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Boston love

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You know it’s been one hell of a week when it barely registers a blip on the screen that the president and a U.S. Senator both received ricin-filled letters.

I think as a nation we gave a collective sigh of relief on Friday night when “suspect #2″ was apprehended in Watertown after 24 hours that felt too far fetched for a screenplay, let alone real life. Afterwards, Bostonians on lockdown all day went out for a drink. Or rather, several.

I wish I could have joined them.

I’ve spent the weekend being especially nostalgic for the city of my young adulthood. Boston is as much where I’m “from” as anywhere. I’d never even been to Boston when I arrived on her doorstep at age 18 for my freshman year of college at BU. But I immediately fell for her charms.

Boston is the first place I officially lived on my own. It’s where I experienced first true heartbreak. I made life long friends. It’s where I learned to take public transportation and walk through the city like you mean it. I learned to be hearty. And drink Guinness.

When I first arrived, I was overcome with delight to be in a dorm five blocks from Fenway Park, though dismayed that bleacher tickets cost $7.00. So I discovered college hockey, which was free with our student ID. Friday nights in the winter were dedicated to cheering our team, often to chants of “BC sucks.”

I love the accent. It sounds like home to me. I love the Dunkin Donuts on every corner and the absolute worship of ice cream. Ditto steamers. Lobster. Chowder. Head of the Charles. The Beanpot.

In Boston, I rented my first apartment. Got my first “real” job after a string of jobs that felt anything but unreal.

I learned to cook. Entertain. Mock the weather. I became obsessed with the idea of running the Boston Marathon. And took to the streets every Patriots Day to cheer runners on. I climbed the Citgo sign. Twice.

But then I left Boston, seeking professional opportunities I couldn’t get from the place that nurtured me, developed me, fed my soul.

But I miss her.

I find it somewhat extra poignant that my favorite bar (the Crossroads) closed its doors permanently this weekend. I can only imagine what Saturday night was like.

This too shall pass and eventually I will stop torturing my kids with the songs on repeat that remind me of Boston.

But until then, good times never seemed so good.

weekend warriors

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Last year, I wrote about the “book club for home improvement” group that I belong to, Weekend Warriors. My friend Kara already expressed how fantastic this group of families is on her blog, so instead of repeating her declarations of love for these friends, I’ll let a picture (or collage) tell a thousand words.

On Saturday, the Warriors came to my house, read the list I had prepared in advance, and conquered my projects. We painted the living room. We installed surround sound (and by “we” I mean a team of guys led by Neil, an Emmy-winning sound technician for NPR) and the backyard was laboriously cleared of the weeds and debris that had been encroaching on my house. The kids potted flowers for my front stoop. We painted the exterior of my front and back doors. Emily (and kids) power washed the side of my house. Curtain rods were hung in the playroom-slash-office, and Ritzer removed the door that had served as a barrier between this room and the rest of the house. Rob (and kids) made a cork board out of exactly 128 wine corks. Afterwards, we ate three different types of chili. We drank beer. We drew for 2013 months.

There had been a moment as we neared the four-hour mark when I looked around and thought to myself, “I have a long night of work ahead of me once the whistle blows and everyone leaves.” But no one put a brush down or otherwise stopped working until the work was done. In fact, a few guys are coming over later this week to make the wires to my speakers “pretty.”

The entire process made me teary, though by my own rules, there’s no crying in Warriors. There is dreaming though of my 2013 turn, coming in April, a perfect month to really landscape that yard of mine. In the meantime, I will enjoy the process of participating in other people’s projects. (It’s much less stressful to go into someone else’s house and tackle their needs than it is to manage your own.) And every time I see the results of the hard work of these good friends, I smile.

must have monday: change

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We all get stuck in the rut of our lives. We set our alarm for the same time every morning. We perform the same workout. We eat the same breakfast. We wear the same outfits, have our same conference calls and attend the same meetings. We order the same foods at the same restaurants and we shop at the same stores. We come home at night, and if we are single mommies who work full time, we make the same dinners. Those same dinners, of course, being the ones we know we can prepare fast and, more importantly, our kids will eat.

But this week, when compiling my grocery list, I rejected the menu that has become our usual. After all, what a waste to have kids with a somewhat adventurous palate if you aren’t going to push buttons. And since I’m working from home this week – a camp-less week that had been designated for vacation time with mommy until I was overtaken by events and failed to plan anything that qualifies as away fun - I feel like I need to do something to make it interesting.

So in addition to daily swim lessons (“why do we need swim lessons when we know how to swim?”) and art class every afternoon (because mommy is working from home, not on vacation) I deemed this “try a new food every day” week. And when I made the grocery list, I consulted my little eaters.

Me: Will you eat salmon?

Jack: Well, we had it a few years ago at Jaxon’s house and we didn’t like it, but I like going fishing, so maybe we should try eating more fish!

Bingo.

