Two Weeks In

In a Facebook thread about whether Lady Gaga’s halftime performance made a political statement, a couple of high school classmates chimed in.  Scattered geographically and, it seems, politically, one woman wrote something along the lines of: “The way forward requires finding common ground.” I think she’s right. So, here it is: my ground--a description where I am standing today.

I am outraged. Hats off, boys: the depth of your bag of tricks designed to shock and the shallowness of your souls are truly a notable combination. So, yes, outrage. But I’m starting to (try to) back away from my fury and frustration because I think they stoke it, knowing that white hot anger is exhausting. Too much noise, and people tune out. Too much outrage, and people get exhausted. Either way leads to an acceptance of normal that which would have resulted in impeachment or prison or even righteous indignation just a few weeks prior. So, to borrow my friend Kelly’s phrase, I am trying to bear witness with less anger.  

I am scared. Not of Muslims. Irreparable damage to the earth, air and water, however, keeps me up at night. Corporations free to externalize their negative costs terrify. Crackdowns on freedom of speech and religion scare me. People who don’t read scare me. People who don’t follow the money scare me. Disaffected teens and bigots with semiautomatic weapons scare me. Valuing profits over people scares me. I’m scared, too, of state-sponsored violence on our soil. It seems clear that it is coming.

Mostly, though, I’m sad. I love my country. I am a believer in the ideals espoused in the Constitution. I stand up when veterans or the color guard march by in the Fourth of July parade and prod those around me to their feet, too. Admittedly, I grew up privileged, able to believe in America’s promises. That love of country stayed with me even as I learned more about the darker parts of our history, the violence, racism, sexism, and corporate influence. Despite knowing America often didn’t live up to her ideals, I still believed that most of us wanted her to.

I’m not sure any more. When I see the vulgarity that won (and the sexism and the racism, and the . . . ) when I see blatant lies met with shrugs and “what’re ya gonna do?” from both his supporters and from the people who were too principled to vote for him or for her, it seems that what I thought were American ideals have proven to be not so common after all. And that guts me.

Outrage’s outlet is humor and exercise. Fear motivates me to volunteer and to donate and to call. But I don’t know what to do with my homesickness for the country I thought I lived in, and I think that’s why I wrote all this.

What does your ground look like?

Dissonance

My Facebook feed is schizophrenic: a sweet baby born--those chubby cheeks! Announcements about the Town Meeting, where bylaws and budgets are still passed by the citizenry with a "aye" or "nay" vote. Someone asks who to call about building a fence. And Baltimore burns, fueled by rage over injustices cultivated centuries ago. The CVS in my friend's neighborhood is looted. "This is not my city," he posts.

But it's simmering in every city, I think.

I don't know what to do, but fulfilling my civic duty seems appropriate. So, I go to my first annual Town Meeting. I file into the high school gym, a Unitarian minister offers a non-sectarian dedication, we pledge our allegiance to the flag, and the moderator begins reading the budget, line by line.

I sit by the exit in case things run long, and look around. I'm definitely one of the younger attendees. Plenty of empty seats. Of course, there aren't any hugely contested items this year--like whether the high school should install lights on the football field for night games, an issue that reportedly filled both the gym and the cafeteria a few years back with young and old citizens concerned about the possible glare in their backyard.

There is a murmur of shock when a woman dramatically accuses the Historical Commission of illegally taking her historical gazebo, but the chain of custody is eventually sorted. Everything in the warrant passes, and we adjourn in fewer than three hours. "Well, that was a snoozer," one lady laughs on her way out the door.

At home, flames fill the TV screen. My Facebook feed blips: a lost tooth! A friend wins a professional award. More about local fence companies. A former classmate, in Baltimore, posts that his neighborhood is okay. The whole city is not on fire. Baltimore will recover.


It will, of course. But if all we do is analyze mayoral missteps, criticize the sensationalistic 24-hour news cycle, and decry the stupidity of violence and destruction, it will happen again. I'm not condoning any of those things, but I do believe the anger over abuse of power is legitimate. I'm just not sure what this white girl from the suburbs can do about it right now, other than to recognize white privilege on and off my Facebook feed, and to heed the stories of those who aren't surrounded by it.

