Winter in New England or I Really, Really Need to Get To the Gym
February 6, 2015
My son was due at a game at 8, so we left at 7:30. The Parish where his team plays is only a mile away, but he wanted Gatorade and I wanted to take my time.
When I tried to pull out of the driveway, I got stuck in a snow drift. I gunned the engine. I spun the wheel. I tried to reverse. I spun the wheel. I snarled at Colin to get out of the car and “do something.”
He hopped out, ran to my side of the car, watched my wheel spin in mountain of ice and more ice, thru his hands up in the air.
I told him to get back in the car.
Well, I didn’t tell him anything. I think I honked, twice.
He got in, eyes looked straight forward. I gunned the engine, hit reverse, thru the car into drive and somehow, something somewhere gave. The car rocked forward, then shot back, straight into a snow bank six feet high.
I put my foot on the gas, and we lurched forward towards the gas station, toward the church, toward all the other mini vans shuttling their boys to the game on a night that really should have seen everyone home wearing flannel or footsie pajamas.
I said- “Colin, you gotta believe in me. I’m a complete bad ass!”
I had broken a wall of snow and ice. I had conquered my minivan and made it my b^&*ch.
“Mom, bad asses don’t tell people their bad asses.”
All of the sudden, there I was.- a suburban mom in a 2008 Dodge Caravan with an unfortunate predilection for listening to Eminem at the gym.
I dropped him off and wished him luck.
So maybe driving in the snow doesn’t make me tough.
But I got him to his game on time. And I didn’t bang my fists on the steering wheel, or curse New England in February or try to run over a squirrel.
So maybe I’m not a bad ass.
But this winter has made me fierce as hell.
Bring. It. On.
About 8:30, I slid into some black snow pants. Katy put elastics round her mittens to keep the snow from slipping down her sleeves. I kissed Sophia The Summer Time Dog goodbye on the nose and promised I would never, ever take her along sledding.
There was no one at Andrews Park except some fool with a dog. Well, he’s probably a very nice guy, but his timing wasn’t good. Katy and I were there to sled.
There was a streetlight a few blocks down that blinked and flashed like fire flies or shooting stars, orange, slightly industrial shooting stars.
The snow was vast, an ocean of snow, and the hill was a mountain.
After I finished my first ride, Katy got mad at me because I didn’t want to climb all the way to the top of the hill to start the next one.
I was afraid of ice. She told me to follow her, to walk sideways, to crawl forward like a bear.
I sat down in the middle of that hill and enjoyed a very nice ride.
By the end of the night, Katy and I raced, from the top.
I didn’t fall down on ice if I walked sideways or like a bear.
I won three times, thought it was because I weigh a bit more than my 11 year old daughter.
Further experimentation showed that I had been using the better sled, when we switched, she crushed me.
Of course, she also could have been letting me win all along and gotten sick of it.
I don’t want to know. But I wouldn’t mind going tomorrow night to find out.
And the world looks very different when I’m sprawled on a boogie board, head tilled back. The trees are upside town, the sky is closer and the snow smells sweet in it’s natural habitat.
Dripping on kitchen floors, clinging to mittens on the radiator, snow reeks of chores and arrogance and endless loads of laundry.
While I lay on my back, head tilted back off the sled, watching the sky, seeing for the first time how long the branches are on the oak tree that Katy crashed into six springtimes ago, the first time she took out the two wheeler, everything looked and smelled and sounded different.
Then my daughter called out- “Mom, I think it’s time to wrap it up… Where are your gloves… And why is your head in the snow?”
And we went home.
Snap shots and Hind Sight
January 20, 2015
I opened my eyes at 8:32 in the morning and realized I had 25 minutes to wake up my son, put on shirt, (I went to sleep in my yoga pants to save time,) make coffee, drink coffee, feed cats, wake up dog, feed dog, let dog out back. I had to find my own sneakers and help son find basketball.
I realized at 8:34 none of this was going to happen. I took the journey up the stairs and woke Colin to tell him the Y was off the radar, at least this morning.
Now, I had time… I wasn’t due to pick up Katy’s friend for lunch/ice skating until 11:30. I ate a bowl of Honey Nuts while I peered at the latest Facebook brawl on Milton Neighbors.
