Packing Lists
Summer nights on Newberry Street in Boston, MA
The best thing you can ever do for someone is to compliment them on whatever you are finding yourself admiring. A great sweater that you could never pull off, the poreless repeat of their skin, eyes so blue you would wonder if they were real. A stranger, a lover, it doesn't matter. Find space and confidence in your life to tell someone else what is special about theirs. You will both bloom for it.
I started this blog almost 8 years ago, to chronicle life as a new mom with my daughter, Chloe. Tomorrow is her eighth birthday. Looking back now, I wish I had been more diligent recording the details. But not for memories. For clues.
I have lived in Manhattan for over ten years, in six different places. But only one ever felt like home.
I have been imagining this moment - my great re-entry to the blogosphere. I imagined it like tapping on a microphone at a club about to perform, making sure everything was operative, only to find that there is no one in the audience. So it doesn't really matter if the mike works, or I say the right thing, or my voice cracks. Because even if someone sneaks in, it will be too dark to notice.
The first boy I ever adored was named Jeffrey. I was twelve, and he was a tiny slip of a boy with smooth looking skin and long eyelashes. Word got around, as it tends to do in seventh grade, and to my great delight Jeffrey asked me to take a walk with him at our upcoming weekend school retreat. This was a big deal at my religious elementary school, and a bigger deal to me, who lived most of my early adolescent life behind Paula Danzinger books and Sally Jessy Raphael glasses. The biggest deal was the way he asked me. He took me outside our science fair and presented me with two soap hearts, which he had made at someone's "how to make soap" booth. I was floored, absolutely ecstatic, my own heart racing with the romance of it all. But alas, poor little Jeffrey developed "inflamed lungs" (I will never forget the diagnosis) and had to miss the retreat. I was without a date to walk with once Saturday afternoon rolled around and I caught the attention of the class slacker artist, a hottie with great hair and a bad attitude. I was suddenly smitten and he would prove to be enamoured of me for as long as the walk lasted. Once I got home, I shelved Jeffrey's hearts far away, along with any interest in a "nice" boy for the decade that followed. Until I met my husband.
I've vacationed in Florida every year since I was six months old, so I dared to believe that, aside from a whole lotta nothin, there was not much to expect on my zillionth trip down there this past time.
One of the million things that I currently love about my daughter Chloe is how comfortable she is just being herself -- and how she never tries to be anything different.
In my world, the only granola around is the kind I mix into yogurt. I am not the earth-mother type. I leave that to some of my friends who are much more enviornmentally aware, and socially conscious. I learn from their time at the Food Co-Op and I try to "co-op" some of their green ideas, but basically, this urbanite does not have a whole lotta crunch.
I lay awake last night, thinking about you. I was wrapped around my infant son, who was suffering from his first fever. As endless heat emanated between us, you entered my mind, chilling me briefly.