Mother’s Day, Not the Hallmark Version.
May 12, 2025
When I look back on my experience with motherhood, and being a daughter, the first memories that come to mind are not of time in the kitchen learning to cook family favorites, flying kites, making collages or coaching kid’s soccer.
I cringe a little.
My own mom and I struggled; I was an ass from a very young age and gifted at running to my father over every interaction that didn’t go my way. She, I don’t think, knew what to do with this hot tempered, angry, young woman who challenged almost every word that came out of her mouth.
After I had my own kids, it took me years to become the mom I wanted to be. I still had a temper, was impatient, and as self involved as a twelve year old. I remember giving Katy a bath in the sink while she was a baby and checking the clock minute by minute to see how much longer until I could put her to bed and have a glass of wine.
Colin and I were close until we weren’t. Maybe his temper was passed down from me, maybe he responded to my distracted parenting style. When he turned thirteen or fourteen, the wars began. You can find details of our battles, edited for both of our sakes, on these pages. I broke into his social media, he’d chase me around the house screaming for me to give his phone back.
Oh my god, how did we survive the drama?
And we did. Somewhere along the way, with a little help from my mom and my kids, and maybe that enemy of all, time.
I love being my mother’s daughter. I can’t go a day without calling her. She might appreciate it if I didn’t call her so much. We talk about Wordle, birds, her cat, my dogs, the news, what’s for dinner, and what’s on tv. She tells me regularly how proud she is of me, as a mom, as a professional, as a writer. Her words lift me up because she doesn’t bestow praise to be polite. Never did. (I’m pretty sure when I was younger, that made me a little bit crazy.)
And my kids? Katy is not shy about letting me know I could have done better when she was young, but she also calls me for advice. She’s twenty-one, so I think I’m mostly redeemed. Like my mom, when she says something nice, I hold onto her words for days. People say she looks like me, but really, she may have my eyes, but she is calmer, kinder, and incredibly good at crafting, so I’m pretty sure I was just a vessel that fed her meals and took her to checkups.
There is Colin, my angry young man. He is twenty-four, crazy charming, and absolutely determined to every damn thing his own way. We went out to dinner the other night, me and Sheldon, Colin and Jasmin, and the four of us sat at the table for three hours, talking, laughing, and telling stories. About his life in Oregon. About the students at Mcphs. About our dog, Sophie, his second Christmas, and what it was like to watch him play basketball. I’d like to see him get to a gym and take it up again. He’ll find his way there, or not, but not because I suggested it. Even through our tough years, he always gave the best hugs, and he still does.
I wish wish wish I hadn’t taken so long to get to the place I am now. I wish I’d taken more videos, counted to ten before raising my voice, insisted on eating dinner together every night, (that tradition faded when sports, dance classes, and work, took over). We could have found a way.
It’s incredible, to look back on the tough times, and realize that somehow, it all worked out.
Yes, I get scolded by Katy if I offer to clean out her closet. And it takes Colin two or three days to call me back. But when they are nearby, they come home and they stay for a while. I’m sad to them leave, but grateful I don’t have to worry about what time they’ll be home.
I’d like to wish my Mom the very best Mother’s Day. I promise not to call you at 7 am anymore and to try remember which days you play bridge. I am just as proud of you as you are of me, if not more so. You are smart, strong, kind, and amazing. We made it to the good part together, isn’t it wonderful?
To everyone, Happy Mother’s Day.
Being a good parent, or a good kid, is hard as hell.
Death of an ex-love and a dear friend.
February 18, 2025
{I didn’t know what to title this; the man who I am speaking about was one of the first men I fell in love with; knee knocking, short of breath, the- I can’t believe that guy wearing the blazer, the fisherman’s cap, just tilted, and the gloves without fingers was walking towards me AND smiling- kind of love. But that was a million years ago, and our relationship as friends lasted about twenty five years longer than our entanglement.}
On Valentine’s morning, my husband drove to the airport; I was flying home to NJ to attend the funeral of someone I love.