I spent 12 minutes looking for matches to light the pilot, finally asked husband. Matches. Even when I smoked, I could never find matches. Coffee. Good, strong,, coffee. My favorite cup was in the dishwasher. I drank it out of a mug I picked up at Disney World 15 years ago. Before kids. I can’t believe it’s survived. I should hide it now that I just said that.
For about 25 minutes I wandered around the house, nagging kids, sweeping rugs, wiping counters. Katy decided to make waffles. I nixed the idea; we had no eggs. According the mix, no eggs were required. Katy was allowed to make waffles if she cleaned her room and figured out why her room smelled like stale milk smell.
She cleaned her room, I think. I didn’t check. Colin wanted waffles and I didn’t want to have to have another conversation about why it’s important to put clothes in drawers. I try to limit that one to three times a week and it’s only Monday.
I checked the clock. It was 11:05. I found leash, told Sophie that we were going for a “walk”. She didn’t even wag her tail until I waved the leash a foot from her nose. I’d promised her a “walk” at 9:07. We walked.
I got home, grabbed Kate. dug out skates and confirmed the bank card was still in the wallet. I offered Colin the daily speech about what he needed to do before I returned home.
We finally picked up Katy’s friend. After watching her come down her stairs, I R=realized Katy and I should probably be wearing more than windbreakers. It’s January. In Boston. And we were going to skating on ice in a pond by the waterfront. I prayed I would be able to locate gloves in three minutes I planned to spend back home.
Colin was thrilled to see me. He was so happy to have an opportunity to review all the points I had made 8 minutes before. We collected what we could, Katy put on her winter coat and I stole something from the closet with a fuzzy lining.
We drove to South Boston, parked the car and took the t to Park Street. There was a march scheduled downtown today, in honor of Martin Luther King Day and to protest the recent deaths of black suspects at the hands of the police.
The side walk was crowded with protesters. One man said to another, “You gotta respect them, they are police.” The gentleman responded, matter of fact- “They are not police, they’re pigs.”
The girls and I ducked in Dunkin Doughnuts. They were crushed, this Dunkin Doughnuts did not serve the latest in their hot chocolate options, SMores. They settled on regular, but were mildly appeased when I ordered them mediums, instead of the promised smalls, and decided whipped cream makes everything better.
When we left, and stepped outside into the group of people preparing to march, one smiled and waved at Katy. Another grabbed the door and held it open. We stayed close till we found a crosswalk. We waited for the sign to say walk, then we walked, holding hands, clutching cups. I was wondering if I should have a hat.
I was trying to figure out if we should have a conversation about what was going on 15 feet away.
We looked for fat squirrels. Katy has a thing for fat squirrels and last time we visited every fifteen feet we’d trip over another one, bellies so close the ground they wouldn’t scamper so much as lurch. Today, the squirrels looked pretty fit. New years resolutions and all that, maybe peoples scraps are more of the whole wheat wrap, fresh fruit variety.
Katy was disappointed, and I promised her we’d visit Castle Island in South Boston next weekend. I’m thinking the current fitness trend probably hasn’t affected the rodent population over there.
We got to Frog Pond, still clutching our skates and our hot chocolates. Katy’s friend (she’s only skated twice) had endured a five minutes lecture from me about the importance of bending your knees and holding onto the wall.
The line was longer than the line at the snack bar at Castle Island in the summer on a 90 degree day on a holiday weekend. They sell really good snacks at Castle Island. So good that people will wait in line for an hour for a hot dog and some onion rings. Of course, if they are not standing in line, they are sitting on a bench or on the beach, wondering how much longer they have to stay until they can say they’ve had a nice day and leave. So snacks might be the high point. Unless the person really likes swings and/or touring big building that had something to do with the Revolutionary War. And there is a lot of room at Castle Island.
Not so much room at the Frog Pond, and from what I could see from the line of people waiting, if just 50 percent of them got on the ice, we wouldn’t so much be skating as inching forward carefully, hoping that the person in front of us or behind didn’t stop suddenly, or actually try to ice skate.
