Mixed Emotions/ I’m going to my high school reunion in two weeks.
September 19, 2021
I live in Massachusetts and I grew up, mostly, in Jersey.
But Facebook means that even though it’s been years, I know that Jim is a doctor and just got divorced. Laurie just had a grandchild, Emma is a professor and Allan is killing it in real estate.
Facebook means there is a place where everyone from Mountain Lakes shares memories, obits, updates and asks for help- tracking down an old friend, prayers during a battle with cancer, supporting a business, a page, or a cause.
This is the thing, and I’m being careful because the reunion is next week, and I love my hometown. I have connected with people on social media who I didn’t know when I saw them every damn day in the hallways at the high school or in the parking lot at Del’s Village.
When people reminisce about Mountain Lakes, many talk about the town, and their youth, as if it was a spectacular aberration.
Yes, we had parties, and people played guitar. Yes, the parties were really good parties, and the Stanfield’s were the coolest family in the world, they had a fire pit, an open door policy, and their kids were and are some of the best, smartest, funniest, and most amazing people I know, as well as you can know someone years after you shared a beer with them in their backyard.
The football team won all their games. We skated all winter and swam all summer. We went to the Market for sandwiches and Roma for pizza, and the pizza was better than any pizza I’ve had since, including New York. Well, maybe NY pizza was a little bit better, I’m in Massachusetts. I’m deprived.
Mr. Fox was a magical art teacher. I remember what Mrs. Smith taught me in freshman English. Mr. Hoke recited Shakespeare in a baritone that I can still hear. There were bluegrass festivals two towns over, New York City was a bus ride away, I wrote poems on scraps of paper and people read them and said nice things, even though I don’t think they were that good.
I have pictures of me smiling in a black tuxedo and fishnets during something called GAA. a competition between two teams, Blue and the Orange, that happened each spring after months of preparation. Each team would pick a story, and perform it, like a musical with the songs being used as vehicles for different dances and gymnastics. I was excited when I made the the modern dance team, even though I was picked as second substitute. There’s a photo in the yearbook, I had thick thighs and a huge smile. (I didn’t smile between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, or so I’m told, but in that picture, I’m grinning.
Yes, it was a magical wonderful time. But it wasn’t all bonfires and pancake breakfasts.
It was being picked last at gym. Starting to drink beer because it made me a little less shy. Getting crappy grades because I always forgot my textbooks in my rush to be on time to watch General Hospital, bumming cigarettes during lunch, people getting sick of me bumming cigarettes during lunch, getting pinkeye every summer from swimming at Island Beach, not eating much and lying on the floor to put on my jeans because I’d had cereal for breakfast. Smoking pot and feeling dumb. Taking up beer and Marlboro lights with the enthusiasm some reserved for field hockey and making the honor roll. Not ever having a clue about what was coming next or where I wanted to land.
These memories aren’t specific to being a young person in Mountain Lakes. They aren’t specific to being young in the 80’s, young and privileged, young and female.
They are just some of the things I think of when I look back.
For many people, in Mountain Lakes, NJ, and Milton, Massachusetts, our memories are where we like to linger because now is so damned hard.
We tell ourselves and our children about life back then, and it all sounds glorious.
But I’m pretty sure we leave stuff out, or forget the worst. I do.
Because the now, with the sore hip and the Covid, the retirement looming and the dental bills mounting- it’s nice to look back to anything other than what I see in the mirror before I’m ready to look.
I just wanted to say Mountain Lakes was a great place to grow up. So is Milton. So are a million other places.
But, it was’t perfect. For me anyway. I still can’t wait to go back.
It will be nice to walk down the Boulevard and stand on the beach by Birchwood Lake.
It will be good to see people in three dimensions, especially after this past year. It will be nice to look back on all of the hard parts, the stuff I’d never talk about on Facebook, or with anyone. For me, growing up was one quarter bliss and Bruce Springsteen and three quarters braces and diets, wondering what to say next and wishing I’d said something else or nothing at all.
