In Defense of Bostonians

This isn’t about our accents, and not how about everything’s “wicked”.  I’m not going to pahk my cah anywhere, or talk about the curse of the bambino.  This about what truly makes the most maligned of people some of the best folk I know:

A Bostonian will always let a jogger cross the street, away from the cross walk, against the light:  We know that you’re in a groove, that you’re making good time, that if you stop you might not get going again.  So, we let you cross.  No matter what.  And if you’re pushing a stroller…  I’ve seen people come to a dead stop, in the middle of rush hour, on the JFK rotary, just to let a mom with a jogging stroller cross.  And they give me a “thumbs up” and a smile too.

Morning meeting?  A Bostonian comes with a Dunkin for him and one for you too:  Nothing’s worse than an early morning meeting in the middle of a rough winter.  But when your appointment walks in, with two steaming regulars in his hands, you know the day’s gonna’ be okay.  When my car was in the shop and I begged the girl down the street for a ride to my new job, she called that morning and asked what I wanted from Dunkins.  We’ve been best friends since.

A Bostonian will tell you where you stand: People say we’re rude.  It’s not really true.  Sure, we don’t have five minute conversations with strangers on the T, and we’re not likely to say more than “thank you” to the lady at Shaw’s, but we’re not rude.  We’re just real.  You’re a busy person, and I am too, and we both got things we have to do, so I’m not going to bother you with a “hello, how are you today, nice weather we’re having, plans this weekend, how about them sox”.

But, when the time allows, and the moment’s right, we have no problem making conversation.  And, we’ll tell you how it is.  We’ll never smile and give you a back handed complement, we’ll never blow smoke up your arse.  You’ll know if we like you, and what we think, and how we feel.  And you can be sure of that.

A Bostonian Can Let Their Hair Down:  We know how to dress in Boston.  Trim and proper and perfectly buttoned up.  But, come the weekend, we know how to loosen up. There’s nowhere else where you can wear your slippers while walking down Broadway, in your sweatpants and your Sox T.  We even have our own official uniform: the Southie Tuxedo.  As long as your sweatsuit top matches your bottom, you’re dressed for a formal event (swear to god, I’ve attended weddings where this was acceptable).

We don’t try too hard.  We are who we are, very rarely do we try to keep up with the jones or worry about being seen. That culture just doesn’t exist in Boston.  There’s no pretense, no rules, you can just be you, in all your lazy, sloppy glory.

A Bostonian is Loyal:  A friend who’s a Bostonian is a friend for life.  No questions asked, not exceptions given.  If you went to elementary school with me, I will support whatever you do.  If you live down the block, I’ll share my leftovers with you.  If your son plays baseball with mine, your kid is my responsibility too.

We love our city.  More than anyone else I know.  No matter where you go in this world, a Bostonian is always from Boston, and will defend our city to the death.  We really do love that dirty water.  And all you have to do is spend a day in Boston to love it too.

This is a lifetime commitment, a way of being.  Bostonians don’t quit on you.  From our baseball team (there it is), to your biggest challenges, we’ll put our rally caps on and fight right by your side.

You Can Have a Beer With a Bostonian, Any Bostonian:  Walk into any bar in Boston, at any time, and there’s someone to have a beer with.  Someone to tell you a story, someone to shoot the shit with.  And this guy, knows another guy, who knows a guy, who knows your neighbor.  There are no class lines in a Boston bar, everyone’s your friend, everyone’s your brother, and everyone’s ready for one more round.

A Bostonian Still has a Bit of a Rebel in Them:  We have a loose understanding of the rules, and are a little flexible with the way things are supposed to be.  Just watch us bang a U-ey in the middle of Mass Ave, or double park all the way up-and-down Newbury.  And Boston is the only place I know where you can take a legal left turn on red (5 points if you know where it is).

And it means that we’re a bit more resourceful, and a bit more reasonable, and a bit sharper than you think.

A Bostonian is Not a New Yorker: ‘Nuff said.