So we switched it up. When plans get foiled, lunch is good. Faneuil Hall is perfect. We thru our skates over our shoulders and trudged towards food. On the way, we visited to graveyards, where we talked about what happens when bodies decay, the first subway tunnel build in Boston, (1898, and we saw the tunnel) and what would happen if a zombie apacolypse happened.
When we got to the bottom of the hill, we came across a line of about 30 policemen, waiting for the protesters, which were about a half a mile away. They walked us across the street. The police looked tired. When I thanked a black police officer, he smiled. But he was watching the crowd advancing in our direction. I was a fly. I don’t know what they were to him. I couldn’t see his eyes, he was wearing sunglasses.
Durgin.Park. Gelato. Pajamas and necklaces and hot sausages and turkey legs and screaming kids, and outside shops and inside buildings with lanes of food and teeshirts and key chains and cookies and lobster rolls and cannoli. I can’t begin to describe it. It’s warm and it’s overpriced and it smells good and it’s a tourist trap. And today, with my girl and her friends, we were tourists.
I wasn’t a woman who has been watching the news and trying to figure out what to tell my children. Or even what to believe myself.
On the way back, right by the Park Street T, there is a small shop down a long flight of stairs. It is an art gallery, like one of the ones of Newbury. Except this art gallery has a little of everything, photos, jewelry made of bottle caps, seascapes and huge canvasses by Pollack admires, cute postcards, like the one with a funky monster with the caption “I’m always in a bad mood.” It was funny, so I must be remembering it wrong. Lots of postcards, and little boxes with illustrations of angels.
Even though it sold lots of postcards and prints, it had a bench right in the middle. The bench faced about 10 or 15 pieces of Serious Art. Katy and her friend and I sat there for about twenty minutes. We wondered if someone in kindergarten could splash together an abstract if provided enough finger paint. We looked at the picture the stripe of blue down the middle and the thick stripes of brown on the side, Katy remembered climbing the dunes in Provincetown.
Katy’s friend peeled off her coat, placed it on the bench and got up and followed me over to series of small portraits in the corner. The artist had done something with the paint, or the medium to make the faces jump out of the painting. I know she wanted to touch. She didn’t, just checked each one out from all angles.
There was a street car ride home. An invitation from a friend to go to church service over in Dorchester to celebrate the life of MLK.
But we hadn’t had dinner. And I felt guilty about not taking the girls skating, so I’d promised a trip to the gym. So I said no.
I got Katy’s friend home on time.
I made spaghetti sauce and added some fancy prosciutto to the ground beef because I wanted something dense and meaty. The temperature had dropped about fifteen degrees from when we got on the street car to when I finally made it back to the house.
Dinner was good, it was hearty and filling and everything a woman could want to serve her family on a winter night.
But I’m remembering the man who insisted all cops were pigs. And I’m wishing I knew what the police officer was thinking behind his sun glasses while he helped us across the street.
And I’m wondering if the best I can do for my children is to nag them to clean their rooms, take them ice skating and coordinate rides to their various practices and workshops, even ‘expose” them to little art when time allows.
And is there anyway all of that can justify skipping a church service right down the street, today, on Martin Luther King day, in the middle of everything going on right now, because I wanted a workout and I hadn’t started dinner.
I think I made a mistake.
Bangs, Infinity and Shades of Blue
December 29, 2014
I have never been a woman that accessorized. I lose earrings. Bracelets get caught in my steering wheel. And every time I change my bag, I lose my license. Or a credit card. Or my favorite lipstick.
Six months ago, something happened. I “stole” a scarf from my 11 year old daughter. The scarf had been hanging around a teddy bears neck since her 8th birthday party so don’t judge me too harshly. I liked wearing it. It was like Jacob’s coat of many colors except it was a scarf. And it went with everything. It had many colors. I felt like a grown up. I felt like I could guest host a talk show. I felt “put together.”
Next, a friend passed on a scarf, or shawl, or pashmina, a large piece of cloth intended for draping around the upper half of the body. I liked wearing that too, though I still haven’t quite figured out what to do with it. Most of the time, I put it over my head if it’s raining. Once I get inside, I fold it into a triangle and pretend I’m a woman in need of a rocking chair. Which often I am.
