Wednesday, September 15, 2004
Dear Bright: Resident Evil was not allowed to have random red flying monsters just because the video game had them. It had to have a REASON.
Another lemonade sale, this one right on our street. The newborn I babysat for in highschool sat there, grown big, with three school chums grinning at my car. No one drives up our street; as I was the only customer of course I had to stop.
(His mom has me come over at first while she's there, practicing holding Chris and changing diapers. Then she stays downstairs while I watch him upstairs. A few weeks later, they leave me with the three wonderful kids. I enlist their help, beautiful smiling Michaela and adorable quiet Rob, and she confidently directs me as to how Chris' bedtime routine usually goes. Michaela heats up the milk while Rob grabs Chris' blanky, and they get ready for bed, so good, while I sit in the rocking chair in Chris' room and rock back and forth, using just the tips of my toes, holding him against me and watching his lips on the bottle and his eyes look straight at mine, fingers curling around mine. A moment of, "Ohh...this is why we love babies and want them and protect them and adore them. Someday I'll want this baby on my lap to be mine. I see." And his eyelids fluttering slowly, closing, curtains drawn but waving in the wind, and I gingerly lay him in his crib. After all the bedtime stories are read and the other two sweethearts are quiet, I sit downstairs staring at the monitor, listening to every breath. Even this isn't good enough and I slip upstairs every ten minutes to check them all, listen to all of their quiet nighttime breaths, Rob in spiderman PJs and hot sweaty limbs flung outside the covers, Kayla still in her canopied bed, and Chris restless and beautiful. I sit in his rocking chair alertly listening to him breathe, fascinated by it all, terrified he'll stop breathing, until the rumble of the garage door tells me his parents are home.)
They beam at me while I get out. Bright yellow lemonade, filled with sugar and probably no lemons, in a pitcher. One pours while the other holds the cup with two hands, staring intently to make sure nothing spills. I contemplate this 50 cent purchase, and gravely order two cookies at 25 cents apiece, but as I'm late to a tennis lesson and they have no napkins I say I'll get them later. As I get in the car, Chris holds up the bill and squeals, "We have a WHOLE DOLLAR!!!" (We all know how much more fun a dollar is than fifty cents, right?) I know I'm an old fogey, but they grow up too fast!!!
I am having a tennis themed week, what with watching the Open (no Americans in the final, a tragedy), taking some lessons (there are occasional glimpses of how I used to play, although it's mostly just me wildly swinging at anything I have to move my feet for), and finally hanging out with my tennis pro, a cool 29 year old Romanian dude, with whom I saw Resident Evil, bringing this post to a satisfying full circle.
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Another lemonade sale, this one right on our street. The newborn I babysat for in highschool sat there, grown big, with three school chums grinning at my car. No one drives up our street; as I was the only customer of course I had to stop.
(His mom has me come over at first while she's there, practicing holding Chris and changing diapers. Then she stays downstairs while I watch him upstairs. A few weeks later, they leave me with the three wonderful kids. I enlist their help, beautiful smiling Michaela and adorable quiet Rob, and she confidently directs me as to how Chris' bedtime routine usually goes. Michaela heats up the milk while Rob grabs Chris' blanky, and they get ready for bed, so good, while I sit in the rocking chair in Chris' room and rock back and forth, using just the tips of my toes, holding him against me and watching his lips on the bottle and his eyes look straight at mine, fingers curling around mine. A moment of, "Ohh...this is why we love babies and want them and protect them and adore them. Someday I'll want this baby on my lap to be mine. I see." And his eyelids fluttering slowly, closing, curtains drawn but waving in the wind, and I gingerly lay him in his crib. After all the bedtime stories are read and the other two sweethearts are quiet, I sit downstairs staring at the monitor, listening to every breath. Even this isn't good enough and I slip upstairs every ten minutes to check them all, listen to all of their quiet nighttime breaths, Rob in spiderman PJs and hot sweaty limbs flung outside the covers, Kayla still in her canopied bed, and Chris restless and beautiful. I sit in his rocking chair alertly listening to him breathe, fascinated by it all, terrified he'll stop breathing, until the rumble of the garage door tells me his parents are home.)
They beam at me while I get out. Bright yellow lemonade, filled with sugar and probably no lemons, in a pitcher. One pours while the other holds the cup with two hands, staring intently to make sure nothing spills. I contemplate this 50 cent purchase, and gravely order two cookies at 25 cents apiece, but as I'm late to a tennis lesson and they have no napkins I say I'll get them later. As I get in the car, Chris holds up the bill and squeals, "We have a WHOLE DOLLAR!!!" (We all know how much more fun a dollar is than fifty cents, right?) I know I'm an old fogey, but they grow up too fast!!!
I am having a tennis themed week, what with watching the Open (no Americans in the final, a tragedy), taking some lessons (there are occasional glimpses of how I used to play, although it's mostly just me wildly swinging at anything I have to move my feet for), and finally hanging out with my tennis pro, a cool 29 year old Romanian dude, with whom I saw Resident Evil, bringing this post to a satisfying full circle.
