Brooklyn to Venice

If anyone is interested in ensuring that they ruin a perfectly planned cross country relocation, the following steps might be helpful.

1. Start resting on your laurels after the 3200 mile drive, including the ill-advised excursion onto the Vegas strip, was completed without a hitch (at least with respect to anyone under the age of 38).

2.  Believe that the child you started feeding *generally* gluten free would be *fine* with gluten for an extended period of time.  Feed her Honey Nut Cheerios routinely, an occasional apple, and more pretzels than anyone should ever eat in their life.

3.  Keep your kids totally off any sort of schedule, whatsoever.  Practice the kind of parenting you thought was perfectly acceptable — go where you need to go! when you need to get there! enjoy the special occasions! let the special occasions last for three weeks! — before you had any children, let alone the two girls that need a schedule.

4.  Never put them to bed for three weeks.  Get them so tired they put themselves to bed. Let yourself think this is heaven — the nighttime routine is so easy this way, your famous last words.

5.  When your daughter that doesn’t really like to talk clearly or say much outside the context of her imaginary play says “Mommy, I want to stay in the house,” don’t listen.  Take her to the beach! To the pool.  To Target, the obvious haven for all kids who feel like they just want to be alone.

6.  After this same daughter says “I’m tired”, and puts herself down for a nap, in her own bed, wake her up.  To drive to the airport with you.  Because the car can be so relaxing, it can put kids back to sleep, it really can.  Even those that just spent six ungodly days in a car.

7.  Really believe when she cries while you are loading her into the car, then stops, that the crying has really, truly stopped.  Really believe that the magical “Sssssshhhh” sound that replicates whatever she heard in your womb (while she was getting pushed around by her sister that could never share space if her life depended on it) will calm her.  Let your whole entire heart believe this.

8.  Really, the “sssshhhh” and adding “I understand” will calm her down when she screams, “I want to go HOME. I WANT TO GO TO BED.”

9.  Tell her if she doesn’t stop screaming you will need to stop the car, and put her in a row of your Pilot away from her sister and brother.

10.  Stop the car when she screams again. Pull into a parking lot that has one entrance and one exit, and an empty few spots, and pull into the spot and really believe that you are stronger than a 45 pound pissed off 4 year old.

11.  Try to get the 45 pound 4 year old out of the car, into the middle row of your car, and strapped into her booster.  Because how freaking hard is it t hold down a 4 year old? and still try to say “Sssshhhhh, I understand”, knowing this will calm her down.

12.  Decide to just not strap her down, and let her lay on the floor.  Because clearly a pissed off, 45 pound 4 year old that realizes she has your attention (but that you are not listening to her despite her very clear words) will just lay on the floor of your car, which, by the way, is still littered with toys, blankets, and pretzels, and chicken nuggets from the flawless 6 day, 3200 mile drive.

13.  Start pulling out of the one way parking lot.

14.  Have the pissed off 4 year old throw herself into the backseat, hit her brother and sister, have them scream, and before you can even decide what to do, fly into the front seat and scratch you in the face and scream in your ear “I WANT TO GO HOME”. She is feral.  She is flying. She is screaming. She is pissed.

15. Stop the car right at the exit of the parking lot, believing you can calmly fix this situation because you clearly haven’t already let it go on long enough.  You clearly haven’t, there is still time.  This 4 year old pissed off demon who isn’t being listened to can still be reasoned with.  (Recall, briefly, fleetingly, the day before when you repeated yourself to your husband seven times and he still didn’t hear you, had no clue what you said, and the rage you felt inside at not being listened to.  Dismiss this).

16.  Try to get the 4 year old back in her seat.  Fail.  Fail. Fail. Fail again.  Hold her outside the car as she thrashes like the girl in the Exorcist, and a line of 4 cars are patiently waiting to exit the parking lot behind you.

17.  Realize when 4 (now 5) cars are patiently waiting to get out of a parking lot at 4:45pm in LA to enter LA rush hour, it is clear even to them that you have a problem on your hands and even realize that they realize that if they honk, shout, scream, or honk at you – like most people would in their shoes – they see this might end more disastrously than it already is.  You might even spontaneously die, because how are you surviving this anyway? You aren’t screaming, you aren’t hurting anyone, you have a 4 year old pulling your hair and stiffening her back while simultaneously twisting her body, and expanding her limbs so she can’t even fit through the door.  And you are standing there holding up traffic, and no one is honking.

