Rowan doesn’t walk any more. He cycles, or he cartwheels, or he kicks a soccer ball, or he throws himself forward onto his hands and practices standing on them, over and over, for hours, while we watch. And count.

We have to watch. And we have to count. We can’t, say, sit on the couch in the basement and read the Sunday New York Times while he gymnasts away happily to himself. “Are you watching?” he asks after every turn. “Did you see that? Are you counting? Mom, can you please count? Mom, why are you reading?”

And so I remind myself that these moments will not last forever and that there will be a time in his life where the last thing he wants me to do is watch him, intently, and that the newspaper will wait while I count the microseconds — one-two-three-fourfivesixseven… — his legs hover in the air. “How many was that?” he asks, every time. He smiles, shy and pleased, every time we get above ten or so.

He’s improving, too. For a while, his legs hung crookedly akimbo in the air, but now they are straightening out, feet together. He figured out this development all on his own; hasn’t let me or Rachel spot him, doesn’t want any help. And frustrating as it has been to have to watch and not intervene, improve, correct (Just let me…) it’s been worth it to watch him figure it out all on his own, one foot kicking up and then the other and meeting in the space where his head should be instead.

But I watch also because I’m fascinated, and slightly stunned by, the way history repeats itself. I think back to my own childhood, and how Rowan could never have known about my own handstand practices in the front halls of our suburban homes, my father timing each one on the stopwatch function of his VERY EXCITING wristwatch, which also had a tiny calculator on it. “Why are you looking at me funny?” Rowan asked me as I watched him the first time he started upending himself on the much-too-small patch of carpet on the upstairs landing.

“Oh,” I said softly. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Because here is one of the scenes I wrote more than a decade ago for my novel — my novel, which now comprises 265 manuscript pages and counting:

K—  practices handstands in the front hall. Throwing her small body forward and down, she kicks her legs in the air and thinks, up. Stay up. Sometimes her legs don’t rise far enough into the air; sometimes she overestimates the force of her kicks and tumbles over, arcing her back and twisting sideways as she comes down, once landing in a perfect backbend surprising in its grace. But some of the handstands hold long enough for her to feel the shift in gravity from her feet to her hands, the momentary comfort of standing upside down, and when this happens, she begins to count.

One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four-Mississippi, five-Mississippi … and down.

            One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four-Miss— … and down.

            One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi, four-Mississippi, five-Mississippi, six-Mississippi … and down.

            Over and over, as she imagines herself in the Olympics, handstand champion of the world. Announcers and spotlights pointing her out on the stadium floor, ribbons in her hair, a satin spandex leotard. They compare her to Nadia Comaneci, the first 10, the new standard for perfection, the world’s next, brilliant surprise — the next Nadia, they say. She can stay up forever, she can count to a hundred, she can walk around the world.

And down.

            She throws herself up again. Not hard enough. Up again. Better this time, but she wavers at the sticking point and comes down again, a small grunt of frustration escaping her set mouth. Up again. It takes, and she begins again.

One-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, three-Mississippi … and in between the numbers, in syncopation with the beats of counting, is another chant. Get to twenty and Mom won’t die. Four-Mississippi. Get to twenty and Mom won’t die. Five-Mississippi.

            She wavers.

            Get to ten and Mom won’t die.

            And down, twisting legs over hips and landing, head pounding. Every chance is the last chance. Every fall, she grants herself one more try. This time, this time, is the one that counts. She wills herself to believe, knows that the miracle is just around the corner. Thinks about gymnastics camp last summer, about a dozen girls each sliding two fingers of each hand underneath the body of a thirteenth girl, lying prone on the floor. About their attempts to focus, focus, to pool their energy and their collective strength in their fingertips and lift her off the ground.

            Up. And down. Up-Mississippi. Down.

            Several of the other girls had giggled, let their fingers relax and their arms go limp. She had glared at them, hissed “Shhhhh!” and tried her best to focus, to feel her four fingers as steel rods underneath the girl’s back, to imagine a girl as weightless, her body a helium balloon, floating up, up, up… with the right amount of focus, she knows it’s possible: mothers have lifted wrecked cars off their babies, haven’t they? She’s read about that, too.

