Great news! I’m now writing a weekly parenting column for Boston.com’s Community Voices titled “The 24-Hour Workday.” It’s all about balancing career and motherhood — while eating well and having fun and sucking in my stomach and making plenty of time for my life’s true passions, which include “Murder, She Wrote” and the melodic tunes of Steely Dan. Please follow my blog there; I’ll also link to it here. Links to my other work will continue to live here, too. As ever, thank you for reading!
Seven Things to Know About Me
22 SepMy friend Brooke, who lived in DC when I lived in DC, crossed paths with me many times. She was a writer for Washingtonian, our city magazine (I remember reading her reviews of spas and being insanely jealous of her job, seeing as I was a 22-year-old with brows like Eugene Levy’s). I was an editor at a literary agency and at The New Republic. I think we even met in DC once or twice. But we didn’t become friends until the Globe newsroom. She was all blonde hair and North Face; I was all big earrings and going through an unfortunate fat-phase flirtation with Loehmanns.
She’d just started working at the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine, and I had just started editing the Globe‘s women’s magazine, Lola. Now, Brooke’s living in suburban New York City as a stay-at-home mom (check out her blog here), but we both have sons almost the same age and have stayed in touch. In fact, I was there when she was first pregnant with Harper — we’d taken a weekend trip to Cape Cod with a couple of other writer friends, and, while out to dinner, Brooke insisted that the wine tasted weird. Turned out she was pregnant. Because, really, in what other state of mind or body does wine taste awful? (Harper is now a very cute toddler.)
So: She tagged me for a meme, and I’m going to do my best to answer here, but I might cheat a little bit and talk about articles I’ve written, too. Forgive me, Brooke–but thanks for tagging me!
– Your most beautiful post
This is tough, because I don’t consider myself a “beautiful” writer. Once I wrote a kind of mushy piece for the Globe‘s Coupling column and sent it to my brother, Matt, as per usual, for an honest critique. “This doesn’t sound like you,” he said. I got what he meant: I was trying too hard to be flowery, sentimental. It took me awhile to realize that writing can be beautiful without being ornate; I’m more Bette Midler than Gwyneth Paltrow. As long as it’s authentic, that’s all that matters. Anyway, a couple of months ago, my whole family–parents, Andy, Brian, my brother–went to a Lowell Spinners game. I always cry when I go to Lowell. Just do. I drive straight to my grandparents’ three-story tenement house at 75 Andrews Street, park in front at the weedy sign that says “parking reserved for resident of dwelling,” stare at the front porch where a little girl’s swing now hangs in the doorway, and I smell my Nana’s Shalimar, and I hear her police scanner, and I see D sweeping a proud little patch of driveway…. and I bawl.
It’s where my grandparents lived and died and didn’t want anything more than to live or die; it’s where they’re buried. My grandfather played baseball in Lowell, my parents met in Lowell, and then … here we were, back in Lowell. Watching baseball, with my son, who’s named after my grandfather. Not sure if this post was “beautiful,” but it was heartfelt, and, yes, I cried when I wrote it.
– Your most popular post
A lot of people wrote to me, either personally or on my website, after I brought up the exorbitant costs of paying for college. I love writing about things that people hate to talk about–which, let’s face it, usually involve money. It’s like picking a really gratifyingly ready-to-pop zit. I’m 32 and staring down $50,000-plus a year if Andy goes to a private college of his choice, just as I did–and the kid doesn’t even have facial hair yet. Meanwhile, his mother hates paying more than $10 for a margarita. Anyway, almost everyone shared a similar level of freaked-outed-ness, which was refreshing and necessary; at our age, it’s easy to stress about what you “should” be doing and assuming that everyone else is doing more. Clearly, yelping “I’m scared!” barely scratches the surface of what’s wrong with the tuition system, but admitting that very few 32-year-olds–even those of us who work hard, save responsibly, and on and on–have four years’ worth of college tuition collecting dust as a wad of cash inside Granny’s hope chest is a good start.
– Your most controversial post
I haven’t blogged about anything controversial, but I wrote a piece for the Globe about choosing to bottle-feed that made some people go predictably nuts and, shockingly, judge my capacity as a mother. Oh, right, yes, I admit it: I also let Andy vegetate in front of our shadily financed TV for 21 hours per day while I play World of Warcraft and shove Dorito’s down my gullet. I’m a heathen! Belch. Judgment is currency in the world of motherhood. Why? Fodder for another article, I guess…
– Your most helpful post
So, I guess my most heartfelt and helpful piece of writing was this story I did for the Washington Post about panic disorder. I was feeling very tentative and nervous and at sea, and it took all my courage to pitch this piece about my experiences. But I also knew I had to do it, and I felt bad-ass and true. It resonated with so many people, and I finally felt as if I had a purpose larger than my own selfish career success (which, at that point, involved downing glasses of white wine next to CNN celebrities) or getting a great deal at DSW. Mental health issues don’t get enough attention. Period. It’s OK not to be happy all the time–something I struggled with in my twenties, a time when I tried to project an image of constant achievement and “perfection.” It’s OK to be scared, and to be human.
