the pieces of my life

People here go stupid crazy over Truck Day and not only do I find that annoying, but I find it more annoying that when people say “Truck Day,” I know what it is. In fact, not only do I know what it is, but I know where those stupid trucks are going. (Truck Day is the day when the trucks are packed with the Red Sox *equipment* [Yes, the equipment. Not even the team] to head down to Ft. Myers for spring training. The only thing more exciting [not to me, thank you very much] is the day that pitchers and catchers report, which is February 20 AND WHY DO I KNOW THIS, PEOPLE? That is valuable brain space that could be spent on so many more important things, like how does Bruce Jenner feel about the fact that he is no longer referred to as “Olympian Bruce Jenner” but as “Reality TV Star Bruce Jenner”?)

Even my own husband, when I complained about my Facebook feed being taken over by Truck Day texted me, “I was just about to post on FB ‘TRUCK DAY!!!'” According to Adam, “It’s like the New England version of Groundhog Day, [but] the answer is always ‘It’s almost spring!'”

Bostonians are morons. Including the ones to whom I’m related. Or maybe especially the ones to whom I’m related.

I know I’ve been MIA, but I’m happy to report, I’m done with my manuscript revisions so I am now free to write again. It’s hard to write while I’m writing. But now that I’m not writing, I can write. So here I am.

As I imagine everyone knows, we’re going a little snow-crazy here in Eastern Massachusetts, and I’m going even more stir-crazy because on top of the six snow days we had in a three-week period, I got a bonus two days stuck inside as Pie had a nasty virus. Luckily, she’ll get in one day of school before the one-week February vacation during which another blizzard is coming. Fun, fun. (I’m ignoring the darkening skies that are occurring right now, and the flakes that seem to be fluttering from the sky.) The whole thing would be enough to drive a person to the bourbon cabinet, but I have it on good authority (hi, Peter!) that I have a cousin on the Left Coast (hi, SB!) who reads this blog and fears for the well being of my liver and my sobriety. I would like to assure Cousin SB that both are well intact, and in fact, I have embraced “clean living.” Since January 1, I’ve had only a couple of drinks and–gasp!–no gummy bears. And, I will say, that there is a distinct possibility that I talk about bourbon more than I actually have the opportunity to drink it. That is not the case for gummy bears. When I talk about eating gummy bears it is because I am actually eating gummy bears. Mmmmm, gummy bears.

I’m a little ramble-y today. Sorry about that. That’s what happens when you’re as cooped up as I am. (Coops. Chickens. Chickens go peep peep. Suddenly I crave Peeps. Where was I?) Seriously, the snow is horrific. I wanted an award for taking the compost out, but no one in my family acknowledge my great feat of environmental do-gooding. Heck, I wanted an award for finding the compost bins.

There are two compost bins in this photo. Can you spot them?

But we’ve had some fun. There’s been saucering with the boy (“Climbing back up the hill is soooo hard!”) and snowshoeing with the girl (“This is too tiring!”). There’s been excessive computer and iPad time while I yell from upstairs, “I said BE QUIET! I need to finish my revisions!” There’s been a few days of slow-simmered red beans and rice and soup bubbling on the stove. And now I’m done. I’m ready for this stupid winter to be over. Which is good. Because we’re only expecting, over the course of the next four days, 12 or more inches of snow. And on that note, I will type the final “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” into my manuscript and send it off to my editor, and I’ll leave you with images from the snowy northeast.

I love how helpful weather.com is: On today’s report it says it’s “12, feels like -5.” But it advises me: “Much colder than yesterday.” Who knew?

Last week, this was me (I’m hard to see, but I’m out there in that little kayak with my sort-of cousin):

And now? Well, you all watch the news. You don’t need a photo of me all bundled up. Getting home was a harrowing experience–flying through the blizzard, driving down an un-salted Storrow Drive in the middle of the storm–and now this cold, which comes after a total melt, making me paranoid about ice.

And is it cold? Sure, but we live in New England, folks. Cold is not new to us. And we aren’t getting slammed the way the folks in the midwest are (what a sad state of affairs when “12 feels like -5” is the warm part of the country. Folks want to argue about climate change now? If so, this blog from Andy Borowitz is valuable reading).

I will say, though, that this cold is deceptive. For once, this morning, the kids didn’t complain when I insisted on both gloves and hats (normally the boy just likes to use the hood of his jacket). Bundled up, we stepped outside to head for school and all agreed it really wasn’t as bad as people were saying it was. And then we walked one block. And our faces began to hurt. Downright burn. It really is as bad as people say.

Readjustment from Miami is always tough. This year, it’s a bit tougher. But we are going to have summer-like temperatures in the 40s this weekend, so I can pretend I’m out kayaking to Bird Island with my sort-of cousin again.

Good to be home.

We had this amazing day yesterday. As the day was happening, I was planning this pleasantly snarky post with tons of the photos I took about trouble on the Green (the whole family woke at 4:15 a.m. to go see the re-enactment of the Battle on the Green at 5:30 a.m.), and about how the kids stood almost patiently in 33 degree weather, toes freezing, to see the Shot Heard ‘Round the World. About how Adam went to work so the three of us went home and actually played a game together in which no one got upset (unbelievable, I know!). About how we went to Town Hall to see Paul Revere and William Dawes come to warn us the Regulars were coming, and how we knew when they were arriving because we tracked them on Twitter, and that they signed autographs to boot! (Well, they did if you were a pair of adorable seven year olds). About how we went to a playground, and Doodles, Pie, Jasmine, and her older sister all played beautifully together, even though it was nippy out and our family, at least, was oh-so sleepy.