Summer House of Cards

Ah, summer vacation.  Freedom, swimming until we pruned, and playing hide-n-seek 'till the lightening bugs lit up the yard.  My philosophy of summer was solidified in suburban Chicago, in the late 70's and 80's, and also includes Deep Woods Off, Jarts, and riding one's bike to the pool sans parents.

Here in 2015, however, I am on a seven-year-long wait list for a beach permit.  The neighborhood kids and school pals are booked solid with camps, lessons, trips and tutors.  Handing my kids Jarts or DEET would probably get me arrested.  And, let's be honest: after a winter full of snow days with zero programming, my opposition to over-scheduled children has crumpled.  

Unlike the Midwest, where everything from the roads to park districts seem to be governed by an overarching organizational structure, my new Northeastern town has about 78 distinct, little, private organizations offering lessons and activities.  True to their Puritan roots, most of these entities shun any sort of self-promotion, including making information about dates and enrollment available to the public.  Information is shared among close friends in tight huddles--"Miss Larkin teaches ceramics, surfing and dressage--she's a hidden treasure, and all the children love her.  Here's her number."  (I suspect these disclosures occur at the beach, but I won't know for 7 years. )

After two years in town wondering how to sign up Buzzy for decent swimming lessons, I've become more aggressive about stalking the town treasures until they add me to their email distribution lists, and about shaking down other moms about their kids' summer plans. The smart parents enroll their kids in one or two camps that cover most of the summer and call it done.  (These are also the admirable families whose vacations are booked.)  The rest of us juggle the 78 options (or the 6 of which we are aware)--all of which publish what little information they offer at different times--trying to coordinate multiple kids' preferences and possibly even the preferences of friends whose parents may be carpool allies.  When one child's plan changes, an entire carefully crafted summer can come crashing down.  Buzzy's friend's neighbor's decision NOT to attend nature camp resulted in a flurry of activity up and down her street.  We came through relatively unscathed, with just two activities to rebook.  

Now, I exaggerate--but just a little (and, sadly, not about the length of the wait list for the beach). And I do realize that even in the glorious hometown of my youth with the gridded streets and central park district, everything has changed.  Planning kids' summers requires spreadsheets in most places. But, sometimes, I catch a whiff of Deep Woods Off, and miss those endless summer days.  I may even resolve to keep Buzzy's and Rosie's summers a little bit open. . . .  especially since Miss Larkin won't return my calls.  

Motivation

This winter was fueled by copious amounts of hot cocoa, wine, and whatever I could scavenge to divert my attention from my children home on another snow day the snowbanks piling ever higher against my door.  These delectables ranged from leftover taco cheese, to Cheerios, to Halloween candy I found stashed behind a dusty box of rice noodles. You get the idea.

Now, I've been  meaning to exercise, of course.  On mogul runs, especially, with my thighs burning, I swore I would hit the treadmill or take up spinning or at least try those cultish Barre classes.  But we all know that the road to fitness is paved with good intentions, and even those were largely ignored by apres-ski.

This past weekend, I wore a new top that my sister gave me for Christmas.  She's better than a personal shopper.  It covered all evidence of my winter diet and the two c-sections I'm still blaming. Five year old Rosie rushed over to me to check things out.  She smooshed her head into my stomach.

"Oh, good!  Your belly is still chubby!" she said.  She looked at me to make sure I understood. "Chubby is a happy word for fat."  It was, clearly, a compliment.

I assured her I got it.  And I seem to have.  Today, without any conscious thought, I found myself at the community gym.  It's in the basement of an old building, and I was the youngest one there.  It smells reassuringly just like my high school's weight room, and I picked out a treadmill.

Breaking a sweat felt great.  I envisioned finishing a marathon. Then I checked my time.  I'd been running for 8 minutes.  Perhaps a 5K, then.  A flat one.  I held out 16 minutes longer, then accidentally pressed the wrong button and things came to a shuddering stop.  I took it as a sign and hopped off, face beet red and legs wobbly.  The senior next to me smiled and kept sprinting.

Outside, it was near 50.  The snow was actually melting.  Thanks to Rosie, I just might be ready for summer after all.  Or at least next year's mogul runs.

