The Same Roads

 

I watched this video this morning. I took it from here. And I cried a little. Maybe I’m ridiculous, but it makes me feel bad. Isn’t that stupid? A fast- motion video of fog makes me feel like I haven’t done anything with my life. It makes me want to move. Or to start over. Or something.

My husband picked up and moved to San Francisco in the early 2000s. I guess he needed to get the hell out of dodge, but he went. He packed up his stuff into his car and drove across the country to California and set up shop. He made new friends, made a home for himself, made a new life. I have never done that. When I picked up and moved it was to Gaithersburg, Maryland, and it was because of some guy (who ended up being really bad for me) and my sister and brother- in- law already lived there. Hell of an adventure, huh? Way to be impetuous, Sarah. Even now, I find myself jealous of the years my husband had living alone in a beautiful city, away from everything he knew, in a place so different than before. I never did that. I’ve lived within 200 miles of home my whole life. I still see my mother at least once a week. I know 15 different ways to get anywhere around here because these are the same roads I have traveled for 35 years. I want to go. Somewhere. Somewhere different. Somewhere interesting. Somewhere I can be excited to wake up in every morning.

I want my daughter to experience things and places other than our little town. I want her to know that there is a world out there that expands far past the borders of New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania, but I also want her to have a stability that only home can bring. Shit, I want to be reminded that there is a world out there beyond the tri- state. That life does not begin and end crossing the GWB.

Matt gets homesick for California every once in a while. I can see it. He talks about driving to Big Sur or Tahoe or some coffee shop in the Sunset and his eyes light up. I know he misses it. I know life here in suburban New Jersey doesn’t hold a candle to Northern California. But our family is here, and that is why we are here. It’s the reason he left San Francisco. Is there a happy medium between throwing caution to the wind and moving to Stockholm and just saying “Eff it, let’s stay here forever”? Is the answer that we need to travel more? But who wants to travel with a 2 year- old? And if we wait until she’s older, will we be so old that we won’t care anymore? Is now the time to pack it up and move because she’s not in school yet, and it won’t screw her up so bad? My thoughts about the moving thing come and go like schools of fish. My mind races to one side so quickly that I’m looking at real estate in the South one minute and then back to redecorating our bedroom the next. I also think that not having a typical job gives me more time to ponder “what could be”.

I never want to come across as dissatisfied with my life and what I have been given. I am incredibly blessed with all I have. My family is healthy and warm. We have a home to call our own and a refrigerator full of food. I have no place to complain. But I am allowed to wish. And I wish that maybe I could get more out of this life I was given.

A Week

I just came back from vacation last night. We went to Cape Cod, where I spent summers as a child. When my grandparents died, they willed the townhouse to my uncle, who, thinking he was honoring my grandparents, never updated it. Orange shag carpet, yellowing drapes, outdated and uncomfortable furniture. Yes, shag carpet at the beach. I swear to you that in 2008, when the family sold it, there was sand in that carpet that I had tracked in as a toddler twenty years before.

Anyway, the place we rented this time was in the same townhouse complex, so it was almost identical to our old place. We had a packed house. When everyone was there, it was me, my husband, our daughter, my sister, her husband, their son, my cousin and his girlfriend, and my youngest sister and her boyfriend, totaling 10 people. It was awesome and a little nuts, but mostly awesome. Watching our kids run around at the beach, completely without fear, was my favorite part. When I thought back to my years in Chatham, I remembered what beach was the best for catching hermit crabs and minnows (Ridgevale Beach), where to find the penuche fudge that I love so much (Candy Manor on Main St. Oh, penuche is half vanilla, have maple. None of that chocolate crap for me), where to go for the fastest and least greasy fried clams (Kream ‘N Kone in Chatham), and the only place to get a beer after 8pm (Chatham Squire). I generally get antsy after about a half hour at the beach, but the kids were having such a good time that I really didn’t notice how long we had been there. The naps after the beach were pretty epic (for the babies, not for me), so we didn’t get to be as spontaneous as we used to be, since someone had to sit at home for 3 hours while the kids napped. That kind of put a damper on some of the plans, so I truly thank our non- kid- having travelers for being patient with us.