Being in love while being on drugs makes for sad stories, TJ and I were not a couple you’d choose as godparents. Our relationship didn’t start that way, I have as many sweet memories as funny ones, as ones of heartbreak. I will save these for another time.
About thirty years ago, he got clean, joined the program, had a baby girl, who is now a young woman named Molly.
I called him when I was scared of a path my son Colin was on; I called him when I was struggling in my marriage. He called me to tell stories about his daughter and brag about his dogs. He called me when his ex, the mother of his daughter, tried to steal custody. We leaned on each other, laughed a lot, and always picked up each other’s calls. After the kids grew up, we’d swap dog photos and talk about upcoming concerts or shows. He told me what bands to listen to, told me all about the bands I was already listening to, he knew music, TJ knew music.
The week before he died, he texted that he’d been put on the transplant list.
I got word on Facebook messenger, his new lung didn’t get there in time. I texted him just after, wrote the words “say it isn’t so.”
The memorial service was held a month later, on February 15th. The church was standing room only. Friends and family got up and told stories, it lasted over an hour.
I was a little disappointed to discover I wasn’t the only one he ended calls with “I love you, bye.”
Afterwards, I saw his sisters and hugged them long enough we made up for lost time. I met his daughter, and wished I had the words she needed to stop her crying, but no one did, or will, for a while, I’d imagine.
When everything was over, I spent time with Norma, his wife. We went outside and compared notes about this man that I loved and the man she still loves, and I put my number in her phone. She stole my heart when she told me how he’d always loved me and he’d always felt as if he’d never truly made amends for the ugly moments towards the end.
He’d apologized a thousand times, over the years. On the phone. Over text.
And he never needed to apologize for a damned thing. We were two kids who loved each other who didn’t have a clue how to be in the world and were grabbing on to anything and everyone for help. He felt the pull of the pipe at the end, I drank vodka gimlets and Jamieson’s until I’d pass out.
He had nothing to apologize for. I am a better, stronger, woman for knowing him, and lord knows, I have much better taste in music than most, mostly, but not entirely, thanks to him. (He would like that.)
I will miss him all my days, and take this opportunity to say the last words this time-
“I love you, TJ, bye.”
Melancholy, Magical, Time of the Year.
December 17, 2023
I’m writing this in my kitchen, at a table with a log centerpiece and branches studded with holly. There is scented hand soap and a bag of homemade candy by the sculptured pitcher my daughter brought home from college. We don’t have holiday napkins; stores are already displaying napkins for Valentines, so we’ll have to make beige paper squares from the coffee shop.
I’m a little bit sad. I’m writing this here, instead of posting on social media, because I don’t want my words to seem like I’m looking for sympathy or heart emojis. I’m putting thoughts to keyboard because this is how I handle whatever is weighing me down, or lifting my heart.
It’s simple. This year, somewhere along the way, I lost some friends. Not to death, to a new baby, or because of a long distance move. Not sure how or why they have faded off the radar. But they did, and I miss them.
I have tried, periodically, over the past few months to reconnect, but when you are told, many times, “let me let you go, I have to take this call,” or texts are answered days later, it’s time.
That’s part of being alive, I suppose, and having friends. Life happens and sometimes we need to clean out the people in our lives the way we let go of old shoes or spent linens. Sometimes, there just isn’t time to keep up with everyone, people need to let go of some old friends to make room for new ones, new passions, or just space.
I suppose I’ve done the same to people in my life, though I can’t recall. It’s easy, as I charge forward, juggling kids, work, gym classes, and plans, to forget about the people I must of forgotten to call back, or follow up with.
It’s the holidays, so the people I’ve loved feel especially absent, because this is the time of year when we lean towards those who are most important in our lives.
