Animal House and the Birthday Girl

 

(google image via digitalinkreport.com)

It’s late March, 1992. My mother is standing by the piano with an overturned hat in her hands. In the hat are four folded squares of paper. On each square, she has written one of each of these names:

• Allegheny College, Meadville, PA
• Centre College, Danville, KY
• Miami University, Oxford, OH
• Ohio Northern University, Ada, OH

I’ve applied and been accepted to eight different schools, although I’m not sure why I went after so many. I guess I want options, option, options, and now that I have them, I’ve narrowed them down to the four that “fit best.” I don’t exactly know what that means, but I can say the past four years have been tough ones. (Isn’t high school tough for everyone?) I want to go somewhere new, completely start over. I want to go by gut feel alone.

My mom shakes the hat and peers over its brim. “Are you ready?” she asks.

“I think so.”

In the middle of the dining room table there sits a large bouquet of purple and white hyacinths. The room is steeped in their sticky-sweet scent. I breathe them in as my mom reaches into the hat.

She opens the square slowly at first, then quickly and triumphantly. “Allegheny!” she says with naked delight.

My mom hails from Pennsylvania. She hasn’t said so, but I know Allegheny is her first choice. She and my dad took turns slogging through all the campus tours and overnights with me, and at Allegheny, she was different. She was more relaxed, maybe, like she’d found the place she’d feel comfortable enough to let me try myself out for a while.

Now her eyes squint. Her face is flushed. “Allegheny!” she says again.

“Allegheny!” I say to let it roll around on my tongue. It doesn’t feel right. I say it again just to be sure.

She watches me for a moment. Then she drops the square into the hat and reshakes the collection. “Best two out of three,” she says brightly.

I hold my breath as she pulls the next square.

“Centre College!” she says.

My heart skips. I grin all over myself.

She surveys my response. The square goes in again. And then it comes out.

She holds it up to my face and then places it in my hands. I feel sure of this square, sure of her handwriting, sure of this final decision. And while part of me feels guilty—Centre is the farthest away, the most expensive, the one with the smallest scholarship—the other part of me wraps my life around it.

My mother smiles. She gives me a hug, and for a while neither of us lets go.

~*~

I think about how impossible it must be to let your children strike out on their own. I know it’s impossible because I can’t bear the thought even now, with the boys as small as they are. Occasionally, I drive them past Ohio State University. “There it is, guys!” I exclaim. “Look, Ohio Stadium! Maybe one day you’ll be Buckeyes just like Pa. It’s close to home; I’ll bake you brownies whenever you want them.”

They kick their feet happily and peer through the car windows. I nod smugly, because I’m not above brainwashing. I’m not above doing whatever it takes to keep them here.

This is how I know my mom is a better mother than I am.

~*~

You can’t know at 18 what it means to tell a college to expect you in the fall—how the next four years will influence the decisions you make from that point. You’ll cull your knowledge and prospects and social mores from those first years of adulthood, and those years will shape everything else. I look around me and know that everything I have, everything I strive for, all my beliefs and convictions—everything, everything—comes from the foundation my parents set for me, and the person I grew into at school.

My mom helped me prepare, helped me pack, helped me go. She helped me come home when I needed to, then helped me go back out again.

In my life, I’m grateful for so much. But that moment in the dining room, with my mom and the hat and the hyacinths and the hope I held in my hands—that’s the moment I’m most grateful for, because it led to everything else.

Love you so much, Mom. Thank you for everything. A very happy birthday to you. Here’s to your finest year yet.

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Update on #36: Death by (Lack of) Chocolate

Temptation, she is a cruel, persistent mistress.

Now 25 days into my promise to ban all sweets through (the week before) Lent, I am pleased to report that, for the first Lenten Season in my life, I am still 100% dessert-free. However, I feel I should point out that the sacrifice has taken its toll, as I am now but a brittle, broken shell of my former self, and besides all that, I’m quite grumpy.

