The Coffeehouse

There’s a coffeehouse on Pleasant Street, next to the Newburyport Candle Company and catty-corner from the old Unitarian Church, where I like to go sometimes and write, or work … or just be in my thoughts. It smells like French roast and vanilla, and the drinks are a little overpriced. The tables wobble a little, too, but they have the biggest cream puffs you’ve ever seen and tiny fruit tarts that tempt you wickedly from behind the glass.

Sometimes you’ll find me there sitting across from the biscotti-dotted counter writing thank-you notes and sipping a hot hazelnut coffee. Other times, I’ll set up camp at the dark corner-table near the plush couches and below the wall of antique instruments, my face lit by the blank white page on my laptop as I watch the ice slowly melt into my iced coffee.

Sometimes there are a lot of people at the coffeehouse—mothers and children sharing Nantucket Nectars and cookies, teenagers flirting with lattes and adulthood, writers with their coffees gone cold, or, my favorite, silver-haired couples holding hands and kissing from time to time over a giant piece of double chocolate mousse cake. Other times, it’s just the woman behind the counter and me.

Sometimes I meet friends at the coffeehouse. For instance, it’s where I was interviewed by my now-good friend, Ulrika, who, at the time, was the editor of the local paper where I soon became a freelancer. It’s where I remembering gathering with Afroz and the rest of the book club on snowy Wednesdays nights. It’s where the playgroup moms and I indulged in dessert after a mom’s night out dinner at Jewel in the Crown. And it’s where a group of writers became friends. Other times, I just stop in for a to-go coffee and head to the playground.

Sometimes it’s cold at the coffeehouse. Other times, it’s cozy.

Sometimes the rain hits the front window and looks like a waterfall coming down behind the gold stars and twinkle lights that dot the inside of the glass. Other times, the sun comes in and dwarfs them.

Sometimes classical music plays. Other times, love songs.

Sometimes the right wall of the coffeehouse features paintings by a local artist. Other times, it’s photographs.

Sometimes I listen to other people’s conversations. Other times, they’re listening to mine.

Sometimes I come to the coffeehouse when I am feeling down. Other times, I come when I’m feeling hopeful.

Despite all the variables, I always love coming to my coffeehouse. Caffé di Siena. With two Fs in Caffé and one N in Siena. And today was no different.

The RMV, Two Kids and Me

I was traveling back from Chicago in early February when I met a very kind, albeit very serious, middle-aged woman at O'Hare--we'll call her Security Checkpoint Lady--who informed me with the double-tap of her red fingernail on my Massachusetts ID, that my license was going to expire. In April to be exact. Pretty soon to be more exact. But not soon enough to concern me. I smiled and thanked her by filling the space between us with useless words of gratitude, and then I tucked the license back in my wallet and made my way through security ... the news of the impending, ominous expiration forgotten by the time I'd reached the Starbucks across from my gate.

That brief encounter brings me to last week: Two weeks before the actual expiration of my license, when I was again reminded, this time by the clerk at the wine store (yes, I still get carded - at my neighborhood wine store), that my license was about to expire. I sighed. I knew a trip to the dark and dank basement of the Haverhill RMV was in my future. Not only that, but I knew I'd have to bring the kids with me because I had waited too long to secure childcare. Thankfully, via a FB post, a friend informed me that a new RMV had opened at a local mall. This lightened me a little about the situation that lay ahead, and I planned a trip to the shiny new RMV at Liberty Tree Mall in Danvahs (Danvers) for Friday afternoon.

It was pouring rain by the time I got us all packed and out the door. The effort I'd put in to "fixing" my hair for the photo had become just another exercise in futility. I entered the address into the GPS and we were off on our adventure. Even though I had been pleased to see online that this RMV was open and well lit and had large flat screen TVs to keep everyone in the queue distracted from the long wait and the upside down smiles of the clerks, I fully anticipated one or more of the following: crying, prohibited button-pushing, tantrum, begging, whining, reprimands and mean glances by aforementioned disgruntled clerks, and wishing I had never claimed to be against toddler leashes. For those of you who don't know Henry, let me put it this way ... the last time we were shopping at Ann Taylor Loft, I said his name so much throughout the store, that when we got up to the checkout, they addressed him directly. I asked (read: pleaded with) Henry to behave and promised him that if he acted on his best behavior we would go to the "Mall Tots" zone to play afterward. Another exercise in futility, I imagined.

My nerves were tight as Henry, Sadie and I strolled into the RMV at 2:30 p.m. There was a six-person line just to get to the front desk. I saw the numbers 4:16 flashing at the center of the clock and feared it indicated the time we were expected to be served. Thankfully, common sense stepped in and reminded me 4:16 was the date. I told myself to get it together. Henry stood pressing his open mouth against the glass wall and filling his cheeks with air in between reminding me of how good he was being. "Yes," I said, knowing that on the Henry behavior scale, indeed he was being good. Finally, we got the paperwork for the renewal (not before Henry tossed my license over the desk and into a big box of license plates, from which I had to fish it out).

