Confessions of a Serial Swooper

We were outside Jose McIntyre’s, a downtown bar that specialized in Guinness, vinegar-soaked fries and a sea of twenty-somethings reenacting nights formerly spent in fraternity bar rooms.  We worked together.  We’d been flirting for weeks.  We’d danced that night (which makes it miraculous that he actually still liked me).  I’d decided it was time for me to make the short walk home to my apartment in the North End.  He offered to walk me home but I declined.  Instead, he simply walked me out.  And around the corner.  And then he kissed me.

I’ll never forget it.  The man could kiss.

Weak in the knees, I nearly invited him home.  But, I didn’t.

Two years later we got married.

_____

I don’t know what made me think of that night recently but, when I did, I was struck by how momentous that kiss actually was.   Because you certainly never think about it when you’re 28 years old, living a young professional life, going out to bars and feeling like the world is absolutely positively YOUR oyster.   You never think about the fact that, one day, along he’ll  come.  He’ll come and he’ll think you’re cute and you’ll like his smile.  And, you’ll flirt and email and laugh.  And then, one night, he’ll kiss you.

And, you’ll love it.

But.

That night?  That night outside Jose McIntyre’s?  It’s big.

Because that innocent kiss (that awesome kiss) between two young people fumbling their way around their new grown-up lives?  That kiss is the one after which each could say,

“I will never kiss anyone else again.”

And, it’s funny to me that while you’re smitten and happy and feeling love-ish, it’s highly unlikely that at the time of your very first kiss you imagine you’d actually be marrying that person.

But, you will.

Don’t get me wrong.   I don’t ever want to kiss anyone else.

God forbid something horrible happens someday and I’m forced into the hideous position of having to go through all that first dating, first kissing, first s-e-x crap again.  ‘Cause however exciting and fun it all is at 28, it sounds absolutely HELLISH at 40.

Either way, I love remembering that night outside Jose McIntyre’s.

I love remembering that night as our first kiss.   His smile. My weak knees.

And, while I had no idea then, I couldn’t be happier to know now that his kiss will be also my last kiss.

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On the surface, I think I might appear to be a Mom that has her sh*t together.  And, by that, I don’t mean in a “how does she look so pulled together” kind of way cause that is certainly not a sentence that crosses people’s minds as I arrive at school drop-off wearing yesterdays jeans, a fleece jacket and dark circles under my eyes.  I have no holy idea how to wear make-up and I probably will never learn.

But, physical looks aside, I think people would think me an organized person.   My career pre-Mommyhood was with a major financial institution where I was an event planner.  If something was worth writing down, it was done so in color-coordinated ink, three hole punched and snapped into a binder.   I’m a Room Parent to Big Brother’s kindergarten and I read once a month to Little Brother’s pre-school class.  I’m on the Executive Board of the PTO and, if my iPhone was a man, Husband would accuse me of adultery.  And, he’d be right.   I love my Day Planner so much that I actually have the times that Big Brother is in school written in on every day.  As though I might wake up on a random Wednesday morning, wonder what we were going to do that day, look at my planner and say “Oh, look!  BB has school today!  Good thing I checked our schedule!”   That’s the kind of freaky planner I am.

Lately, though I’ve been really off my organizational game.

I could blame the holidays.  I could blame my advancing age (40 this year…ugh).  I could blame the fact that I probably over-schedule my kids.

But, I don’t blame any of those things.

I blame the lunch ladies.

Really.   I do.  They’ve been messing with me.  Big time.

_____

The week before Thanksgiving, I mentioned to Husband that Big Brother had a half day on Wednesday.  Husband stated that he thought that was a little odd since wouldn’t they probably have a half day next Wednesday (the day before Thanksgiving) instead of this Wednesday?  Was it possible I was mistaken?  Oh no, I said.  It’s in my calendar.  And, if it’s in my calendar then you can bet it’s true.

So, along rolls Wednesday and I arrive at Big Brother’s school a little before noon.  I’m chronically early so it didn’t really surprise me that I was the only one.