18.  The Merdeces SUV behind you pulls up next to you.  Chances are, this is a car from your apartment complex, where everyone has either a Mercedes, a BMW, an Audi, a Lexus, a Ferrari (seriously!), or a Bentley (who has a Bentley? That lives in an apartment complex? With 400+ parking spots jammed into 6 floors of parking? Who? Someone in my complex). It’s a dad, he has two kids in the back of his car.  Sitting there with their eyes glued on me.  He is so good looking, he is an angel. And he is smiling.  Is he smiling because he can relate? Please. Or because he can’t believe what he is seeing? More likely.  He says with his eyes, and in some universal sign language of parents, “Are you okay? I don’t know how to help? Hang in there.”  He gives me the parent-parent moral support.  It only works because he has a rugged face and a five 0’clock shadow and it looks like he is just went hiking to go surfing and back hiking and is going home to write a short story about the beauty of Southern California.  I give him the sign, with my hand and roll of my eyes, that says “I’m fine, but going crazy, but this is what we signed up for.  I can remain patient, and keep her safe, sorry to have caused you to spend 15 extra minutes in this parking lot. But I’m perfectly composed.”  We had our moment, we nod goodbye and smile, marching onto our separate lives.

19.  Two other cars pull around. A delivery man (he didn’t honk!) and three teenagers (they didn’t honk).

20.  I realize that the two well behaved children in the back can move. I have them move to the middle row.  I put the pissed off child in the back.  I get in the front seat. I try not to cry (but I do cry). I’m quite sure my cousin who is in the front seat who is coming to live with us might be having second thoughts.  This makes me cry more, because I might die in LA if this happens again, and I never wanted to die in LA, and I might die if I don’t have someone helping me just a few hours a week.

21.  Amazingly, the kids regrouped. The two that feel punished for being good forgive me.  The one that is pissed off has calmed down.  She now says she is sad her cousin is gone.  We drive from the airport, to a flag football practice, and she is amazingly good.  She has decided to give up telling me she is tired, that she wants to go home, and go about her business without mind to me. She has given up on me.  We pretend like this incident never happened (on the surface, but immediately begin repairing deep down the scar on my heart that will never go away).

22.  We get home at 6:30.  We eat vegetables and fruit and quinoa pasta for dinner.  We take a bath. Brush our teeth.  Read 6 goodnight books.  Go to bed at 7:45pm, and try to recover.  And you pretend this won’t happen again because you have learned from your mistake(s).

One Version of the Story

I sat the in the triage room, at St. Anthony’s ER, explaining what brought me in. The nurse was focused and worried as she looked at my swelling calf, and applauded my good judgment in coming in. She had a look of fear and concern that quieted even my sister. Her choice to rush through the questions felt ominous, as if she knew this might not be routine.

As she rushed me to a room, my sister and I could barely look at each other without getting tears in our eyes. I felt like I had waited too long to come in – I should have come in days ago, when the swelling was just starting. Her guilt for not driving me to ER or Urgent Care before dinner, before the clot detached itself, was evident. She paced, she was quick to answer all the questions for me, she couldn’t leave my side.

As I lay in Room 26  getting my vitals taken, i could not stop thinking that I never would have predicted this end earlier in the day when I watched my son copy everything his 12 year old cousin did, when I watched my daughters try to hang with their 9 and 6 year old cousin, when I saw my nephew hold Gemma’s hand as we walked into the swim pool, as I cheered on Kai and my nephew as they did 30 flips off the diving board. I wouldn’t have thought I’d need up in the ER, with a calf three times as big as the other one, with a minor injury that was too minor not to turn not an unbelievable story of trauma. My sister kept checking to make sure I could speak, I could smile and frown, I could raise my hands. This leads to strokes, we knew it.  She cried knowing that she wanted us to stay in Colorado longer, but not on these terms. Not with me admitted indefinitely at St. Anthony’s.

although my mind was racing through my day, my life, the impending doom, it wasn’t 3 minutes after I entered Room 26 that Dr. Justin Anton arrived.  A fading tan, clearly darker just 36 hours earlier at the beginning of his shift. Blond, with a rugged face and a direct smile. Fading remnants of a black right eye.  He was my Alex Kerev – smart, tortured, and handsome. wanting to be available but unavailable, but striving to change at every moment. His focus was entirely on me. Not because I was his patient, no,not for that reason. But because he’d already fallen in love with what he’d seen in my triage chart. Perfect blood pressure, an athlete’s heart rate even with a birthdate in 1973, a clean bill of health since the last recorded ER trip for stitches in my chin October 6 1985 and last reported hospital trip to deliver twins. My sister noticed the layers of his attention, and was just grateful to have someone who was attention pay attention and be concerned, and not think I was overreacting to what she knew was a clearly dire situation.

