Life in Chicago

Something Shifting

Something is shifting.

I've been feeling it for the last week or so.

A subtle change in direction.

In intention.

In purpose. In the way things work. In love, in life, in where we're headed.

Part of me wonders how much it has to do with the simple turns of the earth, with the coming spring and changes inevitable.

I took a look back at this time in years past.

March 1, 2009:

That night, babysitting at Sara's, after Julia had finally gone to sleep and we'd zipped Sam into his sleeping sack and put him in his crib, we went back downstairs to the kitchen and Greg put his arms around me and we stood there for a long time, neither of us having to say anything. We're embarking on the biggest adventure of our lives...and I can't imagine anyone I'd want to do this with more than him.

March 14, 2008:

I had dinner with a girlfriend last night who is med school to be a nurse practitioner and we had a long conversation about how we go about assimilating these experiences and this knowledge of illness and disease and death into our beliefs about the world and ourselves.  She spent all of Monday administering chemotherapy to cancer patients and I'd spent the week meeting dying and bedridden patients in their homes. The juxtaposition of the two of us last night drinking sangria at a trendy tapas bar was stark but also a vital part of accepting the impermanence of it all.

I rode the train home last night by myself, tipsy and starry-eyed by my life, by this time we are allotted to live and love and give.  It's the falling in love that makes me want to stay here as long as possible.

March 6, 2007:

On top of focusing on one thing, I've also been trying to focus on right now. This moment. In this moment it's about 10:30 and I'm sitting at my desk in my little home. The double doors are flung open wide to the warm Los Angeles night. Chet Baker is on the stereo, candles flickering all over the house. Being here right now means not thinking about all the things I did today or all the things I have to do tomorrow. It means not thinking about all the things that make me me, all the things I've done or seen or been over my life. It means not thinking about what I'm going to do this summer or when I turn thirty or some even more distant future.

It means just being here right now. It means knowing that I am everything that I have ever been and will ever be right now, in this moment. It means thinking about my life as though this moment is all there is...because really it is.

And it's really a lovely moment. The taste of an apple in my mouth, a saxophone gentle through the room, warmth and light and the dusky evening, me at 28 on a balmy March night in Los Angeles.

The Making of a Home

I was walking into the kitchen this morning for a second cup of coffee when I was struck with memories of my first days of living here. Something about the way the sun was coming through the window, the way it fell across the floor in a particular swath, and I was instantly transported back to the first mornings in this apartment. I realized then that it was exactly two years ago this weekend.

I thought about this last night too, as Greg and I drove home from a dinner downtown, passing through the neighborhood I lived in when I first moved to Chicago. For the first time it felt truly distant, my short stint in that apartment on Wolfram St. another lifetime.

And it struck me that my time in Chicago has finally solidified, that if I were to leave today, I would be able to look back on a whole experience with multiple winters, moves, friend circles and jobs. It's funny how a place can just sneak up on you and become home.

It took moving into this apartment for me to even be convinced that I could continue on in Chicago. We found this place at the end of a really hard set of months -- my transition to this city from Los Angeles not having been an easy one. After 6 months fraught with unemployment, serious financial woes and an extremely harsh winter, moving in here felt like being scooped up and held after taking a hard fall.

This apartment is perched on the lip of the Chicago river. You can see its muddy brown waters from the windows in the kitchen and dining room. We have  a large deck that juts out over it, and in the summer the leafy green trees cascade down over it like a lacy canopy. All year long you can hear ducks and at night raccoons forage in the garbage cans near the garage.

The neighborhood is unique to Chicago, the old homes are stately built and the river adds a serenity hard to find in such an urban setting. I don't know how long we'll be here, in this home, in Chicago, but I know I'll always look back on it all with the warmest memories. This being the birthplace of my marriage and daughter.

Two years ago:

Going Out in the World Doesn't Change Who We've Become, Only Who We're Becoming

I grew up in Atlanta, a place I hardly ever think about, a place I sometimes forget that I even have a connection to. You see, my family isn't Southern. My father was raised in Michigan, my mother in Connecticut -- our time in the South simply a brief, consolidated period in our family history.

I left as soon as I could, heading to Vermont at 18, never looking back. I've now been gone almost as long as I was there. New York, California and now the Midwest shaping me just as much as Atlanta ever did.

