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This morning we cracked open our March 2005/St. Patrick’s celebratory box of pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars, green clovers, blue diamonds, purple horseshoes, rainbows, and the yucky brown bits that always reminded me of Meow Mix as a child. Those yucky brown bits are just as shunned and yucky today as they were when I was a child. To this day I see the little “x” shape and think “cat food”.
The cereal is called Lucky Charms. It is obvious what parts of the cereal are lucky and rather charming. They are the marshmallows. I wonder, though, if General Mills produced a box of just the brown bits what it would be called? Unfortunate Feline? Tragic Sog-Magnets? Shunned Shapes? Wretched and Lonely Tidbits Destined to be Dumped in the Sink Immediately After Breakfast? No, that last one would be too long to fit on the box.
As the four big kids compared and counted marshmallows in their cereal bowls, I put a handful of Lucky Charms on Joel’s highchair tray. He studied the pile of Meow Mix and candy and immediately a synapse fired in his brain. This triggered a switch to turn on in every cell in his body, genetically pre-determined of course. Following in the footy-pajama clad steps of all 20th and 21st century children that came before him his tiny little fingers plucked a pink heart from the pile and he put it in his mouth.
The taste of powdery marshmallow caused a chemical reaction in his blood and a release of certain enzymes. Rushing to his brain the chemical flooded his temporal lobes and long-term marshmallow memory was born. A prejudice for the colorful, opaque gritty bits in the pile on his tray (justified or not) was formed and he acted upon his urges. Soon, all that was left on the tray was a pile of Wretched and Lonely Tidbits Destined to be Dumped in the Sink Immediately After Breakfast.
Several months ago I very publicly advised newly-pregnant (with twins!) family members to refrain from telling people the names they would chose for the babies until after the births. This is what I wrote back on November 29th, 2004:
Do not tell anyone the names you have chosen for the baby (ies), or the names you are contemplating, until after the birth. The chances are very good that someone will not like the names you have chosen and they will tell you why: They once sat next to a kid with that name. He smelled like sausage all the time and he had eleven fingers. Or the name is too old-fashioned, too trendy, too hard to spell, too hard to say. Someone with that name once turned them down for a date, or worse yet, the name is shared by an ex-boyfriend or girlfriend. If you wait to tell the name, The Critic will have a hard time telling you why the name is a tragic choice. They won’t be able to regale you with horror stories while they are holding a cute baby. I wonder if Julia Roberts told anyone she was naming her twins Hazel and Phinnaeus?
After an ultrasound revealed twin boys, everyone began asking about names. But, loyal to my advice, the parents have dug their heels into the ground so deeply their ankles can’t be seen. They will not tell. I have tried to convince them that it is okay to tell me because I gave them the advice in the first place. I have assured them the secret is safe with me. If they are worried I won’t like the names, they have nothing to fear. For their reassurance, I have come up with a scenario of things I will gush if they honor my wishes to know:
“Puckley Chipson and Gubby Borknell? Sounds great! Definately Presidential in a good Abraham Lincoln sort of way. Those are the future names of Nobel Prize winning astronauts who cure cancer (Gubby) and male pattern baldness (Puckley)! You will never see those names pinned on a McDonald’s uniform or topping the FBI’s Most Wanted list. Guys with names like that are always excellent golfers—-maybe even pros. I bet they will grow up to have their own private tropical islands, reachable by either yacht or helicopter, which they are fully capable of piloting themselves. Yes, those names are a true gift from loving, excellent parents.”
They have nothing to fear from me giving an unsolicited opinion. I would never, ever do that. And my name is really Mopsy.
Never give a plant to me, unless you are holding a deep grudge against the poor thing—-like it killed your pa. Any plant that enters this house is doomed to wither, shrivel, dry out, and die.
Christmas poinsettias do not see the sunrise on Valentine’s Day. An herb garden I received one Mother’s Day was crispy by midsummer. I water these plants, I give them sunlight. I follow the directions on the little plastic spike that pokes out of the dirt. Still, I find myself playing Taps a little too often for the formerly flora.
After the loss of our baby, I read through some of the grief pamphlets the hospital gave to me after my “procedure”. Many of them suggested getting a plant or a tree as something living to memorialize the loss. I immediately crossed this option off my list because my track record for maintaining life was just dealt its biggest blow, ever. I welcomed the flowers that arrived—-you expect those to eventually fade. Flowers are different than a potted plant, or a tree.
A few days after the loss, Fed Ex rang the doorbell with a delivery for us. We opened the box and unwrapped the bundle. It was a grouping of three plants in a cheerful ceramic container. While I was happy that someone was so very thoughtful, I immediately thought of the other plants I had doomed. Suddenly, the life of this particular plant became incredibly important and symbolic to me…I cannot let this plant, so linked with our loss, die.
I can’t walk by the plant without feeling the dirt for signs of dryness. I turn the pot to make sure each leaf receives equal sunlight. I keep it in the kitchen, the sunniest room in the house. I examine the edges of the leaves for signs of rippling, dryness, and discoloration. I feel the leaves to make sure they are still soft and supple.
I don’t think a plant has ever been so fussed over. It could stay alive by my sheer will, watered by tears and the light of hope.
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