Fine Print

Last week at the bus stop, Buzzy sank to the ground and started writhing.  Turns out, she was attempting to make a snow angel in the one millimeter dusting (and not, thankfully, seizing on the side of the highway, as I ascertained while fielding concerned waves from the passing drivers).  Yesterday, Rosie stumbled over a tire claw in the parking lot and cut her face on the icy dirt.  Playing outside is a tough sell when the ground is frozen into brown clumps.  Categorize this as "Be Careful What You Wish For" Exhibit 1, but it's mid-January in New England and we are ready for some snow.*


*Please note, weather gods, that I did not wish for a Snow Day.

The Age of Reason

Seven-plus years! As Buzzy's pediatrician exclaimed at her last well visit, she has reached the age of reason. So, then, has 4 AM Feeding! Although with just over 160 posts, it's arguable that it's still in its infancy. . . .

Lax blogging notwithstanding, the baby whose arrival I apprehensively awaited when I first started writing here is now a gap-toothed first grader, and her little sister is somehow, impossibly, five. We've moved twice: one big relocation, then across our new town. We renovated a very old house, which proved true all those renovation stories about taking longer and costing more than expected.

No one in my new town knows the pre-motherhood me; every conversation is about the kids or the house. Frankly, I'm not sure I remember who I was before these kids and this move, either. But we are finally opening boxes packed since DC. And I find old books and old sweaters and they are MINE, and I am so happy to see them again. When I re-read my first post, which I wrote before Buzzy was born, I do recognize that painfully pregnant woman who was afraid of never sleeping again. (Turns out, being right about that is the most hollow of all victories.)

Now that I'm no longer a mom to little littles, now that I can again carry a small purse if I so choose, now that my life does not revolve around potty and sleep schedules (well, that last part remains aspirational), and now that the new house is, if not done, at least habitable, I wonder what I'll do next. Return to lawyering? Write? Start yoga? Run a race? None of the above?

Turns out that the Age of Reason may bring with it a bit of an identity crisis to one who has spent the past seven years herding the unreasonable from Mommy and Me music classes to story hours at the library. In an effort to ferret out what's next, I'm editing a little bit on this cool project:http://www.worldmomsblog.com/ .  I'm teaching Sunday School once a week to pre-Kindergarteners, who haven't yet reached the Age of Reason but whose questions about God, Santa, big sisters, dinosaurs, and boogers force my own mental capacity to its limits.  Of course, I'm still trying to persuade Rosie that using the bathroom and sleeping before midnight are not conspiracies to keep her away from all the fun, and Buzzy isn't quite yet ready for college.  From the foregoing, all I've determined that a second career in early childhood education is not where my future lies, and that working with words is unlikely to cover the cost of daycare (especially if I continue as a volunteer).

Some of my working friends are now opting to stay home; now that their kids are getting older and their environments are growing beyond the cozy bubble of early childhood, they feel it's important to keep an eagle eye on what's going on. Some of my stay-at-home friends are heading back to their former jobs, either full- or (the lucky ones!) part-time. Still others are starting brand new endeavors. I don't quite know which direction I'll take, but I'm once again driven to confess my apprehension about what comes next here. At the least, some other mother of a newly reasonable child may realize she's not alone--which, in retrospect, may have been the point all along.

P.S. When in Rome, find the GOOD beach

It's only fair to report that just three days after my beach grumpiness, our awesome friend Lori invited us to her town beach for the day.  There were tidal pools and rocks for climbing.  There was a broad sandy swath for digging.  The water was frigid (I got an ice cream headache in my ankles while wading), but Rosie didn't mind one bit.  Buzzy collected sea glass and crustaceans, and ran in a pack of new and old pals.  Most importantly: Lori came prepared with a half-tent to provide shade and to block the wind.  Life changing. 

Too bad her beach has a waiting list rumored to be six years long for non-residents.  Regardless, I put my name on it.  In the mean time, I'm buying a tent--and sticking close to my wicked cool friends who may be the real secret to enjoying this beach business after all. 

True Confession

A distant relative on my husband's side, upon meeting me for the first time, said, "Oh, but you don't like the beach, do you?"  I bristled.  Who, exactly, had said what, exactly?  "I like the beach just fine!"  I said.  "I admit that taking care of small children on the beach isn't my favorite past time, but I like it." 