You think I’m melodramatic, but consider the lengths I’ve gone to just to keep my behavior in check. In the last (nearly) four weeks, I’ve eaten mass quantities of some very strange things just to distract myself from any and all dessert-ish deliciousness:

• Tic Tacs (orange-flavored)
• Mentholated cough drops (cherry-flavored)
• Fistful after fistful of Life cereal (cinnamon-flavored)
• Salad and salad and salad (balsamic-vinaigrette flavored)
• Wheat crackers…so many wheat crackers (salt- and bread-flavored)

Please note that I’ve only resorted to these desperate measures in times of extreme stress. Otherwise, mostly I’m fine. Mostly, I’m doin’ ok, even as the freezer remains fully loaded with ice cream, and GB tells long and lovely tales of the Girl Scout Cookies he’s keeping at work, and the boys eat chocolate pudding after the dinners they barely touch, and I fall to pieces in the pantry.

Here’s the thing, though, about not cracking under pressure: I can’t explain this—maybe you can—but I’ve found a sick, sordid and darkly satisfying new past time: placing myself in the enemy’s way.

Here’s what I mean:

• Day 3: I made batch after batch of iced sugar cookies for the boys’ in-class birthday parties. I creamed the dairy-free butter and sugar. I whipped tall peaks of French vanilla frosting. I spread soft, rippled waves of said icing across the tops of said freshly baked cookies. And when I was finished, I dropped icing-coated whisks untouched into a full sink of water.
• Day 8: I handed 36 dairy/egg-free cupcakes to a room full of already over-sugared little boys who sang “Happy Birthday” to my fellows as they blew out the candles at their out-of-school birthday party. We had relatives at home, so of course there were bowls full of plain and peanut M&Ms that lingered for days…because I was not eating them.
• Day 16: I walked into a candy shop with this in the window:

Inside there were trays and trays of truffles and caramel clusters and chocolate-dipped pretzels and the like. I’m not sure how long I stared at the peanut butter fudge in the display case, but let’s just say it was a long, long time.

• Day 20: I handed a sample of chocolate caramel cake to O just to watch how much he enjoyed eating it. And he did enjoy it. A lot. I wish I’d thought to take a photo, because that sort of happiness needs to be captured and shared.
• Day 24: I began to daydream about the enormous Graeter’s ice cream cake (it’s ice cream! It’s cake!) I’m going to request the day I turn 37—just 27 days from today—and this whole dessert-free nightmare is finally over.

There’s only one way I can think of to end this update: Twenty-four days in, I also rediscovered Kettle Corn.

I finally know how I’m going to make it through the rest of the season.

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#31: The Family-that-Nearly-Wasn’t Leaves Chicago

I should explain that we didn’t just drive to Chicago for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. We came to the city for much more than that—or at least I did. Last weekend’s visit marked our first Chicago stay in almost a decade. But more importantly, it’s the first Chicago visit we’ve made with our boys.

“Really? You call that a first?” you ask. “Isn’t that a stretch? Aren’t you cheating a little?”

On the surface, maybe. Maybe I am. But read more. You can decide for yourself.

~*~

It’s Sunday, March 13, and we’re closing out my tenth Chicago visit with a trip to the Children’s Museum at the Navy Pier. Already, I’m feeling a sense of disconcerted awareness: It’s time to go; we really, really want to stay.

I’ll get into all of that in a minute. But first, I need to explain how my obsession with this city was born.

• Trips 1 and 2: Fresh from graduate school, I took a job with a three-person firm that raised sponsorships for some of the larger events in Columbus. My boss also held part-ownership in a few running magazines, so in the summers we flew to Chicago for an annual sporting goods convention. I got a lot of free stuff from Nike on those trips, but never saw much of the city. I vowed to go back and explore the place on my own.
• Trip 3: My mom, cousin and I decided to hit the town with no purpose other than to shop, eat marvelous food and check out the night life. My quest for adventure was a little different back then; I remember taking a taxi back to the hotel while my companions stayed out to the wee-est hours. I shake my head at this now, for obvious reasons.
• Trips 4, 5 and 6: When a friend announced she was engaged, we hopped a plane to Chicago to “field study” her bachelorette party. We spent our first two trips scouting out ideas for a girls’ weekend, and spent the sixth trip absorbing whatever the town had to offer with all the women in her wedding party. On those trips, I dug into the city to see as much of it as I could. Until then, I’d never been brave enough to seek out new experiences. In fact, I’d never really been game for anything much at all. But those weekends, I got a taste of opportunity. The city and I just clicked. I felt like I’d slipped into a skin I could mold into whatever I wanted, so I could learn to not be afraid of so much. It was a really good fit, and I liked it, and suddenly, everything was different.

