Meditation

It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. We’ve gone from “maybe we can still take our California vacation” to “we can’t leave our apartment.” Every day, in the space of a couple hours, I ricochet from “we’re going to die” to “everything is OK.” It helps that I’m really busy with work, so my mind isn’t constantly catastrophizing. I’m trying to stay centered and calm, but it’s SO HARD. Everything feels so upended and discombobulated.

A few years ago, when Eliot was in the throes of shingles, every night I would talk him through a meditation, trying to get his focus off his pain. This is completely different, but the coronavirus anxiety is definitely shingles-level. So last weekend, Eliot and I collaborated on a meditation, using some quiet acoustic music that he had put together and a script that I wrote. The goal was to record five mediations so we could listen to one every night during the week, but we ended up doing only one.

LISTEN TO IT HERE
Finally, in week three, I’m sort of figuring out my new routine. I take a shower before waking up Astrid. Then after breakfast I do my shoulder exercises before “going to work” (aka sitting back down at the table). I used to go to yoga after work, so I’m trying to stop work at 5 and do some yoga with Astrid. Then I make dinner, we eat at 7 and watch Jeopardy at 7:30. Weekends are more fun. No work or homework!, which is something completely novel. Speaking of which, we’re reading more. I bought a ping pong set from Amazon and our kitchen table changes from my weekday workspace to a weekend ping pong table.We bake cookies, go for long walks, play board games...do all the things that I wanted us to do as a family on weekends, except homework always took precedence. Thank you, Covid-19! It’s crazy that it took a pandemic to bring us a little balance.

Sprinkles

Astrid was invited to this Halloween party yesterday in Beacon Hill. Eliot and I dropped her off, dressed as Luna Lovegood, and walked around Charles Street until it was time to pick her up. She said she had a good time and chatted the whole way to the T about what they did. She showed us the 60 pictures everyone had posted on Instagram. There was a video of the donut game, where you had to eat a donut hanging from a string without using your hands. Astrid was on the end of a row of 4 giggling girls, all trying to eat their donuts. Each donut was different –a chocolate donut, a chocolate-frosted donut, a donut with sprinkles, and a plain donut, which was Astrid’s. I said, “Is that a plain donut?” and she said, “Yeah, it’s okay” so I knew it wasn’t. What kind of fucking idiot would give a kid a plain donut? I wanted to punch that fucking Beacon Hill skinny rich blonde asshole mother right in her beautiful tanned face. It was a fucking party! Why were there plain donuts? And why was Astrid the one who ended up with it? Why is she so shy? Why does she think it’s okay that she’s the one who gets the plain donut? She’s the sweetest, kindest, most loving person I’ve ever known and she should have chocolate donuts with frosting and sprinkles – and friends who make sure she gets them – and the courage to ask for what she wants in life, not accept whatever second-rate crap some thoughtless asshole hands her.

Dinner with the Boss

Every summer the editor at the magazine where I work invites everyone, in groups of 10 or so, to his place for dinner. To make it even more enticing, he sent this email: “I need from each of you a haiku (or otherwise-styled poem) about some aspect of your childhood. I’ll read them aloud at the dinner and everyone can guess who wrote what. Bad idea? Perhaps! But we’re doing it!” So I’ve been trying to come up with a poem that’s appropriately clever (everyone’s an English major, after all) that shares something interesting but not too personal. Since it’s summer, I decided to write about summer. My childhood summers have taken on a golden glow in my memory. Swimming at the pool, eating watermelon, long family vacations in the station wagon, gardening with grandma and grandpa, fishing... Hmmm, fishing...

I walk out to the garden with Grandpa. He shovels deep. I paw through the dirt, pulling out worms. “We want the big, fat ones,” he says. “Nightcrawlers.” We drop the biggest worms we can find in a coffee can. He throws a little dirt on top and I press on the plastic lid that has air holes punched in it.

The next morning we all wake early. Mom already made stacks of ham sandwiches. Dad is making lemonade in the big green thermos. Six trays of ice cubes go in. I carry it, heavy and rattling, out to the car. It’s stuffed with the cooler, tackle boxes, fishing poles, and the three of us kids. (Mom stays home, of course. There’s a photo I love of her and Dad before they were married the one time she went fishing with him. She’s wearing a cashmere sweater, which is hardly standard fishing attire.)

