Because I don’t post enough Bean photos lately.

(Someone dropped my camera. It broke. Sadface. I’m getting a new one soon. It’ll be shock-proof. Until then, there’s Facebook.)

“My mommy is not afraid of anything. Not of the dark, or dragons or even monsters.”

I felt tears in my nose and had to bite my cheek when I heard (from my mother) that he said this. Because Mommy is oh-so-very scared of oh-so-many things. Sometimes I worry that he senses my fear, and that it hurts him. But I guess he doesn’t, and he isn’t; that I’m getting this right, mostly, and that my boy feels safe, which is what matters above all.

Last Thursday, we flew from Grenada to Miami, then onwards to New York. My dad picked us up and drove us to my uncle’s house in Connecticut, where we met up with my mom. The next morning, more than 24 hours after we left home, we finally made it to our final destination: Amherst, Massachusetts. By Friday night, we found ourselves invited to our neighbors’ graduation party, scheduled for the following day.

Bean spent Saturday morning helping them decorate their caps. Then he covered his new bike with glitter, donned a blonde shaggy wig and grabbed his banjo, with which he tunelessly regaled his new friends.

“You’re alright,” they informed me, “but we LOVE your son. Can we keep him?” 

“Make your own,” I retorted, (sorta) sagely.

We all should make friends so easily. 

Guess who turns five tomorrow? 

Mad scientist, chef, snorkler, conductor of an orchestra only he can hear? 

Bean drew this. He says it’s a mountain, but it looks quite vaginal to me. 

Not that I told him that. I’m no Maude Lebowski. 

But I did post the photo on Facebook, because I heard that vaginal art makes Mark Zuckerberg uncomfortable. 

Current status: Lunchtime at the beach. 

Today, right after breakfast, I left Bean at the table while I plucked my eyebrows went about important morning things. Five minutes later I went back, planning to make sure he’d finished his milk, when I discovered he’d given himself a mani-pedi. And also whatever you call it when you paint your bangs. 

Normally I check him whenever he’s quiet for more than sixty seconds sense when he’s up to no good, but not this time. Mommydar fail. 

The worst part is that I don’t have any nail polish remover. The best part is he mostly colored within the lines. 

Just sayin’. 

It consisted entirely of “mommy” in block letters, next to an impressively symmetrical heart, that he criss-crossed in pencil until it looked like a piece of mosaic tile. 

“See that heart? It’s broken. That’s because I’m mad at you.” 

Which is wonderful, because I love it when he expresses his feelings, and also because his communication skills have totally breached the Bronze Age. 

and admitting to myself that I’d really love to put the chore off by calling a friend to chat, but that I can’t - easily - because I’ve been out of touch with everyone for over six months, long enough that the only person who still emails me is Al Gore.

I felt tears burning in my nose, and I let myself feel sorry for myself for about 90 seconds, but that’s all, because I have better things to do, and if I wanted a birthday party, dammit, I should have planned one.  

Bean, the almost-five-year-old amateur psychologist, looks up from penmanship practice to ask me why I’m crying. 

“Mommy’s only crying a little bit. I’m OK. I’m just sad because my birthday is tomorrow.” 

“Oh…”, he nods, wise and understanding. “You’re sad because it’s not your birthday right now?” 

Which wasn’t the problem at all, but it was funny, and I laughed, which banished my tears for real. Then I washed the dishes, and we both got dressed for the beach, even though it’s raining, because we are not easily distracted from our dreams. 

Bean thinks that if his smile is bright enough, no one will notice that he lopped off the hair on his crown. 

He’s almost right.