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.