Walk With Family After Dark
January 9, 2016
Tonight was all about dogs, daughters and dads.
I took Sophie the sweetest and a puppy named Gunner to Turners Pond for a ramble under the moon.
Katy and a friend followed behind, i don’t know if they agreed to come along because Katy is kind, and I spend a lot of time alone walking the dog. Or if the simple fact that the wind had stopped and the moonlit fooled her into thinking it was warmer than it was- I don’t know.
Ahead, the dogs and I ran, and slowed and sniffed (they sniffed, I watched them sniff and tried not to think about what they were sniffing) and ran and jogged and trotted and stopped.
I was listening to Neil Diamond.
I grew up listening to Neil Diamond. My dad died when I was 20, yet when I put the headphones in my ears, and put on Cracklin Rosie, and turned it UP, I could hear Dad’s voice, singing along. There was the most subtle hint of the South in his voice, and he stayed right on key.
So I walked around the pond five times. I was watching the dogs, running alongside the dogs, waiting for the dogs.
I was catching little pieces of Katy and her friend’s conversation. They are 12 year old girls and they do not giggle. At least not when I’m within earshot. I think they were discussing a science test, or how Katy never lets the power go below 1% on her phone, or what kind of dog they want when they grow up. Twelve year old girls, smart 12 year old girls, aren’t the most interesting subjects for eavesdropping.
Maybe they were speaking in code.
And right next to me, inside my head, was my dad. He was singing alongside Neil Diamond, and actually sounded better than the pop star. I was listening to one of more recent albums, way after Love on the Rocks.
I thought about switching to one of the records Dad and I used to listen to- Tap Root Manuscript, or Stones, so I could remember what Mr. Diamond sounded like in his prime.
But I wasn’t listening to “Solitary Man” or “Sweet Caroline”. I was remembering my dad’s voice, how he used to always sing “Something” by the Beatles in the shower leave records all over the dining room table, how proud he looked while he watched me play my flute and the night he spent four hours listening to the “Wild and Innocent and the EStreet Shuffle” in attempt to try to understand what I liked about Bruce Spring. “Julie, he can’t sing. I mean, really, he can’t sing.”
I hadn’t remembered my father’s voice for a long time until tonight.
Dogs, Daughters and Dad.
The last song I listened to was “Thank The Lord for the Night Time.” Dad always liked that song, I think it was pretty much his party anthem.
My wild nights are home with kids, or at the gym, or following Sophia around with a bag in my hand.
But I am my father’s daughter. I may go to bed early by his standards, but I never wake up until after dark.
That’s when I’m wide awake. That’s when I make time to listen.
One Night Stand, But Brief
December 30, 2015
Blue, come on by and take a seat.
I’m lonely, and I want to be left alone.
I’m sad and I wanna be sad.
I want to wallow long enough to carve a curve in the sofa from the night julie went blue,
Cause that’s all I’m giving up to you, the night, this night.
By 930, I’ll be brushing my teeth.
931, I’ll remember to floss.
10:00 pm, Ill be in bed, next to the most beautiful dog, the Princess Sophia.
(She hangs with you sometimes, I think,
When I leave for work or when the rain falls cold.)
We’ll be together, Sophie and me,
Soon enough.
No room for you.
Don’t leave just yet.
It’s nice, sinking a little.
It hurts, but this body of mine is finally relaxed.
I’m not holding anything back or anything up.
I’m not holding anything back or anything up or anything in.
Good night, my friend.
It might be a good idea to learn how to let things go,
Without leaning, or falling, or weeping, on you.
It’s worth a little time on cold Tuesday night,
It’s not time to brush, or walk, or wander about to look for whatever I’ve lost in the course of this particular day.
It’s still early.
The Verge, Some Holiday Thoughts on Upward Mobility and The Importance of Christmas Music
December 22, 2015
This is the holiday season. I don’t need to tell you that. The songs on the radio are carols, everyone at work is counting down days and feasting on cookies, kids are looking for elves on shelves and parents are wondering why they ever started another tradition that involves one more thing do during the season that demands the most of parents of young ones.
I’ve wanted to write about the holidays. I’ve tried to say something meaningful about slowing down and finding the spirit. I was going to talk about decorating our tree.