No sooner did he feel my calf, listen to my heart beat in my ankle, did he have the premonition that the clot was there and detaching as he considered what to do. Emergency surgery was performed, my lungs cleared, my family called. He told them I’d be fine, but needed rest, and he’d sit with me since my sister had meanwhile fainted. The thought of losing me was more than she could bare.

so he sat with me and talked to me even while I was still under, still coming to. the conversation just continued once my eyes opened. A doctor, who once played professional baseball (a catcher, Tino Martinez his idol), who at night writes songs meant only for acoustic guitar.  Rough around the edges, but when we talked about my drive through Iowa just the day before, he admits, when I mention the tour of the covered bridges of Madison County, he loved the movie. He asks if I will go with him to have ice cream, downtown or by Wash Park, once I can walk. Ice cream is innocent, right?, but I remind him I Am Married. I have three kids, fast asleep at their grandparents after having played all day with their cousins. When I’m better I will have to fly to LA, as my life is waiting for me to begin again there. There’s too much chemistry to believe the ice cream is innocent. He tells me to email him if I ever need anything, anything at all.  He leaves with a tear him his eye, and goes home to write a song about me. The 2013 version of Hey There Delilah but about a married mother of 3 who he saved and fell in love with. my sister gets wheeled  into the room to share with me, as she recovers from her panic attack.

The triage nurse that did my intake gives me the wrong prescription on the way out, jealous as she’s been in love with Dr. McCloseToDreamy for years.

The (Closer to) True Version of the Story

My left calf has been aching for a week. Progressively getting worse. I thought it was swollen, but could barely tell until last night. My sister – meant to be a nurse – did a symptom check for blood clots. It wasn’t warm to the touch, but I didn’t want to be caught in the middle of Utah while driving and suddenly realize I was short of breath with a swollen calf. So while some unnamed members of my family thought I was being melodramatic, try sister took me and my tight uncomfortable slightly swollen calf to UrgentCare. Except first we ate Mexican food and drank Sangria at Beso de Arte in Morrison. And Urgent Care closed at 5pm, as urgent things don’t often happen at night (????).  So we went to the hospital.

Everything seemed funny to us and made us laugh. The fact that we were there, the fact they had record of my 1985 stitches from the bike incident in Colorado Springs (which was all my sister’s fault). The fact I was putting on a gown to get my calf checked out.  my concern that no one had asked me for my insurance card, her intimate knowledge with the process of the ER.  my answer to the question “have you recently traveled a long distance?” asked by every nurse and the doctor. And everything else. We laughed non stop.

Dr Justin Anton was my doctor. He looked just as described above, and it’s hard to tell what the black eye might have been from. He was attentive to me because I was the patient. Less so to my sister because she was not the patient. (And he might have liked me because I was a model, agreeable patient). He suspected I had a clot, ordered an ultrasound and blood work. I told the blood tech that my veins were tricky. He confirmed I was right and took blood from my right hand. I ills the ultrasound tech that the last time I had an ultrasound I found out the baby I was having was twins. She didn’t really think it was interesting or funny. But Billi and I did. Or at least I did and Billi was tired and slap happy and laughing at everything. Billi also told me I had nice muscle tone in my legs and I noted to myself that it was the nicest compliment I’d received in a while.

We waited 90 minutes for the results. I thought I felt light headed (sangria?) so Billi had me smile and frown and mocked my frown. Dr Justin Anton apologized for the results taking too long and nudged the ultrasound department to read the reports. we waited and watched Jimmy Fallon. I was astounded that my sister didn’t know who the Roots were or the song Blurred Lines, but thankfully she did know who Robin Thicke was. But she didn’t know he really is Alan Thicke’s son. The nurse asked me if I wanted my “friend” to be my emergency contact and at that, we started laughing again. But my sister did cry when I explained I didn’t exactly have an address, we were in between homes. It was sweet.

The reports came in. No clot (yeah!).  Dr Justin explained it was Bakers Cysts. Very common. I think he said very uncomfortable and potentially dangerous if left ignored, but maybe I’m imagining that part. He did say to email him if I needed anything. Or email the hospital and they would out me in touch with him. My sister noted that he liked me more than her. We walked out tired but still giggling for no real reason.

Derek had called every 3 minutes to ask if I was okay. He couldn’t fathom what was so funny when he heard us laughing. Every time he called. He was gravely concerned, but once it was confirmed I was okay, he asked that I bring him home some orange juice. Which was when I decided it wouldn’t be so terrible to imagine my doctor falling in love with me.

I follow her frequently. I can’t help it – I miss her, and my other grandchildren, and their energy pulls me Toward them. She’s had plenty of energy recently, maybe because of those three little heads following her around everywhere. But i don’t mind, I like to be pulled their direction.

