Those are pants on his arms.
11 October 2008
Stupid babies need the most love, part 6
What happens when he tries to dress himself...
Those are pants on his arms.
Those are pants on his arms.
after apple picking
I dragged Husband and Mr. Independent to Carter Mountain yesterday to pick apples and have family photo ops. We had a good time.
Picking a bah-boole.
He fell a lot.
Showing Dadada his apple
Running through the trees
That blur is my kiddo.
Mr. Independent in the pumpkin patch
The gentleman who took the photo snapped the picture and said, "There's your Christmas card right there!" I didn't have the heart to tell him about last year's card, which I swear I'll send out soon.
Picking a bah-boole.
He fell a lot.
Showing Dadada his apple
Running through the trees
That blur is my kiddo.
Mr. Independent in the pumpkin patch
The gentleman who took the photo snapped the picture and said, "There's your Christmas card right there!" I didn't have the heart to tell him about last year's card, which I swear I'll send out soon.
03 October 2008
The most wonderful time of the year
I love autumn. Not because the humidity finally starts to dissipate or because school gets back in session or because of football (ha!). I love autumn because I fell in love in autumn. I met Husband in the summer of 2003, but it was that fall that we really fell in love. As the leaves changed and the air started smelling cold up in New York, I started letting go of my reservations and inhibitions, and finally (as my friend Caroline put it), allowed myself to be emotionally available to someone else. It was in the autumn that I really became a girl for the first time.
I couldn't eat if I thought about him. I lost 10 pounds within the first 2 months of our relationship, and we lived six hours apart then. We stayed up way too late having many awkward, and a few not so awkward phone conversations. He sent me emails counting down the days until he could come visit me-October 2. My friend-who is no longer my friend-came over to my apartment before that first visit to straighten my hair. She walked in, took a paper bag from her backpack, and pulled out a bottle of Parrot Bay and a 2-liter of Coke. She looked at me and said You're going to need this. She fed me a rum and coke, made my hair look pretty, and sent me to meet another friend-who is still my friend, I hope-for dinner. She told me stories of her latest travels and watched me nervously pick apart a cheeseburger and drink three beers. She held my hair back as I vomited into a trashcan on 34th Street, not out of drunkenness, but due to nerves. I picked at my fingernails and paced around Penn Station, wondering if I looked okay, wondering if I smelled like beer and throw-up, wondering if he'd even recognize me or if I'd recognize him, and what would I say.
In autumn, I remember all of this. I can still feel the newness, the anticipation of when will he call me, when will he email me, when will we see each other again.
That autumn, five years ago, was the first time anyone had ever said the L word to me-and meant it. I knew very quickly, that I L-ed him, but I questioned whether or not I'd be able to say it back, if he ever said it to me. My friends-who I wish were still my friends-teased me about being in L with him. I claimed I wasn't sure if I was or not. They insisted I was.
In crispy autumn, I remember listening to Vienna Teng repeatedly finding meaning for us in all of her songs, especially "Eric's Song," especially in the line about "reasons for defying reason." There was no logical reason for us to get together, to stay together, but we did.
When the air tastes like October, I remember walking, hands clutching hands, down the streets of New York City to some restaurant or another where I would hardly be able to eat anything because my stomach just wouldn't settle itself. And I remember him telling me, two months into the relationship, that he wanted to marry me. The first time I came to see him, under the guise of seeing my relatives-who I no longer consider my family-I remember picking at a roasted half chicken and smashed potatoes at Bizou and mumbling, um, I guess so, when he asked if he could come to Hatteras Island with me for Thanksgiving. It was the best Thanksgiving of my life so far.
I walked around the City both alone, and occasionally with him, feeling grateful all the time. Things change in five years. The newness is gone, and I miss it. We have settled into our lives together, and I feel thankful for that. Sometimes I miss feeling like the most wonderful, amazing, exciting person on earth, but I think the trade off for losing the excitement of the new is getting to live together and be married and be a family. I am lucky to have someone to talk to before I fall asleep. We've changed, both of us, and I've gotten fat, and more insecure and anxious and have become less happy than I was five years ago, but I have ultimately gained so much more than I lost. In the last five years, I've lost several friends who I loved dearly, I've lost the place that I loved more than anywhere else in the world, I've lost much of what was lovely about myself. I think that's pretty normal as things change. I wouldn't trade any of it.
Every autumn, I remember how it felt; I can still feel exactly how it felt.
Us, five years later, and if anyone ever says anything to me about anything I have written here, I will stop being your friend. Seriously. I'm done being a girl now.