Last night, they tried my chili-infused dark chocolate. They liked it. Tonight, we had teriyaki salmon and while Colin complained, he ate nine-tenths of his piece. Jack cleaned his plate. Tomorrow night, we’ll stick with the taco theme, but instead of filling them with beef, we’re having fish tacos. (I’m going to work that “I like fishing” angle as long as I can.) Wednesday night they’re with dad, but Thursday we’re going to see Spiderman, and I already suggested a stop at Oyamel to try grasshopper tacos after the show.

They’re into it.

We’ll try a new flavor of ice cream (cinnamon) in our maker on Friday and then regroup over the weekend, perhaps visiting the farmers market and picking out some interesting new items together.

While we aren’t spending a week on the beach or in Paris or some place exotically educational, we are making our own fun and pushing our limits.

But if I’m going to survive the week, they need to stay out of my dark chocolate stash.

 

 

on turning 42…

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On the swings of Tivoli, birthday 42 minus 2.

I can hardly believe two years has passed since I was a little bundle of stress about turning 40.

And not much has changed as the years tick up. I’m not a birthday dreader, per se. But I think it is safe to say that I love the build up to my birthday more than the actual day itself. I start counting a month out. I make lists for the cyber world in case there is a birthday fairy who wants to know my deepest wishes. I plan my birthday outfits with great care (or mighty haste, depending on what else is going on in my life). The anticipation fuels me. Then birthday eve approaches and I panic.

Except last night.

Maybe it was the excellent company to keep my mind preoccupied and the sparkling bubbles to soothe my angst. Perhaps my steely calm can be attributed to the lack of tequila shots. Or that the residual jet-lag from my whirlwind San Francisco trip and the cold I came home with left me more sluggish than normal by the end of this week. Whatever the reason, last night is the first birthday eve that did not include an emotional breakdown at some point in the evening. (I’m sure Kate and Rob, Rachel and Sandra are quite thankful for my fortitude.)

But the water has to go somewhere, so while last night the flood was dammed, today I could end droughts in several parched countries. From the early wake-up to Jack serving me breakfast in bed to the drive to and from the gym, well wishes on Facebook, a lovely rendition of Happy Birthday to you sung over the phone, my tears runneth over.

However, this afternoon, just as quickly and furiously as the tears flowed, they stopped. I’m not saying it’s rational, I’m just saying it is how it is.

And now, let the celebrating begin.

words are not enough

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I rarely suffer from a lack of words. I use them to complain about the mundane. It’s too hot outside, or maybe too cold. I snagged my new tights, poor me I can’t run anymore, and how about those pet peeves? The restaurant down the street isn’t serving my favorite soup. Soccer practice every night is inconvenient to the working mom. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Then something happens and for one moment (or a sleepless night) you are reminded of how lucky you are. Suddenly you’re entirely grateful for the soccer schedule, snow or no snow.

Bad things inexplicably happen to good people, and it’s with this sense of bewilderment that my heart goes out to my little sister’s best friend Ashley. On Halloween, while many of us chased our costumed kids down the streets of our hometowns, as our kids approached houses to beg for candy (sometimes forgetting to say “trick or treat” and even more often forgetting to say thank you) Ashley gave birth two months too early to baby girl Harper. When I saw the news on Facebook, I did the math in my head and optimistically thought of the preemie babies I know (and know of) who were born that early and who are now thriving children.

It’ll be okay, I reassured myself. It’s Ashley. She is maybe one of the nicest young women I know. (I want to call her a kid because I’ve known her since she was a child.) Ashely has a fantastic sense of humor and radiates warmth. Ashley and Meghann came to DC for Inauguration weekend in 2009, and she might be my favorite guest I’ve ever hosted, which is why I felt especially bad that on the day before Inauguration she was awakened not by an alarm clock but by a string of cursing from me when I woke up that bitter cold morning to frozen pipes that had burst in the basement. Ashley is poised. Ashley is strong. Her baby will be fine.

Still, I hugged my kids extra tight (in front of their friends which makes Jack a little mad these days) as they left for school. I made a mental note to pick up baby Harper a little Capitol Hill tee shirt the next time go to at Eastern Market. But then baby Harper’s condition turned out to be worse than feared and a decision was made to fly her to Boston where she could receive medical care from a specialist. Sadly, for some reason I will never understand, Mother Nature had other plans. Freezing rains caused the pilots to have to turn the helicopter around and return to Bangor. Baby Harper died.

I can never imagine what Ashley, her husband, and their families are going through. In the last few weeks, my step-sister lost her beloved grandmother and my father his life-long best friend. But they were, to quote from a tale told in one of the Harry Potter books, greeting death as an old friend, after well-lived lives. To lose a baby, who in those short months of pregnancy comes to represent every hope and dream you have for the future, is a tragedy that no one can ever be prepared for and that will change Ashley’s outlook forever.

I wish so many things for Ashley. I wish she had carried baby Harper to term. I wish she’d had time to hold her baby close, coo over her, and count fingers and toes. I wish she’d had time to relax (albeit nervously) and enjoy those first few moments of motherhood instead of experiencing in the worst way the fear and panic aspects that go along with the job.

Whether it is too hot or too cold outside or we are too busy or annoyed at something menial, time is the one constant and sometimes the one thing we don’t have enough of. I wish for Ashley that she and Harper had had more of it together.