As she drove northwest, there was peace in the car. She’s often been able to settle into peace – sit there and let it be.  That’s not to say her mind was peaceful. Even though I can follow her, I can’t quite read her thoughts. I just surmise, based on the little girl and teenager I knew, the young woman I’ve watched, what she’s thinking.  Or feeling. She was wide eyed for the drive, but there was an occasional tear. Or stream of them. I’m not even sure she knew what they were – happy, sad, scared, touched.  All of them. The further she went, the more 16-wheel trucks she saw. Her sister and she used to love when I drove my truck down to see them. So maybe those are what caused her thoughts to pull me in.

I could tell, however, that she was pleasantly surprised when she got to Cleveland.  The trip had gone smoothly. There was no breakdowns in the car. No (real) crying except her own. And there was a surprising aesthetic to Cleveland that she liked. the same surprising green that she saw so often on the lush hillsides of La Jolla and Cardiff. Maybe not the ocean right west, but beautiful still.

As soon as they got to the hotel, she took those little ones outside. Her daughters picked berries and looked for worms. So unafraid to get dirty, even though the one was in a purple sequine dress. Her son saw some older boys – black, Indian, white -playing basketball. He wanted to play with them, his 48 inches to there 67 inches. His five innocent years to their 12 or 13. She encouraged him to watch, then ask to join when it felt right. She stepped away at that point, not out of sight but letting him choose his own actions. She had the look I remember when she was 6, playing checkers with me and waiting to see if I might grab another beer, another cigarette. Wanting to control my choice, but knowing even then she couldn’t. Of course her little guy is choosing to live, to engage, to follow his heart, better than this old guy could even 30 years ago. He got in there with those boys and damn if he didn’t try to defend them. He introduced himself too, and shook their hands, which was even more impressive. A bit later they started picking up their game and using the n* word so she quickly suggested they go for a night time swim. Which plan was ruined by a big storm and a few temper tantrums by the girls who preferred worms and berries to swimming, so they called it a night.

I stuck around. I  Always have more people to see, but I felt good things where in store here. The next morning I listed to her girls tell people at breakfast who was a boy and who was a girl, and ask a family if they were white or black. i don’t even know what they were, so fair question for those little 4 year old terrors. They all headed to downtown Cleveland, and I could see my granddaughter open up as they drove in.  One glance of water and the city seemed to have her. She forgot it would be on a Great Lake, and she might forget but I can tell you that’s the first real type of water she loved. Not the ocean, not a river.  Not a swim pool. The lakes. None as big as Lake Erie of course – and probably even man made ones in Pueblo and Colorado Springs – but those lakes pull her in. Her husband and son headed into Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and I watched her take a solid 30 minutes convincing those girls to go in. But she did, finally. I was even about to give up. Trying to figure out what they were scared of felt like a rubrics cube with the stickers all switched up. Impossible.  Once inside, there wasn’t one thing in that museum she didn’t want to digest and memorize. The instruments, the clothing, the stage props. But what seemed to pull her in the most was the hand written letters, the personally typed letters, the human engagement in the whole thing. That you forget exists in such a business. She focused in on those and wanted to snap photos of every one, with the hopes of being able to later read what those three little ones could care less about right that minute. Meanwhile, I read them all. Mick Jagger is a riot and John Lennon was a little too in love with Yoko. But who am I to say. I won’t be surprised if she goes back a few times in the future. Her daughter in the purple sequins was intermittently scared, and the other one pretended to be scared if her sister was around and was a little jokester and clown if she was just with her brother. Meanwhile that little boy told 10 people he was going to be in the hall of fame one day. There is a lot to be said for spunk and confidence.

They bought what seemed to me to be the whole souvenir shop on the way out. but I guess I might have been accused of the same thing every so often, including on July 4ths when I would take down fireworks to her and her sister to set off. But she bought a bit too damn much. The cashier had been high for at least the past 3 years straight but was as nice as they come (she just couldn’t quite see straight or talk at any regular speed). She let Nikki know there was a Brooklyn in Ohio right in the greater Cleveland area, and the famous twin festival going on in Twinsbugh a half hour away. And that Mitchell’s Ice Cream was worth a trip. She passed through Brooklyn (office parks and no charm), drove by the beach of Lakeside and the charming Victorian-home lined streets to Mitchell’s. The little one with the purple sequins had to sit the ice cream out as she’d poured water all over her sister. But the rest of them enjoyed that ice cream, I’d say even more than the DQ sundaes we would indulge in when she would visit me growing up. Don’t tell her tell you differently – ice cream lightens her soul. She seems to have passed this trait onto her kids.

