Well, Ben, Jonathan, and I have just returned from a whirlwind trip to the East Coast. Our motivations for going were a bazillion-fold. We wanted to help dad start to wade through and sort mom’s things (which may take us just over a decade to do), I was a bridesmaid in a dear friend’s wedding up in New York, we wanted to see family, we wanted some free babysitting, we wanted an excuse to eat carbs…the list goes on. Obviously the first two were our main objectives and obviously were also the most emotionally precarious endeavors.
It was the second time I’d been in my parents’ house since my mom died and it was the first time Jonathan had ever been. Watching those worlds collide was both tragic and thrilling. The thought and care my mom wove into that house astounds me with every visit. Each time I discover a new trinket or even just the cleverness behind the juxtaposition of items in the room. She had an eye, I’ve said it a thousand times, but she also had a sense of humor and whimsy that made the space even more her own – even more telling of how she saw the world. Watching Jonathan’s eyes float about the house, settling on a carved wooden box, a dried nutshell, a bronzed baby shoe, was magical. And that was her goal. She always said that she wanted her grandkids to think her house was magic and she undoubtedly achieved that. Not only was this baby in awe of the sparkling antique chandeliers and the bright red kimono hanging on the wall, but my niece and nephew, Josie and Will, practically burst at the sight of metal and melamine race cars, 3-d puzzles in the shape of cakes, and various rocking chairs and horses. Of course, many of these things were not really meant to be toys, but decor rather, and so it wasn’t necessarily a child’s delight as so many of these things were deemed hands-off. But the notion that one day they could hold these things, that they could graduate into that delicate privilege, was intoxicating. In fact, that experience is one that I’ve shared with my brothers all my life, and now, getting to touch – having to touch many of these things felt that much more sacred.
Sifting through curtains of beaded necklaces and drawers of inscribed cards was difficult, no question, but getting to do so while drinking wine with my brothers and dad, as my husband and Jonathan played with my own childhood toys on the floor in the next room – it was a bit joyous in a way, too. As many things in life, the task felt faceted and folded.
Attending my friend, Caitlin’s wedding was much less complicated – I was elated. And tired. I was lucky enough to spend the day getting ready in an endlessly cool Brooklyn warehouse/venue with an endlessly cool gaggle of ladies. Ben and the angel babe joined us for the ceremony, but promptly left after dinner so mom got to do some drinking and painfully uninhibited dancing (at 32, I still don’t know what to do with my hands…tightly clasped above my head? no?). It was fab. It was exhausting. I may still be in recovery. I danced until 1am and when the beautiful bride wanted to continue the celebration at a local bar, I had to bow out. In my youthier youth, I would have been the first in the cab, swapping my heels for bare feet, and prepping the crowd for ill-advised shots. Now, knowing I undoubtedly had a date with Jonathan just three hours later, I couldn’t swing it. Part of me bemoaned the impending late night mom duty, but the other part of me was thoroughly excited about the prompt removal of my tortuous spanx. But that conflictedness (or just conflict I guess) of being a new mom among newlyweds is tortuous in its own right…I wanted to prove I could hang, I wanted to nestle into bed with my sleeping boy, I would’ve liked another glass of wine, I should’ve cooled my effing jets and remembered that hangovers and teething baby cries reside together in the innermost circle of hell.
Anyway, it’s taken me almost two weeks to write this post, so I’m calling it. The trip was a heavy, beautiful blur.