We drive over to grandma and grandpa’s and pick them up. Then the endless-seeming, 40-minute drive to Grass Lake. Before Dad bought his own boat, we would rent one from this Polish family he knew that owned a restaurant and dock on the lake. I sit on the dock watching the dragonflies or walk around the edges of the lake looking for frogs until Dad has the boat loaded. Then we spend the entire day on the lake, three adults and three kids in a rowboat.

Grandpa baits the hook for me. My brother jeers at me for being so squeamish, but I can’t even watch. I feel sorry for the worm. It was so happy living in the dirt until we dug it up, pierced its body with a sharp hook and threw it in the water to drown or be eaten. I also feel sorry for the poor, dumb fish. Swimming along happily, seeing a tasty snack, thinking everything’s hunky dory, then being jerked out of the water to its death. I feel sorry for me, too, for having such a mean brother. Why do I even go fishing? I could have stayed home with Mom. But I like being outside, sitting in the gently rocking boat under the hot sun drinking ice-cold lemonade. And despite my sensitivity to the worms and fish, it’s exciting to see the bobber suddenly dunk under the water and to pull the struggling fish to the surface. “I got one!” It’s usually a bluegill or a perch. Sometimes it’s my dad’s favorite: a catfish.

At the end of the long day, we have hamburgers at the Polish family’s restaurant. Polkas play nonstop on the jukebox and my dad polkas with me on the dance floor. Then the best part of any fishing trip: we stop at Dairy Queen on the way home.

So this is my haiku:

I feel so sorry
for the worms, the fish, and me.
But then, Dairy Queen!

Close Quarters

We really enjoyed being part of today's Globe magazine cover story.

Makin’ Memories

Last week was April vacation week. The big event was Astrid getting her braces on Thursday. Whoopee! I need to plan vacations better. There are so many places I want to visit, but I always think we’ll do it “sometime.” The problem is that most of our vacation time and money goes to visiting my family in Chicago. I really want Astrid to know her grandma (and aunt and uncles, etc), and since they don’t visit us, we have to go there. But especially now that she’s getting older, I also want her to experience more of the world. It’s a conundrum.

Anyway, other than getting her braces, I think she had a good time last week. She saw the movie “Bears” with Eliot, ate a lot of Easter candy, watched the marathon, went to the playground, visited Harvard’s Natural History Museum, saw “Where the Mountain Meets the Moon” at the Wheelock Theater, had pancakes at the diner twice, went to Mt. Auburn cemetery with her friend Grace, learned to play chess, toured the Louisa May Alcott house, picnicked at Walden Pond, ate a big ice cream cone with sprinkles, went to the Institute of Contemporary Art, and had time to just play and write stories and read. Of course that wasn’t enough and on Sunday, she wanted to do one last fun thing before school started again. We had plans to go kayaking with her friend, but the weather didn’t cooperate, so Astrid asked if we could go bowling. Eliot didn’t want to take a chance of hurting his back and wasn’t feeling well, so he decided to stay home. I had a headache and was feeling out of sorts, too, but finally after grocery shopping and other errands, Astrid and I set off to Jillian’s down the street on Landsdowne. For some reason, it was packed; there was an hour to an hour-and-a-half wait. Astrid asked if we could play pool while we waited, but I saw the opportunity to squeeze in another errand, so I said no, we’d go to Coolidge Corner and come back. We walked back home, got the car, and drove to Coolidge Corner. We still had time, so we went in to Brookline Booksmith to browse. I was feeling grumpier and grumpier and just wanted to go home. When Astrid saw a book she wanted, I told her I’d buy it for her instead of spending the money on bowling. She thought about it and said no, she’d rather go bowling. On our way out, we passed a display of markers. Astrid picked up this pink one and said, “It’s melon! I’ve never seen a melon pen.” I tried again, “I’ll buy you the book and the pen instead of bowling.” She said no. I said, “You’ll have the book forever. Bowling will be over in an hour.” She said, “But I’ll always have the memory of bowling.” Good Lord! Here I was being grumpy instead of making happy memories with my sweetie pie. We drove back to Jillian’s where we were told it would still be another 40 minutes. I apparently had not learned my lesson because “I’m not sitting here for 40 minutes” was out of my mouth before I knew it. Astrid’s face fell and I kicked myself and said, “I know! We have the car. Let’s drive up by Copley and see if there’s a wait at King’s.” So we did and miraculously found a parking spot on the street and there was no wait and we bowled and made our memories. We took pictures of each other and laughed and Astrid won both games, which made her very happy, which made me very happy. My wise little sweetie pie.

