I took a class with Nancy Slonim Aronie several years ago on Martha’s Vineyard, and a one day workshop in Boston before that. She is one of those people who sort of changes your life. If you’re into writing, or into having a really cool experience, you should take a class with her. Her son was diagnosed with MS when he was 27. Struck down in his hunky prime. But what Nancy learned from the experience of having a profoundly sick child, informs much of her teaching, and it had an enormous effect on me. I was lucky enough to meet Dan, and he was some kind of special guy. He lost his valiant battle back in 2010, but I’m pretty sure his spirit is flying free, now that he’s ditched that body that gave him such a hard time. I always find the above video to be a reminder of perspective. I think perspective is almost as transformative as gratitude. And I’m grateful to Nancy for both.
Tag: Gratitude
gratitude-a-thon day 45: the kids are alright
This weekend was a powerful reminder of how much control you don’t have as a parent. It was the kind of emotionally charged, fight or flight misery that comes from not being able to do a damn thing to help your kids feel better. Ah, but let me back up and give you the full scoop.
Ally is on an elite club soccer team. The girl is great. She is very close to her team. They travel frequently, and are very bonded to one another. The team won the State Cup last year, and after that gave the girls contracts. Some girls got a full year. Some got a half year, with a review. It has been a rather stressful six months for Ally, knowing that every practice, every game, was a chance to show her coach she was a worthy player. Saturday was not only a tournament, but also the day of reckoning.
As I was watching the second game, Jake’s face popped up on my phone. “Mom, I was playing lacrosse and a stick hit me and my helmet cracked and it cut above my eye and my friends are taking me to the hospital for stitches. Just wanted you to know”. His voice was calm. I don’t have to describe my response BECAUSE YOU KNOW WHAT IT WAS. It was part babbling infant mixed with howling hyena. I did manage to say, “Call me as soon as you’re at the hospital.” I got off and told Peter, who said, “Oh, he’ll be fine.” Immersed in the game, he left me to my psychotic worry. I was already freaked out about the idea that Ally might not make the team, and couldn’t even eat the fabulous lunch a parent had made for us at her house, because my stomach was in the Olympic gymnastics event. Now, I had Jake to worry about. Did he have a concussion? Would the doctors know to do a plastic surgery type of job on him, and not slap together some stitches that would give him a weird scar. I called him over and over again, but he didn’t answer, so I called Jessie, his girlfriend, who I knew could use the magic power of her girlfriend-ness to get through. She calmly told me not to worry and that he was going to be fine. She told me she and her mom would go to the hospital if I wanted, but she said he seemed to be doing ok with his friends, and things were pretty straight forward. (Jessie is the best.) I felt 1% better. I continued to think about leaving and letting Peter and Ally get a ride home with another parent, but decided against it, knowing Ally might need me.
After playing two games in a tournament OUTSIDE, I might add (you know, where there is still SNOW and stuff) Ally stood on the sidelines with her coach to get her review. Peter and I stood several feet away, like statues, observing her profile for any signs of the outcome. Almost immediately, I could tell she hadn’t made it. I knew that the billboards for “Difficult Parenting Ahead” would be popping up any minute. Peter was in disbelief, as all signs had made him think her place on the team was safe. When it looked like they were wrapping up, I forced Peter to go and talk to the coach. I knew if I went over, bad things would come out of my mouth, and I might not be able to control my hands, or feet. Ally walked toward me and one of her other team mates, and told us both the news. She would play down a team for five months and be guaranteed a contract for 2014 on her current team. The coach wanted her to get more playing time, to play the whole game, instead of just 15 minutes, in an effort to improve her play. And although, I saw it as the coach’s commitment to her development as an even stronger player than she already was, it was not a scenario we’d ever considered. And for Ally, it was the first defeat she’d ever encountered. We went to the car and the tears started. There was some wailing. There was some sobbing. There was a lot of snot. Ally did not want to talk. This was hard because that’s all I want to do when something goes wrong for me, but I had to respect her process, so I sat quietly crying in the front seat. Peter drove like a zombie. Ally handed me her phone with a picture of Jake’s gash that was already circulating on Facebook. I have never felt queasy around anything medical, but I actually almost threw up. One inch, maybe less than one inch, and his eye would have been gone. GONE as in not there anymore. No question. One inch lower, and he would have been been blinded.
