Six months. It's been about that long since we moved from just-outside DC to suburban Boston. The kids transplanted quickly, and Greg's happy to be back in the land of the losing Red Sox--he missed their glory days entirely, so it feels like the Boston of his youth. The cat, on the other hand, barricaded herself in a closet and required narcotics to move. With no pharmaceutical intervention, I've handled things slightly less gracefully.
This past weekend, we ventured back to our old stomping grounds for the first time since moving. Good-bye, stale snow! Hello, early daffodils blooming on Rock Creek Parkway. We drove by the old house. I cried. (A lot.) We celebrated many birthdays with our dearest friends (conveniently, many of us were born within a week of each other in February), I savored a girls' lunch with my besties at my beloved Leopold's, we met up with our old playgroup and the mommies who got me through the early years, and the girls enjoyed an 11-hour play date with Buzzy's most-missed pal from preschool while we hung with her wonderful parents. We squeezed in nearly a half year of our old life into one long weekend, and it was fabulous.
Greg had to stay in DC for work, so I was thankful that the girls were quiet on the evening flight home. They were exhausted and as introspective as five- and three-year-olds can be. I was emotionally and, after schlepping the luggage and children without Greg, physically drained.
We landed at Logan and waited at the world's slowest baggage claim. When the conveyor belt finally lurched into action, Rosie tried to elbow her way through the business travelers' knees to retrieve our oversized suitcase herself. I returned her to the stroller and resumed my lookout. An ear-shattering screech reverberated through the terminal. It didn't immediately register that it was a sound that might pertain to me--maybe they were transporting a crate of feral cats and something stepped on their collective tails?--but, no. The sound emanated from a little girl in a ratty Areil costume, flailing on the dirty tiles, screaming "I WANT TO DO IT." The crate of feral cats was my youngest daughter. I tried to pick her up, but she went limp while continuing to scream. The business travelers backed away, giving me free access to the conveyor belt. I wrestled the suitcase off, somehow pried Rosie off the floor, put her now-writhing body into the stroller and wheeled her, screaming, through the airport as the crowds continued to part. They parted all the way to the taxi cab stand, and we found ourselves first in line. Suckers.
Rosie and Buzzy fell asleep before we'd exited the Ted Williams tunnel. Eventually, I saw the rental house lights glowing. We'd forgotten to turn them off. Six months, two blizzards, countless fruitless house searches, one trip back to DC, still no spatulas, and an excruciatingly long cab ride later, I felt like I was finally home.
4 AM Feeding
Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time, I had hoped they wouldn't be swallowed by the Disney princess franchise. Was I concerned that if my child wore an Ariel costume to the grocery store, people would think I'd dressed her that way as an expression of my personal taste? (Before kids, I banked heavily on that tabula rasa crap theory--not realizing they'd arrive complete with their own ideas, of which tulle, glitter, magic, pink and princesses are currently paramount.)
Now, of course, the sparkles shed by countless Belle, Ariel and Aurora costumes are permanently embedded in my car rugs and sofa cushions. They've sung, they've danced, they've twirled--they've believed in the magic, and they've spread some of their own. I defy you to not smile at an earnest little girl in a polyester princess dress sitting in a grocery cart. We took them to Disney World last month--and my last, lingering, curmudgeonly reservations fell away as the girls, completely starstruck, shyly hugged the "real" princesses as the fireworks exploded. I came home and had to admit we'd had a great, even magical, time. The Mouse always wins.
This past weekend, we went to Disney on Ice with three other cousins. I found the magic considerably thinner, but they were transported--mostly. Buzzy studied the skaters like an appraiser at auction. "Mommy. I think that wasn't the real Ariel because I saw she had feet in ice skates. I think the other ones were real, though." On our way dinner after the show, they followed their big, first-grade cousin fearlessly, a laughing pack of little girls and one boy running down the sidewalk, away from their slowpoke collection of parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles. I thought of Buzzy studying a mermaid's skates, putting it all together, all too soon. And I realized, to my chagrin, that I didn't want these princess days to end after all.
Now, of course, the sparkles shed by countless Belle, Ariel and Aurora costumes are permanently embedded in my car rugs and sofa cushions. They've sung, they've danced, they've twirled--they've believed in the magic, and they've spread some of their own. I defy you to not smile at an earnest little girl in a polyester princess dress sitting in a grocery cart. We took them to Disney World last month--and my last, lingering, curmudgeonly reservations fell away as the girls, completely starstruck, shyly hugged the "real" princesses as the fireworks exploded. I came home and had to admit we'd had a great, even magical, time. The Mouse always wins.
This past weekend, we went to Disney on Ice with three other cousins. I found the magic considerably thinner, but they were transported--mostly. Buzzy studied the skaters like an appraiser at auction. "Mommy. I think that wasn't the real Ariel because I saw she had feet in ice skates. I think the other ones were real, though." On our way dinner after the show, they followed their big, first-grade cousin fearlessly, a laughing pack of little girls and one boy running down the sidewalk, away from their slowpoke collection of parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles. I thought of Buzzy studying a mermaid's skates, putting it all together, all too soon. And I realized, to my chagrin, that I didn't want these princess days to end after all.
Bluebird Day
This bluebird day finds me not, alas, skiing, but surrounded by hard-packed drifts of rapidly melting snow that somehow make the air smell exactly like Colorado. I bundle Rosie for waterproofing rather than warmth. Face raised to the rays, I imagine I'm lunching mountainside instead of on a dry patch of driveway. Rosie, soaked despite my efforts, climbs into her red toddler car and announces, "I'm going to California." Guess she's going to be a beach girl.
As for me, it's mountains. An Illinois flat-lander born and bred, you'd think that geographic beggars shouldn't be choosers, but you just can't help some things. Of course, the sea is beautiful, but it's the mountains I crave.
Perhaps it's because I love to ski, but viewing Jaws at an impressionable age left me wary of saltwater? (I can't shake my conviction that sharks target the corn-fed, Midwestern legs.) I'm doing my level best to hide my craziness from my daughters, who have taken to the beaches and the water like, well, the little Bostonians who they're growing up to be. A friend, homesick for another far-away, impossible home, pressed Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Against Wind and Tide into my hands before we left DC. "Maybe it will help you read the words of someone who loved that part of the country."
It has helped, as had the daily exposure to the water. My favorite coffee spot is nestled harborside, and there's no doubt that its view beats the parking-lot vistas offered by my former DC haunt. Yesterday, the water sparkled green, and wind whistled out--next stop: another continent. So, I am learning to love this seascape, too. But today--just for a few minutes--I enjoyed my mountain retreat.
As for me, it's mountains. An Illinois flat-lander born and bred, you'd think that geographic beggars shouldn't be choosers, but you just can't help some things. Of course, the sea is beautiful, but it's the mountains I crave.
Perhaps it's because I love to ski, but viewing Jaws at an impressionable age left me wary of saltwater? (I can't shake my conviction that sharks target the corn-fed, Midwestern legs.) I'm doing my level best to hide my craziness from my daughters, who have taken to the beaches and the water like, well, the little Bostonians who they're growing up to be. A friend, homesick for another far-away, impossible home, pressed Anne Morrow Lindbergh's Against Wind and Tide into my hands before we left DC. "Maybe it will help you read the words of someone who loved that part of the country."
It has helped, as had the daily exposure to the water. My favorite coffee spot is nestled harborside, and there's no doubt that its view beats the parking-lot vistas offered by my former DC haunt. Yesterday, the water sparkled green, and wind whistled out--next stop: another continent. So, I am learning to love this seascape, too. But today--just for a few minutes--I enjoyed my mountain retreat.
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