Please, don’t feel bad for me. I have a plethora of people who pick up the phone when I call, even those who hate picking up the phone- “Julie, really, you could have texted!” I have people who remember my birthday and can tell you the last time I had a cold and the first time, and hopefully, last, I fixed the dishwasher. I have friends that “like” the multitudes of dog pictures I post, even if they are all starting to look like the last one, friends who bring me books, really good books, and leave them on my doorstep, just because.
So I’m good. I have plenty of friends and people who love me. I’m just missing a few and felt like telling the world in case you are missing someone, too.
We can miss our people together until we stop missing them.
Soon enough, focus will shift to the people in my life who really want me to be there.
While I’m waiting, I will take the dogs for a walk. There is rain and wind in the forecast. All I have to do is hold out a few leashes, and soon enough, Jack will step on my foot, Chanel will steal the ball from Bernie, and I’ll be too busy looking for poop bags to fuss about some people I used to know.
Happy Holidays!
Facebook Memories and Real life Regets
October 29, 2023
Facebook memories come up almost every day when I sign on.
There are sweet moments and pictures where I bask in the joy of my 13 year old son laughing at a joke, a snow day, Katy in her costume for Irish step dancing, Sophie, zumba marathons at the Y, fall leaves at Cunningham, a birthday party at Chuckie Cheese, a Christmas morning with Nancy and Jeff, a full moon, a new song, the craft fair at church.
Some sting- Colin’s picture on his first day of football practice at the high school, just before I lost him, before I realized when I said be home by 11, he wouldn’t be.
There are posts and pictures from Quincy College pre Covid, when I’d been hired full-time, and I thought I’d found my forever home.
There are the photos of Katy, Tue, and Thanh, Andre, Robin, Parisa, Anya, Lucy, Jeff, Sophia, and Daisy, our first pet.
I set up a Facebook page called “Find Daisy Doodle”. She must have slipped out late at night and we never heard her at the door. I only mourn her when she comes up. She loved me, but was a Yorkshire, and a little mean to everyone that wasn’t me. When I got the call, at the church, that she was found, I thought she was fine. They had to spell it out over the phone, while I stepped away from a committee meeting for Religious Education.
(Out of the other people I mentioned, only Jeff is gone, and I am blessed to still be connected to everyone else. On Facebook, mostly, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here.)
It was close to Thanksgiving, I think. That day, or the next, Katy, Colin, and I trekked up to Northshore Animal Shelter. We met dogs. I fell in love with an Australian Shephard and Colin stepped in. “Mom, that dog is not great with kids. Let’s keep looking.”
We kept on. We met Sophie, part of a litter that had just come in from Georgia, found at a Walmart as the legend goes. She was mellow, just the right age, the right size, available immediately.
We brought her home, after Colin approved. Katy was there but loved all the dogs and would have agreed to any one that Colin chose.
They don’t tell you at the shelter that new dogs are mellow. They’ve just had their shots and are weary and stoned.
Within days, Sophie was a puppy who ran. She’d slip out the back door to visit the bunnies by Andrews. She’d take off at Cunningham just before it was time to go home. She found ways out of the back yard, and she was skilled at slipping her collar, on a late night dog walk.
We’d run or drive around in the car, calling her name, begging her with treats that smelled like peanut butter or Sheldon’s leftover Big Mac. Colin was the master; I think I called him home from friends’ houses to help.
But that was when it was getting close to the time where things became difficult. Maybe I sensed that asking Colin for help- with Sophie, finding the keys, making dinner, was important.
I should have asked for help more. Or less. Maybe then, he would have leaned on me and things would be different.
Katy’s at college, and Colin picks up my calls.
I wish I could connect how we got from the memories I see on my phone, and the photos we show on the mantle, to now.
How do I talk to my kids about something else than when they’re coming back home and how long they’ll stay?
How do I write look at the moon when I said that in 2014, 2018, 2020, and last month?
How can I ramble on about how I like dogs, pop music, the gym, and my family when I’ve said it over and over again?
But you know, when I look at the moon tonight, it’s just as magnificent, as it was the first time I said it, and we are just as likely not to remember it’s out there.
