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Days Numbered, Not Spent

7/23/2013

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Recently we took a vacation with my parents and siblings. I tried to make it a real break-- from focusing on the uncertainty surrounding our next potential move, from wondering where my kindergartener will be going to school next month, from e-mail, from Facebook and (quite obviously) from writing.

We rested, we played, we ate, we laughed; I read an entire book, cover to cover (and started another). We tried to slow down our time together, as it is never long enough and always too far between. We drank in these visions of our growing daughters, sheer joy and amazement over their new found abilities to swim in a crystal clear sea, to rescue clams and minnows from untimely deaths, to play miniature golf and to make friends with just about any child, anywhere.

Our girls relished unscheduled time with their aunts, uncles and grandparents. I soaked in being known and accepted, regardless of my choices or moods, by people who know me-- who've always known me-- and choose to love me and my little family. We were so very sad to say good-bye. I think one of the worst parts of living far from family is not knowing the next time you'll see each other.

Daniel had to leave mid-week overnight for work and surprised us by making it up to us with an extra day. Instead of heading home Saturday, as planned, we cashed in some of his (copious) hotel points. We wandered along the Gulf coast, stopping wherever we felt like it. I'm not sure why, but we don't have days like that. It was one of my favorite days the four of us have had (aside from Emerie's embarrassing and attention-grabbing meltdown in a densely populated area in Sandestin. I could've done without that).

Coming home has been a bit of a letdown, for everyone but Emerie, our little homebody. The worries are where we left them, only there are fewer days separating us from decisions, those made for us and those we will make.  We couldn't have been more grateful for this respite, the recharging, and the time together. Time away with our loved ones reminds me that these issues are blips. Our location matters, our decisions matter, but they're not everything. We already have all that we need.

Breathing in, breathing out, the salt in my mouth
Gives me hope that I’ll bleed something worth bleeding out

                                                   --The Lone Bellow, Bleeding Out
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Big Easy Sabbatical

5/22/2013

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I've said it before: We're not afraid to spend time away from our children. We think it's important for our marriage, for ourselves, for our daughters, even. I've said it nonchalantly, like it's no big deal. But the night before we left for New Orleans, Mirabella sobbed. This was new. Turns out it's much harder to leave your children for a few days when they are anxious about it.

But, thanks to an exciting visit from Aunt Amy, who gave the girls an awesome few days, Wednesday we flew. We spent the day riding streetcars, wandering the Garden District, inappropriately taking photos of real people's homes, and being sat in the "Patio Room" of Commander's Palace for lunch. Make no mistake, this might as well be called the "Room for Under-dressed Misfits." Giacomo led us past the crystal chandeliers and seersucker suits and through the kitchen to get there. Whatever.
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Later we strolled through the French Quarter, bought art in Jackson Square, and ate a late dinner at the gorgeous Cafe Amélie. Thursday, since Daniel would be in meetings all day and into the night, he surprised me with a half-day at the spa. A Mother's Day present, he said. I was thrilled.  But again, as in San Francisco, I was nervous. I made him map the route from our hotel to the spa with me. I asked about safe streets to walk. I worried about eating alone. I hated to feel that way.

It is so infrequent anymore that I am alone, out in the world. I forget what to do with my hands, how to carry myself. I sometimes forget I am a complete person, just me, capable of functioning independently. After coffee and a croissant at an outdoor cafe I navigated myself to, I started to remember. I made it to the spa right on time, trying to act cool, like I'd been there before. Then I realized the goofy smile on my face was giving me away.

"My husband surprised me," I said, to anyone who might listen. "I've never done this before." I probably didn't need to say that last part; I loved every minute of it. Four hours later I bounced down Royal toward the French Market for lunch. I opted for an outdoor café that had live music and even ordered "traditional" Cajun food. A waiter (who was not my own) started chatting me up about where I was from, what I'd been doing, and what I thought of New Orleans. And then I realized he didn't necessarily care about any of my answers. I was so unaccustomed to being "hit on" it didn't even occur to me this man in Crocs and an apron was doing it. I mentioned that I was just tagging along on my husband's work trip and-- what do you know-- he was gone.

