a few days before christmas, after the convenience of holing up in our warm house had given away to large inconvenient messes in every room, i took the boys to a movie. this was the monkey’s second trip to the movies. the first one occurred when he was 18 months old, and he made it until the popcorn ran out. i was hoping that the bird would be similarly enthralled with the popcorn on his first trip to the picture show.

no such luck.

while the monkey sat gawking in a trance that only the likes of disney can induce, the bird walked up and down the steps, touched every sticky surface, ate popcorn fromthe floor, rolled around on the grungy carpet, and pretty much wrecked this self-professed germaphobe. after about 30 minutes of this, i broke the news to the monkey that it was time to go home. in my most sympathetic tone, i explained that i would bring him back within the next few days to see the whole movie, and that we would find a sitter for the bird.

this did not fly.

the monkey cried earnest tears of disappointment while i excused myself once again to fetch the bird from his newly developed plot to touch the movie screen. when i returned, the young mom who was sitting behind us with three enthralled (and slightly older) children of her own said,

“it’s okay. let him stay. i’ll watch him.”

so, for the next hour, i roamed around the theatre with the bird. the monkey sat snugly in his seat, and i became an expert at locating the top of his curly little head from every possible vantage point.

a few days later, on new year’s eve, i found myself at the (very crowded) fresh market with both kids in tow. we were standing in the never ending checkout line when the boys tired of their giant lollipops. the monkey demanded a lemonade sample, and the bird, who has clearly had too much exposure to anna dewdney’s llama llama mad at mama, began tossing things out of the cart.

once again, we were helped by a stranger, this time an elderly great-grandmother-type, who distracted the boys while i walked eight feet away to procure lemonade samples. she said,

“i have two boys too. they’re all grown up now, but i will never forget what it was like when they were little!”

i believe that it truly takes a village to raise a child. but villages cannot be very broadly defined these days. there are kidnappings and child molesters and people who follow you all over town by foot and by car (this has actually happened to my children and me). parents have to select their villages carefully. there are some strangers whose offers to help i have turned down.

but my intuition over the holidays at the movies and at the grocery store was telling me two things: “these folks are okay,” and “stay close by.” i went with it.

trusting something so subjective is scary. but sometimes, this intuition is all we’ve got.

i entertain no grandiose notions that my life would make an interesting movie. there are no juicy secrets or high-adventure feats of strength. we have our share of beauty and tragedy, but these things drive good dinner-table conversation, not ticket sales and screen lit wonder.

but still — i fantasize about being the subject of a movie’s intro. you know, that part before anything actually HAPPENS, where the scene is being set, and characters are making their definitive first impressions. there is music playing and the viewers see the star of the story for who she is in her daily routine, when she thinks nobody is watching.

today, for example, i would be played by mary louise parker.

and the music in the background is the theme song from “elmo’s world,” in all of its overly saccharine, raspy, grating, monster cuteness.

the main character, with tousled bed-hair and clothes appropriate for the 6 a.m. video torture yoga session she shared with her husband, trips on a big wheel (yes, inside the house) on the way to make breakfast for her two children.

“elmo can use the potty!” the exuberant tv voice exclaims.

“do you need to tee tee?” our heroine is reminded to ask her oldest son.

the babysitter arrives just as the husband leaves for work (when did he have time to shower?). elmo spreads more cheer as mary louise, clad now in the tangled arms of protesting children who are anticipating their mother’s brief sojourn, makes her way to the bedroom to dress for the day.

while brushing her teeth, she extrapolates the younger child’s hands from the toilet water (clean this time, thank goodness), before leaning over the older son’s blockade in order to spit into the sink. she grabs a pair of jeans off the floor and the first shirt she sees and puts them on just before tying her hair into a messy bun. no time for a shower today.

the older son brightens at the prospect of making cookies with the babysitter and specifies that they must be oatmeal cookies. a collective trip through the den and into the kitchen is accompanied by more melodious elmo musings as he is apparently wrapped in deep conversation with his fish, dorothy.

mary louise diligently lines up her son’s apron and the necessary cookie ingredients on the kitchen counter. this is a 15 minute process, which in her estimation, is costing her two dollars and fifty cents at her baby sitter’s ten-dollars-an-hour rate. she finally wriggles free of both children long enough to run to the car and head to a coffee shop, where she will plan the evening’s bible study that is part of her work as a minister.

in the last scene of the intro, mary louise sinks into a comfortable coffee shop couch and savors the first sip of caffeine. a fast alt-punk song is playing in the background. the waitress stops by to ask what our heroine wants for breakfast. mary louise orders an oatmeal, and as she’s handing the menu back to the server, the fast-talking girl asks, “are you pregnant?”

“thank you, but no,” mary louise quips. “i shouldn’t have tried to pass off this swimsuit cover up as a shirt,” she thinks to herself.

let the day (or the movie) begin…

[today is the last day to enter to win a custom-made superkid cape for a super kid in your life. check out this post for details.]