I got a lot of input on this one.  Asked a lot of people what they thought.  Thank you!

 

 

Where were you when… (one year later)

Today I’m reposting my post from April 15th, 2013.  

It’s been a long year, full of so many amazing moments for myself, my family, and for my city.  And yet, as we come upon the anniversary of the Boston Marathon Bombings, I find myself struggling with the stories and the memories.  I remember that I didn’t cry.  There was so much coverage, it was so overwhelming, but I didn’t cry.  Until that one day, a week after the bombing when a little story on facebook caught me as I was drying off from my shower.  

And now, a year later, I find that I’m crying all the time.  I cried when I saw an old friend in a photo essay of the bombing victims.  I cried when I saw my neighbors interviewed as they run for the little Dorchester boy who died.  I cry for all the people who’s lives will never be the same.  And, I cry for the pride I feel for this city that I love so very much.

Today I was working in my yard when the bombs exploded two miles from my house.  I said to my eight year old.  Listen, pay attention, because some day someone will ask you where you were when the sounds of birds and spring were overcome by the sounds of sirens and helicopters.

On September 11th, I was in the Brockton High School cafeteria watching the coverage on the little TV in the corner with Kevin standing over my back shoulder strong and sturdy.

For Oklahoma City, I was in my apartment on Main St. in Worcester.  Looking forward to parties and Spree Day and all the celebration that should come with graduation.

For the shuttle explosion, I was in 7th grade, watching the coverage from Mr. Collin’s classroom.

But, then, on the day Ed asked me to marry him, I was sitting in EVOO eating molten chocolate cake on a pool of toasted marshmallow.

The day of our wedding was grey and misty, but the skies opened just long enough to take that perfect picture with my beloved Boston in the background.

When I found out I was pregnant, I drove to my husband, working at the house on Fuller Street, to show him the pink lines on the pregnancy test.

The day I went into labor I said to my Brookline spinning class, “Ladies, that’s it I won’t be seeing you for a few weeks.”

Let’s remember the good times as carefully and clearly as we remember the horrid.  Let’s hold onto the best of memories and let go of  the worst.  Let’s not let those who bargain in fear and hatred win.

Shaking It Up

I am a creature of habit.  I love my routine.  I check my e-mail at 6:40 every morning, have my first cup of coffee while the boys eat breakfast,  leave the house at 8:05 every day, and drive the same way to drop the boys off.  And, I blog every thursday.

How boring.  How rote.  How expected.  Oh, but it makes me so happy.  To have everything lined up in a row.  To have the lunches made up just the right way.  To have all the clothes folded proper.  According to me….

And, that’s the rub, right?  It’s about control.  It’s about doing things the right way.  It’s about being in charge.  And, you must admit, life does run smoother when there’s a plan, and when there’s rules to follow.

But, life shakes things up a bit.  Life throws you curveballs.  Sometimes big changes, sometimes small.  But the world wants chaos, no matter how we try to order it.  And the more we order it, the more nature fights back.  The traffic jams, and the unexpected meetings, and the little illnesses that throw you on your ass.

What if you lean into the curve.  Embrace the chaos.  Let go of the reins for a while and enjoy the ride.  Just a bit.  You might get lost cleaning your yard for three hours on a saturday afternoon, and might just throw on some clothes and go out to drinks with some great friends, and hit balls on the baseball diamond with your favorite guys.

What’s the worse that could happen?  You might have a relaxing weekend, one without e-mails and messages.  You might get some unexpected things done, things that you’ve been dying to do for months.  Your children might learn that there’s no “right” way to do get stuff done, and no “right” time do the things you love.

And, amazingly, all the things that are waiting to get done will still get done.  And all the important things on your “to do” list will still be there when you get to them.  And all the people who “need” you will still be waiting on monday.

And, maybe, you might just learn something new.  The world doesn’t stop spinning just because your calendar gets put aside.  Spontaneity, is a learned behavior, and your children are watching.  Responsibilities that weigh you down are often not quite as heavy as they might seem.  A little bit of shaking it up is good for your soul.  And, it might give you the much needed restart you didn’t know you needed.

