Boston

We are in Boston now. The kids and Jake are asleep, and I am (unfortunately) watching the Charlie Sheen True Hollywood Story.
This is an amazing city. The cobblestone walks, the buildings...We passed by an old brick three story building with slightly rotten mouldings, and a bright red door. For about two seconds, I could envision myself at that house, a century ago. There are true mysteries in that house. It has seen births, deaths, wars, laughter. Perhaps it is haunted by old memories, as many old buildings are. The entire city of Boston has ghosts running through it. You know that Paul revere runs through the streets, lantern lit and swinging...stagecoaches carry the wealthy to their boisterous parties in the brownstones. And as an addition to the glory of the streets and the buildings, the ocean whispers beyond the shore. Pirate ships on display, aromatic wharfs and blinding sunsets. This is what eden is formulated around. Not puffy clouds and angels with harps, but Boston. There will never be a dull moment here, never boredom. The coffee shops are adorable, the museums spectacular, the aquarium glorious and nothing less than amazing.
Albany, to me, represents home. But I find nothing wrong with letting part of my heart reside here. I spent the day after prom here, surrounded by friends I no longer know, I spent many days here with my mother when I was small. And now I get to introduce it to my own children, who will, no doubt, relish their trips here as I do.

the 80s

the 80s

My friends over at the WWk boards were having a discussion yesterday about the 80s.

It's odd to me that when the 1980s ended, I was 13...and yet, I still translate a lot of my present day memories and ideas to that decade. The music from back then is my favorite music to listen to, the movies are the ones I would still choose to cuddle up with on a wet rainy day.

Is it because it was a time of innocence? A time before I had to realize responsibility? Or just merely a better age? Back then, we waited until saturday morning, when we would make a beeline to the Tv for our cartoons, which were only on once a week. When christmas came, the fervor at which I tore open my gifts is unparalleled to this day. If I saw even the slightest hint of Barbie pink under the wrap, I was ecstatic for so long. My own children watch cartoons every day, they have 8 channels to choose from that are solely cartoon networks. They have dozens of Barbies, none of whom are in any clothes, their mansion is in disarray and the girls barely look their way.

When I think to the 80s, I think of my parents still being together, and still liking each other. I think to my sister always being around, mostly annoying me, but always there. I think to visits with my grandparents, who have since both passed away, and to whiling summer days away on the beach.

I suppose that our childhoods will always be a bittersweet memory. We fight so hard to be "grownups". We want to be in middle school, we want to be 13 so we can go see movies by ourselves...we want high school... we want to learn to drive.... we want first dates...we want prom.... we want college.... and then somewhere after college, we are suddenly surrounded by adults thinking "wow, how did I get here?"

I am 28. I have three kids. I look at them, playing, their excitement and enthusiasm sometimes boiling over. And I think it amazing that it was not so long ago that I was in their shoes.

I will forever cherish those 80s. the pound puppies, the curly shoelaces, the Wham and Duran and Duran, the tree swings, the Jedi powers, the Dukes of Hazzard at 7am on Saturdays. This is my privelege. I got to grow up in a time when things were Big and Overdone. Things were easier and stranger. So I am now going to sit here in my acid washed jeans, with my blue mascara on, listening to Cyndi Lauper on my Walkman, and scratch and sniff my sticker album. Ciao, amigos.

Days of Summer

The first day of spring makes a long hard winter worthwhile to me. Yesterday, as Jake and I stood and watched the kids at playground, I felt a bit invincible for a moment. The snow was gone, the sun was out, and all the complaints I had over the course of the winter seemed so far away and trivial.

Today, it is once again cloudy, the rain is cold and I want a fire in the fireplace. The kids are lethargic, as am I, and I am yearning for days of summer.

Remember ten years ago, when every summer day was one of introspection, excitement, and endless possibilities? I remember the scent of my mother's house, the sounds of kids splashing in the lake, and the knowledge that there was parties everywhere. I drove an old Subaru, with a collection of clothes in back from all my late night skinny dipping sessions. My friends were the most valuable things I had...I felt so free and so young then, the "future" was such a strange concept. Packing up a car and driving to the ocean with Laurie was not just a possibility, or a compulsion, but a necessity. (do you remember the boys in the saab?)

So now, when I stand in the park watching my children on the swings, I can't help but feel a bit of envy. I want to tell them to eat every delicious bite of life, not to pass up new experiences, and to always remember what summer smells like. Because for the rest of my life, every time I see new buds on the trees, or smell a barbecue, or hear DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince singing Summetime, I will get a little thrill down my spine.

A Diary Entry

A little diary

I wrote this two years ago....was re-reading and realized I liked it...

In the middle of the night, I rise to the sounds of breathing beside me. A warm sound, reassuring me. My younger daughter is curled next to me, pink cheeks puffed as she mimics nursing a ghost breast in her sleep. Her name is Morgan. She is just a year- twelve months of needy and clingy and second child coddled and a love so intense I wither when only feet away from her.