We sped home from Hopkinton, but not in time to get to the hospital. Jake was already on his way home. He looked very much like he’d been in a fight with Sylvester Stallone in the original Rocky, his forehead bulging with swelling, his eye practically shut. They had managed to sew his eyebrow together, and was given the directions not to exercise or do any heavy lifting. (oh great, the garbage was on me now.) I was already sorry he was playing lacrosse this year. As if Ally’s response to her news hadn’t already put me in a state, Jake just iced the cake.
My guilt for not having been there for Jake, AFTER HIS FACE WAS SLICED OPEN, was the size of Detroit, no Texas, no Switzerland (it’s prettier). But the truth was, that he appeared to be calm and ok (unlike moi). He had handled it just fine, was matter-of-fact (but clearly shaken) and taking it in stride in a way that surprised me. He’d had to miss the second playoff BHS basketball game, but as the Super Fan that he is, was following it on his phone like the president follows breaking news. Maybe Jake was ready for college after all. Maybe this was just to show me how ready he was to be on his own, because if this happened next year at this time, I wouldn’t be there either.
Ally continued to cry. She cried herself to sleep and actually woke up crying. I barely slept, I felt so out of sorts, so parentally unproductive, as in I could do nothing to help either one of my kids feel better. The events of the day were on a loop in my find, and kept me up most of the night, until I finally just called it at 5:00 and got up. I was meeting my roommate and old college friend, who I lived on Newbury Street with right after school, for the first time in 28 years, back down on Newbury St. for brunch. I was going to be really cute, what with the crying I did the day before and the no sleep! Anyway, I left Peter sitting with Ally, whose crying had made her look a lot like a blowfish, and who was still sobbing. I considered canceling my plans, but Peter had a way with Ally that made her talk, which I didn’t possess. These two have the most endearing and incredible relationship (which is a whole other post). They are a lot alike and speak the same emotional language. I knew she was in gifted hands.
I didn’t check my phone until after the brunch, but Peter had texted that the coach had contacted him to see if Ally could play the last game in the tournament, because another girl was sick. He said he was going to let her decide. I called him. He said Ally was icing her eyes, and they were on their way. This is how my daughter and I differ. If I were in that situation, I would have folded, and said, no, because I would have been too upset and embarrassed, and plus I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see my swollen eyes, and plus I would have been hating the coach so much, I might not be able to control my words, and also I would be so upset, I might have already enrolled in the witness relocation program. But Ally de-puffed her eyes, got on her cleats and was given a hero’s welcome by her team. She was the starting forward, and scored a goal within minutes of beginning the game. Her entire team embraced her, and she even got a surprise hug from her coach. She came home in a completely different frame of mind, having been supported by every girl, the coach, and the parents, and seeing that that this move was to make her an even stronger player for 2014. This was Ally’s first real bit of adveristy. And while she got a good tear duct workout, she rallied in record time. She’s done a lot of great things in her little life, but this was the most proud I’d ever felt of her. The girl not only has great athletic ability, she has great character.
As for Jake, he looked like a five year old who’d gotten into his mother’s purple eyeshadow on Sunday morning. The swelling was worse, and his eye was almost shut. He sat on the couch all day watching a mix of sports and movies. His fab girlfriend came over, and together we gave Ally a standing O when she walked in the door, high from her success.
This is what parenting can be like. Things happen to your kids, and sometimes there’s not a NUTHIN’ you can do about them. And the pit in your stomach feels like the cast of Riverdance is doing their thing in there. But it’s Monday, and we seemed to have survived. And I think, although we’re all a little wearier, we’re all ok. And most importantly, my kids showed me who they have become. Adults.
gratitude-a-thon day 43: Mama Bears
Lately, I seem to be reading about mom’s who are facing stuff that is hard. Like, really hard. In the most recent (mammoth) issue of Vogue I just read an article by Emily Rapp, who writes beautifully about her experience with living, loving and losing her sweet little boy Ronan, who was born with Tay-Sachs Disease. As I read, I could feel the pit in my stomach growing to the size of a small midwestern farm, not because this story had anything to do with me, but because as a mom, I could feel what it would be like if it did.
