Thoughts on my marriage.
February 18, 2025
Sheldon’s working tonight; I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off for work at 745 this morning.
A few minutes ago, I went downstairs to our bedroom to check on Michael the cat and find some slippers.
He’d made the bed before he left; he filled up the humidifier and it looks like he attempted to do something about the nightmare of socks on the laundry table.
When he makes the bed, the blankets are even on both sides. The pillows are fluffed, the comforter is neatly folded at the end.
All the stray glasses are gone from the nightstand, my eyeglasses have been placed high on the dresser. (Jack ate my glasses a year ago, Shel still hasn’t recovered, and the replacement pair is very fancy.)
Our conversations revolve around how much he slept, (never enough, I remind him he should stop watching war movies at 2 am and the impact on his lifespan, only getting five hours of sleep,) the dogs- how long they walked, if Chanel lost her sweater, if they ate their breakfast. If it’s too cold for the dogs, or too warm.
We talk about our kids, a little. When Kate’s home, more so, but pretty much based on the dishes in the sink or her current demeanor, we smugly agree on how lovely she is or how long it will be until she recognizes that she is too old not to least soak her egg pan.
About Colin, we worry about his mood, we compare notes on how he looked on Facetime. Colin worries us both, and there isn’t a damn thing we can do, but we call him a lot and I send him pictures of Chanel.
Sheldon worries about me, when he’s working, what I’ll have for dinner, how I’ll manage the dogs by myself when it’s icy.
He never needs to ask me how much I slept, I’m always asleep long before him, and if I can’t sleep, I will share that. Repeatedly. I do not do well on less than eight hours.
It doesn’t sound like a lot.
We worry about each other; we listen to each other. (I’ve stopped doing wordle in the car on the way to work. It was hard to give up, but marriage is sacrifice.)
We’ve heard almost all of the stories, and we don’t like the same shows.
But my husband made the bed for this morning, because he knew that tonight, it would make me happy.
So, we’re good.
If you know him, maybe you could mention he should get more sleep.
I hadn’t had time to read the Sunday paper this morning; we got to church late and slipped in the back door. We didn’t even have time to glance at the order of worship when the choir stood up and went to the piano.
Our music director began the first chords of “The Star Spangled Banner” and a soloist soprano sang out the first words- “Oh, say can you see, by the dawn’s early light…”
The choir joined in. The arrangement was slow, and thoughtful. I heard each word of our national anthem liked I had never listened before. There were moments my shoulders shook, and my throat choked- how has our proud nation with our flag, “whose bright stripes and bright stars/Through the perilous fight/O’er the ramparts we watched/Were so gallantly streaming’ come to where we are today, Sunday, October 27th, 2024?
(In case you’re wondering, as I just was, a rampart is defined as the wall of a city or a castle. I’m not sure which in this context, but I’m really not that well versed in history, American or otherwise.)
The Star Spangled Banner is a joyful, victorious, slightly boastful song, of unity, victory, and hope.
We are not there right now. We are fractured.
I hope we are on the way.
I pray Kamala wins and, I believe if that happens, the healing will begin, (after the inevitable whining, recounts, and I don’t even want to go there, here,).
But if she does not, and this is a possibility, we can not simply bow our heads and walk away. If Trump becomes President, we have to fight harder. I know the face of Project 2025 scares the hell out of me, but we are not a nation of people that wrings our hands and gives up. We’ve faltered, as a nation before. We have faced worthy adversaries, internal and external adversaries, and we are still, I believe, contenders, a nation capable of striving towards greatness, and maybe, someday, achieving it.
Either way, we have a lot of work to do. Our country is broken in more ways Democrat versus MAGA Republican. It was built on the blood of native Americans and slavery. I could go on, but I won’t. This is not about looking backwards.
For the past fifty years, some amazing men and women have been working to build a nation where the lyrics of – “This Land Is Your Land, This Land is Our Land” ring true.
We are a country of amazing resources and strength. We are a country that is part of a world in crisis. The biggest thing we have going for our future is us. All of us.
Regardless, of who wins on Election Day, there is a lot of work to be done.
I don’t think Canada has room for us anyway.
Christmas
December 23, 2023
I can’t speak for all the other holidays floating around this time of year, or even for anyone but me but..
