Confetti

{Ahem. Fast forward three weeks...}

Hi!

Allow me to re-tell a story. Once when I was a young mother we were preparing to go on vacation, taking a road trip a couple of states away. I do what you do in that situation: lists and crossing off and packing and re-packing and checking. Do I have enough diapers? Does everyone have pajamas? Where are the little busy things for the long car ride? Did I stop the mail? Who will water the plants? You know.

Finally, we pulled out of our neighborhood ready for the adventure. After a while, 3-year-old Lauren piped up from the back seat. 

"Mom, did you remember to bring my blankie?"

"Yep, here it is."

Silence.

"Mom?"

"Uh huh?"

"Did you bring pink bear?"

Silence. Quick calculation of how far we've already driven. Too far. Life would have to go on without pink bear.

"No.......I think I forgot it Lauren. I'm sorry!"

Silence.

"Mom. Can't you even remember two things?"

 . . . 

Every once in a while over the past month or so I've chided myself "can't you even juggle two things?" but then I remind myself that those Two Things actually include so very many pieces that it feels like juggling confetti. So I decided that juggling is overrated. It's completely the wrong metaphor for my life right now in this season. What's the point, really, in trying to juggle confetti?  If you have confetti, you should be enjoying how it floats around your head and admiring the colors. You should be celebrating. I'm not sure where to go with that analogy but those were my thoughts. Be in the moment. Be glad for the bounty. Don't be so tough on yourself. Be wise in choosing your metaphors.

All this is just to say that it's a little crazy sometimes but I am loving being surrounded in our particular blend of confetti.

looking cool - losing teeth
sewing patches - contemplating schools

dressing up for Oscars - enjoying early spring
promming - celebrating oreo's 100th

jury duty - lunchtime walks
Sound of Music costumes for Sam - Celtics Game with G

Work wagering

Our family has a (possibly apocryphal) story about my great-grandmother Elsie. She had nine daughters and, naturally, it was essential that everyone chip in and do their part to keep the household going. One morning she discovered that one of the daughters hadn't done her work. Known for her spunk, my great grandma marched over to the school where they were gathered for their morning assembly.  She wrote a little note and it was passed from hand to hand all the way up to the front where the principal read it aloud: "Please send ____ home to come complete her unfinished work." (Someone in the family please correct me...this is the gist of it but I don't remember the particulars.)

. . .

Well, this one's for you, Elsie:

Yesterday I discovered that certain smaller people in the house didn't do their prep-for-guests jobs that they were asked to do this weekend. Now, maybe they wagered that, since it's kind of important to have clean bathrooms for guests, I would just go ahead and do their jobs for them.

They wagered wrong!

Nothing a little sign can't fix.

I don't think they were sufficiently embarrassed though, at least not enough to commence cleaning. I may have to resort to marching to the school... So basically what we have is a work standoff. Who's going to blink first?

What works in your house to get the crew working?

A Modest Proposal ii

The next day I picked up G in his little green car.  He suggested we go up in the canyon for a picnic, his glance darting to the turquoise duffle bag. I had spent the whole night thinking and then early in the morning confided in my good friend next door. My immediate instinct was to postpone the proposal however I could until I got a better grasp of what I wanted.

So we traveled through the canyon, making small talk. I was overly aware of the bag. That stupid bag, that blessed bag.  At Sundance, we parked, grabbed our things (hello, duffle bag companion!), and hiked up the mountain.  We spread out a blanket and chatted about the day, the gorgeous surroundings, school.  In a sudden rush of panic my proposal avoidance system activated.

"Want to take a walk?"  I blurted.

"Sure." G swooped the bag--which had been nestled close to G on the blanket--up to his shoulder.  

We made our way toward a small stream at the foot of Mt. Timpanogos, a wonderfully romantic technicolor scene on this September afternoon.  The mountains seemed to be holding their breath.  G invited me to sit on the grass as he ceremoniously unzipped the duffle bag. [Now I was holding my breath, too.]  This is it, I thought.

He took out two crystal goblets, both wrapped carefully in a frayed blue bath towel, and my favorite sparkling soda.

"What's this, a picnic?" I asked, coyly. And inanely.  As if we hadn't already been calling it a picnic and I hadn't noticed the bag fastened to him all day.

"Uh-huh" G smiled faintly.

We gulped down our drinks, both nervous for our own reasons.  Stalling for time, I asked for a refill and drank it, too.  Do I want this to happen? what's the way forward? Distraction seems much more compassionate than rejection.  And I don't want to reject him. I'm just not sure.  I don't want him to ask unless I'm sure.

