What should have been your happily ever after

To a certain woman whose life changed so drastically all those years ago today,

You were supposed to have been engaged. You were meant to have the most beautiful, perfectly perfect of rings, one flawless diamond flanked by an equally perfect sapphire on either side. Platinum, I'm guessing, because he knew that's what you would want. That ring on your finger would be the start of a life together. Of a family, maybe. Of children who never had the chance to know either their mother or their father. Because they never had the chance to be born.

I think of you often, sometimes at the oddest of moments. You had such an impact on me, on my view on life, which is odd considering I don't know who you are.

But I do know enough.

You had a boyfriend. You wanted a fiancé. And I'm sure you told him so, just as I did mine. Maybe you described your perfect ring. Maybe he just knew you loved blue. But either way, he nailed it. He had that ring made at a small store in Waterbury, Connecticut, and honestly, it was beyond gorgeous.

He had it made for you. Just for you. Because you were the one for him. Because you were his future.

But he went to New York on September 11, 2001. I don't know where he worked. I don't know if he was just visiting that day. But I do know that he never came back.

And that ring. Your ring. It sat there in the back of that small jewelry store, waiting to be claimed. By you, who may not even have known it existed. Because he never had the chance to pick it up.

And when I walked into that store one fall day, a few months after the terrorists rocked our world, it was just for a moment of whimsy. To pretend that I really was looking for a ring. Just to be fanciful, really. Just how it probably started for you.

"I have just the thing you're describing," the jeweler said to me. "It's right about your size, too - you can try it on just to get a feel for the color."

"It's gorgeous," I said, showing the ring to my mother, who had indulged my fantasy and come into the jewelry store with me, allowing me to dream of a day when an actual engagement ring would be mine. I tried it on as a play thing, as a shiny piece of pretend, not knowing that what I had on my finger should really have been on yours.

"It was actually a special design I made for someone," he said. "He died in the Trade Center on 9/11. The ring has been sitting here, waiting to be claimed."

I actually lost my ability to breathe for a moment. And I could not, could not, get that ring off of my finger fast enough. Your ring. The one you should have had on your left hand. The hand that should have been flipping through wedding magazines and holding champagne, not crumpling tissues and wiping tears.

I hope that finger wears a different ring now. And I hope you have children, who carry a future on which to hang hope. And that your babies, getting so big so fast, want to play dress up and pretend and watch your wedding video of Mommy and Daddy, another Prince Charming who found his way to you, giving you a different, unimagined version of happily ever after.

And I hope with all hope that your ring made its way to you and that you have it tucked away as a pocket of love to cherish. I never knew you. And I never knew him. But there's one indisputable fact that I know to be true: He loved you so much. And he most certainly wanted you to have it.

A little bit of perspective and a little bit of shame

It's been one of those days.

The boys have been fighting. And not listening. And fighting. And not listening. And just for good measure, fighting some more. It was our first real day of summer vacation because we've been on the go until today. Our first day of downtime. Our first day without any type of schedule to speak of. We were not coping well.

 "Mom? Mom? Mommy? Mom? Mommy? Moooommmmmm???" is what I've had screamed in my general direction for roughly 10 hours now.

So by the time Mason decided to use the nice note cards that I just bought after I had already said no 28 times, I. Was. Done. And I exploded.

"No one ever listens!" I ranted. "I'm sick of it! It's ridiculous! Why does no one ever listen to me when I say no??!?"

Ugh.

"But Mommy," he started to sob, "I was just writing everyone a note!"

And he was. One for each brother. One for Daddy. One for me. "Momi," he wrote carefully on the front of the envelope in his perfectly practiced kindergarten handwriting.

Giant crocodile tears streamed down his face. He cried with all of his five-year-old might. He was heartbroken. And then, all of a sudden, so was I.

This is what I found in his sad little hand:

In case you can't read his "Mason phonics", it says:
"Momi, Luve You, Mason" (written in what he has decided is cursive)

And in that moment, a five year old taught his thirty-seven-year-old mother a lesson. Life is short. Hearts are fragile. And note cards, no matter how much they cost, are just paper - meaningless without precious sentiment poured inside.

I'm willing myself to guard this moment carefully and revisit it again when I need perspective, even if it is 28 times a day. Because really, I should know better.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll write the little guy an apology. I think I know just the note card to use.

To the girl in the blue bikini

It just happened to be your chosen spot of relaxation that put you in my path. I saw you, quite literally, as soon as my feet hit the sand.