If you lean into the gifts, decorate your tree to coordinate with your throw cushions, or accept the weather forecast but still scan the sky for flakes
If you buy elf on a shelf and you’re single
Invite Aunt Margerite because she invited herself…
If you are convinced the true Christmas spirit will shine thru even though you had a meltdown because your favorite store doesn’t offer gift wrap and Starbucks closed early,
It’s almost over.
Once the stores are closed,
It’ll be fine.
Better than fine.
It will be Christmas.
Facebook Memories and Real life Regets
October 29, 2023
Facebook memories come up almost every day when I sign on.
There are sweet moments and pictures where I bask in the joy of my 13 year old son laughing at a joke, a snow day, Katy in her costume for Irish step dancing, Sophie, zumba marathons at the Y, fall leaves at Cunningham, a birthday party at Chuckie Cheese, a Christmas morning with Nancy and Jeff, a full moon, a new song, the craft fair at church.
Some sting- Colin’s picture on his first day of football practice at the high school, just before I lost him, before I realized when I said be home by 11, he wouldn’t be.
There are posts and pictures from Quincy College pre Covid, when I’d been hired full-time, and I thought I’d found my forever home.
There are the photos of Katy, Tue, and Thanh, Andre, Robin, Parisa, Anya, Lucy, Jeff, Sophia, and Daisy, our first pet.
I set up a Facebook page called “Find Daisy Doodle”. She must have slipped out late at night and we never heard her at the door. I only mourn her when she comes up. She loved me, but was a Yorkshire, and a little mean to everyone that wasn’t me. When I got the call, at the church, that she was found, I thought she was fine. They had to spell it out over the phone, while I stepped away from a committee meeting for Religious Education.
(Out of the other people I mentioned, only Jeff is gone, and I am blessed to still be connected to everyone else. On Facebook, mostly, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here.)
It was close to Thanksgiving, I think. That day, or the next, Katy, Colin, and I trekked up to Northshore Animal Shelter. We met dogs. I fell in love with an Australian Shephard and Colin stepped in. “Mom, that dog is not great with kids. Let’s keep looking.”
We kept on. We met Sophie, part of a litter that had just come in from Georgia, found at a Walmart as the legend goes. She was mellow, just the right age, the right size, available immediately.
We brought her home, after Colin approved. Katy was there but loved all the dogs and would have agreed to any one that Colin chose.
They don’t tell you at the shelter that new dogs are mellow. They’ve just had their shots and are weary and stoned.
Within days, Sophie was a puppy who ran. She’d slip out the back door to visit the bunnies by Andrews. She’d take off at Cunningham just before it was time to go home. She found ways out of the back yard, and she was skilled at slipping her collar, on a late night dog walk.
We’d run or drive around in the car, calling her name, begging her with treats that smelled like peanut butter or Sheldon’s leftover Big Mac. Colin was the master; I think I called him home from friends’ houses to help.
But that was when it was getting close to the time where things became difficult. Maybe I sensed that asking Colin for help- with Sophie, finding the keys, making dinner, was important.
I should have asked for help more. Or less. Maybe then, he would have leaned on me and things would be different.
Katy’s at college, and Colin picks up my calls.
I wish I could connect how we got from the memories I see on my phone, and the photos we show on the mantle, to now.
How do I talk to my kids about something else than when they’re coming back home and how long they’ll stay?
How do I write look at the moon when I said that in 2014, 2018, 2020, and last month?
How can I ramble on about how I like dogs, pop music, the gym, and my family when I’ve said it over and over again?
But you know, when I look at the moon tonight, it’s just as magnificent, as it was the first time I said it, and we are just as likely not to remember it’s out there.
I forget to look at the moon. I forget to step outside and pause to look up, while the dogs pull at their leashes, and I think about what time I need to get up in the morning.
Tonight, it seems the moon is hanging over a world that feels a little more hopeless.
Maybe it’s more important than it ever was to admit that I don’t know if I did everything right.
I have more time, but I’m scared of being redundant, or old, overly optimistic, or filled with doom.
So I’ll just say- I love having Facebook memories.
I won’t have any if I I stop taking note.
The moon is fantastic tonight.
The best way to take care of yourself is to take care of yourself.
I choose to start with the moon and a phone call to someone that might have forgotten it’s out there.
Now, it’s late, but there is tomorrow, which is the greatest luxury of all
Mine is a nest that is empty, but with dogs.
September 16, 2023
I’ve gotten used to the quiet without Colin or Kate; my nineteen year old and twenty three year old have both left for the summer, one for school, one for good, maybe.
I don’t automatically shout at the speaker to play the radio when I walk in the door.