You know where this is going, don’t you?

12:00.  12:05.  12:10.

No sign of any other parents, let alone kids.   I called the school from the parking lot.

“Isn’t it a half day today?”

“No, no.  Next Wednesday.”

What happened?  How had my planner failed me?

I assumed I was at fault until a friend mentioned to me that I was the second person she’d heard had done that.  I got to the bottom of it when I looked at the silly school lunch calendar.  The school lunch calendar that I compulsively print out at about 12:01am on the first day of the month.  I pin it to our cork board, write all the early release dates in my book and that’s that.

It’s hard to read but here you go.

So, I’m not insane.

They probably noticed the mistake on their calendar almost right away and corrected it online.  But “almost right away” is too late when you’re dealing with compulsive, crazies like myself.

_____

Take Two.

As I mentioned casually in an early post, Little Brother and I got whacked by a stomach bug the week before Christmas.  It was hideous and it literally overtook our little town.  Facebook was loaded with Moms completely stressed about the idea of sick kids at Christmas.  Awful.

Anyway, Little Brother got the bug on the Saturday night before Christmas.  He was mostly better by Sunday night.  Predictably, it hit me (hard) overnight on Sunday.  I was up all night and still miserable Monday morning.  Husband went into work a little late and took Big Brother to school so I could stay in my pajamas and lay low.  Little Brother and I faced a looooong day of lying around watching seemingly endless episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba and Toy Story 2 on the DVR.  Which was just fine with me.

By 11, I wasn’t feeling much better so I emailed Husband, preparing him for the 2:30 pickup at Big Brother’s school.

I’m not usually all that dramatic about my own sickness (although I’m extremely dramatic when my kids are sick) but this was an exception.  I was miserable.

“I just can’t imagine I’ll be able to get out of the house.”  I typed.  “I’m still feeling sick.  It’s horrible.”

“I’m on it,”  he kindly replied.  “Keep me posted.”

A little before noon, I finally got Little Brother down for a nap.  I pulled all the shades in our bedroom, cranked up the heat and crawled under the covers.  Ahhhhh.

By 12:10, my eyes were falling and…

Ring!  Ring!  Ring!

My caller ID told me it was Big Brother’s school.  Sh*t.

His teacher on the phone.

“Oh, no.”  I answered.  “Is Big Brother sick, too?”

“No, don’t worry” she said.  “He’s fine…but, today we had a noon dismissal.”

So…if I offended anyone with my noxious breath, my pajama bottoms or the fact that I practically drove my car directly into the front door of the school on Monday, December 20th?  If anyone thought less of me as they watched Big Brother looking sad and lonely as he waited for his delinquent Mom to come pick him up?

Don’t blame me.

Blame the lunch ladies and their clearly-not-to-be-trusted online calendar.

They’re totally out to get me.

_____

Oh, and yes.  I’ve stopped planning schedules based on the lunch calendar.

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Lately, I don’t often blog twice a week let alone twice in a day but I just had an experience with Little Brother that needed to be written down.  So, here you go.

As I’ve mentioned before (ad nauseam), we live in a small town.  Well, technically it’s not that small as far as number of people (roughly 20,000) but it’s definitely very small as far as square mileage (it’s 19 sq miles, 15 sq miles of which is water).  So, there about 5,000 of us per square mile.   Packed.  Like lemmings.

Lucky seaside lemmings, but lemmings nonetheless.

Anyway.  Husband and I, although we’ve lived other places and returned, have called this town home for somewhere between six and seven years.  We’re newbies.  It’s a town where people grow up, raise a family, send their kids to college and then roughly four to ten years later, the kids return.  To raise their own families.  It’s that kind of place.

Having grown up in a town where everyone literally knew everyone else, I like that small town feeling.  I like that I recognize people at the bank.  At the post office.  At soccer games.

At the grocery store.