Like I said, I hardly ever think about the South, and so touching down at Louis Armstrong airport just outside of New Orleans last week I was surprised to feel such a rush of familiarity. I can't even say what brought it on. The light touch of humidity in the air? The flatness of the surrounding land? The lilting twang in the voices around me, or perhaps the dogwoods and magnolias already in bloom in February.

Whatever it was, my four days in New Orleans last week were suffused with memories, things I hadn't thought of in years, singular moments with my parents, parties at old Southern homes, spring in the South, Spanish moss and the smell of wisteria.

We arrived in New Orleans last week on Ash Wednesday, the day AFTER Mardi Gras.

I've visited New Orleans several times in my life, but my last time was there was close to a decade ago. Greg and Veronica had never been. We chose New Orleans back in December when we decided that, instead of giving each other Christmas presents, we'd put our money towards getting out of town during Chicago's least desirable month of February.

But I started getting anxious about the trip a week before we left. When we planned this trip there was a part of me determined to prove that we could still take fun trips even though we have a baby, but suddenly I was filled with doubt. Why did we pick New Orleans again? With a baby? The day after Mardi Gras? We should have just gone to the Bahamas or stayed home altogether.

But off to Louisiana we flew.

You see the thing about being a parent is this: You're fighting a constant battle between retaining your sense of self while simultaneously giving yourself over to what's best for your kid. It's tough. And I can't shake this determination to still do things like this trip.

Before we left I promised myself that I wouldn't get upset about the limitations that would be surely set by Veronica (early bedtimes, low alcohol consumption, etc), and that I would try to remind myself that it was enough that we were all just out in the world together.

Easier said than done.

Cut to me trying to force Greg to drink a mint julep from Pat O'Brien's in the middle of the afternoon...just because I couldn't.

For the most part though we had a fantastic time, even if we did manage to watch an entire season of Entourage due to Veronica's early bedtimes. I kept thinking about the differences between this trip and my last, one of them being that the last time I was in the French Quarter I had a fake ID and this time no one was even asking for my ID.

I saw things on this trip that I'd never seen on previous trips, beautiful cemeteries and hidden nooks of the French Quarter. We focused a lot on food, which I'll write about in full on Friday. And we walked and walked and walked, taking in the city the way you take an exhibit at the museum, meandering slowly from piece to piece.

At night in our hotel room I closed my eyes and remembered my childhood. I couldn't even help it. The moment we turned off the light and I turned to one side, my arm tucked in under the pillow, the memories came. The house we lived in Sandy Springs, the magnolia trees with their flat, waxy leaves and the creek in the woods that ran red with Georgia clay.

During the day we took turns strapping Veronica to our chests and walking the city. Her eyes grew bright as we strolled through the square or listened to jazz music at Cafe du Monde, her hand opening and closing in a little wave at no one in particular.

Parenthood has changed everything, and I thought about this every time the three of us sat down in a little cafe somewhere, Veronica in between us, her little existence the conduit for all the energy that flows between me and Greg. I thought about how in another year we'll have been parents as long as we were a couple. About how one day we'll look back and realize that our time together just the two of us will have long been eclipsed by our time with her.

This made me sad in moments, but grateful in others.

And I guess that's the thing of it. We can't change who we've become. We can only move forward from here, we can only continue to become more of who we are now.

Tuesday Morning

It's Tuesday morning and snow is falling softly outside the windows. Today I like the snow. It's been bright and cold for days now and the snow softens everything, slows it down, absorbs all the edges and sharp lines. As I stare out the window I have one of those moments where the present feels like a memory, as though I already know what it will be like to look back on these days as a young mother in Chicago.

For the past couple of months I've dropped Veronica off with the nanny at my friend Sarah's for four hours while I go to the coffee shop to write, but as of today that is officially over. I had been working on a writing project which has come to an end for now, and I had also been grappling with a whole slew of emotions surrounding how much time I was spending away from my daughter.

I finally decided that four mornings in a row with the nanny was too much, and as much as I enjoy this time to write I'd rather spend it with my little girl. So now, here we are. Listening to Glenn Gould, watching the snow and playing with toys, (and me eeking this out, a few words at at time). 