Wacky Wednesday

Several months ago in an effort to expand our epicurean horizons, I created Wacky Wednesday, where one day a week we’d try a new recipe. I picked Wednesday because I work from home on Wednesdays so I’d have a little more time to cook. And who doesn’t love an alliteration? However, it didn’t last too long. I had to find something worthy of being called wacky, yet not so wacky that Astrid would refuse to try it. That took more time and effort than actually cooking. Astrid was turning into one of those kids who only ate about five things. Well, five nutritious things, plus an infinite number of sugary things. She used to eat whatever we’d put in front of her and we thought she was such an adventurous eater, then suddenly that stopped. I read somewhere that it’s biological. When kids are little enough to be around only their parents, they’ll eat whatever their parents serve them. Then when they get old enough to be more independent, biology kicks in and their palate refuses unfamiliar food in case they accidentally eat something poisonous when they’re out roaming the jungle alone. I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s nice to have something to blame. Anyway Wacky Wednesday wasn’t working and I kind of gave up on it. Then I read this parenting book. I’ve read a lot of parenting books over the years although I don’t really know why because none of them ever made much an impression. Until this one: Calmer, Easier, Happier Parenting by Noel Janis-Norton. Everything she says makes sense and every one of her strategies works (when I remember to implement them). One of her ideas is called First Plate. If there is a food that your kid doesn’t want to eat, you put a tiny bit of it on a plate and they have to eat it first. What makes it so easy is that it’s such a small amount that it’s hard to make much of a fuss about it. You can gradually make the portion bigger; the idea is that they will start eating a normal amount of it at some point. The First Plate idea made me okay with Astrid not eating an entire meal of something she didn’t want, as long as she tried it. For example, when Eliot and I eat our favorite farro and asparagus dish, Astrid gets penne and whatever other green veggie we have in the fridge (after her first plate of two grains of farro and a microscopic slice of asparagus). Everybody’s happy. So I’d been thinking it was time to start up Wacky Wednesday again, but I never made it past the thinking stage.

Then I started noticing those ads for Plated on Facebook. It sounded perfect: a new recipe every week along with all the ingredients to make it, delivered. On Tuesday! Just in time for Wacky Wednesday. I signed up for the trial membership and we got our first box this week. I made shakshuka (this link isn't the recipe I used, but it's probably pretty good) and it was surprisingly easy and delicious. (Well, Eliot and I thought so!) The only drawback is that it’s obscenely expensive, so I don’t see doing it again. My trial was $20 for four meals, which is what we’d pay for a big night out at Chipotle. But the regular price is more comparable to dinner out at a nice restaurant. And we never go to nice restaurants. And you still have to cook and clean. If I’m going to spend that much, I want someone to do all the work. But I love the idea of not having to think about it that much. Instead of searching endless recipes, deciding on one, then making sure I have all the ingredients, I just choose between three options, click, and it shows up. Hmmm, maybe I will try it just one more time...

Nothing Lasts Forever, Even This Winter

Three different people told me today how sick they are of this winter. I feel like I've been hibernating for months and I'm ready to wake up only to find that winter isn't over yet. But this crocus was blooming right outside the front door at work, so there's hope...

Use What You Have

I rode my bike to work three times in the past two weeks! One of the pleasures of biking to work is riding along the Charles River and seeing the crew teams rowing. People who crew are inspiring. They’re out there every day, in the rain, in the cold, no matter what. I only bike to work when the weather is nice and I don’t have to run errands or take Astrid to school or pick her up from swim, etc., so it ends up being not very frequently. I like hearing the crew coaches through their megaphones. I always think how nice it would be to have someone following along behind me, yelling out encouragement as I go through my day. Sort of like a life coach. But since I can’t afford that, I have to use what I have. Which is myself. And it’s hard to be wise and encouraging all day.