"Um...G?"  

"Yeah?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."  I really did.  I was suffering the consequences of the refill. We packed up the bottles and glasses and G replaced them in the bag, careful not to reveal its other contents.  But I thought I could see a bit of light blue velvet.

. . .

Confused? Read the first installment here. There's more to come. Eventually.

Picture taken on my parents' deck, September 1989, on the way to USU's Homecoming.  Oh the hair (both of us!). G's about to laugh and I've got a strange overbite happening. Look at our little young, starry-eyed selves. 

A modest proposal

 Just a little story in honor of my 20th anniversary this week. (I'm a little nervous about this whole heart-on-sleeve storytelling but here goes...) 

It was the first time I ever cried in a supermarket, unless you count the time I threw a tantrum for a lollipop when I was three.  But there I was, amidst the harsh flourescent lighting, overly friendly produce men in red polyester jackets, and tear-soaked lettuce.  I missed him, two hours away.  I missed him to distraction. 

I had been dating G for fifteen months--six of those months I was in London and three more I was away at school--so we had endured separations before.  In fact we joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently. I felt bereft and that wasn't good for my plans.  Not good at all.

Love...marriage...all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished.  That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too...famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot.  But this night the feasting failed.  Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look.  Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. "Maybe the flu" he said so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover.  An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine.  The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend's apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. "Don't forget to lock the car, okay?"  These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place.  Don't forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock?  I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that Greg forgot his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn't even have his things for the night.  I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap.  Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

The contents clinked together and my hand brushed the velvet covering of a small box.  Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight.  In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one...an...engagement...  My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause]  Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a gleaming diamond.  Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already...oh no...I can't believe this...what am I going to do...does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger.  A little snug but it fits.  I'll get used to it.

Then the tears started, not the muffled supermarket kind but real, solitary weeping.  It would be a long night.  Tomorrow he'll ask.  What will I say?  As I laid in bed, many things played through my mind: thoughts of expectations (my own and others'), of stories of my cousin turning several proposals down, of overheard conversations about happy relationships and other, distressed marriages.  One last thought drifted before sleep fell: I'll bet I'm the first one in history to propose to herself.

To be continued...

Passing the Bridge of Sighs

 

Our {20th!} anniversary is coming up next month and we dream of marking it with a trip sometime this year. Part of our routine is to toss around lots of ideas of places we could go to celebrate.  I email G a listing for a great cottage in France.  He reports the lunchtime opinions of his colleagues' favorite destinations (one vote for St. John's and one vote for Aruba), etc.

It's like window shopping, a traveler's version of Breakfast at Tiffany's.  It's great because, when decision time comes, we feel like we've almost gone to lots of exciting places, even if we just end up sneaking away for a night in the Marriott a few towns over.

In one of those dreamland discussions, we notice that the TED global conference at Oxford still has openings.

"Ooo, that would be amazing, don't you think?"

(We both ignore the price at this phase of the game.)

And then, G sucks air in through his teeth and sighs.

"Oh, but it lists punting on the itinerary."

I glance up.  "Oh, dear."

Sigh.

. . .

Many years ago, when our marriage had that just-out-of-the-box shine, we visited England together.  In Cambridge we decided to try punting on the river Cam.  (Punting, as you probably know, involves steering a long skinny boat with a long skinny pole while standing balanced in the back, like the gondoliers in Venice.)  We were students living on love, air, and jacket potatoes so we opted to guide ourselves down the river rather than spend the extra money on a guide.

G had no way of knowing the vision that was playing out inside my head--or how long it had been looping through my rose-tinged dreams.  He had no idea that I had snatched him up from where he stood and cast him in a historical BBC drama (the ones he actively avoids) in which we drift peacefully down the river, trailing my fingers in the smooth water, choral music wafting from the King's College Chapel as we drift on toward the Bridge of Sighs. (And by "we" I meant me.)

Yeah, no unrealistic expectations there.

So it turns out that punting is much more difficult than it seems--in fact, quite challenging.  We launched out down the river shakily, ping-ponging wildly between the two banks of the boat-filled river.  Next the pole got stuck in the mushy riverbottom and we spun around and around, pivoting on the stubborn pole. Then, regaining control of the pole we lost control of the boat banging broadside into another boat and knocking that guide into the water. Yes, really. (And by "we" I meant G.) 