 

Last Night I Dreamt of Michigan

Last night I dreamt of Michigan.  I dreamt of clear water and blue skies.  Of bare skin and pink noses.  Of bonfires and circles of beach chairs on the dock.

Last night I dreamt of Michigan.  I dreamt of children laughing in the field and wet dogs shaking dry.  Of walks through the woods and “kid only” zones.  Of bourbon and beer and dinner at the picnic table.

Last night I dreamt of Michigan.  I dreamt of turtle doves and barn owls and turkeys in the front yard.  Of movies in the tent and sunsets off the bluff.  Of coffee on the dew covered porch and games in front of the fire.

Last night I dreamt of Michigan.  I dreamt of the smells, and the sig
hts, and the sounds of the lake and the barn and field.  Of trips down the river and rides to Dairy Queen.  Of blueberry picking and bike rides.

Last night of dreamt of family and friends and love.  Of peace and tranquility and laughter. Of hours and hours for play and games.  Of time to catch up and forget that it’s been a whole year.  Of sharing a connection that only we have, a language that is only for us, that no one else can understand.

Four months away.  I’m counting the days.

My Kids Can Hang

Last weekend we attended the wedding of very close friends.  But, we had a quandary. Do we bring the kids?  The wedding was in Cancun, at an all-inclusive resort, during the first weeks of spring break.  Yet the kids would have been crushed if they missed this opportunity, and the winter has been so rough, and they deserved a vacation too.  So we packed them up and brought them to this most decidedly adult of events.

People thought we were nuts.  Why would you bring you children to this center of modern young adult debauchery?  Why would you want them there?  What will you do with them?  In fact, we weren’t concerned at all.  Because, we know our kids can hang.  We’ve put a lot of effort over the years in making sure we rarely have to shuffle them up with a babysitter or leave them out of a good time.  By the end of the weekend, many of the guests, and lots of perfect strangers made a point to tell us how great the kids were, and how, someday, they’d like to have kids “just like yours.”  Our response, “Thank you, we’ve worked very hard at it.”  Here’s some tips we’ve picked up along the way.

Start Early:  When Xavier was three weeks old, he’d only quiet down when he was in crowded places.  So, we took him out… a lot.  His car seat had a special spot on the corner of the bar in our favorite restaurant.  The owners would pick him up if he got fussy and seat customers with him in their arms.  The boys grew up in restaurants, and learned how to behave: from being fed from the high chairs, to sharing our dinners, to reading the menu and ordering their own food.

Teach Them Manners: We eat dinner as a family almost every night.  Whether we’re having a roasted chicken, or chicken fingers, we try to sit down together and eat like civilized folk.  The boys know that they are expected to sit like gentlemen and have conversations.  That toys do not belong on a table.  That you don’t get up until everyone’s finished.  That you chew with your mouth shut.  And eat with utensils.  That you taste what’s placed in front of you.  And that you say please and thank you.

Don’t Hide Your Children:  We were the first of our friends to have babies,  So, out of necessity, they were always around.  When our friends came over for a game of darts, we passed the babies around as we took turns.  When we had lunch with friends, the kids came along.  When we were invited to house parties, so were our kids.  They became an expected part of the package and they learned to hang out with adults.  They learned to answer questions when grown ups asked.  They learned how to be introduced to strangers.  They learned how to not interrupt when we were talking to someone.  And they learned how to entertain themselves.

Don’t Baby Talk Them:  It became very clear that our friends were not going to temper their behavior or their mouth for the sake of the young ears.  So we learned to talk to our kids about grown-up behavior and what was appropriate and inappropriate.  They understand that sometimes adults act poorly, and that some words are not for children to say.  At their young age, we talk to them about all the grownup things so that they feel safe and involved in our conversations.  And we ask them their opinions about things; we include them in our discussions.