We didn’t decorate our tree. My husband dragged it in one night while we slept. He strung the lights while I was working. My daughter hung ornaments with a friend of hers while they were trying to decide what movie to download. My contribution was to straighten out the tipsy angel, and sweep, daily, the tinsel, that seems to be growing, like sweet potato vines all over the first floor. I sweep, it slithers down and creeps along carpet while I sleep. I sweep again. The dog finds the whole process weird.
I shopped for the first time yesterday. An eleven year old and a fifteen year old, both of whom just got new smart phones a month ago. $600 smart phones we will be paying off while we are trying to figure out how to send them to community college because we don’t have any money.
If the holidays aren’t enough to make me crazy, I’m always on the verge of something.
I’m on the verge of everything.
I’m on the verge of killing my son, throwing him out onto the street with a bus pass and a back pack. I’m on the verge of falling at his feet and begging him to just watch one episode of the Middle with me. Like the good old days. He smiles, I think- what has he done now. He grimaces- I wonder- what have I done? I’m constantly cataloging our conversations, expressions, text messages and I’ve reached no conclusions other than he is my son, and he is a complete mystery to me, and I really, really hope he knows I love him more than my own breath.
About a month ago, I asked my boss where I was heading, in a general way. I’ve been at the same job a year, my title has nothing to do with the job I do every day. I’ve been hoping for a new one, or a title, and a little more money. Tomorrow, we are having lunch at a nice restaurant. I can’t imagine he would take me to a nice restaurant to give me good news.
I’m going to the gym every day, and I’m eating cake, and large bowls of pasta, and putting cream in my coffee. So I guess I can’t say I’m on the verge of getting in shape. But I do go to the gym every single day, and walk the dog, and take the stairs. I look up healthy recipes and I think about them. So maybe that qualifies.
Today, I drove my son to school to talk to the principal about an argument my son had with a fellow student. I picked up some Christmas presents for my nieces. I spoke to some students and reached out to one organization and two high schools about working together, me and them, to help more kids come to Quincy College. I went to Marketing for cookies and the Registrar’s office for sandwiches. Based on my conversation with my colleagues, I am the only person in the world that hasn’t finished shopping. I ate too many cookies and had a cup of soup.
Today I sprinted thru being on the verge of bribing an assistant principle, spending grocery money on really, really nice tee shirts, and getting a serious stomach ache. Thankfully, none of that happened.
I made it to my therapist’s appointment where we discussed the anxiety of the holidays, and since I was in a rush, we made it quick. She wrote me a prescription. I am not on the verge of a nervous breakdown or I’m too well medicated to notice.
I raced home. Katy had a friend over to practice for their flute holiday concert this evening. I made them dinner while they mangled “Oh Holy Night.” I had a glass of wine, and served them two huge bowls of spaghetti. While they ate, I gathered my clothes for the gym. I wiped counters. I kissed the dog and promised her we’d walk before the rain came.
We got to the concert. Katy and Madeleine played first. I’d warned Madeleine’s mom, “they weren’t very good.” I asked Madeleine’s dad to tape them on his Iphone.
The girls played “Joy to The World” and “We Three Kings”.
They played beautifully. I sat on my metal chair and looked at them, poised and still in front of the music stand. I have never heard such beautiful music in my life.
I didn’t want to write my boss an email. I didn’t want to go the mall, or walk the dog, or lift a weight, or climb the corporate, or any sort of ladder.
My girl brought me Christmas.
It is eight pm. Sophie is at my feet. She will take me outside to look at the lights. I won’t count my steps, I won’t check my heart rate. I will pick up her poop, and I will let her sniff that weird patch of grass on Wood Street for as long as she’d like.
I’m inside my life. I share it with horrid, funny, magical kids, a husband that remembers a tree in the middle of his shift, and picks out the best one, the college, where my supervisors, students and colleagues teach me something new every day. Sometimes, the lessons get a little redundant. I think I’m pretty clear on the importance of patience in world of academia, but I’ll know when I know.
The month of December seems to be a time where too many people live on the verge- of losing their minds, going bankrupt, trying to keep up with the neighbors, smacking their kids, or wishing they’d never fallen in love.
From this moment forth, I’ve stepped away from the verge, and I’m not going anywhere near it. If I shop, it will be without a list. If I buy gifts, it will be because I’d like to give something to someone I love.