I’m grown, and I’m in pretty good place right now.
It’ll be nice to take a weekend to remember how I got here.
Day Six, On The Way to Drastic Steps
March 22, 2020
Mediation this morning was cut short. We didn’t make it the living room until 1130 and by the time we negotiated on the instructor, (it was Katy’s turn, according to Katy. It’s always Katy’s turn.) and sprawled, eyes closed, palms up, animals watching, it was almost noon.
Within seconds after the teacher’s voice started to flow, Sheldon started a home repair project that involved ripping up carpeting on the basement stairs. He wasn’t that noisy. There were not drills involved, and the door was closed. But I found it impossible to lay in the middle of the living room floor, listening to my breath, while my husband was dealt with the reek of cat urine that has lingered for weeks. Katy agreed to try it again later, and given that is after 8 pm, we’ll have to get back on that horse tomorrow.
We had planned to meet friends at Worlds End again today. The place matches the name, and given the current situation, I’m drawn there. I think Katy was happy to return because she likes the veggie burgers at Wahlbergers. But we didn’t get there either.
Around 1 pm, after a 10 minute attempt at Zumba in the living room, we decided we needed some downtime. From all the downtime, I guess. Katy made brownies. We turned on Criminal Minds, a show about FBI profilers that my daughter is partial to, and explains her recently expressed desire to study psychology. We ate brownies, watched tv, and catnapped for three hours. (I had not previously experienced this intense level of Netflix and chill.)
Afterwards, I did not feel chill. I’d missed calls from my friends. My leg was cramped, belly bloated with brownies, and brain disoriented by dozing thru stories of serial sex offenders and/or killers and the people that capture them. I almost let her talk me into one more about the cult and the Apache burial ground because my foot was asleep, but somehow, my inner mom rose to the occasion. I snagged the remote, stole Kate’s blanket, and sent her upstairs for warm clothes.
By 5, we were at Wollaston Beach. We walked far, and we talked about her boyfriend, if school would be back this year, why she’s a vegetarian and if she’d consider giving it up for quarantine, (no,) and why I always feel the need to talk while we’re walking. I would like someone to explain how I ended up with a Mona Lisa daughter, and why this mysterious one still likes me?
She might not. She’s mysterious, and she’s pragmatic. She recognizes I hold the car keys and the cash. And for right now, I’m the only friend she can see live and way too in person.
I asked her to think what I can do to help her thru this, and I’m going to try to make space for her to respond.
This quarantine allows me the opportunity to know my sixteen year old daughter, my Mona Lisa flutist with the messy room, passion for olive green teeshirts and hot pink nail polish. She is a girl of mystery that might not be mysterious at all. We both just might have been busy.
Tomorrow, I am going to clean the basement and read a book. I’m going to walk with my daughter, and make sure we meditate before Sheldon decides it’s time to empty out the kitchen cupboards. I am going to delete Facebook from my phone.
It’s time to take drastic steps. Here’s hoping our government steps up and does the same.
Peace.
Summer 2018- It Ain’t Over Until It’s Over
August 21, 2018
Mid to late August, it happens.
The back to school flyers weigh more than the news/travel/ and sports section combined.
My 14 year old daughter sighs and shakes her head-“I don’t know where the time went.”
Cunningham pool posts it’s last day. Sunblock goes on sale.
I look up from everything
To wonder how the hell that happened.
The pool might close,
assignments might be due,
but the sales are going to run until it’s time for Halloween.
Summertime is time out. Time off.
A day at the beach. An hour by the barbecue. An afternoon with a good book.
Some time at the park with your kids, grandkids,
or a bunch of dogs you’re babysitting,
spying on them on the swing in the playground,
wondering where the hell time went.
I don’t know where you’re at in the journey,
but I can pass this on.
The beach doesn’t close.
The barbecue doesn’t care if it’s Monday, November, or 4 am.
Cunningham pool shuts down,
but there’s ponds, kiddie pools,
the ocean, the bay,
and the bathtub,
all offering different water temperatures and dining options.