I couldn't eat if I thought about him. I lost 10 pounds within the first 2 months of our relationship, and we lived six hours apart then. We stayed up way too late having many awkward, and a few not so awkward phone conversations. He sent me emails counting down the days until he could come visit me-October 2. My friend-who is no longer my friend-came over to my apartment before that first visit to straighten my hair. She walked in, took a paper bag from her backpack, and pulled out a bottle of Parrot Bay and a 2-liter of Coke. She looked at me and said You're going to need this. She fed me a rum and coke, made my hair look pretty, and sent me to meet another friend-who is still my friend, I hope-for dinner. She told me stories of her latest travels and watched me nervously pick apart a cheeseburger and drink three beers. She held my hair back as I vomited into a trashcan on 34th Street, not out of drunkenness, but due to nerves. I picked at my fingernails and paced around Penn Station, wondering if I looked okay, wondering if I smelled like beer and throw-up, wondering if he'd even recognize me or if I'd recognize him, and what would I say.
In autumn, I remember all of this. I can still feel the newness, the anticipation of when will he call me, when will he email me, when will we see each other again.
That autumn, five years ago, was the first time anyone had ever said the L word to me-and meant it. I knew very quickly, that I L-ed him, but I questioned whether or not I'd be able to say it back, if he ever said it to me. My friends-who I wish were still my friends-teased me about being in L with him. I claimed I wasn't sure if I was or not. They insisted I was.
In crispy autumn, I remember listening to Vienna Teng repeatedly finding meaning for us in all of her songs, especially "Eric's Song," especially in the line about "reasons for defying reason." There was no logical reason for us to get together, to stay together, but we did.
When the air tastes like October, I remember walking, hands clutching hands, down the streets of New York City to some restaurant or another where I would hardly be able to eat anything because my stomach just wouldn't settle itself. And I remember him telling me, two months into the relationship, that he wanted to marry me. The first time I came to see him, under the guise of seeing my relatives-who I no longer consider my family-I remember picking at a roasted half chicken and smashed potatoes at Bizou and mumbling, um, I guess so, when he asked if he could come to Hatteras Island with me for Thanksgiving. It was the best Thanksgiving of my life so far.
I walked around the City both alone, and occasionally with him, feeling grateful all the time. Things change in five years. The newness is gone, and I miss it. We have settled into our lives together, and I feel thankful for that. Sometimes I miss feeling like the most wonderful, amazing, exciting person on earth, but I think the trade off for losing the excitement of the new is getting to live together and be married and be a family. I am lucky to have someone to talk to before I fall asleep. We've changed, both of us, and I've gotten fat, and more insecure and anxious and have become less happy than I was five years ago, but I have ultimately gained so much more than I lost. In the last five years, I've lost several friends who I loved dearly, I've lost the place that I loved more than anywhere else in the world, I've lost much of what was lovely about myself. I think that's pretty normal as things change. I wouldn't trade any of it.
Every autumn, I remember how it felt; I can still feel exactly how it felt.
Us, five years later, and if anyone ever says anything to me about anything I have written here, I will stop being your friend. Seriously. I'm done being a girl now.
Somewhere north of here*
*More self-indulgent moping below. You've been warned.
It's like what happens when you run into someone you have managed to forget exists: the widened eyes, the audible gasp, the blinked away tears and the abrupt pivot and near sprint to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible, praying that even though you saw them, they didn't see you.
Tonight, it was the Mr. Softee truck parked on the corner of Broad and Madison.
I'd been missing New York with the raw aching that always comes at this time of year. I pushed Mr. Independent's stroller through sparse crowds at the Second Street Festival and thought this is not San Gannero. And I just wanted to be there; I wanted it to be six years ago, with Debra and Sean and Marek, tasting meat on a stick for the first time, walking around taking photographs that disappeared when my laptop died, then heading for one of the six best margaritas in Manhattan, sharing pitchers and conversation for several hours.
The Second Street Festival sucking royally (too many smokers), Mr. Independent and I moseyed in and out of galleries on the First Fridays Artwalk. It wasn't an ideal outing for a stroller, but we made it work. I fed off the energy of the city, bought a bag that reminded me of the bag I carted around Europe for a summer, bought another bag that's a potential Christmas present for a niece, and stumbled into a gallery that had some very cool photographs of sights around town, and I bought two to hang in my living room. One is a picture of my favorite comfort food restaurant, and the other is of the restaurant where Husband and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. My living room is barren, and I wanted to support a local endeavor, spice up the decor, and show anyone who enters my living room that I heart my hometown.
I felt very smug and self-righteous, as if saying to myself I don't need New York. I love it here. This is where I want to be. This city is awesome as well. I walked out of the gallery, head held high, feeling not happy, but alive, at least. And, of course, it all changed two blocks later when I saw the truck. It really did knock the wind out of me because it wasn't something I expected to see, and it dredged the longing I carry around with me all the time, even at my happiest. It's a longing for the place, that city, that time.