I was the crazed lady pushing a toddler in a stroller while I chased children - plural - and balanced a beach bag that contained magazines - zero, pails - three, and beverages - the boring kind.

You were the girl in a lovely cobalt bikini relaxing on your blanket, propped up on your beach bag that most likely contained magazines - three, pails - zero, and beverages - the fun kind. You were reading a Nicholas Sparks book. And you gave me a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.

We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And you are grateful for that.)

But you see, this has happened to me once before.

She was the crazed lady unloading an SUV full of children - plural - onto a sidewalk in Brookline in the summer of '03.

I was the girl in the lovely sundress parking my VW Cabrio across the street from her. I gave her a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.

We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And I was grateful for that.)

"I used to be you," she said, smiling back at me. "I had that same car. That was a lifetime ago."

And off she went, crazy children in tow. I remember it as if it were an hour ago, not twelve years ago.

Now, in the summer of '15, I see how the torch has been passed.

At the end of the day, I saw you once again as you still sat in blissful silence on a sand-free blanket while I walked by, crazy children in tow.

"I used to be you," I said, smiling back at you. "I had that same bikini. That was a lifetime ago."

And off I went with my children - plural - to load my beach bag into an SUV that most definitely was not a convertible.

Potty Training Day(s) - Forecast: Very, very wet

This is dedicated to anyone out there who is having their first crack at this whole potty training thing. (Pun intended.) We're now on our third round in this house, so let me say this: Potty training is awesome! (No, it's not.) Potty training is easy! (No, it's not.) I love it! ( I do not.) But train these little creatures we must. There's a reason why they don't make Thomas the Train undies in a size 14. Because that would just be gross.

So here's what I can tell you. There are things you won't know until you know, and I feel like I should give you a heads-up before you start. I can personally only speak to potty training the gentlemen of the world, but I'm sure some of this crosses quite nicely over the gender line. So, disinfectant at the ready! I would like to call this bit:

 "Things I Didn't Know Until It Was Too Late. And Too Wet. And Too Smelly."

• As you embark on this journey, you should know that "I think I have to go poops" generally means "I have already pooped in my pants. Please fix it." This will happen at a very inconvenient time and/or location.

• The "Let Them Walk Around Naked and Figure It Out" approach is pretty effective and awesome until you hear that telltale plop on the floor. Run, do not walk, to the nearest container of Clorox wipes. Apply liberally. (To the floor. Not the baby.)

• Bleach is always the answer. You will need it for everything. The floor. The walls. (Yes, the walls.) The laundry. Just. Bleach.

• There will most likely be "a bathtub incident." Refer to previous bullet point for all possible solutions. (Hint: there's only one solution.)

• Many things will end up in the toilet. Some of these things are supposed to be there. (Hooray! You are a potty trainer extraordinaire!) Some of these things are not supposed to be there. (Hooray! You can buy everyone a new toothbrush immediately!) And then refer to the previous bullet point. Again. (FYI, the third bullet point is generally the right answer for all given potty training scenarios.)

• Two words: Public toilets. Because although staying home forever will seem like the better option, you will eventually need to emerge from your comfortable potty abode. Once you venture out, you will see toilets that have every imaginable substance in, on, and/or near them. The dirtier the toilet, the more your child will insist that he or she needs to pee immediately. Get ready to see your child touch everything. Twice. You will die a little bit inside. Get used to it.

• Any toilet your child has access to in the home will follow this approximate cycle:  4:00 - dirtiest toilet you've ever seen. 4:01 - cleanest toilet you've ever seen. 4:05 - dirtiest toilet you've ever seen. 4:06 - cleanest toilet you've ever seen. This will now be your life. There is no end in sight as far as I can tell. But damn if you aren't going to be the best toilet cleaner around.

So there you have it. Hang in there. Chin up. Laundry basket and wine at the ready. Because six minutes after those new Paw Patrol underpants come out of the gate, you're gonna need all of it.

Cheers!

p.s. You should also know that each child will have his or her own style. Our third happens to be a "stand tall and proud while I point and shoot" kind of a guy. And like I said, some things will end up in the bowl that should not be there. Ten precious little piggies, for example. There's a reason the bathtub is so close to the toilet bowl. Happy training!

The very busy toddler

Once, there was a very busy boy. And he was very loud. So very, very loud. But sometimes he was quiet. So very, very quiet. And his mommy needed quiet. She knew quite well that this loud little boy should not be quiet, but sometimes she dared to enjoy a quiet minute - just one - before investigating. And this was never, ever a good idea.

And so the story unfolds...

On Monday, the little boy discovered one roll of toilet paper. And he was very quiet.

