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.
Thoughts on my marriage.
February 18, 2025
Sheldon’s working tonight; I haven’t seen him since he dropped me off for work at 745 this morning.
A few minutes ago, I went downstairs to our bedroom to check on Michael the cat and find some slippers.
He’d made the bed before he left; he filled up the humidifier and it looks like he attempted to do something about the nightmare of socks on the laundry table.
When he makes the bed, the blankets are even on both sides. The pillows are fluffed, the comforter is neatly folded at the end.
All the stray glasses are gone from the nightstand, my eyeglasses have been placed high on the dresser. (Jack ate my glasses a year ago, Shel still hasn’t recovered, and the replacement pair is very fancy.)
Our conversations revolve around how much he slept, (never enough, I remind him he should stop watching war movies at 2 am and the impact on his lifespan, only getting five hours of sleep,) the dogs- how long they walked, if Chanel lost her sweater, if they ate their breakfast. If it’s too cold for the dogs, or too warm.
We talk about our kids, a little. When Kate’s home, more so, but pretty much based on the dishes in the sink or her current demeanor, we smugly agree on how lovely she is or how long it will be until she recognizes that she is too old not to least soak her egg pan.
About Colin, we worry about his mood, we compare notes on how he looked on Facetime. Colin worries us both, and there isn’t a damn thing we can do, but we call him a lot and I send him pictures of Chanel.
Sheldon worries about me, when he’s working, what I’ll have for dinner, how I’ll manage the dogs by myself when it’s icy.
He never needs to ask me how much I slept, I’m always asleep long before him, and if I can’t sleep, I will share that. Repeatedly. I do not do well on less than eight hours.
It doesn’t sound like a lot.
We worry about each other; we listen to each other. (I’ve stopped doing wordle in the car on the way to work. It was hard to give up, but marriage is sacrifice.)
We’ve heard almost all of the stories, and we don’t like the same shows.
But my husband made the bed for this morning, because he knew that tonight, it would make me happy.
So, we’re good.
If you know him, maybe you could mention he should get more sleep.
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.
Sunday in May.
May 22, 2023
It is the middle of May, The air is warm. The sky says close to sunset; the dogs have been fed and are barking at a child on a scooter.
This afternoon there were no birthdays or trips to Shaw’s Market, though we should have done something about the lawn.
There have been three walks around the block twisted in leashes and clutching small bags, a trip to Marshalls to buy a belt with my dear friend, Chris, a long shower, and maybe a face mask when I’m done here at the table. I’ve chosen my clothes for the morning, I’ve packed up my lunch for tomorrow afternoon.
I’m moving slow on a Sunday night because I truly believe I am ready for Monday.
My daughter is home from college, but she’s out for the night. My husband is working. The dogs have stopped barking and in an hour they’ll be looking at me and then looking downstairs towards my bed.
The washing machine is almost done, I need to remember to switch tomorrow’s skirt to the dryer. I need to remember to check in on my friend to make sure she made it home safe to New Jersey. I need to check the calendar for my next dentist’s appointment so I can ask for the time off from work.
I’m moving slow on a Sunday because I am ready for Monday, and everything else that is heading my way.
It is the middle of May. The air is warm and just outside my front door, I smell peonies and lavendar. There is an evening ahead, and hours and hours before morning comes.
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.
I bury the lead and ponder a little.
October 14, 2021
I’ve been working on texting with two hands lately and mildly obsessed with the trying the new dance cardio on the Peloton app. I don’t know why I want to text with two hands, I’m not twelve, and I don’t think it will impress my friends. When I finally tried the dance cardio, it made me feel dumb. My upper body is not able to move like a snake, and they never asked me to do that in jazz class a million years ago. When I touch my chest, I look silly, though I am far from the mirror because I learned in the days of group exercise to stay far away from the mirror. The whole thing made me laugh and I needed to laugh.
Colin, my 21 year old son, is home again, not his choice, and certainly not mine or my daughter’s. Katy’s eighteenth birthday was spent at a hotel because she didn’t want to entertain with Collie scowling in the background or, even worse, trying to include himself. (I believe he would have been respectful of Kate, but I am an optimist, and she liked the hotel idea.)
Work is what heals me; I work with students at a community college. The ones that are able to get through on the phone need help, and it feels good to be presented with a question- “how do I apply to the nursing program”?- that has answers that I know. I’m new there, so I don’t know all the answers, but I’m good at finding out. It’s a college so there are lots of people with answers. I use the directory often.
At home, I don’t know much. I don’t know how long Collie will be here, or what’s going to happen next. I don’t know if Sophie will eat dinner three times, or not at all. I don’t know if Katy will ever get to her college applications, put away her laundry, or watch tv with me again, because Covid ended and she’s eighteen and has a life.