Respect Their Time:  If we ask the kids to do something that is above and beyond the normal, we show them our appreciation.  We always make a point of thanking them for behaving so well, and staying respectful when we drag them somewhere they don’t want to go.  And, if we know that it’s going to be a particularly long night, or a particularly odious visit, we respect their desire to “do things that we like”.  We let them bring their crayons along, or borrow our cell phones, or let them sit in a corner to watch a movie.  They know that once they make their initial commitment, they can do their thing without the grownups bothering them.

Know When Enough is Enough:  Remember that if the kids are miserable, then everyone is miserable.  If everyone is miserable, the invitations will stop coming.  Know when the kids have had enough and respect them enough to leave early for their sake.  Make sure that you sneak in time for them throughout the evening.  That you don’t ignore their needs while you’re having fun.  And, when they’ve had it, know the cues and leave graciously before all hell breaks loose.

Enjoy Their Company: I really like hanging out with my kids.  We have lots of fun together, and I legitimately enjoy their company.  Let them know that they are a valued member of the team and that they are a respected guest at the party.  Include them in discussions and let them choose some of the activities.  Make sure that time is spent just with them and that they are not left out of the group.  Allow their interests and desires to be valid and respected.

We had an amazing time in Cancun.  We played on the beach and swam in the pool and stayed up late.  The boys learned how to take advantage of the all-you-can-eat buffet (as many bacon and donut sandwiches as you like).  They learned how to be gracious ushers and take real responsibility for their wedding party role.  They learned how to swim up to the pool bar and order their own limeade.  And, when asked on the last evening if they planned on staying up late, they said, “We’re sure gonna’ try to rally!!”  And they did.

One Year Later

About three years ago, a dear friend told he was going to start blogging.  “I’ll read a book a week and then blog about it for 52 weeks.  You should start blogging too.”  I laughed.  I laughed really hard.

“Sure, I’ll blog,” I said. “It’ll be called 52 Reasons Why I Don’t Have Time to Blog.  This is what I’ll write…  My four year old has worms and I have to pick up the prescription; A city bus broke down in Brigham Circle and I sat behind it for 73 minutes; a freshman told her science teacher to F off.”

But, check it out.  Fifty-two weeks later and I found time to blog.  Every. Single. Week.  And, I had something to share, and something to say.  It wasn’t always easy.  Some weeks I had no clue, some weeks I pressed delete and started all over, some weeks tears rolled down my cheeks the whole time I typed.  But, I did it.  Every thursday, no matter where I was, I took a moment to write it all down.

The lesson is one about time.  And priorities.  And commitment.  That, if you put your mind to something, no matter how daunting, you can accomplish what you set out to do.  That it’s important to make time for your own endeavors.  That you shouldn’t use your kids, your job, your mood, as an excuse to not reach your goals.

This has been a good year.  Dare  I say, a great year.  There were moments, definite moments, when it didn’t feel so great.  But, when I look back on the pictures, and the experiences, and the writing, I’m amazed by how much has changed.  And how happy I am.  How much I’ve grown, and how much I’ve learned about myself.

Risky Business

It started with ice skating.  My husband decided early on that the boys should learn how to ice skate.  He never learned how to skate as a child, and always felt left out as his cousins and friends ran off to play hockey.  I, on the other hand, grew up on the ice.  Lessons, frozen cranberry bogs, sit spins, and dates at the skating rink.

So, last winter, we loaded up with hats and gloves, second hand skates, and high expectations.  And, I held all three of them up as we negotiated the South Boston Rink as all the little kids

flew by us at break neck speeds.  It went well, and all three of the boys love it.  They’re better this year, more independent, and sturdy on the skates.   And, I’m starting to find my independence again as I have less people to hold up.

But, it started a trend that’s a bit hard to keep up.  We decided, as a family, that the boys will learn how to do a bit of everything.  We hope that they never have to say that they can’t do something because they don’t know how.  We hope that they feel comfortable trying new things and attack new adventures as they come along.

