and I keep my sanity.

She did not disappoint.  Here’s just a quick sample.  Check out bashert04 (see blog roll) for more photos and how-she-did-its

   

Blue Bird Tee - hand painted

Each kid got a home-made t-shirt.  Bashert had ordered three shirts for us to wear, but in the process of washing and drying, both hers and Yoda’s shrunk to fit only a two year old and an anorexic posh.  How lucky was I that my pig shirt survived.

There’s a metaphor or something in that for sure.

We had a bit of a panic when the townhouse manager let us know that our pool was closed for the weekend due to some chlorination issues.  But he offered up the use of the one across the street at the adjacent apartments, so we breathed a bit easier.

Shlepping a cooler and pool toys across the street would be a breeze as opposed to entertaining seven boys in a two bedroom townhouse for 3 hours.

As parties go, it went without much fuss.  There were no injuries or permanent emotional scars. A near tussle over a ball in the pool – boys and their balls (sorry, couldn’t resist) – was the only iffy moment.

We returned to the house just before the rain hit to have cake (complete with Williamsburg candle), egg-shaped peanut butter sandwiches and snacks.  A good time seemed to be had by all.

But of course like all the best parties, the most fun was had at the after-party.

A couple of boys (The Boy & The Barber’s Son) stayed a while after the majority had left.  At that time there ensued a small scale war between the pigs and birds.  Iratus pennipotenti versus viridis sus. It was epic for its size.

When just The Boy and Yoda remained, the dancing began.  Yoda received a KidzBop© cd and wanted to try it out.  The Boy and Yoda gave quite a performance.

We had everything from a mock Charleston to The Boy doing the robot while dressed in Yoda’s Lego Halloween costume.  That we got on video.

Yoda kept saying he wished this day was a dream so that it would not end.  A great compliment to his Momma’s hard work, I’d say.

It’s just before 10pm our time and Yoda is finally asleep.  Bashert is not far behind, so its just me and Shit Dog reviewing the day.

Shit Dog & Viridis Sus resting after the Battle

And a good day it was.  “Best day ever.” Again.

World Premiere 2003

Yoda arrived in this world eight years ago today on his exact due date.  Its nice to be punctual when starting out.

Bashert and I had just reached a song we knew during a PBS special on Elton John.  There we were humming along with Sir Elton and BAM! Bashert exclaims, “I think my water just broke!”

In all my worldly wisdom, I replied, “Get off the couch.”

I can be so compassionate at times.

We got her up and moving toward the door calling to NeNé to come on down, it was time to go to the hospital.

As we got to the door, Bashert stopped, gripped the door frame and said she didn’t think she could do this. I said it was a little late for that now.  She grimaced and said that she meant walking to the car.

We managed to get to the car and sped off to the hospital, which was all of five minutes away.  I dropped the two of them off at the front door and went to park the car.  I think I broke my own speed record running back into the hospital (this was before the Plantar’s Fasciitis set in and I could still run).

The triage nurse wasn’t too on the ball.  She got confused between Bashert and some chickie who thought her water had broken.  Triage Nurse wasn’t too helpful in calming Bashert down either, she wanted to explain procedural methods. Not a good idea.

You see, Bashert wanted that epidural right away.  She introduced herself in the hospital as, “Hi, my name is Epidural Now.”  Triage Nurse didn’t read people very well.

We asked when the doctor would be there.

Turns out as is usually the case, our doctor was not on call that night.  We joked that we would get some dashingly handsome male doctor, whom all the nurses swoon over.

We got exactly that.  Bashert groaned, but he was right on top of things, basically ignoring Triage Nurse and calming Bashert at the same time.

After the initial prep, we were shown to the ‘birthing room’.  The room made up to look artificially cozy and comfortable where Yoda was to be born.  NeNé claimed the couch and began dozing. It was getting pretty late into the night by then.

The anesthesiologist couldn’t arrive fast enough.  Bashert kept asking every ten minutes as to where he was.  She got rather insistent that I question the staff, so I went out in the hall and pretended to speak with the nurse.  It calmed me and placated her.

When the anesthesiologist finally arrived we all rejoiced. Then he and I spent the entire time he was administering the manna from heaven trying to come up with from where we knew each other.  We never did figure it out.

Bashert floated into a wonderful la-la land.  NeNé fell asleep on the couch and I maintained a half sleep/half vigilance state next to the bed.

Around 6:45am we realized that it was time for the shift change.

Into the room walked a woman with long blonde hair and a fully made up face. Great, our child was being delivered by Ken and Barbie.

Surprisingly, Barbie turned out to be very capable and competent. She guided Bashert through the delivery with great understanding and confidence.

Yoda gave us a couple of little scares when he finally came out.  First, meconium accompanied him on his way out and the doctor was afraid that Yoda might have aspirated some during the delivery process and second the umbilical cord had wrapped itself around Yoda’s neck several times.

One would think that would have prevented him from aspirating anything, but they had to make sure.  So, when the doctor cut the cord, the nurses whisked him away to verify all was clear.

I knew all was good when the nurse joked that she couldn’t put a diaper on the kid because he kept pooping.  She’d get him cleaned up and there he’d go again.

When Yoda was placed in our arms for the first time, we didn’t see all the marks his travel to us had brought – scraped cheeks, bruised eyes and fat lip.  All we saw was a remarkable little boy, who vaguely resembled Curious George and sent our hearts to the clouds.  I don’t think we’ve come out of them since.

NeNé snapped a picture of us at that exact moment. Yoda’s World Premiere, 10 August 2003.

Happy Birthday, Potato!

