POPPOPPOP

So yesterday someone kept setting off firecrackers outside our building, those really loud POPPOPPOP kind that made me jump out of my seat and might have been giving me some mild traumatic flashbacks. I couldn't see who was doing it but I could HEAR it, oh my word. So the third time they went off I yelled out the window "ENOUGH" but I was so mad it sounded like "EEEAAAAGH" and Henry came out of his room and suggested, "Maybe you should call the police, Mom."

I shouted "GET YOUR MAMA SOME SCOTCH, FOR HER NERVOUS CONDITION" but he just rolled his eyes and went back into his room. He's a sensible boy.

I called 311, which is the number you call for noise complaints (and assorted other NYC concerns, like incorrect recycling, and rats with weapons), and the conversation I had then with the lovely 311 lady went thusly:

311: "How can I help you?"
Me: "Someone is setting off firecrackers, and it's incredibly loud, so I'm calling to make a noise complaint. Because of all the noise, you see."
311: "Oh, that's illegal."
Me: "?"
311. "Setting off firecrackers is illegal, ma'am."
Me: "Right, which is why I'm calling you."
311: "It says here in the something something code blah blah blah illegal illegal illegal."
Me: "Sure does sound illegal!"
311: "This is a police matter."
Me: "And you're not the police, is what you're trying to tell me?"
311: [deep, pained sigh] "I'll patch you in to 911. Just…just stay quiet and let me speak first. I'm going to speak first. Okay? Then it'll be your turn."
[pause. beeping noises]
911: "911, what's your emerg--"
Me: "THERE'S A LOT OF NOISE AND THE 311 LADY SAID--"
311: "MA'AM."

Okay, I made that last part up. But I loved how she was so insistent that I not speak first. So concerned! So insistent! I was clearly unpredictable and dangerous. For all she knew, *I* was the person setting off the firecrackers. Maybe I was? It's all a blur.

P.S. I have no idea if the police came, even. Anyway, when I shouted EEEAAAAIGH out the window someone replied, "He's leaving, he's leaving." I didn't take their word for it, but maybe it was the case. Like we had  been visited by the Firecracker Guy, and his shift was over. He knew when enough was enough. Or when enough was EEAAAUUGH. That must be the worst job ever. How do you hear anything, Firecracker Guy?

P.P.S. I do not get the whole loud-popping-noise-firecracker appeal. I get the appeal of sparklers and things that make whooshing noises and are pretty. I do not understand why loud shit that is scary and also LOUD would be fun, in any way. I ranted about this to Scott, who asked me, "Were you ever a kid?" Of course I wasn't! What a ridiculous notion.

Everything is true except for the part about the mustache.

The humidity level is somewhere past 100 and it’s 97 degrees and my computer is melting. The child is in his crib, doing what he does best: napping and sweating. There’s air conditioning on in there, so I don’t know why he wakes up sopping wet. Then again, this morning he told me he had just been “flying a little” and “there was some basketball downstairs.” Sounds like a workout, son! You should dream about sending email, like I do!

A while back, I promised two exciting tales: my tale of subway drama, and my appearance on Bravo. See, I didn’t forget. Only I began to think that neither of these anecdotes is all that interesting after all. But whatever, I have nothing else to give.

The subway incident went something like this: Henry and I were with our friends, J. and F., who hail from the town of P___ S___. We had just been to the New York Aquarium, which is all the way down in Coney Island. The outing had been my idea, and like so many of my ideas, it had been a terrible one. There were many subway stairs to negotiate. The toddlers were cranky, as toddlers so often are. The aquarium was both expensive and crowded. Henry had no interest in anything but the sharks. The sharks, and then we were done. DONE, do you hear me? DONE. No, he did NOT care about the starfish or the seahorses (they’re horses of the sea, kid! Give them a chance) nor would he give a second glance to the walruses, even though they were much more impressive than the sharks, if you ask me. But he wasn't asking me. No, no NO. So I shelled out $18 for fifteen minutes of holding a screaming 40-pound child while I searched for the shark exhibit and then two minutes of holding a silent 40-pound child while we looked at sharks. Then we went down to the beach, and hey! What a worse idea to have than the aquarium! At the beach, the children can coat their sunscreen-marinated bodies in sand, and be like hot little breaded fillets. Fillets that want to be held! And don’t want to go anywhere near the water even though it’s hotter than hell!