– A post you feel didn’t got the attention it deserved
This was ages ago, but I wrote a piece for the New Republic about the post-9/11 “lost” generation. I’m reading articles now about that lost generation and the fading middle-class, and I wish I’d articulated my own points better six years ago. I was young and intimidated and young and…intimidated.
This was ages ago, but I wrote a piece for the New Republic about the post-9/11 “lost” generation. I’m reading articles now about that lost generation and the fading middle-class, and I wish I’d articulated my own points better six years ago. I was young and intimidated and young and…intimidated.
– The post that you are most proud of
Writers are brave. Our hobbies and our emotions are also our vocations. Writers lay themselves bare; maybe it’s narcissism, maybe it’s self-loathing, maybe it’s the desire to legitimize our tendency toward capriciousness by capturing a shred of honest emotion in a moment. A friend of mine recently posted complainingly on Facebook about how annoyingly easy it is for people to classify themselves as writers or editors. Because most people write every day! Well, Brian might jog to the bus every day–but that doesn’t make him a runner. I might steam up something soggily nutritious for dinner. But it sure doesn’t make me a professional cook.
Writers are brave. Our hobbies and our emotions are also our vocations. Writers lay themselves bare; maybe it’s narcissism, maybe it’s self-loathing, maybe it’s the desire to legitimize our tendency toward capriciousness by capturing a shred of honest emotion in a moment. A friend of mine recently posted complainingly on Facebook about how annoyingly easy it is for people to classify themselves as writers or editors. Because most people write every day! Well, Brian might jog to the bus every day–but that doesn’t make him a runner. I might steam up something soggily nutritious for dinner. But it sure doesn’t make me a professional cook.
Writers lace together words to form opinions to form lasting impressions that hopefully effect some small change. And we do it with some care.
And so: I just know that I’ve always had an extraordinarily high bullshit detector and have always wanted to let other people that they’re not alone — whether it means living in a kitchen with rancid scrambled eggs under the fridge, wanting to shove kung pao chicken down your throat at 1 a.m. even though it’s a bad idea, celebrating a night out with your husband without talking about bowel movement odor gradients, or waking up hung over with a six month old. It’s all legitimate, and it’s all real, and I’m proud of (almost) all of it.
I’m Baaaaaaaaaaaack
15 Sep
A young rebel.
Well, hello there. So I swore I’d never be one of those people who started a blog, posted a few entries, and then proceeded to neglect it like a lonesome Friendster profile. Yet here I am. Last you saw me, Andy and I had just recovered from his massive birthday party, and things have changed since then. For one thing, as you can see, he now has a tattoo. Kids grow up so fast, don’t they? (Thanks, Island Creek Oyster Festival!)
However: I can assure you that there’s going to be plenty more blog excitement in the near future–more on that later–and that everyone here is just dandy. I’ve been incredibly busy with work, I’m putting the final touches on my book proposal at last, and I’m nursing a head cold that makes me sound like Kathy Bates. Andy, meanwhile, is practicing saying “hiiiiii” like an ancient Gypsy psychic. It’s cute ‘n creepy, especially when he pairs his crackly “hiiiiiii” with a curly wave of his beefy lil’ paw. Also, my house is so dirty that I could probably make a souffle with the contents of my kitchen floor…So, basically, it’s business as usual around here.
Stay tuned for more. And…um…when do infant tattoos wash off?
It’s A Toddler Kegger
5 Aug
Andy pauses for a post-fete photo with his Auntie Diane and cousin Julia.
It could’ve been a frat party: Beer bottles everywhere. Stained clothes on the floor. Chips ground into the rug. People napping on the carpet. Oh, and a dirty diaper beneath my bed. (OK, maybe a nursing-home kegger.)
In fact, this was the scene at Andy’s totally fantastic first birthday party. When I told older people (my co-worker, my mom) about Andy’s party plans, they were sort of … shocked. “Don’t you know the rule?” my colleague laughed. “The number of guests should correspond to the baby’s age!” Which means I should have invited one person to Andy’s party. Instead I invited 50.
Brian and I love having big parties. Well, I do, once I get past the hives-inducing anxiety induced by frantic Swiffering and dusting. And Brian secretly does, too — he cooked for about 60 people at his grad school graduation party, hunched over his prized fryer and producing his miraculously deliciously disgusting deep-fried chicken wings.