Later, I tried to convince GB that we should scrap our jobs and move somewhere other than Columbus, where the opportunities were better and we could plot a new course together. I think he was tempted—there’s always something tempting about starting fresh—but in the end, we never set the wheels in motion. We agreed to be satisfied with frequent visits. That’s how trips eight and nine came about:

• (Trip 7: This stop almost doesn’t count; it was a business trip, and I didn’t even stay the night. Why? Why, exactly? Help me make sense of this, current employer!)
• Trips 8 and 9: Eventually, GB and I decided to pursue MBAs at a local university that allowed us to work full time and attend classes at night. One of our finance professors offered a course that involved killing time most of the semester until we could fly to Chicago and tour the financial exchanges. I took the class and brought GB as my guest. A year later, GB returned the favor.

I think it’s trip nine that I remember the most.

It was almost eight years ago. After months of considering a childless future (not because we didn’t want kids, but because I thought I’d be a horrible parent), GB and I had a collective change of heart and decided to start a family. On Father’s Day, we told our parents they’d be grandparents by mid-February. We ate homemade sour cream coffee cake on a bright summer morning to celebrate. The next day, I lost the baby.

A few days after that, we hopped a plane to tour the Fed, the Merc, and the floors of the Chicago Stock Exchange. I remember walking along Michigan Avenue and stopping at FAO Schwarz®. I watched other parents watch their children as they gaped at all the marvelous toys. Then I grieved for a family I was sure would never be.

It took two years to finally prove myself wrong.

~*~

Well, you know and I know this story has a happy ending. Although there isn’t an FAO Schwarz in Chicago anymore, there is one H and one O. I never would have foreseen this eight years ago.

It’s strange how hard it is to see forward through the face of loss. No matter what the ugly circumstance may be, well-meaning people will insist it will all work out for you in the end. Back then, I wanted to clutch those people by the shoulders, shake them and beg them not to make false promises. Because how could they possibly know what rights and wrongs could come out of this. And how could they not know how much not knowing could hurt.

That’s what faith and patience are for, though. Not every story has a rose-colored conclusion. But some stories do.

That’s why standing here in Chicago with my three best guys for the first time feels like a very big deal. GB and I went from wondering if we wanted this, to wanting it more than anything. We couldn’t grasp hold of it, and then suddenly we could, like a brightly wrapped box had been handed to us in a quiet flourish.

Now, we walk out of the Chicago Children’s Museum and pile into the car. As GB drives down Lakeshore Drive, I ask the boys what they’ve liked best about the trip.

“All of it, I fink,” H answers.

“That’s what I’ll say, too, Mama,” O agrees.

“Me, too,” I say. “All of it, for sure.”

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Maura’s List of Ridiculously Great Irish Things

(google image via literatehousewife.com)

(For best results, please read with an Irish brogue.)

Sure, if I didn’t have big plans for this week! I thought I’d be tellin’ ye all kinds of tall tales and reciting dirty limericks and playin’ Irish drinking songs for ye on th’ days leadin’ up to this, St. Patrick’s Day. But alas, it was not meant to be. I’m still tryin’ to handle my tasks at the office now that I’m one editor short.

While I’m doin’ me work, I’ll be leavin’ ye with some ridiculous Irish greatness to consider.

~*~

Confession Jokes

Who doesn’t love a quick bit about sin and atonement? There are lots of jokes about confession, but this one’s my favorite:

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It’s been six months since my last confession. On top of that, I’ve been with a loose woman.”

The priest sighs. “Is that you, Tommy O’Shaughnessy?”

“Yes, Father, ’tis I.”

“And who might be the woman you were with?”

“I shan’t be tellin’ you, Father. It would ruin her reputation.”

“Well, Tommy, I’m bound to find out sooner or later, so you may as well tell me now. Was it Brenda O’Malley?”

“I cannot say, Father.”

“Was it Patricia Fitzgerald?”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll not name her.”

“Was it Fiona Mallory, then?”

“Please, Father, I cannot tell you.”

The priest sighs in frustration. “You’re a steadfast lad, Tommy O’Shaughnessy, and I admire that. But, you’ve sinned, and you must atone. Be off with you now…”

Tommy walks back to his pew. His friend Sean slides over and whispers, “What’d you get?”

Tommy pats his friend on the back. “Three more good leads, lad. Let’s go.”