For the next couple hours, I walked, buying little souvenirs and taking pictures along the river. I had a grand plan to sit beside the rooftop pool and read a book-- I couldn't wait. I walked back to the hotel, stopping for an iced coffee before heading up to my room.  When I went to pay I realized I never collected my credit card from lunch. So maybe my feelings of incompetence were not entirely off base. In my Tevas I walked the 1.5 miles round trip to retrieve the card and finally made it to the pool to read. I took a shower and took my time getting ready, waiting for Daniel to come get me. It was a glorious day.

We spent the evening with some of his colleagues on Bourbon Street, where I was again surprised by the lack of professionalism I've seen at "work functions" and that I was hit in the head with beads thrown from a balcony overhead. "Honey!" Daniel said, "Good job! Someone threw beads at you!" Bourbon Street was not my favorite.

Friday I slept.  Late into the morning while my darling husband did whatever he does on these trips. We walked the rainy streets together, had a fantastic dinner at Muriel's and took a pedicab to Frenchmen Street to listen to live music. By the time we ate our beignets Saturday morning, I was happy, tired, and ready to get home to our little girls.

We returned in time for the girls to bring me breakfast in bed (and eat most of it), and put on a private ballet recital in our living room.

The trip was two weeks ago now, and feels like a distant memory. Still I'm so grateful for time away and the reminders it brings: of the love and friendship I still have with my husband (of seven years and one day), of the spunky girl that is still under the mom somewhere, and that-- while the stillness and quiet and occasional ability to read a book are blissful-- those noisy, demanding, hysterical little girls make my life full.
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The Luckiest

7/28/2012

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Before our trip we visited our local library, leaving with 26 items, some of which are currently overdue (I am on my way to becoming either the most hated or the most loved library patron in three states now). One of our selections was Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are? by Dr. Seuss.  That Dr. Seuss gets me every time!  I have yelled reading The Lorax, cried reading Oh, The Places You'll Go, and now been shamed while reading this one.

A sample: 
"And suppose that you lived in that forest in France, where the average young person just hasn't a chance to escape from the perilous pants-eating plants!  But your pants are safe! You're a fortunate guy. And you ought to be shouting, 'How lucky am I?'"

Alas, that's not what I was shouting over the course of the last week.  But since I write from the other side of my epiphany, I will relay the story as if I had, italicizing the reconsidered parts. (Watch out, it's long.)


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Redeeming the Time

7/16/2012

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I've heard that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting a different result.  I think it might actually be something else.  For example, maybe it's driving from middle Tennessee to mid Maryland with two pre-schoolers.  By oneself. Then driving on to Connecticut.  Then coming back just a few days later (husband in tow, necessitating speedier travel).  Two weeks after relocating, long before the last box is unpacked, and right before one's husband embarks on three consecutive weeks of travel.  CRAZY.

Hi. We've been here two weeks now.  That is long enough to unpack a lot of boxes,  long enough to meet a few (awesome) neighbors and to  discover those peaches on the tree in our yard are not for eating and definitely not for putting in my children's pancakes.  It's long enough to get a new library card and find a find killer indie rock radio station (we are Music City adjacent, after all), long enough to visit a new vet and the same church twice, long enough to make my first antique store purchase, and long enough to find I really miss Trader Joe's and can't afford to shop at Whole Foods.

But really, it hasn't been long enough.  It hasn't been long enough for any of us to find our place, for me to make any friends, to figure out a routine,  how to work out when I am always with my precious children, or to determine what exactly my job is.  It hasn't been long enough to find a preschool or my kids' coloring books.

It has been just exactly long enough for Daniel and I to realize that it's easy to take our fears and frustrations out on each other, but that it doesn't do either of us much good since we're all we've got down here.

Despite our being decidedly unsettled, tomorrow we ride.  Daniel is headed to Atlanta to meet his new team, then on to meet us in Connecticut.  The girls and I are headed to Maryland with every intention of driving straight through and with a brand-new, dual-screen DVD player that totally doesn't work. (But we've got audio books!  Who are we, the Waltons?) Mosotos, the aging puggle, is headed to what I am calling summer camp.  We'll see if he agrees.