Which brings me to another blog, that of Jane Roper. I met Jane for like 5 seconds many years ago, at a writer’s group that I was thinking of joining, but quickly realized was made up of writers that were quite a bit more experienced than I was. (Translation: Writers who were way fucking better than I ever could be at writing.) But the cool thing was that I got to meet Jane, who was an advertising copywriter, like me, and had just been accepted into the Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She was exceptionally friendly and nice. Since then, I’ve watched her success from afar, as she’s given birth to twins and written two books. And then, recently, I ran into her blog and read with rapt attention about how one of her adorable twins had received the diagnosis of leukemia. At five. It made me once again, hold onto my chair, because, well, I of the vivid imagination, could imagine how difficult this would be to go through. (By the way, Jane is such a gifted writer, she even makes cancer funny.)
Lastly, I found a blog posted by a Facebook friend, which really made me think. The blog is by Julie Ross and is called George. Jessie. Love. And it’s about Julie’s child Jessie, who was George until his 10th birthday. And I thought Jake not making the basketball team was a parenting challenge. When I think of how brutal kids can be at that age, I can imagine that parenting a transgender child must require some superb mommying. Julie shares her experience with honesty and wit.
Why I’m fascinated by, and grateful for all these stories is because, in each case, I see and feel the Mama Bear that’s at the helm, and she inspires me to dig deeper in an effort to be a better mom, myself. None of us know exactly what we’re signing up for when we give birth. And the baby comes, and the love that you feel is so powerfully big, so all encompassing, so passionate and deep, that what you do know is, nothing will ever be the quite same again. And it hits you in an instant, that you will do whatever it is you have to do to keep that child safe, happy, healthy, and able to be their best selves forever more. You know it, like you know the sun will make it’s way to the center of the sky the next day, and will go into hiding 12 hours later.
And that’s what I love about these women. The unexpected, searing pain that can come with being a mom and doing your job can sometimes feel unspeakably impossible. But never undoable. These are dynamic examples. I’m grateful that these women, courageous and honest, are able to share their experiences so eloquently, and show us that in good times and bad, being a mom forces us to learn and grow and find beauty and love in even the most difficult. And that at the end of the day, we wouldn’t have it any other way.
gratitude-a-thon day 42: the mail
I’m a big texter, a huge emailer, a fervent facebooker, and a once-in-while skyper, and while I’ve yet to twitter, I’ll probably succumb some time soon. But call me old-fashioned, or just call me old, I LOVE TO GET MAIL. The kind that comes in your mailbox, that someone has written. WITH A PEN. I have always been a postal proponent. Give me the guy in the blue uniform and the big sack, and I’m happy. When I was a kid, I spent a month on the Cape every summer and made lots of friends, who turned into pen pals. Everyday I impatiently waited for a letter from any one of a dozen people. I stalked our little black mailbox with the flip-up top, like a dog stalks a big steak that’s just out of reach. I would wait for the envelopes with my name. Sometimes they had little hearts over all the i’s, sometimes stickers, or elaborate flowers, or my name in a rainbow of markers, or in a fat and balloon-y font. I loved every moment of the letters, in all sorts of writing that inhabited those envelopes, describing life in other parts. Sometimes there were even photos. That was a red letter day. I kept all the letters housed in their envelopes in my room. Sometimes I re-read them. Sometime I just kept them in a neat little pile for me to gaze at.
Today, fewer letters come, except for Christmas cards, which is like watching the kids of everyone I know grow up in time lapse photography. But I still like the mail. I even like the junk mail. I’m sort of fascinated by what comes to my door. And why. I have been getting Haddasah magazine for the past 6 months, despite the fact that I am not Jewish, do not go to a temple, and never ordered it (btw, I am half Jewish, half Italian/Catholic, but was not brought up practicing anything, but we’ll discuss this further in another post). Recently my husband began getting Wired, which is the last magazine in the world my husband would want, or be interested in. How did he get a subscription? We got Spin for a while, too. I flipped through it sometimes, wondering how in the hell this expensive magazine had my name on it. I even like catalogs (Yes, I am weird.) Some are so beautifully designed, I keep them in my office for reference. Some are ridiculous, and I marvel at the idea or product or presentation. A few are actually useful, offering odd stuff that I might never know existed, if the mail person didn’t bring it to my door.
