Only Child

The large yellow padded envelope was delivered unceremoniously to the floor of my home office by a diminutive, cranky postal carrier wearing CARSTM pajamas.

"Here, Mommy, there's mail for you," he said, turning on his small heel and running back down the hall in search of more mischief.

I picked up the envelope, curious about the return address label, which bore the name of an unfamiliar contact at a prominent publisher. Unable to guess its contents, I finally opened the envelope. Inside, I found a brand new copy of a lovely book titled "Only Child: Writers on the Singular Joys and Solitary Sorrows of Growing Up Solo", edited by Deborah Siegel and Daphne Uviller.

In the past I've received a new book in this way when I've been asked in advance to review it, but that was not the case this time. I couldn't figure it out: I don't have an only child, I am not an only child. There did not seem to be a professional connection; no mention of autism or speech therapy on the book jacket. I must have stood staring at this book like a fool for quite some time, because Matt eventually took it out of my hands and I continued to get the boys ready for school.

"This might be a clue," he said, coming back to me a few minutes later, holding the book out. Matt had opened the mystery book to a random page and found himself looking at an essay written by a high school friend of mine, Ted Rose.

Previously on L.A. Law, I have alluded to the fact that I attended somewhat mediocre public schools with some fantastically witty and bright high achievers in Middletown, Connecticut (many were the children of professors at Wesleyan University) who are all dear to my heart. Ted Rose was no exception. Here's a recent bio for you; note the essays published in Wired, Slate, Salon, and The New York Times. He's also been an NPR All Things Considered correspondent. Seriously.

(As an aside, I have always been shocked to hear myself described as "ambitious" or "intelligent" because in my growing up experience, I was decidedly not, relatively speaking. It is only in the past couple of years that I've been able to see myself in relation to a more, perhaps, typical and diverse population, and have been relieved to find that I am actually a little bit brighter than the neighbor's schnauzer. But only a bit, mind you.)

Ted is the son of well-known writer and English professor Phyllis Rose, who was, when I knew her son as Teddy, living with Laurent De Brunhoff; the two are now married. Yes, it's true: Babar essentially lived at my friend's house. Anyway, Ted is in good company in this book, which also includes essays by the children of Alice Walker and Erica Jong.

I carried Only Child in my bag all morning and sat down to read Ted's essay "Air Only" as soon as I had a few minutes. It was poignant and beautiful. It's a rare gift to read something so well written that also provides unique insight into the life of someone you know.

Turns out, Ted did not send this book to me; the fact that his essay is in this anthology is mere coincidence. This does not surprise me, as we haven't been in touch. I suspect that, although I discontinued writing for Chicago Moms Blog many months ago, perhaps my name is still on some lists out there. I used to get a lot of review opportunities through them.

Whatever its source, the mysterious appearance of Only Child is a gift in many senses of the word. I'm enjoying reading the rest of the anthology, bit by bit, but the happy surprise of a window into the world of an old friend will be hard to beat.

A Little Bit Here and There

I've written before, specifically here and here, about what it's like to come back to San Francisco now after being gone for a year and a half.

At Christmas, as the four of us visited with my family and lots of friends we've known for years, it was the place where we became parents. We revisited favorite places with the boys and spent lots of time with their old friends, walking down the streets of our history as a family.

This particular trip has brought back the San Francisco in which I began my career. I am an independent agent here for four days, tooling around in my little rental car from lunch with a colleague to a client's house and then to my favorite hairdresser. I go out with colleagues (always some of my favorite people to hang out with) and laugh and talk for over three hours without noticing the time. I go out for a great dinner with my cousin, who's letting me crash in her beautiful apartment.

As I looked around the smallish room where I sat for the first day of my SCERTS training today, I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience, seeing people I hadn't seen in ages even when I did live here. One woman looked at me like I was a ghost, and said she'd heard I'd moved somewhere and so couldn't quite believe it was me. I wanted to say, "Neither can I." I had lunch with a woman I worked very closely with my first year out of grad school but haven't seen since I left the job 10 years ago.

I am acutely aware of my great good fortune. Grateful to have the life in which I am happier than I'd ever imagined I could be, back in my new city of Chicago. But on occasion, I stop myself while I'm here, living a life that feels an awful lot like my old life here - and where I am quite comfortable and have so many connections - and dare to ask myself cautiously, "Would you rather still be living here?", a little bit afraid to hear my own answer. But somehow the answer is always, "No," even when I'm surrounded by people I love.