            Up, two, three, four-Mississippi. Down. Over, and over, until her head swims.   She had focused, eyes closed, her intent contagious, and the other girls had quieted in the circle around her. She had squeezed her eyes shut tighter, until rainbow dots skipped in front of them, whispered to the others about the body as a balloon, how they could make it happen on one, two, three…

            Up-Mississippi… four, five, six… she imagines her legs slicing through the air and being caught at the top, her ankles held steady by a thousand tiny fairies, keeping her upright. And down.

            … and Go! And they had braced, and lifted, and then, for just a moment, something shifted, and…

            Up. And then there comes that moment where gravity and balance meet, where her body shifts into a space of perfect balance, where all she has to do is breathe and try hard not to think. In this space she can stay up forever. One-Mississippi …all the way up to nine-Mississippi, ten-Mississippi, eleven-Mississippi, twelve-Mississippi, thirteen …

… she could’ve sworn there was an instant in which everyone believed, in which the girl’s body was so very nearly unmoored from gravity, where no weight at all rested on her fingers and she was suspended, perfectly, held by twenty-four girlish fingers…

… and mom won’t die…

… and down. She lies on the basement floor, staring at the ceiling, watching the dust motes dance in intricate patterns in the air above her.

There it is, your first sneak peek into this crazy project. I have been — I am — leery of showing the work to anyone. But I read a version of this a different lifetime ago at a bar in Toronto called The Red Spot, part of a monthly queer reading series organized by the lovely and amazing Elizabeth Ruth. So I don’t think I’m jinxing myself here. I’m writing like mad, squeezing out so much else of what I should be doing, because all the signs in the universe are telling me to hurry up already and finish this thing.

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A piece of cat food and some shiny, shiny tinsel. JACKPOT.

Fourth in an ongoing series of bizarre things I find in my footwear.

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In lieu of a real post — because, to be frank, you folks ain’t getting nothing of substance from me today, or possibly this month — I thought you might be interested in some of the Internet search terms by which people come across this here blog: 

• sex beautiful jew (well, obviously)
• when did they stop making Eaton’s Viking fridge (I wrote a post about Rowan’s grief over replacing our 25-year-old refrigerator. Apparently a lot of people harbour ancient Viking beer fridges and are trying to figure out what to do with them.)
• maman sex (a perennial favourite)
• You are the parent of a 16-year-old boy. You come home unexpectedly and find your door ajar. Inside, you discover your son’s friend looking through a kitchen drawer. The boy says he is looking for a paper and a pencil so he can leave your son a note. On the counter next to him is a lock-pick and some of your jewelry and he smells of marijuana. You tell the boy to leave immediately and he does. Which of the following, if any, will you do now (No idea how this relates. But so intriguing! What would you do?)
• sex maman (also hot)
• pizza; piece of pizza (quite possibly the most common terms, based on one sort of throwaway post about not wanting to share a piece of pizza with Rachel. Lesson learned: improve your blog stats by writing about pizza.)
• jewish weddings gay (they’re expecting something so happy, and then I traumatize them with my story of a gay Jewish wedding that turned into a funeral. So sad.)
• the unexpected murda alas vainly cries the child of glass when the two shall be as one the spirits journey shall be done (Child of Glass obsessees, unite!)
• tubular meat warmers (ew. “Tubular meat” is code word around here for hot dogs.)
• Sexy French maman (we cater to the bilingual around here. I think I get so many hits for both French and English because search engines read “Mama non Grata” as “Maman on Grata.” I wonder what they make of all those posts about toe jam. Either they’re really disappointed or really, really happy.)
• Toddlers left in basement unsupervised (heh. Enough said.)
• Scrabble pieces in a Crown Royal bag (The gum wrapper chain! A portal to untold happiness for so many of you, as it turned out.)
• Vegetarian homeschooling home birthing (I love how this makes me sound so granola. I am full of admiration for my friends who homeschool, but, frankly, I would gnaw off my own leg rather than attempt it here. Also, meat is yummy (see “tubular meat,” above). But I would get pregnant again if only to have another homebirth. Although then we’d  have to figure out what to do with the ensuing baby.)
• Foursome sex (you are sensing a theme here, aren’t you?)
• reasons not to move to Thunder Bay (I hope I haven’t dissuaded anybody.)

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Scene: INT. of a restaurant, early evening. The year is 2067. ROWAN, a man in his early 60s, sits alone at a table, waiting for his dinner companion to arrive. ENTER ISAAC, also in his early 60s. The brothers recognize each other. Rowan stands and they embrace.

ROWAN: I was here first! Happy birthday, brother!