See, there’s this grocery store.  And, I almost hesitate to call it a grocery store because it’s very small.  It’s not a chain.  It has four rows and is owned by a very nice older couple who make it a point to know their customers by name.  Our house is less than 1/2 mile from said store and I’m pretty sure that our home’s location near the Community Store had more to do with our purchase decision than its proximity to the giant playground on the other side of our back fence.  “Forget the kids, honey, we’ve got steak tips and Smirnoff just down the street.”

It’s the kind of store where the guy who stocks the shelves greets my boys with big smiles and asks Big Brother how kindergarten is going.  It’s the kind of store where, if you forget your wallet, they’ll let you leave your phone number, take the groceries and come back “when you can.”

It’s the kind of store where, when the owner’s having a cigarette outside, you stop and chat.  Even though you detest cigarette smoke.  And you wonder what Little Brother is thinking as the older man puffs away, asking about the Luke Skywalker toy clutched in a tiny hand.

We chat.  We laugh.  We enter the store.

We have five items to get.  It’s a quiet time at the store.  Ten or so customers mill around the small aisles.

Salad.

Pancake Mix.

Rice.

And, there’s the owner again.  He’s dusting shelves.  Little Brother approaches him to, again, proudly show his toy.

The kind owner shows Little Brother his feather duster.

“Did you lose something, little guy?  Because I think I found your tail!”

“No.”  Little Brother laughs.  “That’s not my tail!”

“Are you sure?  Are you sure you’ve still got your tail? I think this might be your tail.”

Laughing a little louder now.  “No, no!  I don’t have a tail!”

Nearby shoppers giggle over aisles.

“You don’t?!  No tail?!”

Little Brother is hysterical.  Laughing very hard.   Must.  Make.  Him.  Understand.

Loudly.

“NO!”  Belly laughing, yet perfectly well-spoken.  “I DON’T HAVE A TAIL!  I HAVE A PENIS!”

_____

And that, my friends, will be the last time I tell a story about the Community Store for quite some time.

Good lord.

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…will absolutely not, under any circumstances, watch where I am going.  I will, instead, walk backwards, walk in zig-zagged lines and look down no matter what direction I am ultimately headed.  And, I will choose to do so at the least opportune times including but not limited to grocery stores, busy sidewalks and rooms littered with toys.

…will fall down.  Often.  (See item one.)

…know a lot more than you do.  About everything.  Because, while you are thirty-three years older than I, it’s clear that you are actually TOO OLD to understand anything.  You just don’t know.  Face it.  I do know.  I know I need to keep track of my mittens (they jump out of my backpack.  Every day.)  I know I need to hang up my coat (there’s some crazy gravity in our house that sucks it to the floor.  Every day.) and I know I need to be nice to my little brother (But, I didn’t do it.  Ever.)  So, stop reminding me.  It’s annoying.

…have very little to say to you.   Yes, I know I just spent 7 hours at school but I don’t remember anything about what I did there.   Yes, I had art but I didn’t make anything.  I had gym but I didn’t play anything.  And, I had lunch that you packed me but I don’t remember if I liked it or not.  Maybe, I just don’t want to discuss it.  Either way, I’ll definitely want to tell you all about it right when you turn the light out at my bedtime.  How’s that work for you?

…will use the following words as often as possible:  fart, pee, poop, kill, stinky, shoot, toilet and butt.  I will especially enjoy saying them at the dinner table.  When you tell me to stop being such a potty mouth, I will laugh hysterically because you just said “potty”.

…and speaking of the potty.  I will, while relieving myself, be sure to look in every direction but down at my you-know-what.  It’s just more fun looking up or looking sideways, preferably while reaching for something on the counter or playing with the window shade.  I will also forget to raise the toilet seat more often than not.  It’s more of a challenge that way.  You’re welcome.

…load my pockets with as much stuff as I can gather as often as possible.  Items including but not limited to rocks, shells, small toys, tissues, pennies and other small items.  I will also be sure to put my clothes immediately in my laundry basket when I undress without emptying the pockets.  Because you told me to put my clothes in the laundry hamper.  You’re welcome.  Again.

