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When I was a very little girl, my family drove to and from church every Sunday morning past the entrance to Cadwalader Park.  Rain or shine, summer or winter, guarding that entrance to the park, in his funny suit and hat, was The Balloon Man.  And always clutched in his hand was the most fabulous bouquet of balloons, the colors so vibrant you could taste them, and the intricate animal shapes danced and bounced off the top of his head.

For years we never stopped to buy those balloons; our childhood just didn’t include such frivolity.  But every week I hoped and yearned and when the priest talked about the sin of coveting, I thought of those balloons.

Then one day, for no special reason, my father pulled over at that curb and bought us each a piece of magic on a string.  Mine was a big red puppy dog.  But I had no experience with balloons and strings, and in an instant mine slipped through my hands and floated up to the trees.

Watching Nathan shave off Finnian’s hair was like watching that red puppy dog balloon disappear.  With each curl that rolled off the razor and plopped on the floor, my last child’s babyhood floated farther and farther out of my reach, until it was just a tiny red speck amidst the clouds.

And then, in a final blink, it was gone, and I cried like that four year old with her face to the sky at the edge of the park.

As Finn will turn three in about six weeks, we are fast pursuing the poop goes in the potty concept.  Finn likes to sing the song - while he poops in his diaper.  For months now we’ve been talking about using the potty, but so far no porcelain goddess has been graced by the sweet little heinie of  Finnian. 

Recently we were discussing the issue and I asked Finn why he wasn’t ready to use the potty.  After all, Dora uses a potty; Diego uses a potty; Hannah Montana uses a potty!  He replied with the most patient, reserved-for-complete-morons look: 

“Mommy, I love to sit in poop!”

How do you argue with that one?

The other day we went to The Dump to buy furniture for the dump.  (Stay with me now.)

As we got out of the car, Finn said he had to use the potty.

Nathan and I looked at each other and for a split second we considered that this might be the turning point.  Then we both got distracted by a really cool leather sectional and the moment passed.

Three minutes later the stench in the air made it clear we had made a mistake.

Crap.

Finn came this close to taking his first big boy dump at The Dump while buying furniture for our dump.

(I stole this from Amy!)

Dedicated to my mom who loves this song and who has a certain Muppet-like quality about her these days. I picked her up from the rehabilitation center this morning to take her to the hospital for a cat-scan. Once I got her in the car she told me to go to 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. I said, “Mom, that’s the address of the White House.”

She said, “Really?” Since her head seems to have cleared a great deal since the accident I decided she must be joking and let it go. Then Finn piped up from the back and asked where we were going. My mom said, “The White House.”

Okay, still hoping she’s kidding. When we pulled up to the hospital she said, “This isn’t the White House!”

(I swear to you on my compact, I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.)

So maybe she’s not as clear as we thought.

Here’s to kissing the Blarney Stone and to knowing the address of the White House!

My family is having that conversation - the one about permanently taking away the car keys to prevent another disaster that may hurt other drivers.

In my defense I tend to hit empty cars.  Or walls.  Or empty cars and walls.

Yesterday I had my third car accident in two years.  As I’ve repeatedly explained to Nathan, that record is pretty good for me.  In 1988 I had five accidents one of which involved a drive through cement post.  No humans or animals were hurt in the making of any of those insurance disasters.  The most embarrassing of the bunch was when I accidentally rolled into the car in front of me at a light and, when I got out to say I was sorry and beg forgiveness, I put the car in reverse instead of park and slammed into the car behind me.

Oops.

So this time another damn parked car hit me!  What is wrong with these people?  At this point I think it’s their own fault for parking anywhere near me. 

Of course, I had to hit a BMW.  Convertible.  2008.  Navy blue.  It was quite lovely.  Before I confused the clutch with the gas and flew backward out of my driveway into its cute little driver’s side door.

Oops.

Really, I was just trying to make my mom feel better as she had her accident right in front of her own driveway too.  I almost got hit by a moving car that was able to brake in time or I would have had the very same accident as my mother.  Except she was driving her car forward and it wasn’t a stick shift.  And I’m not 82.

Oops.

On a high note, my mom recognized me when I finally made it to the hospital.

On a low note, when I asked her if I could get her anything she said jewelry.

