Ten days ago, Dec. 19, we had snow. Two inches shy of two feet fell from the sky, papering our house and streets in an unprecedented downpour – for December at least – of frozen, granular ice.
Nine days ago, Emma and I shoveled a path for the car. Two neighborhood girls came over and helped us clear the driveway while Kate started making her Christmas presents in every possible room of the house. As the night ended, we plodded to a hotel near the Baltimore-Washington International Airport, knowing that Jill would not make it from New York as we had planned due to the weather.
Eight days ago, at 5 a.m., we boarded a flight for Orlando and the land of the Mouse. The girls bickered. Kate twitched while Emma made her version of snark angels. It was colder than I anticipated, but we braved Magic Mountain.
Seven days ago, Jill made it! Forty minutes before the girls went on stage for Frosty Follies — the 22-minute holiday revue that is the only reason we were at Disney the week of Christmas — she arrived at the hotel, exhausted from an all-night trip of planes, trains and taxicabs. Later, we had drinks in the bar and shook our heads in amazement at the year almost behind us. I couldn’t sleep as I worked on the first draft of this entry, but the words weren’t there.
Six days ago, on three hours sleep, I left Orlando for New York. There, Ben was obsessing about “Billy Elliot,” wondering if he would have a chance to do that show, too. Ten minutes before curtain, he was on; I ran five blocks and saw my Little Boy on stage for the third time. He was terrific.
Five days ago, on Christmas Eve, I started writing this again, trying to find a way to meld the various emotions of seeing my girls on stage in Florida and my son on Broadway. But I couldn’t put the words on paper. After Ben’s matinee, we headed home on the train for Christmas in Virginia. The phone rang; it was Jill. Kate was in distress. They went to the hospital ER. We got off the train and cabbed to Springfield to meet them; Ben performed in the room while Emma laughed hysterically.
Four days ago, at the start of Christmas Day, we arrived at home with Kate. The diagnosis was a panic attack, but a neurologist now needs to be called ASAP. The ER doctor started off defensive, then realized what he — and we — faced. The kids slept until almost 8, when it was time to open presents. All the kids were extremely grateful for their gifts, a first I think, and it was a very nice and quiet day. Ben, grateful to be home, called it the “best Christmas ever.”
Three days ago, I drove to Ellicott City to drop off Ben, who had to be in New York for a matinee and rode back with members of the “Ragtime” cast. An article in the New York Times noted that Internet rumors were surrounding the show, but it looked like “Ragtime” would survive through January. Traffic was a bear, but I managed to get home and work some on the house, addressing long-awaited issues on the to-do list. Then Emma and I picked up Nicholas to head to New York, where we picked up Ben that night. I fell into bed.
Two days ago, it was Kate’s 13th birthday, and she celebrated with a low-key shopping excursion with her mom and a friend. Meanwhile, Ben and Emma bickered as all good married couples — and opposite sex twins — do. After lunch, I stood in the TKTS line for 45 minutes, only to be told at the gate that “Next to Normal” had sold out. Sadness turned to euphoria when I won the lottery and Nicholas and Emma got in to see the story of a bipolar housewife and the effect that the illness has on her family. Meanwhile, vendors stood at TKTS with “Ragtime” fliers in hand, getting few takers.
Yesterday, Dec. 28, we went our separate ways. Nicholas met up with some of his friends from school. Ben, Emma, and I arranged to go to Mars 2112, a bizarre little “Chuck E. Cheese Goes to Outer Space” restaurant on 51st Street, with a girl from “South Pacific” and her mom. It was a nice day.
Then, a series of omens — a picture frame broken, problems with Ben’s camera. Jill was returning to New York with Kate, which made Emma nervous. I was heading back to Virginia to work before the New Year’s holiday, but a few minutes after dropping Ben off, he called. I thought it was to tell me to have a good trip, or perhaps to apologize for the camera incident.
“We’re closing,” he sobbed, “on Jan. 3.”
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