Today is Harrison's last day of school. I've been driving him and/or Sam to school every day since September, 1991. Almost 19 years. This summer, he will get his driver's license which means that the next time he goes to school, he will drive himself there.
Looking back over the years, the mornings were beyond hectic with me waking kids up, getting them dressed, getting them fed and off to school. We would sing songs on the way in. Bye, Bye Miss American Pie was a favorite. The trick was not just to know all the words but to get the timing right. The song requires patience. Once, "Jeremiah Was a Bullfrog" came on the radio. Sam had a classmate named Remy, short for Jeremiah. He thought that was a hoot. I bought the song on CD so we could sing that everyday.
When Sam was in 7th grade, I had to take him to the center of town, wait for the bus to take him to his new school, and then drive back to our house to pick up Harrison to get him to another part of town and then get me into work by 8:30. My co-workers would be sitting at their desks, eating bagels and drinking coffee while reading the Wall Street Journal. I would blow in looking like Diary of a Mad Housewife.
When Harrison was just 5 months old, I had a trip to Europe...London, Madrid and Paris. Sam understood a little bit (I'm going to London to see the Queen is what I told him). When I picked Harrison up at my mother's, he clutched the fabric of my blouse and wouldn't let go of me for two days.
It all went by so fast. Like a blur.
I'm glad I'm getting healthier and slowing down the pace of my life. I'd like to savor whatever time I have left.
Friday, June 4, 2010
why I didn't walk today (lyn)
As if I've been walking all the days before.....
But yes, I did expect to walk this morning. Early, before the temperature climbs to 90 or so. Karen and I have a plan to meet at 6:45. That means getting up at 6:30, by far the hardest part. My alarm goes off. I turn it off. Get up. Throw on my shorts and T and running shoes. Go into the bathroom. Blindly brush my teeth and wash my face. Look up to throw on some lipstick, and there it is. A big sign posted to the bathroom mirror. At first I fear it is a note telling me that the toilet has clogged again. But no, this note is different. A first of its kind. It is a plea from Alexander, imploring me NOT walk to insure that I will wake him so he'll get to school on time for his last final.
In case you can't read it, the note says:
Please DON'T go. I went to bed at 5 and I need to get to school by 8:30 to study. Probably won't wake up alone.
Even this I'll miss when he leaves for college, oh so soon.
But yes, I did expect to walk this morning. Early, before the temperature climbs to 90 or so. Karen and I have a plan to meet at 6:45. That means getting up at 6:30, by far the hardest part. My alarm goes off. I turn it off. Get up. Throw on my shorts and T and running shoes. Go into the bathroom. Blindly brush my teeth and wash my face. Look up to throw on some lipstick, and there it is. A big sign posted to the bathroom mirror. At first I fear it is a note telling me that the toilet has clogged again. But no, this note is different. A first of its kind. It is a plea from Alexander, imploring me NOT walk to insure that I will wake him so he'll get to school on time for his last final.
In case you can't read it, the note says:
Please DON'T go. I went to bed at 5 and I need to get to school by 8:30 to study. Probably won't wake up alone.
Even this I'll miss when he leaves for college, oh so soon.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
dressing thin (lyn)
Robyn, my fashion muse, stops by after work to pick up a video. She works in sales for a lingerie company, and comes dressed, as usual, in an edgy outfit --- jean jeggings, 4-inch heels (the only person I know who can walk in them), a black satiny wrap and a lacy silk camisole. She’d turn heads, and does. Robyn meets men everywhere. In fact, she’s having drinks this week with a man she met while riding her bike. I would imagine that’s pretty hard to do.
I am going to theater tonight with a more conservative friend, and I’m dressed in a biggish grey crinkle skirt with a white top and my favorite cotton black sweater, that lands somewhere near my hips. Robyn never criticizes, but when asked, she’ll always give a candid and reliable opinion. So I ask her about my outfit. “Fine, if you are aiming for Cape Cod casual, but definitely not New York hip.” I immediately change into a tight fitting white scoop top and throw a small pink cashmere sweater over my shoulders. “Much better, “ I’m told.
I meet my friend and we see That Face, written by a 19 year old British playwright who won all sorts of awards for it in London. It begins with two boarding school girls torturing a 13 year old classmate, then shifts to her 18 year old brother who is cuddling with his mother in bed, and ends 90 minutes later with that same troubled boy, now dressed in drag, feverishly clinging to his very sick mother as she is being lead away to an institution. Not exactly an upbeat play.