Okay, Mom.  Let me see if the nurse has an extra diamond tiara floating around.

Go ahead. 

Shake your head.

Laugh at me. 

Lord knows I am!

If you drove down the main street of our little town on any given day, you would most likely get a glimpse of Earl, either wabbling his way to Wawa or sweeping the sidewalk in front of the jewelry store.  Earl was a fixture in our town for the fifteen years we’ve lived here.  He knew everyone and everyone knew Earl.  If you stopped at the video store, you might find him leaning on the counter having a chat with the owner.  If you grabbed lunch at the pizza place, you might find Earl hanging out with a soda in hand.  We nicknamed him Tweedle Dum because of how he looked and how he walked, and the kids were used to seeing him sitting on his front porch or meandering down Main Street at least a few times a week.

About a month ago Earl collapsed while waiting in line at the corner pharmacy.  By the time the parametics arrived he was gone. 

Yesterday when I drove past Earl’s house I saw a new set of furniture on his porch.  Someone else is living in Earl’s house.  A new name is on the mailbox, a different car is in the driveway, and our little  town marches along without missing a beat.

I’m contemplating life and death and how both slip away so quietly because my mom was in a car accident last week and came ever so close to slipping away herself.  She sustained a brain injury that has left her confused and disoriented.  She doesn’t recognize us yet.  She can’t remember how to cut her food.  She can’t recall the names of her grandchildren.

I was a literature major - I’ve covered the theme of man verses mortality quite thoroughly - but it doesn’t sink in, it doesn’t become real when it’s somebody else’s.  It’s like wrinkles.  I just couldn’t worry about them when my face was as smooth as a new tub of margarine.  Wrinkles aren’t real until you catch a glimpse of them around your own eyes when you smile or until you actually feel the soft crepiness of your very own neck.  

It’s the same way you don’t own Mortality until you wake up every day thinking is this it?  Is this the day I’ll have to say goodbye to my mother?

Some time in my future I will be motherless.  I’ll wake up, make the coffee, put the kids on the bus, the mail will arrive, the news will be on at noon, and someone else will make her lunch at my mother’s stove.

And all of these things will happen quietly, without so much as a fight.

I’ve rocked all my babies to sleep at night, from the very beginning, swaddled tightly, their eyes just squinty slits, until well past their first birthdays or even their second.  I’ve rocked each one of them in the same rocker in the same spot in my bedroom singing the same lullabies and Beatles songs for ten years now.  For ten years I have spent twenty minutes of every evening, sometimes much longer, rocking and singing in the twilight, against all the experts’ advice, and I’ve loved it.

The routine has been the same with each baby – bath, books, boobs, bed – but each child put their own stamp on our time together:  Keira liked to fall asleep with her fingers in my mouth; Madigan liked to stroke my cheek; Rowan twisted her fingers in my long hair; and now Finn likes to pinch my back fat (not my favorite stamp!)  Madigan didn’t like me to sing.  Keira’s favorite song was You are My Sunshine.  Rowan fell asleep the fastest.  Finn likes my closet light on.

Each child brought to the rocker their own security items.  Keira always held a stuffed pig.  Madigan had a blanket (she still sleeps with it) named Rocky after she coined our nightly ritual Rocky Rocky.  Rowan took forever bonding with a woobie but finally fell for an orange stuffed frog named Bibbet, while Finn has to have his stuffed penguin named Duck, his striped blanket, and Daddy’s red pillow.

I don’t remember when each girl gave up Rocky Rocky, but I do know a new baby in the house usually precipitated the transition.  It must have been smooth as no major battles or even little ones come to mind when I try to remember each end.

And now at night I rock my last baby, and his legs hang awkwardly off my lap, and he struggles to fit his  long arm comfortably behind my back.  

And I know I’ve maybe got a few thousand rocks left.  With each push of my foot I rock closer to an end.

And it feels like breathing cold water, like the last rock will take me off a cliff, and I’ll tumble into a deep well of not-being-needed.

My enemy, Change, keeps knocking at my door and for my children I always open it and step aside.

But what I really want to do is to slam it shut and pile in front of it every brick ever made in this world.

And hide behind that barricade

Rocking and singing.