Rubber Duckies

Zeca has two rubber ducks in tuxedos and top hats. We got them at Pride many years ago but she only recently dug them out of the toy bin to play with them in the tub. Last night, she held both in her hands and told me a story: “These two ducks are gay and they are the two dads to this duck.” She says this as she points to a smaller yellow duck wearing a blue scarf. “You see, they are a family of boys - just boys.” 

She releases the ducks back into the tub and picks up a scuba diver. “This is a diver and he is trying to kill the shark.” She allows the scuba diver to sink beneath the water and reaches around under the surface until she pulls up the shark. “And this is the shark who wants to eat the ducks.” She looks at me to make sure that I understand the gravity of the situation. I furrow my brow and nod and only then does she allow the shark to descend into the murky depths. 

She picks up one of the daddy ducks. “When this duck goes under water to look for the shark, that one stays on top to take care of their son.” Then, she picks up the other dad and says, “Sometimes, this dad goes under water to look for the shark while the other dad stays on top to watch the child.”

This is a sensible family of ducks. 

I say, “Well, that’s how it works in families, isn’t it?” My question is a wish, a shiny penny thrown into her bathwater. She watches the ducks for a few seconds before turning to me and saying, “Yes. Yes, it is.” And with her simple assertion, my wish comes true.

People, People who Please People

I was in a car accident this afternoon. I'm alright. The car is not. I was driving to pick up the kids and this car came speeding out of nowhere and hit me. I tried to swerve but couldn't. My car could not be driven but the other one obviously could be because the driver fled the scene. I called Luisa first. She called friends to pick up our kids. Then, I called the police and the insurance company. Then, I sat in the car freezing my ass off because I was afraid to turn on the car and the heat because of the horrible sounds the car was making. This is the very first time in my life that I have regretted my choice of shoes. I chose style over function this morning and wore my Frye boots instead of winter boots. I still can't feel my feet. When the police officer arrived, he asked me to get into his car. I said, "Should I get in the back?" I wasn't sure about police car etiquette. He told me I could get in the front - as soon as moved all his papers and fast food wrappers. So, we sat in his car and I gave him the details of the accident and he entered the information into the computer. I was surprised by how many details the computer asked for - nosy computer! When we got to hair, I laughed and said "grey" which he entered. Then, the computer wasnted a  style and I noticed that, in addition to long, short, medium, straight, etc., there was punk, shaved, unkempt. I was kinda hoping for punk or even unkempt but he entered "straight". Then, the computer asked for my demeanor. Let me just say, you know you're a people pleaser when you take pride in the fact that a police officer entered your demeanor as "friendly/gentle" on a police report. I was irrationally pleased with myself.

Now, I'm going to go roast my feet over an open flame and hope the feeling returns...even if it is a crispy burnt feeling.

China Gets Broken

In a moment of quiet sincerity, my mother told me that she wanted me to have her china. I laughed dismissively and told her that I didn't want it. I can still remember the pained look on her face, a look that held no power over me at the time. I was in my early twenties and thought she was foolish to care about such things.

A few years later, she told me that she had boxed up the china and wanted me to take it back to Minneapolis and I told her emphatically that I didn't have room for china. I had no china cabinet, no place to put it and no interest in it at all. She told me that I would be taking the china at some point and I told her that if she gave me the damn china, it would sit in boxes in my basement. She pursed her lips and said nothing more.

Time passed and, during a visit to Minneapolis, she and my step-father brought the boxes to me. I was annoyed and I told her so and she simply shrugged. The next time we went to Kansas City she told me that she wanted to go out and look for china cabinets and I told her that I didn't have the money for a china cabinet. She insisted that we go "just to look" because she didn't want her china sitting in a cold basement and I suggested that, perhaps, she should have thought about that before forcing it on me. Not surprisingly, we bought a china cabinet that day. When the boxes were finally unpacked and the china was carefully placed on the shelves of the cabinet, she was satisfied and we never spoke of it again.

I am a practical person. I am my practical mother's practical daughter and I think of her every time I pass by the china cabinet and see the delicate coffee cups with their silver rims lined up in perfect rows. I remember that day when she first offered it to me, remember my lack of grace and her pained look. Yes, I have regrets but, more than anything, I am thankful. I am so thankful that she made me take it. Did she know then what I could not imagine? That someday she would be gone and that I would want and need to hold things that she had held and cherished. That I would someday realize that this set of fancy dishes would be the only tangible thing left that had belonged to her and my father. I think she did and that is why the china matters so very much.

We are hosting Thanksgiving dinner this week and, in preparation, I went through the china to see what serving platters we had and what we might need. I touched the plates and the sugar bowl and the gravy boat and then I found the creamer. It was broken long ago at some dinner hosted by my parents. My mother had glued it back together because she couldn't afford to replace it. I sat holding the broken creamer, tracing the cracks and the poorly applied glue and I cried. When you've lost someone, you find symbols in the things they left behind and those cracks remind me of my mother's humanity and are the closest I'll come to an old dusty journal that might provide insight. My mother was a practical woman. It's no surprise that she would not have spent the money to replace the creamer. What is most surprising is that I have.

The package arrived a few days ago and I opened it and gently removed the creamer, a perfect match in mint condition. I set it down next to the broken one and knew right then that I would be keeping them both. The new one will help me remember that, sometimes, there is incredible meaning in the impractical things in life. The old will will help me remember that most everything is fragile - life, love and china.