Lou on the Loose: A Reality Show

Premise:
"Lou on the Loose" will feature TUCKER "LOU" GREEN, a recently TWO-year old boy, known by his family to "pack a lot of person in a little package."  A highly active boy who mastered walking, running, and climbing before his 1st birthday, at 2 Lou's curiosity takes an exceptionally task- and process-orientation, with both exciting and hazardous results.

Series Description:
The suspense and humor of the series will live in the tense space between his parents' pride at their son's intellectual ambition and the real disasters that ensue from his exploits.  In each episode, we will set LOU ON THE LOOSE in a new location, benign to the casual observer but – as viewers will come to anticipate – thrilling new turf for Lou.  Thrilling too for Lou's parents, whose gratitude at his engagement on a task, coupled with a vaguely isn't-this-a-great-Montessori-learning-exploration rationalization, overwhelm their better judgement. Inevitably distracted, his parents lose track of Lou just long enough for DISASTER to strike. At the end of each episode, Lou's humbled parents confess their errors, learn from their mistakes, and swear never to let it happen again.  Until the next episode.

EPISODE #1 (PILOT):  LOU ON THE LOOSE IN THE BATHROOM

It's the morning rush.  Two big brothers need to be fed, dressed, teeth brushed, jackets-hats-and-shoes on in time to meet the bus.  Lou is roaming the kitchen, taking his brother REEVE's favorite "guy" and calling it "mine," throwing scrambled eggs across the room, etc. When big brother DUNCAN goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth, MOM and DAD's relief that Lou follows makes them turn a blind eye when only Duncan re-emerges from the bathroom moments later.  Off-screen we hear the WATER still running in the bathroom...

We cross-cut between the FRONT HALL where Mom and Dad tie ratty show laces (that really need replacing, must remember), zip parkas (wow, these coats are filthy, must remember to wash) and try to tame wild cases of bed-head, and the BATHROOM where LOU IS ON THE LOOSE.

Standing on the toilet to better reach the sink, Lou has uncapped the toothpaste and is decorating the perimeter of the sink in sparkly blue gel.  This task accomplished, he moves on to an experiment in hydro-paper dynamics, in which he stops up the drain, fills the bathroom sink to the brim, and empties an entire box of Kleenex into the water one sheet at a time.  The tissues make beautiful gauzy swirls as he waves his hands through the water.  "Mo!" (more) he says to himself, looking at the empty box with furrowed brow.  So he scales the shelves for a new roll of toilet paper, extracts it from the Scott tissue wrap (which he adds to his pool - blue!  pretty!), and begins to unroll the toilet paper when he hears his Mom returning to check on him.  He feigns innocence as she rounds the corner, panic-stricken as she registers the sink full of pulpy white soup with still-running water.  "Lou, what have you gotten in to NOW?" she exclaims.  She swoops him off the toilet, opens it and begins to scoop whatever bits of wet mush still cohere into the toilet bowl.  "We don't put paper in the sink, Lou!  Paper is for wiping, and blowing," she tries to explain, failing to contain her exasperation.  He stamps his feet in protest, yelling "No!" as his creation flushes away.

The episode ends with Lou's parents seated side-by-side, interviewed by an omniscient off-screen FAMILY THERAPIST who asks them questions such as, "How could you have better engaged Lou's curiosity?" or "What part of this disaster was your responsibility?" or "Toilets are very slippery; how would you have explained your decision-making process to Child Services if Lou had been gravely injured?"  The parents mumble well-intentioned, self-depracating answers with promises that tomorrow they will do better.

ADDITIONAL EPISODES:

#2:  LOU ON THE LOOSE IN THE KITCHEN

Involving beer bottles, can openers, boiling water and carving knives

#3:  LOU ON THE LOOSE ON PROSPECT PARK WEST

Involving refusal to ride in the stroller, a flat tire, a Two-year old runaway and heavy traffic

#4:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT THE DOCTOR'S OFFICE

Involving a very long wait; an altercation over another boy's Matchbox cars; and a desperate diversion involving an iPhone including nonsensical emails sent to Mommy's work clients, deletion of her contacts and memos, and the disappearance of essential Apps

#5:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT TRADER JOE'S

Involving a lot of screaming, inarticulate demands for this, that and the other thing, an ineffectual "seatbelt" on a grocery cart, innocent victims of flying frozen peas, and a TJ's Associate who talks like a duck

#6:  LOU ON THE LOOSE AT LOWE'S

Involving the demise of tomato seedlings, impact testing of lightbulbs, an APB over the PA for a missing Two-year old, self-expression with spray paint, and a ride on a forklift

#7:  LOU BACK ON THE LOOSE IN THE BATHROOM

Involving experiments in flushing, such as Lego pieces, rubber lizards, Thomas the Tank Engine trains, and ballon pumpers; a basement backed up with black water; and an emergency visit from Andrew, the Metaphysical Plumber