But while we were sitting at the playground, Adam called. “Did you hear?” he asked. “There was an explosion at the marathon.”

And my perfect day fizzled away like last week’s soda pop.

We’re lucky. Adam’s longtime friend had finished the marathon 20 minutes before the bombs went off. Doodles’s third grade teacher had running problems and bailed on the run midway through. We had decided the weather simply wasn’t good enough to go watch.

Not everyone was so lucky.

I rag on Boston. I mean all the time. I complain it’s not a real city, that the football team is overrated (Pie and I agreed: When the Patriots are against the Redcoats, we root for the Patriots. In all other circumstances, we root for the Dolphins), and I just don’t get the baseball worship. Dunkin Donuts leaves me cold. I cringe every time my girl says, “Mirra,” when she means, “Mirror,” and I’m not shy about correcting her… or her friends.

But you know what? Boston is my town. It’s where not only my husband, but both my kids, were born (all three in the same Boston hospital). It’s where I’ve made the kind of friends you only get to make once in a lifetime (friends like Beetle and Keaton and Scooby and the Duchess and so many more who are important who don’t have blog names, but should). It’s where I built my home, my marriage, my family. I’ve lived in Boston for more consecutive years than any other city in my life. I’ve lived in this house for longer than any other home in my life.

Yeah, Boston sucks. The roads make no sense. The drivers suck. The sports are crazy. The coffee is bad. The accent is fierce. The colleges are snooty. But if you dare trash this place, you’re going to answer to me.

Because Boston is my home. As much as a home as I’ve ever had.

And no one should f*ck with it.

It was a tough day. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the eleven years I’ve been here, Bostonians are bad ass. We’ll recover. We’ll be here next year to celebrate another Patriots Day. It’ll just be a bittersweet one.

Keaton and I are both nursing injuries so instead of our Saturday morning run, we decided we’d take a civilized walk in Lexington. We were going at a brisk pace, taking in the chilly, but pleasant spring morning. Other locals were walking as well.

Yet we were fairly we were startled by a lone Redcoat.

He took a look at my iPhone, shot me an evil eye, and said, “Witchcraft!”

Moving along, we noticed that the British seemed to be setting up camp.

And they were well armed.

We were only somewhat reassured to see the Minutemen were gearing up, though they look to be a ragtag bunch.

Yet, as we were headed back to our cars, we were forced off our path by these soliders, and we were bolstered by their confidence.

Tomorrow morning we’ll all head out to the Green in Lexington. I’m just hoping there won’t be any trouble there.

Talking about the weather sucks, but the fact is that the weather here does suck and it makes me crazy. I skipped running (outdoors) this weekend because I have a policy of not running in anything that “feels like -x.” And this past weekend was “feels like -12.” No thank you.

But, weather aside, I’ve been feeling very fortunate of late about living in the Boston area and the advantages it affords our family. Doodles and Adam just had a Cub Scout overnight at the Museum of Science. How cool is that? They arrived at about 4 and had programming till midnight (midnight! My baby boy is only 6!). They camped out on the floor of the museum in sleeping bags, and then were woken up at 6:45 for more programming. The kid loved it. Lightening shows, illusion experiments, a coral reef IMAX movie, science demonstrations. Heaven for the boy.

And then there’s my hockey-playing, Hannah Montana-loving, Pinkalicious-worshiping little girl. One of the challenges I have is finding the right balance between respecting the interests of my kids and pushing them out of their comfort zones. It’s easy to say, “Oh, Pie loves art and music and dancing” and encourage her in those directions. But just like I wanted Doodles to try a hip-hop dance class (which he gave his all, but after three months, he decided it wasn’t for him, and I have to respect that), I want Pie to explore other things as well. So when an opportunity came up for her to take a (free!) LEGOs robotics class at Tufts, how could I refuse? One group session and then three one-on-one classes with a graduate student. What an opportunity!

We live 20 minutes from rural farm area, 20 minutes from an honest-to-goodness city, 4 hours from the center of the universe (okay, so I’ll never be an true Bostonian). Ocean is 45 minutes away, mountains (or at least close approximation to them) are a couple of hours away.

Yes, I hate the Patriots. True, the accent can be near impossible to understand. So putting up with rabid Red Sox fans (including the one I’m married to) can be painful. But I like this place. I think we just might stick around.

Tomorrow Doodles and Adam are going to a Red Sox game, so Pie and I are having a Mommy-Daughter day (Pie was given the option of a Red Sox game or lunch with me, and she chose lunch with me). In the morning, the two of us are going together to do some volunteer work. But after, we can do whatever we like.

Me: I’ve been thinking about our day tomorrow. I have two choices that I think you might like: We could have lunch in Harvard Square and then watch the Dragon Boat Races on the Charles or we could go to the art museum. We could have lunch in the cafe there.
Pie: Dragon boats like on Kai-Lan?
Me: Um, not sure. Maybe.
Pie: I want to go to the art museum!
Me: That sounds great! We’ll do that.
Pie [in a confused tone]: So, are we going to New York tomorrow?
Me: No. We won’t go to New York till school gets out for the year.
Pie: But you said we could go to the art museum tomorrow!

It takes me a minute, but then I get it.

Me: No, Pie. Did you know that there are actually art museums in Boston?
Pie: There are?!?

Oops. Somehow, it’s always seemed easier to hop in the car for a 3 1/2 hour drive to NYC to go to the Met than it’s been to hop a T into town. Do you think maybe it’s time for me to start exploring my own city with the kids? At the rate we’re going, they’re going to think that Boston is a suburb of New York. Well, a suburb with a superior baseball team. At least, according to their father.