Since then, I've had something to prove to myself, if no one else.  So when this June morning dawned sparkling and perfect, I embraced my inner New Englander and declared we were off to wade and explore at the beach.  I packed (oh, how I packed) the sunscreen, the water bottles, the blueberries, the blankets, the nets, the buckets, the chairs, the shovels, the bug spray.  Even a magazine!  For me!  Oh, the optimism!  I envisioned a rocky shoreline, tidal pools, and exploring marine life while collecting shells and seaglass.

Greg drove to the beach and even found a great parking spot.  We got out of the car.  Our happy chatter promptly sailed away on sharp gust of wind.  Hmm.  We unpacked the car, schlepped our things to the high water mark, and set up camp.  The sun was no match for the wind.  It was downright cold.  But I gritted my teeth.  Time for FUN.  I looked around.  We were on a honky-tonk strip.  There were no tidal pools.  There was no seaglass.  There were, however, seabeercans littering the sand close to where four swimmers were frolicking in cut off jeans.  I'm pretty sure they were drunk.

No matter what I bring to the beach up here, it's never the right thing.  Buzzy and Rosie asked for jackets, but who packs jackets on a June afternoon?  Soon, Rosie started screaming that there was sand in her eye.  We repaired to the car, where I doused her face with the water bottles until she stopped crying.  "It's warm in the car, Mommy," she said, happily settling into her car seat with nothing to do.  "Back to the beach, honey!"  I said brightly.  "Let's go finish your sand kingdom!"  I delivered the child to her father and tried to read but the wind whipped my magazine pages closed. 

 After 20 minutes of pretending to have hale and hearty fun, I left my New England family on the sand and went to bask in the car.  Buzzy and Rosie lasted another 20 minutes.  Then Greg appeared and asked for my help packing things up.

"Why do you bring me to the worst examples of New England?" I demanded later. "Why aren't you trying to showcase this area's best features?  You are setting me up to fail."

"What?"  Greg said, totally ambushed.  "We had fun!  It wasn't that chilly!  You had fun at the beach, didn't you?" 

I still don't know who said what about me to that distant relative.  But whomever she was, I wish I'd believed her. 

Sweet Spot Summer

It struck me while perusing the Buy Buy Baby registry for Greg's cousin.  I don't have wee ones any more.  Bottle-drying racks?  No need.  Crib sheets?  Breast milk bags?  All done.  (Apparently, not all done with Baby Signs, though.  The phrases "all done" and "more" still trigger hand motions I'll probably be using to wave away the nursing home aides.)


It's odd: this blog was born a couple of days before I became a mom.  I think I was trying to process my new identity... first a mom of an infant, then a toddler, then a mother of two little ones.  Always little ones.  I kept Goldfish in my purse; I could fold and load a double stroller in record time.  Eventually, I stopped writing my own mother's name on the forms asking for "Mother's Name".  Once I hit my stride, I milked their young childhoods as long as possible.  We kept Buzzy in a private Kindergarten associated with her preschool, so I didn't even have to send her off on a bus last fall.  But the gig's up.  She's off to first grade in September, and even Rosie is finally out of diapers and headed to pre-K (unless she ends up in juvie first--a distinct possibility and one she might even prefer).


Parenting a four- and a six- year old is right up my ally.  I can usually hold someone's hand.  We can read picture books.  But I've stopped carrying Goldfish in my bag and they can get the food from their plates into their own mouths, usually.  I can leave them in the shower for three fifteen minutes while I check Twitter dinner.  They're still not crazy busy with too many activities, so we have some flexibility and the ability to take advantage of it.  It's a good place, albeit fleeting.  Narrowing in are discussions about cliques, technology, and safety issues that go far beyond the tornado drills of my elementary school years.  Ducking and covering the backs of their necks with a Social Studies book isn't going to get either of my girls very far.  So, I'm going to try to savor this summer with my little big girls while they enjoy buckets, pails, bubbles, story hour at the library, and even the once-dreaded princesses.


Just remind me I said that in August.