It's an incredible responsibility to help this this little person join the world. I want to teach her things and hold her hand as she plows bravely ahead (whisking cat food bowls and DVD cords out of the way just in the nick of time). I want to take her to new places and introduce her to all kinds of people. I want to play music for her and read books to her, watch her touch a new material for the very first time, her eyes wide as she glances back at me before reaching for it more firmly.

I want to be as present to these days as possible.

Travel: A Lesson in Remembering What's Right Here at Home

My favorite part of traveling is how your life back home looks from afar.

Last weekend I took Veronica to visit my friend Holly and her family in West Virginia. I've known Holly since we were 15 and in high school in Atlanta. We subsequently lived in Los Angeles at the same time and have both since relocated to this strange swath of the country.

Holly was one of my first friends to get pregnant -- something I had a hard time with back then, for multiple reasons -- and she now has two beautiful children, a boy who is almost three and a girl who is almost five. Holly's husband is from West Virginia and they moved there after their daughter was born so that they could be close to his family while they navigated the challenges of new parenthood. I haven't seen much of her since then and it was so good to reconnect this past weekend.

I had never met her son and she had never met my daughter so it was extra-intense to combine our worlds in that way. When you've known someone for as long as I've known Holly it can definitely be strange to see your children interact. When I look back on the 15 year old version of us it's hard to imagine that we ever would have sustained ourselves and our friendship for this long, but suddenly we're looking at our daughters interacting with each other across the table. 

 

It was marvelous to revel in someone else's life for a few days. Holly and Kevin live a picture-perfect existence, like something out of a movie. Their kids are gorgeous, funny characters and they all live in this wonderfully comfortable and fantastically decorated old home up on a hill in a nice neighborhood. Holly is a photographer and Kevin works at the local TV station. The kids have never been babysat by anyone who wasn't family.

Every night before bed they all sit on the floor in Holly and Kevin's bedroom and hold hands and take turns saying what they're grateful for. And then a flurry of bath time, pajamas and stories ensues, culminating in a finally-finished and exhausted couple of parents tiptoeing down the stairs together to pour a glass of wine and catch up on their days.

Being there made me think about what we're all struggling towards, the goals and life aspirations we're all working so hard to attain. Because the funny thing is that for as perfect-seeming as Holly's life is to me, it's not the one she would have chosen for herself. She and Kevin are working hard to change things, to move forward onto a different path.

It made me think about me and Greg and how hard we are working right now to break free from our current situation. Every single day we put ferocious amounts of energy into changing our jobs, our finances, our writing careers, our love for each other and the little home we all share. Most of the time it doesn't feel like enough. We end a lot of days feeling frustrated and disheartened.

We don't recognize the perfection of what already is, often enough. The irony is that I know that one day we'll look back on our lives right now, probably from the very place we're working so hard to attain, and we'll see it as sweet and perfect, a time not fully appreciated for its beauty.

If I have a new year's resolution this year, it's that. To remember to revel in my own life even as I'm pushing forward.

--

How do you remember to stay present to your life? Any tips or rituals that help you do so?

Her and Me and Him

On Tuesday night Greg and I left V at home with the nanny and went out to dinner. I defied winter by wearing high heels and a top that was in no way winter-practical. We drank cocktails and ate copious amounts of finely crafted sushi. I don't even eat meat anymore but I still partook in a ridiculously good appetizer involving very thinly sliced sirloin and a rock that has literally been heated to 600 degrees.

Greg and I laughed and spilled a little wine and we leaned into each other and we talked and talked.

I had forgotten how good it felt to be us, just me and Greg out in the world, on a date.

As I felt myself do so I realized I have forgotten how to relax.

Being a parent is confusing. It's the ultimate identity crisis.

I can hardly remember what it was like to come home from work with an entire unplanned evening stretching out before me, to not think about what time I would go to bed or how much sleep I might get. I can hardly remember what it was like to decide to go to the movies on a Saturday afternoon on a moment's notice.

I don't remember what it was like to eat a meal languidly, to not feel as though I have to finish it as fast I can because I need to be prepared for whatever is coming next. I can't remember what it was like to drink too many glasses of wine, to stumble to bed tipsy, not worrying about anyone or anything. 

