So? I’m finished. What’s next?

We planted trees in the backyard on Friday night—a tiny Magnolia with shy, pink blooms, and a straight and sturdy Pear. GB dug beneath gray clouds while I waited for the sky to unfurl. I pitched in wherever I could; this was, after all, 36×37 assignment #35: Plant a Tree.

Here’s proof:

This is my shovel, this is my foot

I’m glad I got this photo, because I really did try. In all honesty, though, I’m a little short on brute force, and when it comes to digging, I’m largely unsuccessful.

I’ll admit, then, that the scene mostly looked like this:

…and this

…and this

He We didn’t have much time to work before the sun set, but it was enough time for me to thank GB for being so supportive and for helping me with the project this year. (You can read my first post and the explanation of 36×37 here.) If I thought he was my best friend before the last 365 days, I know it with all my heart now.

I tried to tell him so as he scooped soil back into the hole. I hoped he could tell I was sincere.

It started to rain. He didn’t pause, he just kept planting.

~*~

Magnolia tree

At its start, this project was really just a cover for my early mid-life crises. I hypothesized the lengths I thought I’d need to go to keep from smacking my head against the predictability of daily routine. I thought I’d need big doses of adventure to keep myself from growing old and stale. What I didn’t realize was that I’d been planting and harvesting adventures all along—even in the smallest things, like sipping a new Greek coffee, or planning a quiet evening out with GB, or whispering bedtime stories with the boys. The big-time adventures—like flying the Light Sport aircraft and doubling down in Vegas and taking trapeze lessons and standing on the state line—were great, truly. But when I started to look for new experiences, I realized I don’t need to work so hard to create them. They find me, they find us, until it’s absolutely intoxicating.

I did right to bring my family with me on this year’s adventures. They were essential, because all along I understood how much they are the critical ingredients to my happiness. It’s so much better to see life’s surprises together, and no matter which direction I look, I will always land on my family’s faces.

Just as importantly, this blog became a place to seek out a community. I had no idea the blogosphere was full of such remarkable people. Now I’m rich with friendship—the face to face kind, and the screen to screen kind, too, because I’ve found both to be equally important. I’ve met good people, excellent writers and story tellers, all with a love for experience. Best of all, I’ve become entrenched in dozens of funny, insightful, engaging, ongoing conversations. No small talk here.

It was so much more and so much better than I expected.

~*~

Pear tree

This morning, at breakfast, I had an idea.

“You know what we should do this year?” I said. “We should start a box. And every time we do something new or interesting or different, we should find a token of that moment, bring it home and put it in the box. At the end of the year, we can look at it all together. I can blog about each one so we have a quick record of each…”

And now, I finally know what the next phase of 36×37 will be. Forget the race against time. Forget the numbers. We’ll just look at this life together and see what we can squeeze out of it.

…As for assignment #36? I did it. And I ate the most gorgeous ice cream birthday cake to celebrate.

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#34: Back to the Future

Now, two days before this 36×37 adventure comes to an end, I’m staring down the barrel of my most sentimental assignment to date—Build a Family Time Capsule. I wish I’d given this idea more thought before now; a recap of the year so close to its end is anything but a good idea.

Because at first, my family searched the house for tokens to represent ourselves as individuals. I gathered: a three-year-old photo of the four of us outside on a sunny fall day; a dog-eared copy of Faulkner’s The Sound and the Fury; a widowed blue topaz earring that belonged to my grandmother.

I thought these things could sketch an outline of my character. But given the context, that sketch had no meaning, and I knew it.

Meanwhile, my fellas chose items that made much more sense. The boys handed me Lego guys and plastic, four-inch super heroes. (Appropriate selections, to be sure; they dominated nearly every conversation we’ve had this year.) GB added his ticket to OSU Vs. Miami 2010, his grandmother’s obituary from January, and last June’s Father’s Day card.

All tokens of April 2010 to April 2011.

That’s when I realized this assignment shouldn’t speak for us one by one. It should show the things families do to sustain themselves, to sustain each other.