I wish I could say I laughed and made it a lighthearted, BBC romance kind of moment.  But, no--it also turns out that I am a terrible boat passenger. I threw all sorts of "helpful" advice-slash-commands in G's direction, irritated that my vision was getting all sullied with the reality of guiding a boat with a pole down a crowded river. This, of course, was highly unhelpful and only made G feel worse.  By the end of the ride we were terse and angry with each other. 

Poor G, saddled with the heavy weight of my unspoken expectations. Notice that all of the actual work of my vision was unfairly placed squarely on his shoulders?  Is it any wonder we have avoided anything involving a boat and high expectations ever since?

Given a chance for a do-over these many years later, I would just lie back and enjoy the view.  I would laugh + jump in with the guy we knocked off (like the dance scene in It's a Wonderful Life!) and offer to buy him lunch. I would offer to take a turn steering us rather than offering backoftheboat advice.  I would lower my expectations and raise my compassion.  Or at least I hope I would.

I think we might be ready for another trip down the river after all.

And by "we," I really mean we.

He's a lover not a fighter

True story.

Yesterday morning I got up early, practically with the sun (why, oh why, can I not sleep in on vacation?? Never mind, it was beautiful outside). Greg got dressed to go on a bike ride and I settled down with my book in the front room (see previous post), Louie at my feet.

I watched Greg pedal away and got engrossed in my mystery novel. A few (15? 20?) minutes later Louie got up and wandered away toward the back of the house. Now and then I heard him sniffling and scuffling. At one point it sounded like he bumped into something (it happens a lot with his surfer dude haircut). I heard Greg's footsteps--way earlier than expected--so I got up, rounded the corner to the kitchen and called out "are you back already?" I saw a decidedly-not-Greg arm as someone turned around the corner to walk (scamper, run) away from me, Louie happily dancing at his heels, tickled to have a new friend.

Um.

Hello sir?

The guy, deer in the headlights and mortified, turned back at me (keep in mind, this is 6:30 a.m.) and stammered. "I'm so sorry...I'm the former caretaker of the cottage and I had to come get something out of the barn..."

Did I pepper him with questions?

For example, the barn isn't in here, is it?

Why didn't you knock first?

Why tiptoe around?

Did I threaten to call the police?

Did I refer to my karate skills or pick up a cleaver, ready to defend myself and my three sleeping children?

No, no, and no. Here's what I said, in the potentially dangerous situation I was in:

Oh, um, that's okay. I just thought you were my husband. He's out on...a...bike...ride.

Translation in criminalese: go right ahead and do whatever bad business you were up to, there's no one here to stop you! Happy to cooperate! Always thinking, that brain of mine. Safety first!

Anyway, he turned around lickety split, headed to the barn and left a few minutes later with his brother (license plate: my4sons).

I turned and looked at Louie sternly, my hands on my hips.

He looked up at me proudly, wagging his tail with a gentle smile on his muzzle. Translation in puppyese:

I did good, right? I welcomed him and licked him and followed him. I just love people. Treat? Sigh.

We're a couple of crime fighters, Louie and me. Please take away my McGruff neighborhood watch card. I'm a lousy watch dog, too.

p.s. I'm pretty sure they were legit. I'm checking with the owner just in case. Also, they really shouldn't just walk in the house. I know that much! (Or maybe he just needed to use the restroom?)

Close, but no cod

{Preamble: I love our town. And our neighborhood. Just last Sunday we had a block party with kids running all around, live music under a tent (a neighborhood teen singing with her boyfriend on the guitar), tons of potluck goodness, and friendly neighborhood banter. It's a good place. We feel lucky to live here.

Our particular neighborhood is very normal and modest (it's unofficially known as "Mayberry" to townies). However, the larger town we're a part of is quaint, historic, and quite...affluent. Over the top, at times, in a low-key, money-is-no-big-deal way that only the ultra rich have. A certain famous Celtics basketball player calls it home. High school kids not only have their own cars, they drive awesome cars.

It presents interesting parenting challenges. Where growing up I used to envy my friends' Guess jeans, my kids envy their friends' four houses (this is not an exaggeration; one of Maddy's friends indeed has that many). At the very least, a LOT of people we know have a "place on the Cape" where they summer. Whereas we summer at home happily.}

Now for the amble:

Every time someone says they are going to the Cape, I always remember my first summer in the Boston area. Years before moving here for good, I came for a summer in high school to earn a little money and live with my aunt and uncle and cousins. I worked at McDonald's & made a few friends there, mostly college students home for the summer and high schoolers like me. Because I was from a small college town in Utah and younger than everyone else, I was kind of treated as the ditsy mascot, a role I constantly tried to rise above.