ISAAC: Thanks! You were not here first! I was just in the bathroom.

ROWAN: Was too. I can’t believe you’re sixty!

ISAAC: Were not. Me either — where has the time gone?

ROWAN: Was too. It’s crazy. But you know what else is crazy? It’s crazy that I am still two years older than you. You’re 60, and I’m 62. And when you turn 61, I’ll be 63. And when you turn 62, I’ll be 64! And when—

ISAAC [has clearly heard the math before]: Yes, yes, I know, I know. You’re older than me. But I have a third-degree black belt in judo!

ROWAN: Thirty-one months. Thir Tee One. Months. All the black belts in the world can’t erase those 31 months. [The WAITER appears. ROWAN addresses him] Tell me, sir, who do you think is older: me or my baby brother here?

WAITER: Ahem. Would you like anything to drink to start?

ISAAC: Um, do you have any apple juice?

WAITER: No, only water.

ISAAC: No fair! You’re mean!

WAITER: Excuse me, sir?

ISAAC: Okay, I’ll have a glass of water and — hey, what the hell, it’s my birthday — a glass of your finest Manischewitz wine. The sweeter the better.

ROWAN: I’ll have the same.

WAITER: Very well. And are you ready to order your main course?

ROWAN: I believe so. [He runs a finger down the menu.] I’ll have the onion rings, a slice of pepperoni pizza, the hamburger, and the french fries. Oh, and also the macaroni and cheese. And if I’m still hungry after that, I can have more.

WAITER: Very good, sir. [He turns to Isaac.] And for you, sir?

ISAAC: I’ll have the plate of sliced cucumber.

[There is a small silence, until the WAITER realizes that ISAAC is done ordering.]

WAITER: …Oh! Very good. [He leaves.]

ISAAC: So, how are the kids?

ROWAN: You mean Haos Clawsaurus, Ventus Drago, Aquas Hydranoid, Subterra Farakspin, and Pyrus Dragonoid? They’re great. Although Subterra is now insisting that we call her just plain “Tara” and Ventus will only answer to “Jim.”

ISAAC: I guess that’s the risk you take when you name all your kids after Bakugans.

ROWAN: Who knew?

ISAAC: Still, I’ve got to admire you for sticking with your passion. You’ve been obsessed with this thing since you were what? Four?

ROWAN: Yes, and you were two. And then you turned three and I was five. Because I’m two and a half years older than you.

[ISAAC glowers. ROWAN continues:]

You know, it’s funny, I was talking to Aquas Hydranoid the other day on the phone and he was complaining that the twins are giving him attitude. And I just laughed and said, “Aquas, you should have heard the stuff that came out of your mouth when you were their age! My parenting partners and I had no idea where it came from!”

ISAAC: Yeah, moms had easy with us, didn’t they?

ROWAN: No kidding.

[The WAITER arrives with a trolley cart. He sets the wine and water in front of the men. ISAAC raises his, and ROWAN follows suit.]

ISAAC: To moms!

ROWAN: To moms!

[They clink glasses, and raise them to the heavens before drinking.]

WAITER: You guys have two moms? Hey, me too!

ISAAC: Yeah?

WAITER: Yeah! About half my class at school did, too, though. We always wondered but it would be like to grow up with just one mom and a dad.

ROWAN: Must make things a whole lot more complicated.

WAITER: I’ll say! All those names to remember…

ISAAC: All those gender stereotypes to enforce…

[The WAITER continues to place dishes on the table: everything that Rowan ordered, and then…]

WAITER:… And your cucumbers, sir.

[Small pause. The WAITER leans in expectantly, cups one hand to his ear as though waiting for something…]

ROWAN & ISAAC [together]: Thank you!

WAITER: You’re welcome! [Exit.]

[The brothers begin to eat. ISAAC sits up on his knees on his chair, while ROWAN sits with only one half of his butt on the chair, wriggling back and forth, and occasionally leaning back on the back two legs of his chair. Both wipe their mouths on their sleeves.]

ROWAN: After this, want to play lava pit?

ISAAC: No, monsters versus zombies! [He raises his hands above his head, makes clawlike gestures with his fingers.] Brains! Braaaiiiinnnns! I want to eat your brains!

ROWAN: No, I know! Bakugan!

ISAAC: [quietly] No.

ROWAN: Why?

ISAAC: Because you always send me to the doom dimension. Every time.

ROWAN: I won’t this time. I’ll let you win.