I feel a little like I'm neither here nor there tonight, confused about where my real life is after a few days of this cognitive dissonance.

I think, though, that perhaps the truth is I'm always going to have these opportunities to be a little bit here and there; and in that, I have it all.

Roam if You Want to

A weekend away. With friends.

Need I say more? Probably not, but I will anyway.

As I wrote about after our first annual weekend together last February, these are three college friends of mine, all former roommates at one time or another, so we have a history that goes back a rather frightening 19 years now. Last year's gathering was a catching-up time, a time to reconnect after quite a few years, for some of us. A great deal of growing up had taken place in the intervening years, and a lot of hard stuff was going on for some of us. Last year's weekend was, well, cathartic, I'd say. This year we were all on terra firma, more or less. That's not to say that we've got it all figured out (whatever that would look like) but we've made strides; let's put it that way.

We were able to just hang out. Went shopping, ate great meals. (I mean, really great.) Took a walk down memory lane by visiting our alma mater (which has become quite the yuppified institution since we attended it in the early 90s, let me tell you, although I should say that some things haven't changed), and stopped in on some of our favorite haunts nearby. I bought myself a cozy college sweatshirt. Enjoyed "Definitely, Maybe" quite a bit. Celebrated the little girl due in just 10 weeks, the eighth child among us. We drank a lot of coffee and I slept until 8:30 each morning. And best of all, we talked and talked and talked. It was less than a 48-hour visit for a variety of reasons, but that was okay. Next year we're committed to gathering for all three days again, but this was enough for now. Really.

I have an unusual amount of travel ahead of me in the coming months. Leaving home for a weekend is not completely easy with such young children at home, and having reasons to do so four months in a row feels rather excessive. But my family was fine without me. Better than fine, really. They all had a wonderful weekend. And the good it does me to get away a bit, find some space to breathe and be with friends, and drink coffee and talk? Well, it's a world of good.

During the cab ride home from the airport, the B52s song "Roam" came on the radio. An old favorite. As we drove up Lake Shore Drive with the dark, icy outline of Lake Michigan to the east and the gorgeous, twinkling skyline of Chicago lit up to the west, I celebrated these opportunities I have to roam a bit. And I decided that - as long as it's done thoughtfully and involves a great deal of joy about returning home - roaming is just what this Mama needs to do sometimes.

{Photo taken with my iPhone on Friday night's flight to Minnesota. Apologies to Cara for never managing to get a shot that included both of her eyes.}

Prom Date Challenge

In 1988, I went to the Junior Prom with this young man. We were friends and I invited him. He learned to drive his dad's old stick shift BMW to drive us there, which was charming.

I was in a Victorian phase - pictures from Victoria magazine were taped all over my bedroom walls - and chose this classic black cotton Laura Ashley frock. My date was too painfully shy to ask me to dance. My official stance was: if I ask you to the prom, you have to ask me to dance. My pride was too great to do both, and I have to say, I stand by that. So I danced with some other guys, but never once my date, despite the fact that I knew he liked me.

This date went on to Cornell and is now a rocket scientist. Seriously. As in developing things that NASA sends into space. He's still a sweet guy and thankfully not quite as shy. He has a lovely wife, and I'll bet money he has danced with her at least once.

The next year I attended Senior Prom. Since the only photos I have of both of us show this dress with a lacy shawl around it and you simply can't get the full effect of its 1980's va-voom, I have been kind enough to provide you with two. (Brave, huh?)

I just have to compare these photos with the one above and wonder what kind of teenage transformation occurred in one short year for me to go from black Laura Ashley to lavender Jessica McClintock lace-and-shimmer, and to have permed my hair. I wish I knew.

My date to this prom was also a very good friend of mine who surprised me greatly by asking me. So surprised was I when he asked me that I believe I said, "Shut up!" and walked away, assuming it was in jest. He was fun to go with, but he hooked up with another girl at the after-prom beach party. 0 for 2 on the prom dates!

This date went on to Yale and then Penn, and is now an ER doctor in rural North Carolina. He has a wonderful wife and three adorable little boys.

Thanks to The Snarky Squab for this Prom Date Challenge! C'mon, ladies, who's next?! I DARE YOU! Link to your photos in the comments section! (Or just laugh at me. Either way, really.)