I do know I’m getting better at texting with my hands, and I’ll probably go back to bike boot camp on the app.
I do know I”m tired of hearing the words “stay safe.” I know they are meant as loving or kind, but lately, they feel paranoid and dark or judgmental, like someone feels like I might go into a crowded grocery store without a mask, and spread germs on all the produce, if they forget to remind me with those cautionary words to take precautions, there is still a crisis. I know it’s still a crisis, and there is no danger of forgetting.
Maybe, I should have said those two words to Colin, starting when he was two, every time he left the room. Maybe things would have turned out differently.
Homecoming
October 6, 2021
I’ve been thinking about my high school reunion since the invitation came last May.
There was Covid to consider. And the memory of the last one I attended where the night ended with me falling up my friends stairs and splitting my forehead open. There was the twenty pounds I wanted to lose, and the people I didn’t want to see, and the people I missed.
One night, I finally clicked yes on the Evite, knowing I could always cancel. It was late Spring of 2021; I wanted a plan to get out of town and see some faces that I hadn’t been seeing for the past year and a half.
Amy, one of my best friends, still lives in Mountain Lakes, and she volunteered to go along, even though she wasn’t in my class, and isn’t much for cocktail parties.
A week before the party, my friend came to visit me in Boston. Taylor, Amy’s daughter, had been found in bed by her roommate, unable to open her eyes and mumbling into her pillow. Her roommate called an ambulance.
Before she left, she laughed nervously in my living room and asked me- “Maybe you can come down anyway next weekend? And take care of me? While I look after Taylor? I mean, I know you have your reunion…” I hugged her and thought there was no way I’d drive five hours, miss a party that I had given up Ben and Jerry’s for, (mostly), so she could lean on me while her daughter recovered from a really bad case of the flu?
It wasn’t a bad case of the flu.
On the Thursday before the reunion, I flew to New Jersey. Amy’s husband picked me up at the airport. On the way home we talked about my daughter’s SAT scores, how much harder it is to pack for travel by plane than to load up a car, and that my husband thinks Facebook updates on his phone are actually text messages to him. No one knew what was wrong with Taylor for a while. Now they think it’s encephalitis. Tonight, John, Amy’s husband, let me know Taylor hasn’t had any seizures all day. This has made all of us who love her giddy with joy.
She hadn’t had any seizures for twelve hours. It’s going to be a long time before she gets better. It’s going to be a long time before she comes home.
I didn’t visit Taylor. I stayed home and matched socks, made smoothies, one bad pot roast, a salad of strawberries and goat cheese, and enough Bolognese sauce to last them until spring. Or until I go back.
I made it to the reunion. I found friends I didn’t know I had, and connected with people that I love as much as I did when I was in high school, when most Saturday afternoon’s we’d drink too much beer and exchange drunken, slobbering hugs, while declaring undying affection. Since I’ve only stayed in touch with a few, it was nice to know that those promises all those years ago were true. My affection for these people is undying and I am glad to know, and have known them.
I’ve changed a lot since then, I guess we all have. But when I stood in that room, I knew I’d made it to Homecoming, even though it had taken a long time to figure out what that means. These people knew the awkward, bumbling seventeen year old and were happy to see the tired, worried, friend who badly needed a night out. I didn’t get the chance to talk in depth with many, and I regret that. I was distracted with guilt about being away from Amy and John and trying to decide if my outfit looked better without the sweater.
When I walked up Amy’s stairs that night, and Gigi greeted me at the door, I was home there too.Home is where we choose to be, where we offer and accept love or acceptance. Where we pretend to remember things we don’t remember, and when someone gets drunk, we drive them home, partly because we don’t want them to get sick in our car, partly because that is what we do for the people who have known us our whole lives, and remember what we looked like with big hair and braces, and partly because a lot of us have been the drunk in the room that needed a ride.
These days, I have a crooked smile, I can’t wear heels. I could still lose another twenty pounds, I’m a little pissed off that I work out every single day and I will never, ever have Michelle Obama arms. One of my classmates does, and I adore her anyway. I will not share her name but we all know who I’m talking about.
Thanks for being there, my friends. And for those of you who couldn’t be, I hope to see you the next time. I like us better now. Please, let me know if you ever get up to Boston, or are driving through on your way somewhere else. I would like to hear what you’ve been doing all these years, and I’m sorry there wasn’t more time.
I think I’ll go to the next one, I can’t wait for the next one.
And thank you, Amy and John. It is an honor to be there for you. I changed my cell phone settings so you can call anytime. You have your own ringtone. Call anytime.
Taylor, girl, come home soon. You have the best home in the world, or it will be, when you are back in it.
julierichmond 