Prized Possessions

Today was one of those days off of work where you have a million and two non-work obligations. Kicking it off was Elan's last game of Little League, and, more importantly, the end-of-season trophy distribution. Baseball season has been a lot of fun for us, primarily because Elan looks so darned cute in his little uniform, but also due in part to the snack truck from which Ariel orders French Fries smothered in ketchup at 9 am each Sunday morning. There's Elan, hauling ass from base to base like his life depends on it, and there's Ariel, happy as a clam on the bleachers with his "breakfast," shouting "GO-ELAN-GO BATTER-BATTER BASEBALL!" between mouthfuls. And there's Y or me or both of us, pretty okay with life.

When Elan is handed his trophy this morning to the applause of all the families present, it's obviously one of the most spectacular moments of his own life, and it's true when they say your children's' joy is yours a million times over. Even though every player gets a trophy, regardless of talent, and even though his last name is shamefully misspelled, I am overcome with pride for my kid, and even happier to see him so incredibly happy over something so relatively small in the grand scheme of things. And, I figure, he probably won't ask about the name mishap for at least a year or two, because G-d knows I am way too lazy to go through the steps of having it fixed.

After the game, we have back-to-back birthday parties to attend, and, it turns out, Mickey Mouse is invited to the second one, too. The Mickey impersonator, clearly hung-over, talks in a painfully-high-pitched voice, ignores the timid birthday boy, and, without waiting for a crowd to form, stands in the middle of the yard and shouts, "DO YOU LIKE MAGIC??" As very few of the kids are even yet aware that the Mickey has arrived, Ariel, and Ariel alone shouts back, "OH YES I DO!"

"GREAT!" Shouts Mickey, and asks Ariel's name, which my son proudly announces in the order of First-Last-Middle, and proceeds to lead the magic tricks with the star of the show. I soon realize the "magic" is mainly a rousing game of Ring-Around-the-Rosy, and the impersonator's falsetto is driving me nuts.

"Do you think that's really his voice?" I whisper to Y through my teeth.
"No, I think his throat really, really hurts right now."

Elan turns to me. "I don't flink that's even a REAL Mickey Mouse, Mommy. Look at those hands!"

I do. Mickey's been too generous with the vodka-tonics to have remembered his white gloves. Stubby, hairy man-hands are poking through the sleeves of his Mouse suit.

"You're right." I squeeze Elan's hand. There's never any fooling him, anyway. We walk to get drinks and I overhear a little girl tell her mother, "That Mickey's hands aren't even white!!"

Mickey fashions a balloon samurai sword for each of my boys and I wonder how much the guy is making from this gig. "If he'd worn gloves, he couldn't make balloon animals," a friend jokes. "First of all, those aren't balloon animals, last time I checked, and besides, the real Mickey would know how to do EVERYTHING in his white gloves!" I snap back.

My kids love the swords, but Ariel's pops as soon as we get to the car. Part of it's still inflated and twisted so I try to convince him it's something even better, like a starfish or a flower, but he isn't interested. He wails, and in one of Y's prouder moments, to be sure, he points the longer end and says, "No, look! It really looks like a gun! Much cooler!"

Truthfully, it looks phallic, and I do a you know what it REALLY looks like... to Y, who shushes me. Ariel's still upset, so Elan, who tends to offer Ariel his most treasured possessions in moments of weakness, thrusts his own balloon-sword at Ariel. "Okay?" he urges, and I feel a pang in the pit of my stomach. "You can have mine. Just until you feel better, but it's yours, okay? Just stop crying. I'll give you candy from my goody bag, too." He rifles through the plastic pouch and Ariel wipes the tears from his cheeks. Within minutes, he's rocking out to Daniel Powter's "Had a Bad Day" in peace.

When we get home, I help Elan struggle out of his athletic-gear: knee-high red socks, tight white pants, red Phillies jersey and cap. He strokes the gleaming trophy on his dresser, and looks at me, his little heart obviously very full. "Isn't it beautiful?" he sighs. "I am never going to let this trophy get dirty, ever." I'm thinking this is quite a vow coming from someone whose fingernails are currently black from combing the backyard soil for collectible beetles, when he impresses me further:

"And I'm going to put it somewhere where Theresa can't even reach it. 'Cause she would get it wet, or break it."

Because that's an actual life-lesson: Housekeepers do ruin your things.

In the evening, Y and I treat ourselves to a night out, a movie and some food. Ocean's 13 is about as good as you'd expect it to be, maybe even a little worse. But it's nice to be out, and afterward we head hungrily to a nearby restaurant for steaks. We've never been to this place before, and I'm nervous when I notice the prices on the menu combined with the fact that we are very nearly the only patrons there, but we go for it anyway. The service is incredibly slow considering that the entire staff is, in essence, cooking dinner for two. Y's steak isn't rare, as requested, and because it's expensive, he sends it back. I'm done with my plate by the time Y's, still-mooing, finally arrives, so I twiddle my thumbs and watch him eat. Super fun.

When we ask for the bill, the owner comes to ask Y if his second attempt at the steak was satisfactory, and Y, kindly, tells him it was delicious. "You know," the guy says, "the first one was rare too, it's just that when they set it on fire at the table" - they'd done one of those Cajun-style, flaming alcohol things - "it changed the color. So next time, just be sure to tell them not to light it on fire."

Y smiles politely and agrees, and as the man walks away I whisper, "You know what else turns the steak a different color? COOKING it more!"

Y laughs. "I know, does he think I buy that? Yes, the steak is just like our lizard, just like a chameleon, when it senses it's about to get eaten, it quickly changes color to fool the predator. 'Oh my! This guy likes me rare! I better turn brown quickly to save my ass!' Yup, steaks are highly defensive creatures."

I find this hysterical. "Just be sure" I manage between gasps of laughter, "to tell the waiter to skip that color-changing trick next time you come to this empty, maroon-threw-up-all-over-it, we-forgot-you-ordered-soup absolute GEM of a restaurant!"

I often think about how so far, in life, I've continually held this position as the only girl in a sea of boys, and there are times, to be sure, that I feel outnumbered, out of my element, and generally like screaming DOESN'T ANYONE IN THIS ROOM CARE ABOUT MOISTURIZING THEIR CUTICLES??!

But tonight I think if you've gotta be the only girl in a sea boys, it does help if they're awesome.