Happy Birthday Baby

Rosie turns FOUR today.  Impossibly fast, yet it seems she's always been part of my life.  She's the sweetest, cuddliest, most generous contrarian in the world.  Unfailingly polite, she says "thank you, mommy" in her tiny voice whenever I bring her anything, but she's unfailingly and infuriatingly stubborn, too.  Her little body is so tightly wound.  She springs and jumps and dances like a bolt of electricity runs through her body.  She cannot fall asleep at night, and asks me to sit with her 'for five minutes', then grabs my hand and won't let go when her time is up.  She still twirls her hair and sucks her thumb to relax, and she still grabs me around the neck in a forwards full-Nelson and brings my check down to press against her cheek when I tuck her in.

Her memory stuns and confuses me.  If I ask her what she did in school, she'll brush me off with an airy, "I don't remember" but then she'll recite a scene from two years ago, from our old DC life, accurate down to describing the floor boards.  She's resistant to change: her school installed a brand-new playground over the summer, but she still pouts, "I like the old one" that she played on when we picked up Buzzy. 

Animals and babies are her friends.  The cousins closest to her age are all big sisters now, and she asks me why I'm not getting "a 'nudder one baby in my tummy?"  She wants to be big and masterful, often pretending to be the big sister or mommy.  I still get to be the queen, though.  "Thank you, your minus" she says to be silly. 

She's always had a gleam in her eye.  Lately she's been leaning into it with an eagerness to explore that wasn't there even a couple of months ago.  Rosie started school this fall, and is growing more independent every day.  She loves to dress up, put on her 'lipstick' -- Chapstick, sunscreen or marker, whatever she can find.  The more jewelry the better.  She's a bit of a dare devil (so long as slides aren't involved--she isn't a big fan of slides, mostly because of the static electricity shock that accompanied most of her earliest experiences on them).  She defiantly tells me, "I like bad guys, mama."  Oh, dear one.  No, no, no!  Please stay far away from all bad boys, bad guys, bad everything.  She always wants a hit of Motrin, enjoys caviar, loves fizzy water, and generally has me worried about her adolescence already.

Last night, I tucked her in and said, "Good night, baby.  I guess I can't call you that anymore.  You're four!  You're getting so big!"  And she said, "You can still call me baby." 

She has my heart.  Happy Birthday, baby.
 

Higher Math

On the first day of school, I inquired about volunteering in Buzzy's kindergarten class.  Her teacher informed me that the class parent spots were already filled.  What?  It was the first day of school.  Did the other mothers procure the coveted spots when I was helping Buzzy locate her new cubby, or was it that conversation in the lobby with the principal that doomed my chances?  I grumbled to myself about open and transparent elections and helicopter parents who usurped the Rule of Law in kindergarten parent politics. 

Despite my frustrations at being an unsuccessful helicopter parent myself, I totally understand why the mommies lined up to volunteer.  Daily life at home with small children can be soul sucking.  But, at school, kindergartners are sunshine and rainbows when they see their parents.  Buzzy's guileless little face lights right up if I pop into her classroom to drop something off.  Sometimes, she'll still hold my hand in the parking lot--although, more and more often, I have to make the first move and hold on tightly.  I remember my superstar mommy volunteering at my first grade Halloween party--she and Mrs. P dressed like witches and served us a brew steaming with magic that I only later learned was dry ice.  I also remember my mother volunteering at my sixth grade dance.  I hid behind a post and didn't make eye contact.  The other moms and I--we know where this is headed. Sign us up for cupcake duty and field trips to the cranberry bog now.

The email requesting volunteers at the kindergarten Halloween party sat in my inbox for over an hour before I saw it.  Late to the game again.  My heart dropped when I saw the one spot that was left: Ghost Math.  I find even the non-haunted variety of math pretty frightening.  I'd ordered my academic and professional life around avoiding it at all costs.  But there it was, laid out in some sort of equation.  Access to the Halloween party = overcoming fear of kindergarten math.

Her teacher assured me that I only had to know how to add up to five, so I signed up, with some trepidation.  Buzzy glowed during the Halloween parade.  She took my hand and showed me her classroom: the pencil sharpener, the book nook.  The golden morning got even better when I met the other mother at the Ghost Math station--she was a physician!  Music to this English major's ears.  She did the heavy math lifting, and Buzzy kindly helped me out a bit, too, before scampering off to bedazzle a pumpkin.  Mostly, I focused on reminding the kids to write their names on their worksheets.  I still don't quite understand the point of Ghost Math.  But I know things get trickier above five.