But just then, something magical happened. The clerk laughed and played a game of "where do you see the license" with him. She wasn't mad. We were all smiling. We stepped out of our usual reality and into what I can only describe as an alternative universe. And it didn't stop there.

A man got up out of his seat to let Henry sit while I stood filling out the form. And sit he did. Legs crossed, hands in lap, periodically reminding me of how good he was being. A nearby grandmotherly woman chatted up Sadie and kept her smiling. A few minutes later, we received our number, B289, and found a space on a bench as far away from other people as possible. Henry, though, was feeling social. He sidled up next to a lone woman in a green scarf at the far end of the bench and opened with, "What's your number?" Her wait number, that is. She was B177. Knowing the woman's fate--that once you answer one “Henry” question, you had better be prepared for the 99 that will follow--I moved with Sadie closer to the two. Together, the lady and I answered all of Henry's questions about wait numbers: the big digital sign that flashed the numbers as help became available, the difference between an A number and a B number, how the 170s came before the 180s, etc.

Sadie laughed and cooed as we talked. Entertainment news and trivia flashed on the flat screen in between advertisements. Henry asked me to read him the Star Trek trivia. Then, his eyes lit up at one of the ads and he asked our new friend, "Uh, what does that say?"

"Oh," she said, "That is an advertisement about people who want to help kids."

"No," Henry said. "That's 1-877-Cars for Kids."

B177 was called and we said our goodbyes to Green Scarf Lady. Soon enough, after another ten minutes of answering RMV-related inquiries, it was our turn. I took the eye test and stood against the white board to get my photo, Henry stood next to me (thinking he, too, was in the picture). "Cheese!"

We were done!

As we strolled back through the rows and rows of benches and faces, Henry waved a big wide politician's wave and shouted, "Bye, bye! Bye, bye, everyone!"

About fifteen people gave big waves right back and wished him goodbye, followed by a round of chuckles and smiles. In that little moment, I sure was glad I brought my little troublemaker to the RMV. He's a handful, but he brings a lot of joy to me, and I love being reminded of how much joy he can bring to others, even strangers.

"I was good, mama," he said. "You were. You really were." He really was.

Is That Poop, or Chocolate?

There's a great quote in the movie "Baby Mama" when Maura Tierney's character grabs her little boy by the arm as he is walking past and says, "Is that poop, or chocolate?" Then, she licks him and smiles with a divine sense of relief: "Chocolate." Tina Fey's character is mortified.

If I had to choose a camp, I'd probably say I was more of a Tina Fey in this situation ... or at least I was ...  once ... before I had children.

See, I hate the word "poop." Anyone who knows me well can attest to that. I don't like the word, and quite frankly, if it weren't part of bein' alive, I could totally go without it altogether. Truth be told, I am cringing every time I have to write the Godforsaken word right now. Poop. [Shudder.] Instead, I guess I just find creative ways to avoid saying it ... at all. Ever.

But here's the thing: Poop is a main character in my life right now.

[Warning: Do not continue reading if you also shudder at the word, thought, existence, idea of poop]

Every day, when Henry has to "go," he calls me into the bathroom. "I'm ready!" he says. I sigh. I huff. And then up the stairs I trundle to clean him. That's right people. If you don't have kids ... you actually do have to teach a child to wipe. Not only that, but you gotta teach him how to do it properly, cuz if you don't you find yourself watching him in the middle of a public place sticking his hands down the back of his pants repeatedly, walking funny and - moment of silence for the suffering - realizing there's poop on his hands.

For now, I will happily accept my wiping duties if it means avoiding public poop (a whole other post ...).

And, of course, all the parenting experts say that we are supposed to embrace poop. "Good job!" ... "Look what you did!" ... "Yay!" .. clapping, high-fives (if you dare), hugs while holding your nose. I mean, you're not even supposed to say "goodbye" to the poop when you flush for fear it will traumatize your child that something is lost and gone forever to an unknown destination. Poop for toddlers. Apparently it's supposed to be a huge celebration.

And for me it's such a challenge. But I do it. I grab the two wipes (which, by the way I am instructed to do every time - no more, no less), and I wipe the child. Every day. He's four. That's a lot of poop wiping. [Shudder.]

It's a beautiful thing when your child becomes potty-trained. Because you both really work your you-know-what off to get there. But, really, it doesn't end there.

