135 MacDougal St. #3A

When I first walked in, I sat down on one of the double beds provided for married students attending NYU and cried.  I couldn't decide what to cry about more: the shit-brown walls(pardon my language, but that really was the color!), the 480 square feet, the tiny closet, the big cockroach in the bathtub, the elf size stove and refrigerator, the three floors I had just walked up, the glaring lack of any appliance that washes, or maybe the fact that I had overpacked just a wee bit.

(Entertaining friends)

 

And yes, that is the whole apartment! Robert grew to love the place, but I never did.

When we went back to NYC a few weeks ago, we walked by our old apartment on MacDougal.  I was elated to see that I was proven correct--the building was about ready to fall down--it was boarded up and everything. I felt vindicated!  And I got to tell Robert that I was right about our old hell-hole of an apartment.  I felt giddy!  That is, until I read the sign.  Well, I'm off to google asbestos poisoning...

Apology

Dearest Max,

I know you are not happy with me today.  I can tell by your pouty lip, complaints and watery eyes.  I can see that if you could speak, you would form the words, "Mean Mom!"  I know that I am a Mean Mom and I am sorry.  I have tried to support you in your obsession with toilet water but I find that I am wholly unable to get behind this activity.  I know you are mad about the gate and toilet lid locks.  I am sorry.  I hope to be able to be more supportive of your future activities.  I realize that we have had a few disagreements about your culinary tastes.  I must stand firm in my belief that fuzz off our rug and dust bunnies from the corner are not food groups.  I hope that we can come to some sort of an understanding on this point.  Perhaps, if I added a new food to your diet?  

We do have some common ground.  We both enjoy your naps.  May I respectfully suggest that you add a few more minutes to your afternoon snooze? I really think that this may help us get a long a little better.  

As always,

Mom

P.S.  I apologize in advance for the new locks I am about to install on the doors.  I know this will keep you from exploring our front yard, street and garage--some of your favorite places.  I hope that you can overlook these infractions on your freedom and remember how many times I have changed your not so fragrant diapers.

Happy Birthday, Max!

Jackson's 1st day of preschool

(I feel the same way.  Imagine, 3 whole hours with only 1 child!)

Oprah

So I don't usually watch Oprah; It's not like I have anything against her, I just don't watch TV during the day.  Although, if I think about it I could have something against her.  I mean, I guess if I had a gazillion dollars, I would publish a magazine, name it after my fabulous self and of course, be on the cover of every issue.  Oh, and  I have her to thank for a very depressing 6 months with her book club books.  Great reads, great literature but SO sad.  I  was forced to read some fairly silly chic lit for therapy afterwards.  It took about a month to recover but I feel better now, thanks for asking.  Of course, that was a few years ago... like 7 or so, but who's counting? 

Don't worry I do have a point.  I happen to watch her show this morning (I was at the gym running on the treadmill.  Snap.)  and it was on child predators.  I guess there is a bill in the Senate to fund law enforcement to go after these creeps.  I try not to get too political but I really feel like this bill is something we could all get behind.   Rally the troops and check out Oprah's website:  www.oprah.com and send an email to your Senators.  I did.  

Why I love my pool fence...(A photo essay)

9/11

It's been 7 years.   I remember sirens.  I remember the air tasting like panic, filling my lungs.  I remember breathing, in and out, in and out, in.  I remember being surprised by how quiet it was and longing for a truck to honk, a cabbie to yell some fowl word out his window with his fist raised to the sky.  I remember that fighter jets sound like airliners.  I remember seeing the Towers fall as I stood on solid ground-- 32nd street and 5th Ave.  I remember everything slowing down, blurring around the edges, the haze seeping into my brain.  What did I see?  What does it mean?

I remember Kate's warmth as she snuggled close to my chest and my arms around her--squeezing, filling any gap between us.  I  can still see her red strawberry hat with that comical little green stem, in stark contrast to the gray, smoke-filled sky.  I hear increasing concern in my voice as I leave messages on my husband's answering machine at work. I remember the minutes I spent contemplating widowhood and seeing Kate grow as an only child.  I remember how it felt to see my husband walk through the door of our apartment.  I remember how tangible he was, how real he felt when I hugged him.  I remember God on that day.  And on many days after.