I don’t feel like anything or anyone is missing when I’m home unless Sheldon has the dogs out for a walk.
I miss life ten years ago, until I remember conversations about homework, clothes on the stairs, the phone calls from school.
Then, on the ride to work, Facebook memories turn up on my phone, which I’m staring at because it’s too early for conversation. (Social media is just the right amount of human engagement before 8 am. I can quietly judge people and then step away before I’m disgusted I’m judging people.)
I want time to move backwards. I want to yell out to the adults, standing at the bus stop-“enjoy all of this. It will pass, they will drive, and then they will drive away.”
I spot tired parents, dressed for work parents, and parents who look happy to be there, who know what I know now and didn’t know then, even a little.
I don’t remember the last time I walked Katy to the bus. One day, I was holding her hand and squinting my eyes and the next, she was walking with friends.
It is fall, and I’m settling into the season. I like wearing slippers and hearing the leaves crackle under my feet while I walk in the woods, I won’t miss mud or mosquitos.
As long as no one tries to make me drink a pumpkin spice latte, I’ll be fine.
Seasons change. I have changed.
I wish I knew then what I know now, but at least I’ve learned something along the way.
I’d really like to tell you
September 16, 2023
Tonight, I’d like to tell you that sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice when I left Quincy College.
I’d love to describe what it’s like at my new job, at Massachusetts College of Pharmacy and Health Science, how it feels to have an office, with a door, and that sunflowers became my favorite flowers when I found them on my desk that first day.
I want to tell you about this summer- how awesome it was to spend time with Kate, without the shadow of Colin, in the next room or just upstairs, barking into the phone or playing video games with the volume all the way up. He was at home for a year and a half, on house arrest, because someone found a large quantity of pot in his apartment.
Since he’s been gone, I text him a few times a week. I answer his calls, even if I’m in the shower or with a student.
I set out today with my friend Alison for a final dip at Nantasket, even though the forecast called for scattered showers. When the downpour started, we both turned around and headed to Derby Street, for some mediocre mussels and a decent cucumber Margarita.
I’m grateful I had time with Alison, she was one of my best friends at QC. I like the sweater I bought at Kohls. I am coming to terms that we probably won’t go to the beach again until next year, unless it’s to watch the dogs play in the water, while we shiver on the boardwalk and wonder if summer will ever come around again.
I’d like to share what it feels like to throw my body in front of a wave and be lifted for a second or two before landing, sometimes on my feet, sometimes on my ass, when it’s done. It takes a long, long time to get used to water temperatures of 58 to 65 degrees. It can take a half an hour, at least ,with the numb all the way up my body until, slowly, my toes and my knees wake, my muscles unclench. The water feels cold and glorious, but it takes time and patience. A person shouldn’t go to the beach in Massachusetts if they are on tight schedule, unless they usually swim in Maine, where the water is much colder. I liked thinking about swimming in the ocean, tonight, while I wrote this.
It amazes me what me body and soul can get used to, when I take my time. This can be both glorious and dangerous, if you think about it.
The summer, we spent a lot of time at the beach, walking the dogs, or putting off things that need to be done.
Last week, I made a list-
Our dishwasher leaks, the ice maker is on strike, and both our cars have check engine lights blazing, 80 percent of the time.
My laptop won’t connect to the internet. My watch won’t connect to my phone.
The new espresso machine makes lousy espresso.
I just spent a half an hour in the park after dark because the dogs really needed the space and the cool night air.
It’s been hot. Or I’m cold, in a house or an office with the air conditioner dripping rivers outside the window and frost from the vents.
There has not been much time for reflection or even group exercise classes.
But there is enough for yoga in the living room, with Chanel climbing my leg Bernadette sprawling under my plank, and Jack climbing Chanel.
There is enough time for phone calls to the people I love who are far, and a walk or a meal with the people I love who are close.
There is time for sleep, and a few minutes of a an ancient Pat Conroy novel just before.
There will be time, soon enough, to deal with the ice maker, the Buick, and the lack of lattes. My priorities are different than they used to be.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow, and tomorrow is Monday, so I’d say my life is pretty damn good.
This is the summer I gave up on my hair.
July 18, 2023
This summer, I am done with work every at 4 pm every day for the summer, (thank you, Quincy College). It’s been hot as hell lately, most days, so most days, I am climbing down the steps into the pool by 4:45 and slipping under the rope and inside the lap lane by 4:47.