The Wild Rover by The Pogues

No one captures an Irish drinking song better than Shane MacGowan and his band’s punk take on this traditional Irish tune.

Requiscat by Oscar Wilde

Wilde is widely considered to be one of the most brilliant writers of his time. What I love most about this piece is how he uses understatement and control to so elegantly convey one of life’s most devastating emotions.

Tread lightly, she is near
Under the snow,
Speak gently, she can hear
The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,
She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,
She hardly knew
She was a woman, so
Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,
Lie on her breast,
I vex my heart alone,
She is at rest.

Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.

James Joyce’s Dubliners

When you have an Irish mother like I do, Irish fiction has a way of peppering the bookshelves. When I was 9, I picked up Finnegan’s Wake, realized it was too far over my head, and never revisited Joyce again.

Until.

Last year I read Dubliners, and spent every last word cursing myself for having missed out on Joyce for so long.

If you’re so inspired, read this Dubliners excerpt, titled “The Sisters.”

Irish Cream Coffee

Forget Guinness. Here’s how to celebrate the luck o’ the Irish.

1 12-oz. wine glass, preheated 10 oz. Bewley’s Gold Roast Instant Coffee
1-1/2 jigger Bailey’s Original Irish Cream
1/4 c. heavy cream, whipped until stiff peaks form ground cinnamon (optional)

Pour hot coffee into the heated glass. Add the Bailey’s and stir well to blend. Top with a mound of whipped cream. Sprinkle with cinnamon if desired.
Yield: 1 serving

Irish Soda Bread

Of course you’ll need to nibble on something while you enjoy your favorite Irish beverage. Here’s a recipe from Gourmet Magazine, March 2002 to get you started.

(google image via justcastironcookware.com)

Irish Setters

When I was but a wee lass, we had a dog who looked just like this:

(google image via dogbreedinfo.com)

His name was Rory, and from what I remember, he slobbered a lot and wasn’t very smart, but I loved him.

Irish Blessings

I like to laugh at the raunchy ones. (Who doesn’t?) But what I like even more is a kind phrase said with sincerity, like this one.

May you live a long life
Full of gladness and health,
With a pocket of gold
As the least of your wealth.
May the dreams you hold dearest,
Be those which come true,
The kindness you spread,
Keep returning to you.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to ye and yours!

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
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#30: Erin Go Bragh, Chicago Style

 

(google image via gallagher.com)

It’s late on Friday night. When we check into the Fairmont Hotel at Millennium Park, I tell the guy behind the desk we’re in town for the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. His hair is black and his eyes are bright blue; I think he looks a bit Irish himself. I assume he’ll know the rundown of tomorrow’s events, and apparently he does: Chicago River turns green at 10:45 am, parade starts on Columbus Drive at noon, and then, all the drunken crazies come out. I thank him, grab the keys and steer my fellas to our room.

Our view is quite nice. We can see the river. I wonder aloud if we’ll be able to watch the greening of the water from the comfort of the 22^nd floor. This turns out to be the case, because when I happen by the window at 9:45 am on Saturday, I see a pool of green dye flowing downstream in a rush.

“Wait! We’re missing the greening!” I exclaim. At once, the guys run to the windows to see for themselves. They start throwing on shoes and coats, and in five minutes, we rush out onto the street.

It’s 40 degrees and overcast. It’s not frigid, thankfully, but let’s face it, it could be warmer. After making that basic observation, we remember we left our hats and gloves in our car, which is parked a long city block away in the dregs of public parking, and in the opposite direction of our path to the river.

We press on, and at the end of the stretch, we see this.

It really that green.

The mobile cameras of the city are working overtime. Couples smooch before the green water hoping a little luck will rub off on their relationships. My boys are equal parts grossed out and stealthily curious. We decide to keep moving, but not without first buying hats. (Geebus. The wind in this town.)

~*~

We walk for an hour, killing time before the parade. O is in full complain mode, uttering under his breath that he’s cold and hates parades and wants to go to the toy store. I feel for him and his four-year-old legs walking all over this windy, cold snap of town. I suspect I’m asking too much from him, so I pick him up and together we shuffle through the crowd. I get happy, unlimited hugs for the next 10 minutes until he grows drowsy and his little arms go slack. At first, I think he’s asleep. Then he mutters that the city has too many people and his fingers are cold and he’s tired.