At a recent birthday party, I was talking with Mary, a fellow mom (and fellow ex-Chicagoan!), about all her various projects. She’s a lawyer who’s writing a screenplay and starting a T-shirt company. When I jokingly said “one job’s not enough for you?”, she said she’s also been collecting wise sayings from yoga instructors to put into a book one day. I told Mary about my favorite yoga teacher of all time, Rolf Gates. I went to his class every week at Baptiste Yoga and somehow my body did things I never thought it could do. At one point in the class, we’d have a break where he’d tell a story, usually something from his life. I’d lie on my mat, listening, sweating, breathing, and feel inspired. It must be like how you’re supposed to feel in church. And then he’d finish up with “…and that’s why we do abs” and we’d go on with class.

“We show up, burn brightly, live passionately, hold nothing back, and when the moment is over, when our work is done, we step back and let go.” –Rolf Gates

Mary had heard the story about how Baron Baptiste and Rolf parted ways and we talked about how yoga teachers can be assholes in real life, and maybe she should expand her book to include other inspiring people. She related this story from when she was volunteering during art class last year. The kids were painting and ran out of blue paint and started freaking out. Ms. Iluna, not a yogi, but a wonderful art teacher, calmed them down, saying, “Children, children, it’s true we’re out of blue paint. But we have to use what we have.” Ms. Iluna is awesome. She would make a great life coach. In fact, maybe that's what she should do now that Astrid's school canned her because she made too much money and hired a cheaper, younger, art teacher. Anyway, that’s my mantra from now on: “use what you have.”

And my second mantra is, “if something feels bad, stop doing it.” After one of Eliot’s many doctor visits last month, we saw a display of various handouts at the checkout desk. One, that was for knee pain, said “If you are doing something that is causing pain to your knee, stop doing that thing, and the pain to your knee will stop.” I had to read that a couple times, thinking I was missing something. Why would they say something so completely obvious? We were cracking up and the nurse at the checkout desk said “You’d be surprised by the number of people who call to say that when they eat a certain food, they get a stomachache, so they want to talk to a doctor about it. I want to tell them to just stop eating that food.” I thought, “Yeah, people are stupid,” then I realized I was doing that very thing. For the past few months, whenever I drank coffee in the morning, I felt sick afterwards. So I switched to tea and now I feel much better. Duh.

My Edible Rewards

This was not the greatest year for edibles in my garden. First I planted peas and beans and the bunnies ate them. I put up rabbit fencing and planted again. They ate them again. Repeat process two more times. Finally, I have fairy-size plants growing with miniature peas and beans on them. It’s the weirdest thing.

The cucumbers were probably my most successful. I harvested enough for sushi a couple times and made 2 jars of pickles. It was my first time making pickles and Eliot mentioned the pickle episode from The Andy Griffith Show, where no one has the heart to tell Aunt Bea she makes lousy pickles, and even though Eliot swore he thought my pickles were good, truthfully, just like in the episode, they weren’t as good as “store-bought.” Then my cucumbers got some sort of virus where the leaves and stems turned yellow. And any remaining cucumbers were eaten by chipmunks or squirrels. Here's one pre-pickle:

The onions and spinach never came up. The rabbits ate the lettuce and beet leaves. The pepper plants never got that big, although one plant has a few fruits finally forming. The basil did well. Yay! I grew a lettuce-leaf variety which was perfect for tomato sandwiches. Unfortunately most of the sandwiches were made with bought tomatoes. So far I’ve gotten 2 ripe tomatoes (from 6 plants!) and they were good, although not as tasty as last year’s. But I have a lot of green tomatoes, so there's still hope.

Eliot is strongly suggesting sticking to flowers next year. I see his point, but what's life without homegrown tomatoes? And basil to go with them, of course. And I’d like to tweak that pickle recipe, so maybe a few cucumber plants. And dill for the pickles. I didn’t think of that this year and had to buy dill. And now that the rabbit fencing seems to be doing its job, I could probably plant a few peas, too...