I’m not even sure what verge means any more. Maybe it’s when I choose something, horrible or amazing, to swallow up my entire focus. While I wait- I eat too much, I snarl at kittens or kids, I check my email, I scroll thru Facebook to glare at people who do not seem to be on the verge, while reassuring myself that Facebook lies and almost everyone is on the verge of something. Even if they don’t know it.
I do know, by definition, to be “on the verge” implies resting one foot on one spot, a less than desirable spot, while the other foot hovers and waits for a better space to open up.
That’s seems pretty silly.
I’m home now.
I’m blessed.
I’m pretty sure Colin loves me, and if he doesn’t at the moment, he’ll remember soon enough. I love him. I love so many people, and I’m so lucky that in the middle of this life, I’ve made enough space to know them.
The rest will come.
Right now, everything I want and need is here. I’m not waiting on anything.
The rest will come.
Peace.
Words I listened to one Sunday at Church
November 24, 2015
I walked away from church at First Parish Milton today after listening to a sermon by Reverend Hank Peirce holding these prayers close-
Every day, I will try to choose faith. I will choose joy. I will choose trust and love and hope.
This is about the big world we live in- I will apply it to the future and all the people that share the planet with me. I will make these choices even on days the news is grim, the alerts are high, and Facebook is screaming in capitol letters to do the opposite.
This is about my corner of the world, about the face I show my children. I will try to find trust for them when I don’t want to; I will let them go while my heart screams to keep them close. It is believing that someday they will learn not to leave their peanut butter knives on the counter and their clothes on the stairs.
It is believing in who they are now and who they are becoming, even though I don’t know who that will be. They have choices, too. I will honor them.
It is about them knowing when times are tough that my door is always unlocked. I am here and our home is open to the world. I want them to have the gift of belief in the future even when the right now sucks.
Right now, right now is Sunday afternoon. My son is bringing me coffee after keeping me up half the night
My daughter is playing her flute.
I’m going to yoga.
I am so grateful for now.
CVS- Where Cool People Shop or It’s Lovely When Someone Says Something You Needed to Hear and Didn’t Know You Needed To Hear It.
November 17, 2015
Today was Monday, a big Monday in our world.
Big day at work, not really. I work in Mission Support at Quincy College. I was calling prospective nurses who had been accepted into our Nursing program to confirm that they planned on beginning our Nursing program. It couldn’t get much simpler. These people really, really wanted to be in our Nursing program. I heard “of course” most of the time. Or if they called me back, they led with “is something wrong with my application?”
I like talking to prospective Nurses. I love their clarity, their sense of purpose. Not once have I heard someone say “I’m thinking about the Nursing program, but I’m also considering being a Vet or going into law school like my dad.” Many students come into Nursing after trying other things out, so by the time they are applying, I guess they pretty much have seen what their alternative lives look like.
I work for Mission Support. Nobody really knows what that means, except me and my boss. Not even people that work at the College. The Director of Finance told me I actually work in IT. Some people think I do some kind of outreach, students like to ask for my help figuring out if they should take Math or English in their first semester and the people in IT would tell you I work on the second floor.
After work, I raced home to switch costume from aspiring Mission Support/IT/Outreach Coordinator trying to climb up the ladder to a job title people have heard of, to Football Mom. Skirt off. Jeans over tights. Some kind of workout long sleeve sleeved fleece thing in black to hide too many lunches and office parties. Uggs. Scarf. Sunglasses. Old Starbucks cup filled up with this mornings coffee that left on the burner for 7 hours. Dog on leash, keys in hand, phone charged, I made it ten minutes before half time.
Afterwards, Colin says it wasn’t a good game and he sucked. I spent my time talking to friends and walking the dog back and forth. It was lovely.Occasionally there are advantages to being totally without a clue.
Home again, my 12 year old daughter had a band concert. She plays the flute. A friend had picked her up early, so I had the luxury of switching again,*this time to low heeled leather boots, a flannel shirt from Bass Pro shop and a blazer. Little lip gloss, little mascara, should have done something about the hair but my friend was saving me a seat and I didn’t want to be presumptuous. Or have to park on the sidewalk. Which I had to do. (Milton moms, and most of us have full time jobs, are usually groomed. Especially at concerts, school plays and sporting events. I am not usually groomed and am certainly not the sort to wear three different outfits in one day, but for some reason, especially when there a whole of them gathered together, I really, really want to look like one.)