My backstroke meanders. My freestyle is fast, especially when I remember to kick my legs. I don’t practice breaststroke anymore; it feels too much like the the stroke of someone who doesn’t want to get her face wet. Last year, I practiced butterfly. Well done, it is glorious to watch, and if continued for any period of time, it left me breathless.
This year, I keep it simple. I crawl. I float. I backstroke. I dive.
When I get tired, I pull myself out and slather deep conditioner onto my hair. Then I rinse off in the outdoor shower. Sometimes, there is a tiny group of six year old girls watching me shower because a lifeguard asked them to give me a turn. The shower is very popular with first grade girls.
I have a pair of goggles that keeps all the water out, and I cherish them as much as my fancy headphones.
I only have one swimsuit; it is two pieces that do not match. But the top piece is blue, and bottoms are black, and I don’t think anyone has noticed. I do spend most of my time underwater.
There have been quite a few changes in my life these past years; I am now recognizing this trend will continue, even speed up, in the near and distant future.
I find comfort knowing this is not particular to me; it seems everyone I know is experiencing roughly the same thing, just different circumstances-different levels and combinations of grief, joy, and willingness to adapt to, for lack of a better term, the increasing speed of life
I’m not sure I could adapt to life without swimming in Cunningham Pool, most days at 445.
But, I do.
Every year, it closes mid August so the lifeguards can go back to college.
I sign up for boot-camps and glory in the fall colors while walking Bernadette and Chanel, in the woods just behind an empty Cunningham Pool.
This was the first summer, I didn’t bother to blow dry my hair after dinner, even on weeknights.
I decided summer evenings could be better spent walking the dogs after sunset, going out for ice cream with Katy, heading to bed early, with a book, or to the sofa, to watch Ted Lasso, for the second time, with my husband, (it’s his first, and I think I’m hoping some of Ted’s optimism will rub off).
It’s hasn’t, yet anyway. But it’s only July 17th, and there’s time for us all.
Strange Season
June 13, 2023
This has been a strange season.
It’s mid June, we were still burning wood in the pellet stove last week. The mornings were so cold. I’d go to work in dressed in layers. With the chill in the morning, and the air conditioner, most days, I’d end wrapped up in a sweater, like I started, with fuzzy slippers replacing my heels of good intentions.
I’m still working at Quincy College, in the wilds of financial aid. I do math all day long, and navigate systems I didn’t know existed. I’m still trying to figure out how to make the FAFSA less scary; we call it the ISIR in our department, probably not that fun fact. That makes it sound even scarier, I think.
I get a ride to work most mornings, I kiss two dogs goodbye, Nell and Bernadette. They lean out the window and wait. Chanel is an exotic American Bulldog, and Bernadette a Frenchie. I’m not sure how I ended up their mom, but it had something to do with Colin, my 23 year old son, who lives far away. He is gone, though that has not been hard to get used to. I miss him, but mostly when I’m looking at pictures of him from when he was ten.
Sophie never would have kissed me goodbye. She liked sleeping in, and would lounge on the bed until after eleven if her bladder held out. She’d wake first when I woke, a garbled barky syllable would come out of her mouth, and she’d roll over so I could rub her belly before I had to force myself from under the blankets, and away from her, to get ready for work. Then, while I searched for the right shirt, she’d go back to sleep, snoring softly. Those last few months, I was especially quiet, as I moved around in the morning.
Katy is home, and is a different creature these days. She cooks, reads thick, dense, novels, signed up for Instagram, and just loaded the dishwasher. (She’s only been home a few weeks, and I’ve been generous with the car.) Her expired passport and three pairs of socks have been on the stairs since she got home, so my daughter’s still here.
When I look back on the pandemic, it is meditating with Katy that I remember and watching Mrs. Maisel, driving her to her boyfriend’s house, and hiking the Blue Hills with Sophie while I waited until I was summoned to get her. I wasn’t working then, and I loved walking the woods, by myself. I still do.
That was an even stranger season than this one, I guess.
I wonder what I’ll remember about these days, and when the water will be warm enough to go for a swim.
I wonder if anything will feel normal anytime soon, and what normal looked like.
In the meantime, I will look forward to Cape Cod and the fireflies. I will cherish that Katy is upstairs, fifty feet away, and we have tentative plans for dinner tomorrow. When I’m done here, I will do yoga while Chanel climbs up my leg and Bernadette snorts, and laugh between breaths.