Riley, my dog DOES NOT LIKE MAIL. He barks at the mail person in a viscious, “i will kill you,” way that is terrifying. (Riley is anything, but terrifying, but admittedly, his bark is that of a dog four times his size.) Here’s the odd part of this. We often have different mail people, and he hates all of them. This is something I just don’t understand. What is it that consistently gets him? Do they have a postal perfume that drives dogs wild? Even if we’re on a walk, he will spot a mail person and go crazy. That means, it’s not just a thing of someone walking up to our house, it’s something else. If anybody has any answers on this topic, fess up. I’m interested.
Anyway, I’m grateful for the mail. I worry about what will happen to the Postal Service in the future. I know they’re planning on ending Saturday delivery, which is kind of a major step. (I mean, there’s nothing like a Saturday night with the Garnet Hill Catalog). I am grateful for those men and women who get out there, like Santa with their sacks, and walk in rain, and snow and sleet, and crazy-kill-you heat, forced to meet up with mean old dogs (like Riley!) just to bring me my mail. Thanks you guys. Despite the fact that you also bring bills, and the depressing Sports Illustrated Bathing Suit Issue every February when I’m my pastiest winter white, I love what you do. Keep it coming Mr & Mrs. Postman.
gratitude-a-thon day 41: Pete is 80
I recently came back from Buffalo, NY, and I am still wondering why anybody would live there. Although every single person I met was exceptionally nice. AND I MEAN EXCEPTIONALLY NICE. It’s where my husband grew up, and where we went for his dad’s 80th birthday. His dad is having some major health stuff, fluid surrounding his brain, which makes him not remember things, and lose his balance. This was thought to have been Parkinson’s for several years, but was recently re-diagnosed as adult hydrocephalus. There are some things you can do to help this condition, but he’s not really in good enough health to do them. We’re probably dealing with a series of strokes here, too. Last week he found an infection in his leg, which put him into the hospital, and now into a rehab center, so last night’s party was there, in a special little room just for families to hang out. It’s a nice place, as far as those places go, and it doesn’t have that awful urine smell, which is what I most remember about where my poor Aunt Josie was.
Anyway, here’s the grateful part. The night we celebrated, I said something to Pete (my father-in-law) about being 80 and what a big birthday it is. And he said, something like, “Yeah, and I’m going to have a lot more birthdays.” And later in the night, he said something else, in a hearty voice, about living a long, long time. He said it with conviction and joy. He said it like a man on a mission. This guy clearly doesn’t want to give up. He wants to live. I admire that. I know that for a lot of people getting old brings with it too many super hard and pain-in-the-ass (back, leg, head, shoulders, knees and toes) challenges, to be excited about more living, but Pete has not only the will to live, but also the drive. What he doesn’t have is the health. And that’s a bit of a problem at this point. He may have to move into assisted living from the rehab center, and there’s the tricky and the icky. Pete will not want to leave his house, the house where his kids grew up, where the majority of his adult life was lived, where there are still so many reminders of his wife, the mom to his kids, who lived with him there, before she left him 20 years ago for her high school boyfriend while on a celebratory vacation to Hawaii in honor of their 35th wedding anniversary, and died from breast cancer a year and a half ago. (I told you this guy is a survivor.) He will not want to leave all the comfort and familiarity, (not to mention his baby grand), of this dwelling where he made a new life with an amazing new woman, who was sent by divine intervention after his wife left, and has been with him ever since, and who is as intelligent, beautiful, upbeat, and vivacious a person as you could ever find. And his kids don’t want him to leave either, and they don’t want to have to dismantle the house that represents their childhoods, and a time they can never get back again, but that this house reminds them existed. How come stuff has to happen like this? Couldn’t there be a better last chapter for all of us? REALLY, people, we need to work on the ending.
It’s all so complicated, like one of those stupid Rubik cubes–you turn it one way and it works, you turn it another and the whole thing falls apart. I understand this scenario my husband and his siblings and Pete’s partner are going through because I have already been on this shitty roller coaster ride. I have already had to walk this long and crumbling road, watching both of my parents get sick and die. And I have had to face losing the only house that I ever lived in growing up, and all its soothing contents. There was something so comforting about knowing that while I moved onto have my own life, that house remained untouched. And in my mind, some part of my younger self still lived there.