Great concert. They were 12. There was a chorus, a orchestra, a string band, and a cello group. The singing was lovely. My daughter and her friends were brilliant. All the different interpretations of black pants, white shirt, black shoes was fascinating. My daughter wore Converse. My daughter is so much cooler than I will ever be.
I picked up my son. He didn’t want to talk, you know, sucky game and all. Katy wanted to know when I was going to her a phone. I asked both of them when they were going to put their clean clothes away. We should have put it on YouTube.
I pulled into the grocery store. I needed meat. I needed salad. I just started Atkins again, and all I’d eaten all day was peanut granola bars with nougat.
I went into CVS, a hungry mom of two, worried about my weight and my job and whether or not the Colin and Katy’s clothes were going to rot on the stairway while I grew out of mine, and I looked around. I looked for Diet Root beer and snacks on sale for after school that I wouldn’t be tempted to demolish and nail polish remover and thought about lipstick.
I decided to buy the root beer and go home.
I’ve known the cashier who rang me up for a while. She is an English student, crazy smart and she uses words the way I do. We have lightning conversations about everything but the Kardashians, under the glare of the Kardashians, every time I shop there.
While I was ringing out, she mentioned that in her senior year she’d be doing some teaching. I offered to introduce her to a friend of mine, a math teacher, suggested we have coffee.
She grinned at me. “You know what, here’s my number. Give me a call some time. I’d love to go to coffee with you. You seem like you’d be a cool person to talk to.”
Do you know how long it’s been since I thought of myself as a cool person to talk to?
I define myself as a middle aged mom, good for advice about what to do when puberty hits or whether or not a family should get a dog.
I’m an employee of Quincy College- I can talk to anyone about financial aid, pathways to careers, and how to get into UMass.
I have a lot of friends, and I know they think I’m interesting, but most of my friendships have taken a long time to take hold. I figured I kind of grow on people, or wear them down, or they just appreciate that I like to take their kids to the gym.
I’m a cool person to talk to, says a college student named Alexandria.
Of course, I lost her number.
But I always need stuff from CVS.
It’s where the cool people shop.
Are you ready for some Football?
October 24, 2015
Big, big football game today.
As a huge fan, well, actually a mom of a boy that plays for the Junior Varsity team, I am compelled to announce, loudly, and with vigor-
Go, Wildcats!!!!!
Crush the Wellesley, um, whatever creature or thing they are called.
Crush the Wellesley Varsity football team!!!!
While I’m on the subject, Crush the Wellesley Junior Varsity team on Monday too!
Boys get hurt in some games, and of course I don’t wish that on anyone, even on one of those Wellesley people.
I really hope those Wellesley players aren’t planning on crushing, maiming or in any literal way, injuring, any of the Milton Wildcats.
FYI- our football team is not, in fact made up of actual Wildcats, though there are times in the morning that my son is quite surly and his behavior is that of animal raised in the woods.
I’d also like to make it clear- I wouldn’t be in favor of doing any harm to actual wild cats, real ones or surly creatures at the breakfast table. I like cats, I have two cats. Even wild cats are kind of cute, unless they have eaten one your pets but that might just be an urban myth.
Wildcats, play really, really well today.
Winning would be really nice, but know I support each and every one of you. Even if you suck.
Which you totally don’t. You guys are football magic.
Unless the use of the word magic offends you.
You’re really, really good!
Go, Wildcats!!!!!
Play better than the Wellesley team!
(But don’t be smug about it.)
Remember to have fun because everyone knows that’s all that matters.
Love,
From a woman without a clue.
Dark September and Beautiful Music
September 21, 2015
This has been a dark fall.
There are the regular stressors of back to school/oh my god where the f did summer go?
There has been the gradual, overnight change in relationship with my fifteen year old son. I’ve decided to trust him and, with certain boundaries we are currently in the process of working out, give him provisional freedom. If that sounds like I don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s because I don’t have a clue.
I had tried being a proactive parent-not-friend; “this is non negotiable” coming out of my mouth during every single conversation we had. We were living in a war zone. He felt invaded which is not surprising considering I spent all my time figuring out how to sneak into his snap chat.
