family

Long weekend in the sunshine

I drove down to Marion on Thursday evening with Grace and Whit.

Blue hydrangeas for Mum’s birthday.


Friday morning we walked to watch Mum play tennis.


Friday afternoon G, W and I went to the beach. Grace toiled long and hard on this sand castle, complete with seaweed flag.

Saturday afternoon we had a drink with an old friend of mine from college and her new son (and her 3 year old daughter too).


Saturday evening cooled off and Grace and Whit pulled out their matching G and W sweaters. Later that night were the fireworks, and as has become the tradition, I stayed home with Whit who dislikes them.

Matching Fourth of July pajamas on the morning of the 4th.

A swim in my great-godmother’s pool down the street.

Close friends from Boston arrived on the afternoon of the 4th and we all went to the beach. My goddaughter was delighted by the ocean.

Rose for E and me.

Grace and James played tennis while their dads played singles.

Sparklers.

Monday morning, waiting for the parade. That’s our white picket fence. Main Street.

These guys make me cry every single year.

Happy kids, in red, white and blue. I love this tradition, and this weekend. My mother’s birthday, my godfamily (extra treat: new and original, this year!), fireworks, rose, the beach, swimming, sparklers, and WW2 vets. Pretty perfect.

So different … and so much the same.

Two years ago, I wrote this … how far we’ve come and yet how things are still the same.  The requisite parade photograph will come on Monday (I may have to do a retrospective as I have many years of parade photographs now!)

Anyway … Fourth of July, 2008:

Happy Fourth! The parade was its usual motley self – both under- and overwhelming at the same time. The WW2 veterans made me cry, as usual, with their proud, dwindling presence. The children adored it, from the firetrucks to the flags to the candy thrown at them. We had assorted family and friends gathered in our front yard (one of the perks of living on Main Street is that the parade literally comes right by our house) drinking coffee and milling around.

Whit has been a handful of late; sometimes I feel like I am, more than anything, waiting him out. Trusting that this, like all things, is just a phase. The child has extraordinary instincts for self preservation. At the exact moment that I think I am going to throw in the towel and just give him up to the state, he jekyll-and-hydes into a sweet little boy. Yesterday he threw such a tantrum at the breakfast table that I had to take him out to the yard and pin him down in the grass for a time out whose tone can only be called corporal punishment-esque. He finally quieted down, accompanied me back into the kitchen, and quietly began eating his muffin. A few minutes later he looked up, fixed me with a tentative smile, and said, “Mummy? I love you.” And somehow, despite being able to feel the imprints of his teeth on my palms still, I swooned.

We have had some lovely moments during this 4 day weekend. Grace, Whit and I went swimming twice in Biege’s pool (Biege, my godmother’s mother, lives a block away and keeps her pool heated to 90+ degrees -heaven, in my book). In the absence of other distractions I was able to really just be with them, to feel their sheer joy at being in the water. Whit, for the first time, untethered himself from me – he took off, swimming with two noodles under his arms, and never looked back. It was bittersweet, of course, this wanting to “do it my own self!” but I applaud the independence as much as I mourn it. Grace is confident in the water now, interested in learning how to dive and able to swim entire laps under water.

I feel like the mother that I want to be flits in and out of my days, perniciously resistant to capture, her rhythms confounding in their resolute illogicality. Her very presence – tolerant, patient, engaged – is a blessing, telling me that I am, occasionally, the parent I aspire to be. But she is also a deep reminder of how often I fail to meet those goals, an ever-present yardstick showing me how far I am from what my children deserve.

The old guard

My grandfather. At his 70th Princeton reunion. He walked the whole P-Rade route (the rest of his class rode in golf carts). Princeton tradition holds that the oldest living alum who returns to reunions is awarded a fancy cane and is much feted as he rides in the P-Rade. Pops has pretty clear ambitions to be that guy. I’m thinking he has a fairly good shot.

I’m proud of this man for his vigor, his passion, his determination. Proud to have followed in his footsteps. Proud to have his name. Just plain proud.

Happy Birthday, Matt

This guy. Matt. International man of mystery.

A lot of you have asked me about him. Well, you’re neither the only nor the first to do that.  When Grace was a baby, she went to daycare the 3 days a week I worked. After about 6 months one of the teachers confided that some of the staff suspected that I had made up my husband. She was dead serious.

So … whoever of you have wondered if he exists – you’re in good company. The truth is, I just have carved out a little tiny part of my life to be – shocker – private. I imagine you can all understand. Don’t worry – he’ll be in the book. 🙂

Anyway, Matt has a birthday this weekend. A milestone one. And so I thought it was high time to bring him out of the wings, show you all that he exists, and to say a public Happy Birthday to my dear husband. A happy birthday:

To the man who married me in a thunderstorm so violent we had to pause during our vows (could not speak over the thunder).
To the man who has never met a ski slope that he couldn’t ski elegantly down.
To the man who reads textbook-style history books for fun.
To the man who works long and hard and who flies around the world for our family.
To the man whose face I see in Whit every single day.
To the man who summited Kilimanjaro with me just months after we had met.
To the man who canceled our first date the day after meeting me at a cocktail party (not smooth, buddy, not smooth).
To the man who makes a mean latte and has never forced me to learn how to do it myself (learned helplessness, that one).
To the man who steadfastly tolerates my mood swings and melancholy leanings, patiently waiting for me to come to my senses.

To the man who gave me these two treasures.
Happy birthday.
I’m amazed.