I’m off on a trip. A trip? Yes, a trip. A trip to New York, no less. On my own. No husband, no kids. Ah ha ha.
What takes me to New York? Let me tell you. Charlesinparis. For it is he. You can’t have missed his enigmatic comments on my blog. You must have wondered about my mystery man in that most glamorous of locations. Here is the moment of revelation. Charlesinparis is … (drum roll) … my big brother. He and Wifeinparis, along with Twokidsinparis, are spending a week in New York, and I am joining them for the week-end. I am also seeing Friendinsuburbs, who I met in 1987 and see on average about once every 5 years, and meeting her husband and twin 2 year old boys. Now if that isn’t a fabulous week-end for Wifeandmotherinthemidwest, I don’t know what is.
Charlesinparis – I have to tell you about him. In my teens and twenties, when any of my girlfriends came to visit, they would always ask oh so casually "is Charlesinparis around?". Think tall, dark, handsome. Think beanpole. Think daddy-long-legs. Think chiseled features and heavy eyebrows. Think very blue eyes. Think Anthony in The Wiggles in his younger days (he’s the one in blue), but better looking. Think snappy dresser and urban sophistication. Think lightning-speed conversation and rapier wit (in three languages). Think horrendous cheesy puns that you have to laugh at anyway. Think plum-coloured MG. Sadly it is no longer a part of his life (and it was an MGB GT, no less, with spokey wheels), having been replaced by a sensible Renault people carrier. In its day, the MG was lent to him on a long-term basis by a friend. I never understood why anyone who owned an MG would lend it to someone else, let alone someone whose driving position in it would involve their knees being somewhere in the vicinity of their ears. I’m grateful that she did though (yes, it was a woman…), as it provided me with one of my favourite Charlesinparis memories.
It was a hot day in August 1989, my younger brother’s wedding day. Charlesinparis had been best man, made a spectacularly funny speech, and then when it was time to go, he said “hey Sis, come in the MG”. So we set off, open-topped on the open road, him in his smart suit, me in a peacock blue bridesmaid dress, in one of those dreamy perfect balmy summer evenings that we do so well (if a little infrequently) in England, with the setting sun behind us. I know it was behind us, because Charlesinparis said “I haven’t got a road atlas. Where are we, anyway? Sort of north of Bristol somewhere? Hm. Well, we’ll just head east, that’s easy enough, and we’re bound to pick up signs to Oxford or London. The MG doesn’t like motorways, but the Cotswolds are around here somewhere, between here and home at any rate, so it’ll be a pretty drive.” And it was. A pretty drive. A pretty long drive. Difficult to navigate by the sun after dark. It rained towards the end and got cold (it always does in an MG), but Charlesinparis put up the top, we were young and it was fun.
The last time I saw Charlesinparis was the week-end before we left Scotland for the USA. He phoned one day and said “your birthday’s the 23rd of November, right?” (Wrong – it’s the 24th, but he’s not a details man on this kind of thing.) “That’s a week before you leave for the States, right?” (Right – see, he gets the details which matter.) “Well, I’ve arranged for me, big sister and little brother to come and see you. Book us into a B&B. We’ll take you out for dinner on your birthday, but other than that, you can see as much or as little of us as you like. We’re there for you. We can help out with whatever you want, or we can entertain ourselves and get out of your hair.” So for three days, there they were. They took car loads of stuff to the tip. They played with the kids. They washed bedding (2-yo caught a vomiting bug). They gave me the ideal excuse to go to all my favourite places instead of doing all the sensible house-tidying sort of things I would otherwise have done. They walked with me on the beach. They didn’t mind that I was distracted and odd. They said all the right things about our move (“the Midwest sounds great”).
Every girl should have a Charlesinparis. And from time to time, a Charlesinnewyork.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Sunday, February 17, 2008
When is a joke not a joke?
A 10 year old boy walks into a kitchen and tells a joke:
A man walks into a bar, and says "Ouch".
A mother pauses, thinks, and laughs. “That’s funny” she says. “That was a first” she thinks. He has told her a joke that she didn’t already know, that she found genuinely funny, and that wasn’t followed by “d’you geddit?” and an explanation.
Ten years ago, she wrote his milestones in a book. They came thick and fast. The first tooth, the first steps, the first words. They come less often now, but they still come. The first filling, the first soccer goal, the first real joke. She doesn’t write them down any more. Then there are the kind that she couldn’t write down anyway. They’re not “firsts”, they don’t stand out, they creep by slowly, and when she notices them, she is already looking back. He doesn’t need a spoon to eat peas. He doesn’t always choose from the kids’ menu in a restaurant. He sometimes empties the dishwasher in the morning, not because he’ll get a sticker on a chart, not because he's proving he can do it all on his own, but just to be kind. When she sorts the laundry, his socks are easy to muddle with hers. The golden window between his bedtime and hers is getting smaller; it’s more of a chink than a window already. The park is no longer about the swings and slides. She can’t dribble a soccer ball past him, but he can get one past her, every time, easily.
She needs his advice on school matters. She remembers it was she who decided it was time to replace the Bob the Builder lunch box, but now it is he who tells her that Spongebob valentines won’t do for fifth graders (though he can't tell her what will).
Soon will come the milestones hidden from her view. The first joke he hears that he doesn’t think he should tell her. She knows these days are not far off. Perhaps they are already here.
A mother walks into a milestone, and would say “Ouch”, but mothers don’t say that, and anyway, this one is a fun kind of a milestone. A mother walks into a milestone, and keeps on walking.
A man walks into a bar, and says "Ouch".
A mother pauses, thinks, and laughs. “That’s funny” she says. “That was a first” she thinks. He has told her a joke that she didn’t already know, that she found genuinely funny, and that wasn’t followed by “d’you geddit?” and an explanation.
Ten years ago, she wrote his milestones in a book. They came thick and fast. The first tooth, the first steps, the first words. They come less often now, but they still come. The first filling, the first soccer goal, the first real joke. She doesn’t write them down any more. Then there are the kind that she couldn’t write down anyway. They’re not “firsts”, they don’t stand out, they creep by slowly, and when she notices them, she is already looking back. He doesn’t need a spoon to eat peas. He doesn’t always choose from the kids’ menu in a restaurant. He sometimes empties the dishwasher in the morning, not because he’ll get a sticker on a chart, not because he's proving he can do it all on his own, but just to be kind. When she sorts the laundry, his socks are easy to muddle with hers. The golden window between his bedtime and hers is getting smaller; it’s more of a chink than a window already. The park is no longer about the swings and slides. She can’t dribble a soccer ball past him, but he can get one past her, every time, easily.
She needs his advice on school matters. She remembers it was she who decided it was time to replace the Bob the Builder lunch box, but now it is he who tells her that Spongebob valentines won’t do for fifth graders (though he can't tell her what will).
Soon will come the milestones hidden from her view. The first joke he hears that he doesn’t think he should tell her. She knows these days are not far off. Perhaps they are already here.
A mother walks into a milestone, and would say “Ouch”, but mothers don’t say that, and anyway, this one is a fun kind of a milestone. A mother walks into a milestone, and keeps on walking.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
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