Symphony in G major

ALLEGRO

Pidder pat pidder pat
Which one is it? Ma-ma? You got him?  Thanks.  CRY.  Silence.  Drifting...
Pidder pat pidder pat
Mommy, I had a bad dream.  Back to bed.  Snuggle.  Drifting...
Wiggle.     Wiggle.     Wiggle wiggle wiggle.   Time for sleeping.  I can't.  You can.  Twitch.
Still.   Sharp CRY.   Up.   Get him out before others wake.  Is he pulling on his ear?   Where's the medicine dropper?   Mum mum!
Nurse nurse nurse.  Drifting...  STARTLE.  6:40. 

Wake up!  Wake up!  Long sleeves, cold day, sweats in wash, settle for jeans.  NO!  YES. 
Milk first, then honey.  Sausages.  Eat!  I am!
GRRRRRRinding coffee.  WHEEEE tea kettle.  Fish sticks and apple sauce.  Where have all the water bottles gone?  Shoes!  Shoes!  Eat!  Eat!  I am!  I am!  Brush teeth, jacket.  Backpack.  No time for fooling!  Let's go!  

Street, cold, dark, trash.  A bus.  Passes.  Another.  Another.  Cold, dark, windy.  Three maybe five minutes to find out what So-and-so did at lunch yesterday, or did you know we have to have Gym in our classrooms this week?  So unfair.
Blinking lights, hugs, kisses blown through the window, little faces disappear.

Can I have a snuggle on the coach?  Ma-ma!  More fish sticks and apple sauce.  Cheese sticks and pretzels.  Thermoses and little boxes.  Bananas bananas bananas.  I want a waffle!  How do you ask?  Please?  With maple syrup, and a sausage.  I want a boiled egg!  I want Shrek cereal!  Time to get dressed.  But I need a red shirt!  Harry Potter wears a red shirt when he's on his Quidditch!  

Why are we rushing?  Because we're late again!  Why are we always late?  I don't know.  Jackets!  Hats!  Backpacks!  In the stroller.  EW!  Tucker has a poop!  Do you have a poop?  No!  SNIFF.  Yes.  Jackets off.  Upstairs we go.  Wiggle wiggle, roll over, escape.  Pin.  SCREAM.  Wipe.   JACKETS.

In stroller we go.  NO!  Arch back arch back NO NO NO!  Run to the corner, then in.  Run run run run run, WIPE OUT.  Ahhhh!  Boo-boo check?  Kiss kiss, good as new.  Run run run run run. 

Billy on street corner.  VRRRRMMMM, bus.  Did you know that an octopus squirts ink to hide from the shark so he can't find him to eat him-  VRRRRRMMM, street cleaner. 

Park.  Joggers, bikers, strollers, scooters.   Breathe.   Sky.   Wind.   I spy with my eagle eye.   Knock knock, who's there?  Ach...   Gezuntit!  Hahahaha..  Mama, nana!  More banana? 

Drop off, good morning!  Who are we today?  Superman?  Harry Potter?  Welcome to Red town!  Blue town!  We're going to make challah!  Have a good day.  Bye bye Mama!  See you later!  I love you.  I love you.  I love you.

ANDANTE

Walk home. Walk.  Check email.  Walk.  Text.  Walk.

MODERATTO

Tea, desk, tap tap tap tap, blog blog, email email email.  Phone call this, phone call that. 

Change laundry.  Clean up kitchen.  Phone call this, phone call that.  Post office.  Change laundry.  Email email email email. 

Photos.  Still.  Sad boy.  Excited boy.  Laughing boy.  Big boy.  Tiny boy.   Hot on mountain top.  Cold in blizzard.  Chasing, flying, swinging, swimming.   I can see the boys they used to be.

Write.  Email.  Text.  Change laundry.

Jacket.   Walk walk walk.  Phone call.  Walk.  Pick up #1.  How was his day?  He ate beans, rice, grapes, yogurt... He make a poo poo.  Again?   Heavy lids.  Succumbs to stroller.  Out...

Bump up, bump up, bump up, bump up...  Wheel in house.  Deep breathing. 

Heat left-overs.  Email, text, email, bills, to-do.  Phone call.  Still sleeping.  Email, text, change laundry. 

2:55?!

PRESTO

BUMP BUMP BUMP, back down stairs stroller goes.

RUN MAMA RUN.  Slalom stroller through Bishop Ford kids.  Past park.  Joggers, bikers, blurr.  Check clock.   Text while running.  Sweat.  

PICK UP #2.  How was your day?  Good.  We made Rainbow cake, and ate TWO pieces!  Great!

Bananas bananas yogurt yogurt granola bars.  Playground.  Blast-off!  No throwing sand!  Share!  Cheese sticks.  Veggie booty.  Five more minutes!