For Christmas, I got two infinity scarves. Are you familiar with this latest rage sweeping the nation? (I think it’s been a few years, but I don’t get to the hair salon very often. The last Vogue I read was from 2012. I think they might have used the term revolutionary. Or maybe they were talking about a new kind of bang. As in short cropped hair on the forehead. There are a lot of revolutions in the world of accessories and hair. Not just the kind that grows on your head but that’s a whole ‘nother story. I need to go to the salon more.)
They are both blue, my new Christmas infinity scarves. One is turquoise blue, the other is a royal blue. They both go with almost everything I own, especially when framed by my very favorite jean jacket. Which is denim blue. (Duh, you are thinking. No, I’m telling you. Denim is not necessarily the color of denim any more. It was hard to find a denim colored denim jacket.)
I like them. I, who have never worn any accessories, except for brief binges on earrings, an intense love affair with a wrist cuff, and a series of flirtations in my late 30’s with a series of hair ornaments, have embraced the scarf. For the time being. The patchwork scarf I stole from my daughter. The burnt orange hand me down from my dear friend that I have yet to define. And the two Christmas gifts in the most beautiful shades of blue. Infinity scarfs.
The givers knew me well. The scarves are circular, so there is no draping or tying or folding to be done. It is not likely they will slip into my coffee or dangle in my soup.
And I need to eat more soup. I’ve seen the commercials. Women that eat lots of soup look like they are about 34, have perfectly groomed eyebrows and can shop for swim suits on line because everything looks good on them.
Christmas is over. It’s time to put away cup cakes and frivolous attempts at holding onto pairs of earrings, and to embrace the simple truth that I am a woman that needs simplicity in all things.
And two infinity scarfs in two shades of blue seems to be a really nice way to start.
I will survive this winter in New England, in shades of blue and green and gold. It’s nice to know that the people I love knew I needed a little help to stay warm this year.
The Way I Need To Be
December 28, 2014
I’ve developed a few coping mechanisms that help me live with a part time alcoholic.
The day after he goes on one of those booze fueled mini vacations commonly referred to as a bender, I go shopping. Now, one of the disadvantages of living with a part time alcoholic is we don’t have a whole lot of money, but at the very least, I take the family to Chipotle or buy a dress of the clearance rack at Marshalls.
The day after is also a terrific opportunity for me to get him to take over chauffeur duty for the kids. And pick up the birthday present for the cousin. And head over to Pet Co for the special kind of cat litter that can go weeks without scooping.
I really appreciate the glimpses of him when he’s sober. I don’t see that much of him. If he was sober all the time, I wouldn’t appreciate those moments so much. They are fleeting but sometimes we’ll laugh over something one of the kids did or we’ll listen to a new song on the radio and I remember I’m someone’s wife. It’s nice.
He’s always working, or on his way home from work. On his way home from work could mean he’s on his way home from work, or that he isn’t working anymore and he is sitting at the pub watching the tv and pondering if he should head home and risk the conversation we’ll have as soon as I realize he stopped at the pub or if he should stay at the pub until he’s sure I’ve gone to sleep. I sleep soundly now.
It took me a while, but after living with a part time alcoholic for a long, long time, I’m good at going to sleep in difficult situations. And sleeping thru the sound of the door opening. And his uneven steps thru the house. I like sleep.
My kids are good at sleeping thru all kinds of crap, too.
I used to confront him when he’d come home late. I had a temper then.
I’m pretty even tempered now. Maybe it’s because make sure I get my eight hours a night. And I treat myself and the kids once in a while.
Or maybe because I need to be.
Perpective
December 5, 2014
At this moment in time, I know where my car keys are, my eyeglasses, (They’d been missing for a month, and last night I had a dream that revealed their location. Really.) both of our tv remotes, the cats, Sophie the Sweetest of Pups, my gym bag, the favorite cup, the house phone, the mobile, scissors, pens- I can even tell you where to find a band aid.
On the other hand, I misplaced the tablet, our dryer is busted so there are clothes draped on every available surface and our towels are crunchy, Christmas is coming. I need to make an appointment to get my teeth cleaned, and I’m having a hard time adjusting to the whole new full time job thing.