Let's take today as another example. For whatever reason, my sweet, distracted boy got so wrapped up in playing that he didn't make it to the toilet in time. He doesn't tell me ... he just keeps playing. I say, "You smell like poop." He doesn't make eye contact. "No," he says. "Sister smells like poop." Keeps driving the Cadillac Escalade around the floor of the baby's room.

Well, there is a distinct difference in the smell of baby poop versus big boy poop. I know he's pooped. I know the fate that awaits me. My blood starts to race through my veins. I feel I could really lose it (and have a few times). But, really, I can't ... because as discussed above: Poop is a celebration of life!

"Henry, let me check." Squirm, run, tackle, pull down ... "Gosh-a-roo!" I say, but kind of mean. "Honey, you need to remember that when you feel like you have to go, you gotta stop whatever you're doing and go. I know it's hard, but you have to."

I scoop him up, legs flailing, smelling atrocious, and I carry him to the bathroom.

"Let's see what we've got here." Off come the pants.

And there it is: Poop. Up the back, down the legs and everywhere in between. I try and wipe it with baby wipes to no avail. It's sticky. Like tar. That stuff does not come off easy. And it stains his skin. Not only that, but somehow everything smells like poop. The light switch smells like poop. And is that poop on the bath mat? Holy Mary, Mother ...

"You need to get in the shower," I tell him.

"NO!" he shouts, as if I am piercing him with needles. "I don't wanna, mama." After what seems like a half an hour battle of wills, I promise him a piece of Easter candy if he gets in the tub. Because when it's poop, you bribe. You bribe the sun if you have to. But you bribe. Still: "NO! NO! NO!"

"Well, tough nuggets, mister." And again, I'm scooping up all 36-lbs. of him, legs flailing ... this time, poopy legs. In the tub, bath running. Scrubbing. Crying. Thinking I am gonna need to rewash that tub when I see the remnants of poop floating around. [Shudder.] But I'm smiling ... because poop is a natural and happy part of being you!

"It's not a big deal, Henry. Accidents happen," I tell him as I wash him. But I am a mom and I value my future sanity, so I add: "Just remember: Next time, you need to stop playing if you feel you have to 'go.'"

He nods while crying ... still.

Ten minutes later, he's dressed again. He's clean. The poopified materials have been quarantined.

Poor sister Sadie has been in her crib the whole time. And, no joke, I walk in and she smells like poop. I smile, and she smiles her super-sweet two-tooth grin back at me. I scoop her up.

"Hey, beautiful bear! Did you poop? Are you a poopy sister? You and your brother are on the same schedule! Congratulations!" Commence baby talk about poop for a few minutes more, clean up curiously-colored poop. She laughs. I laugh. Henry laughs: "Sister pooped!" It's a grand poop party ... because poop is awesome!

Wash hands. Everyone. Again. Just for good measure.

Finally, we're all back downstairs.

"Where's my candy?" Henry asks. Right. Of course, there's a reward for this.

"Here's some of your chocolate bunny! I am so proud of you for listening to mommy and taking a bath." I break off part of the bunny's belly and put it on a napkin for him.

Henry smiles. Sadie smiles because Henry is smiling. Everyone is happy.

I grab another napkin to wipe my hands. I spot some brown matter in my finger nails. "Is that poop, or chocolate?!"

Well, I guess a part of me will always be the Tina Fey. Because I wasn't taking any risks ... I scrubbed my nails like there was no tomorrow.

Always assume: It's poop. [Shudder.]

Why You Should Always Put Away the Laundry

There is a basket of laundry in my bedroom that has been there for a week. The clothes are clean. They're even folded. And every day I look at the basket and think to myself, "Today. Today will be the day I put away those clothes." But another day passes and there it sits. I don't even know what's in it anymore.

Well, this afternoon, during what I like to call the magic hours when Henry is at preschool and Sadie is (usually) napping and I magically restore order to the household, I raced around trying to complete the list of chores and to-dos that can only be done or at least be done best without children present.

I cleaned the kitchen floor. Wiped smeared cottage cheese and peanut butter off the table and chairs. Emptied and refilled the dishwasher. Changed a load of laundry. Refilled the Brita. Cleaned the high chair. Washed two pacifiers. Took out the trash. Opened a new box of trash bags. Watered the plants. Packed snacks for the gym. Washed and cut the strawberries. Washed and cut the celery. Ate a piece of celery. Took a drink of water. Glanced at the clock: I had an hour left.

I checked on the baby who was sleeping soundly in her car seat at the foot of the stairs. I checked Facebook. Then, I started round two.