HUSTLE.  Park.  Joggers, bikers, blurr.  Sun in eyes.  Mommy, my chicks!  Yellow buses pass.  Duncan's?  HUSTLE HUSTLE.  Check clock.  HUSTLE.  Text - r u at bus stop?  Running late.  No answer.  Sweat.

Joe's Pizza.  Blinking lights.  Hi, sweetie!  How was your day?  Good.  Can we have a playdate with Ava?  Can we play Zoombinis?  Can I have a playdate with Charlie?  Can we watch Nemo?

ADAGIO

First, snack.  Then homework.  AW!  Rice cakes, cheese sticks, carrots, grapes.  Sharpen pencil.  Head bowed over table.

Superman makes a rescue, or Harry Potter flies a car while Lou disassembles the fridge or steals iphone ("po") for a TED talk or music video. 

Markers and coloring books.  Playdough and clay.  Dry ingredients and wet ingredients.  Cookies.  What should we make for-

ALLEGRETTO

He took my-!  He hit my-!  GIVE ME THAT! CRY.  Is that how we handle it?  Do you need a time out?  Try again nicely.  Offer a trade.  Let him have a turn.  Try that again?  How can you ask nicely?  You can solve this problem.  If you don't find a way to work it out, there won't be any XYZ...  When is Daddy getting home?  Soon.  AW.

Itadakimasu, Yoedvadyotkivanuk.  Dinner.  Use a utensil.  Knees stay under the table.  Don't lean on me.  Did we say thank you for this great dinner?  Thank you.  But it's not my taste.  Can I have more milk?  Three more bites.  How many?  Snarf.  But I don't like peas!  Have you been excused?  I have to use the bathroom!  Can I have some more milk?  You just had some-  Tucker, milk is not for pouring on your dinner!  Giggles giggles.  Eat.  How was your day?  Mortgage this, boss that, teachers-- Daddy!   Did you notice he was talking?  Sorry!  Remember to say excuse me.  Work this, that- EXCUSE ME!  And wait for an opening-  GUESS WHAT?!  (surrender) What?  (More wine?)

Bath time!  Five more minutes!  Legos.  Markers.  Flying cars and quidditch sticks.  Bath time!  But we had a bath last night!  Bath time.  Aw. 

Splash splash splash.  Bum bum this, bum bum that.  Spit.  NO SPITTING.  Shampoo.  But my boo-boo hurts!  Brush teeth.  Open up... Wiggle wiggle roll, pig pile!  Hahahaha!  Open so I can reach back teeth.  Tongue?  Enough, out.  Out!  No jumping, slippery!  Pajamas.  But I can't find my superman undies! 

Choose your books.  SNOW.  Wow, you read it yourself, Reeve!  Wiggle wiggle.  Mummum!  Mummum!  Pig pile.  Doggie Peekaboo.  That's right, there's silly doggie!   HP3.  What's that word?  "Persuade."  Daddy, I read the first page of chapter twelve by myself!  Wiggle wiggle.  Lunge.  Fly. But I want a snuggle!  You will have one.  That's all for tonight.  Just two more pages!  PLEASE!  Grimace.  Protest protest.  Bed time.

LARGO

Lou dinner take 2 with Choo Choo downstairs with Daddy.  Big boys in Bed.  Sing- I Love you, Reevie- I mean, Harry!  I love you, Harry!.... Shalom Aleichem.  Snuggle snuggle, I'm sorry for when we had tough words this afternoon, me too, I love you, I love you too, sweet dreams.  Sing again- I love you, Duncan, I love you, I love ... I need tissues!  Water.  Have to go pee pee.  Snuggle snuggle.  I love you, I love you too. 

Lou.  Mum mum.  Snuggle.  Water bottle.  Climb, crawl, giggle, lunge, sigh, lie, sleep.

Sleep.

Pidder pat pidder pat...

Around the Bend

When we were finishing the film about Mr. Jimmy Moore, my composer, John Keith, had the great idea to base the musical score on Mr. Jimmy's own footsteps.  John sampled his footfalls, using Jimmy's natural rhythm to give rise to the film's up-beat sound.

This May I got nervous as I searched for Mr. Jimmy on the crowded fluorescent-lit corridor at the VA nursing home.  The residents who could walk shuffled, gripping rails along the walls; many were wheelchair-bound.  What if he'd declined so much I couldn't recognize him?   But then he appeared. Though his face had aged a lot, I could never mistake the rhythm of that gait.

Mr. Jimmy passed away a few days before this Christmas.  His decline was rapid, according to his family, brought on by pneumonia, itself probably brought on by aspirating a food particle into his lungs.  It's painful for me to imagine Mr. Jimmy, who loved breathing hard on his runs, struggling to breathe and restrained to a bed.  Was he frightened?  I wish I could ask him how he felt, what he wanted, what he understood to be God's will in it all, what the final moment was like.  He  spoiled me by sharing so much about the defining moments of his life until now--including what it was like to lose his grip on his memory.  I grew to depend on him as a guide for life.