So, they know how to kayak, rock climb, and shoot arrows. Play street hockey, horseshoes, and poker.  Eat sushi, chacuterie, and paella.  It’s a ludicrous amount of new experiences.  But, they’re pretty civilized young gentlemen, and are rarely intimidated by new things.

But, trying new things is a bit of a pain in the ass.  It’s one thing to get the boys to do things, but quite another to realize we have to do it all too.  Hard to tell the kids to try new foods when you don’t eat red meat.  Hard to teach them to not be afraid when you’re terrified of horses.  Hard to teach them to always be game when sometimes you just don’t feel up to it.  Hard to teach them to get out and have fun when you really just want to lay on the couch and watch HGTV.

So, today, instead of nursing a bad winter cold, checking emails, and watching movies, I’m going snowboarding.  Not skiing (I know how to ski), but snowboarding.  This forty year old lady is going to strap my legs to a board and aim down a mountain.  Brilliant.  Couldn’t be more pleased.  Wish me luck!

Valentine’s Day is Not for Real Women

Valentine’s Day.  The day we throw feminism out the window.  All year we talk about parity, and leaning in, and getting equal treatment.  We ask not to be objectified, to be respected for our brain not our body, to be treated like our male peers.  And then we turn and say, but TODAY you must treat me like a princess, shower me with flowers and chocolate, buy me lavish jewels, tell me I’m beautiful.

What’s your partner to do?  What should we do with these mixed message?  How do we take the pressure off of our partner?  Off of ourselves?  Because, with everything, the pressure we put on ourselves is much larger than anyone else feels.  Our Disney image of fancy dresses, and handsome princes, of sparkly jewels and romantic dinners can never live up to reality.  Because we know that Prince Charming will never gallop in on his white horse to sweep us away.

Every other day of the year, we wouldn’t want him to.  Every other day of the year, we insist on taking care of ourselves.  Of being in charge.  Of being the boss.  We don’t want to be Cinderella.  We don’t want to wait for that glass slipper.  We’ve learned to save ourself, to be our own dragon slayer and savior.

This Valentine’s Day give yourself a gift.  Give yourself a break.  Let go of the expectation. Stop pretending that you’re Sleeping Beauty, waiting for that kiss.  Get off your ass, and love yourself.  Celebrate the love you feel in your life.  Reset your relationships and remember to show affection every day of the year.  Remind yourself that one day a year is not enough.  And remember all the little ways that love enters your life and carries you through the year.  Look for that love every day, and give that love back to others.

Cry Baby

Movies that make my six year old cry:  Wreck it Ralph, Up, Real Steal, Home Alone, Transformers, any Toy Story movie, Despicable Me, How to Train Your Dragon, and Return of the Jedi (But, Mom… Why did Luke’s daddy have to die??!??)  Add to that… any mention of the Muppet Movie makes Jalen well up.  In addition, some episodes of Pokemon and Ninjago, a few commercial featuring horses and puppies, the closing credits of Legend of Zelda, and the song Wrecking Ball.

J’s just a sensitive soul.  Has been since the day he was born.  From the earliest moments, a harsh word would make him reach for his eyes and try to push the tears back in.  We’re not talking wailing crying here, or temper tantrums, but soul rending, quiet, sad tears.

At the outset, this would drive us crazy.  “Come on J, toughen up!”  “Don’t be such a baby!”  “Hold it together, kid!”  But, we rapidly learned this parenting strategy was not working.

By no means is Jalen an unhappy child.   Quite the opposite, he’s one of the happiest, funniest kids I know.  He loves people and loves talking and loves playing and making jokes.  But, Jalen has big feelings.  Jalen doesn’t cry like a baby, he doesn’t cry because he’s not tough, it’s quite the opposite.

Jalen cries “grown up tears.”  Jalen cries for loss, regret, true friendship, love, family, raw human emotion.  He cries when friends are mean to each other, or when someone loses a loved one.  He understands the feelings behind these actions and is mature enough to know what is heartbreaking.

How do you embrace the emotions of a sensitive little boy?  Boys are supposed to be hard.  Boys aren’t supposed to cry.  How do we equip our child to have healthy feelings and good self-control?