I forget to look at the moon. I forget to step outside and pause to look up, while the dogs pull at their leashes, and I think about what time I need to get up in the morning.
Tonight, it seems the moon is hanging over a world that feels a little more hopeless.
Maybe it’s more important than it ever was to admit that I don’t know if I did everything right.
I have more time, but I’m scared of being redundant, or old, overly optimistic, or filled with doom.
So I’ll just say- I love having Facebook memories.
I won’t have any if I I stop taking note.
The moon is fantastic tonight.
The best way to take care of yourself is to take care of yourself.
I choose to start with the moon and a phone call to someone that might have forgotten it’s out there.
Now, it’s late, but there is tomorrow, which is the greatest luxury of all
Mine is a nest that is empty, but with dogs.
September 16, 2023
I’ve gotten used to the quiet without Colin or Kate; my nineteen year old and twenty three year old have both left for the summer, one for school, one for good, maybe.
I don’t automatically shout at the speaker to play the radio when I walk in the door.
I don’t feel like anything or anyone is missing when I’m home unless Sheldon has the dogs out for a walk.
I miss life ten years ago, until I remember conversations about homework, clothes on the stairs, the phone calls from school.
Then, on the ride to work, Facebook memories turn up on my phone, which I’m staring at because it’s too early for conversation. (Social media is just the right amount of human engagement before 8 am. I can quietly judge people and then step away before I’m disgusted I’m judging people.)
I want time to move backwards. I want to yell out to the adults, standing at the bus stop-“enjoy all of this. It will pass, they will drive, and then they will drive away.”
I spot tired parents, dressed for work parents, and parents who look happy to be there, who know what I know now and didn’t know then, even a little.
I don’t remember the last time I walked Katy to the bus. One day, I was holding her hand and squinting my eyes and the next, she was walking with friends.
It is fall, and I’m settling into the season. I like wearing slippers and hearing the leaves crackle under my feet while I walk in the woods, I won’t miss mud or mosquitos.
As long as no one tries to make me drink a pumpkin spice latte, I’ll be fine.
Seasons change. I have changed.
I wish I knew then what I know now, but at least I’ve learned something along the way.
I’d really like to tell you
September 16, 2023
Tonight, I’d like to tell you that sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice when I left Quincy College.
I’d love to describe what it’s like at my new job, at Massachusetts College of Pharmacy and Health Science, how it feels to have an office, with a door, and that sunflowers became my favorite flowers when I found them on my desk that first day.
I want to tell you about this summer- how awesome it was to spend time with Kate, without the shadow of Colin, in the next room or just upstairs, barking into the phone or playing video games with the volume all the way up. He was at home for a year and a half, on house arrest, because someone found a large quantity of pot in his apartment.
Since he’s been gone, I text him a few times a week. I answer his calls, even if I’m in the shower or with a student.
I set out today with my friend Alison for a final dip at Nantasket, even though the forecast called for scattered showers. When the downpour started, we both turned around and headed to Derby Street, for some mediocre mussels and a decent cucumber Margarita.
I’m grateful I had time with Alison, she was one of my best friends at QC. I like the sweater I bought at Kohls. I am coming to terms that we probably won’t go to the beach again until next year, unless it’s to watch the dogs play in the water, while we shiver on the boardwalk and wonder if summer will ever come around again.
I’d like to share what it feels like to throw my body in front of a wave and be lifted for a second or two before landing, sometimes on my feet, sometimes on my ass, when it’s done. It takes a long, long time to get used to water temperatures of 58 to 65 degrees. It can take a half an hour, at least ,with the numb all the way up my body until, slowly, my toes and my knees wake, my muscles unclench. The water feels cold and glorious, but it takes time and patience. A person shouldn’t go to the beach in Massachusetts if they are on tight schedule, unless they usually swim in Maine, where the water is much colder. I liked thinking about swimming in the ocean, tonight, while I wrote this.