Peas, 1; Bunnies, 0

I have two, count 'em, two little peas! Growing on one of the very stalks the bunnies chewed up. And my fencing seems to be holding. I have nine pea plants in various stages of growth, five bean plants, four cucumber plants, lettuce, beets, tomatoes, etc, etc. In other words, I have a garden again, ladies and gentlemen!

*%#! Bunnies

First, here's my amazing trellis that I forgot to post a picture of in my last post:

See the beautiful peas and beans making their way up the trellis? Here's a close-up from a few weeks ago:

Now, here is what's left of my peas and beans after the friggin' bunnies feasted:

I'm a peaceful vegetarian, but I found myself screaming at a baby bunny unlucky enough to be in my garden when I got there. My friend and fellow gardener counted 26 bunnies on the way to his garden the other night. Where's a coyote when you need one?

Gardening Angels

There’s so much craziness in the world. Ever since the Marathon bombing, it’s hard to feel safe anywhere anymore. I think that’s partly why I’m so into my garden this year. I feel so peaceful there. Eliot and Astrid gave me three angel statues for Mother’s Day. I had been looking for a buddha, but they’re crazy expensive. When I unwrapped the angels, my first thought was “huh,” but now I love them. I feel like they’re my guardian angels looking after my garden.

I read Mel Bartholomew’s Square Foot Gardening and decided to build some raised beds and a trellis for my garden this year. Both items required very stressful visits to Home Depot. I hate Home Depot. It’s so intimidating and it takes an act of God to get someone to help you. I researched online to figure out the wood I needed, but once there, I couldn’t find that exact size in the store. A worker was walking by, so I told him I was building raised beds and needed 2"x10"x12'. He pointed to where the lumber was. I loaded the lumber onto the special lumber cart, then went to stand in line to get it cut into specific lengths (two 4' and two 2') by the same worker guy. After, I went back to the lumber aisle to get brackets and overheard this couple who started walking down the aisle, then the woman said, “Oh, wrong aisle.” The guy asked “Why?” And she answered, “That’s treated wood. We want untreated for our garden.” Shit! I said, “Excuse me, I overheard you talking. Did I just get the wrong wood for my raised beds?” The woman said, “Well, that’s treated wood—you can see the greenish color—so the arsenic in the wood will leach into the soil and then into your vegetables.” It's green! How did I not notice that I had green wood? I said, “But I told the guy that it was for raised beds and this is what he told me to get.” She explained that a lot of people use treated wood because it lasts longer, but it’s not as good for the garden. Her husband assured me that even though they cut it, I don’t have to buy it. So I followed them to the untreated wood aisle, found the size I wanted and stood in the cutting line again. When it was my turn, I explained the situation to the guy. He said, “You should use treated wood. That’s what people use. It lasts longer.” I explained that I was in a community garden and they wanted us to use untreated wood and I didn’t understand that I had gotten the wrong thing before. He didn’t answer, but made a show of putting the old lumber in a pile and, not as carefully as before, cutting the new lumber.

When I got home I did some research online about pressure treated lumber and found that they don’t use arsenic in it anymore, but I couldn’t find out what made it look green. Also, I don’t trust “acceptable levels” of anything. I’m glad I got the untreated lumber. It makes me feel better, like eating organic strawberries. They cost a lot more, but I’d rather not think about pesticides while I’m eating.

The trellis trip wasn’t as stressful, but almost. I had to find electrical conduit, which Mel said they could cut into 4' lengths, but Home Depot didn’t. Luckily I found some 5' lengths and bought those. Then I needed connectors, which I again had found online, but in the store, there were dozens of various kinds, and I had to search, because of course there was no one to help. Then I had seen the rebar by the lumber, and nylon netting was in the garden section, so I pushed my cart with the conduit sliding out every few feet the entire length of the store. But once I got it all in my garden, it was so easy to put together (with Eliot's help!). I’m so impressed with it. The raised beds look a little like Homer Simpson put them together, but the trellis looks great.