We can move thru life
At summertime slow,
Or fall frantic.
It’s still August, my friends.
No one is going to run out of pencils.
You don’t need to start wearing fall until January,
orange is not on the runway this year.
Revel in flip flops, sundresses, and shorts of all shapes,
until knees are blue.
Stay barefoot whenever you can, have something on hand
in case you want to enter a store, a restaurant,
or have an appointment with a court officer, or a prospective employer.
There are beaches, and the water is warm.
If the sharks bother you-
There are lakes, kayaks, italian ice, baseball, drive-ins, eating outside, eating takeout from the boxes in bed while watching Netflix, bike paths, hiking trails…
These are my summer time things.
I want to say- to myself- as much as you-
It doesn’t have to end because
the bus pass came in,
or a leaf turned,
or your son graduated high school, and all his friends are going to college,
and you want him to get ready for fall.
Summer is here.
It will not leave
until we mark
it in pen
Or email a colleague
Likely to note
it’s expected departure
On the calendar.
There is time
To call your family.
Text your friends.
Light a sparkler. Go dancing.
Sing along to the radio.
Roll down the top.
Roll down the window.
Laugh out loud.
Wish on a candle.
Look at the clouds.
Buy a beach towel that
means something.
Everything else goes by so fast, everything else-
This year,
Let summer last.
We don’t need to infringe
on the Fall season-
those that love the fall,
or make their living selling leafblowers, pumpkins, and autumn colored towels-
I respect their needs too,
I am just asking for a little room
to prepare for what needs to be done
in September.
There is work to be done in September.
This year,
I need a little extra time at the beach,
Before what comes
After Summer
2018.
Here it is, the Friday of July 4th weekend. It’s raining. I’m home alone.
My fifteen year old son is at the mall. Instead of being happy he’s not in the woods, all I can think about is that he’s decided to expand his career as a juvenile delinquent to include shoplifting.
My twelve year old daughter is at a friend’s house. She knew I was staying home this evening to take care of some homework, so she made me dinner. Then she spoke with me at the dinner table. I call her my little miracle.
After explaining to me for the fourth time that nothing had happened at camp all day, and that she thinks we should never, ever discuss Donald Trump during a meal, she picked up my take home exam for Writing for Communications. It’s due on Tuesday, July 5th. Yup, the day after July 4th weekend. Did I mention it’s the Friday before July 4th weekend?
Tomorrow night, we are packing up and going to the woods for a week. We will have a cabin with four beds and an old fashioned grill, the kind that uses charcoal, by the front door. We will share an outhouse with the thirty other campers. We will keep our food in coolers that will swallow ice like it’s beer at a ball game. The perishable food will get warm quickly so I need to pack a lot of granola bars. And peanut butter. And bread.
That’s the thing. I need to pack.
My daughter pointed this out to me while she gazed with horror at my exam. It consists of about five different assignments to cover everything we discussed in class. I need to transform four newspaper stories into thirty second radio spots. Next on the list is to explain what it takes to write a good proposal, and I’m pretty sure he’s not looking for something that would work on the Bachelor. Before I’m done I need to create a cover letter as a person applying for job as a Student Employment Director. (I am not thrilled with the cover letter portion. I don’t want to be a student employment director, not even a little bit and I’m afraid my lack of enthusiasm will show.)
Did I mention it’s Saturday of July Fourth weekend and I don’t even know if I own a flashlight and we are going camping for a week?
For the grande finale, I need to write a complete story- not a partial story, a novel, a comic book, an article, a Facebook post, a tweet, or an epic poem- a complete story. It must contain the words mentor, autonomy, conflagration, enigmatic, pithy, contrarian and pedestrian. (I’m surprised he didn’t give us the option to turn it into a radio show, my professor does seem a bit partial to radio.)
I’ve been writing stories for a long time now, and I like to write them in my own voice. My own voice is not pithy. It is everything but pithy. This is why I stay away from Twitter and people that like to tell me to get to the point.