And then we poured some melted ice creams down our shirts and hauled them up the assload of stairs to the subway and there we were on the subway, finally. We were sweaty and disheveled and two out of the four of us needed diaper changes. It was our stop. I was holding Henry and I ran ahead to the door because I’m paranoid about the door closing before we can escape.

And then it closed. On my foot.

My foot was inside the train. I was outside, on the platform. Henry was in my arms. J. and F. were inside the train, looking out at us. My stroller was inside the train. Next to my foot.

And the door, it would not open.

For those of you who do not hail from these parts, the NYC subway doors are merciless. They will close right on you. They are not the friendly elevator doors that occasionally decapitate people but usually are quite nice about letting people through. Not these doors. Once they begin closing, nothing can stop them. You may think they will open. But they will not. No! Usually, if you get a limb stuck, you can wiggle yourself free, but in this case, I couldn’t.

And we were in the last car, which meant that the conductor, wherever he or she was, could not in a million years see me. Me and my trapped foot. My trapped and doomed foot.

So I screamed for a while, but nothing happened, as my scream is thin and girlish. Actually I think I was calling out, “Um, hello? Hello? Trapped foot, over here! Helloooo?” which is not going to get anyone’s attention, especially not here, where the subway conductors will rip your foot off as they head out to their next destination and not think twice about it. Subway conductors would sooner leap out through their window and gnaw at your ankle with their extra-long incisors until your foot is severed from the rest of you than open the doors for you. This is true.

Fortunately, a man sporting a thick, lush handlebar moustache was standing on the platform. He heard my weak cries and, with a booming baritone, demanded that the doors be opened. And lo, they were. And my foot was freed! Hurrah!

Henry was exceedingly concerned about my foot, but this didn’t stop him from demanding that I hold him all the way home. No stroller was good enough for him, as I had been in danger, and this was no time to be separated from me. Never mind about the limping! You hold me, damn it! You see how I love you!

The End. You see? There have been better stories. Like the one about when I was on Bravo! Which I will get to eventually.

Just when you thought it was safe to take off your shoes…

We were getting ready for a trip to the Red Hook Recreational Center, Henry and I; it was a hot day, and we were going to spend it in an Olympic-sized toddler pool (oh, if only there were a toddler Olympics—can you imagine such a thing? The track-and-field contenders, wandering off during the 800 to demand some Goldfish? The steroid-fueled tantrums? The swimmers trying to execute a perfect breaststroke while wearing water wings? I COULD GO ON). Ten inches deep all around and surrounded by sprinklers, the toddler pool is sort of like standing in a clogged gutter during a heavy rain storm—but for Henry it means hours of unmitigated joy, so I slosh around while he shrieks and whoops and blaaarrghs.

I was searching through Henry’s various piles of clothing for his bathing suit when Henry came to see what I was up to. As he walked my way, he glanced down, said, “Oh!” and leapt into my arms. “Big bee!” he cried. I looked down at where he was pointing, and hmm, there seemed to be a caterpillar or something on his carpet, what could that be OH SWEET CHRIST OH MOMMY MOMMY HELP ME---

I knew the last time I encountered a waterbug wouldn’t be the last time, literally. But usually, as I have noted in the past, any waterbugs out in the open have had the decency to at least be at death’s door. But this waterbug wasn’t even a little sick. It wasn’t flailing about piteously. It was not coughing. It was ambling across my son’s carpet, perfectly healthy, and heading right toward us.

Clutching my slightly freaked son in my arms, I jumped over it OH GOD OH GOD and ran toward the living room. “Sit here, Henry!” I cried out calmly. “Watch some TV! Don’t move! Mommy will be right back! Mommy wants to die, but that’s okay!”

“Big bee!” he repeated.