The night ended with another night time swim. And watching the Pro Football Hall of Fame induction. Her kids seemed excited to piece this together with the football stadium they saw earlier in the day, right next to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. She kept getting teary at each speech, particularly that first one by that Ogden player. God knows why a Raven would get her all emotional. And didn’t she used to be a Redskin fan? And then that Giants coach (and Jets, and Cowboys – the guy was everywhere).  I seem to recall her hating him, but when he said “when things go well in football, they are never as good as they seem.  and when things go bad in football, they are never as bad as they seem” – She seemed to get energized. She was quiet, but her mind was taking that in. Doing something with it. And then she took bits and pieces of each speech and tried to point out the wisdom to her children. They meanwhile were trying to fold each other up into the sofa bed.  In any event, I know that little girl who loved football, who placed a weekly bet with me for the Redskins and against the Broncos, would have been happy that he trip to Cleveland coincided with the Pro Football HOF weekend. She might say her time working at the NFL took some of that passion away. But I can tell you differently. This old spirit here can feel her heart beating when football is around.

The next day I stuck around a bit to make sure that drive west went as well as the stay in Cleveland. her eyes got bright when they passed through Brooklyn Ohio, Brooklyn Illinois, and Brooklyn Iowa. I can tell you this much though – these Brooklyns aren’t going to be her “mid-west   Brooklyn”. Not much going on in any. Cleveland had the best shot of that if I was a betting man.   That little boy of hers lit up in Gary, Indiana, but I don’t need to tell you guys about that. Anyone reading this knows that story. But I tell you, that little guy truly believes he had been to Gary before and has a little tiny piece of MJ’s soul. There’s something to be said for that belief too. That concept. That your soul dives into another’s when your body isn’t working any more. Either the whole soul into another whole body, or you spread the wealth. Maybe spreading the wealth is the better way to go, and the more likely scenario.

The day was a smooth one. She passed even more 16-wheel trucks. She told her kids that her Grandpa Ray used to drive one. Kai said “I know that mommy, you told me before”. The one with the purple sequins (changed to a flower dress today) said “I like trucks and cows that are smaller than trucks”. She’s a funny one to try to follow. That other little pistol, who stayed in her pajamas today, said “Dude, only boys drive trucks DUDE.  Girls tell them what to do DUDE”. Then laughed like she’d figured up the funniest joke ever. I like to believe she has just a little piece of my soul – the very best piece – in that little humorous heart of hers.

As cliche as it is, much like (my) life, my road from Brooklyn to Venice isn’t exactly a direct one. I’ve been out of Brooklyn for one week now and yet have only gotten 600 miles away. Is been a week filled with (1) traffic – it took 3 hours just to get over the Verrazano Bridge (the first “are we there yet?” Came  from Sasha at exit 12 on the 278 in STATEN ISLAND (2) Mexican food and margaritas, starting with a birthday party in DC with a taco truck (and chocolate covered key lime pie flown in from Key West), and (3) lots of quality time with good friends, some of whom I’ve see regularly the past twenty years and others barely at all.

i had known what I would write my first post about, but no idea what the second would be about until tonight. And while I could go on about the key lime pie and traffic (for better or worse) and tie that into my journeys west, the friends fit into the story much better. I’ve been incredibly sad leaving my Brooklyn friends. It takes me a while to open up and feel like I’m offering others a friendship, even when they easily open up. And I feel like I just did that – finally – with so many people in our (old) neighborhood. I had this feeling like I would be starting from scratch again. I’d have no friends and feel unmoored and unconnected. It’d go back to that feeling that was familiar in 1996 when I first landed in NYC. The starting over wasn’t on the list of “pros” for this move.

Then – I was given this gift by the universe.  Our admittedly chaotic plan of vacationing in the Outer Banks (with a pitstop for a friend’s birthday in DC) before driving west gave me just what I needed. It led me to spending a morning (or midday, as the plan was a bit delayed) with my first NY roommate and one of my dearest friends. I hadn’t seen her in nearly 5 years – but it was like no time had passed and my heart felt a lot lighter leaving her house a few hours later. My kids were also happier (much) and we were introduced to Bergers Cookies – life (and our waistlines) might never be the same. But we talked and listened and laughed and cried (although ironically the crying started this visit off, rather than capped it off! I will never be accused of holding back tears).