So we thought nothing of inviting 50 of Andy’s nearest and dearest to our abode for a Saturday afternoon soiree. We’re lucky that most of our family lives nearby, and a lot of our friends do, too. Unluckily, our house isn’t exactly designed for sweeping fetes. Nonetheless, I adorned our porch with a massive Pooh Bear balloon and procured all manner of Pooh Bear decorations from Party Needs in Waltham, which has the distinction of housing bachelorette party leatherwear and Thomas the Tank Engine paper plates in the same aisle.
When the party first got underway, I was panicked because nobody had arrived. I felt exceedingly pathetic and tried to assure the few stragglers who had arrived that things would get exciting really soon, all while foisting upon them platters of haphazardly cut cheese. Andy, happily oblivious, was munching on his hand.
Then, suddenly, it seemed everyone crowded the door at once. With children. Sticky, unwieldy, cute, energetically mobile children. I immediately retreated to my bedroom with a large glass of wine, cursing my ineptitude. Where was I going to put them all? I guess I figured that people would spill onto the porch, but instead everyone wanted to congregrate–naturally–around the dining room table, near Brian’s artfully arranged platter of deli meat. What if people were too hot? What if there wasn’t enough beer? What if an overzealous two-year-old disrobed on my Oriental rug? Crap.
Then something amazing happened. People began to fend for themselves! Parents took their babies into Andy’s room to play. A few older people made their way to the quiet of the porch. The older kids discovered the pleasures of our garden hose and began dousing one another in the backyard. Others chatted vivaciously on the sofa.
Most importantly, Andy was having a ball. (Andy! Right! The reason I’d spent $200 on obscenely ugly Eeyore paper plates!) Every time I peeked at him, a different friend or relative was toting him around, cooing. At one point he was bouncing up and down in the center of a circle of babies, stroking their faces and squealing. He loved every minute — until it was time for cake. I began to bellow like a gym teacher and got everyone to crowd around the dining room table. I hauled Andy’s high chair into the doorway and strapped him in. Brian ceremoniously cut the birthday cake, which his Aunt Joy had made specially for him. We handed Andy a plate and began to sing.
And he began to shriek, flinging his dessert to and fro. His hair was more frosted than Debbie Gibson’s circa 1988. And so, like any confident host, he waved goodbye and retreated to the calm of his bedroom, settling down for a nice long nap while the party carried on without him.
What’s The Craziest Food You’ve Ever Fed Your Child?
7 Jul
- Got it all over his face. He’s really Sari.
Because Brian and I absolutely love to eat – we’ve been lucky to shove delicacies down our gullets at some truly fantastic restaurants over the years, partially through my work and partially because we forgo countless other hobbies to spend money dining out. And we really love to eat adventurously.
For us, Sunday morning dim sum is a religion. We plan our vacations based around food; Barcelona was pretty and all, but I was mainly interested in the razor clams at Cal Pep. New Mexico skiing? Screw it. In Taos, I went straight for a simmering vat of red chile at the Old Blinking Light. I’ve fought seagulls for fried clams and stood in line for three hours just for a snappy gobble of Flo’s relish-smeared hot dogs in Maine. On a recent trip to Montreal, I performed all sorts of mental calisthenics just to recall my college French and pleaded with no fewer than five hapless pedestrians for directions to Chinatown.
Yet we’ve been uncharacteristically cautious with Andy’s diet. Both of us have an irrational fear that he’ll choke on anything that isn’t a nursing home-ish puree. So he’s been eating vegetables designed for denture-wearers, with the occasional yogurt drop or Puff snack thrown in for variety. I suppose this is a bit hypocritical, as I also let him munch on my laptop cord with wild abandon … sadly, Gerber doesn’t make pureed wires.
Last night Brian and I stopped at our favorite Indian restaurant, Guru, to pick up takeout. I got my usual: goat curry and saag paneer. Brian opted for tikka masala and peas in tomato sauce. Dinner in our house is usually an exercise in indigestion: We spread our bounty atop the coffee table while Andy plays on the living room floor for a few precious moments. Eventually, he’ll began to bang on the coffee table, then begin chewing on wires, and then — fearing he’ll plug himself directly into an electric socket — one of us abandons our meal and plops him into his high chair for his evening puree.
Last night, I got a brilliant idea. Maybe my budding Wilfred Brimley should join us for dinner! I worried that he felt excluded. Brian dutifully hauled his portable high chair into the living room (we’re far too uncivilized to actually eat like normal people, at a dining room table … how else would we watch “Jeopardy”?) and sprinkled some YoBaby drops on his tray. But no. Andy craned his neck and bayed at Brian. He was clearly interested in his carton of tikka masala. We paused for a moment and then figured, why not? Why the hell not? What’s the worst that could happen — indigestion? Doesn’t Padma Lakshmi feed her kid exclusively Indian food? If her child can handle it, well, so could innocent young Andy.