A Musical Interlude

We seem to have entered a musical period around here. It started fairly innocently, when Matt and I decided, on a lark, to bid on a set of two introductory violin lessons during the nursery school's online fund-raising auction.

I played violin and viola for a number of years, as I alluded to once before. I enjoyed playing, and although I wasn't particularly stellar at it, I was decent enough to be part of a youth orchestra and a string quartet - which I especially loved, much in the way that I later preferred singing in a choir to performing solo. (Everyone needs a viola player and an alto!) In fact, now that I've been focused on such things in recent weeks, I have been surprised to realize how much music was a part of my life growing up, in a way it surely is not anymore. I eventually left string instruments behind in favor of choirs and theater productions, which were the highlights of my extra-curricular life for many years.

Perhaps if I'd started learning the violin at a younger age I would have been better at it and stuck with it longer. Probably not. But, I have talked a lot to Baxter over the years about starting an instrument. He's always been interested, but I haven't felt he could sit still long enough until pretty recently. When I saw this auction item, I thought it might be a good way to give it a try. The instructor is in the neighborhood and sounds great. He teaches the Suzuki method, which is how I learned and what I would prefer for my kids.

Now that we are the lucky winners of those Suzuki violin classes I am starting to realize what we're getting into. This isn't really just two "try it out" lessons - there are the weekly individual lessons, yes, but also every-other-week group lessons. There's the measurement and ordering of the correct rental violin, and perhaps the ordering of a rental for me as well, since it's ideal for a student to have an adult to imitate (do I still have any skills left to imitate?!). I have discovered that Shar Music, the company whose catalog I pored over in the '80s, picking out new strings and a comfortable shoulder rest, now has a website from which I can order my son's copy of Suzuki violin book 1 and the accompanying CD. It's all rushing back to me.

When I mentioned to the instructor that I sort of wanted to make sure that Baxter liked it before jumping in, I got a very kind and sensible email response about the fact that the responsibility to start and keep playing an instrument at this age has a lot to do with parental motivation and coaching kids through the hard moments. He explained that he would coach me along the way about how to teach Baxter in small, doable steps while keeping it really fun for him.

So, although this is going to cause some - er - interesting scheduling issues for us in addition to daily practice, we're going to jump in and see what happens. We are committed to working on it through June. (Of course, if it doesn't seem like a good fit after our two "free" (i.e., paid for) sessions I have no qualms about saying "sayonara", but if Baxter's interest wanes come mid-March we'll see it through.)

Oh, and thanks to a positive reference to the Music Together program on the Suzuki instructor's website and my recent fond recollection of what a wonderful program it was when I was writing this post, I signed Lyle up for Saturday morning Music Together classes as well. He's not doing any other classes right now and I wanted him to have something special just for him, especially with his big brother starting all these music classes. This seemed like a great choice and he's loving it (and so am I!).

All of a sudden, it appears that - at least for the next 6 months - my life is going to revolve around music learning all over again. I'm enjoying it immensely.

What Goes Around

This morning I clicked over to read Susan Etlinger's latest post on The Family Room blog. Among her other treasures of the day were a couple of new blog recommendations for her readers. Both are excellent. One of these, in fact, was a blog I just discovered myself this week, that of my friend Emily in Texas. Aptly titled A Life Less Ordinary, Emily writes about life with her three fantastic little boys, who are perfectly extraordinary.

Finding Emily's blog was a gift this week. We were friends back in San Francisco, brought together by Baxter and her oldest son, TH, who were absolutely the best of friends in preschool. Our families began to meet up for playdates, and Emily and I always seemed to manage dinners out on each other's wedding anniversaries (without our spouses). I'm still not sure how it worked out that way, but it did. That is, until they moved to Texas and we left for Chicago in the summer of '06. With work and distance and all these boys, Emily and I have only stayed in touch sporadically, so you can imagine my joy when I was able to sit down, read her posts and look at her photos - and TH's incredible artwork!! - on her blog all at once.

Thus, I was thrilled to see that Susan had linked to Emily today. Coincidentally enough, Emily had just posted to her own readers that they should come on over and check out The Wonderwheel, writing awfully sweet and humbling things about this blog and my work. (Aww, shucks.)