Both Limp and Feral (for Jill)

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. 

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.     

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.

Sugar Therapy

We'd talked up Rosie's new "big girl" ballet lessons all weekend.  Last Monday, we arrived only to find the studio dark.  In the Rec. Office, the front desk lady breezily apologized for not informing me earlier that the class had been cancelled due to low enrollment.  There are few things sadder than a tutu-bedecked three year old with a broken heart.  As Rosie realized what I was telling her, the tears started.  The loud kind.  I didn't exactly hustle her out of the office.  Only after the front desk lady fully appreciated the gravity of her error did I take Buzzy to the cupcake place to recover.

Wednesday is Buzzy's day to dance.  This morning, I got up before the kids, cooked them a hot breakfast (oatmeal, and not the instant kind)--and got Buzzy to the studio promptly at 11:05, glowing with maternal achievement.  (Anything under 10 minutes late is 'prompt' for us.)  Unfortunately, Buzzy's class started at 10:00, just as it has since it began in September.  Cue Buzzy's tears.  They're huge.  She really should be in drama class, but I'm afraid to feed the fire.  "I won't know the steps for the recital!  I won't know the steps!!"  We headed to the bakery for pre-lunch M&M cookies all around.

As I munched on my cookie, I realized maybe I'd been a little harsh on the lady in the Rec. Office. I remembered that my own superstar mother had once miscalculated the time of one of my ballet recitals, and I'd missed the last performance.  I remember nothing about that ballet class, but I remember the revolving pie case at the Odyssey Restaurant, which is where she took me to find comfort in a pile of meringue.  

Fat Tuesday Forty

In the last week, I accidentally hit a medicine man in the thigh with a lemon quarter.   I met erudite and hilarious writers who matter-of-factly accept the appearance of wolves as spiritual guides.  I walked on Red Rocks and sniffed the silver-berried air.  I got a facial from a lovely, Japanese-speaking woman who ministered to my shoulders with hot rocks she got from the sea in San Diego.  “They still have good energy!  You live in Sedona a while, you start talking like that!  Very different from East Coast!”   Since, after all, it was my birthday, I also got a pedicure and received kick-ass foot maintenance advice from another esthetician (Black & Decker Mouse hand sander with fine grit paper.  You’re welcome).  I learned a Sufi secret.  I met an old, dear friend and her jolly, impossibly dimpled baby in the Phoenix airport.  My friend was tired in such a familiar way.  I realized it's a life-changing exhaustion, even after the sleep deficit disappears.  I made a luminous, smart and kind new friend whose creativity, insight and logic were all reminders of how fabulous it is to get out of your comfort zone just so you can meet people like her.  The term “douchbagel” became, for better or worse, part of my lexicon.   I did not seek an encounter with an animal spiritual guide, but I read some psalms and came back to my old gurus (vintage U2) after a long time away.  I remembered the importance of tending to my own medicine.  I resolved to write non-precious things more often and to actually post them, too.  Let's hope I don't regret the last one.  Eeek!  Too late.

Break

Sedona without expectations.  The desert grows beauty.  The red rocks anchor.  Sun and clouds duel on an endless stage.

Inside: a smooth duvet, pitch black room and silence uninterrupted.  The sleep I've dreamt of for over five years does not disappoint. 

Strangers become comrades.  We battle to get the words out, learning the trick, sometimes, is to surrender.  We surrender precious.  We surrender ego.  We surrender sentences.  It is safe.

Darling, I Love You, but Give Me Park Avenue

We moved.

We moved into a rental house, since we couldn't find a house that we loved enough to buy.

Everyone says that the rental is a great way to experience a new community: you get to learn the lay of the land and decide where you really want to live before committing.  I get it, and they are right.  But the fact remains that renting means a second move, and moving is high on my list of soul-sucking activities. 

The kids' spaces are homey and livable, but sealed and still-full boxes cluster in almost every other corner.  The adult bookshelves are bare.  My spatulas lurk in the depths of the packed boxes of wedding china, and there they will remain until we move to a more final destination.  Who needs spatualas?  (I do.  Suprisingly often.)