Then came Outer Banks. It’s our 4th year coming with two of my best friends from college. We get 7 quality days (cut short by a few this year) of fun, sun (except the first year), and time together. Our kids play with each other and feel loved by all of us. One of my conditions of moving west was their promise that we’d still vacation together. It’s not just my time with them I wanted (they are fun! And nice!) but it’s my kids’ time with them. I’ve always envisioned my kids knowing well the people that know me best. I have felt that would give them a better understanding of who I am, and better security as they figure out who they are (and who they can be). As we laughed together, shared old stories and new adventures, weathered the thankfully few temper tantrums with good humor and moral support for each other, opened up about the current stressors of life (mine are no surprise – given the blog’s title) – I was reminded of this. And I saw that my kids see more of me – more of who I am at my very core – when I’m with my friends. Partially because I’m reminded of who I am at my very core as I’m around them. And to be honest, that core hasn’t changed much since 1996.  Or 1986 for that matter. It’s a little wiser, much less self conscious. A bit more forgiving and less stark in (certain) judgments (more stark in others).  But not too different otherwise. And partially because they bring things out of me that simply wouldn’t come out if I didn’t get the benefit of their company. Is like each of them sparks a different, slightly nuanced place in my heart and mind.

ironically my annual trip to North Carolina has also given me the chance to see an old friend and his family that live in Kentucky. As soon as I realized earlier that my week has been filled with friends in Maryland, DC, and Kentucky, all while in North Carolina and literally between homes and anchorless – I knew there was some story to tell. it takes a country to fill the void of Brooklyn, or something like that. But then as I sat having a drink with three of them last night the point of the story shifted just a little. I sat there getting bit by Mosquitos and feeling the heat of a little too much sun, the pain of having been hit on the head with a kayak paddle (my friends apparently aren’t the most graceful ocean kayakers) and feeling connected.  And feeling the same sense of contentment and care (and amusement! – some of them are a little crazy) for these other people as I felt sitting in living room on S Street in DC 20 years ago. And feeling known by knowing them. And feeling – happy? content? Comfortable? – knowing they knew details about me that even I had forgotten. And I was happy to remember! To be reminded of the places in my heart they occupy (and now, their kids as well, they all have awesome kids thaknow love being around), as they evoked the same emotion from me that they evoked so long ago.

And I feel so lucky to have friends like that in Brooklyn, yes. But also in Maryland. In Kentucky. In Oregon. In Los Angeles. all over San Diego. In Oakland. In Colorado (if you count family as friends and with the size of my family, I do). In Seattle. In Texas. And my children get to see me through all of your eyes when we spend time together, which matters to me. Because you help them know me. But also, I get to see me through your eyes (or hearts). and you help me remember the things about me that the pace and needs of life can bury.  Whether its every day or once every ten years. And I’m reminded, that friendship and connection isn’t constrained by city limits. Or time. Or generations.

So I remembered, despite the changes (more than I can even plan for), I’m not really starting over at all.

(And – unrelated side lessons. 1. Check to see if there is construction on any bridge before starting a long drive on it. 2.  It’s best to dehydrate kids on long road trips if you want to mtime decent time. 3. Thunderstorms will still scare your dog even if its a thunderstorm on vacation.  4.  5 kids can fit all on the top two twin bunks – you dont need the bottom ones. 5.  Don’t got 50 in 35 mph zone even if you are just 30 seconds from Your destination).

Now – off to Cleveland for stop two.

It wasn’t until 1995 – the beginning part of my senior year of college – that I first had the idea that I would move to New York.  Once the thought crossed my mind, it seemed inevitable, and I never doubted it was where I wanted to be.  I often joke that I foolishly followed a boy here.  It could be a true story – I was dating someone from New York (but not the city – a world away in Long Island), and I easily could have been swayed by his suggestions that I come to New York.  But while it is an easy, self-deprecating version of the story, it never, never, deep down, was that.  We were in the house I lived in on 35th & O in DC, waiting to watch the OJ Simpson verdict.  We had been talking about a girl he dated before me who lived in Manhattan and he said “I know she will be really successful one day.”  I remained totally silent, not really knowing how to respond to the statement since I didn’t even know her.  I instantly felt like I had something to prove, although he had not suggested that I would not be successful.  But in that instant, for all my lack of self awareness in 1995 (and generally the surrounding time period from 1992-1997.5), I knew that I wanted to prove to myself that I could be successful and that I could figure out what that meant to me.  It wasn’t just a gut feeling, but a visceral thought, and I knew I’d be calling New York my home less than a year later.  While it sounds like 20-20 hindsight, I knew I’d find myself (literally and figuratively) in this City.