In 7 days, we will travel roughly 2,000 miles.  Having just made one leg of this journey a couple weeks ago, albeit with much more back up, I have packed loads of healthy food and drinks.  May we happily drive by Sonics, McDonald's and Waffle Houses in at least five states.  My goal is to stop only for coffee, to stretch and to pee.  I haven't tagged up with the girls to see if they concur with this plan. I have packed dry erase boards and finger puppets, glow sticks, Leapsters, cookie sheets and magnets. (Incidentally, if you have any great ideas for how to keep 2 and 4-year-olds occupied on long trips, please send them my way.)

We are so caught up in the logistics (what? Me? Never!) that we might have forgotten why we're going.  One of Daniel's best friends is getting married to a girl we adore.  We couldn't be happier, and we couldn't miss it.  And in the process, we will get to see my parents, one set of his, and most of our siblings.  I'll get to be there the day of my little sister's latest (and last?) knee surgery.  My little girls will get to see their precious Aunt Nae.  It's a whirlwind dose of the familiar, which we desperately need. We haven't been able to find that in any of our boxes.

Tomorrow, if you think of us and our first-world problems and you're the praying kind, please pray for open roads and hearts, for perspective and redeemed time.

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Away with Me

10/26/2011

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Recently I had the opportunity to meet up with Daniel as he took a rare trip to California for work.  Though he's usually home by Friday night, this trip would extend through Saturday, making it basically free for me to tag along.  His mother was happy to come up for a visit that included staying a few days with the girls, so despite my hesitance to leave them, we decided to go.  The only other time I've been to California, also related to a work trip of Daniel's, it was with both children in tow.  I'd rather not repeat that one yet.

Daniel's itinerary was filled with "mights" that led to arguments and troublesome packing.  I might be invited to a black tie optional gala while there, and I had nothing to wear.  "Don't buy anything," Daniel said, "Just bring something you have."  The problem: I don't have anything appropriate. Many phone calls, emails, and facebook posts later, I looked at 10 dresses from generous friends, none of which really fit and ended up packing something inappropriate that I already had.  I worked into the wee hours Thursday night trying to pack for every occasion I might encounter while keeping my roomy suitcase under 50 pounds. At 11:30 I received a call from Daniel (already on California time) that I might need an additional cocktail dress.  I had to restrategize to stay under my weight limit (and restrain myself).

Finally, the next morning, after my suitcase was not even weighed, I made it to my gate only to find out the plane was oversold and they needed volunteers to make "alternate travel arrangements" in exchange for a $400 travel voucher.  I happily volunteered.  We are able to get free hotel stays pretty easily, but flights have been harder to come by.  I got rerouted through Houston and made it to San Francisco two hours later than my bag.   After meeting up briefly with Daniel, I retreated to our room to try to catch up-- I had only slept 4 hours the previous two nights-- before our night of cocktails and schmoozing.  I couldn't sleep and soon found myself sitting at a corner booth surrounded by Daniel's team.  A hefty bar tab and several hangers on later, we went to a "mixer" at a local club, greeted on the way by two beautiful, airbrushed looking creatures in towering platform heels.  I shrunk in my fake red patent leather 9Wests and seven-year-old dress.  Daniel never left me, but I felt small.  I saw the way they looked at him.  And he was perfectly fine, but I started to think maybe these trips are exactly as I have always feared.  

At the mixer, dance music blared while real estate professionals danced unprofessionally.  It was not even possible to mix at this event; it was too loud.  We encountered the same girls from before, one of whom grabbed Daniel's arm and talked in his ear.  Not for nothing, but I am not a jealous girl. Still, I was out of place. I couldn't help imagining that this is always what it's like when he's on the road, when I'm not there. A drunk realtor from LA talked to me for a while and told me I looked "elegant." In this crowd, at this venue, I wasn't sure it was a compliment.   After 10PM California time, we waited outside for a chauffeured black SUV.  One of our companions, a beautiful and hilarious Persian woman who ended up buying the group dinner said, "Driver, what is your name, honey bunny? Where are you from?"  Gus from Jordan responded, to which she replied, "Are you Muslim?"  He said that he was. "I don't believe you," she shot back, so he started blaring Arab music.  We shot through the streets of San Francisco like this until we arrived at a Korean barbecue where we ate until almost 1 AM (my body, still on East Coast time, felt like it was 4:00).   On the way out, Daniel's coworker assured me, "Most trips are NOT like this," and I know they are not.   But it was daunting to feel so ordinary.  It's hard to compete with fake.  Daniel assured me I don't have to.  
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The next day, after sleeping later than I can remember in recent history, I hit the streets alone.  I was actually nervous-- it's been a long time since I've ventured anywhere but Trader Joe's alone, and typically not even there.  Armed with a map I explored the enormous farmer's markets, walked along the water snapping photos and eventually made my way to Fisherman's Wharf.  It was fantastic to be by myself and to remember that I am capable of playing the part of a competent, put together individual, apart from my job or husband or kids or house.  The day was a gift.