One Friday, in between chucking stale fries and serenading each other over the drive-thru headphones, we were discussing our weekend plans. Someone asked "what are you doing, Annie?"

I knew there was a special in-the-know name for where we were going so I gave it a try:

"We're going to The Cod!" I announced confidently.

Uh, the raucous laughter clued me in right away. Not the Cod. The Cape.

Ohhhhh.

So close and yet so wrong.

And, really, who would even want to go someplace called the Cod?

{Postamble: I hope I haven't told that story here before. Lately I worry about repeating myself. Shouldn't I be about 4 decades older before worrying about that?}

19 mileposts

This morning we have been married for 19 years.  19. One, nine.  To celebrate, here are 19 short snippets from our married life, one mile marker for each year. 

1.  on our first married Christmas, our little old green station wagon, fondly named "gumby," is on the fritz so G bikes in a blizzard downtown to Christmas shop, riding home on the slick roads with the purchases slung over his shoulders (90).

2. we give up our $200 a month basement apartment and move to the big city for my first big job and G's law school (91)

3. I quit the big job to accompany G to London for the summer (wouldn't you?), where he completes a semester of international law study abroad and we live on love and Tesco pot pies.  The concierge at our cheap hotel calls me his "lady friend" (I'm sure it doesn't occur to her that we are married) and suggests we push the twin beds together. (92)

4. Back in the States, G continues law school and I work and start a master's degree program.  Also: Baby hungry.  G, in his wisdom, suggests that I wait until I've really wanted a baby for at least three months in a row (somewhat fickle person that I am). Later: Lauren is born. (93)

5. G finishes law school, passes the bar, and we pack up and move east to Boston. (94)

6. G leaves for a long duty assignment with the Air Force.  Shortly after he leaves, I discover I'm pregnant and Lauren and I slog through the first semester+ by ourselves (whenever I hear the opening song of the video The Snowman, it still takes me back to tired nausea and headaches). Later: Maddy is born. (95)

7. Maddy scares us with a long "atypical seizure", emergency room trip, and worrisome testing over the coming months (years, really).  We discover the achy, helpless, tender side of being parents. (96)

8.  Move ourselves to DC, pocketing the moving stipend from the Air Force.  Decide never to do that again.  {Advice: always take the paid-for moving service.}  My brother Matt lives with us while he works in DC. (97).

9. We travel to Germany and Denmark on a space-available basis on a military transport plane (a nice perk of military service but not the most luxurious ride, as my then-6-month-pregnant body attested).  We have a "no room at the inn" incident in Hanover Germany, where G invokes the pregnant wife excuse and gains the man's pity and a room at "Uncle Tom's Hutte."  Later in the year, Sam is born. I'm the lucky patient who is on the receiving end of an intern's first ever epidural. I hold G's hand really tightly. (98) 

10. G is recruited by a DC law firm and leaves the Air Force to take the job. I am at home with three kids under the age of 5 and mostly love it. (99)

11.  We buy our first home.  Toddler Sam treats his dad like a stranger, since G works crazy DC law firm hours (leaving at 6 a.m. and home at 11 p.m. most days, including Saturdays) and serves as Stake Young Men's president. Something's got to give, we both think. We miss each other.   (00)

12.  9/11 was very scary for our little family, as it was for so many.  G finally makes it home at the end of the day in walking-train-walking-train mode.  One of the partners at his firm is killed on one of the planes.  We feel a new desire to reshuffle our lives to spend more time together and prioritize what matters most.  A few weeks later, we take the chance to move back to Boston, where G will be in-house counsel for a vaccine company.  And work better hours. Whew. (01).

13. Welcome to the this-old-house school of home ownership!  All of our $ and free time is spent trying to insulate/update/de-draft/repair our 110-year-old home.  Loved the character, but not the absence of insulation (02).

14.  I decide to try to go back to grad school, take the GRE, and start.  G is a phenomenal support and encourager and talks me down from panic several times (03).  

15.  Following our list of hopes & dreams compiled when we were first married (item #5: show our kids the world & value experiences over things), we take the kids to Denmark, the land of our ancestors.  And so the transfer of wanderlust to the next generation begins... (04).

16.    The year of the deer.  We hit two deer in a one-year span, totalling the car in one of the unfortunate incidents. (And the kids and I also get hit by a drunk driver later in the year).  We try to steer clear of dark evening drives and the deer mafia, who obviously have a hit out on us. And I graduate with my masters (05).