I can't let this circle of blog love stop here. All day I was thinking, "I need to bring this full circle and link back to Susan now!" But here's the thing. All I could think of was how many of you are out there, blogging about your very special kids. Yes, I know, all kids are special (yadda, yadda, yadda), and I enjoy reading some blogs that are written by parents of typically-developing kids too, but those of you who are writing so beautifully about the winding path you walk with your extraordinary kids, you all deserve a really huge thank you from me.

So here we go:

You and you and also you and you..and you and of course you, you, and you - and also you, you, and you...and all the rest of you out there whom I haven't yet read or haven't visited recently enough because eventually a girl's gotta sleep...

Thank you for letting me in and not making me feel like an impostor for reading and commenting on your blogs. Thank you for reading and being a part of my life through my own blog. Thank you for helping me to bridge - just a little bit - the wide gap between parents with typically-developing kids and those who are on their own unique path through life. Thank you for your insights into parenting, which not only allow me to be a better parent myself but have dramatically changed the way I work with families.

Thank you, Susan, and thank you, Emily.

Thank you.

All of you.

From Where I Sit

From where I sit in the early morning, huddled under an aging green fleece blanket by the large, drafty, front window of my friend’s apartment on 21st Avenue, I hear the gulls screeching their way down Judah. They seem to follow the streetcar out to the Pacific like so many screaming, swirling children. If I glance over my shoulder, I take in a long line of row houses in various shades of yellow, pink, blue, and beige. Thick coils of unattractive power lines criss-cross from one enormous street light to the other and then dart over to the houses themselves, bringing the power required to light the Christmas trees and yellowish front porch lights, clouded with spider webs. There is no grass in this view, only city sidewalks. The more attractive homes boast shrubbery or unusual small trees out front. There are no large, leafy deciduous trees, other than what can be seen of the beautiful foliage in Golden Gate Park, peeking over the rooftops, located just two blocks south.

I distinctly remember seeing this neighborhood for the first time when Matt and I moved to San Francisco in 1997; I found it aesthetically displeasing to say the least. A friend of mine likened it to some strange world in a Dr. Seuss book – and she had spent her life in Berkeley, just across the Bay. Ironically named the Sunset neighborhood - being the foggiest piece of land of San Francisco - it did boast more affordable rentals, proximity to the park, and an impressive business district around 9th Avenue and Irving Street filled with fantastic cuisine, excellent coffee, and wonderful independent shops. So when Baxter was a little over a year old and we realized that raising a child in Marin County (where I was working) did not suit us, we found a relatively (for San Francisco) affordable 2-bedroom here in the Sunset. And this is the neighborhood we happily called home until moving to Chicago eighteen months ago.

This window I sit by, it could easily be overlooking the last street we lived on in this neighborhood, which is 5 blocks directly east. It’s even located in the same spot on the west side of the street. We have had the mind-blowing good fortune of staying here – rather than a hotel - while my friend is on a ski trip with her husband; they are allowing us to use their flat as a home base for the San Francisco portion of our California vacation.

And so we walk by the school where Baxter went to kindergarten on our way to a favorite restaurant or to visit friends who still live just a couple of blocks away. Matt sees the school’s garden, completed, and marvels over all that has been created around some large rocks he once volunteered to haul over to that part of the playground, where visionaries planned a garden that didn’t yet exist. Until now.

With the kids back down at my parents’ for a couple of days without us, Matt and I walk down Irving St. and express delight over tiny shops that are somehow still in business, and shock over old favorites that no longer exist. Quietly, we take in new awnings and business logos. We eat dinner in a fabulous new restaurant that just months ago was a favorite cafe, sitting now at a table that has a familiar view of the park but has been completely transformed. Looking out at the same intersection of 9th and Lincoln while eating beautifully prepared fresh fish instead of a scone and a latte.

And so, as I sit under this green blanket and listen to the familiar N-Judah roar by, seagulls screeching in its wake, I am acutely aware of what San Francisco is to me now. It’s a beautiful city full of friends, family, and memories. But also a place where I now have an almost constant inner struggle: how can I take in all that is new - and simultaneously appreciate all that is old?

If I were a person who was purely fueled by nostalgia, I would have refused to go into that fish restaurant last night; there was a part of me that resented the café for closing down, for not warning me in Chicago that this was going to happen, and somehow blamed the restaurant for my loss. It’s easy to resent the sense of surprise we feel about the changes that occur in a beloved city that we only visit once or twice a year. But we’d heard that it’s a great new restaurant – friends in the neighborhood are excited about it – and when I stopped to think about it, I realized that at the end of the day, I would prefer to grow and change right along with San Francisco.