This is a strange season, not long after the strangest season.
But strange isn’t bad- it is unfamiliar, a little scary, but it has forced me to pay attention.
Bernadette is under the table. Katy is listening to a playlist based off of a song by Her’s, (Her’s is the name of a band). The sink needs a rinse, the laundry needs to be switched. I have roasting vegetables in the oven that are just about done, I made them for lunch.
It’s so easy to let it all slip by, and find yourself at the kitchen table smelling sweet potato, yesterday’s candle, and the rain.
It is the Sunday night of Memorial Day.
I haven’t attended a cookout, gone swimming, attended a concert, or had dinner with family.
To be honest, I don’t like much of the food that is eaten is cookouts, other than corn, and it’s too cold to swim. Taylor Swift was last weekend, I need to get over it.
My daugher just blocked me on Instagram, she’s nineteen and she had warned me she wasn’t going to let me follow her. But she did, and then two days later, she didn’t.
My husband spent most of the weekend talking about buying a lawnmower and is now working so he can pay for the lawnmower he bought for our tiny, tiny back yard.
My son answered my afternoon group text where I announced I was turning off my phone for a little downtime to ask me why.
He probably still likes me because he is a thousand miles away, so I don’t expect much from him.
On these three day holiday weekends, I want to play frisbee with a large group who knows me well and doesn’t mind that I’m not that good. I want to sleep in late, stay up late and not be the one to do the dishes, unless, the dishes are at someone else’s house, (I’d like to make it clear I am an excellent houseguest because I’m coming across here as kind of a jerk).
I want my challenge to be finding the summer placemats and getting the kids to put away their laundry.
But we aren’t part of large family, and none of us can throw frisbee farther than twenty feet, except Colin. He’d rather throw a football and is currently, like I said, far away.
I like to get up early, I don’t mind doing dishes with the radio on. Besides, it’s just me there aren’t many dishes.
I think life is harder now, than it was, years ago. Or maybe it just feels that way, tonight, on the cusp of summer. Maybe because it’s a holiday weekend, and there’s pressure to have something to say when when someone asks me at work on Tuesday morning- “what did you do?”
I’m not sure what’s coming next, except that if I don’t walk the dogs soon, they will wait patiently until I am ready. I really, really, really like dogs.
Tomorrow, I need to take a ride to the beach, hop on my bike, or head over to the Ponkapoag Pond in the morning. I have a whole day left, and I’m sure as hell not going to spend it negotiating with Katy regarding social media or nagging Sheldon about a lawn mower.
Well, I could, but I won’t, because I did that today.
Life is short. I can do better.
Postscript
I wanted to follow up about yesterday, the event detailed above when at 1 pm, Katy, a newcomer to Instagram at the age of nineteen years old and all around wonderful human, blocked me.
That funk resulted in a cookie binge, a shower that consumed all the hot water of East Milton and an entire bottle of lavendar calm body wash, (no help at all) and a google search about the cost of living in St Croix, because I went there with my parents when I was twelve and had a delightful time.
I am happy to share, I have been reinstated. It was all a minor misunderstanding which if I tried to explain, I’d probably get blocked again.
And today, I’ve done better.
Thanks for reading.
Sunday in May.
May 22, 2023
It is the middle of May, The air is warm. The sky says close to sunset; the dogs have been fed and are barking at a child on a scooter.
This afternoon there were no birthdays or trips to Shaw’s Market, though we should have done something about the lawn.
There have been three walks around the block twisted in leashes and clutching small bags, a trip to Marshalls to buy a belt with my dear friend, Chris, a long shower, and maybe a face mask when I’m done here at the table. I’ve chosen my clothes for the morning, I’ve packed up my lunch for tomorrow afternoon.
I’m moving slow on a Sunday night because I truly believe I am ready for Monday.
My daughter is home from college, but she’s out for the night. My husband is working. The dogs have stopped barking and in an hour they’ll be looking at me and then looking downstairs towards my bed.
The washing machine is almost done, I need to remember to switch tomorrow’s skirt to the dryer. I need to remember to check in on my friend to make sure she made it home safe to New Jersey. I need to check the calendar for my next dentist’s appointment so I can ask for the time off from work.
I’m moving slow on a Sunday because I am ready for Monday, and everything else that is heading my way.
It is the middle of May. The air is warm and just outside my front door, I smell peonies and lavendar. There is an evening ahead, and hours and hours before morning comes.
julierichmond 