17.   I get into the PhD program.  See #14, rinse, repeat.  We look around and realize we've reached the parenting nirvana years: in-house babysitter, kids who get our jokes and who have a degree of independence (read: we can take a Sunday nap and know they will not get into trouble in the meantime).  Plus, they all still want to hang out with us!  (06).

18.  We decide to move: the kids are bigger, their friends are bigger & we need a little more space than our townhouse can give.  Three crazy purchase-and-sale agreements later (and a fair amount of roller coaster emotions + a couple of months of temporary housing), we land in our current happy place (07).

19.  G and I run a 10K together up and down a mountain in Vermont (to be clear, Greg runs it and I stagger in).  G takes a great opportunity and changes jobs, I take a semester off from my grad program and then start back up again.  Life is good. (08)

-->You are here! Let the 20th year begin. Our most memorable dance song played by the big band at our wedding reception?  The wonderfully cheesy country-western "Can I Have This Dance For The Rest of My Life?" Well,  here's to the best partner a gal could ask for.  I feel lucky that we've grown and worked and laughed and adventured together for these years, with the anticipation of many, many more.  We're still dancing...

Minding the gap

20 years ago this month, I boarded a plane and headed to London to live for six months.  

{Can it really be so long ago?} 

It was an exhilarating, crucial time for me.  I had longed to have an adventure for as long as I could remember--to see the world and experience it firsthand.  And, lucky for me, the world did not disappoint. It was there that I became clearer on my priorities & beliefs; my life was still simple {and self-centered} enough that I felt like I could live up to all my expectations. In many ways, I was probably my best version of myself while I was there--I feel like I've been trying ever since to return to the habits I developed and the qualities I embraced while I was there, to recapture the openness, curiosity, positivity and wide-eyed, dazzled feelings I experienced.

And, boy, did I have some experiences! Unfortunately, over my many moves I have lost my journal from that time {I know, sad, yes?I'm still hunting...} but I'm going to tell a few of the stories here over the next few months to both commemorate the anniversary of my journey and to document it for later...to mind the gap between then and now.

Like the time I got lost in Rome and found myself opening a door and emerging smack in the middle of a horse race track...during a race. 

Or when I took a plane to Greece with a couple of friends and cruised the Greek isles on practically pennies and somehow stupidly managed to endanger the lives of over a hundred people.

Or how I learned the hard way not to make eye contact with certain groups of Roman (or Greek, for that matter...) men.

Or how being on the other side of the world helped me realize G was the man for me.

Or just how I came to understand who I really was and who I wanted to be.

Coming soon...

Let's hear it for the boy...

Back in our third year of marriage, I decided one day to make a pie.

Now, you should know that I didn't come into the relationship a very motivated or interested cook (which is just plain sad and inexcusable, given the fantastic cook that is my mother). Greg just knew that wasn't particularly part of the deal. There would be food; usually I would make it. That's it. He was getting other things in the deal but delicious brag-worthy food? Not part of the dowry. Case in point: for the first year of our marriage we used our deep fryer wedding present more often than we should have. Eating corn dogs and deep fried potato products--our state fair food stand culinary years--added to the giddy Pleasure Island feel of our early marriage but also added to the scale numbers. We threw that little FryDaddy away when we moved from our tiny $200/a month apartment. Lesson learned.

So back to the pie story. I got out the pie plate, followed the recipe & made My First Pie. And lo, it was good. Greg came home from law school that night, took one whiff of the lemon meringue air, gazed at the beautiful pie on the counter and said, all smiles:

"I did marry a woman who can cook!"

Yes, he had to wait three patient years. I had no idea he was really pining for a wife that could cook and to his credit he never let on.

Well, me to cooking is Greg to handyman skills. As a young man, he wasn't interested & opted to take AP Chem instead of shop or autoshop in school (or, really, learning from his own dad. What is it about kids not learning from their parents?). Now and then he calls his dad for advice and info (his dad being the handyman equivalent of my mom's gourmetness.)

Recently we ordered a new gas stove and new dishwasher. In a reversal of his pay-for-others-to-do-it, they-do-their-job-and-I-do-my-job philosophy, Greg opted to install them ourselves. (And by ourselves I mean Greg. This, it should be known, made me nervous. But did I express doubts? Well, yes. A little. I had some visions of gas explosions and such. Greg's way more longsuffering than I am about keeping quiet about these things.) Seven trips to the hardware store later (a pesky-sized connector was to blame), he has done it, along with replacing light fixtures and whole outlets without electrocuting himself.

Well, color me impressed. I really did marry a guy who's a handyman.