Follow Your Bliss

So Astrid was the honorary bat girl at Fenway Park last Friday. It was Neighborhood Night and the Red Sox were looking for Fenway affiliations to honor in their pre-game ceremony. They asked the Fenway Civic Association for an 8- to 12-year-old girl and Marie—someone we know from the Victory Garden and who’s very active in the community—suggested Astrid. We weren’t given a lot of details, just that she’d be on the field at some point and we’d get free tickets. We had planned to take Astrid to a game this year anyway, since she’s never been to one, and after living in the Fenway her whole life, she should know what all the fuss is about. At first when we told Astrid, she thought she was going to be Batgirl, the comic book superhero; she was a little disappointed when we told her it was about baseball. By the time Friday came, though, she started to get excited about it. We got there and met the bat boy, a 9-year-old named Owen, who was there with a whole entourage of family members, some of whom had their own tickets, but got to tag along with us. A Red Sox ambassador gave us special wristbands and took us all down to the field, where we watched batting practice for awhile. Owen, who had a baseball, was getting autographs from some of the players. Astrid asked one of them for an autograph, too, and when he saw she didn’t have anything to write on, he held up a finger and walked away. Several minutes later, he came back with a baseball for her. I thought that was so nice! I remembered his name, Lavarnway; turns out, he was the catcher. Then after awhile, the ambassador said he was going to take Astrid and Owen to the dugout, where the real bat boy was going to show them the bats or something. They were just sitting there when the players finished their batting practice. Most of them just walked past the kids. Then there was all this commotion and David Ortiz, the only player I recognized, was walking up. People were yelling to him, and Owen’s mom kept calling, “Big Papi, can you sign an autograph for my son!” He turned around and signed Owen’s ball, jersey, and a book that his grandfather had given him, then Astrid’s ball. He stood in front of the kids, talking to a reporter. Astrid was sitting behind him, yawning. I wish I got a picture of that! Then we went on a tour of  the Hall of Fame stuff—vintage jerseys, Babe Ruth and the curse, etc. The ambassador guy paused before the 2004 jersey and asked, “And everyone remembers what happened in 2004, right?” Astrid answered, “I was born!” After the tour, we were taken to the green room to wait until it was time to go onto the field for the ceremony. Astrid and Owen were announced, Wally the Green Monster kissed Astrid’s hand and ruffled Owen’s hair, pictures were snapped and it was over. We went to our seats in the Grandstand and watched the game.  After a couple innings, we were starving and walked around until we found the “Healthy Options” booth, where they had veggie burgers and veggie franks, tucked into a corner. Astrid had been talking pretty much nonstop about getting cotton candy. She wanted blue and we could only find pink, of course, so we walked around some more until we found a booth with the desired color for sale, then made our way back to our seats. She ate a few handfuls, then gave the bag to me, saying, “I don’t like cotton candy. Can I have some popcorn?” We made it until the seventh inning, when we couldn’t handle the freezing “spring” weather anymore and it was way past her bedtime.

The next day we did some errands, one of which was trying to buy handkerchiefs. In an effort to be green and not use Kleenex, we’ve been using handkerchiefs that were Eliot’s dad’s and my dad’s. They were starting to get worn out, but we didn’t know where to find new ones. We tried Marshall’s, thinking they could be in the Men’s Accessories section, which happens to be right across from the Kid’s section. A display of Monster High flip flops caught Astrid’s eye. She tried on a couple pairs, but they didn’t seem to have her size. She was devastated, then we noticed a few errant pairs in the next aisle. In her size! She tried them on, and every fiber of her being lit up. “Mama, can I get them? Will you buy them for me and I’ll pay you back? Oh, please!” I said yes, and she went bananas. “Thank you! You’re the best! I love these!” She carried them to the counter and was so excited that the cashier let her scan the price. She took them home and we cut the tags off. She counted out the money ($7) and thanked me about a hundred times, then put them on and wore them the entire rest of the weekend. We told her she couldn’t wear them to school this morning, but she made Eliot promise he would bring them to after-school so she could wear them home. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so happy about something. It was so funny. Being on the field at a Red Sox game and getting Big Papi’s autograph—eh, no big deal. But Monster High flip flops—whoo-hoo!