While I’m watching this gut-wrenching piece of theater, my mind wanders and I think about my choice of clothes. Robyn is right. I still cover up my body rather than showcase it. I’m still not accustomed to being thin. But then I remember my mother telling me this a few years ago, even before I had gained a lot of weight. “Show off your body. You dress to over it up.” I remember that prompted a major donation to Salvation Army. I think it’s time again to say good-bye to my comfort clothes.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
my mother finds out I hired a personal trainer (m)
Without naming names, someone in my family let slip to my mother that I hired a personal trainer. I got the "Let's hope it works THIS time" look from her.
It's not that my mother is unsupportive. In fact, she would like nothing more than to see me thin. Even this weekend, when I was modeling the white suit, she paid me a compliment. "You are doing GREAT. Keep it up." This is the highest praise I could hope to receive.
The issue is that my mother has suffered through all my attempts to slenderize and feminize. The efforts are many and go as far back as I do.
Here's a recap.
After two difficult pregnancies and more difficult deliveries, my mother had two sons. Her doctor advised her not to try for a third child. She really wanted a girl (a genuine bows and dresses girl) and so she tried one last time. To ensure success, she made a pact with the Virgin Mary that she would name the child after her AND her mother if she had a girl. It happened and the names were given to me. I was horrified when I found out.
At an early age, I was a tomboy. I would revel in the mud, play kick the can in the streets with my brothers, and loved climbing fences to cut lilacs from the neighbors' trees. I was so wild on my rocking horse that I broke the springs. Even at 9 months, they put me in my playpen with the bottom on the top to create a "ceiling" so I wouldn't climb out.
My mother tried a number of organizations to develop me into a lady. Some of the highlights include:
* Ballet--I got kicked out for being disrespectful because I said it was boring. The instructor told me that I "wasn't going to make it" (as what? star of the Nutcracker?)
* Jazz-taught by the gum-snapping Marino sisters. I left because I was embarrassed with the jazz movements. I felt ridiculous.
* Swimming--stopped at the third lesson when you had to put your head under water. I am claustrophobic. I didn't have the heart to tell my mother I quit yet another thing so I went to the pool, dipped my suit in the water, wrung it out and read Catcher in the Rye until the lessons were over.
*Singer Sewing- Malden Center. The class was for 9-12 year olds. I was 12 and looked 16. The rest were cute 10 year-old girls. Every time I raised my hand for help, the instructor would roll her eyes and say "I'll be with you in a minute." She never came. I kept cutting the mistakes out of the fabric until I ended up with something that wouldn't fit a Barbie. We had to model what we made and I spent the night before the last class at my Italian cousin's house (she was right off the boat and a seamstress) until she made a replica "with mistake-os".
* Jordan Marsh Charm School-went with my friends Michele and Susan. It was only a few hours so they couldn't kick me out. I remember going before the head woman who had to assess our "runway" walk. She looked at me and grunted. I had on a Fisherman knit dress which showed every bulge. What I did get from this was "up-back-down". That's how you square off your shoulders (all the way up, then all the way back, then all the way down...try it).
* Drill Team-apparently I wasn't "hot" enough to be a majorette. They made me clean the bus. I did it once and quit.
* Girl Scouts-seriously, how was I supposed to lose weight when the focus was on selling cookies? I think I ate more than I sold.
* Tap Dancing-we have a winner! Armed with a coupon from the town newspaper, I went to tap class in the basement of the Baptist Church. The instructor, Ms. J, and all the other students were African -American. It was the late 1960s. I loved my teacher and my classmates. I lasted the entire semester and my legs were buffed. My recital was "Steppin' Out with My Baby". I told my parents the night before the recital that I was "different" than everyone in my class. Their mouths were open the whole recital.
So, as you can see, my track record is spotty at best. However, I've matured and my trainer seems to have a great sense of humor.
She has to.
It's not that my mother is unsupportive. In fact, she would like nothing more than to see me thin. Even this weekend, when I was modeling the white suit, she paid me a compliment. "You are doing GREAT. Keep it up." This is the highest praise I could hope to receive.