I am really struggling to say goodbye to my dear friend.  I slip into that particular form of magical thinking afforded by distance to pretend he is still "out there," and would answer my call, if I could just dig up the right phone number.  I enact the call in my imagination.  He would answer with his usual enthusiasm, "Well, HEY, Samantha!  How ARE you!?"  ("Hah are yew!?")  Before hanging up, he'd say, "You'll never know how much your call means to me.  I love you!"  ("Ah luuv yew!")

In between we might talk about things like running (of course) -- what to do about tight hamstrings?  How best to train for a marathon?  Should I run through a sore knee or plantar fasciitis?  What kinds of cross-training are best?   The merits of meat vs. vegetarian diets.   Or how running marathons helped prepare me for giving birth.  (I can still hear him chuckling during that one!)

Or about matters of faith and worship, where he remained an independent thinker.   (Though many of his fellow Southern Baptists eschewed alcohol, Mr. Jimmy believed Jesus wouldn't have turned water into wine if wine were evil.)  We might talk about Jewish and Christian ways of seeking a relationship with the divine.  Or about the relationship of doubt and faith.  In his reading of the Bible love trumped judgment.

Or about history-- lessons learned coming of age in the Great Depression (he theorized that the Depression was God's preparation for World War II, forging the fortitude his generation needed to fight and win.)  About the Mississippi of his childhood, the railroads, about cleaning up the mess the Germans made of Italian railroads, learning meditative techniques to survive intense pain and discomfort on transport ships across the Atlantic, and how such techniques can help in every- day life.  And about race -- about his hunting friendship with a Black man years ago, about the chasms between and shared fates of Blacks and Whites in Mississippi.

And always we'd talk about love and family-- How to handle constitutional differences with a spouse?  How to handle different stages with children?  What's the role of faith and Faith in marriage?   What was it like to say goodbye to his life partner?  What different kinds of love and friendship hold us in life after one's partner departs?

At the end of our chats, we'd usually remark again how unexpected it was to find such a friend in each other.  He'd be labeled a "Red-Stater," while I'd get branded a "Latte Liberal."  (What ridiculous labels!)  We were separated by 48 years.  His roots sank deep in rural Mississippi where he lived his whole life.  I can't get more Yankee, and I've wandered all over -- California, Mississippi, New York, Japan.  He attended community college, then devoted 42 years to dispatching on the railroad.  I've completed several degrees, and I'm still figuring out what color my parachute is.  When I moved in across the street on a short-term teaching assignment in 1992, we should have become nothing more than polite neighbors.  Instead he became one of my best friends. 

I recognize this point in The Story, when the protagonist has to say goodbye to the beloved mentor and step up to a new position in the Order of Things.  But I don't know exactly what that means, and I don't feel ready.  I am greedy for more -- more of his wisdom, his stories, his robust laughter and radiant smile, his quick footsteps that barely touched the earth, the comfort he provided that it's all going to work out down the road, around the bend.  From here on, I will need to listen for the rhythm of his footsteps to lead me where I can't yet see.

Staying Still

When Superman's grief for Lois Lane compels him to reverse time by spinning Earth backwards, there must be a moment when time stands still. Or actually two, since he then restores Earth to forward rotation. (Don't worry if your chrono-spatial-gravitational physics is rusty. I have the unfair advantage of my own little resident Superman.) Though this ultimate statis is not only fleeting, it's imaginary, it comforts me nonetheless. Because right now my life is a blurrrr of motion.