We share the house with my daughter, 2 cats, a dog and their father. Whenever my son and I were in the same room, every one else took cover. Cats hid in bathtubs, the dog found sanctuary inside the shoe closet, my daughter actually spent so much time outside cleaning the shed, it’s clean.
But I couldn’t stand viewing my son as an enemy that must be conquered, and wasn’t crazy about being seen as a dictator that needed to be manipulated.
We are currently experimenting with- don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t come home wasted, get good grades… and I’ll leave you alone.
It’s a process.
That was the first week of September.
Last week, I got news a girl from my childhood, a family friend, was killed by her husband. She called the police and told them she was afraid for her life. The police kept her on the phone for two minutes. The phone went dead. Her husband called them back and confessed to killing her, and told them he was going to shoot himself in the head as soon as he hung up the phone.
She was 48 years old.
A few nights ago, I went to the wake of a five year old girl that died of leukemia. The little girl was in an open casket Her twin sister sat in a chair twenty feet away, playing with dolls.
The weather has been hot and beautiful, with September breeze and cobalt blue skies.
I haven’t wanted to get out of bed in the morning. I’m grieving for summer, the days when all I needed to parent was an agreed upon curfew and a secret stash of gummy bears, a good nights sleep, the rise of Donald Trump, the little girl playing with the doll five feet away from her cold, cold sister, and my friend, Laurie.
Sp this weekend, I went to the pond with a friend, and we swam across and around, and then across again. I sang along to the radio with my daughter on the ride home.
I took her and her friends to the dance, and listened to them chatter in the car afterwards, like I might find the meaning of life and how to go on inside their discussions of what happened in the Gaga pit, who likes to dance, who is going to be what on Halloween and how old is too old to dress up as fruit. It was decided that a person is never to old to dress up as fruit.
I took a different bunch of kids to Nantasket Beach today. We were the only ones in the water- it was sixty degrees. I dove under a wave, the cold stole my breath, I sprung to the surface and tilted my face to the sun. We laughed a lot, loud, enjoying how the people on the beach building castles, looking for lost phones or sea glass, looked at us. We were swimming in late September. We were laughing and diving and waiting for the tide to roll in. We wanted waves, real waves, to ride on our bellies, till we flopped on the shore with sand on our face, in between each toe, in the lines of our neck… But the tide didn’t come in and we were hungry.
We ate pizza and ice cream and came home.
This morning, “Somewhere over the Rainbow” came on, sung by the Hawaiian boy while he plays the ukelele.
My daughter let out a sound when she heard his voice, and ran to me. “That is the boy that died, mom, that died because he couldn’t breathe, because he was too big.”
She shivered. I reached over, I pulled her close to me. I put my arms around her shoulders and we stood still and swayed to the beautiful sounds of that boy singing that beautiful song.
I held onto her, she held on to me, and we listened. For a few moments, we were all in it together, I knew it was going to be all right. Never the same, times even harder and sadder are sure to come, but as long as there is someone I love around to hold me while we listen to Israel Kamakawiwo’ole’s promise that “someday, over the rainbow, bluebirds, fly…” I’ll remember how blessed I am to be sharing this corner of the world with the people I love.
When there are no beautiful moments, or good friends, or sweet songs available to lift me up , there are the daily tasks to be done. There is comfort in the putting away of socks in the right drawer, matched and folded, sweeping the kitchen, rearranging the books, and selecting clothes for tomorrow at work.
It is both the sweet, unscripted moments with the people I love and the sacred, regular rituals that I need that allow me to move forward, in times of grief and loss-
It’s raining out.
The car is wide open. Have you seen my keys?
Scratch that, can you help me find my keys.
I’m not mad.
your homework is in your backpack.
I love it when you rub my back. I’ll pick you up for dance class at 4 o’clock.
Don’t you love that song? Really love that song?
im sorry I haven’t brushed my teeth, I need to brush my teeth before I talk to you?
You need to comb your hair. Not before you talk to me, before you leave.
Where’s the peanut butter?
You took it the wrong way, you’ll see.
It’ll work itself when you see her in school.
I can’t live without peanut butter.
Oh my God- that can’t be true. What. happened.
Have you seen my black dress? My dark shoe?
You remembered to bring me coffee.