We spoon-fed him a tiny dollop of curry. After the initial shock of the spice–his eyes widened and his face turned pink–he loved it. He began smacking his lips and begging for more, which we obligingly fed him. He was delighted.
Tonight, Brian was working late so I was on kitchen duty. Leftovers! I fished some curry remnants from the fridge and mixed it with peas in tomato sauce. He gulped several bites until I began to get selfish (these were my leftovers, too!) and switched him to a Gerber puree. No luck. He promptly smeared it like a face-mask and craned his neck toward my food once again.
I’m psyched. If Andy can stomach Indian food, I’m guessing a dim sum outing (chicken feet? shrimp noodles?) is just a matter of time.
What’s the weirdest food you’ve ever fed your kid?
Happy Fourth of July!
3 Jul
Mom made me wear this hat.
Andy’s spending the weekend sunning himself in Kennebunkport with his Nana and Zeyde, Uncle Matt, and of course Brian and me. He’s had his first dip in the ocean, his first dip in a pool, and he’s behaved with aplomb in plenty of restaurants. Cuisine of choice: Sand. Happy Fourth of July!
Heading For Home
26 Jun
- I’ll make 2M next year…easy.
Andy was mesmerized as pie by his first baseball game. Brian got the whole family season tickets from a coworker for the Lowell Spinners — which afforded everyone a primo view of the game and also meant that we were sitting on top of mascots like the Canaligator (Lowell was built on a canal) and Bob the Toothbrush (also, residents suffer from gingivitis!). My parents bought Andy special Red Sox overalls for the occasion–humbly pictured here.
He was captivated throughout–with a few gentlemanly pauses for purees and Puffs. He made fast friends with a preschooler named Conor and bucked each time a new mascot trotted onto the field. Behind me, a harried mother bemoaned the lines at Market Basket. A scrubbed older gent named Bob, decked out in a yellow collared shirt and pressed khakis, whipped the crowd into a frenzy with “Who Let the Dogs Out”and joked with little kids. He could’ve been D.
My grandfather, D to everyone (but to me first), was christened Paul. He’s the reason my son is named Paul Andrew. He played baseball in Lowell in the 1930s, when he lived with six brothers and one sister in a house on West London Street, not knowing then — but probably knowing then — that they’d never move more than a few blocks from home.
He had albums upon meticulous albums, now mine, with Lowell Sun clippings chronicling his exploits. “Little Paulie Durkin”‘s special talent was pitching. If not for World War Two, he could’ve probably played out here, too.
LeLacheur Park isn’t Fenway. It’s next to the Aiken Bridge, which connects nowhere to a slightly more hilly nowhere. There are burned-out factories, refurbished lofts, and a downtown that’s been “gentrifying” for 20 years. Tickets cost $15 a pop. Whatever crap I was trying to digest from a heart-attack-inducing dinner in Cambridge the night before could never measure up to whatever was for dinner down the street at the Owl Diner … and it was probably twice as good and half as expensive, sucker that I am.
This was never my home. But it is home.
My parents grew up in Lowell. My mother has approximately 3980o958 cousins, all of whom are from here, and most of ‘em still live here. At LeLacheur Park--named after one of my grandfather’s good friends and baseball teammates–an advertisement for our cousin’s car dealership hangs on a banner; meanwhile my ex-boyfriend, whose dad grew up next to my dad, announces the game. The field was dedicated by the city manager, Brian Martin, another of D’s close friends from a block down Andrews Street. D said they used to shoot hoops in his paved backyard, overlooking the Prince Spaghetti Factory.
We parked in the Notini’s parking Lot. Notini’s is where my grandfather worked as a wholesale tobacco salesman for more than 40 years, before retiring to help my mom take care of my brother and me. D was such a graceful athlete and a gifted baseball player. He loved Spinners games, following them as excitedly as any Red Sox game. These fields were the same ones where D played, with different names and in different times, decades ago. His friend and teammate Ed LeLacheur died last year. My grandfather died in 2008. But Notini’s is still here. The pink sun that illuminated the Aiken Bridge is the same pink sun that saw my grandfather home after so many baseball practices so many years ago.
As I flip-flopped to my seat, sweaty beer in one hand, Andy’s diaper bag slapping against my ribs, nachos in a free paw–I smiled because I knew that I hadn’t inherited any of his grace.
But I hope he saw us.
Seeing my sixty-two-year-old parents waiting for us in the seats that their son-in-law procured, blocks from the high school where they met as 16-year-olds, looking for their grandson Paul Andrew…I knew he saw us. D was there.
