Not An Easy Sunday
November 7, 2022
Sunday mornings I start my day, sometimes in my pajamas, at 750 am. I go to the gym down the street for a 8 o’clock Pilates class. I reserve a space three days in advance; it’s popular because it’s ridiculously hard but eighty percent of the time, we’re lying down, on our backs or our bellies, so it suits the lazy, the hungover, and the people that want to look good in a bikini. The classes are never the same, but I can count on a Joni Mitchell, Taylor Swift, James Taylor, type music, on the playlist.
It is hard, it is not so hard. If I chose. I can do pushups from my knees and use light weights. I like staying low to the ground when I’m just waking up.
Today, there was someone new. The music was soft. The moves were hard; ten minutes of side planks on a Sunday? There was stretching, and then more work. It was lovely. It was different. It ended at 849 am, four minutes over.
Church is at 1030. I’d signed up to teach religious education, or Sunday School, which means I spent half the service with eight 7th graders, helping the lead teacher with the lesson of the week. I’ve been out of the loop for a while, so I didn’t know the kids or the teacher, at all.
I made friends with Leona, the artist, and Sebastian, the shy one. The lesson had an African theme, my husband volunteered to fry the plaintains, (a job assigned to me,) so I could join everyone out to the yard and watch our group play a game.
It is November in New England and this morning the temperature was over sixty degrees. There is something delicious about spinning around in the leaves and the wind on a November morning in very short sleeves.
I can’t remember the name of our activity, but it came from Africa and hiding, then finding stones, was the point. The leaves have mostly fallen, so there were breaks to hang on naked branches, examine seeed pods, and discuss whose turn was next. No one slipped on the wet grass, or broke a limb, the human or the tree kind. At the end, we lost about half the stones, and the lead teacher said that was impressive.
We all tried the fried plaintains, and I don’t think they were that good, but some of the kids liked them or were polite.
I raced home afterewards to get ready for a funeral for a friend. This was a woman I worked with a long time ago at Quincy College. I can’t sum her up in a few words. She smiled with her eyes, adored sparkly eye shadow, spoke her mind without lowering her voice, and was someone I would call a friend today, even though it’s been four years, because she was loyal and fierce and…
I will think of her often. I wish I’d seen her before she died and after Covid.
There was dinner with friends and two glasses of Chardonnay. There was a walk around the block, Sophie sniffed, and Chanel sniffed and pulled.
And now, I am home. I am thinking about church and faith. I am thinking about my kids when they were young, and if the dogs will need another walk. The windows are open, so I’m thinking about global warming. I hear Colin’s voice upstairs, I wonder if I should remind him to bring his trash down tonight; tomorrow is Monday.
I am thinking about my friend Pat- years ago, she told me my boots were too beat up to wear to work, I gave them away the next week.
I am thinking about how two weeks ago, my friend and I talked about visiting Pat at a home and how she was a little confused. Both of us knew we didn’t have the time to make the trip.
So many people were there to say goodbye today. I hope she was watching.
We toasted at her when we got our drinks, and then conversation moved on- to classes, work, flight plans, holidays, kids and conversations.
That’s the way it goes, I guess. One day isn’t ever one day, really, it’s a million tiny days sandwiched between waking up and sliding in between the sheets.
May peace be with you, Pat.
May peace be with all of you,
Julie
Miracles Happen.
January 16, 2021
For a time, I posted regularly on all channels about my life, including details about my daughter, husband, son, workouts… I shared and shared and shared.
The first of January one of my first orders of business was less time on social media- scrolling through my feed, checking likes, fussing about how to share the challenges and bliss of my new position at Blue Cross MA, obsession with spin class at home, (support your local gym, they are struggling,) and clicking on all links that left me sprawled on my sofa for hours.
Social media made me put off conversations with my daughter, and the exploding number of plastic containers in my cupboard without lids intended to store food I am not making because I am on staring a screen looking up someone from middle school.