I love you. I wish you’d stop and just think sometimes.
i love you. I love you. I will always love you, even before you brush your teeth.
I Love You.
Going Swimming, Deep Thoughts and Then She Spoke.
August 15, 2015
I’ve been working late every night this week, and it’s the second week of August. By the time I got home it was 6:45. I’d promised my daughter a trip to Nantasket Beach tonight.
She probably would have been happier if we’d ordered a pizza and watched back to back episodes of Law and Order.
It was 7 pm when we loaded the car with a couple towels, clean underwear, and a gym bag with shampoo and swim goggles. Katy had a bottle of water. I was sipping on a cup of coffee I found on the kitchen table left over from this morning.
It was hot today, but it’s already the middle of August. By the time we got to the beach, it was 7:30. There was still sunlight, but a storm just left and another one’s coming in tomorrow. The water was cold.
I’m from New Jersey. It took me 5 years before I’d put my head in the water when we visited the Cape. Ten years before I’d even consider swimming in the waves, even on the bay side. It’s only been in the past few years that if I’m at the beach, and there’s not snow on the ground, or snow expected, I swim.
Katy went out with me. She danced around in the water. She scolded me. She laughed at me.
She told me stories about camp and some cooking channel on youtube and showed off some design on her fingernails.
And then Katy told me she’d had enough. She smiled sweetly, swam back to the shore, dried off and repainted her toenails.
I threw my body into the water, it was pretty damn cold, and I swam. I swam hard and fast. I could feel my muscles pull, my shoulders lift and my palms reach and stretch. I swam hard.
It felt good. The waves were soft, they’d lift me up and swing me, while I swam, and let me down. I never lost rhythm.
It’s taken me years and years and years to figure out that even though the water is cold, if I stay in long enough, and move fast enough, I get used to it. And it feels good.
The water, the swim, my hands, my toes, my heart, the sand, it all feels good, if I give it time.
This is something i started to learn later in life. I can get used to anything.
In the summer, in the water, this has served me well.
While I swam tonight, I wondered. What else have I gotten used to?
I’ve been inside this life a long time, I made hard choices and what felt like some bad decisions.
I think everything’s turned out all right.
But maybe I just got comfortable in my surroundings.
I look at Katy on the shore. She’s hard to spot. I don’t have my contacts on, and I swam far away, and even farther back to find her.
I fall out of the water when I’m sure it’s her.
She waits for me. She wraps me in a towel. She helps me find the keys and tells me that coming to Nantasket was a fantastic idea. Even if the water was too cold and my phone is almost out of power and what are we going to do about dinner.
“But, Mom, truly, really, really glad you made me come with you.“
I’ll never get used to my daughter telling me my ideas are fantastic.
If I’m gotten used to other things, if I’ve grown complacent and there is room for improvement in my life, I am capable of making whatever changes I need to make.
I swam three quarters of a mile in 65 degree water, tide coming in, and my daughter thinks I’m smart. Or at least capable of a good idea.
There’s still hope.
MY Job At Quincy College
August 15, 2015
It’s been a Long Week in my life.
Hours at work have been intense, I work for Quincy College and a large part of my job is working to help potential students become students.
This involves many conversations, involving almost every single candidate. There are conversations with the student, some parents chime in. I have Financial Aid on speed dial – “He hasn’t turned in his Financial Aid information form? Really?”
Admissions- “Are you sure you haven’t gotten her transcript? Can I put her thru to you?” Followed closely by the Registrar’s Office, the Business Office, the Deans, the Advisors- at the end of the week, I’ve talked a lot.
Occasionally I sit down with someone and they tell me about what their plans are, about which classes they’ll be taking, even about what they want to be when they grow up.
When a student leans forward, and starts to talk to me, I lean back and listen.
I don’t answer the phone. I ignore my son’s texts. I stop wondering what they will be serving upstairs for Karen’s Birthday or Michael’s going away.
I need this time with these people- kids, baby boomers, grandparents, unwed mothers, recovering addicts, struggling sons, international students from Nepal, Bulgaria, France, Haiti.
I need time with the people that come to me for help, I need to hear their stories so that I can remember why helping them is the best job I’ve ever had.
Life is Short, Vacations are Shorter.
August 10, 2015
It’s the Sunday night after vacation. The suitcases are empty, but I cant find the toothpaste. My daughter is almost ready for camp tomorrow but she is missing a favorite swim suit. Or is it a shoe?