I have a new job! A job I love at Quincy College, 2 minutes away from our house, with a terrific boss and a really cool team that is kind and doesn’t mind that sometimes most of my sentences end in exclamation points. And Christmas is coming!
But I haven’t had as much time to go to the gym as I like, and I miss my friends and long dog walks with the Wondrous One.
Breathe.
I know where most of my stuff is, there is a gym in the basement of the building I work, my friends are on Facebook, and I know where my children are. I know they will be coming home to me tonight, safe. And that we live in a tiny corner of the world where the odds are everyone is coming home tonight.
I am fortunate woman.
I am also a sad woman. A woman whose heart has broken more than a little in these past few weeks for all of the mothers and sons out there who aren’t so fortunate.
There is space inside me for both.
I’d Like You to Know- An Open Letter Possibly Directed Towards Certain Younger Members of My Immediate Family
September 12, 2014
I love you.
(Just want to make this clear, I am, by nature a very loving person. It’s safe to say I love almost everyone. Well, like almost everyone. If I’m having a good day. You get the point- as I write these words, love is in my heart.)
Even though I love you, it is not a good time when I go to the store at 8:30 at night to buy you earbuds so that you can get pumped on the way to the game tomorrow.
It is not a barrel of laughs standing in the middle of your bedroom trying to figure out how, in 36 hours, every piece of clothing you have ever warn, in your entire life, seems to be scattered on your floor, draped on over sized pillows, dangling from your music stand, or stuffed under your bed.
I understand that you regard it as a kind gesture on your part to accept my help cleaning it up, but this process, well, also not a day at the beach. Or a day at the dog park. Or even an hour in the dentists office reading People.
I’ve established I’m a pretty nice person to the people in my life. And I don’t regret the late night shopping, or the early morning to mid Saturday afternoon attempts to return order. I didn’t even mind the late nights spent with glue and poster board, a map of Ecuador and your friend with the allergies, whose mom made me move every single piece of food that might have been exposed to peanuts or peanut dust out to our shed. Which meant transporting everything in our cupboards, except the spice rack, outside.
Why did we do the project at our house? Because you wanted my help. I think. (Looking back, it was probably because your friends mom wouldn’t let you listen to the radio, but I’m going to choose, for my purposes here, to go with you wanted my help.
And both of you, or all of you, you all out there- Still want my help on a daily frigging basis.
So why you gotta be so rude? (I can hear the eyeballs rolling as I type.)
How can you act like sitting down to dinner of barbecued chicken, corn on the cob, and rice, is a favor? And that I should be thankful to you to eat the barbecued chicken and rice, the corn is too labor intensive, while sitting next to me. And that I shouldn’t complain when after four minutes you get up to leave. After all, you sat next to me. You didn’t point out that you prefer legs, and mashed potatoes. You didn’t even try to bring it down to the tv room. I got to spend four minutes with you, and you even put your dish somewhere near the sink.
Let me point out, I didn’t even serve a real vegetable in honor of your presence. And that I attempted to look wide awake and interested while you explained, for the 89th times, what “special teams” are in terms of football.
And that just sitting next to me for four minutes isn’t enough.
This is what I want from the people in my life- I would like you to be nice to me.
I would like you to ask about my day before you start walking upstairs to bed.
I would like you to laugh at my jokes. Ok, maybe about a quarter of my jokes. We can work out a signal so that you know that a joke is coming, so that you can laugh. Or chuckle softly. Or even not roll your eyes.
I would like you to say thank you and please when I hand you your laundry instead of pointing out that when Michael’s mom washed your socks, they came back “white, actually, white!!! Can you call her and find out how she did it?”
I would like you to know that sometimes you hurt my feelings.
I know that my feelings are the last things on your mind, and I accept that orchestra, and algebra, and going for a bike ride with Amanda, and procuring money for another trip to Milton House of Pizza, that all of these things are probably a little more on the forefront of your mind than my feelings.
I would like you to know that your friends won’t think you are a complete loser if you say hi to me after the game. And that I will rent Spiderman two if you’ll hold my hand when it gets scary.