ISAAC: That’s what you say every time.

ROWAN: No, really, I won’t. It’s your birthday!

ISAAC: [brightening slightly] Well, maybe.

ROWAN: And then we can paint the basement in non-washable acrylics!

ISAAC: Yeah!

The WAITER arrives with dessert. He begins to place dishes on the table.

WAITER [placing a bowl in front of Isaac]: All right, sir, here you go: a plain bowl of whipped cream. And for you, sir [turns to Rowan and begins to place dishes in front of him], one piece of pumpkin pie with whipped cream on top of it, one piece of plain pumpkin pie, and one piece of pumpkin pie with whipped cream next to it — just like you ordered.

ROWAN: Thank you, but I believe you forgot the bowl of plain whipped cream.

WAITER: And so I did. My apologies. I’ll go get that. [He scurries away.]

[The brothers clink spoons. Curtain falls.]

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… well, allow me to introduce you to my thimble collection.

I’ve just sat and stared at that sentence for a few minutes now before being able to continue typing.

So, yes, my name is Susan and I have a thimble collection. As in, in 1996 or thereabouts, I inherited my late grandmother’s thimble collection: 150-odd decorative little finger helmets, which, for the most part, lie tucked away in an appropriately British-themed cookie tin on top of the wardrobe.

I was not surprised to receive the collection after my grandmother died. I had known that her thimbles were my destiny for as long as I could remember. This is because, on the bottom of the little glass case that housed the thimbles, set among all the various other tchotchkes on her glass etagier, was a piece of masking tape on which was written, in all caps, “THIMBLES AND CASE FOR SUSAN.” You could find such pieces of masking tape throughout her apartment, like some morbid little Easter-egg hunt: lift up a crystal ashtray and congratulate cousin Stephen and his wife Ada on their good luck; check out the underside of a Delft ballerina and give a thumbs up to great-niece Lauren. I swear that those pieces of masking tape had been in place for at least 15 years.

When I was little, I was fascinated by the thimbles. I’m sure I coveted them, the way children covet collections, particularly collections of tiny, pretty things. They held a certain magic, spilling out of their glass case onto the surface around it, just inviting fingers to poke inside them. (And no, I haven’t yet shown them to Rowan and Isaac, even though — in fact, because — the collection will BLOW THEIR MINDS, and I’m not quite prepared for the thimble mayhem that will ensue.)

By the time they came into my possession, though, I found the thimbles as overwhelming as they were fascinating: a motley collection of everything from Limoges and Wedgewood to beat-up plastic and (one of my favourites) the Vegas-themed beauty seen here:

I remember trying to sort through them all in my attic apartment in Toronto’s west end, trying to make some sense of the weight of the collection, how to display it. “They’re just sitting there,” I remember writing in an e-mail to Rachel, “looking menacing.” Because they were, a bit, lined up like rows of troops, just waiting to advance and take over my life, expanding to cover all my flat surfaces. I felt a certain obligation to continue the tradition, pick up a new thimble of each new location the way my grandmother did. And I wondered, Am I going to be the type of person who collects thimbles?

As it turns out, not really. For the most part, the thimbles stay housed in their cookie tin. But every so often, when I’m in a vintage store or at a garage sale, I do a quick scan of the jewelry cases for any particularly fine specimens. I took them out on Friday, though, because Wills and Kate got me thinking about another royal wedding, THE royal wedding for my generation. I didn’t watch Charles and Diana get hitched back in 1981, but only because nobody woke me up for the event. And I value my sleep too much today to have considered getting up at 4 AM on Friday. (Plus, I have issues with weddings.) My grandmother, however, was undoubtedly awake and kicking when Will’s parents tied the knot, and I imagine that she would have enjoyed Friday’s spectacle. Bless her, she left me not one but two sets of commemorative Chuck and Di wedding symbols, and I felt the need to pay them a little visit.

I particularly like the Wedgewood daguerreotypes. You’ll notice that I have faced Charles and Diana’s from each other, because it seems only appropriate. I will also admit that I did a quick search on the Interwebs to see what kinds of thimbles might be available for William and Kate, but everything thus far seems a little rough around the edges, particularly in the face of gowns by Sarah Burton for Alexander McQueen and the like. I’m holding out for Wedgewood, baby — this, despite the fact that I’m sure that Her Royal Highness Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, has never picked up a thimble in her life.

But I have, baby.

(More here on the gum wrapper chain.)

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