Katy told me twenty minutes ago. She hasn’t noticed that since she turned nine I started tuning about her frantic announcements in regards to items of clothing and footwear. She has lots and lots and lots of everything. We are the recipients of hand-me-downs from four different families.
So if something is missing, it’s probably lost under a pile of stuff that certainly contains either the missing item or a replacement.
I’m going thru the motions of getting ready to return to work, but I’m weighted down with the- I’m not ready for the real world how did the week go by so fast and I don’t think I even got a tan Blues.
We just got home from Cape Cod. We make the trip every year with a family friend and his daughter.
The first few days are always slow. Long days at the pool, with brief trips across the street to the ocean during low tide. The girls looked for crabs. I pretended that swimming back and forth in the bay was exercise. Then I started looking for crabs too.
The girls ordered milkshakes for lunch and a half an hour later, chicken nuggets. We played Marco Polo even though there a lot of other people in the pool, ages ranging from 2 years old to 82 with no interest at all in playing Marco Polo.
We went to town and wandered down Commercial Street until a restaurant looked good.
We had all the time in the world then, only two days in. Sleeping in was a luxury we could afford, and we agreed to decide about whale watches and bike trips and boogie boarding tomorrow or the day after.
Then comes the day after, and while I sipped my first cup of coffee, negotiations began over bike trails or boat rides. We made dinner reservations after doing research. We planned naps, lunches and had a long conversation about whether or not we’d need to buy more sun block before the end of the week. Both of us seemed aware that we were now in the middle of the week and that our decisions carried weight.
When I said no to the whale watch, I had to recognize that this year, unless something really really strange happened and a whale decided to stop by MacMillan Pier in downtown Provincetown, I’m not going to see any whales. Up close, anyway. I thought about it for a while and it was a decision I could live with. (Sorry, James.)
By Thursday and Friday, we’d settled into a breakfast ritual. The girls knew each others card games. I remembered to hang the towels up where they belong and James remembered that I liked to watch Jon Stewart reruns before sleep. We had become a temporary family that is well aware it’s almost time to say goodbye.
Thursday morning, the girls went boogie boarding, I sat on the sand and watched. They didn’t complain about the wind. I didn’t mind just watching them, wobble, and fall, ride along on their bellies, climb back up, tip one over, crouch like surfers and stand straight like super models. I don’t usually watch. But I took one look at the long, heavy board, and at the wind on the waves and I laid down a towel.
On the last night, we went to our first drag show and were entertained by a beautiful cast of characters played by the one and only Electra. (I am now the proud owner of a tote bag, signed by Electra herself.)
James let my daughter pick out our last restaurant for dinner, where we ordered top shelf liquor and appetizers so fresh they weren’t even listed on the menu. The girls got two more tattoos. We stopped by our favorite tee shirt shops and I was introduced to a few gallery owners.
We took a pedi cab back to the car.
Right now, I feel decades away pedi cabs and whales and mudslides and sunblock. My daughter is mad at me because I didn’t help her find whatever it was she was looking for. I’m going back to work tomorrow at 8 am and I’d really like a day off to go thru my vacation photos.
By 9:15 tomorrow morning, it will be like I never went on vacation at all.
Life is short. I get that. I gave up smoking and I’m working on carbohydrates and considering giving up sugar and I do like yoga. I’m happy and willing to make changes in my life so that I will live a little bit longer.
Life is short, but it’s long enough to give us time to get used to the fact that it’s going to end. It’s also long enough that I think sometimes it gets boring, or horrible things happen, or quite often, you don’t even get a warning before check-out.
I’m going to have to call in sick tomorrow. I’ve got some pictures to put on the cloud and some Facebook friends to make.(I hope they remember me as more than a tourist? I hope they are the kind of people that want to have many, many Facebook friends, even if they are tourists.)
Maybe next year I need to go on a spectacularly bad vacation. Or take two weeks off. Or just enjoy long weekends spread out all year long.
Maybe what I need to do is re read the words I just wrote and think them thru for a moment.
I just got home from a beautiful vacation with some of my favorite people.
Life is short, vacations are shorter.
In light of that indisputable fact, I guess I’ll continue to take notes along the way.
julierichmond 