I find the whole situation so unspeakably sad and difficult, that even though I’ve never been close to my father-in-law, I abhor watching what’s happening to him. I want to make it better, be Cher and turn back the hands of time, invent some plan that could turn the whole thing around for everybody. But as for Pete. He wants to live. Perhaps it’s how you are, when you’re the son of a Holocaust survivor, or maybe it’s just his inherent nature. But this guy chooses life. And I think that given the circumstances, that’s just all kinds of beautiful.
gratitude-a-thon day 37: new york
Sorry for missing yesterday’s post, I may be a little spotty this week, because it’s school vacation week, and we’re doing some road trips, and I have a sinus infection the size of Volkswagen.
I like to get to New York as much as I can. We usually go at least once a year, for one of the kid’s school vacations. We always stay at the Parker Meridien because they have a pool on the roof and it overlooks Central Park, so you can’t argue with that, plus it’s really close to Bonwit’s (and why don’t we have one of those?) and the mothership, Sak’s, and Uniglo (which is fun and cheap and not in Boston, either) and Barney’s. We initially began staying here because it’s a really kid-friendly place, and they used to love the pool, but this time, they haven’t been swimming once. Ah, teenagers. Also, I should mention that they have the best burger in town. It’s at this little place, that lore has it, was there before the hotel was built. And it literally is a hole in the wall, and only serves burgers, fries, milkshakes, beer, wine, the end. It’s a soup Nazi situation, where you better know what you’re ordering, or you go to the back of the line. It’s called The Burger Joint, but it’s only identified by a neon burger. You must go. In fact, you should leave what you’re doing, and go this minute. This is a kind of awful trip, on account of I’m sick. And so is Ally. And our friends Deb and Charlie decided to join us, and Deb isn’t feeling well and neither is one of her kids. So, we’re kind of a sorry group. But we have managed to do some great stuff. And it’s the kind of stuff that tells the story of why I could have written the jingle “I LOVE NY.” Here are just a couple reasons. There are about a billion more.
1. The New York diner. Peter and I had one of these around the corner from us when we lived here before we got married. It was called the Silver Star. And you could get anything at this place. Really, ANYTHING. The menu was only slightly shorter than War and Peace. Recently we got turned onto the Brooklyn Diner. Last year we saw Seinfeld eating his breakfast there. It’s absolutely amazing food, and all the waiters are aspiring actors, so that’s kind of fun, too. It’s more refined than the diners I’m really talking about, but nonetheless, it’s delish. Plus, honestly, the woman next to us ordered a hotdog and it was the size of a dachsund.
2. The people. The people watching gets a freaking A ++++. There’s no place better, if people are your theater.
3. And speaking of theater. The theater. We saw The Lion King. We saw it a long time ago, but it’s good enough to see again. And there are so many amazing options on Broadway, off Broadway, you name it. Rich, rich, RICH arts world here.
4. And now that you mention art, we went to MOMA yesterday and saw The Scream, Starry, Starry Night and Christina’s World, plus a painting made of pollen, which was totally and completely tremendous. And we could have gone to like 700 other museums, too.
5. Madison Square Garden. Wow. Big. Big. Big. Maroon Five and Neon Trees was great, but equally cool was being in the famed MSG. I hadn’t been there since I saw Elton John with Nicky Barzetti on Thanksgiving day my sophomore year of high school. (John Lennon was his special guest, which I had predicted because they both had songs out that they sang back up on, and I could barely watch because I WAS SO SHOCKED THAT I WAS ACTUALLY RIGHT ABOUT JOHN LENNON–ONE OF THE BEATLES–BEING THERE)! And by the way, Elton John’s name was hanging from the rafters, as a retired number! Guess he won’t be playing there again!
6. The shopping. It’s ridiculous. And basically puts any other city in the States to shame. I haven’t gotten to do my rounds because I feel too awful, but I did manage to hit the Barney’s Warehouse Sale yesterday (it was picked over, so I got a big fat nothing) and ABC Carpet, which I would actually live in if they would let me.
7. The Dry Bar. It’s a great little place, actually it’s beautifully designed, and all they do is blow dries. Nothing else, just the blow job. I took Ally and our friend Lily. My hair still looks awesome.