Household Tip #1

When there's just a little dish soap left, put it upside down in a cup. The cup keeps the bottle balanced and allows you to use every last drop. Eliot thinks I'm brilliant!

Marathon Madness

The following is a post from guest blogger, Astrid Wilder, on the events of Marathon Monday.

Yesterday started out like any other day. But I didn’t know that it would be the worst day of my life. “Hurry up in the bathroom. You’ve been in there for at least half an hour. I want to see the marathon,” Dad called. When we were all ready, we went outside. We were just a few blocks away from where the marathon ended. “I think we should ask someone what’s going on,” I said. “It seems like something’s up.”

“You’re right,” my dad said. “What’s going on?” my dad asked some people who were standing there looking worried.

“There was an explosion,” they said.

“Let’s go home,” I said.

“Good idea,” Dad said. We ran into the Victory Gardens. “Do you know what happened?” my dad asked some other people.

“There was an explosion,” they said.

We walked down Peterborough to El Pelon. Some people were talking, “There were two bombs. If there are more, evacuate.”

We walked home and I e-mailed everyone whose e-mail I knew. I felt so happy when my friend, Mallory, said she was fine. She lives near where the bombing took place, too. My dad turned on the TV. He looked at every news channel. The roads were blocked off so my mom couldn’t get home. When my mom finally got home really late, we looked at all of our e-mails and texts. Then I called my Grandma in Chicago. She kept on saying “Thank goodness you are safe.” When we were done with everything and I was going to bed, I thought, “You’re right, Grandma. Thank goodness me and my family and friends are safe.” I smiled and fell asleep.

Today I did this drawing because the world needs to have love, happiness, and peace.  This picture is of someone who wants to stop hate. Hate is something everyone despises. Nobody likes to be bullied, right? So if you are mean to people, or even one person, remember the golden rule: treat people the way you would like to be treated. The world is full of violence. But always remember there are good people in the world, too.

The End

The Twists and Turns Your Life Will Take

My nephew is being confirmed this Sunday and Astrid had some questions about it. I said, “Well, you know what baptism is, right?” “Yes, they sprinkle holy water on the baby and the parents promise that the baby will be Catholic.” “Right, so confirmation is when the baby gets older, and he or she makes that promise for himself or herself.” “Were you confirmed?” “Yes, when I was in sixth grade, but the problem is that in sixth grade, I wasn’t old enough to really know how I felt about things, so I was confirmed, but then when I went to college and started thinking differently, I decided I didn’t want to be Catholic anymore.” Astrid agreed with that, “Yeah, in sixth grade, you don’t know the twists and turns your life will take.” Then she asked how I stopped being Catholic. “Well, I just stopped going to church.” She giggled, “that’s all there is to it? I thought there was a contract or something.” I giggled, too, and explained that although coming to a decision about your spirituality can be a complex process, the execution can be fairly straightforward. It’s much more complicated to break your lease.

Time to Myself

I was putting Astrid to bed and she wanted me to stay with her, as always. Then she said, “You can go. You have two jobs: you’re my mom and you have your work work, so you should have some time to yourself.” What the? Where did she come up with that? But of course, when I asked, “You mean it’s ok if I go out of the room?”, she smiled sheepishly and said “uh-uh.” She meant I could sit on the floor with my computer.

Speaking of time to myself, the Gardener’s Gathering was wonderful this year. When we walked up to the registration desk, the woman behind the desk said, “Astrid, would you like a name tag, too?” She was someone from the Fenway Garden Society, and we must have been introduced at some point, but it was a little strange someone knowing us that I couldn’t place. Usually it’s the other way around; I recognize people who have no idea who I am. Anyway, Astrid and Eliot went to a lecture on the history of community gardens in Boston, then went home so Astrid could have a playdate with Abby. I stayed for the whole day; for the first time, I went to three workshops: raised beds, worm composting, and companion planting.  It felt good to be in the company of gardeners, and also to be doing something for me. I’m always working or doing errands or too exhausted to do anything.

Spring has sprung!