Big City Syndrome or Near Death on the Red Line

On our last day in DC we crammed in a lot of stuff.   We walked from the Lincoln Memorial all the way back to the National Museum of Art, with museum stops in between.  That’s the full length of the Mall and then some.

Pretty good for an almost 8 year old and a pleasantly plump, 50 year old who has had three foot surgeries. Bashert is disgustingly in love with walking, so she was in heaven.

Bashert also loves the challenge and excitement of the big city.

She weaves in, out and through busy crowds and streets like a pro.  Yoda and I work hard to keep up.

Bashert admits that the city brings out the serious Big City Syndrome in her. Her mother was pure Alabama, but her father, aside from being first generation American, was born and raised in Brownsville, Brooklyn, New York.

Now on this final, active day, we finally had to make a line change on the Metro.  The station where we picked up the subway wasn’t the line we needed, so we mapped out the train switch we would have to make.  Two stops and we would hop from the Green line to the Red line.

No big deal.  We get on; we get off; we get on.  Piece of cake, right?

Enter the Big City soul of Bashert.

We all got off the Green Line train fine.  We located the escalator to the lower level where we were to catch the next train.  Yoda was exuberant to find it in working order, so that we didn’t have to walk down as we had in other stations.

Just as we hit the bottom of the escalator, the Red Line train pulled into the station.  Bashert switched into Big City mode and began to run for the train.

Recall, if you will, from the first few lines of this blog – an 8 year old and an out of shape 50 year old with a bad foot – I do not run well and Yoda was beginning to panic with the speed and activity about.

Bashert hopped into the last car of the train and got a seat.  I grabbed Yoda’s hand and started to run. He immediately plowed into the stomach of a passenger exiting the car.  He halted in his tracks and began to cry. I heard the warning bells going off that the door was about to close.

I’m not quite sure what possessed me to do the next thing.  Idiocy of the highest order definitely played a part.

I shoved my leg in the path of the closing door.

The doors continued to press inward and there I was hung in the literal balance of one foot in the train, the other in the station.  Visions began to swim through my brain.

I was either going to be careening through the underground of the city plastered against the skin of the train, fingernails dug into it’s metal sides or I was going to be dragged along, head butting every jutting support that came along in true slapstick form.

My next flash was that I was going to lose my leg. There I would be floundering on the platform gushing blood from my severed femoral artery, while onlookers screamed, “NINE-ONE-ONE, NINE-ONE-ONE!”.  Those doors don’t play.

Next day’s headline: “Tourist killed in Metro Accident, Inquiry to Follow”.  People would shake their heads and say what a tragedy to go on a family vacation and lose your life.

My last horrifying thought was that I was going to be pushed into the train by another late passenger only to look back and see Yoda left standing on the platform all alone. Oh, no that would not do at all.

Just when that sickening thought popped in, a man grabbed the other door and helped shove it back against the ever so polite, recorded voice that was admonishing us to clear the doorway area because the doors are closing. No kidding.

Yoda was still frozen in place, so I yelled in my ‘listen to me now’ Mom voice for him to jump in the car.  He moved on that one.

The gentleman and I followed quickly behind.  The doors slid shut.

Yoda sat in Bashert’s lap and I plopped down next to them, sweat pouring.

Bashert said she couldn’t believe I had done that.  Me either.

I had all the money, the subway tickets, both phones and Yoda.  I could have easily waited for the next train 6 minutes down the line. Why in the ever loving universe did I do it?

Big City Syndrome.

Its not a pretty thing on small town people.

I think our vacation ended at just the right time.

The Butterfly House

In the Museum of Natural History there is the Butterfly House.

It is a small exhibit.  Its on the second floor of the Museum of Natural History just after the insect zoo.

It took a lot for Bashert and Yoda to make it through there.

We saw the Butterflies advertised outside, but didn’t know we would have to pay to get in, after all it is one of the Smithsonian museums.  But it has been 12 years since Bashert and I have been to visit so we found some things had definitely changed.

At first we said no, but Yoda asked really nicely and since we were ostensibly in DC to give him the experience, we caved and said yes.  Bashert wasn’t happy with the wait time or the somewhat surly distraction of the ticket girl, but we forged ahead.

We busied ourselves in line by looking at the freaky array of caterpillar and butterfly species on display.  We had to give that up because even that was a bit much for the other two.  Nature can be mightily strange.

Our time finally arrived to enter the realm of the butterflies.

After the obligatory be careful speech, the door was opened and we stepped into a cool spray of mist.  Beyond that were about six or seven separate little raised garden areas and a multitude of butterflies of all shapes, sizes and colours.

We couldn’t help but smile.

Everywhere we looked there was a butterfly either flying about or warming themselves on the garden flowers with slow waves.

Wings that seemed to be dull camouflage would open up to be the deepest midnight blue I had ever seen.  There were red, orange, yellow, blue and mosaic butterflies.  There were wings that swooped in like hourglasses and other that were shaped like sails on tall ships.

                        

We were for a time transported away from everything but the beauty in that small room.

Yoda was thrilled when one landed on him.  At first he was a bit nervous, but then settled quickly and said that the butterflies must really like him.

Bashert ended up supporting a few herself.  One on her arm, one on her head and another took a liking to her camera.

A lovely blue one took up residence on my back for a little while.

There is nothing quite like being a perch for such a delicate and fragile thing.

It was kind of sad when it was our turn to move on.  The smiles that we had stuck on our faces as we stepped out more than paid the price of admission. Funny how small things can make such a difference sometimes.

Maybe the cranky ticket girl should spend a few minutes in the actual exhibit.  It would sure do her heart good.