My husband lies on the other side of her, so near to the edge of the bed, his full shadow is cast on the floor. When Morgan began sleeping with us, he was riddled with fear. What if I roll on her, what if the blankets suffocate her, what if I keep her up with my snoring. I am guiltily shocked when I hear an overconcerned parent speak. My own easygoing parental style seems like dwarfed love in the face of such fierce protectiveness. My husband has one arm above his head. This is how he sleeps every night. His stance is that of someone warding off blows. Very symbolic of my husband's own stance on life. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, the next tragedy.

In the room next door is my oldest child, Rhiannon. A cherub while sleeping, a tornado while awake. At four years, she is capable of boiling my blood, making me weep, setting my heart afloat, and inspiring me to write. I admire her now, in the peace of 3:00 am. My only time all day alone with my thoughts. Her slightly upturned nose and blonde hair come from a genetic unknown to me, where the rest of her is my own mirror image. This is sometimes to my chagrin, others to my secret glee.

I make it to the bathroom, where the vent is spilling forth delicious warmth, and I rest my feet beside it as I pee. My husband complains about my feet constantly. It is one of the few times he teases me that I enjoy. We have recently bought this house, our first in a lovely neighborhood. Our families are ecstatic for us. It has been a long journey, over coals and broken glass and very infrequently, rose petals. Owning a house has propelled us through marital woes and terrible jobs and borderline poverty. Because of this, I have created a convincing façade…life has become perfect. But I have adopted my husband's cynicism. Yes there is another shoe, and when it drops, the quake will be mighty.

Getting Old

An old friend ( read: lover) is expecting a baby this week. I suppose there is nothing that solidifies the fact that we are getting old like this sort of event. I check periodically to see if the event has occured. I think, somewhere, in the back of my brain, I have concluded that until it happens, I am allowed to be 19 forever.
Surprisingly, the last 11 years have passed extremely quickly for me. Recalling things that happened immediately post-high school are quite the same as recalling last month.
At one time, I laid in bed well past socially accepted norm with this man, surmising the hilarity of those who woke up before the sun. We debated things like astrology, and "partied like rock stars" , and yet we are both facing a reality that encompasses all we believed to be surreal at one time. If we still spoke, I would wish him well, and envision nurseries and baby clothes. But in fact, I will never be able to see him as someone other than someone who sobbed to Metallica, thought of lions as idols, and who walked the ASU campus with me in the early hours before an exam, believing that grades were the epitome of a successful adult life.
Is this how is it as a grown up? Expecting that time has stopped as we grow old, and that each individual who left an indelible imprint on our lives had remained as we remember them? As senility descends, and we enter our "second" childhood, is it not totally expected and realistic that we would put ourselves in a time where our responsibilities are trivial, and our youth seems eternal? I remember listening to the Fugees, while driving in the car given so generously to my college roommate, by her parents, and thinking that life was eternal, and georgeous. The palm trees swayed with the music, and, my young hands waved out the window with the music, and there were so few scars to deal with....and yet, now, I have become this adult, who has a plate of reality to deal with, when sometimes, all I want to do is escape into the silly world in which I once inhabited.
Good luck, Ryan, on the adventure into which you are embarking. I wish you nothing but the best, and while you hold your baby girl, may you feel nothing but the moment. They will move quickly, my old friend. And soon, she will be wandering the campus, feeling foreign breezes on her face...knowing her own invincibility, and yet kniwing that each passing moment is one in which to delight...and despair. Such is life...such is adulthood. I can only wish for her, and for my own children, the time when eating at 2am in IHOP is delicious and unsacrificable.