~*~

Tonight, H sits down to dinner and reads us four books. He does this after 30 minutes of bike riding on a bright spring day. He can add and subtract now. He has a best friend. Soccer starts Saturday. Karate starts Monday. All of these things are new.

O made a duck this week at preschool. He can count to 50 with a little help, and he’s quick as a whip at building puzzles. He draws people and houses and cheerful flowers. He calls me “Mommy” now instead of “Mama.” It’s new and wonderful stuff. All of it.

GB has learned to relax. These days, there are games of chase, hoops in the driveway, funny late night conversations, a zest for traveling and exploring our surroundings. It’s hard for grown-ups to find balance, but I think he’s starting to master it.

And me, I’ve learned to take inventory. I thought I counted blessings before. I thought I did, but really, I had no idea.

Now my time capsule list is very different. To the super heroes and Lego guys and ticket stubs, I’ll add print-outs of each and every 36×37 assignment.

It just seems obvious. Let this year and this family speak for itself.

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#33: The Tooth Fairy Cometh

(via istockphoto.com)

I hear a commotion from where I stand at the kitchen sink. There is a scurry of feet, a pounding at the steps, and then a few quick taps from one excited little hand.

I look down to find a bouncing H. His mouth is open wide, and he points urgently to his two front lower incisors.

“They’re wiggly!” he shouts and then bounces some more.

“They are?!” I say. “Well, buddy, that’s great!” I ask him to stop hopping so I can check out his teeth for myself. Sure enough, they’re as wiggly as worms.

I’m happy for two reasons. First, my kindergartener—who walked at 10 months and spoke full sentences by his first birthday—is one of the last kids in his class to drop a few pearly whites. The delay has turned into a point of stress for my kiddo; lately, I’ve caught him with a furrowed brow and two plier-like fingers in his mouth. Often.

I’m also excited because I’ve never played the role of Tooth Fairy. It smacks soundly of a new 36×37 assignment. I’m thankful for that because it will replace what was supposed to be assignment #33 – Learn to Change a Tire.

H pokes through one of our many “junk” drawers and pulls out the Tooth Fairy pillow my mom gave him a few months ago. “I can finally use this!” he says, flashing a smile that will one day soon be two teeth short.

~*~

Now, I don’t know about you, but some of the people I know get competitive about certain things, like where they went on their last spa vacation, or what luxury car they plan to buy this summer. The habit extends all the way down the rank and file, because some parents in H’s class have forked over $20 per tooth, and their kids have talked about it with their friends. “That’s preposterous,” I think. “They’re baby teeth, for crying out loud.” And besides all that, H has 20 teeth to lose. Do we really need to invest $400 in this enterprise, when a $20 total sounds much more intelligent?

I take the question to my friends via facebook: “How much coin is the Tooth Fairy dropping these days?” I ask. My friends give reasonable answers: One to two dollars seems to be the going rate.

I dwell and dwell and dwell on this. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t, but look at it this way: If I take the reasonable route, will H come home and ask why the Tooth Fairy gave him $1, while Joe received a cool, green Jackson? If yes, what answer will I give—that the Tooth Fairy donated the other $19 to his college fund?

So I dwell some more. In fact, I dwell so much that I do something really stupid.

“I ran into Scott at the store,” I tell GB. “I told him H has two loose teeth, and asked him his opinion on the going Tooth Fairy rate. He said he gave his kids $20 for each tooth. I told him I thought that was crazy!”

I notice a strange look cross GB’s face. Then I remember where I am and what I’m doing: standing at the boys’ bathroom sink, helping H brush his tiny chompers.

Oh no.

H looks at me quizzically. “$20 per tooth?” he asks.

I give him a hug to hide my face while I back pedal. “That was a long time ago…” I say eventually. “Mr. Scott’s kids are teenagers now. I don’t think the Tooth Fairy gives away that much change anymore. You know. Because of the Recession.”