I have written numerous posts about Sophia the Sweet, a pitfall border collie mutt, struggling with liver and kidney disease. Six months ago, Sheldon and I sat in the parking lot at the vet waiting to hear if it was time for us to “end her misery.” She was walking into walls, not eating scraps of Sheldon’s Italian subs, barking at neighbors, or lifting her head when Maurice the Cat strolled in the room.
It came out of nowhere, we said, but not really. We were busy with Covid, Colin, my 20 year old pain in the ass, oh-so-charming, son, and weren’t paying attention.
These days, mid January, Sophie seems fine.
We stopped taking her to the vet for check-ins; the visits made her tremble and cost a fortune.
We are feeding her a low protein diet topped with oven fried chicken, tenderloin, or slow cooked ham.
She won’t walk at Cunningham Park, but is happy to stroll the neighborhood.
Sophie likes to take me round a long slow mile as long as I don’t tug on the leash. She is not comfortable being photographed, sniffing or rolling. She is comfortable with the current covid restrictions because she is shy and anti social.
I am doing quite well because Sophia sleeps on my feet.She doesn’t get up when I do; (remember, I have a job, and it does require I get up in the morning).
I am a woman whose emotional health is tied to whether her dog looks happy to see her.
Oh, yeah… This isn’t about me.
Miracles happen.
Deep sigh…I don’t know where to start.
I started a new job that requires eight hours a day of training, in a tiny office just off the tv room, next to the pellet stove, five feet away from the back door. I work in front of one lap top and two huge monitors, one of which is pushed to the back of my desk and is dark. The training is challenging, the others in my class are rock stars, my leader is patient, funny, and patient.
I start every morning at 8:50 am, and am in my chair until 5. Lunch is glorious, and usually consists of avocado toast, eaten during class time so that during my allotted hour, I can take Sophia the Amazing for a walk, clean the kitchen, or workout in the living room, while Sophie watches from the couch or tries to climb up my thigh.
Dinner is a work in progress, either oven fried chicken, (Sophie’s favorite,) smoothies, (Katy and I ate too much at lunch,) or whatever looked good the night before when I googled recipes for what we have in the fridge.
Most nights, there is a workout, just because my body and my soul feel the need to jump around after spending the day in a chair learning things.
When I’m lucky, there is tv with Katy, at the end of it all. We watched Anne With An E and have moved onto Designated Survivor. I miss commercials, sometimes. Sometimes, I remember the pause button.
Sometimes, I wish life had a pause button, and then I remember it does.
Bed is early. Before sleep, I watch The Office, because it’s leaving Netflix, and there is pressure. I read.
From time to time, I collapse on the mattress, find the sheet, turn out the light, and fall asleep, like it’s easy to sleep, these days.
In between, I floss, sweep, check the headlines, call my mom, fold laundry, wander around Amazon, sip coffee, ask Sheldon if he’s ok, use my water pick, sweep, argue with Katy over the state of her room, how to load the dishwasher, or whether or not it is bad manners to not respond to a cheery “Good morning”. She says any response, even if it’s a sigh, behind a door, under sheets, blankets, and a cat named Maurice, counts.
I miss Facebook and Instagram- looking at pictures of what everyone else is eating for dinner, hearing about bad days, and victories, checking out dogs, cats, kids, and home renovations.
I miss likes, conversations, writing things out, rewriting, saying something, and being heard.
We are all missing so much right now, and making adjustments.
My life is good, and different. I am lonely as hell, contented, scared, and grateful.
How you doin’?
Thanksgiving. Covid. Colin.
November 27, 2020
My son is twenty years old.
I lost him about the time he was halfway through his sophomore year in high school. I’m not going into details here, except to say that was the point where I began to realize I could ground him, shriek, take away his phone, and nothing worked.
