Letter from Maplewood

What does it mean to move to suburbia? It means that suddenly Natalie Merchant becomes a big part of your life.

If you're in NYC, then your local CVS is going to play up-to-date pop tunes; you may hear Cardi B, or new-ish Beyonce, or the Weeknd.

But, here in Maplewood, it's often a trip back to my middle-school years.

Trouble me....

Disturb me....

With all your cares....and your worries.....

Speak to me....

Sometimes, when my new CVS is feeling especially progressive, we'll all take a bold leap forward to 2012, when Phillip Phillips won "American Idol."

I'll be here!

Don't pay no mind to the demons....

They fill you with fear!

I'm willing to say, with confidence, that we never actually make it *past* 2012.

On one level, I'm always happy to hear Natalie Merchant (I'm human!) ..... but I also feel a bit disheartened and embarrassed for Maplewood. I want us to try a bit harder. I feel like the heroine of a Penelope Fitzgerald novel, Florence Green, who wants to scandalize her '50s-era small town by selling copies of "Lolita" at the failing local bookshop.

Yes, yes, I need to get out more.

This is what it means to be unemployed and pushing a stroller, looking for drugstore drama, in Maplewood, 2021.

Comments

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

Joshie

When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...

Liars and Saints

Search This Blog