So in August 1996, I arrived.  Two friends from college helped me drive my stuff up in a U-haul (which they drove – not me – since I was drugged on Vicadone pills my mom had given me for my sore back after backpacking Europe — famous last words, “Take two, they aren’t strong”, from my mom).  My “stuff” consisted of lots of books, journals, the same 32-ounce Georgetown cup I drink from today, and a futon.  We carried the stuff up 17 flights of stairs in NYU graduate housing when the elevator broke and we just wanted to be done.  They stayed the night, and the next day I officially knew two people in New York – my uncle’s best friend who worked near Wall Street, and one friend from college.  I had a roommate who was never there and never ate, and who looked down on everyone around her (me included). I made friends with two dental students and two people getting a master in public health, one of whom was also a former swimmer.  I had no clue what lay in front of me or how to navigate my way.  My proudest moments were when strangers stopped me to ask for directions, since I felt that I must appear to be confident and know where I was going even when I didn’t.

I was lonely. I didn’t feel connected to the people I met in my own master’s program.  I felt restless and clueless.  I didn’t know how to enjoy the city.  My brightest moments were eating at a diner on 23rd & 2nd, with my college friend commiserating about our $6/day food budget or my new “grad dorm” friends after a late night out.  I thought I’d be here for five years, then move back to California — I couldn’t fathom the restless feeling would last longer than that and surely by the time I was 27, I’d have everything figured out.  Meaning, I’d have a job I liked. I’d move up the ladder at whatever job it was, or I’d work for myself.  I’d figure out a way to lateral it over to California, and life would be golden. I – literally – had no more specific thoughts or plans than that, and even that was more amorphous than I suggest now (and made little sense, given that I was getting a 2-year Masters degree in a field I already doubted I wanted to enter).

A year passed, and I started coaching the NYU women’s swim team as one of two assistants.  I moved in with that swimmer I met getting her masters, who still holds the reign as my best roommate ever (Derek doesn’t even come close).  I walked the streets of New York. I rode every subway line there was at the time. I went to baseball games, I went dancing, I listened to live music. I laid in Central Park on hot days and walked around Union Square Park every day.  I attended random workshops at random schools, and had stories to tell. I traveled to Hoboken for fun and realized I preferred the City.  I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time (it should have happened years before!).  I went hiking on weekend trips “upstate” (or 20 minutes outside the City).  Another year passed, I moved into a loft in Tribeca with the other assistant coach.  And 6 other people, including a dancer for the NYC ballet.  I started to create a family of friends who became family. I was introduced to Derek, and thought he was a nice, nice guy, but didn’t see that going anywhere. But man was he nice. Another year passed, and another year.  And another.  I had a friend I considered a sister.  I lived all over the city, I had traditions with friends on Thanksgiving and on the day of the NYC Marathon.  I suddenly didn’t cry every day of summer, but felt more attractive in the humidity that leveled all playing fields.  We all sweat! I got used to the smell of trash, and the stagnant air in the concrete jungle. I loved small restaurants and I hated the Tex-Mex Mexican food options. I went dancing, I saw the sun rise, I stayed in and read books, I ran all over – by the rivers, in the parks, on tracks. I didn’t feel lonely, I felt connected. I coached swimming, I taught gym (aka Physical Education, or “Recreational Arts” for those really in the know), I coached volleyball and basketball (without knowing much about basketball other than to dribble and shoot) and track. I met more acquaintances, deepened my friendships. I introduced friends to people they would marry. I lived in Manhattan. I lived in the Bronx. I worked in Brookyn and Staten Island.  I went to law school in Queens and had freedoms I’d never again have.  I had de ja vues when I was doing new things, but felt closer to myself than ever before.

The city was my city, and then I thought ‘I’m ready to leave’. I left, I came back. I couldn’t stay away. I missed the smell of garbage! The hustle and bustle! The Thai food.  The opportunity.  It is then — Then! — I found Brooklyn.  In May 2005, I came to look at condos to buy with Derek, and as soon as I walked the streets of Prospect Heights I knew I’d live here. The wide, gray, cracked sidewalks, lined with lush green trees.  The brownstones and limestones and stones of all different color, smashed together with people of all different color.  Offering the best of Manhattan, escaping the worst of it.  I walked from our condo at Classon & Prospect down to Underhill & Prospect — before this walk would be one I did 11 times a day with 3 kids — and I thought “This is perfect.”  This is me.  This is where I belong.

I bought the condo.  I bought our home.  And this – here, at this home, in this neighborhood – is where I found my dream job. And then a better one.  Where I realized how much I loved my family and friends and NYC friends who were family. And kept going with the traditions so long ago set, still going to ESPN Zone for Thanksgiving meal and to watch the NYC Marathon on 4th Avenue.  And made new friends. And had heartbreaks that I would never, never, never imagine I would have.  It is where my children were conceived and raised (and born across the river at St. Vincents).  It is where I learned what it felt like to hold a 2 pound baby and then, seemingly days later, three 30-pound babies at once.  It was where I felt loved. It is where my heart broke and my first dog died in the backseat of the car, on the way to the vet.  It is where my heart shattered and I lost my closest, dearest, best friend – my friend that was more of a sister – to cancer.  It is where I explained the phenomenon of tears of happiness, and felt their sweetness.  It is where I watched other friends move away, and leave a city that had given all it had given me and then some. It is where I became a mom and a partner to my kids – in crime, in life.