We find a spot among the green and teeming masses of Irish men and women who have dug in their heels along Columbus Drive. A stranger hands the boys a sleeve of shamrock stickers; they peel them off the backing and slap them against our lapels until all four of us are covered in clovers and saucy Irish sayings. My guys are rosy-cheeked and happy now; they stay that way until two of our party suddenly realize that nature is calling.

So what should one do? The parade is 10 minutes from starting, bathrooms are four blocks away, everyone is cold and none of us really likes a parade much anyway. We wait long enough for the Color Guard to pass, stay for the bag pipes then turn on our heels to go.

It sounds like a waste, but it’s not. Here’s why:

On the way back to the hotel, GB carries a sleeping O while H and I swing hands and lead through the crowd. Eventually we find the hotel, step into the elevators, troll through the hallways and burst into the still of our cozy room. O sacks out cold on the bed and stays there in a steady snooze for the next two hours. GB and H decide to watch a little March Madness, so I crawl under the covers to try to get warm. It doesn’t take long to find a little nap for myself, too.

See? Does that sound like a waste to you? We could have done all of this at home, but the point is, we wouldn’t have.

When I said we’d attend the St. Patrick’s Day parade, that’s what I meant, and so that’s what we did. I never said we’d have to stay for the whole thing. By my book, mission accomplished.

~*~

It occurred to me Friday that we stumbled upon another 36×37 assignment this weekend, which is nice, especially now that I’m so close to the April 17 cut-off date. I’ll write all about it tomorrow.

In the meantime, as promised, I’ll leave you with a wee Irish tune to gear you up for this Thursday’s official St. Patrick’s Day’s festivities. I’ve decided not to post a traditional Irish tune today. Instead, I think I’ll stick to something a little more contemporary—Van Morrison—not only because he’s great and hails from Northern Ireland, but also because I know the artist choice will make my friend Sunshine happy.

Van Morrison – Gloria

More tomorrow. Top o’ the mornin’ (or evenin’) to all ye Irish at heart, and to all the rest of ye, too.

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
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#30 is coming: Watching Chicago Go Irish

(via 2sistersblog.com)

Every year on March 1, my mother breaks out four things: 1) the Irish flag, 2) Irish decorations, 3) Irish accessories, and 4) a host of jaunty, traditional Irish tunes. There are four weeks of nothing but leprechaun socks and fiddles and tenors and bass drums, because even after St. Patrick’s Day has passed, she just keeps going, enjoying her heritage until April Fools Day shows its impish, pranking face.

If you don’t think this is an important element in shaping a family, look at it this way: I spent exactly 1/12 of my childhood celebrating a single day. There was a period where I tried to ignore all the Irishness, just to be rebellious, but these days, on the day, I’m the person who passes out clover stickers at work and wears buttons that say things like, “Top o’ the mornin’!” and “Pretend I’m the Blarney Stone.”

It also means that, should we ever walk into an Irish pub with a live band, I’ll make you learn to sing along to this:

The Dubliners & The Pogues – Whiskey in the Jar

That’s just how it is. When you have an Irish mother, you can’t help yourself. When my boys are grown, I hope they’ll know these songs by heart, too.

~*~

When I was young, we’d go so far as to travel three hours to celebrate appropriately. In my mother’s hometown of Pittsburgh, there’s a massive Irish population that puts on an equally massive St. Patrick’s Day parade. We didn’t go every year, but we went often enough. And when it was over, we walked around town in our Irishness to find other people who were Irish, too, even if just for the day.

Ah. Fun, Irish-y times were had by all.

We’re not going to Pittsburgh this weekend. Not at all. After 36 years of learning to celebrate the day, I’m finally ready for the biggest St. Patrick’s Day celebration there is this side of the Atlantic. And as my half-Irish/half-Sicilian luck would have it, the festivities just happen to be in my favorite American city.

Chicago.

(Oh, my heart just wept happy Irish tears.)

Because here’s what you must know: When I first put together my 36×37 list, St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago was the very first thing I thought of. And now we’re headed there tonight at 3:00 PM ET. Which just goes to show: once a lass sets her sights on something, nothing can tell her “no.”

I’ve packed my greens, complete with shamrock-dotted knee-high socks, so I can do this up right, 36×37 style. When my fellas and I get there, we’ll see a river dyed green and men in kilts and lots o’ bag pipes and Irish wolfhounds and Celtic dancers and people who are far drunker than I could ever hope to be.