So, we're here and getting sort of settled but not really settled.  It's a beautiful seaside town, much smaller and bucolic than any where else I've ever lived.  It's nice to not panic if I forget to lock my car door and it's great to let the kids burn off their late-afternoon grumpiness on the beach, and there's plenty of free parking, but it's... very.... quiet.... here.  You can't walk to much, and most things are at least a 20 minute drive away (by "things", I mean mommy conveniences: Whole Foods, the Target, the highway that takes you into the city--not that you'd want to drive into the city).  You can take a boat into Boston, which is very cool, and there is a train--but neither run on weekends, so they are of limited use.  So I am feeling trapped in a half-settled house in the middle of nowhere, but the tasks at hand (tackling the boxes, arranging the books on the shelves, and always laundry, lunches and dinner) don't exactly fill me with zest. 

It takes time, I know.  I suspect the perfect house will pop up within an hour after I surrender and unpack the spatulas, and that clarity over whether this town is right for us will develop the minute I shelve those books.  Guess I'll work on the books first.    

A Brief Interlude, on Knob and Tube

In the kitchen, I fell in love with the Aga stove.  "The seller is Irish, and she insisted on it," explained the seller's agent.  In the basement, we gazed approvingly at the high efficiency German-engineered boiler.  In the attic, we spotted unusual wires.  I wondered what sort of fabulous European innovation they represented.  "Oh, yes, the house has knob and tube on two floors," said the seller's agent.

Knob and tube?  It sounded vaguely pornographic.  The truth was even more disgusting.  "K&T" to those in the know means that the house's electrical system dates back to the 1930s or earlier.  It's ungrounded.  It's a fire hazard.  Accordingly, it's pretty much impossible to get home insurance or a mortgage on a house containing it.

The seller's agent waved away our concerns.  "I'm sure it won't cost more than $5,000 to update the house," she said.  The electrician added a strategic zero to her estimate.  Farewell, Aga.  The search continues. . . .

       

The Hunt

The first weekend of househunting left me slack-jawed at Boston-area home prices.  Over a million for houses that hadn't been updated since the mid-1970s, or for homes that had been redone, but in the worst possible way.  Some homes with no yard, or no garage (this ain't Florida--or even D.C.  I want a garage).  One pricey beauty backed up to the Turnpike and had a karate studio instead of a dining room. 

The second weekend of househunting, I realized I wasn't in Kansas (DC or Chicago) anymore.  Walking downstairs to check out the basement of a house that didn't suit us but that didn't have any other obvious problems, I asked, "Any disclosures?"

"No," the seller's agent replied.  "It's in perfect shape!"  She flipped on the light, and I found myself face to face with a giant rock fully occupying one third of the basement.  Apparently, I needed to add "no basement boulders" to my list of non-negotiables--turns out they're not uncommon in old New England cellars, but I'm reluctant to take out a mortgage to house one.

I don't even know what week of househunting we're currently on.  A couple days ago, I was engaged in my usual addiction hobby of updating the Redfin page on my browser and willing the perfect house into existence when it worked!  The perfect house appeared!  I knew the location; I knew the house; I knew I wanted it.  I knew it would be a gut-job, so nothing short of it being a haunted Superfund site would deter me.  At 11:15 p.m., the seller's agent (who had ignored our agent's calls) said we could see the property the next day, but that we had to be prepared to move fast as they were working with someone who was interested.  I convinced Greg that our tortured search had led us to this shining moment, and, at 2:00 a.m. we submitted a very strong offer on that house--sight unseen.  I imagined laughing over the story at the dinner parties we would have in our beautiful, late-19th century dining room.  My dream burst the next morning when we learned that they'd accepted the other peoples' offer at an unspecified time. . .  It was all very sketchy.  I'm sure they used our offer to get the other people up higher--other people whom, as it happens, were working with a broker in the same office as the seller.  I felt an Incredible Hulk-like rage.  I swore a lot, and threatened to rip the face off the seller's realtor, and was starting to turn a delicate shade of green when I realized that Buzzy and Rosie were listening, so I tried to calm down.  After a day of pretending to be over it, I'm finally actually over it.  (And the kids seem to be more responsive than usual, so that's a plus).

The search continues.  Our house is out there.  I hear there's a lovely one that recently came down in price, and it even has a karate studio on the premises.