Which brings me to- THE MARATHON. Yes, I ran! Loaded up with homeopathics and mulligatawny soup (thank you, Cheri!), augmentin (thank you, David!) and two days of rest (thank you, husband!), I awoke Sunday, November 6th to a brilliant sunny day in New York feeling well and eager. Together with 47,000 runners I made my way via two trains, the Staten Island ferry, and a bus to the starting line on Staten Island. Frank Sinatra got me crying for the first of countless times to "New York, New York" as we crossed the start and began our ascent on the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge, all of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Brooklyn and the Atlantic below us. I was so thrilled to be there and so high on the enthusiasm of runners and the crowds that I ran too fast too soon, and I knew it, but I couldn't resist. Six miles in I found Jordy, Duncan, Reeve and our neighbor friends in the crowd, another adrenalin spike. A lull after parting from them, but another boost in Clinton Hill-Bed/Stuy where the crowds were spectacular. A gospel choir rocked us on. In Williamsburg I picked out two close friends from LA - another boost. Then a long hard road ahead... Are we in Queens yet? Finally the Queensborough Bridge - ugh. Like the transition phase of labor in child birth. Long, hard, the crowds gone, lower deck this time, the relentless rumble of vehicles passing on the level overhead. My right knee started to complain. My hamstrings were grouchy. At last - First Avenue in Manhattan. WOW, the crowds were suddenly many times as dense. Their voices exploded in my tired muscles like rocket fuel. God bless these strangers! I shot off. Briefly. Then remembered how far I'd come. By mile 18 I need to walk quite a lot. Living up to the meaning of its name, "the Hinterland," the Bronx felt like a purgatory from which I might never escape. And yet there were a Scottish bag piping troop, children with fruit and water, and a HipHop duo singing "Welcome... to the Bronx," over and over in the tone of a dirge, which somehow all comforted and amused me through to the final bridge back to Manhattan. From then on it was all low golden rays as the falling sun beckoned us to the final resting place. Harlem, Fifth Avenue, a woman who cheered specifically for me ("Go, Pink!") just when I needed it, a right hook into Central Park. Bare trees overhead, a fantasy of Frederick Law Olmsted (my guiding spirit of late) watching from a knoll with wonder at what his park has provided, winding familiar roads from so many races to bring me to this place, a final detour back out to Central Park South past my grandfather's New York Athletic Club, a surrender of my vain hope to make the New York Times as my time passed 5 hours, irrepressible cravings that this damn thing be OVER already, the finish line in sight, and suddenly - permission to stop.

But not. Like the relentlessness of time in general, we were not permitted to stop. The New York Road Runners Club knew what they were doing.  To stop is to freeze up.  They corralled us like so many cattle in a forced march that lasted about 30 minutes. Wrapped in silver plastic blankets that look like excess material from the lunar landing pods, supplied with bright orange "Recovery Kit" backpacks of energy bars, apples, and water, we shuffled toward the bivouacked UPS trucks conveying our personal gear from start to finish.  An hour and a half and two more trains later I was home to hugs from four boys, flowers, and champagne on ice.  (Lest I give the wrong image, I would be the one on ice, drinking champagne whilst in a bath of ice water.  Grim, but effective!)

The marathon generates a host of metaphors. Life's a marathon, not a sprint. We're in it for the long haul. I hit the wall. You've got to pace yourself. I'm a "finisher." Once upon a time most people employed such metaphors without ever having felt a marathon. But with so many people running them now, the marathon offers a common language, a short-cut. (Ask any NY finisher about the Queensborough Bridge - say no more!) Having run the New York Marathon in particular, I'd argue it has become its own metaphor. "You ran New York?" evokes the whole wild wonderful thing -- runners and crowds representing every walk of life, every corner of the Earth, together making the world's biggest party out of something really hard and inviting everyone to be a part of it. Thank God, I got to run New York!

I wonder how the day and weeks after the marathon felt to the other runners. I felt like I ran off a cliff. I had some regrets. I wish I'd run it better, yadayada. But mostly I had lost my guiding star. Many RUNNER'S WORLD magazine subscribers must run New York, as they had a special article on overcoming the "post-race blues." My friend and mentor, Jimmy Moore, would have done as they advised and plotted his next race (perhaps an ultra next time). But it didn't feel right to make a new "goal." After sitting with this unease for several weeks, I realized why. What I crave now above all is stillness. Is it an oxymoron to make "stillness" a goal?

I started running again three years ago to pull myself out of the rut I'd fallen into after giving birth to two kids, having given up exercise, feeling glum. Running has restored me in body and spirit, and I will keep the habit going forward. But as I reflect over these three years, I also ran to keep up. To keep up with my "Rocket Reeve," who kept me running through my pregnancy with Tucker whether I wanted to or not. To keep up with Tucker, who by 15 months was off like a shot himself. To keep up with the pressured schedules of 3 boys with 3 different school schedules, and an average of 5 miles of daily walking/running behind strollers to move bodies where they need to go. To keep up my energy when sleep is in short supply (always). To keep up with my advancing age, which I believe is governed at least in part by expectations. And to prepare for something as yet unknown - the next hard, long, important thing. But I'm frankly a little tired of being on the run.

Maybe it's the approach of winter. An instinct to hibernate. The immobility of things frozen. Nature's relief of obligation to grow, strive, change. Now that I feel I can keep up, I'm not sure I want to. Instead I want to slow the whole thing down. I don't want to venture so far. I want to be quieter. To escape time. The first step, I realize, is to let go of all this wanting and not wanting, of striving even not to strive. Instead I'm doing more yoga, attempting meditation (never been very successful with it, but then again, what is success?! Incense helps put me in the mood, at least, and makes the house smell nice too), writing in my journal, trying to move slower, breathe more, expect less. None of this comes naturally to me (as my friend Jonathan's "perfume" name for me, "Flurry," evokes). Would that it were as easy as halting the Earth's rotations!

