Abby's Alley

A boy hit Lee at the park last week. Lee was climbing up a ladder into the play structure, and the little boy blocked Lee’s way, stared him down, and then hit him with his baseball mitt. Lee blinked in shock and then started to cry.  I tried to grab that little boy’s shirt. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do, but I was angry. I wanted to slap him across the face and say, “That’s what it feels like, you bully. How do you like it?” The boy was probably two or three like Lee, but Lee is small for his age.  Before I was able to do anything, the boy’s mother swooped in saying that she’d take care of it.  You better, I thought. I fumbled for the correct response. The wise one. “What’s his name?” “Damian.” “I’ve never had this happen to me before. I just don’t know what to do.”  It was awkward. She was embarrassed. And I was angry. Angry at that boy and angry at myself for not protecting Lee.  I’ve encountered this boy at Central Park before today. Last ti

Vacations blow out the cobwebs, though I'd rather use the word "respite" because "vacation" contains unrealistic expectations: leisure dinners, sleeping in, pigging out, never being mindful of the time. This isn't really possible with a baby en tote. Perhaps the British use of "holiday" would better serve me here or simply a getaway. Yes, getaway it must be. We got away from the laundry hamper and the cloth diapers, the meal planning and bags of items to return to other people and the floors that need a good scrubbing. We left Lee with the grandma's, and we packed Rose with us on the way up to Monterey, California. It was a getaway. It was a celebration of Phil and my's seven years of marriage together. It was a sweet time alone with our little Rose. And how lovely and sweet she was. She traveled well, eating and sleeping, eating and sleeping on the six plus hour drive. She rode along merrily in the stroller on our walks up and do