Halloween

This feels like our first real family Halloween, the three of us. Maybe because Munchkin is old enough (barely, but still!) to trick or treat, or because we live now on a street with a lot of kids, a lot of decorated houses, and not very much traffic. Maybe it's because we're not so stressed this year as last.

For as long as I've known him--that's five years now!--Pynchon has maintained that Halloween is his very favorite holiday. I begin to see why. Jack-o-lanterns, and candles, and decorations outdoors and in. Candy! Little kids dressed up such that you want to nibble on them, or at least squeal and pinch their cheeks.


Last night, I took Munchkin out trick-or-treating for the first time. She marched off happily, tiny little plastic pumpkin bucket in hand, knocking on doors and hollering "TRICK OR TREAT!" and afterwards tossing a polite "thank you" and a very vigorous "HAPPY HALLOWEEN" behind her as she clasped my hand to navigate her way back down off rickety porches by the light of glowing pumpkins. She warmed up to it, but, strangely, wouldn't go to the houses of the neighbours she knew best--I guess she figured there wasn't going to be Halloween there, because there usually isn't. I wonder what she thinks goes on at the rest of the houses?

She gravitated to where the other kids were, joining their groups, smiling and touching their costumes, expressing her admiration, trying to not get knocked over. It was adorable.

Slowly, we made our way home, to where Pynchon was holding down the fort with a giant bowl of candy as a steady stream of pirates and princesses climbed up to our own rickety porch. He was in his element: in the other house, we only tried to give out candy the first year. To two teenagers. Who came at 9:30. This is much more satisfying.

Munchkin and I set up on the porch: I dragged her high chair out and plied her with candy. She watched all the trick-or-treaters come to us, smiling and waving and shouting yet more "HAPPY HALLOWEEN" shouts. A colleague and her two young kids stopped by and played.


It was all over by 7:30, an exhausted Munchkin, ladybug dots still on her cheeks, and a thin coating of sugar still on her face and hands, tucked into bed muttering of treats and tricks.

Pynchon and I went to a party--it was nice, but the highlight for me, I have to say, was the early part of the night, seeing the neighbourhood lit up, touring the block with Munchkin, dropping candy bars into neighbour-kid pillowcases, complimenting costumes, smiling and waving at neighbour-parents. It felt good. Felt right.

Now if only Munchkin hadn't awoken this morning at 7, taking 15 minutes to limber up before launching into a full I WANT CANDY tantrum ... but it was worth it. Oh yes, it was.

Things grownups should know

I can't help myself! I must say it! I'm surrounded by young adults who are clueless about very basic things! I. Must. Give. Assvice. Here, so I don't accost people on the bus.

1) When you buy a new winter coat? The classy grownup kind? And there's a fabric label proclaiming '100% merino wool' or 'Italian cashmere blend'? Affixed to the cuff? THAT IS MEANT TO BE CUT OFF BEFORE YOU WEAR IT IN PUBLIC. Honestly, has our branded culture so infected us with the desire to flaunt labels that it is not obvious that this particular tag is a relic of days gone by, meant simply as information to the purchaser and not for display to the world at large? Yikes.

2) Similarly, that lovely long raincoat with the cute twin flaps at the rear? YOU HAVE TO CUT THOSE BASTING STITCHES HOLDING THEM SHUT. Honestly, can you not see that it's just the flimsiest of fastenings? Holding shut flaps that are obviously meant to, well, flap? They are sewn shut so that when they are shipped here in giant boxes from (sigh) some impoverished country on the other side of the world, the garment doesn't get fantastically crumpled or bent.

To conclude, it makes me sad that so many young adults are so adept at purchasing new garments, but seem incapable of properly wearing them. I mean, you don't have to match your shoes to your purse to your lipstick or anything like that. Just take the tags off, and cut the basting stiches. What is happening to this world?

Phew. Thanks for indulging the rant. Really, I'm usually fairly pleasant to be around ....

True life insights

Lately, we've been waking up late. Or in crisis. Or cranky. Whatever. The point is that it's a race to get out of here in anything near a timely fashion, such that if I brush my teeth I count myself among the fantastically well-prepared.

Usually, I bring my makeup bag to work with me, because I don't get it done at home.

However, on those days that mornings are too rushed to get my face on? I usually am waaaaay to busy at work to manage to get it done there, either.

Begin as you mean to continue, Mimi. Begin as you mean to continue ...