Then again, I'm really starting to look forward to summer. By then the kids will be bigger. Jordy has saved up more vacation. Maybe we'll be able to hike Mount Moosilauke together for the first time! Or head east to Mount Katahdin... After all this stillness, I'll be ready for some action.

Little Touches

Last week I went to the funeral home to view my husband's grandmother the day after she died. My aunt-in-law, who along with her husband comprised the other two visitors, invited me to touch her too. I was so glad she did. I never would have done so on my own. Grandma's hair was very fine, her skin very soft despite the cool hardness of her cheek.

I keep thinking about this final touch, about the feeling of her body, living and in death, on my finger tips, my cheek, in my arms. I remember how frail she felt in recent years, as if I might break her if I held her too tight. To the end she welcomed a squeeze of the hand, a brush of our cheeks, a hug nonetheless.

She was a woman who, I sensed without having known her then, really enjoyed her body in younger years. She spoke often of the pleasures of summers sunning herself at the beach. She took great pleasure in good food. She told of sleeping in spoons with her husband, recalled by my aunt-in-law last week over champagne toasts to Grandma, and the joyous sensations of being pregnant. I remember her watching me breastfeed my babies with interest, once asking me, "What does it feel like? You know, I never had the chance to do that. They bound my breasts at the hospital to stop the milk." Her question didn't seem to carry a political pro-/con-breastfeeding agenda; it felt like she simply regretted the lost chance to explore a new sensation.

In contrast to Grandma's final years, when touch was limited to her cat and greetings/partings with visiting family, my days are overrun with little touches. I often wake up to a soft little foot tickling my tummy or lodged under my chin. I'm so used to the small fingers that lightly roam my neck and chest while nursing that I can forget the gift of this wee, ephemeral bit of tenderness. I have "snuggle requests" from the bigger brothers upon waking and before sleep, hand-holdings across streets, and kisses on heads of ruffled hair. I enjoy the embraces of my husband throughout the day, sleepy snuggles, and the brushes of our fingers and bodies amidst the bustle of packing lunchboxes and dressing boys for school.

We are still in the stage of family life where a kiss and a hug provide miraculous healing. Although the two bigger boys have achieved the rational capacity to question the mechanism for this effect, when push comes to shove comes to real ouch, they still want a kiss and a hug first. Two-year old Tucker puts his faith in both Band-Aids (for invasive, non-invasive, and thoroughly imaginary wounds - so much fun to open! stick!) and Kiss-Kiss/Hug-Hug remedies.

With three young boys, our little touches can get acrobatic. We recently built new Ikea beds and dressers for the boys' new "mountain" bedroom. As I climbed into a case to screw in tracks for drawers, my rear end must have suggested a horse, as Tucker promptly climbed on for a ride. At music class yesterday during the "free dance" portion, he required not only that I carry him, but that I flip him upside down repeatedly (exhausting!). The boys love nothing more than "Tough Time" with Jordy at the end of the day, which consists of Jordy lying flat on the floor while one-after-the-other the boys hurl themselves at him.

This morning Duncan, the big seven-year old, required a snuggle on the rocker, curling up pretending to be a baby again, arms gripping me hard. This fall Reeve took to crawling into bed beside me at night, so stealth that I wouldn't realize his presence until waking in the morning to the slow rise and fall of his breath, his warm back against my arm. To my relief and chagrin, he has quickly adapted to his new bedroom, sleeping as late at 7am in his own "big boy" bed.

These touches wrap me in a warm web of life, a web that reaches beyond memory to my mother's countless loving touches of little me. I fear the loss of touch that will happen as they and we age. It happens so gradually I often don't notice. No morning snuggle this morning with Reeve, and he is fine, and so am I. Then one day they will leave home. And one day Jordy or I will loose the other. I have to hope the gradual nature of the changes will make it bearable. And give me time to get a seriously snuggly dog.

Grandma once told me that one of the hardest things about getting older for her was the dissonance between the way she sees herself inside with how she knows others perceived her. In her mind's eye, she was eternally 40. Healthy, vital, teenage kids at home, in love with her husband. I am there now. Since 40 I've had a baby, got the chance to run a marathon, and enjoy good health and affection all around. I'm grateful for these little touches, and to Grandma for helping me see my bounty.

The Long View

I decided to run a marathon almost three years ago. I was 39. I got on the treadmill at my in-laws house one snowy evening in New Hampshire. I hadn't run regularly in a number of years, and it was a little painful, but a marathon seemed the perfect answer to turning 40.

In April we found out we were pregnant. Marathon training would have to wait. I kept running until the end of my first trimester. In fact, Tucker ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon with me on Memorial Day, then we decided to down-shift to brisk walking. A month after the 2009 NYC marathon I went into labor, which was not unlike a marathon but with a far better trophy.

