Oh, internets. Thank you for your sweet birthday wishes. They are much appreciated.
The Bean and I had a fine day. In the morning, he discovered the piano for the first time. We have put him on our laps to play before, but this was the first time he has gotten there on his own, reaching up from the floor and finding the keys himself. He was enthralled, and those of you who have been reading here for a while surely don’t need to be told how happy it made me.
I had to make up a shift at the hippie coop, but we managed a quick lunch out with the Dane beforehand, baby’s first burger and fries. (not baby’s first fries, of course — how could I have waited this long?) The coop was a mixed bag, as it often is. No room at the inn doing my preferred work, but the grumpy staff member I am careful to be friendly to found me a job and rescued me from working the shopping floor. Which is to say that I spent a couple of hours cutting the cheese. The Bean got worn out in childcare, so I spent the last hour up there, nursing and letting him sleep on my lap, which meant I was, because of a poorly chosen position and a reluctance to wake him, flashing my crotch to the room for most of that hour while an overdressed and very snobby childcare worker, herself the mother of a pwecious baybee, greeted my self-deprecating comments on my own mothering with deep pity. My feelings were rather hurt until I reflected later (inwardly, inwardly) that the snobbery and the pity might result from her having gone through life with a stripper name.
At any rate, cricks in the neck and satin jodphurs be damned, spending an hour of my birthday with my own sleeping baby on my lap… well, it’s hard to argue with the sweetness of that, as presents go.
The Dane’s four-year-old was in school at lunch time, so there was nothing for it but to meet up again, as she had made the very selfless request that she be allowed to take me out for ice cream to celebrate my birthday. She made me a pink card with a tiny drawing inside and told me a story about acorns that became trees that became the whole world. While her mother ran upstairs, she and I sang songs to the Bean. He watched with especial interest as I sang an old kindergarten favorite, “Robin In The Rain.”
Do you know that song? It’s a good one. It begins:
Robin in the rain
You don’t mind the weather
showers always make you gay
And when I sang that line, the Bean looked up at me and said, “Gay.”
Now I know, I know, it’s only echoing (which is still pretty exciting, imho). I’m not going to start parrying pity and disapproval over the Bean’s not sleeping with claims of precocious understanding of sexual identities or anything.
But in 15 years or so, I might not be able to resist telling the kid that his first word was gay.
(It’ll almost make up for how his admittedly adorable love for his Elmo doll strikes fear into my heart that I will have to spend years listening to that whining ball of lint pester his goldfish. But damn if it isn’t cute right now.)