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(I'm shameless now. This morning, I had three minutes before class to 'spare' so I dashed into the public washroom in my hallway, Clinique bonus-bag in hand. While chatting with a colleague about school boundaries and urban education, I slammed on: foundation, powder, blush, eyeliner, and mascara. Never broke my conversational stride. And I did manage to apologize for my rudeness, but hell, I've whipped out my boobs in public on many an occasion, so now? I don't care).

Post trip stress disorder

Not me, her.

I arrived home Sunday after she'd gone to bed. I collapsed exhausted into my own bed, a phantom jet rumble seeming to vibrate everything and to ring in my ears, the clock pulsing nonsensical numbers, everything all at once familiar and strange. Relief and finally, relaxed.

I was surprised how much I missed them, my family, while I was away. Maybe it was the fact of a continent between us, maybe the strangeness of total immersion in Danish language and culture, maybe that my cell phone just couldn't, no matter what I was willing to pay, connect my voice to theirs. I pined, physically pined for Pynchon, for Munchkin. I was surprised. Usually, I'm guiltily pleased to have these trips away, these four, five days of hotel beds and interesting intellectual work. Maybe because I've always been traveling west, the trip out has been so much smoother. East is a bitch, I tell you, and the six hours difference between here and Copenhagen never quite resolved itself. On the way home, I sat in a café at the Amsterdam airport, drinking in images of my family, flicking through the 914 photos of this past year, one by one, methodically.

I missed them so much it hurt.

But they were fine without me, obviously: Pynchon met tough deadlines and Munchkin ate full meals. He slept in and she had tantrums. There were hugs and visits and Sunday brunch and trips to the park. They were fine--they were great, even.

When she saw me Monday morning, calling out 'Dada, Dada!' from her bed, she was gracious. 'Mom! I miss you!' she said, smiling, and lolled back so I could rub her belly. She calmly accepted my frenzied tribute of a million belly kisses, my frantic sniffing and patting and kissing. She took it all in stride and was not remiss in asking for what I'd brought her, very pleased with her new leather slippers and her tiny gingerbread doll. I brought her to preschool and she cheerfully waved goodbye.

Monday night, though, she began to crack. Getting her ready for bed, I rocked and read and fed and hugged and tucked and patted. I reassured, consoled, and sang. It wasn't enough. She wouldn't let me leave. She woke up three times during the night, crying as though her heart were breaking, and only Mommy would do. She clung to me ardently, with a surprising strength. As I tried to extricate myself from her the third time, around 3:30am, she reached out desperately, "But I love you, Mommy! Don't leave me! Stay wif me, Mommy! I miss you."

Ouch.

And this has been our week, the gradual unleashing of the torrent of fear and need and the more gradual rebuilding of the defenses against the terror of abandonment. Mommy is here, I will be here when you wake up, we will play. I will not leave you, Munchkin. Mommy always comes back.

We sit on the couch, watching Max and Ruby. I brush the hair from her eyes, pat her knee, knit in companionable silence. My deep longing for her manifested itself during my absence, and was sated with my return; she, not quite so mature, only felt her loss once I came back to her, and the terror is in contemplating what might happen again.



(Can you see the terror? Okay, maybe not. BTW, she didn't quite look like this when she went to daycare in the morning. This is how she came home ...)

WW: Greeting from Denmark

Well, I'm back now, but I wish you could have been there with me!


Some giant pottery in the public square at Roskilde: the miracle was that I navigated the train system and my inadequate tourist guide and the jet lag to actually make it to this medieval city 30 minutes outside of Copenhagen.

Bicycles and brickwork: Europe looks a lot like a university campus, huh? I have to think about that some more. (BTW, everyone rides bikes in Denmark, with their kids, dressed for work, or in high heels. No helmets. Proper bike lanes.)


Some reconstructed Viking boats at the Viking museum in Roskilde. I got to watch some historic shipbuilders at work, and also sat next to a reseacher who was working on historic textiles: she was hand weaving Viking wool on a loom. Oddly fascinating. For a dork like me.

You can't see this too clearly, but it's a cityscape built and partly demolished entirely out of white Lego! This is in the Radhuspladsen--the 'city square' in the centre of Copenhagen.


So I'm walking along a canal through Kongens Nytorv, another public square, when my coffee and I lean out over the water. I nearly drop my tiny, six dollar latte when I look down and see people! frolicking! under water! But, phew, it's a statue. Random art terror!

Can you believe I found another city that has paving stones built out of wood? It makes my noise-sensitive heart glad. I imagine it felt nicer on the feet of the horses, too.


The reason for the trip: 400+ sociologists and little ole me, gathered together to make ponderous proclamations about Internet culture, in a gorgeous Danish Modern technology school. Where the wireless Internet conks out by the time you hit the 3rd floor.