Valentine's Day/ Snow Day

This morning, we awoke to six inches of powdery snow, and a snow day, and so began a glorious Valentine's Day. Chocolate Chip pancakes for breakfast, and chilly romp outside, a crackling fire, and homemade Valentines have all continued to make this the sweet day tradition says it should be.
Many believe that valentine's Day is merely a holiday perpetuated by mass corporations like Hallmark, capitalizing on peoples' needs for passion and romance. It trounces on the lonely and heartbroken, and empties the pockets of the desperate in love. But does it have to be that way? I spent four and a half hours making homemade valentines cards for the kids classes, complete with ribbon, and gold embossing, only to meet with a disdainful Jake, wondering why I wasn't buying the 99 cent cartoon character cards at Wal Mart. But don't those cards go against everything that Valentine's Day should stand for? If we so easily forget to pay attention to these little things, aren't we merely exacerbating the already dismal situation of current romance patterns in our society? Call me melodramatic, but I truly believe that the downfall of our culture relies mainly in the laziness we have all come to embrace. We take short roads, when the long ones may be much more scenic, we microwave when the oven adds more flavor, we drive when the walk would do us good, and we buy cheap ugly cards when we could show the recipients we care enough to spend a minute on them. And, of course, this is all metaphorical. Cards are just a small reminder of how quickly we disregard that which comes from the heart. I will always be the romantic who believes that flowers plucked valiantly from a field say more than a bouquet designed by professionals. I will always believe that a goopy peanut butter and jelly sandwich created by a husband for a wife with cravings is a thousand times more delicious than a veal dish in a five star restaurant. It is all about relishing moments, creating lasting delicious minutes. I will spend laborious hours hand-piping frosting on the heart cookies for Morgan's school. They will be eaten quickly by greedy four year olds' hands, but Morgan will remember the time I took forever. The way I will always remember my own parents sketching me homemade cupid cards when I was small, or my mom stitching my costumes at halloween. Small thoughtful things are lasting. After valentine's Day my senior year, an ex-sweetheart sent me a lavish bouquet of roses to patch my grieving heart (my grandparents had just died). Valentine's Day of my freshman year at ASU, a friend ran after me in a parking lot to deliver one rose and a card because they truly just felt I deserved it. One year when we were down and out, Jake brought me home a crossword puzzle book, which meant more than jewelry ever could. I suppose we could sum this up with the old cliche- It's the thought that counts. And it does. So to all of you who are looking forward to your evenings with your special someones, remember that offering them a drink when they haven't asked for it, or covering them with blankets when they have fallen asleep on the couch, or bringing home chicken soup when they were up all night coughing....they will remember these things long after the petals have dried and fallen from the flowers, and the chocolates have been eaten and the shiny heart boxes discarded. I wish you all a day of old fashioned romance, vibrant passion, and heartaching saccharin. But most especially, I wish them to still be there tomorrow.

Weddings, Marriages and Debacles

My best friend is getting married soon, and because of her upcoming nuptials, I have selfishly been thinking of my own quite often lately. As many young girls do, I fantasized of my dream wedding early in my formative years. Of course, my fantasies usually included wild horses, and white doves, and a mystical aura. And of course, being the 80s child I was, my dress was lace and tacky to the extreme, but that's prefectly all right, as was my dream to get married to a song by Foreigner. I think that when you imagine something your entire life, you have left it completely open to being a huge diappointment, but it also allows for you to know specifically what your priorities are, in terms of what you want, what you need, and what you most definitely abhor.
I envisioned a proposal amid romantic circumstances...ie- a picnic, a rendezvous in Paris, a fat diamond in a baked potato at our favorite restaurant (cum Golden Girls). Never once did I suspect that it would be me doing the proposing, or that it would be in the carnage of empty beer bottles, or with my daughter next to me. Were we doing it to placate our families, avoid the endless questions when we were with our child, to satisfy social standards, as well as reap the economic rewards? Perhaps. Perhaps it was also the misty notion of ever after, eternal bands of gold and *cringe* holy union. We were lacking in financial stability, en route to another state, and overwhelmed with our new role as parents, and yet, the idea of a wedding gave us something to hold on to, and strive for. I spent countless hours on ebay, hunting guestbooks, veils and favors. I visited David's Bridal three times, until I found the exact wrong dress at the exact right price, knowing I would simply have to grin and bear it, versus being the princess I longed to be. We went to one location, chose it on spot and had our menu picked out in five minutes. In the tux shop, we picked one immediately, and never looked back. What could have been an extremely arduous task turned out to be relatively simple, and relatively inexpensive. (From start to finish, all accessories included, we spent $4,000) Despite a few familial altercations, and minor setbacks, the wedding date came. But I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, karma knows its business. Because as a striking contrast to the ease of planning, the actual wedding had no grace, no fluidity. Our vows were read wrong by the Notary, there was not enough room for both bride and groom to walk up the aisle together, hence the bride walked behind. Once inside the reception, the groom's grandmother collapsed and stopped breathing, and while the room looked on in horror, the bride ran to call 911. The ambulances revived her and took her away, and the groom lost all interest in the festivities until word came back that she would be all right. And at the end of the night, after dancing, many drinks for some, and mediocre food, a member of the wedding party disappeared, and the police were summoned.
While this may seem fabricated, and quite unbelievable, I can assure you that it is all devastatingly and heartbreakingly true. One may think that such a disastrous day of nuptials would mean most certain doom to its couple, we have, in fact, lasted more than six years. I will not lie, and say the road has been easy, as it will never be, even for the most compatible couple. There are times when the road seems virtually impassable, and days when flowers look brighter, and faroff music can be heard. There are days, when finances have you stretched to your limit, or your partner's idiosyncracies have travelled into the realm of unforgivable, or heartbreaking. And there will be days when on a simple icy Sunday in January, your partner wrestles with your son until they are both breathless from giggles, and you know that things can work.
The best advice I could give to my engaged friend is embrace your whimsy and spontanaeity. Never forget that every situation can have a humorous perpective. Remember that in the great order of things, you come first. And most importantly, not to expect perfection, but to hope for occasional miracles