Checking in with my dear friends Moot Mommy and Moot Daddy, I was thrilled to be told that despite this country’s wimpering economy, despite California’s manic-depressive State’s budget, despite Julia Roberts starring in Eat, Pray, Love, despite anything on the downswing anywhere in the world, Moot Daddy secured himself a new position in a great company.
Upon receiving the news via her cell phone, Moot Mommy shook off the plastic potato chips, hamburger buns and Thanksgiving turkey her son had placed on her legs and lap and shoulders and she went to the freezer, pulled out the tub of Chocolate Sundae ice cream and polished it off. “Because,” she told me, “now we can afford to buy more.”
Poor Moot Mommy is a little delirious. Moot Daddy’s necessary and zealous quest for new employment and his juggling of a small slew of freelance jobs has meant a lot of 24/7 togetherness-time for Moot Mommy and the toddler. She’s at the point now—after maaany nights of broken sleep—where when she is asked, “OH WOW WHAZZ IZ ZAT!!!” for the 20th time in two minutes, she responds, “That’s a thing that things ride in to get to things and it makes sounds.” Or, “That? That’s a———huh——-riiiiiiiight——-let’s listen to some music…”
I asked Moot Mommy how she has made it through the past three months—apart from the help of caffeine and a plethora of mommy and me playdates. “How?” she responded with a large yawn, picking banana from her hair and watching her son water the chaise longue. “Well—against many odds we got this house. When things looked dark, we hung in, took a lot of deep breaths and mostly—apart from a couple of Moot Mommy meltdowns—mostly solidly believed that the universe was more than willing to provide for us,” Moot Mommy said, watching her son drag the hose to the playhouse and water it. “Same for the past few months of our time as The Unemployed, our gig as Statistics, our turn living with the Great Unknown. We’ve said many thanks for tremendous blessings and agreed to enjoy life and the ever-quickening growth of our little boy–despite the employment situation. I mean—if this house can happen for us, anything can happen for us, good things,” Moot Mommy said. I nodded and sipped the lemonade Moot Mommy had poured for me. It desperately needed sugar. “Huh,” I remarked, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sound like this before, Moot Mommy. So—bottom-line positive?” Moot Mommy shot me a wry look. “That’s because,” she said, watching her son water his swingset, “before this,” she said, gesturing broadly to include the house and the yard and the woodpecker rapping the strangely beautiful dead tree behind us, “I was only moot. Now? I. Am. More than. Also,” she added, “life and death issues tend to invade your thoughts constantly when you have a child. I’m very grateful to be thriving with Moot Daddy and that soaked urchin over there watering the soccer ball. As a family, we’ve only just begun.”
As you may know, Moot Mommy is a keeper-of-the-flame for Karen Carpenter’s songs. I knew that behind her sunglasses, behind her blue-eyes-tinged-with-a-stricken-gray, somewhere in that sleep deprived brain of hers, Moot Mommy was humming that tune.
We’ve only just begun, la, la, hoo, ha, la, laaaaa…