I look at GB who shakes his head and laughs. “Good work,” I tell myself. “You’ve just added another idiot move to your growing collection.”

~*~

We spend the next few days doing everything we can think of to extract the wigglier of the two teeth. H takes to apples. Steak. Hard candy. Rigorous brushing. In the end, GB takes matters into his own hands—literally. It’s a quick and painless yank, and H is ecstatic.

He slides the tooth into the pocket of the Tooth Fairy pillow then places it under the cool side of his blue and red pillow case.

“You might not want to shove it under so far,” I say. “I’ll bet the Tooth Fairy is about Tinkerbelle’s size; the pillow might be hard for her to lift.”

H nods appreciatively at my advice and slides the tiny pillow to the edge of the bed.

“I should go to sleep!” he says. “I don’t want to be awake when she gets here!”

“Good thinking,” I say.

“You should get to sleep, too, Mama,” he says. “I don’t want you to ruin this for me.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” I say.

Fifteen minutes later, my boy is in Snoozetown. Already he has turned away from his pillow to assist the transaction. Carefully, I swipe the tooth for the cash. When I retreat from his room on my tiptoes, I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

In the morning, I wake to find H snuggled warmly against my side. He’s reluctant to open his eyes until I remind him about his nighttime visitor. He rushes to his room, casts aside all pillows and blankets and finds two gold $1 coins where his tooth used to be.

Based on his new jack-o-lantern smile, it is exactly enough.

~*~ Find me on Twitter @37×37
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#32 Cont’d: Freak Show Carousel

You have to understand: When I see a place like this, there’s no way I won’t stop for it.

Merry-Go-Round Museum, Sandusky, OH

The building is one of the first things we see when we drive through the heart of downtown Sandusky. It’s just the sort of unusual thing we’re searching for today. But lunchtime beckons, and so does a glimpse of the water. I make a mental note, and resolve not to leave town before seeing The Merry-Go-Round Museum for ourselves.

So we hit the bistro and the Maritime Museum. (I’ve told you all of this already.) When we finish, we power through the doors of the Merry-Go-Round Museum until we eventually come face to face with this:

I survey the 7’ carving slowly. “Is that…a stork?” I ask aloud.

The boys have already left me to see what else they can find, and GB ambles behind them. I realize then that I’m talking to myself, or at the very least, I’m talking to the painted wooden form of a gigantic bird. That strikes me as funny, but then I look to my left and see this:

And then I look to my right and see this:

Suddenly, the atmosphere takes a dreamlike quality. I wonder half seriously if I’ve fallen into some sort of strange and freakish slumber. When the organ from a working carousel begins to play, I follow the boys to their seats, feeling heady and a bit out of sorts, but that’s not a bad thing. Not a bad thing at all.

~*~

You might not know this, but carousels are almost extinct. One of the only remaining manufacturers—The Carousel Works—is based in Mansfield, OH; and it’s the only firm that designs, carves and assembles under one roof. Given that nobody makes hand-carved Merry-Go-Rounds anymore, and everyone loves a good monopoly, it’s no surprise that a fully-loaded carousel will sell for anywhere between $300,000 and $1 million dollars.

If you ever find yourself at the Columbus Zoo, which boasts a Carousel Works original, you can think about that price tag when you pay for two tickets to ride.

~*~

The carousel ride lasts five minutes at least. I try to talk O into riding the baby bunny and H into riding the zebra, but in the end, they go for traditional horses, like this one:

Meanwhile, I’m still struck by the beautiful, slightly oddball carvings:

When we leave, I still have that same vague feeling of otherworldliness. I don’t know how to describe it, so instead I’ll redirect you to The Merry-Go-Round Museum online. You won’t see much beyond what I’ve already shown you here, but you’ll hear a bizarre, fun and uncomfortable little jingle to give you a true flavor of the place. It’s funny and mostly normal, but still just freakish enough to give you pause and question whether you really woke up this morning.

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#32: What Up, Sandusky?