More recently, we’ve tried something new.  We’re teaching Jalen to not be embarrassed by his tears.  To know that it’s safe to cry around family and friends.  To know that people will appreciate his sensitivity and compassion.  To tell him that some day he will be a great Daddy, because he will understand his child’s feelings.

But, we’re also teaching him when it’s appropriate to weep.  And when it’s not.  How to understand what triggers the tears, and how to expect them and prepare for the emotion. How to explain to grown ups why he’s crying without feeling embarrassed. And how to hold in the tears when it’s not the right time.

This has been good for J.  He’s learned to laugh about his sensitivity, and hold it together when he needs to.  When I heard they showed Wreck It Ralph in his K2 classroom, I was concerned. but then J beamed at me and said, “And, Mom, I made it through the whole thing!!!”  And, he’s able to tell us when enough is enough, or sit through the tough parts with tears in his eyes.  He’s aware enough to know that he’s not ready for E.T., and relishes sitting on my lap and bawling together through Toy Story 3.  He knows how to talk about his feelings, and put words to his emotions and he’s able to come out the other side cleansed and happy.

As a grown woman, this is all so fascinating to me.  I’m a woman who keeps my emotions under wraps, who prides herself on holding it together.  And this sweet little boy has taught me so much about emotions.  He’s taught me how to embrace your feelings, how to have a good cry, and how tears don’t show weakness but tremendous strength and compassion.

What to Write About Today?

Forty-seven weeks of blogging and I’ve run out of things to say.  Sure.  I have plenty to say.  Lots and lots to say.  But there’s just certain things that are off limits.  It sometimes feels that there’s more things not to write about then there is to write about.

• The story about the gay strippers and the lollipop.  That’s just dirty.
• How my friends, my family, my parents can be absolutely intolerable sometimes. That’s just rude.
• That I sometimes get dressed for other people, not for me.  That’s just vain.
• Sharing my sometimes feelings about: sexism, classism, racism, ageism.  That’s just not PC.
• The pressure I feel to be perfect all the time.  How I’m afraid to show weakness.  That’s just crazy.
• That I spent a whole week watching every episode of “How I Met Your Mother.” All nine seasons. That’s just self-indulgent and pretty lame.
• Anything less then complimentary about my husband.  That’s just private (and, as my husband would say, impossible)
• The anger I feel.  The “want to punch a wall”, “revenge fantasy”, “soul burning”, anger I feel for the people who have done me wrong.  That’s just scary.
• How I feel about millennial men, and certain friends who wear their pants to short, and stupid people.  That’s just judgmental, a bit misogynistic, and awfully snobby.
• The disappointment that I feel that I didn’t do enough before the kids were born.  That I missed out on things, That I have regrets.  That’s just selfish.
• My budget for skin care products.  That’s just embarrassing and not nearly as self-loving as I’d like.
• Whether I love one kid better than the other or not.  That’s just horrible.

We all have things that we are embarrassed to admit.  Things that we are afraid to say out loud.  Things that are painful, or hurtful, or just not acceptable.  Things that people will judge us for, or that we will fault ourselves for.  Things that are just ours alone, that we hold in the recesses of our heart.  And yet, if we were just to say them out loud.  If we were just to put words to our private truths, we’d find that we’re all in the same boat.  That we share the same fears, and pains, and dreams if we could only just put word to them.

And, even as I write this list, and purge all of the little things that I’ve wanted to write about but I haven’t.  Whether to protect myself or to protect others.  I’m cringing at the thought of my father reading this (yeah, Dad, I’m talking to you) because he looks for things to worry about, and he uses my blog to measure my happiness, and he loves to debate what I write.  Because, as I tell him often, the blog is not for him, it’s for me.  Because, as public as my blog is, it’s also intensely private.  For everything I’ve said, there’s a thousand things that I haven’t.  For every word I’ve written, the spaces between the words and the things that are omitted are where the truths really lie.