So again, come winter 2010, I put my running shoes back on. My first race was the Run for Haiti in Central Park. 4 miles. That year I completed the 9 races required to qualify for the NYC 2011 Marathon. Come winter 2011 I started extending my runs. Ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon again at the end of May. Deja vu, but better. The delay had stretched out my training, deepened the endurance, made it more habitual than an act of will.

Three weeks ago I made my last long training run, 23 miles all in Brooklyn. It was a glorious, if exceedingly windy, day. The mile along Coney Island's boardwalk had to be re-routed inland for the blasting sand kicked up by 20 mph winds, and I got splashed numerous times by waves breaking along the coast under the Verrazano Bridge. The highlight was passing Duncan's soccer game at mile 22 and waving to my four guys. I felt great. I felt ready. My mantra was: "Now, if I can just avoid getting sick..."

Now here I am, it is Friday, Marathon day is Sunday. And I have a fever. This is day 2 of 100+ temps, aches, shakes, the usual seasonal misery. I pumped myself up with Advil and went into the city to pick up my race bib anyway. It's been 3 years - how can I give up now? I ask myself what Jimmy would do. (Jimmy Moore, my running friend and guru, now 90, from Mississippi.) He would tell me to listen to my body. That I can always give it a shot, and if I'm not up to it, there's no shame in going home and trying again another time. I hope I will have the courage to make such a call if need be. This strikes me as the wisdom of the marathon-view of life. Even the marathon is not the marathon. It's the finish line past the horizon that keeps us reaching farther than the one we can see.

Uncle in the Outfield

Yesterday for Father's Day my three sons, their dad and I went to the Brooklyn Cyclones v. Staten Island Yankees game at Coney Island. It was awesome. Fathers and sons (or daughters) were invited to come out on the field to toss the ball before the game. The kids in the Precinct 78 baseball league were invited to run the bases. Duncan wore his "Hotwheels" orange jersey; his buddy, little neighbor Charlie, wore his green jersey. The two of them cheered wildly, thrusting their foam "Cyclones #1" hands in the air between stuffing blue cotton candy in their mouths.

During the game I sent a text to my sister to tell her we were thinking about Gary. This time of year is extra hard. In rapid succession she faces her daughter's birthday, Father's Day, the last day of school, and the anniversary of her husband's death. This year the last two fall on the same day, as they did six years ago when Gary was driving to catch up with his family after the boys' last day of school. The night before he had played baseball with them. The next night he was gone.

The coincidence of Gary's death with the summer equinox and the height of baseball season has always felt connected to me, as if by some gossamer threads that hold reality together but which are too delicate to be quite seen, much less named. Something about how the planet is reaching for the sun, the bonds of this realm and another loosened, a ball flying into the sky - invisible momentarily as the powerfully close sun blinds the eye, before it falls back to earth, but what if it doesn't?

Aunts and uncles and older cousins from every corner of the country dropped everything and flew back to New York to be with Kristin and the kids. I remember feeling the necessity to link arms with the living in those hot days after Gary died, to form a ring around a hole that had opened leaving a powerful vacuum in existence. All of nature raged. Thunderstorms hammered us for a week. Humidity cloaked us in a sticky layer we couldn't escape. Mosquitoes bit fiercely. The earth had shifted on its axis. We all felt profoundly useless. What could we possibly say or do in the face of this?

Play baseball. Through scorching heat, thick air, killer insects and dashing storms, a game of baseball went on and on in the backyard. As darkness fell, fire flies joined the game. This aunt, who would be described as a "fair weather fan," looked heavenward numerous times to give thanks for the game of baseball. It felt like it saved our lives.

Duncan was 8 months old when Gary died. As a consequence, Duncan's age each June marks the number of years Gary has been gone. They never met. We had planned to fly back east from California to introduce Duncan to his cousins, aunt and uncle later that summer. Our trip came sooner than planned, but too late. Among the many regrets we all live with daily, I count the fact that Uncle Gary couldn't see Duncan play on his first Little League team this spring.

Last week Duncan joined his dad and two high school friends for a Yankees v. Red Sox game at Yankee Stadium. Jordy and his friends were, of course, decked out in Red Sox attire. Despite our best efforts, Duncan has become a devoted Yankees fan and dressed appropriately. While they waited through a THREE AND A HALF-HOUR rain delay (game started at 10:30PM), thunderstorms raging once again around the perimeter of the baseball field, Duncan became the mascot of their cheering section, upheld by the Yankee fans as a hold-out against his father's bad influence.

I chuckle to think, instead, that Duncan's Yankee devotion is evidence of his uncle's good influence. Gary was a quiet, serious student of baseball. His passion for the Yankees did not take the form of inebriated riotous behavior at the ballpark, or obnoxious derision of other teams or their fans (even the Red Sox). He would have found a lot of the glitz of the New Yankee Stadium beside the point. He took a long view of the game and the team. He knew his stuff.