It’s Saturday, and as far as Saturdays go, this one begins like all the others: Little boys awake and whispering by 7:30; everyone showered and dressed by 8:30; pancakes on the stove by 9:00; full bellies and clean dishes by 9:30.

With that routine officially under our belts, I pull out my computer and Google the map of Ohio. I call the boys to me, and when they arrive after some coaxing, I position one on either side of me. “Put your fingies together,” I say. “…Yep, together like this. Great. Now point to the map. Wherever you land, that’s where we’ll go today.”

And so they do. They put their pointer fingers to work, and by 1:00, we’re driving along the Ohio coastline, breathing the crisp Lake Erie air.

~*~

There’s no itinerary for this excursion, which is all very well; 36×37 assignment #32 includes picking a place the day of the trip, then going there without additional planning. Now that we’re here, we have nothing to do but drive around to search for adventure. And so we find a few things. They jump out at us the way tourist attractions sometimes do.

Dining

First, there’s lunch in a time-warped bistro—Barardi’s Restaurant. Based on our friendly and attentive server’s teased-up, platinum hairdo, I’m guessing we’re trapped somewhere between 1968 and 1972. The gargantuan burgers are slathered in cheese. The fries are hand-cut and doused in salt. There are flaky, fresh-baked pies in the pie counter. (Can you believe it? A pie counter?) Not only is that quaint and slightly adorable, but I’ll bet every last one of those cream-filled beauties is packed with unspeakable deliciousness.

H is more adventurous than usual with his meal. By that, I mean he actually eats it, and I think that has more to do with his newly loose tooth and his desire to extract it than it has to do with anything else. He’s trying to show it off for you in this photo:

Entertainment

We stop next at the Maritime Museum of Sandusky, which sounds like a snooze but—surprise—it actually isn’t! First, as it turns out, the Maritime Museum happens to employ the nicest man in the world who smiles at the boys and lets us all in for the family price of a wee $6.00 total.

Secondly, the place has all kinds of photo opportunities, like this:

The boys get to “test drive” a vintage Lyman Boat simulator that rocks like it’s on water and comes complete with working horns and windshield wipers…

They make boats…

Tie nautical knots…

And admire the pristine models.

Later, when I ask the boys about their favorite part of the trip, they agree that the Maritime Museum wins hands down.

History

If you’ve heard of Sandusky, it’s either because you’re from Ohio, or you’ve visited Cedar Point Amusement Park, which boasts the largest collection of roller coasters in the world. However, for much of the late 19^th and early 20^th century, Sandusky was known for something else—the largest fresh water harbor in America and the finest fish market in the world. It produced more fish than all the Great Lakes combined.

But it wasn’t just a fishing town. In the down season, when the lake froze 18 inches thick, Sandusky morphed into the largest ice shipping port west of the Hudson River. Its harvested ice was used predominantly to ship fish and beer, and would travel as far as Havana, Cuba—10 lbs of ice for every lb of fish.

Sandusky also was an active stop on the Underground Railroad. As Harriet Beecher Stowe described in the novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin, many runaway slaves sought freedom in Canada, and arrived at this nationally known port of escape to cross Lake Erie with the help of a captain willing to take the risk.

The American shipping industry died in Sandusky years ago. These days, when you watch the Great Lake waters and spot an industrial boat, chances are that boat is Canadian.

Sightseeing

We end up at the Marblehead Lighthouse.

It’s chilly, so we don’t spend much time there, but for a Maryland kid like GB, it’s nice to be back on the water. We take a different route for the ride home—one that takes us along the coast, so we can watch for just a few minutes longer the icy waves waking up to a Northern Ohio spring.

To Be Continued

That’s not all we do. Between the Maritime Museum and the lighthouse, we make another stop. I’ll tell you more about that tomorrow because I need real estate for all the truly strange and excellent photos I took. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with a riddle: What has two legs, a long neck, and goes up and down in a circle? The answer is “Stork.” You’ll find out why tomorrow.