Even from afar.

Foggy Morning in San Francisco

See the full set here.

Christmas Traditions

We gather at the dining room table, lights dimmed almost to darkness. The cranberry candles from Thanksgiving are nearly melted down to their silver candlesticks. A handmade wooden star is lit in the window, made by a distant relative of Matt's in Germany. The boys and I eat a simple dinner and talk about Christmas. Lyle names the six Cars toys he wants most in the world and asks if Santa will bring them. Baxter, ever the pragmatist, offers, "Well, that's a pretty short list, Lyle. Santa will probably bring them all to you." Lyle turns to me rapt, and passes this information on to me as if I hadn't been sitting there just three seconds before. "Baxter says Santa might bring them all!" Just when I thought his saucer eyes could get no bigger.
In fleece snowman pajamas, the boys cuddle on either side of me for story time. We have two large baskets of Christmas books that only come out in these weeks leading up to Christmas. Lyle chooses 'Twas the Night Before Christmas. When Santa and those "eight tiny reindeer" land on the rooftop, Baxter is barely breathing. "Is this a true story?" he asks. Not answering, but holding him closer, I continue to read. He chooses The Glorious Christmas Songbook, a beautifully illustrated and very complete treasury of Christmas carols. With Baxter warbling joyfully off-key directly into my ear, I try to maintain the melodies of Hark! the Herald Angels Sing and a few of his other favorites. When Lyle joins in for the first time on Jingle Bells - three distinct and uneven melodies contributing to the Green Couch Choir - I am in heaven.

We saved the last two songs for their bedroom. I sang Up on the Housetop, which prompted a can-can routine from the raccoon, puppy, and bunny up on the top bunk railing. Sensing some fun, Lyle jumped out of bed to watch. Finally, with the boys tucked into bed and slightly calmer, I sang one of my personal favorites, The Holly and the Ivy.

Eventually, they fell asleep. There are visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads tonight, no doubt about it.

For Dad

He drove the car along the windy dirt back roads of Connecticut with me every Saturday morning for who knows how many months or years. Out to the big white clapboard farmhouse in the small country town of Moodus, home of a talented music teacher. I say talented not because she was able to make a strong musician out of me (she wasn't a miracle worker, after all), but because she steered me from the violin to the viola and taught me well enough to allow me to join a chamber group and a youth orchestra, both of which I adored. I stood with my viola in the old musty practice room with Connie - usually hoping against hope that it wouldn't be obvious just how inadequately I had practiced that week - while Dad hiked around the large pastoral property or sat in the ancient house where the intellectual sounds of NPR drifted from the kitchen.

I have a clear memory of sitting in the car with my father and can even see certain intersections or curves in the road; a composite of scores of such drives. I don't remember us talking about much of anything. Dad usually had some music playing, whatever he was into at the time, and I'm sure there was some conversation but not much. In my memory of these drives, it was a comfortable quiet.

We didn't get to spend too much time together when I was growing up; my father was busy with his work and frequently on business trips during the week. But during our Saturday ritual of driving out to my music lesson together, I had him all to myself for a little while. I think I knew that if I needed to say something, I could.

I haven't had time like that with my father again until this year. The day after I arrived in California last Christmas, Dad and I drove up to Stanford together from Pacific Grove for a test he needed. He had been diagnosed with cancer the week before, and first told me this on the drive to their house from the airport. So there we were again, in the car, my Dad driving and some of his favorite music playing. There was a lot more conversation this time, lots more detail and questions about his condition and options for treatment; his work; my work; the kids; my life in Chicago. But there was still plenty of comfortable quiet. We spent about 4 hours on our own together that day, for the first time in decades.

I was able to spend more time alone with my Dad last month. On the Friday night after surgery, my mother's cold kept her home from the hospital. I went in to the hospital that evening to watch "Washington Week in Review" with him, a ritual he and my mother share on Friday nights. We sat in the chilly hospital room, attempting to ignore the nonsense from the patient in the next bed, tolerating the interruptions from the nurse, and watched quietly together.

How lucky I am that my father's cancer was caught early and treated well. I had no idea until this year how much I value sitting quietly with my Dad, not saying much of anything.

Happy Father's Day, Dad. I'm counting my blessings today.