The issue is that my mother has suffered through all my attempts to slenderize and feminize. The efforts are many and go as far back as I do.
Here's a recap.
After two difficult pregnancies and more difficult deliveries, my mother had two sons. Her doctor advised her not to try for a third child. She really wanted a girl (a genuine bows and dresses girl) and so she tried one last time. To ensure success, she made a pact with the Virgin Mary that she would name the child after her AND her mother if she had a girl. It happened and the names were given to me. I was horrified when I found out.
At an early age, I was a tomboy. I would revel in the mud, play kick the can in the streets with my brothers, and loved climbing fences to cut lilacs from the neighbors' trees. I was so wild on my rocking horse that I broke the springs. Even at 9 months, they put me in my playpen with the bottom on the top to create a "ceiling" so I wouldn't climb out.
My mother tried a number of organizations to develop me into a lady. Some of the highlights include:
* Ballet--I got kicked out for being disrespectful because I said it was boring. The instructor told me that I "wasn't going to make it" (as what? star of the Nutcracker?)
* Jazz-taught by the gum-snapping Marino sisters. I left because I was embarrassed with the jazz movements. I felt ridiculous.
* Swimming--stopped at the third lesson when you had to put your head under water. I am claustrophobic. I didn't have the heart to tell my mother I quit yet another thing so I went to the pool, dipped my suit in the water, wrung it out and read Catcher in the Rye until the lessons were over.
*Singer Sewing- Malden Center. The class was for 9-12 year olds. I was 12 and looked 16. The rest were cute 10 year-old girls. Every time I raised my hand for help, the instructor would roll her eyes and say "I'll be with you in a minute." She never came. I kept cutting the mistakes out of the fabric until I ended up with something that wouldn't fit a Barbie. We had to model what we made and I spent the night before the last class at my Italian cousin's house (she was right off the boat and a seamstress) until she made a replica "with mistake-os".
* Jordan Marsh Charm School-went with my friends Michele and Susan. It was only a few hours so they couldn't kick me out. I remember going before the head woman who had to assess our "runway" walk. She looked at me and grunted. I had on a Fisherman knit dress which showed every bulge. What I did get from this was "up-back-down". That's how you square off your shoulders (all the way up, then all the way back, then all the way down...try it).
* Drill Team-apparently I wasn't "hot" enough to be a majorette. They made me clean the bus. I did it once and quit.
* Girl Scouts-seriously, how was I supposed to lose weight when the focus was on selling cookies? I think I ate more than I sold.
* Tap Dancing-we have a winner! Armed with a coupon from the town newspaper, I went to tap class in the basement of the Baptist Church. The instructor, Ms. J, and all the other students were African -American. It was the late 1960s. I loved my teacher and my classmates. I lasted the entire semester and my legs were buffed. My recital was "Steppin' Out with My Baby". I told my parents the night before the recital that I was "different" than everyone in my class. Their mouths were open the whole recital.
So, as you can see, my track record is spotty at best. However, I've matured and my trainer seems to have a great sense of humor.
She has to.
not bad considering (lyn)
Two big meals this week. French on Saturday night. Italian last night. Use up all my points this week and then some. No exercise. Even consider skipping weigh-in this morning, but decide not to. Only up .4 pounds, to 120.6. Now I’m thinking, oh-oh, it’ll catch up with me next week. Hope not.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
dining out with family (lyn)
Early this morning I walk with a friend who tells me a story about her first cousins. It’s a short story about a family of six. Four kids, one of whom dies at age 14. The family never recovers. It’s now 35 years later and the kids are separated from each other (both geographically and emotionally), the parents broke up years ago, and the mother has no relationship with one of her daughters. It makes me sad to think of a family having so many problems, and fortunate that mine, despite our minor squabbles, is very close. I am very lucky.
Tonight I have dinner at a great Italian restaurant (Primola, an old favorite of Bernie Madoff, I’m told) with my sister Jean who is in from Boston, my sister Valerie and her husband Abbey, their three sons: Adam (29), Jason (almost 28) and Michael (almost 24) -who is in from LA, and Jason’s girlfriend. Unfortunately, Alexander can’t join us as he is home still working on a 7-page English paper on Cuba (why not Wuthering Heights? I know. I don’t understand it either).