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Birthday Wishes, Courthouse Blues

(google image via scentofmyheart.files.wordpress.com)

It’s GB’s birthday today. He’s 35, although he says he feels a whole lot older. We have plans to celebrate with my family tonight, and the boys and I are taking him to breakfast this morning. On Thursday, though, I canceled my noon meeting and met GB for lunch so we could celebrate his big day by ourselves.

As we scanned the menu, I of course spent a minute or two teasing him about The Big 3-5 in a shamefully uncreative way. “This is your last year to check the “21-35” box on forms, you know.” I said. “You’ll be out of the youth market. Beer companies won’t want anything more to do with you.”

He grinned ruefully. “Remember how, when I first started my job, the marketing team took pictures of the lab, and I was in one of those pictures? Since then, my 23-year-old self is on posters around the building. I walked past one with [Mr. Company President] a few days ago, and he told me I’d aged a lot.”

“He did?” I said. I tilted my head and tried to survey my husband objectively. To me, he didn’t look like he’d aged much at all. I could only see the same smart, preppy, smirking kid I married all those years ago.

~*~

It’s April 9, 1999. I’m at the Franklin County Probate Court, waiting to sign a marriage license for the wedding that is just two weeks away. I left work early and arrived at 3:45 by myself. Now it’s 4:19, the office will close in 11 minutes, and GB has yet to walk through the door.

The receptionist eyes me sympathetically from behind the desk. I avoid eye contact as long as I can. When she does catch my glance, she says, “I’m sorry, sweetie. It looks like he’s not coming.”

“Oh, he’ll be here!” I say in my most chipper voice. “I’m sure he’s just running late.”

She nods encouragingly and returns to her crossword puzzle.

Meanwhile, I try to decide how best to retaliate for being stood up on marriage license-signing day: If I get home first, should I pack up all his things and then wait for him, or should I change the lock, spend the night at my parents’ house and leave all his crap on the back doorstep? The first could work, because the yelling would be cathartic. But the second would be better; I’m already humiliated enough.

“No matter what,” I tell myself, “I’m keeping his CDs. He’ll have to pry them from my cold, lifeless, broken-hearted fingers to even think about getting them back.”

The clock says 4:21.

I fumble around for my cell phone. In my head I leave him a message full of furious, unbridled obscenities. Instead, I mumble this into the phone: “GB, I’m at the courthouse. Where are you?”

Then I slink back in my chair to stare at the ceiling.

At 4:23, the door swings open, and there he is. His tanned face is all smiles and apologies. I burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks in wide-eyed surprise.

“I left you messages! Why are you so late?”

“I got caught in traffic,” he says. “Then I couldn’t find a parking spot. I drove around forever. You know I wouldn’t stand you up.”

The receptionist pretends she’s not paying attention. She pulls a calculator out of her top drawer and starts poking the numbers with her pencil eraser.

GB exhales an exasperated sigh then collapses into the seat next to mine. “Now, are you going to learn trust me?” he says. “You know me well enough to know I would never let you down like that.”

The clock says 4:25.

“Let’s sign some papers,” I sniff.

For once, the government does two kids a favor and stays open a little late. We leave the courthouse with our license in hand, and say our vows in front of friends and family two weeks later. We spend the next decade sharing CDs that eventually turn into MP3 files, in an apartment that eventually turns into a house, that we own as a couple that eventually turns into a family.

~*~

From this safe distance of nearly 12 years, I can say GB has kept his promises. He has never let me down, not once. I think that’s why I can’t see if he’s changing. He’s never made me question him, so I’ve never needed to take a step back, reassess, or see him for anything other than the person I know him to be.

“Did you buy me the anti-balding shampoo for a reason?” he asked me yesterday morning.

I snorted. “I bought you anti-balding shampoo?”

“I thought you were trying to tell me something,” he said.

I laughed as I squinted at his full head of hair. “You know me well enough to know I’m not that subtle.”

(Happy birthday, sweetheart. I hope it’s fantastic. – M.)

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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.”

~*~ Follow me on Twitter: @36×37
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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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