I made threats and he offered intense promises on the ride home from the police station. My husband and I shared nervous trips to the court house, endured discussions with parents on the courthouse steps, searches on google for an air freshener that eliminates the smell of pot, searches on google for a place for kids like him, conversations with friends that ended quickly because I didn’t know how to spin any of it.
Colin is twenty now.
There is my baby boy who wouldn’t fall asleep without plastic zoo animals, couch pillows, his favorite pot holder and a special blue blue blanket in his crib.
There is Colin of elementary school, who tried karate, loved his bunk beds, and wanted a dog more than anything.
There is Colin, the teenager. He played football, partied in the woods, set the table, had friends over on school nights and hid them in the closet, woke up for basketball practice without an alarm, asked for a waffle maker for Christmas, and was a genius at making his sister do his chores.
There is Colin, the young man on house arrest. A picture with him in the driveway was part of the senior scavenger hunt.
We fought with his probation officer to let him play basketball in the driveway, and sometimes he’d shoot hoops when the weather was nice, but mostly, he’d sit outside the back door and look at his phone.
And there is Colin now.
Tonight, I sat next to my son during dinner. It’s Thanksgiving, 2020. We were at a restaurant, and our masks were all placed in front of our silverware.
He lives five minutes away, but he took an Uber to the restaurant.
It’s been six months since we shared a meal.
I don’t know what he watches on Netflix, who he’s sleeping with, if he still eats Lucky Charms for breakfast, takes thirty minutes in the shower, and twenty minutes to dry off and drop his towels on the floor.
I don’t even know why he came to dinner.
I don’t care if Colin smells like 1969, is twenty minutes late, or wears a jacket that costs more than what I spend on groceries.
I love him more than spring, Springsteen, or the little boy he was, when it was easy. (Maybe it wasn’t easy, but looking back it seems like it was easier than now.)
If you offered me a million dollars, I couldn’t tell you Colin’s favorite color, how to make him laugh, or the first thing he remembered.
I know he is amazing, and will do amazing things. Not sure why or when, but there is such a thing as unconditional love and faith.
That is pretty big, I think.
Monday Night, I Have Time and Wine.
November 17, 2020
I’ve been a lot of people.
I’ve been a seven year old who wouldn’t turn on the fan in my bedroom because I didn’t want to waste power, wrote love stories about horses, and put a dead rabbit in the drawer in hopes I could bring it back to life when I was older.
I’ve been a teenager who guzzled Colt 45 in an outhouse, loved a boy and didn’t know him, and thought I was invincible- from heartbreak, time, and regret.
I’ve been a twenty something without a clue- about how to help my father die of early onset Alzheimer’s, what to be when I grew up, who to love and how to say goodbye or make it last.
My thirties were a blur. I’m not going into details, tonight, at least. I had fun, I think. I learned to swim on the days after I partied too much. I swam a lot. I spent too much money, and I cherish the people that knew me then who still love me now.
My forties brought parenthood. Against all odds, I had two kids, a son at 39 and a daughter at 43. I was not, and am not, a fan of babies and toddlers, so my favorite moments early on are dropping my child, or children, at a friends’ house for the weekend.
When they were able to have a conversation that didn’t involve a debate over macaroni and cheese or whether or not I’d continue to push them on the swings, they became interesting. They made me laugh, and still do. They are far smarter than I will ever be, kind, patient, funny, and fascinating. They are are also incredibly private about what I share, and since I’m not I’m not on SnapChat, I don’t know if it’s me or their personal brand.
I wish I’d finished college before the age of 56.
I wish I liked more about babies than the way they smell, and found my toddlers as delightful as a great book, or even a semi good thriller.
I wish I’d known I will not go on forever.
But now, it’s a pandemic, my kids are good, I have a house, a dog who thinks she’s a cat and two cats who like to nap on the kitchen table, and a husband who likes me even when I’m mean. I wake up without regrets, except for wishing I’d had a clue. I guess finding one is kind of the point of everything.
Find joy in where you’ve been, and who you are.
I do, and I’m a mess.
julierichmond 