…know that it will baffle you when my teachers report that I am a very well-behaved, respectful boy with excellent listening skills.  I will make you wonder if they are, in fact, confusing me with another child in class.

And, I will laugh inside because I  know, dear Mommy, that I’ve got you right where I want you.

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It’s official.

Christmas is over.

The tree is on the curb, the decorations boxed up in the storage room.

Big Brother’s back at school and Little Brother’s back to hanging with Mom, waiting patiently as I peck away at the computer before we head to the YMCA for a little post-holiday exercise.

And, while I’m admittedly relieved to be back to the routine, there’s a lot I loved about these last few weeks.  There’s a lot to be thankful for.

We managed to cast a hideous stomach bug out of the house just in time for the arrival of Grammie and Uncle Mickey, who joined us for my successful attempt at a 1st Annual Christmas Eve Fondue Feast.

And then there was a special note for a special man.   Complete with the requisite, homemade, Santa-monogrammed cookies.

Christmas morning was particularly sweet for us this year with kids ages 6 and 3.  They feel the thrill of it all so deeply.   There were, probably, too many gifts under the tree but it was so hard to resist each item…knowing the delight each would bring on such a magical morning.

For example, a certain little boy who loves Buzz Lightyear was delighted with his own set of wings.

(Well done, Uncle Mickey.)

And a slightly bigger boy who still dearly loves his stuffed “Bunny”…

…received a hand-painted version to hang on his wall.

(I mean, come on.  How beautifully done is that?  I cried the day it arrived in the mail.  Thank you so much to Jennifer Maher who is all kinds of awesome and will do something this special for your munchkin too.  Find her by clicking here.)

Oh, and it snowed.  But unless you lived in a box for the last few weeks, you’ve heard about it.  It snowed.  In December.  In New England.  Shocking.

But, it was pretty cool for the kiddos.

Oh.  And dogs.

We headed up to Vermont for a few days after Christmas to visit my parents.  And, I don’t know what it was (maybe the holiday, maybe the fresh air, maybe we’ve all been growing up a bit) but it was as fully functional happy family time as we’ve spent in a long time.  Don’t get me wrong.  It’s always nice to visit.  But this trip?  Just somehow…nicer.

Husband and my Dad took the boys skating at the local hockey rink…

…which resulted in some exercise, some male bonding and, of course, some well-earned hot chocolate.

Isn’t it really all about the hot chocolate?

We all genuinely enjoyed our time together and it felt like we left at least a few days too soon.

__________

So, here we are.  Back home from travels, back to school and 2011 has officially arrived.

The Pats are in the playoffs and all is right with the world.   Well, except for this stupid hair…

But, I “forgive you your tresses”, Tommy dear.

‘Cause if you make it to the Superbowl a little more  than a month from today?

I’ll be watching you from here.

Happy New Year, friends.

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Remember the Warners?

You probably don’t unless you read this (click for a blog I did roughly a year ago).

In short, we received a Christmas card last year from a sweet looking family.  A beautiful card.  A happy little boy.  Some heartfelt Christmas wishes sent from our “friends”.   The Warners.

Problem was, we had no holy idea who they were.

We struggled over it.  Wracked our collective brains.  Emptied the coffers of memory lane and came up with…nuthin’.

I felt badly that I hadn’t sent them a card.  Because clearly (considering the hand-written address on front — an address found for us despite the fact that we’ve moved a bajillion times in the last four years), clearly they were someone we knew.

I was sure Husband was forgetting someone.  He, I’m sure, thought the same of me.

So, I dutifully hung the Warners card with our others.  And did a blog, hoping maybe one of you might recognize them.  You didn’t.

The Warners.  Circa 2009.

You know where this is headed, right?

Guess who remembered us this year.

The Warners.  Circa 2010.

Can you believe it?  It appears our dear friends Kim and Brian made Bryson a big brother this year!  Congratulations Kim and Brian!

A new baby and still Kim makes time to send the annual Christmas card to her dear friends Chez Swooper.