And I’d like you to know that even when you hurt my feelings, I get over it pretty quick.
And I start thinking about what it would be like if I stopped driving you to practice, or making sure you have enough money for snacks, or reminding you about the project due on Monday.
Sometimes I have a lot of free time. To think.
I’m just sayin”
Thanks, I think, (It’s not over yet, but I’m sure it will all be ok) AKA I’m not ready to be the mother of teenagers!
August 18, 2014
| This summer, I sat down with my 14 year old son and discussed, in depth, porn and pot. | ||
| I took my 11 year old daughter shopping for a swimsuit. She came out of the dressing room a young woman. A young woman that had discovered what horrible lighting, unforgiving mirrors, and a swim suit one size too small can make can make a person feel like spending the summer on the couch. | ||
| This is not a time that lends itself to facebook posts. | ||
| I look at my son and I swoon when he smiles and I cringe when he opens his mouth. | ||
| I reach for my daughter and she’s left the building or she leans on my shoulder and giggles or she takes a deep breath and explains the world. | ||
| I don’t know what’s happening next. Just that summer is almost just about done and fall means we are all moving on and I wish I could have this summer one more time | ||
| Next year. Cause it’s only going to get more complicated. | ||
| Or just worse. | ||
| It’s going to get worse. And ‘m going to wish I’d appreciated now- these past few months, even with the awkward conversations and sad revelations, more than I did.
After all, there was long games of catch in the back yard, watching Colin’s face beam as he showed me a snake he caught at Ponkapoag Lake, the way Katy still puts her hand in mine when we cross the street, lots and lots of ice cream, and more time than I’d like to admit, curled up in bed, all three of us watching Brooklyn 99 reruns. |
||
| I’m going to wish for a lot of things. | ||
| . | ||
| Growing pains suck. For me. For them. | ||
| But I couldn’t wish for two smarter, cooler, funnier, kinder kids. | ||
| While they sleep upstairs, I count my blessings, pray for help, and thank God for all the memories. | ||
Maybe Ten Steps AWay
July 1, 2014
This is the weekend our next door neighbors finally packed up their things and moved. Well, that’s not true. They’ve been packing their things for three months now. I’ve been mourning their departure for about six months, when Thao first told me they had rented a home in Atlanta. So we’ve been saying good bye for a long, long time.
Saturday night, I took my daughter and the two girls that lived next door for so long up to Canobie Lake Park. I wanted to give them one last adventure together,and get them away from the boxes and the trash bags and all of the detritus that clutters a house that is being left. I let the older daughter bring a friend, as a bribe to get her to come too. It’s lonely at Canobie, with four pre-teen and teenage girls, all of whom would rather do anything than go on the chicken ride with me. But I brought a book. I had decided it was not my night to be a martyr, but to be a good mom and a great friend.
Thao, the mom, thinks she doesn’t speak very good English but I always understood what she was saying. We worried about our children together, while I stood in her beautiful kitchen with the shiniest floors in the world. She loves bananas and etsy and beautiful clothes. She has a smile so big I would laugh whenever she smiled at me.
Tue is the youngest. She grew up with Katy. They made videos of themselves dancing along to pop songs, and I’d watch them tonight, but then I will not only miss the Vo’s but the two little girls that aren’t so little any more. Tue is crazy smart. She told me yesterday that she is concerned today’s youth are becoming too disconnected from the world. I’m glad she’s one of today’s youth, she gives me hope.
Thanh is older, she’s in my son Colin’s grade. She is level headed, and kind, and hates fruit with an intensity most people save for brussels sprouts or really bad winters. She used to be shy and nervous. I remember once taking her with my family to Scream Fest, and spending the evening walking around looking for something that didn’t look very scary. I think I ate a lot o junk food that night. Now she is self possessed and graceful. If she is still nervous, I think it’s mostly about being made to eat fruit. And since it is unlikely she will ever find herself in a situation where that happens, I think she’ll be fine. Better than fine. Thanh is and will be amazing.
I never knew their Dad’s name until yesterday. It’s Hue, though I’m sure I spelled it wrong. He would show up at our door with huge bowls of noodle soup, or massive slivers of cake, or platters of shiny chicken wings. He is the only man I know that looks good in red pants. He loves his family.