Let’s take a look at enigmatic as a place to start. To be clear, I love enigmas. I love being around enigmatic people. They tend to lurk in shadows wearing mysterious cloaks or impeccably cut suits, have perfect eyebrows and great back stories they’ll share if they have enough expensive whiskey in their system. But enigmatic people aren’t really crazy about me. I’m not pithy enough and I can’t afford even cheap whiskey. Even if I could, I wouldn’t buy it. Cheap whiskey is kind of gross. So I don’t think even the kindest of enigmatic souls would give me enough material for a whole story and since they make me nervous I don’t want to ask.
I might be able to write a story in my own voice about being a pedestrian or I could talk about the beginnings of a conflagration I found in Colin’s bedroom the other night.
I walk a lot of places, and have rather strong feelings about pedestrian rights. I, as a pedestrian, have the right to cross into the middle of the street into oncoming traffic if a. I successfully make eye contact with the driver, b. it is either under thirty five degrees or over seventy degrees, fahrenheit, or c.) I am wearing heels higher than three quarters of an inch.
That would be a pretty unpopular story, even with me, because the majority of us are drivers most of the time. Walking out into oncoming traffic is pretty stupid. I wouldn’t make a very sympathetic narrator.
I can’t talk about the fact that at one thirty in the morning I was woken with a very strong feeling I was overseas in Amsterdam, I think. I dreamed I was perched on a bar stool in the middle of a bar that had been open without closing for business since 1987. As soon as it became clear I was actually in my basement in Milton, Massachusetts, I crept upstairs to investigate.
My son was holding a pipe with a bowl big enough to fit a baby’s head. It was overflowing, a tiny bonfire of sorts, and he was lifting to his lips when I opened the door. Until he gets a little smarter, or a lot older, he hasn’t earned the right of anonymity in my stories, photographic absence from my Facebook page on the first day of school and allowing me twenty four access to his cell phone. “This is not the path to autonomy!” I whispered to my son and his friend. I didn’t want to wake up the dog. The smell of pot makes her chase her tail and bark at the rug. This would then wake my daughter who was sleeping with the dog.
Even though he hasn’t earned any rights to privacy, I’ll respect them anyway and leave that story out.
The word that really concerns me is contrarian. I have always defined myself as a pacifist, so I’m not really comfortable with the contrarian point of view, though I guess one could be contrary and peaceful at the same time.
My son might disagree, basing his opinion on my position on mobile devices. According to my son, every other teenager on the planet has their cell phone available at all times-while they are in the shower, during final exams, at Aunt Margie’s funeral.
I am also a party of one when I insist he put the phone inside the phone case. According to Colin, it shouldn’t matter that the device cost seven hundred dollars if the teenager has a strange and steadfast position about not needing a phone case. Other parents don’t make their teenagers use phone cases, ever. It wouldn’t bother other parents at all if they went out and spent thirty five dollars on a phone case the girl at the Verizon store with the really cool tattoos, pale pink hair and bubble gum heels recommended.
It bothers me.
Why did I believe this unusual expert in retail telecommunications? I believed her because I am firmly convinced that everyone in the world knows more about my son than I do.
I bet he would have bought and used the case if he’d gone to the Verizon store without me. He would have listened to her.
I bet he’s a pot smoking, rule breaking, dirty clothes under the bed hiding, community service avoiding teenager because he saw me jay walk so often when he was a child. Actually, I’d grab his hand and and drag him across the street, while he squeaked “Mom, shouldn’t we wait for the light?”
Next time I have the urge to parent someone, I’ll mentor a cat. I think it’s pretty safe to say most of them are already screwed up, or at least they are so enigmatic, no one will be able to tell if I do any damage.
I’ll visit the online Quincy Animal shelter after I write this story. I think I could use a cat.
Did I mention I need to pack?
I’m a jaywalker and a procrastinator.