Getting together with my family is always fun. I wear slimming black pants, a white tank, and a lightweight black cotton sweater with angular lines. Jean hasn’t’ seen me since Thanksgiving, or more specifically, since 20 pounds ago. She acknowledges that I “look great.” At 120 pounds, I still weigh more than she does, and, she's about a half inch taller.
The food is amazing, and although I eat more carrots than bread sticks (to begin with), I wouldn’t exactly characterize my dinner as low in points. There’s the Cosmopolitan drink. The olives and aged parmigiano cheese. The tuna tartare appetizer. The incredible veal scallopini with tomatoes and mushrooms. A skim milk cappuccino. About 1/3 of a flourless chocolate cake with cinnamon ice cream. Oh, and a few little butter cookies. Scrumptious. I don’t even bother to track the points, as I know it’s a lot, and tomorrow starts a new week. I’m trying to be less compulsive---observant, but not obsessive.
The food is amazing, and although I eat more carrots than bread sticks (to begin with), I wouldn’t exactly characterize my dinner as low in points. There’s the Cosmopolitan drink. The olives and aged parmigiano cheese. The tuna tartare appetizer. The incredible veal scallopini with tomatoes and mushrooms. A skim milk cappuccino. About 1/3 of a flourless chocolate cake with cinnamon ice cream. Oh, and a few little butter cookies. Scrumptious. I don’t even bother to track the points, as I know it’s a lot, and tomorrow starts a new week. I’m trying to be less compulsive---observant, but not obsessive.
Really, I always enjoy dinner with my family. Never a break in conversation. Much laughter. And the boys (as we call them) always keep us entertained. Each one of them is handsome, funny, smart, athletic, and genuinely nice. Each is always interested in what anyone has to say. Each brings their own sparkle into every room they enter. I am head over heels in love with these three boys. Always have been.
Get home around 10:30 and poor Alexander is still working on his Cuba-paper. I wish he could have been with us all tonight, but only four more days and his summer will begin.
re-connecting with an old friend (m)
I knew this would happen.
Remember the night I was waiting for Sam to come home from Gettysburg? I tried to keep myself amused without food and trolled Facebook for a couple of hours. In the course of doing that, I reached out to an old friend.
The next day, I got an email from her. She was quite excited to hear from me, gave me her phone number and asked me to call her. I waited until today to do so.
Margo and I went to Wharton together. She is from Long Island and a self-proclaimed "Daddy's girl." Daddy was a big shot executive and pampered her with diamond studs and fancy trips. I lived vicariously through her.
One day, Margo and I were sitting on the steps of Vance Hall, watching the passersby. She decided it was time to give this "shiksa" a lesson in nose jobs. We spent the better part of the afternoon trying to spot who had a nose job and, of those, who had a Dr. Diamond nose job. I have never seen the world the same way.
About 2 hours into my tutorial, I turned to Margo and asked her what her nose looked like before she got it fixed. She looked at me for a bit and said, "Kinda like yours."
She wants to get together soon and says she'll drive up to Boston. I am about 60 pounds heavier than I was the last time I saw her.
As much as I'd like to see her, I'm dreading this.
Facebook. I'd like to get my hands on that guy who invented it.
Remember the night I was waiting for Sam to come home from Gettysburg? I tried to keep myself amused without food and trolled Facebook for a couple of hours. In the course of doing that, I reached out to an old friend.
The next day, I got an email from her. She was quite excited to hear from me, gave me her phone number and asked me to call her. I waited until today to do so.
Margo and I went to Wharton together. She is from Long Island and a self-proclaimed "Daddy's girl." Daddy was a big shot executive and pampered her with diamond studs and fancy trips. I lived vicariously through her.
One day, Margo and I were sitting on the steps of Vance Hall, watching the passersby. She decided it was time to give this "shiksa" a lesson in nose jobs. We spent the better part of the afternoon trying to spot who had a nose job and, of those, who had a Dr. Diamond nose job. I have never seen the world the same way.
About 2 hours into my tutorial, I turned to Margo and asked her what her nose looked like before she got it fixed. She looked at me for a bit and said, "Kinda like yours."
She wants to get together soon and says she'll drive up to Boston. I am about 60 pounds heavier than I was the last time I saw her.
As much as I'd like to see her, I'm dreading this.
Facebook. I'd like to get my hands on that guy who invented it.
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