There are a whole lot of other reasons I love New York, although being sick in the city that never sleeps, isn’t one of them.
sad-a-tude-athon day 32: joni
Today my sister moves to Miami. I feel like she might as well be moving to Mars. Because the fact is, she will no longer be able to stop by on her way to a doctor’s appointment, and her husband Frank will no longer pop up at Ally’s soccer games as a surprise, and we will no longer be able to go to her house, a few blocks from funky Nantasket Beach, and have our epic sleepovers and our movie marathons, and swim in her neighbor Pauline’s pool, and cook, and laugh our heads off. Nope, no more. And the sadness I feel is so overwhelming, so big, so all-encompassing, I have been pretending it was not going to happen. But today is the day. With my parents being gone for so long (as in dead and gone), Joni and I are a lot of family to each other. We are both movie fanatics, both writers, both a little bit crazy.
We sort of look alike, we sort of talk alike, and we sort of think alike, too. And, of course, we are two of the people in the world who know what it was like to grow up in our town, our house, our crazy family. I love her in a way that gives me context in the world. Sometimes I think if she didn’t exist, I wouldn’t exist either. She was my idol when I was little, and frequently swindled me into doing things for her because of that. She once cut my waist length hair up to my chin, while my parents were out, and I let her sheerly for the attention (She was grounded for a month). She went to Woodstock, lived on Malibu Beach, where I spent three weeks with her before my senior year of high school and started my life-long love affair with California. She has had a super adventurous life. She tried her hand at becoming an actress, has traveled extensively, and lived in lots of places, including England, where she was married to a warm and lovely British actor, who she is still best friends with, although no longer married to. She has worked as a writer for the past 16 years, remarried one of the nicest guys there is, Frank (Who was a sports reporter for the Globe for 20 years, but is the reason she’s moving, because he was offered a great job at BeIn Sports, a new all-soccer tv station and website, and did I mention he is a SOCCER ENCYCLOPEDIA–GOOGLE’S GOT NUTHIN’ ON FRANK.) in a weeklong celebration in Venice, Italy. (Where the Italian Justice of the Peace pronounced her married at “eh, about 12:00–so precise, those Italians!) I am proud of all she has accomplished. There is nobody that can make me laugh, nobody that knows what I’m thinking or feeling, and nobody that understands me quite so well as my sister Joni. She, quite simply, has always been there. When I graduated from high school, college, got married, had my kids, (Right there, by the way!) She has offered me support, loved my kids as if they were hers. I feel like a death has occurred when I think about her not being in her house anymore. So dramatic, you say? But it’s honestly how I feel. The end of the something has begun. It never occurred to me that we wouldn’t one day be old ladies (with our dyed brown hair), with her in her beachy house, and me just an hour away. And yet, I am happy for her to be in warm weather and for Frank to have a job that uses so much of his insane soccer knowledge. But, for me, it’s nothing but awful. I see no sparkly silver lining here. And while I’m grateful, over-the-top grateful, to have Joni in my life, I am terribly unhappy that she is moving. Today. To Miami. I’ve never been particularly good at transitions. I don’t have much talent when it comes to seeing that just because things change, doesn’t mean they can’t be good, or even better than they were. Because you know, maybe Miami will be fun. And I will visit often and be able to stop my near constant whining about HOW COLD IT IS HERE IN THE WINTER. Maybe. Maybe. But more than likely, I will cry for a long, long, LONG, LONG time before that happens, and the only good that will come of it, is that my tears might help melt some of the nine fucking feet of snow in front of my house.
gratitude-a-thon day 31: my neighborhood
My neighborhood is kind of great. I live on a one way street, and everybody is actually nice. Kids play in the road. We have block parties in the summer. There is a fabulous park a block and a half away that has concerts every Wednesday night when it’s warm, and a sprinkler and playground, where mom’s bring their kids to play, and connect with each other to save themselves from forgetting how to speak (my kids WERE LITERALLY RAISED AT EMERSON PARK.
We went there day and night. We had lunches, picnics. We even spent the shell-shocked night of 911 there with our good friends, pizza and a lot of wine, while our kids ran around untouched by the new world.) We borrow ketchup and eggs, and pancake mix from each other. We walk to our schools, because we’re just a few blocks away from our grammar school, a few blocks away from the high school. We live near our quirky little town center called Brookline Village, where my one of favorite restaurants in the world is located–
Pomodoro, (AND MY FAVORITE BARTENDER IN THE WORLD IS, SAM.) And where you can find my fantastic personal trainer (who has saved my back, and my life), Colleen Quinn at Eutopia, and the cool little pub, Matt Murphy’s, and the incredible sandwich shop Cutty’s and
the super awesome cafe KooKoo, owned by the equally super awesome Elie and Ali (who also own the fabulous Innerspace Yoga Studio, and apparently NEVER SLEEP). And there’s all sorts of other stuff in the Village too, like the post office and the T, and Starbuck’s, to name a few. And we all live close to one another, so there’s a lot of respecting one another’s privacy, but basically it’s a bunch of good people, and I think we sort of all know that we have a pretty great thing going on.