Daniel met me later and we hiked up the famous hills a bit longer before going to the gala for which I was probably under dressed but it didn't matter.  I met his bosses and after that we were free to be together.  One of his bosses, a regal looking woman three tiers above him, shook my hand and said, "I want to tell you your boy is the real deal.  He is working hard to make you happy and he's always talking about you and your little girls.  In my experience, that's rare."  And I was proud.

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We spent the next day at Alcatraz and tooling around the city in our Mustang convertible before heading to Sausalito, then Napa for a rainy day.  We lingered over homemade pasta that night and graham cracker crusted french toast the next morning. 

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Given Daniel's aggressive travel schedule lately, and our full schedule of company at home, it was nice to have the face time and to hold hands on the street.   The trip back was eventful, as we learned you can't just pack bottles of wine in the little carrier they give out at the wineries; you have to have it packed by the travel agency in the airport for $28.  What a racket!  And my carefully packed bag from before?  It may have been much more efficiently packed (by Daniel) on the way home, but that also put it 8 pounds over.  He was able to cause some kind of scene so that we avoided paying for it.  He looked longingly at the "Elite Plus" or whatever the line of white guys with carry-ons and rumpled suits is called, since he couldn't board with them and with me.  He would have another chance about 12 hours after we landed.  

The last year has been difficult, a constant state of adjustment. It makes me worry about and consider things I'd rather not. It makes us bicker about issues we'd rather not.  It makes it nearly impossible to talk. In the last month, there have been two occasions for Daniel to be home 12 hours or less, before catching another flight.  It's better than not coming home at all, I think, but it is hard to get used to. So we have a complicated relationship, the travel and I. Without it, we would never take these kind of trips.  But without it, maybe we wouldn't need to.

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Battening Down

8/27/2011

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Photo originally published on msnbc.com
Why return from your vacation when you can evacuate it? Yesterday morning before the sun would have risen if it were feeling up to it, we packed up our barely large enough SUV and stopped at the BP down the road in Surf City, NC to top off our tank.  This morning, that BP looks a little different.

We made the 7-hour trip in about 9.5 hours, safe and somewhat sound. We tied down trash cans and brought in the outdoor furniture (and by we, I mean I unpacked while Daniel did such things).  He visited five stores to acquire bottled water, an overabundance of snacks, shelf stable milk for our little milk addicts, propane, candles, whatever batteries he could find for our existing flashlights (no additional flashlights or lanterns to be found, much less procured), ground coffee, a French press and powdered creamer, and an embarrassing amount of canned goods. As my mother-in-law pointed out while giving me hard-won hurricane survival tips, I'm not really a "can person."  When I tried to make the list for Daniel to take with him, I didn't even know what to put on it.  He said, "We need SpaghettiO's and stuff."  Oh. This is not the type of food my children are accustomed to and, while I do have somewhat fond memories of Chef Boyardee and SpaghettiO's from my childhood, I do not look forward to reliving them as an adult. 

Daniel's preparedness so overwhelmed me when he returned after 10:00 last night, that I couldn't even put the stuff away-- there was nowhere for it to go.  The prepackaged preparedness sits around my kitchen in boxes and shopping totes, hoping to get donated (though, with all the money we spent on it, dinner time might be a little different around here this week, power or not).

So far, we're getting drenched but little else.  The rain beats rhythmically on our red tin roof while everyone else naps (thanks to my really good in a crisis, real or imagined, husband, I squeezed my nap in earlier in the day).  Here's hoping Irene is gentle enough to make the preparation the most exciting part of the storm.