It amazes me what me body and soul can get used to, when I take my time. This can be both glorious and dangerous, if you think about it.
The summer, we spent a lot of time at the beach, walking the dogs, or putting off things that need to be done.
Last week, I made a list-
Our dishwasher leaks, the ice maker is on strike, and both our cars have check engine lights blazing, 80 percent of the time.
My laptop won’t connect to the internet. My watch won’t connect to my phone.
The new espresso machine makes lousy espresso.
I just spent a half an hour in the park after dark because the dogs really needed the space and the cool night air.
It’s been hot. Or I’m cold, in a house or an office with the air conditioner dripping rivers outside the window and frost from the vents.
There has not been much time for reflection or even group exercise classes.
But there is enough for yoga in the living room, with Chanel climbing my leg Bernadette sprawling under my plank, and Jack climbing Chanel.
There is enough time for phone calls to the people I love who are far, and a walk or a meal with the people I love who are close.
There is time for sleep, and a few minutes of a an ancient Pat Conroy novel just before.
There will be time, soon enough, to deal with the ice maker, the Buick, and the lack of lattes. My priorities are different than they used to be.
I’m looking forward to tomorrow, and tomorrow is Monday, so I’d say my life is pretty damn good.
I’m Pretty Sure This Will Happen to Most of Us.
April 25, 2023
It happened tonight at the gym. It happens all the time when I’m working with high school students, having drinks at bar, walking my dog, watching television.
I feel a tiny wince somewhere in my chest, I wish I was that young. I’d like a do over or a do it all again.
This doesn’t last long. I don’t have the option of wallowing when I’m raising a twelve pound weight over my head, explaining the difference between subsidized and unsubsidized loans to a seventeen year old, or hanging out with my friends.
We’re all so busy lately. I’m busy, my friends are busy, everyone at work is losing their minds. Some of my colleagues are eating lunch at their desks, staying long after doors lock and sending emails at 2 am Sunday morning. (Not me. I have lunch with my friends, but that’s a different story, because my friends at work are the best.)
Essentially, I have too much going on to dwell on my age, or whatever the hell age I’d like to be.
Tonight, I dwelled.
When I was in high school, I drank Miller Lite behind the bathroom at the Tourne, a park in my hometown. A lot of people did this, I was known for being Rob’s shadow and spent the first six months of our relationship agreeing with everything Rob said, until we’d been together for a few months.
Around this time, I discovered the excruciating joy of passionate arguments in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, in the snow, barefoot, because whatever the hell we were fighting was so important it couldn’t wait four hour until he picked me up for school. When I wasn’t whipped up and hysterical about Rob, I used my free time to squabble with my mom about why I had to empty the dishwasher when we had a housecleaner, and walk around a lake called Mountain Lake. I didn’t do any homework or play any sports, but it’s obvious, I was quite busy.
During my twenties, I was sad. My father died when I was twenty-two, and although he’d been sick for a while, his loss hit hard. I wasn’t hospitalized; I went to school, held some jobs, went through the motions, but looking back, I see a sad girl who should have been in therapy.
During my thirties, the first thing my brain tells me to write is I had a damn good time. I was on guest lists, went to concerts in limos, stayed up until dawn playing backgammon, and weirdly enough, talking about high school. I shopped. I hung out at the pool on the roofdeck on the Sheridan. I went to Walden Pond whenever my friend was kind enough to take me, and if she wasn’t up for it, I took a cab out to Concord and made the driver wait until I was finished. (I had a collection of cabdrivers that drove me places and brought me food and alcohol when I didn’t want to leave the house or the liquor stores were closing.)
Most nights, when we were out, I’d leave first, and head back to my apartment to wait for my friends to come over after the bars closed. I don’t like waiting in line for the bathroom and crowds make me uncomfortable. The limos were nice, and the concerts were amazing, but mostly, what I remember is trying to locate the limos after the concerts. That was not fun, and often took a very long time. Backgammon is fun, especially when you’re winning, but Walden and winning backgammon games aren’t enough to redeem a decade that, from this angle, looks pretty shallow.
