It was a marvelous three days. I really can think of few things better than the company of old, dear friends. People who knew me before I was fully formed. The thing is that when we were all in college, and even in the years immediately after, we always assumed that when the time came for us to settle down and procreate, that we’d do it the same way we were living then: communally. It never occurred to us that we might not really know each other’s children well, or even worse, that they wouldn’t know each other at all. Obviously, everyone feels like they know my kids, especially the more colorful members of the clan, but we are not living the way we thought we would, and I have to fight the urge to get all sad and wistful when we get together.

But, my predisposition for glumness aside, it was wonderful. I saw friends, soaked up some culture, including both a play and an art exhibit that were both completely inappropriate for kids [I never never understood parents who, when alone, saw anything remotely child friendly, not to mention child-targeted] and the constant, marvelous distraction of NYC meant that I didn’t think about the kids much while I was gone, and I didn’t look at my watch and wonder what they were doing. Nobody broke bones, and everyone seemed rather well behaved in my absence. The boys called me once and said something about the police calling the house, but M assured me that he had made that up to scare them into going to bed on Friday night. Fair enough. It’s was so very easy to shut off the constant schedule that rolls in my mind, like an old news wire, almost ticking as if in Morse Code. Now that I am home it’s back on again and there’s no escape. Spring is especially bad because of the insanity of spring sports. It seems as though the Little League Powers That Be have intentionally scheduled 5,000 games because inevitably, 4,990 will be rained out. But that doesn’t help until the day of, when we all breathe a communal sigh of relief.

On another happy note, the kids were delighted to see me on Sunday night. It was remarkable. I like to gripe that M gets treated like the nightly Messiah each time he walks through the door [even the baby has now taken it upon herself to plaster herself to the glass door when she sees his car pull in], and when he returns from work trips the hoopla is even grander, but my presence goes largely unnoticed. Well, not only did I receive a hero’s welcome on Sunday night, but all night long the kids kept walking over and hugging me, as if to make sure I was still here. [It completely erased all memories I had of the pretty vile flight home sitting next to a couple of drunk imbeciles who made me get up every 15 minutes so they could pee and then discovering that someone had walked off with the beloved trench coat I had stashed in an overhead bin.]

Oh, while I was in NYC I met with a friend whose boyfriend’s mother reads coffee grounds (tasseography, for clever people) to tell the future. I couldn’t get enough of this. Especially because I drink coffee in a French press and it leaves a lovely, oily clump of residue on the bottom of my cup. Like this:

I have no idea what it means but the nine year old boy in me can’t help but launch into an array of scatological jokes. I am now going to spend what little work time I have left trying to figure this out. If anyone can read this, let me know what I have in store today. Please.

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One response to “Home

  1. Pingback: Weak at the … hips. | This is the Corner We Pee In

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