The week went by really too quickly, and although it’s nice to be home in my own house, I ain’t gonna lie. I’m bummed its over. We planned this trip in January, where the idea of late July is as far off as can be. We are going to the house in Ocean City at the end of August, but it’s not the same.  Am I an asshole? Maybe it’s because we go to OC a few times a year, maybe it’s because it’s so close, maybe its because the Cape is “mine”. Matt used to summer in Ocean City when he was growing up, and so OC is kind of his. He gets to re- live his summers there and continue the tradition with our daughter. The Cape is my Ocean City, and yet we have only been to the Cape one other time in the whole 7 years we’ve been together, but we’ve been to Ocean City twice to three times a year since 2008. Whatever. I’m not complaining, really, but I was super sad as we drove out of town yesterday (with a lobster roll on my lap. Ooooh, poor me).

My tiny girl woke up this morning a little confused to be back home and to not be surrounded by cousins and aunties and uncles. She said “Mo’ beach please, mama”, which made me a little sad, but super happy that she loved her little beach getaway so much. I can hope that the 6 hour drive won’t deter us from making the trip again next year. And maybe I can learn to be satisfied with whatever beach trip I can get. Or maybe Matt can make more money and buy me a summer house in Cape Cod that we can drive to once a year because the traffic is atrocious.

 

I Miss New York

I have 3 favorite times of day/ year in New York.

Number one is first thing in the morning in the summer, when only the coffee and bagel places are open, when the plans of the day have yet to be ruined, when only the poor suckers who work weekends and the joggers are out. When we were still in Brooklyn and had no kids or responsibilities, Sunday mornings were the best. I would send Matt down to Villa on the corner to get bagels and coffee, and I would sit in the sunlight of our living room and read my food magazines and eat my breakfast. I would call it “Having a Morning”. When I think about life before baby, that’s where my mind takes me. Selfishly sitting on my couch, eating a bagel, actually drinking (and maybe finishing) a whole cup of coffee, reading something glossy.

The second of my favorites is Friday evening in autumn. It’s light enough that it doesn’t feel like night yet, but dark enough that people put their front lights on, and I can sometimes see into their houses. I love to perv on people’s homes, when I can see just enough of their house to imagine what that rest of it looks like. But on Friday evening, my walks to and from the train, down the rows of brownstones, a slight chill in the air, and the prospect of the weekend ahead, are my list of wonderful things about city living.

And the last of my favorites was something I got to experience this past Thursday night. Summer evenings in New York City can be the grossest thing in the world, but they also seem magical to me sometimes. Everyone is out on the streets, in the park, on their stoops. Drinks flow, music pours out of the bars, and the restaurants with even the tiniest sidewalk real estate have outside tables. When the sun sets, there is a wonderful haze that covers the city, and even the boozy walk to the train made me feel lucky to live there.

This week I met with a wonderful friend who I don’t get to see much these days, and we got to sit and drink and chat in a way that I don’t do since leaving the city and having a kid. We talked about traveling and renovations to his apartment, about his boyfriend and scotch.  And when we left, I was sober but happy as I walked to the train. The city just seems alive on the nights leading up to the weekend, I was lucky to have some time to be part of it. It makes me miss the city, and for a few hours the next morning, I felt a little melancholy. I think Matt is used to my suburban doldrums a day after being back in NY.  I miss the late nights and late mornings of pre- baby life. I miss the ability to call a girlfriend on a whim and go get tanked up at some dive bar on 23rd Street. I miss not having to run for New Jersey A- Hole Transit and banging on the train door as it closes in my face. Or maybe I just miss sitting in front of a sunny window and drinking a whole cup of (hot) coffee.

Traveling. Through Time & Otherwise

This weekend my youngest uncle turned 50. His wife sent us an invitation to his surprise party a few months back, and after some planning, we decided we could swing it, even though the party fell on Sunday evening. And it was 3+ hours away. And that neither of my sisters could come. But, my uncle has never forgotten a birthday, a baby shower, an anniversary. We had the time. We had to go.