And Coco. Coco was their little mini pinscher. Coco is a mean, nasty, yappy little dog and Coco probably loves me better than anyone. Ever. Than my mom even. Being loved like that feels really good, even when he’s trying to jam his sharp toothed little head into my mouth.
There is much more to say. But I’m going to let it be tonight. In life there is love and change and loss. And there is the blessing of truly getting to know another family, and the thousands of memories they have given us over the years.
Tonight, after we had said our goodbyes, my daughter grabbed me by the hand. She said- “Come on, Mom, we have to go stand by the drive way and wave good bye.
I had, like I mentioned, laundry to put away. So many phone calls to make. An online test I need to complete for my job. A library book that needed finding, and a dishwasher that needed loading.
But I followed her outside. We stood at the front of the house,by the porch that Katy and Tue played in all winter long. I’m really not sure what they did in there, just that it involved boxes and plastic dolls and a chalkboard. We waited in the twilight, on the stoop, next to an abandoned coffee cup. Ten minutes went by. I got impatient, all that damned stuff pressing down like a thousand heavy boxes on me. “We’re waiting, Mom.”
We got bit by mosquitos. We talked about books and camp and being nicer to her older brother. I think I saw a bat.
And when they pulled out, we waved goodbye and we smiled and we told them good luck.
And then we walked home in the dark. But it wasn’t far. Ten steps maybe. They were as close to us as neighbors can be. And really, really, really wonderful friends.
Sentimental Journey On the Way to Buy Cat Food
May 4, 2014
I was driving to the grocery store this evening and went right by a playground. It was just after 7, dusk here in New England, windy and cloudy and warm. It was crowded; spring has been a long time coming and some of us are not quite convinced it’s here to stay.
And a thought came to me- My kids don’t go the playground with me anymore. Colin is 13, Katy is 10. They go to the park these days, all by themselves or in packs with other kids from the neighborhood.
I hadn’t even noticed the passing of playground days, and they are gone, along with mornings of helping them pick out their clothes for school and the Thursday night phone calls in search of a sitter.
I remembered our trips to Andrews Park. Katy would clutch my hand, which would then smell like peanut butter until I got home. Colin would race ahead, clutching a frisbee or a football or a backpack with snacks. I would juggle my phone and my iced coffee and a book, all while one of my hands was clenched inside Katy’s warm, smudgy grip.
When we got there, I swear, it took us twenty minutes at least, and Andrews is three blocks away, I’d find a bench and settle down with the book and the drink and the phone. I’d make nervous conversations with other mothers, who all seemed to know each other, while eyeing my kids to make sure they didn’t hijack the swings. I’d wish I’d brought wipes, or bottled water. I’d look at my phone and calculate how much longer we’d have to stay until I could safely give them the five minute warning. I’d wonder what was underneath all the sand in the sandbox, if that was even sand in the sandbox. I’d call someone, anyone at all who might pick up the phone, and wouldn’t mind helping me kill some time until I could safely check the time again. Finally, Katy would make me push her on the swing. Then Colin would make me throw him a ball, or shoot baskets, or teach him how to make a frisbee sail thru the air. And I’d wish I was just a little bit better at doing any of those things while looking around to make sure no one was watching. And they weren’t. Until whatever I was throwing hit someone in the head.
Today, I took Katy to SOWA, an open air market with food trucks and art galleries and one stand that had an entire display of 19 different kinds of cheese. Colin went with me last week to the Y, and we worked on the new Keiser equipment. I can’t get a basket, well I can, but it’s not that often, but I can work with him on strength training to help his jump shot. Next month, I’m going to take them to see Lion King, The Musical, which is a helluva lot more fun than watching the Disney video four times in the same afternoon, (not that we ever spent that much time in front of the tv.)
So tonight I was sad for a bit that the playground days are gone until I thought about it. Now, I’m mostly relieved. Though I’m thinking that for Mother’s Day, I might request a sentimental journey over to the swing set on Castle Island. And I will let Colin and Katy take turns pushing me.
julierichmond 