Gary sometimes lamented that his elbow ached in the night from all the Catch he played with his sons, Christopher and David. One of the prices we pay for becoming parents relatively late in the game. But all that Catch imparted to his boys not only physical skill, but a spirit about the game - and athletics in general. Christopher ("H" as Gary called him) and David ("David Bear") are good athletes, but moreover they are good sportsmen. They are decent. They don't mock.

At their wedding, Gary's best man's toast described Kristin as the "second best catch of his life," after an epic catch in the field earlier in his life. Gary and Kristin's was a mixed marriage with all the inherent excitment and risks that attend such things. Like James Carville and Mary Matalin, their relationship rested on a foundation of respect for each other's devotion to the game while it was enlivened by the rivalry of their chosen teams.

In 2003 (need I remind anyone?) the Red Sox came painfully close to beating the Yankees in the ALCS. That loss, in the 11th inning (even this fair weather fan cringes at the memory), sent my sister into a month-long depression. Her sons, 7 and 3 at the time, were unnerved by their mother's periodic bouts of teary distraction. The lone Red Sox fan in a household of Yankees fans, she was in a very vulnerable place. Never one to gloat, Gary gently explained to the boys how long and hard the Red Sox (and their long-suffering fans) had fought for this, helping them to imagine how very disappointing this would be (despite their own glee). This Father's Day I'm struck by the imprint such a reflexive reaction of generosity left on Gary's children. I'm sure Christopher and David wish they could retrieve more specific memories of their dad, but this one exemplifies Gary's good nature and his legacy.

Last summer Christopher and David ran a "Sports Camp" for my sons, Duncan and Reeve. They patiently taught the fundamentals of baseball and soccer. They played Catch for hours in the blazing summer heat. If Duncan's allegiance to the Yankees was negotiable before their camp, it was sealed by week's end.

And so, when I watch Duncan play baseball here in Brooklyn, I realize Gary is present after all. He taught his sons who taught my son. He's our uncle in the outfield.

And although they never met, Gary sent Duncan the following cover letter and CV upon his birth:

November 23, 2004

Dear Duncan,

Enclosed is my CV. Would you please review as I wish to be considered as one of your uncles. Uncle is a an important person and should not be confused with an aunt. However, they are commonly found together. In my case I will be found with your Aunt Kristin.

Hope to see you soon.

Love,
Uncle Gary

P.S. I have enclosed pictures of Cousin Katie.

C.V. Gary Lehmann
November 2004

DESIRED POSITION: Duncan Ira Green's Uncle, Northeast Region
UNCLINGS PHILOSOPHY: Dirty knees and a full stomach: no baths required.
CURRENT POSITION
Dad, 1996-Present, responsibilities include:
* Maintain family playground, including state of the past (emphasis Gary's) baseball field with grass, dirt and scrape board bases
* Ice skate lacing, puck and stick supply and pond ice snow shoveling
* Golf lessons - a combination of mini-golf, woods and irons at the driving range and an introduction to requisite colorful language
* Book reading - personal favorites: Go, Dog Go; Put Me in the Zoo; Goodnight Gorilla
* Animal and human husbandry
* Forced marches (also termed hiking by flatlanders)
* Driving lessons on John Deere
* Family grump
* Day job - Blah, blah, blah

PRIOR EXPERIENCE
* Watched The Man from UNCLE
* Nephew for four uncles
* Uncle for four nephews and one niece - one broken nose, no long term damage inflicted.
* Best friend for four dogs.

INTERESTS AND FAVORITES
Travel
I like to visit Dunkin Doughnuts and attend baseball and hockey games. I have also traveled abroad. As a result my passport stamps include Cooperstown, Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park, Wrigley Field, Memorial Stadium (1969 World Series, Brook Robinson is spectacular), and Dodger Stadium (1968, Bob Gibson's streak of 50 consecutive scoreless innings ends in the first inning).

Music
I like both kinds, country and western. (1)

Beverage
Root beer, hold the root.

Favorite Historical Figures
Bobby Orr, Bobby Murcer, Wayne Gretsky

Favorite Olympian
Cami Granato (2)

Best Movie Dialogue
Kermit and Fozzy Bear are traveling in a car with Fozzy in the driver seat and Kermit to his right in the passenger seat. They approach a y-intersection and:
Kermit - "Fozzy, bear left."
Fozzy - "Kermit, frog right."

REFERENCES
Andie Lehmann, Binghamton, NY, Retriever
Lilly Reeve-Baker, Hanover, NH Springer
________________
(1) Acknowledgments to the Blues Brothers
(2) Duncan, Cami is famous for being Tony Granato's sister. Maybe you will have a sister who can be famous as Duncan Green's sister.