My aunt lives in a lovely little Shaker style home in upstate New York. She offered up her guest suite to me and my little family for the night of the party. She lives  in the same neighborhood that I had visited on countless occasions as a child. It was around the corner from my grandparent’s house. The house that I spent my childhood in, exploring the secret passageways, the closets full of my grandmother’s clothes, the corners of my grandfather’s office that smelled like cologne and leather. The house where I swam in the pool, went sledding in the yard, where I sat with my mother and my grandma while they drank gin & tonics and talked about women whose names I remember, but faces I never saw. My sister E and I made forts in the massive pine trees and took bites out of the crab apples in the front yard, while my mother bottle fed my now 27 year- old sister. It was home. I vividly remember the morning light that came in through the windows of the trundle bed room we slept in all of those years. I remember booking it past the closet at the top of the stairs because I was sure it held the bodies of the murdered wives of Bluebeard. Thanks for telling us that one, grandma. I remember where my grandpa kept the chips, and where my then- teenage uncle hid his stash of Yoohoo.

My grandmother died in April of 1994. I was 16.  My grandfather to follow in the fall of 2000, right before my 23rd birthday. The house was cleaned out, my memories shoved into boxes, divvied up between relatives, the remains to be sold at estate sales.  It was awful.

This weekend I went back to the house. I didn’t have the guts to go in, but I talked about doing it. I sat in the car and looked at the driveway where my parents had parked so many times, the pool (now filled in), and the hill where we would sled on shiny plastic sheets. Back then, I would have sworn that hill was on a 45 degree angle and was a half mile long. And I cried in the car. My two year old comforting me from the back seat “Don cry, mama. Don cry.”

After I pulled myself together, we drove down the street to the elementary school playground. It was the same playground my parents had taken me to as a little girl, and here I was chasing my own daughter there. It was a bittersweet feeling, being back  and not having my grandparents there, but yet I had a whole new family to enjoy. And that I was not the little girl this time. Growing up is a funny thing.

I miss my grandparents desperately. I see things in my daughter that remind me of them, and I know that they would have loved the hell out of her. My grandma always really loved that she had granddaughters to dress up, bring to the beauty parlor, and spoil. I once watched an episode of Long Island Medium (I love that show. Quit your judgin’) where a woman had her mother die before the birth of her first grandchild. And the Medium said “Your mother held her in heaven and passed her down to you”, and I think about that a lot when I get sad that they never met her. Maybe they did…..

The Good, The Bed, and the Chicken.

We moved to a “big girl bed” this weekend. The verdict is still out. It’s not a toddler bed, per se. But it’s not a twin either. It’s in between. It has the crib mattress (you KNOW I wasn’t going to go out and buy an intermediate size mattress. She gets 3 sizes, ever. Crib, twin, and maybe full. Maybe. It depends on how insane I become in my later years), and built in side rails that should, in theory, stop her from rolling out of bed. Unfortunately no street- legal bed comes with institution- type straps that will hold her down and prevent her from scooting that little ass out and wreaking havoc on her room. So far, so good, though. She is very proud of herself once she makes it through a night/ nap in her bed. And that she peed in the potty. She tells everyone. She told the checkout lady at Target today, who couldn’t be bothered to say hello or bathe before work, so I was pretty sure she didn’t care that Baby Bird had peed in the potty.

Speaking of customer service: My mom and I went to Burger King in Jersey Gardens about a month ago (Mistakes 1& 2). The woman behind the register just stared at me when I walked up. No “Hello” or “Hi” or “Welcome to Burger King” (that would have been a fucking miracle). She just stared. And when I asked, ignorantly, if I could order just the nuggets without the whole meal, she said nothing. So I ordered something, God only knows what. And after she was done rolling her eyes and sighing in my general direction, she pressed the two buttons needed to complete my order. She did not tell me my total. She did not repeat my order. She stared at me. And when I handed her my credit card, she snapped it out of my fingers like it was hers and I had taken it from her. I walked away, filled up my beverage at the self- serve counter, and then waited the !!!15 MINUTES!!! for my nuggets and my chicken sandwich. In waiting, I watched the manager of the store hide behind the beverage dispenser and pretend that no one could see him or that his fancier shirt did not, in any way, make him appear to be more responsible than the apparently deaf and blind person behind the register. My food was fucking terrible. But what did I expect? Not only was I eating in Burger King, but I had interrupted these fine people and their day of staring, texting and hiding. I try not to be someone who judges others on their jobs. I’ve had shitty jobs. I made $6 an hour working retail and didn’t make enough to pay my rent. I know what it’s like to work with morons and idiots who, in most cases, made more money than me. I understand that working at a mall fast food restaurant probably sucks and is demeaning and degrading at times. BUT IT’S YOUR JOB. And if you suck at it, you’re going to get fired. And who hires assholes who can’t keep a job at Burger King? No one. Maybe pimps.