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How to Cook like an Italian

5/23/2011

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The morning of our cooking class, we approached the silver-haired concierge I had developed a slight crush on.  Our ride was late. “Prego,” he said. Not a question or a welcome, but more of an announcement.  I thought he didn’t like us because I had openly stared at him upon our arrival.   Daniel thought it was because we were American.  Either way that morning he took our travel voucher and called after our ride, in fast, terse Italian.  I liked the sound of our last name in its native tongue and wondered if it would fly at home off my American lips.

With found time, we sat in the lobby and ordered a coffee, surprised when it came out as espresso in demitasses with a plate of sugar cookies.  This is “caffe” in Italy.  They call our coffee Americano.  Simona stood before us and introduced herself as our guide.  She led us out front to her Volkswagen subcompact.   It was just us.

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“It’ll be about an hour, so get comfortable,” she said as Daniel folded himself into the front seat.  I silently wondered if I would look back on this moment with regret.  In general, it’s probably not terrific operational security to get into the car of a stranger in a foreign country.  While I was thinking this, Daniel was making small talk. He learned Simona is a temporarily out-of-work film producer who is moonlighting as a cooking instructor.  She’s friends with the chef, Fabio. When Daniel mentioned coffee, she said, “I do not like Italian coffee—it’s too strong.  I prefer Starbucks.”  She’s part of a Facebook group trying to bring the chain to Rome.

Simona wound us out of downtown and into the countryside.  We made our way to Mazzano Romano, a medieval village.  When I stepped out of the car, I spun around in slow motion.  We were about 1,000 feet up in the lush green hills, overlooking a forest and river.  I got out my camera and struggled with what to shoot.  It was all beautiful.  We bought fresh zucchini, cherry tomatoes, eggplant, and a potato from the vegetable stand in town, where we tasted enormous green peas from the pod.  We walked through winding cobblestone alleys to Il Drago, the at-once elegant and rustic home where we would be cooking.

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The kitchen had a stone countertop and sink and actual tree trunks exposed and supporting the ceiling. Simona decided “anyone can make chicken or veal.  Let’s make pasta.”  We made pici from water and flour, ravioli from egg and flour, and gnocchi from a baked potato and flour. And now, how to cook like an Italian.  Not every Italian, just this one we had the pleasure of meeting. Click for more photos and to read tips Simona taught us.


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Delayed Dispatches

5/14/2011

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Something about returning from a trip so far removed from real life is disorienting.  I know we were there; I know it was gorgeous and surreal and the best trip I've had.  I have the pictures to prove it.  But, now that we're back, it often feels like I never left.

I have so much-- stories, photos, travel tips-- to share. Fortunately, I predicted that I would forget the details upon my return, so right now, it's all scribbled in a series of travel journals. For now, I'll share a few of my favorite photos. We took an obscene amount-- 1,000 or so-- so many that we had to buy a ridiculously overpriced 8GB memory card in Rome. File that one away, you'll see it again under Must Have Items to Pack for a trip to Rome so You Don't Waste Your Time and Money. Or something like that. The photos in this first gallery are in no particular order, some from Florence, a couple from Castellina in Chianti, and some from Rome. More of everything to come. Enjoy!


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Making a Run for It

5/2/2011

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Nine nights of dinners are in my fridge and freezer for sleepovers with Nonna, a duffel bag stuffed to the brim with kids' clothing and diapers is ready to go for phase 2, sleepovers with Pop Pop and Mia, and two large and probably overweight suitcases are on my floor for us.  I am not supposed to be blogging.

"Forty-five minutes, AIS (@ss-in-seat)," Daniel just barked.  This morning we had a not-that-urgent visit to urgent care and countless other issues derail us.  Last night I lost my new passport (it's since been found), and Mirabella just bit herself in an attempt to get a Princess Band Aid.  And Osama bin Laden's death is making everyone freak out about international travel. Leaving the country is not so simple.

But we are doing it!  We are leaving tonight for Rome, and from there will travel to Florence.  I can't wait to share photos, but mostly, I can't wait to go exploring with my best friend.  I am nervous to leave the little girls, but Mirabella's random temper tantrum is, at the moment, easing the transition.  I'll be back next week, with stories and souvenirs.

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    About Me

    Christina | Virginia Beach
    Psuedo Yankee, city-loving former working mom of four finds herself home with the kids and transplanted to the somewhat Southern suburbs. Finding her feet while still attempting to harness the power of the passion of her youth for useful good.

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