I had children in my forties. I remember trying to hold slippery Kate up in the sink so I could wash her hair, and almost dropping her, because I turned around to look at the clock. I needed to know how many more minutes until I could put her to bed.
I skipped through parts of Lemony Snicket when I was reading to Colin because I wanted to get back downstairs to some tv show.
I loved taking them to the pool but we didn’t go often because of how long it would take to get them in and out of their swimsuits. And sometimes, while they were swimming, they’d need to pee. It was so inconvenient, those three to six minutes of helping my kids get ready to play in the water.
As they grew older, they started to move in another direction. I’d take them to the park, leave my book and phone behind, and they’d meet their friends. We’d go for a hike, and they’d want to turn around after thirty minutes so we could go for pizza.
By the time they were teenagers, I caught glimpses. I memorized conversations and wrote about them on Facebook, not to brag, but so I’d have records. I drove Katy anywhere she wanted to go, just to have time in the car. I tried to connect with Colin, but he started drifting away around age fourteen. The only time we spoke was when he lost something in the laundry, the only real conversations we had were in the car when we were on the way home from the police station.
Now, Colin is twenty-two and Katy is nineteen. Neither one of them live at home, but we talk. Colin tells me about his new apartment and sends pictures of his food all the time; this is a trend I don’t understand. Katy shares stories about frat parties I’m pretty sure not every parent hears, sends pictures of her new haircut, her new chair, her form in deadlift, and lately, has let me listen while she tries to figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. Right now, archivist, physical therapist assistant, and media consultant are all on the table. She is also considering archaelogy but I guess the prospects for employment are dismal.
My kids are entirely different, but they pick up the phone when I call. Sometimes I have to call twice and then text, but they pick up.
The only do over I’d like is those fleeting moments when they were really small. I’d sit on the floor with Katy and color, instead of leaving her at the coffee table while I sat at kitchen table on my desktop computer. Colin loved playing with tiny plastic animals, I have no idea what he did with tiny plastic animals, but I wish I knew. I wish I didn’t always rush him off the swings, he loved the swings.
I think most parents go back to wishing they’d had just a little more time giving baths and cutting up vegetables. Maybe that’s why so many want grandchildren; I haven’t gotten there yet.
I’m good with where I am now. I live with a pup who thinks going to bed at nine is almost as much fun as eating cookies.
I work, and eat lunch, with people I like, for students who need my help. I don’t spend a fortune on records, (Spotify!). I like to cook.
I wake up without a hangover; I take my time getting ready because I’ve laid my clothes out the night before.
My kids talk to me, and quite often, when I say something, they listen.
Cancel the do-over.
I need to stop time.
Family Vacation
March 20, 2023
The whole time I was on vacation with my mom and step-dad, brother, and two daughters, I was wondering “how am I going to write about this without pissing anyone off?” We were in St. Augustine, Florida, in a townhouse, the six of us, last week. It is a good thing it had three floors and seven bathrooms.
I am the oldest, one of my kids is in college, the other is in California, and only reaches out when he has something exciting to say, like Drake is two tables away from him at a restaurant. I live in Massachusetts and work at a local community college, I know the group exercise schedule at the gym next store by heart, and I try to read books instead of scrolling on Facebook and Instagram. I am very excited about the new season of “Ted Lasso” and neither my brother nor my mom have any interest in checking it out, but I don’t watch “American Idol”, (Mom,) or movies where lots of things blow up, (Jimmy, my brother).
My brother is two years younger than me, and, I think, finds me a bit silly and a little irritating, though he said once I was a talented writer. He is fierce, and Southern. He is funny, brilliant, and a lawyer for the state of Florida. I am not going to say anything else about that because he appreciates his job. He has some health issues, a dog he loves named Charlie, and is the devoted father to two, also brilliant, daughters.