Considering that I was his role model, I’m lucky he’s nice to animals, does well in school and talks to me from time to time. He’ll even discuss politics over dinner.
Worlds Shrink, Kids Stink and Then I Found My Mat
June 18, 2016
My world was huge when I was in my twenties. I spent time in Boston, New York City and New Jersey, going from place to place, friend to friend, sofa to dorm room to home, with the ease of someone in their twenties. Boston had school and work, New York City was, well, New York City, and I had a boyfriend in New Jersey. I packed light, lost a lot of stuff, and borrowed even better stuff from the patient and/or clueless people in my life. I think I still have a cashmere sweater from my mom. She is neither patient, nor clueless, but she is unfailingly generous, and the color wasn’t good on her.I don’t know if she knows I have it. Please don’t tell her.
I got older, Boston became home. The boyfriend relocated to my apartment in Allston, we spent a lot of times at clubs in the city. Often, we would hire a cab to take us to Walden Pond when I missed the suburbs.There were frequent invitations to the Cape, I’m not sure why, neither of us was particularly charming, attractive or well off. But we were happy to head out for a weekend with little or no notice, so I guess we were the people to call when a new people were needed, vacations can get boring when you’re spending time with the same people you have breakfast with all year.
In those days, I moved a lot. I liked to stay up late. I liked to invite my friends over to stay up late with me. Landlords don’t appreciate tenants that stay up late, especially on Monday and Tuesday nights, and have friends that are happy to join them for endless games of scrabble or alcohol fueled conversations about what we were going to do the next day, even though all of us knew the next day was going to start around five o’clock in the evening.
Within a year of settling in to a new place, I’d receive the eviction notice. I lived in Allston, Brighton, Brookline, the South End, Bay Village, the South End, the Fenway, all within ten years. Finally I landed in in Dorchester Ma, in a huge one bedroom owned by one of the friends that liked staying up late. I was living with a different boyfriend and running a profitable business from my apartment. I still went out two or three times a week to clubs or dives most nights, the cab fare was just a little more expensive. I visited Block Island a couple of times a year, I talked to mom on the phone instead of visiting NJ.
When the stick turned pink, and the proposal came, we drove up to NH to take our vows. We were going to get married outside. I was seven months pregnant; maybe I hoped I could hide my huge belly behind a tree. There were bugs. We got married in the foyer of the inn next to the reception desk. There was a family of five, just coming back from the lake, wrapped in wet towels, wearing flip flops, with the two youngest brandishing sand pails, that volunteered to be our witnesses. By the time the family was thru with the wedding cake- I had to offer them something and hadn’t even thought about a reception, the cake was gone. No slices for the freezer.
After child number two, we moved to Milton, a small town in Southern Massachusetts, right off the highway. Lots of woods, huge municipal swimming pool, good schools and public transportation five minutes away from the town center. We drank the Koolaid and bought the house. My world, my big, big, world, became even smaller.
There were no last minute trips to the Cape or nights out at the club. Spur of the moment day adventures to Walden were few. Packing a bag for two small children to spend a day forty five minutes away at a pond is more complicated than the packing I did when I was relocating to a different area code. Two cans of bug spray, three kinds of sun block, diapers, socks, extra socks, water, juice, hats, sun glasses, books, coloring books, books for me, change of clothes for all, wipes, snacks for him, snacks for her, and Ativan for me. I think I miss packing for the lake less than the joy of car seats. If you don’t know, you might. Good luck.
I’ve lived in the big world, or at least a corner of it, in the Northeast part of the United States. Then I had kids, and my world shrunk to whatever space they occupied.
They are teenagers now. Now that they are older, I suppose I could expand my universe a bit, visit an old haunt, head to New Jersey for a weekend to see some high school friends, head to the City for a Broadway show.