On a positive note: Chick- fil- A. Seriously, I know. They are proponents of all I stand against. I know. I am the worst. But their chicken is good. And their milkshakes are delish. And I know. I know. BUT! Wait! The customer service at the Chick fil A in Woodbridge Mall is honestly the best I have ever experienced. Not just the best Chick- fil- A experience, or fast food experience. The best customer service ever. They are so well trained, and so friendly that I find myself disregarding my love of homosexuals and my disdain for the Christian Right and gravitating towards that dark corner of chicken love. I wrote an email. I did. To Chick- fil- A. I did. And I said that I disagreed wholeheartedly with their beliefs, but I make an exception for their store, and their store only because I am so impressed with their service. And get this: I got Cathy, the floor “hostess” a raise! See! I do good things! It almost makes up for the fact that in writing that email, they probably sent someone to blow up a Pride Fest somewhere. But a raise! I got nice Cathy a raise, and so I get to feel good about myself for a minute…. maybe?

DOMA Overturned!

What an awesome day. Today, the Supreme Court ruled that the exclusionary, the cruel, the discriminatory Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional. And I could not be happier. To my gay friends, I salute you for staying strong, for keeping your heads up, for thickening your skin, knowing that the day would come that your place in this world would be recognized as just as important as mine. To my fellow straight allies, I am proud to stand by you in the fight for equality. Not just marriage equality, but for all around equality for our LGBT friends.

A Good Bye for the Beginning

I know, I know.  It’s hardly good form to start writing a blog that begins with something negative. But that’s my world this week. A lot of tears and a lot of confusion.

On Thursday, six days ago, I got a call from my husband. “I think Anthony died”. I held my breath. “What do you mean?”, I said, waiting for him to follow the name Anthony with a last name I didn’t recognize, so that I could breathe out. But he didn’t do that. It followed with the last name I didn’t want to hear. And then he was silent for a moment. “Yup”, he said “Anthony is dead”. And I immediately started crying. Giant, non- stop, almost hysterical tears. Thank goodness the baby was sleeping.

See, Anthony is my husband’s best friend’s brother. A tortured soul. A soul who went into the military years ago with the hopes of getting straightened out. A soul, who during those military years, found a wife and had a child. A soul whose demons became larger and scarier even after leaving the military. A soul who had internal battles that life as a civilian husband and father could not win. Anthony didn’t lead the most honest life. He didn’t lead the cleanest or most honorable life. But he was loved so desperately by his family and those around him.

The call I received about Anthony is the one that every parent dreads. Someone had broken into his home and shot him. In the back of the head. And he was gone. And he was found by his parents. Someone had been watching their home, waited for the family to go out, and then broke in and shot him. Broke in and killed their son. Their baby. The thought of it brings tears to my eyes and a knot to my stomach. Any pain I feel, any sadness or sorrow is absolutely nothing in comparison to what his family, my husband’s best friend, feels.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that I’ve been squeezing that baby of mine extra tight this week. Like after the Newtown massacre, I’ve been staring at her. Trying to memorize her face so that God forbid, anything ever happens to her, I will remember every part of her face, every dimple and every eyelash. I can complain about motherhood. I can complain about what it has done to my body and to my career and to my social life. And I will. But at the end of the literal and metaphorical day, I would do anything in the world to protect my child and to tell her every day, as many times as she can handle, that I love her.