I sprinted up the stairs to the bathroom, where I opened up the childproof cleaning box, grabbed the bleach and sprinkled the toilet, sink and tub. Scrubbed and cleaned the bathroom. Found a little space under the bathtub faucet that had not been cleaned since 1982. Cleaned it. Mentally reminded myself to buy more Comet and a new scrub brush. Washed the baby's bathtub, rinsed it three times. Changed the hand towels.  Refilled the toddler wipes. Wiped down the mirror. Tried to ignore how much I needed a highlight. Smiled remembering I had made an appointment for May 1.

I picked up my iPod touch and checked the time. Thirty minutes left.

I hurried into my bedroom to change for the gym excited at the prospect of having a few minutes to sit down, but was distracted by what I found there. I completely forgot that I had dumped a different basket of laundry on the bed earlier. Of course, I'd had every intention of folding it before preschool, but let's just say there were some unforeseen roadblocks that  may or may not have included rubbing squished cottage cheese curds out of Henry's shirt and pants. (He refused to change.)

I looked again at the clock, looked back at the clothes. Determined that towels, t-shirts and socks would be fairly easy to combat in a short amount of time. I thought I could do it. So I started. Then, I thought, "Well, maybe I should change first; in case the baby wakes up."

I took off my shirt. For some reason, my mind returned to the laundry before putting another shirt on. This is what happens when the brain starts to shut down after an hour or so of rapid fire task-tackling.

So there I was, folding the towels in my bra and jeans, knowing all the while it was ridiculous. Right at that moment the baby woke screaming. You might recall she was still in her car seat at the bottom of the stairs, which happens to be right in front of my windowed front door. No time for modesty, though. Down the stairs to reinsert the pacifier. Screaming stops instantly. I watched for a moment as her pretty eyelashes closed again over her brown-green eyes. Then I sprinted back up the stairs ... still half-dressed.

I knew I should finish one thing or the other, so I changed into my sports bra and took off my jeans. Grabbed a pair of socks off the bed and put them on (two birds ...). Then, wouldn't you know it? The screaming starts again. Down the stairs to the rescue ... this time in a much more precarious position--basically naked. I prayed that this would not be the moment the mailman walked up to the door. And surprisingly, considering my usual luck, he did not. It was a small victory, and I was grateful. I reinserted the pacifier, and returned up the stairs. Figured I should just quickly put away what I had folded since it seemed Sadie was on her way to full-on wake up. Folding, naked. It's the new busy.

By the time I actually went to get dressed, I had ten minutes left to wake and change the baby, pack the gym bag and get out the door to preschool pick-up. I threw on a shirt. But when I went to grab my workout pants, that little space in my drawer where all my black pants sit was empty. I pulled everything out. I finally found one pair. The dreaded pair. You know, the pair that's buried under everything for a reason. The pair that should be tossed because they are a size too small and have a tendency to slowly creep down my backside if I get running too fast. (Very distracting). "Where are all my freakin' workout pants?" I shout. I mean, all that laundry. No clean pants?

Then I remembered where those pants were ... the bottom of the week-ago basket.

My Aim

It probably began in grade school: my inability to move forward with any writing endeavor until I had the ideal title. The best fit for my unwritten words. The impeccable paraphrase. 

Perfectionist behavior? Perhaps. Procrastinator behavior? More likely.

But there's something magical about a title. And when I know I have found the right one, all the words that had been tumbling around in my head fall in line like soldiers and come marching beautifully across the page. My heart keeps time, and when I feel I have said everything I've wanted to say, it's as if I've just started breathing.

... that may or may not be why it has taken me so long to start my first blog ...

Thing is, as every journalism-trained writer knows, titles are the first element about your work that will be changed. Same is true for novelists. That snappy title that gets you moving is almost never the title that ends up on the cover or above the fold. So all the hours I've spent toiling over the "perfect" blog title (only to find most of them are taken), have been wasted. I have finally come to terms with it.

I've abandoned my lofty dreams of originality and my secret thoughts about creating a year 2020 cliché-caliber word connection, and have instead settled on a song title. Cliché to the core. But it's not a random selection. It means something to me.

I've loved this Elvis Costello song since the very first time I heard it. It's funny. It's romantic. It's cynical. It's silly. And I love it. All of it. It was one of the first songs that brought lyrics to my attention in a way that made me think. 

I also know I am "writing" a book every day. We all are. To record those experiences and share them with others in a way that connects with them, makes them laugh/feel/think/learn, that's the goal of this blog. And on a personal level, I hope this body of work acts as that "perfect title" for me as a writer. A beginning. One that might get cut or changed or forgotten, but that ends up leading to something great.

It's funny ... a friend once told me that, these days, Costello actually hates singing "Every Day I Write the Book" because it has become such a cult favorite that he has to sing it ad nauseum; and it might not reflect the artist he is today ... Well, I kinda love that, too. Makes him a bit of a perfectionist. Don't you think?