Seriously.

WTF?

Who are these people?

Husband and I can hardly stand it.  He was convinced, again, that it was someone I know…

You’re the one, they know.  What with your 453 close, personal Facebook friends…

I’ll give him that I have a lot of “friends” via Facebook but I’m also damn sure that if any single one of them sent me a Christmas card I would certainly know who they were.  Especially when they give a last name (2009) and then all the first names in 2010.  No doubt.

I.  don’t.  know.  them.

I worked on convincing Husband it was a vendor of his from work.  Some random guy scoring some points when he asked his poor wife, Kim, to throw our name on a list once Husband took this new job and we moved back to the Boston area.

No dice.  Husband’s sure.

So, we resorted to the source of all mystery solving.

We Googled them.

B-r-i-a-n    W-a-r-n-e-r.

Ummm.

No.  Probably not that Brian Warner.

Anyway, here we are.  Again.  Remembered by this nice family from mail-routing-location BOSTON.  This nice family who took the time (again) to send us a card despite the clearly busy lives they must have, what with new baby Chase and keeping up with toddler Bryson and all.

I think I love you, Warners.   You are kind and giving and I appreciate that you cared about us.

I hope you send me a card next year even thought I suck and have never, ever sent you one in return.

But, I guess you never ask for that, do you?

Because you, my Warner family mystery friends?

You know the true meaning of Christmas.

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The emotions of the holidays have grabbed ahold of me.  And, tightly.

This time of year, I find myself casting a loving gaze on my children and lingering with it just a little longer than usual.  Pulling away as my eyes well up with grateful tears.

This season, I reach over to hold my husband’s hand across the gear shift of our car and the feel of his now 8-year old wedding band in my fingers makes me smile happily to myself.

Today, I breathe in deeply the scent of a crackling fire in our fireplace and feel so thankful — safe and content in my warm, comfortable home.   In the seaside town I love so much.

Tonight, I can barely hold back happy sobs at the touch of Little Brother’s tiny hand on my face.  Or, Big Brother’s homemade card hidden under my pillow.

It’s a beautiful time of year to take stock in all that we have.  All the love and sweetness that surrounds us every day.

My home.

My husband.

My children.

I see it all so much more clearly this time of year.

And, consequently, I’m finding my emotions are so close to surface.   All the time.

Maybe just a little too close?

Sometimes.

‘Cause, seriously, this ridiculous ad makes me bawl.   Like, every single time.

And, it airs about nine thousand times a day.

I mean, come on.

Collect yourself, woman.

Really.

_____

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I know, I know.  Haven’t been doing much in the blog lately.  If any of you actually missed me, my apologies.  But, the thing is I love love love this time of year and have really been working on making this season as special as possible for my boys.  At three and at six, they are in their prime when it comes to feeling the magic of Christmas.  They are full up to their little wide eyes with wonder and excitement.   And despite the fact that Big Brother quoted “The magic of Macy’s” the other day and this guy still showed up…

…Husband and I are working on making this year a little less commercial and a little more traditional.

My first big accomplishment was that I managed to put together a Gingerbread House (albeit a small one) and with Christmas music playing in the background, let the boys decorate it.   The second big accomplishment was the fact that I didn’t totally ruin their experience by micro-managing how neatly they did (or didn’t) apply all the candy.

And, then, yesterday we did the best, most traditional thing of all.  For the first time, we drove almost an hour out to a tree farm in Littleton, searched and searched and (yay!) cut down our very own Christmas Tree.  Despite the fact that there wasn’t any snow on the ground (which, admittedly, took away from the whole winter scene experience an eensy bit), it was a really wonderful trip for all of us.  And the kids got to see the tree go from this…

To this…

Ah, the magic of Christmas.

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‘Cause really what’s better than buttered toast and Peanuts?