I’m so excited about it finally being gardening season! Tomorrow is the Gardener’s Gathering at Northeastern. I’m always surprised by spring; it seems like winter is never going to end, then suddenly it’s spring and I haven’t started my seeds yet. It was especially bad this year, with all the snow we’ve gotten. This time last year, when the temperatures were in the 70s, I had planted my peas already (I’ve gotten the alliterative mneumoics down: plant peas on St. Patrick’s Day, and taxes and tomatoes). Last weekend, I finally ordered some seeds and plants and sent my garden renewal in (for my plot at Fenway Victory Gardens). I requested a second plot, but I doubt I’ll get it because those are supposed to be reserved for people who served on the board. Kristen, the current president, suggested I write on the renewal that I’ve worked on the newsletter for the past several years. We’ll see if that makes a difference. Astrid was the one who wanted a second plot. She said she wants space for her own garden, where she can dig in the dirt or just play, and she knows there’s no room in our space for that. If I don’t get a second plot, I don’t know where I’m going to put everything I bought. As always, my eyes are bigger than my garden. I spent a small fortune on beans, peas, cucumbers, basil, carrots, tomatoes, peppers, and cosmos, and a beauty berry bush (pictured above). On top of all the seeds left over from last year. And, of course, the plants already in the garden.

The Good Luck Ball

Astrid came up to me with a piece of paper and said, “Write down everything that makes you happy!” So I wrote: “Astrid, Eliot, my garden, cats, being creative...” “You should write ‘sleeping!’” she interjected. So I wrote, “...sleeping, reading...” “OK, now crumple it into a ball.” I did. “That’s your good luck ball. Whenever you’re feeling bad, just squeeze it and all the good things will travel up your arm into your heart and you’ll feel better!” “How did you think of that?” “Well, I was writing a list of things I like and I made a mistake, so I crumpled it up and threw it out. Then I thought, ‘I should do something else with it instead of throwing it out,’ so I thought of the good luck ball!”

"I’m having the time of my life here!"

Friday we woke up to a LOT of snow falling, but Boston Public Schools, for some inexplicable reason, did not call  a snow day, so Eliot and I did. Astrid’s had a cold all week and the thought of her going out in that mess just didn’t make sense. She was supposed to have her Poetry Cafe that afternoon, but we figured her teacher would probably postpone it, which she did. I was all set to go in to work, but Eliot talked me out of it. Astrid stayed in her jammies all day. I worked from home at the table; in the afternoon Eliot and Astrid sat on the couch while he read a few chapters of Little House in the Big Woods. So we had a cozy day together while the snow swirled outside.

On Saturday, which was clear and sunny, in a seemingly knee-jerk reaction to the previous day’s decision, Astrid’s school cancelled MCAS Bootcamp, so we went out to breakfast at the Watertown Diner instead. The snow was piled up on the sidewalk, so I let Eliot out of the car before parking. Astrid, of course, wanted to get out on the side of the car that was up against the snow and fussed about getting out on my side. She and Eliot started walking up the street to the diner and I kept pushing the lock button on my car key and nothing was happening. I went in the car and manually locked all the doors except the driver’s door wouldn’t lock. I couldn’t believe my 2-week-old car was malfunctioning. I called Eliot and Astrid back and told them what was happening. We decided to go straight to the dealer and figure this out, so we all got back in the car and I started driving. Astrid said, “what’s that light for?” The “door open” light was on. Apparently when she was fussing earlier, Astrid had opened the door to get out on the other side where the snow was and my car couldn’t lock the doors with a door open. I was so relieved that 1) my new car wasn’t broken and 2) we didn’t drive all the way to the dealer to be told our door was open. Duh!

After breakfast we dropped Eliot off at home and then Astrid and I went to Michaels where we spent more than two hours picking out beads (spoiler alert! ) to make a necklace for my niece’s birthday. At one point Eliot called to find out where we were and I had to say “Uh, we’re still at Michaels.” Then we came home and went back out again so Astrid could go sledding. The snow was melting rapidly, but we found one section where there was enough snow and a bit of a hill. Eliot was getting cold and I had to go to the bathroom, so I told her “Two more times, then we’re going.” She said, “Really? I’m having the time of my life here, you know!” Good Lord! How could we make her leave after that? My sweetie pie.