The truth is I’m happy at home with just one, actually two, human glitches. The teenagers are, quite often, here too. The space is cluttered with chatter of youtube, the streaming of sound cloud, socks, (you can smell the stench in New Jersey) smudged plates and pizza crusts, unfamiliar voices that usually respond to whatever question or comment I make like they aren’t quite sure who I am or why I am bothering them, large and very florescent shoes, backpacks, hair products, cereal boxes, which must randomly distributed throughout the house so they will never, ever go hungry, even if they find themselves in a hallway,- sometimes there isn’t any room for me.
The Cape isn’t an option on a Monday night, I have work in the morning. Clubs are out. I don’t want have friends over at three am, I don’t know anyone anymore that likes to stay out until three am, and as I recall, things didn’t really get interesting until three am.
So when I need to escape, I pull on a yoga top and yoga pants. I wear the yoga pants because everyone wears yoga pants, I wear yoga tops because when you spend a lot of time touching your toes, or doing that downward dog thing yogis are so fond of, a yoga shirt stays on your body like a one piece one size too small. I wore a tee shirt once, and spent the entire class confronted with the fact that I need to eat less food, plank more, or buy a yoga top. I bought the top.
I actually have my own yoga mat. The fact it is the same yoga mat I started with about six years ago is a miracle. I lost Colin at Canobie Lake Park, I lose my parking card so often the sour face attendant gives me a high five when I hand it over. I have six different novelty key rings, with the trackers that make the funny noises in a drawer somewhere. If they ever turn up, I could probably play a song with them.
I go into class. I take off my shoes and silence my phone. I step on my mat. I sit on a block, ( why do you need to sit on a block you might ask? I don’t know, but everyone else sits on a block, so I sit on the block like the sheep that I am, see comment above about yoga pants,) We breathe and I wriggle a bit, on our blocks until the teacher begins.
We move through the poses, each time it’s different. The music changes, I take classes in vinyasa flow, meditative yoga, hot yoga, whatever is offered whenever I get there.
I listen to the teacher. I move my body. I arch my back, I lift my arms, I balance on one leg, I breathe.
I am at home inside the space of my mat. Even at the end of class, during savasana, (time for muscles to process all the work is the party line, I just think it’s a power nap,) I am thinking about dinner, work tomorrow, if I will ever be able to support my entire body on my elbows, whether or not it’s worth it give up pasta, but I am not wondering where I want to be next.
I’m on the mat. There’s plenty of space for me and all that I am on a flat piece of blue rubber, slightly ridged, two feet by six feet, in Milton, Massachusetts.
It took me a long time to get here.
Spring Band Concert/ reflections on community
March 16, 2016
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.
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.
Maybe by Breakfast
May 2, 2015
Tonight was my daughter’s fifth grade dance. After careful negotiations, I was allowed to serve as chaperone.
I was the cotton candy ice scooper.
When the 5 gallon canister was empty, I had a chance to linger on the sidelines. I would have been dismissed, but I was the ride home.
I talked to some of the other moms, but mostly we looked toward the dance floor and smiled and nodded and sighed. We moms would shift our weight from one foot to the other in time to the music. We would flutter around the floor with phones and cameras aimed at the action or picking up half empty water bottles and forgotten cookies. We juggled and stowed coats, sweaters, pictures, snacks, and ipods.
And we watched.
The kids were fireflies and shooting stars. I know it sounds like I’ve been listening to too much Katy Perry, but they were. I couldn’t even get a decent snapshot, Katy raced from one end of the dance floor, to the water fountain, to her friend with the long hair, back up to the stage. She was a laughing blur that knew all the dance moves, even from songs that came out before she was born. Her friends, all the kids, moved with grace and confidence and joy. They took photos of each other, without pausing to rearrange themselves, or find a smile or a pout. They held and shot and moved on to the next thing, a snack or a dance or another photograph.
Tonight was a beautiful blur, and I wonder if any of the pictures we all so diligently snapped will capture any of it.
And now it’s almost ten, and Katy’s brushing her teeth upstairs and I’ve got the Macarena stuck in my head.
Good night, Kaitlin.
Please be my little girl again by breakfast.
Just until it’s time for lunch.
julierichmond 