On Tuesday, the little boy discovered one tub of Aquaphor. And he was very quiet.

On Wednesday, the little boy discovered one tube of toothpaste. And he was very quiet.

On Thursday, the little boy discovered one bowl of lollipops.

And he was very quiet.

On Friday, the little boy discovered one thermostat. And he was very quiet. (And they were all very cold.)

On Saturday, the little boy discovered one bin of markers. And he was very quiet.

On Sunday, the little boy discovered one bottle of water, one box of crayons, one unlocked door, one empty neighborhood street, one pair of scissors, one toilet brush, one Chapstick and three grill forks from the basement. That day, he was very, very quiet.

The next morning, his mommy decided that she should never enjoy another quiet moment ever, ever again. This was to be for the good of all involved. And so they lived happily ever after in the noisiest house of all time, where the front door would remain forever dead bolted and the counters would forever be cavity-free.

The End.

Here white, there white, everywhere you look white

OK, boys, listen. Dad and I need you to know something about the world. It's life changing, and it's going to alter your outlook forever. Are you ready for it?

Here it is:

You know that thing we call the ground? Well get this: It isn't always going to be white.

No really, we're not lying.

I know, I know. It's been so long that you don't remember. And that's OK. I think it will look familiar to you when you finally do see it again. But just in case you don't, we need to teach you about what it was like so that you too can pass that information on to your own children. You know, in case the ground never shows itself again.

First thing of importance: You know those chains in the backyard? The ones that just disappear beneath the surface and seem to provide no real purpose? There's something at the end of them, down below the layer of white. They're called swings. No, not slings. Swings. Yes, that's right. Now, a swing used to be a really fun thing that you could sit on and then rock back and forth using your legs. Yes, your legs! No, you're right, but it's because you wouldn't have to wear snow pants, so you could actually bend them in order to pump the swing. I promise, I am not lying. You would actually be able to bend your legs outside.

Look closely, kids. If you squint, you can catch a glimpse of the fabled swings.
We took this just before they were fully covered and all hope was forever lost.

There's also this thing called grass. It's like little pieces of green plants that cover the ground. It's soft and you could play on it, and you used to be able to run and run and run on it as fast as you can! Because guess what? The grass does not come up to your knees and hold your legs stuck in place. And you don't even need boots to walk on it! I know it sounds like I'm making this up, but I assure you. There is a grass-covered promised land somewhere out there for you. I need you to swear that if it can never again be found here in Massachusetts, you will one day go out in search of it. It will be well worth the trip. And when you find it, promise you'll take off your shoes and wiggle your toes on it and think of me.

And finally, the best piece of news: the beach. That's right, kids, the beach. You know how you had to wear boots the other day because it was too cold and too slippery? Well, you might still have to wear shoes, it's true. But it's because the sand is...wait for it...TOO HOT! Can you even imagine? A heat source other than a fire? I swear to you, it's a thing to marvel at. What's that? Sand? Well, I guess I should save that for another conversation on another day. I don't want to overload your little brains with too much at once.

Maybe we can talk about that in July, after we get our fleece-lined bathing suits. But yes, sand is amazing.

I hope you can one day have this conversation with your children or your grandchildren about how yes, in fact, the ground was once covered in white.

And I hope they can't even believe it.

That's right, boys. Just keep walking until you find warmth.

Adieu old friend. You were comfy while it lasted.

~

Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well.

-Lord Byron

~

Dear Big Red,

You were a good ol' couch, and man did I love you. For fourteen years, you stood proud. A beacon of Pottery Barn-esque loveliness, marred only slightly by your second-class Bernie and Phyl's bloodline. You were always bright-eyed. You always welcomed us with open arms. You cuddled us and comforted us and kept us cozy. You welcomed friends and family near and far. From time to time, each of us in turn slumbered on you when the bed seemed just too far away.

And in the later years, you welcomed us at 2 a.m. while we comforted little ear infections and stuffy noses. This, I'm sad to say, was the beginning of the end for you. These little people, you welcomed them as you had welcomed us. They took your invitation to heart, and they, quite literally, loved you to death. Because there you sit, fourteen years later, looking like the scene of a crime while you decorate our curb like yesterday's trash. (Full disclaimer: you were, in fact, sitting there with yesterday's trash. Sorry, man.)

Stay strong, Red. May you be free to comfort others in the afterlife. I wish you happiness. I wish you love. And I wish for you to come back in the next life covered in a nice, washable fabric.

Carry on, old boy. Until we meet again.

Big Red
2001-2014