The other night I went to a birthday party for one of the neighborhood legends . It was her 50th and a lot of the hood was there. It was kind of an astounding thing to think of all the time I’ve known Martha. Because in that time, we have witnessed our kids go from babies to teenagers. I met her when she was walking her twin boys in their stroller, all smiley, cheerful new mom, and I was walking my daughter, all cranky, my-baby-never-stops-crying, semi-psychotic basket case MOTHER WHO CLEARLY SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN ALLOWED TO PROCREATE. In that first encounter, when we exchanged pleasantries, as you do when you see someone who has a baby around the same age as yours, I told her how difficult my daughter was because she cried all the time and she didn’t sleep through the night AND NEITHER DID I. I was immediately thinking, THIS IS A MOTHER OF TWINS, SHE WILL GET MY MISERY LIKE NOBODY’S BUSINESS. But it was not to be. Big smile on her sunny face, “They’re really good, and they sleep quite well, ” she said, of her twins, in some sort of words, which I can not exactly recall, BECAUSE I WAS ABOUT TO GET MY OWN WING AT MCLEAN’S, plus I was trying to hold back my arm from hitting her across the face with my hand BECAUSE SHE WAS CHEERFUL AND WELL RESTED, in the face of MY TOTAL AND COMPLETE EXHAUSTION AND PROJECTED FEAR THAT MY BABY WOULD CRY FOR THE REST OF TIME. Anyway, I didn’t know it then, but now that I’ve known Martha for 14 years, i can tell you that she’s just that kind of person. Perhaps that’s how they make ’em in Canada, which is where she grew up. You can pretty much throw anything her way, and she will spin it into gold. And the thing about her is, that it’s GENUINE. She is totally genuine, real deal, no artifice. She believes in everyone’s best. She thinks everything is possible. And she will help you to make whatever you’re thinking, happen. She’s a connector of people and a nurturer of ideas. She’s a cheerleader and a true believer. She will show up for you. She’s the person you’d like to be when you’re at your best, but rarely are. (I’m sorry, I’ll speak for myself, here.) She will bake you a cake if you’re sick. She will whip up a cute little gift for your birthday and leave it on your porch, when you least expect it. She will write you an inspiring email to thank you for doing something at school. This is a really, really, unusually kind person. The kind of kind person we would all be lucky to know. And she’s part of what makes my neighborhood so great. Happy 50th, Martha. Canada’s loss. Our gain.
gratitude-a-thon day 27: wrapping a gift
When Jake was little, his pre-school teacher Judy, talked to the class about how everyone has a special gift. Later on in the day, Jake asked Judy what his special present was. She was confused for a while, until she realized he meant what his special “gift” was. (She got a good laugh out of this when she told me. And by the way, no surprise, his gift was “talking.”) Anyway, I have been told my special “present” is wrapping gifts. Kind of lame, right? But, it is some sort of weird and useless skill I possess. Part of it is that I like the idea that someone could get as excited about the wrapping, as the gift inside of it. I mean, why not create something special where you can? Why not go the extra mile for someone? I also like to make something look pretty and know that the receiver of said gift will stop for a moment and feel they were worth the effort.
I am a nut when it comes to shopping for interesting wrapping paper. Or sometimes I just get silly and use odd stuff that isn’t really for wrapping. I am constantly on the look out for beautiful, or printed, or antique ribbon, and any kind of decorations that can live on a gift to give it some star power.
I admit it’s completely stupid. I know that if the economy tanked (worse than it’s already tanked), my gift wrapping skills would not even keep me in hair dye. But, it is a happy skill. I’ve never encountered a getter, who doesn’t appreciate the to-do that was made to make their gift look as special as I think they are. I have fun and get lost in the doing. I am improving the economy by purchasing so much wrapping paper? Alright, you win, it’s kind of ridiculous, my wrapping thing, but I like it. And I’m grateful for the chance to do it. And if you were getting the gift, you probably wouldn’t be making such fun of me.
*the gratitude-a-thon 