I’ll take pictures. I’ll post them here. And as an added bonus, my posts shall greet thee with a wee Irish tune every day next week. You’ll either love them, or you’ll say what H said tonight when I popped in some live cuts from the Pogues: “How could anyone clap for this stuff?”

Céad míle fáilte! (One hundred thousand welcomes.)

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Caught in a Downpour

First, I’m absolutely lashing with apologies. Each time my iPhone dings, I see WordPress notices from friends who have written something new. Bloggers, I’m clamoring to read your posts and shower your words with comments.

But the truth is, someone resigned on me at the office this week, so I’m spending my free time redistributing work to the rest of my team. Once that’s finished, I can sit back and wait for someone to retaliate by: 1) egging my windows, 2) laying a flaming bag of poo on my doorstep, or 3) keying automotive-love-of-my-life, Jones. With a vengeance. And then I shall cry.

So: Here’s a post I wrote in July about rain, a stolen hour and music. Bloggers, my fingers are crossed that I’ll catch up with you on Friday to see what sort of trouble you’ve been getting yourselves into.

~*~

Caught in a Downpour – July 26, 2010

My original plan was to wake early and run before anyone missed me. When the alarm sounded at 6:30 AM, my groggy mind and sinus headache regarded each other, shook hands, and agreed to go back to sleep.

Now it’s 7:30 AM. The morning is dry and cool—perfect for running—but a pocket of grim and gathering clouds lines the northwest sky. So what then? Run in the rain? I’d kind of love that. The problem is, I don’t like to run without music. And since I’ve stored my favorite mp3s on my water-averse iPhone, I need to make a decision. The sky above me is eerie and yellow, but the storm is miles away. The rain could hold for 40 minutes or so—just long enough for a 5 mile workout.

I decide to test fate, and the first two miles are easy. The air is crisp and still. Then, half-way through mile 3, the trees begin to blow sideways. I hear the rain before I feel those first heavy drops land squarely on my forehead.

Oh, my sweet baby iTunes, I think. Things are about to take a nasty turn.

~*~

To date, I have exactly 424 mp3s and 540 photos locked in the sacred memory of my mobile device. I’ve never backed up those files because my company’s code of conduct says I can’t sync my phone on my laptop. If my iPhone gets wet, all those files will disappear. Hundreds of dollars plus hours of my listening enjoyment would be washed away with just a few well-placed raindrops.

I’m two blocks from my neighborhood Starbucks. If I sprint, maybe I can make it there before the sky drains all over this sidewalk.

So I run full tilt. I take a sharp left into a condo complex that juts up against my favorite hard-core caffeine supplier. What I’ve never realized until today—what I never had a reason to notice—is that a 5-feet tall chain link fence separates the two structures. I’m sure I can scale the fence, that’s not the problem. But by now, the storm has unleashed itself. I look around and see a long garage with a 2 ½ foot overhang. I’ll be fine out here under the gutters, I think. This kind of downpour can’t last long.

~*~

In movies, you can tell when the “rain” is really just the studio’s sprinkler system. The water pours down in visible streams and splashes all over the set. That’s exactly how this thunderstorm is. The drops fuse together into furious lines that strike loudly against the pavement; they don’t change direction. It’s just a straight shot from sky to ground.

I watch those drops fall, listening to the slush of cars edging wetly through the neighborhood. My shoes are damp from the dripping overhang, but my iTunes are bone dry. I call GB to tell him I’m fine, then spend the next half-hour shuffling through my favorite songs. I feel sleepy and relaxed, and I’m all settled in when GB calls to say he’ll come find me.

Pantha du Prince – Welt Am Draht (Animal Collective Remix)

~*~

In a way, I wish I could stay longer. It’s just a half hour I’m glad I’ve had. In this time, I’ve thought of next to nothing—just rain and music and rain again. I’ve been forced to be still and quiet—a bit like sleeping, I guess. For a chronic multitasker like me, that’s really kind of a gift.

When GB pulls up, I’m glad to see him. The boys are smiling through their red hooded rain jackets. They spend the ride home recounting the morning’s cartoons. I tell them I missed them and they kick their feet happily. The rain falls loudly for hours, and my house is noisy with play.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @36×37
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