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On my wedding day in 2002, standing in front of 172 of our closest friends and family, my father made a toast.  Never much of a sentimentalist, my Dad welcomed Husband to the family and then gave him a live quiz on our family’s completely made up vernacular (See post here for reference.  “Swooper” is one such word.).  Anyway, the toast was a hit, I guess.  People laughed.  Husband seemed to have fun.  But, one of the things that stands out to me most about that toast is one little sentence my Dad used when leading into his quiz.

He said “…the bride used to be quite athletic.”

And, while it was certainly a little back-handed of him to put it like that, the truth is he was accurate.  I did.  I used to be very athletic.  I played three varsity sports in high school and was captain of two.  I continued with one of those sports (albeit briefly) at the college level.  And, when not competing in a sport I was always agile.  I could catch a ball on the fly, run a decent sprint and had at least a semblance of easy grace.    I had good hand-eye coordination and my body, while not a temple by any means (ever), was fully under my control.

But, not anymore.

Nope.

And, while I know I could blame at least some of my lack of grace today on weight gain post-kids, the fact is my Dad was right way back then.  I lost that fluid control of myself at least a few years prior to childbirth.

And now I’m sort of…well, I’m sort of a klutz.

As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, my friend from Montana just came and stayed for a night.  And I’m not kidding you when I tell you that in the first 3 seconds of her arrival, I reminded her of exactly how much of a klutz I have become.   You know.  In case she’d forgotten.

__________

In case she’d forgotten the time I visited her in Montana in 1998 or so and we went for an awesome hike up who knows what mountain.  It was absolutely beautiful at the top and, in celebration of our climb, there was a little alcohol (and maybe something else) passed around before we started our “descent.”  I turned it down, reminding her that if I dared do anything like that I would surely wind up falling down the mountain.  I adamantly declined any mind altering substances.

And, then I proceeded to fall right down the mountain anyway.

I limped for the remainder of my three days in Montana.

__________

Or, in case she’d forgotten that I fell down our basement stairs when Big Brother was about five weeks old.  Just when I was coming out of the fog that was postpartum depression, I wound up with a broken foot, cast, crutches and a warning from my doctor not to, under any circumstances, put weight on my foot for the next THREE weeks.  Awesome.  ‘Cause that’s really easy to deal with when you have a new baby and a husband that works all day.

__________

Or, in case she’d forgotten last summer, when I was in Vermont and decided to take the boys to a playground.  Somehow, as the kids played happily, I rolled my ankle on a wooden walkway and basically had to lie in a heap on the playground grass while I waited for my Mom to finish grocery shopping and, eventually, come to the playground to meet up with us.

That was fun.

__________

So, it’s Sunday night.  And my best friend is coming to visit with her husband and baby boy.  And, I’m so excited.  I’ve had chili simmering on the stove for hours.  We have a fire in the fireplace.   Wine and beer all stocked in the fridge.  I vacuumed (probably the most momentous task of all).  It’s about 6 pm and it’s dark.  They arrive and I rush out of the house to greet them.

During the day, the brick stairs (as you look from our driveway to our house) look like this.

Manageable, right?  Sure.

Standing from the top of the stairs looking down towards the driveway, they look like this.

For a normal person?  Probably still ok.

But, at 6 pm at night in New England?  For a woman as prone to accidents as I am?

Those stairs might as well have looked like this.

So, as I shout my friendly greetings and welcome them to my home…down I go.  Head over heels.  Ass over teakettle.  Legs and arms akimbo.

And, next thing I know I’m in the driveway peering up at the underside of their rented Prius.

Very, very smooth.

__________

So, here I sit today with my swollen right ankle, my sore left knee and my bruised and battered left arm.

But, the best part is that you know what I remember most about that whole dumb experience?  The part I most remember is that she totally laughed at me!  She laughed!  And, kind of hard.  I mean, she paused (I think) to make sure I wasn’t dead under her car but basically having just watched her friend of 38 years fall straight down her front steps in the first five seconds we saw each other?  Well, she found it very funny.  And very, very typical.

Guess she hadn’t forgotten.

She knows me well, that girl.

I miss her already.

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