My mom and her husband live in South Carolina. We speak every day on the phone, about Wordle, her bridge game, a recipe, my dog, her cat, the kids, and the weather. She loves to talk about the weather, especially in the winter. I think she’d like me to move there, but there is also an understanding between us that maybe we get on so well because we are rarely in the same room.
We don’t see much of each other. My brother’s schedule and mine rarely aligned because for the past fifteen years, our lives have been defined by when our kids had vacations- my kids and his kids had different weeks off. Mom and Edd were passionate about traveling in an RV for while, then they moved onto cruising. Now, they spend more of their time at home, with their cat, binoculars and a best friend named Sue.
We settled on St. Augustine to meet. Jim’s kids were off of school during my college’s spring break, and Mom found us a beautiful place to stay across from the ocean.
We were there for five days.
Five days, one car, seven people, from three states, three generations, and lots of opinions.
I made dinner reservations, and changed them every night except one.
I went to the gym with my nieces, we hiked through the woods and saw three armadillos. We argued over the definition of greek pizza. We collected shells on the beach, Heather gave me a handful, which I put on my nightstand. We made sandwiches, we toured old downtown St. Augustine, we sat in traffic and bonded over a strong aversion to roundabouts and traffic. (In Mass, they are called rotaries. I don’t think they are that big a deal, but I don’t spend much time behind the wheel, and, as a passenger, am oblivious to traffic, because I am on my phone, scrolling thru Instagram reels.)
We went swimming once, Laurel ran all the way into the waves even though the water was cold, and we stayed in the water for an hour. Jimmy and Heather flew kites so high in the wind, I thought they’d never come back to earth.
I made smoothies every morning, Mom made sandwiches most afternoons. Jimmy drove us to the store three times a day, to the gym, and to dinner. There was coffee brewed by the time I made it upstairs to the kitchen, and one morning my husband made popovers following my mom’s recipe. They were a bit flat, but we ate every single one so he wouldn’t feel bad, slathered with honey butter, blackberry jam, and strawberry preserves.
I took a million photographs, and I never take photographs. There are lots of duplicates, but I don’t think I’ll delete anything.
I wish we’d had more time.
I hope we do this again, and next time it’s easier. We’ll linger a little longer, together, over coffee, over dinner, in front of the news, at the beach, on the deck.
Because the week went by far too fast. I know my brother’s daughters better today than I did two weeks ago- I know Laurel is allergic to pineapple and Heather can stay up until midnight and wake at five thirty in the morning to walk to the beach so she can take a photo to send to a friend.
I know my mom says she likes to eat at five, but while on vacation, she eats lunch late, so when making dinner reservations, it’s probably a better idea to book a table for seven o’clock.
I know that my brother is one of the best people in the whole world, and definitely the most stubborn, but I didn’t need five days in St. Augustine to figure that out.
Small Moments
November 27, 2022
It is the Sunday after Thanksgiving.
It just started to rain and I’m wondering where to begin.
Our family feels different than the others I know in our town; no family members live anywhere nearby, that we speak to often, anyway. Our unit is my husband, my 22 year old son, whose been on house arrest since last October, (weed, my friends, just too much damn weed in a closet,) me, who works at a local college helping students navigate financial aid, and my daughter, 19 years old, in her first year of college in Amherst, Massachusetts, two hours from home.
I just noticed I didn’t say much about my husband; for work, he is content to drive people to the airport, walk dogs, and detail cars, he’s been a member of the gig economy before that was a thing. While I’m at work, I send him recipes almost every day in hopes that he’ll figure out he should start cooking dinner each night. Often, he’ll go to the store for the ingredients, and half the time they go bad before one of us tackles whatever dish I’d discovered on the NY Times cooking app.
When we are in the same house, an observer might think we were boarders who had been sharing the same space for a while. Colin will text Kate, her room is across the hall, his door maybe 18 inches from his door, to ask her to go downtown and pick up his dinner or to Hanover to buy a dozen over priced cookies the size of tea plates. When she said goodbye to him on her way back to school, she tossed the words over her shoulder, at my prompting, as she walked out the door. I don’t think he heard her, I think he believed she’d left hours ago. She is quiet, behind her door.
