Childhood revisited

 I continue to work on my memoir. On November 9th I sent it to my sister Maggie to read. (Thank you, Maggie!) She planned to return it before their Thanksgiving trip to North Carolina.

But they cancelled their trip, Thanksgiving came and went, and she didn’t send it back. Then Lincoln was born and Jim and I drove to D.C., stayed ten days, then drove to Chicago and spent a week with his mom.

Without planning it, Maggie gave me an incomparable gift. From November 9th to January 8th, I entered a magical state of childhood. Each break during college: Thanksgiving, Christmas, even summer, I would cart a heavy suitcase of books home to study. I rarely opened any of them, but the psychic weight was heavier than the suitcase. By the time I graduated from college, the mental habit of always feeling underprepared and inadequate was firmly entrenched.

My third psychotic episode was in 2003. Shortly after I returned home from the hospital, I enrolled in a creative writing class. I dreamed of writing a memoir of our 1995 cross-country trip. Some years later, my focus turned to my manic depression (bipolar). My inaction fed a constant undercurrent of anxiety.

But when I clicked send on November 9th, I was suddenly on vacation. A true six-years-old-and-nothing-to-do-but-ride-my-trike freedom. I couldn’t work on it: it was in Maggie's hands. The weeks stretched on, and I basked in the tranquility.

Is this an indication that I really don’t want to do the project? I don’t think so. I needed the breathing space, the luxury of having nothing to do. The ability to pick it back up on my own terms.

Holiday Weekend

 The weekend with Andrew and Victoria went better than I dared hope. They are wonderful houseguests. They told us the next day that they had cried in bed Saturday night, after we had sung them good night. But Victoria’s report Monday evening to her mom was that she didn’t miss her because she was having a great time. It was an immersion experience. I had decided not to fret about undone work and just enjoy creating a wonderful holiday weekend for our grandchildren.

Friday evening, Peter and we met in front of the Town Line Diner in Rocky Hill, just south of Wethersfield, Connecticut. Wethersfield has been a source of romance for me ever since falling in love with The Witch of Blackbird Pond in fifth grade. Back in the 1600s, Rocky Hill was part of Wethersfield.

I’ve been driving up and down I-91 for 36 years, going to New Jersey to visit my parents, D.C. to visit the temple (before the 2000 opening of the Boston Temple, which reduced our temple trip mileage 100-fold, from 450 miles to 4.5.) I’ve seen the highway sign for the historic Wethersfield ferry, but never stopped to investigate. Service began in 1655, making it the oldest continuously-operated ferry in the United States.

When Peter got to the parking lot, where we would ‘exchange prisoners,’ we proposed a birthday supper at the diner. I've loved diners longer than Blackbird Pond. I had moussaka and asked the waitress if she was Greek. No, Albanian. We were nearly the only customers and she treated us royally. On Monday, when we met Xiomara at the same parking lot (it’s within two miles of being halfway between our homes), we talked her into a meal there as well.

The weekend felt so spacious. We planned our last day, Monday, on the white board: playground, fly Andrew's drone, foosball, cotton candy, go home.

As the slogan says, “If I’d known grandkids were so much fun, I would have had them first.”

Pizza and plans

 Jim cleared his closet last week and I put all the discarded shirts and pants into two large black garbage bags and searched the web for a place to take them. Many are quite a bit past the ‘gently used’ stage: I didn’t want to burden a charity with textiles they will lose money recycling.

I found Helpsy. No donation boxes in Lexington or Arlington, but several in adjoining Burlington, including one in the parking lot shared by Blaze, a pizzeria doing for pizza what Qdoba does for Mexican food: all the toppings included for one base price. (My pathologically-frugal self was tempted to ask for every topping, but I forbore.)

Over a year ago, when Blaze first opened, we came, coupon in hand, but the doors were locked, with employees seen through the window. The manager answered our knocking, came to the door, and explained: a food shipment had failed to arrive and they were out of dough for their grand opening.

Last night there was plenty of dough and plenty of seating. (We were the only dine-in customers.) As we enjoyed the delicious pizzas, Xiomara called. Our granddaughter, Victoria, had been cajoling her all day, insisting on calling Oma and JimDad to see if she and Andrew could visit alone during the upcoming holiday weekend. We had offered Peter and Xiomara a reverse get-away: we’d entertain the kids at our home (a.k.a. grandchild magnet) and leave their apartment kid-free.

By the time Victoria got on the phone with us, she had changed her tune. She only wanted to stay two days. But Xiomara was firm: you wanted to call them all day; you’re going.

My parents invited grandchildren to visit for a week, once they turned eight. (At the time, one of my kids proclaimed that he would spend a week with them until he was thirty.) I’ve often thought that they were wise to set that age limit: by eight years old homesickness is often curable, especially when there's ice cream on your cereal every morning.

Andrew is nearly eight, but Victoria is just five. A year and a half ago, she sat, ramrod straight on top bunkbed, refusing to be comforted until her parents came home from their night out with their siblings. I found the show-down exhausting. I didn’t cave and call her mom, but it took a lot out of me. When I expressed my trepidation towards this proposed visit to Jim, he said, “I’ll be alright.”

I suppose I will be also. Check in with me next week.

Ring in the new

I often grumble about New Year’s Eve and pretend to hate the Roman holiday. I try to be asleep before midnight: I actually accomplished that this year: Jim and his mom had to crack open the non-alcoholic sparkling Rosé without me.

But really, I fall for it every year: hook, line, and sinker. Like a lawn covered in a pristine blanket of new snow, the fresh calendar inspires thoughts of and hopes for new beginnings.

Fun trivia fact: Great Britain and its American colonies started their new year on March 25 until 1752. I like that: new beginnings should start in the spring, when the days grow from the spring equinox to summer solstice and spring planting has started (south of New England, at least).

On December 1st, I hired a Nerd Fitness coach and rang in the new year with exercise, nutrition, and lifestyle goals. I even wrote a (bad) haiku:

Awareness increased

Incremental is the key

Open to the world

 

I've written about Nerd Fitness before:

Phyz Ed

Self-help Junkie

Nerd Fitness

My Nerd Fitness ‘Big Why’ (written in May 2020)

I am engaging in Nerd Fitness Academy because I want to have a healthier body with the strength and energy to enjoy life. I want to continue to garden, keep house, enjoy my grandchildren, walk long distances, and serve other people.

I want to be a seventy-year-old woman who seems to be fifty-five. Yes, fifty-five will be my new normal.

I’m not sure this is attainable, but I’m going to give it my best shot.

Welcome, 2021.