“There’s nothing to worry about!” I shrieked. “It’s just a nice bug paying us a visit!"

He didn’t look like he was buying it, so I added, “Ha, ha!”

I grabbed the canister of ant-and-roach death spray, and tried to head toward Henry’s room. Only I couldn’t move. And there was this whimpering sound. Coming out of my head. I had to do something! My child was staring at me. “Just a fly!” he called out helpfully. Yes. Yes, I will pretend it’s just a fly. A giant fly with long spindly legs and inch-long antennae and a fingernail-thick carapace who emerged from the depths of our basement to spread disease and ick all about my son’s carpet, OH PLEASE NO--

No, I would need more than that to go in there and get the job done.

So I named it! A waterbug with a name will not scare me, I reasoned with my usual infallibility! I shall name him Sean! No, better—Shaun. The unfortunately named Shaun lives in his mom’s basement and still feathers his hair; he most definitely cannot terrorize the likes of me. I would enter my son’s room and put poor Shaun out of his misery. Oh, Shaun—you never had a chance in this world.

The story of what happens after this is long and drawn-out and involves much screaming and clutching of the hair and whacking and spraying (while the child sat on the couch, watching Noggin and calling out every few minutes, “Just a fly! Bzz!”) All I can tell you is that in the end, Shaun’s corpse lay underneath a Tupperware container, waiting for my husband to come home and give him a decent burial. As for Henry, he spent the day getting as wet and wild as a toddler can legally become, while his mother followed him around, staring off into the distance with a haunted expression on her face, shuddering at some unseen horror.

An Alice comes in many guises.

I am beset with work (the paying kind, not the baby kind), which is good, of course, except that I have neglected my poor little infant blog, and if I can’t take care of a 4-month-old blog, how can I ever expect to take care of a child?

Speaking of which!

I dislike it when people say, “I’m not sure if I’m going to have a baby, because, you know, I can’t even take care of a plant.” Because 1) one does not generally have the depth of feeling for a plant that one is biologically compelled to have for one’s offspring, and 2) a baby is not a plant, only more so. They’re actually sort of different from plants. Get out your biology textbook, put it side by side with your horticulture textbook, and study for a while. I’ll be here waiting.

And now I supply an anecdote!

(What do you think of these segues? I’m working on creating the most awkward segues imaginable.)

(You know what’s a great word? Segue.)

Saturday morning. The doorbell rings. It’s a large and merry band of religious proselytizers! They implore my kind, yet Jewish, husband to accept Jesus, but he politely demurs. Then they stand outside our window and jabber at each other about Jesus, and how great it is to love Jesus, and oh, Jesus Jesus Jesus, if he were there right then they’d want to give him a GREAT BIG HUG because they love him THAT MUCH. Now, seeing as how they’re leaning against our window and talking so loudly they might as well come on in, pour themselves some coffee, and wrench our unholy bagels right out of our blasphemous hands, I have the nerve to ask them if they might leave. I heretically lean toward the window and godlessly ask, “Do you think you could walk away now?”

“We’re doing the Lord’s work!” one of the proselytizers exclaims. “We’re here in Christ!”

“That’s swell. But it’s time to be somewhere else in Christ,” I say (more or less; it was probably something less clever than that. But this is my blog! Here I can be clever! Hello!).

At that, there is huffing and muttering among the group, but they eventually shuffle away—about five inches. That’s five inches more than Christ would have wanted!

A few minutes later, I’m leaving my apartment, off for a few hours of (undevout) freedom from the (heathen) child, when I pass the group of proselytizers (notice how I’m subtly not mentioning their religion, so as not to alienate any readers who might share that particular faith! Do you love me? You do!), who are now standing in the middle of the sidewalk, DOING THE LORD’S WORK by blocking everyone’s path, when the woman I had verbally tussled with grabs one of the child-proselytizers by the shoulders, turns him toward me, and said, “A satan comes in many guises.”

Does anyone know what "a satan" is? I am, of course, intimately familiar with Satan, but "a" Satan? What, I'm not good enough to be the real thing? Jesus.