verisimilitude.

September 02, 2006 | Category: In My Life

verisimilitude \ver-uh-suh-MIL-uh-tood; -tyood\, noun: 1. The appearance of truth; the quality of seeming to be true. 2. Something that has the appearance of being true or real.

I wrote an article on spec a couple of weeks ago. It lacked verisimilitude. Too shiny-happpy-people, if you know what I mean. I only live cinema verite - can't write it, unfortunately for my bank account.

Well, we'll see.

We're now 6 weeks away from running aground. CD is doggie paddling against the undertow, trying to stay afloat long enough to breathe. Bear swings between acting out and clutching at me madly.

It's been a wonderful summer, wish you were here.

Fall's coming, the breezes are chilled. Remembering back to when the teachers would assign a 500-hundred word essay on what we wanted to be when we grew up. Remembering the view outside the bedroom window, the taste of the pencil eraser in my mouth.

An astronaut?

A parent?

A doctor?

A teacher?

A ballerina?

A cop who shot out of highrise buildings, bullets flying and dripping blood as the bad guys stood on the steps long enough to get a clear shot?

The music from the radio, the posters on the wall, the breeze.

"What if I don't want to go to the new school every single day?" he asks from the backseat.

"Because why?" I ask.

(Mumbling) "Because I don't like the new teacher."

"Sweetie, you're going to have to man up and go to kindergarten. Every day."

"Why?"

"Because it teaches you how to get what you want."

"What if I want to NOT go to school?"

(Score one for the kid.) "Well, Bear - tell me something. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

"Everything. I want to fly jets and be a police officer and a paleontologist and a black belt. And a Daddy."

"Those are great things to want to be. So think about them for a second."

(Softly, looking for the trap.) "OK...."

"The only way to get to make those dreams come true is to study, and practice, and you'll really need money which you can get from working everyday. And I want you to get your dreams, but I don't have a fairy wand that could make your them come true. But I CAN help you learn perseverance."

"What's that?"

"That's going to kindergarten. Every single day."

(Long silence.)

"Mommy?"

"Yes, honey?"

"What did you want to be when YOU grew up?"

(Glance in the rearview mirror, the copper hair, the cherub's cheeks.)

"This."

"This what?"

Almost out of money, CD's struggling, will we have to sell the house? Can I get a waitressing gig, maybe?

"This sweetie. Right this minute now. To have memories of teaching and serving and traveling. And to be in this car, right now, with yummy leftover birthday cake and balloons in the trunk and you. To be Daddy's wife. To be your Mommy. I wanted this, and maybe - just an ounce more faith."

"Really, Mommy?"

"Yes, Bear. This. This was my dream, and now it's true."

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