This neighborhood has been my soul mate. It wraps me up and gives me life when I most need to feel everything around me, and gives me solitude when I need to sit with my own mind with just enough white noise behind me.  It accepts and reflects all the contradictions that are me, that I didn’t know existed in 1995 but that I am really glad I discovered.  It has space for those contradictions.

Did I prove what I set out to prove? I certainly feel like I understand better the idea of success.  It has more to do with acceptance, and authenticity, and challenge than the version of it I had started to envision in 1995.  Not to mention living up to the standards that the little beings that carry my heart around deserve – being present for them, understanding myself so I can help them understand themselves.  But it also entails chasing your dreams and trusting your gut, even when you don’t know what those dreams exactly are.  Had I stopped to figure out what the dream was, instead of moving forward on hunches, I never would have landed here.

Have I been successful? I’m not sure, but I don’t feel like I have anything to prove anymore.  The feeling of success comes in small moments.  Having my family enjoy listening to me while I’m on a work call, asserting different sides of me that don’t come out at home every day. Getting hit on by a good looking swinger dad at Union Square Park (I didn’t take him up on the offer – but the fact that he was interested despite the three wild kids hanging off my stained and ragged clothes was success enough!).  Hearing my son tell my daughter, “It’s okay to be sad and cry if your heart feels heavy, but not if you want another cookie”.  Hearing him say his small daily dreams come true sometimes. Running, in a race or not, fast.  Teaching kids to play soccer, basketball, and the ever glorious game of dodgeball, including on a dirt field outside of the Brooklyn Courthouses on a 95+ degree day (wrapped in humidity) while the 3rd grade girls were more interested in figuring out if the 6’3 spectator in a dress was a man or a woman.  Sitting in a boardroom named after George Halas, founder of the glorious Chicago Bears, contributing to discussions on the business of football and game footage and licensing agreements and congressional hearings and player suspensions and watching a senior attorney demonstrate to the packed room what it meant to “make it rain”. Getting Gemma help I know she needs but was initially denied.  Crying because I’ve lost people I felt connected to, but being so grateful for the connection despite it.  Giving birth to three feisty, strong kids.  Getting three feisty, strong kids where they need to go each day (or most days).  Letting my friends help me.  Letting my family help me.  Laughing with my mom and sister on a bike carriage in New Orleans. Loving the Red Wedge Tom shoes I put on every day, each day like I found them for the first time. Having a one night stand.  Having a 16-year-and-counting stand.  Traveling to far away places, and nearby places, and learning what it feels like to be in those places. Doing a triathlon with absolutely no training.  Doing one wearing an extra pair of pants without even realizing it.  Doing a half marathon with lots more training.  Taking a dance class.  Doing Capoeira.  Drinking a glass of sangria while I walked two colicky babies for three hours every other night during the summer of 2009 and, despite the walks not stopping the crying for five minutes, not losing my mind, thanks to the Sangria.  Being unafraid to order a sundae every time – every time – I go to my favorite ice cream shop. Watching my daughters jump in the Cherry Blossoms at the Brooklyn Museum.  Looking at the Brooklyn Museum. Knowing the words to Liberian Girl just to make one little boy happy. Walking into a meeting with an owner of NFL football teams less than two hours after I cleaned pee from two wet beds and carried a screaming 2 1/2 year old to school, dragging her sister alongside, with tears running down my own cheeks (my kids aren’t light, and they have amazing lung capacities).  Going to Pro Bowl with my dad.  Finding more money in my kids piggy banks than I had in my checking account in 1998 (seriously, we just emptied the banks, and there was a $20 bill in Gemma’s – certainly pushing her past anything I had in the local credit union in second year here in the City!).  Naively thinking $400 would cover dinner and drinks for four at Chanterelle, so spending nearly $400 on drinks alone (and Derek and I really don’t drink….really.  Or Derek doesn’t).  Seeing Stevie Wonder play at the Apollo (and successfully keeping the tickets a surprise until we arrived at The Apollo!).  Giving my son the chance to meet The Jacksons.  Giving my daughters space to become the jokesters they are.  And finally, 17 years later, being brave enough to leave this city I love to follow an opportunity that doesn’t come up every day, or every lifetime, because my gut tells me I shouldn’t let the opportunity pass.

But the thing is — I’m not really leaving this city. This is what I’m taking with me.