When our fingers aren't dripping blood from the numerous sewing projects overtaking our table (can you say Hello Kitty Sewing Machine Heaven???), we are scooting after the budding socialite's busy social agenda. I know, I know, get over it already. But after almost 5 years of strong papoose preferences, the child is really stretching his limbs, climbing out of the cocoon of maternal closeness, right into full on boyhood. Bam. Just like that.
So the pics are getting fewer and further between. I'm not sure mums everywhere want their kid's mugs making waves in cyber space (ok, its more of a low-tide action around here, but you know what I mean.) But P insisted I capture the large scale painting he and some homeschool buddies beautifully rendered on a chilly afternoon two weeks ago (hey, you want quicker updates, come do my laundry ;), so I tried for some practically peer-less shots.
And speaking of laundry. We count ourselves uber lucky. The days of schlepping to a Brooklyn laundromat are behind us, our machine hides in the kitchen, ready to spit in our sink when called upon. Wha? Yah. When this was first explained to me, I was almost shell shocked. On the vast Kansas plains there is space for what we like to call laundry rooms. And they are very separate from kitchen sinks. But post laundry-mat, the sink spitter sounded swell sans laundry-room.
Until I realized the dishes must always be done to run a load. And due to its substantial size in front of the sink, there's little hope to toss in a load and simultaneously cook supper. Additionally, after two shocking floods from the sink spitters mouth (for which we were fortunately present) I'm too fearful to start a load after lunch and pop out for a play date. The nail in the coffin is its volume. After a year of daytime running, with P screaming over it and the words "what? I can't hear what you're saying Phoenix" exasperatedly escaping me, we have found a fabulous solution. (yah, we're slow around here.) So its now a bedtime routine. The dinner dishes are done, the kitchen is closed, the spitter is spinning and with any luck, we are no longer chatting...
I've lost my point. Oh, yes. So while we felt crazy lucky when we moved in (our own washer!!!!), like all things American, we have grown haughty in our needs, we scoff loudly, yet enviously, when the words "laundry room" cross someone's lips. It is then that I (internally, lest the Little Man overhear any judgement or want and thusly follow my sad and selfish suit) sigh and picture large lawns, laundry chutes amid multiple closets...
(The truth is, I feel compelled to tell about the humorously annoying parts of city dwelling, since I sometimes worry the blog falls unevenly to the side of tra-la-la-ing an ideal life. Especially when the kid is kicking it with artists on the Lower East, painting his heart out on a random Wednesday afternoon...)
Cuz, honestly, as we wound our way back the labyrinth like passages to the open air studio, tenements rising above, art hanging everywhere, I had to pinch myself, yet again, that this was my life. I know that's pitifully un-cool, so very transplant of me, so lacking in affectation its embarrassing :) After being Brooklynites for years, P and I shouldn't still be shocked at the beauty of the Empire State building. But we are. And since the Little Man is still so, well, little, he's right there with me in his awe and appreciation (I have no excuse ;). And its fabulous fun to have a constant compatriot in veneration.
So, P played with the paint, detailed a gorgeous piece in handmixed purples and gold (gotta have bling!) and chatted up the resident artist. As we scooted to the sub, we stopped in a matzoh factory to watch the big machines whirl and turn, split some tasties with some friends, and then headed home to a hot bath.
At the end of the day, I love my sink-spitter, its our reality check for a crazy lucky life.
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