My husband watches tv in bed downstairs at night, I watch shows on my phone from the sofa in the living room.
We’ve drifted; we weren’t always this way. Christmas will be awkward; all of us standing around in the same room. Probably I’m the only one who will see it as awkward. Or maybe, Colin will be off house arrest and we’ll share dinner in the city at a noisy restaurant and things will feel normal again.
God, my life sounds grim, our life sounds grim. It’s not. My husband and I have friends, we go out to dinner. Katy loves school and invited me to have a glass of wine with her when she had friends over this weekend. Colin bought a puppy last November, and we spend a lot of time sitting around on the run in the living room, watching Chanel wriggle and roll, chase a toy or a bottle of plastic, try to hump my left leg. Actually when she does that, Colin gets disgusted and goes back upstairs. (I wonder why she finds my left leg more appealing than the right.)
Usually, the Sunday night after a holiday weekend, I’m overwhelmed by what I didn’t do and what I need to do. It’s only 5:43 pm, and all that’s left on my list is to find a clean pair of pants and pick out some shoes for tomorrow.
Tonight, things seem lovely, not even a little bit grim.
Katy asked me to get matching tatoos. I am not sure I want to get matching tatoos, or any tatoo, but if I am going to have inkspots carved into my skin, it will be because Katy asked. I was surprised; I know we’re close, but lately I’ve been feeling like she regards me as just-a-mum, who needs to tolerated and offered the ocassional compliment or cookie.
Sheldon and I cooked a Thanksgiving meal to share with our son and his friend, since Colin couldn’t join us on Thursday when we went to Salem to see Shel’s sister. We didn’t fight about dishes. We didn’t squabble about celery in the stuffing, (I gave in, I put celery in the damned stuffing, and to be honest, couldn’t tell the difference). I didn’t snap when he left the table early to watch football, or when Colin neglected to put his dish in the sink.
Sheldon always leaves the table early for football, and Colin gets his dish to the sink about twice a week. I do not know why, once or twice, this has made me so mad, I’ve broken a bowl or glass by angrily flinging them into the dishwasher. Take that, cup!
I turned up the radio and sorted out the kitchen cabinets that store the tupperwae, the chinese food takeout containers, the old yogurt cups. I threw out the things without tops, I threw out the tops without things. I rearranged our bowls, I scoured our cookie sheets that were, to be honest, disgusting. I almost snapped a photo for Instagram but images of stacked plasticware are not what I want to see when I’m scrolling.
When I went upstairs, after dinner, Colin invited me into his room. “Check this out!” On his big screen tv, we watched some divers almost get eaten by a cluster of five huge whales, feeding on sardines by leaping into the air, jaws open wide, and scooping massive mouthfuls of water, fish, and seaweed, then gulping the whole mouthful down. The narrator pointed out it was luck that one of the divers wasn’t part the dinner; someone could have easily been caught up in the maelstrom. I’m going to keep an eye out for shows like that; explorers or hunters having near death experiences, with lions or sharks or the really big bears that have been on the news so much. Colin and I used to watch television together all the time- we loved “How I Met My Mother” and when he was older, it was all “Law and Order”. Maybe we can be brought together by violent nature shows that remind us we are lucky to be alive in front of huge flat screen tv. I’ll try anything that isn’t illegal or involve staying up after ten pm to connect with my first born, Collie.
Maybe my family feels odd, or maybe everybody’s family feels odd, from the inside.
Tonight, I am a little bit closer to mine. I am insanely proud of my cabinet, the stacks of leftovers in the fridge, my lunch already tucked away in a bag where I’lll find it. It’s been a good day, and a lovely weekend.
I am thankful that I have more time with the people I love, more than anything, and more time to figure out how to get things right.
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
julierichmond 