The thing is, I love where I live. I love it deeply and often without any good reason. I feel wounded when someone insults it. I am proud of how bike-friendly and pedestrian friendly it is and how there's generally something interesting and kid-friendly going on. This is where I want to be. It really is. I don't think I'm just tricking myself. This is where I want to watch my kid grow up and where I want to settle into middle-aged monotony with Husband. We're slowly building ourselves social circles (I hope), and we are very happy here. I don't know I'd even choose to live in New York again, if given the option. I'm not sure it's the best place for Mr. Independent, and I am certain it is not the best place for Husband. But sometimes I wonder what might have been. I toy with where I'd be if my life had gone according to MY plan, and I'd stayed in New York after finishing graduate school. I idealize it because it's the unknown; the grass is always greener syndrome. In the movie Keeping the Faith, Ed Norton's character says something like People who live anywhere else, are, to a certain extent, kidding. Sometimes I feel that way about my life.
It feels like what I imagine getting over the break-up of a serious relationship would feel like (Husband is my first serious relationship, and I hope I don't ever lose that one). It hurts-a lot- at first, but then life continues, and the ache goes away except for occasional brief reminders: a glimpse of a passerby with the same hair color, a street sign that's a reminder of an inside joke, a first date restaurant. But those moments are rare, and while jarring, they pass, but not before once again, bringing up the what might have beens.
I've always wondered (worried) if the old cliche about never really getting over your first love is true. If it is, I'm screwed as a wife, and Richmond is screwed as my home.
It's like what happens when you run into someone you have managed to forget exists: the widened eyes, the audible gasp, the blinked away tears and the abrupt pivot and near sprint to get as far away as possible as quickly as possible, praying that even though you saw them, they didn't see you.
Tonight, it was the Mr. Softee truck parked on the corner of Broad and Madison.
I'd been missing New York with the raw aching that always comes at this time of year. I pushed Mr. Independent's stroller through sparse crowds at the Second Street Festival and thought this is not San Gannero. And I just wanted to be there; I wanted it to be six years ago, with Debra and Sean and Marek, tasting meat on a stick for the first time, walking around taking photographs that disappeared when my laptop died, then heading for one of the six best margaritas in Manhattan, sharing pitchers and conversation for several hours.
The Second Street Festival sucking royally (too many smokers), Mr. Independent and I moseyed in and out of galleries on the First Fridays Artwalk. It wasn't an ideal outing for a stroller, but we made it work. I fed off the energy of the city, bought a bag that reminded me of the bag I carted around Europe for a summer, bought another bag that's a potential Christmas present for a niece, and stumbled into a gallery that had some very cool photographs of sights around town, and I bought two to hang in my living room. One is a picture of my favorite comfort food restaurant, and the other is of the restaurant where Husband and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. My living room is barren, and I wanted to support a local endeavor, spice up the decor, and show anyone who enters my living room that I heart my hometown.
I felt very smug and self-righteous, as if saying to myself I don't need New York. I love it here. This is where I want to be. This city is awesome as well. I walked out of the gallery, head held high, feeling not happy, but alive, at least. And, of course, it all changed two blocks later when I saw the truck. It really did knock the wind out of me because it wasn't something I expected to see, and it dredged the longing I carry around with me all the time, even at my happiest. It's a longing for the place, that city, that time.
The thing is, I love where I live. I love it deeply and often without any good reason. I feel wounded when someone insults it. I am proud of how bike-friendly and pedestrian friendly it is and how there's generally something interesting and kid-friendly going on. This is where I want to be. It really is. I don't think I'm just tricking myself. This is where I want to watch my kid grow up and where I want to settle into middle-aged monotony with Husband. We're slowly building ourselves social circles (I hope), and we are very happy here. I don't know I'd even choose to live in New York again, if given the option. I'm not sure it's the best place for Mr. Independent, and I am certain it is not the best place for Husband. But sometimes I wonder what might have been. I toy with where I'd be if my life had gone according to MY plan, and I'd stayed in New York after finishing graduate school. I idealize it because it's the unknown; the grass is always greener syndrome. In the movie Keeping the Faith, Ed Norton's character says something like People who live anywhere else, are, to a certain extent, kidding. Sometimes I feel that way about my life.
It feels like what I imagine getting over the break-up of a serious relationship would feel like (Husband is my first serious relationship, and I hope I don't ever lose that one). It hurts-a lot- at first, but then life continues, and the ache goes away except for occasional brief reminders: a glimpse of a passerby with the same hair color, a street sign that's a reminder of an inside joke, a first date restaurant. But those moments are rare, and while jarring, they pass, but not before once again, bringing up the what might have beens.
I've always wondered (worried) if the old cliche about never really getting over your first love is true. If it is, I'm screwed as a wife, and Richmond is screwed as my home.
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