I don't remember what it was like to carry a tiny purse, just lip gloss, a cell phone and a credit card. I don't remember what it was like to think about the future as a flat, irresponsible thing, a span of time all mine. 

But I also don't remember a time when I loved anyone as much as I love my daughter. I don't remember ever wanting to be with someone the way I want to be with her. I don't recall anyone ever smiling at me the way she does, first thing in the morning, her eyes closing as a soft, little smile spreads across her face.

There are little moments, the way he leans into me as we walk through a fancy cocktail lounge together, that make me remember my old life, the one before her. But then there is her and her warm hand on my cheek as she sleeps, hot breath on my neck.

All the things I don't remember are practically irrelevant. They are no longer. There is only now and this and her and me and him. There are hours and days and time that moves so, so fast.

2009: Year in Review

So I spent a couple of hours yesterday working on a really long year-in-review post that I just deleted in its entirety. It's been that kind of year, I guess.

For the last three years I've spent a lot of time during the very last days of December writing and reflecting on the previous twelve months.

• 2008 Year in Review
• 2007 Year in Review
• 2006 Year in Review

It's usually a pretty interesting experience to look back on all that has happened in a 12 month span. It's always a lot more than I realize. But something about doing it this year felt particularly self-indulgent.

This is the year in which I have given myself over to another person. I would like to say that I did that when I got married. But I didn't. And really, if I had, it probably wouldn't have been a good thing.

Earlier, as I spent time writing about each of the last twelve months it just felt like a silly exercise in vanity. The thing is that for as complicated as Veronica has made my life, she's made it a lot more simple too. Life is a lot less about me, a good thing.

Tonight Greg and I took my desk down to the garage so that we could expand the front of our apartment and make more room for Veronica to have a place to play. It felt so symbolic -- my giving up of my writing center to create living space for my daughter.

But I have to remind myself that I haven't given up writing, I haven't given up who I am, rather I'm just squishing myself into new shapes and corners, while at the same time opening up my whole person to another.

And she's more than worth it.

This is the year my daughter was born. 

Wishing everyone out there a joyous and abundant new year. Thanks for sharing some of this last one with me.

And I don't actually expect any of you to watch this, but I really enjoyed making this photo montage of 2009.

Photo and video editing at www.OneTrueMedia.com

The Christmas Blahs

I'm feeling a little blah about the holidays this year.

Now, before you get all preachy with me and berate me for feeling blah when I'm healthy and employed and have a wonderful husband and a beautiful baby girl who will celebrate her first Christmas, let me just say I KNOW. And I already feel bad for feeling bad.

There's no real reason for my holiday blahs. I just don't feel very sparkly about it all.

It's a combination of a few things, I think. Mostly, I'm really missing my family this year, and I don't just mean my parents. This will be the third holiday season I've spent with the Boose family and while I'm very grateful for this and do enjoy going to Ohio (for any Booses reading this, please don't take it personally), I just miss feeling connected to my roots and my past during the holidays.

The Day That Changed Everything

When I was growing up everyone thought my father was really my grandfather. I didn't mind that much. I knew that we were different, that my little family with my older father and glamorous mother weren't quite like the other families we knew.

My father was really good at making light of it. People would come up to us in restaurants when we were out for a father-daughter pancake breakfast, and pat me on the head and ask, "Is this your granddaughter?"

"Nope," my father would reply with a twinkle in his eye, "she's my grandson's aunt."

 

Giving Thanks

The holidays make me a little...a little...hmm, I'm not sure what the right adjective is. Edgy? Anxious? Sad? I'm not sure how to describe it. It's a less of a feeling of anxiety and more of a general tightness. I feel a swelling in my chest, a bracing against something, a fierce need to build up some strength in order to push through.

Years ago this bracing and building up was necessary to literally just make it through the holiday season without completely falling apart. Now it's more about building up strength in an effort to be able to enjoy it all. In years past enjoying the holidays wasn't even an option. It was more about making a grave effort not to spend them in a complete puddle of self-pity, despair and red wine.

After my mother died, the holidays just felt wrong. The first couple of years they were depressing things, me and my father sitting around in a haze of cigarette smoke, numbing glasses of cognac in our hands, the remains of my sad attempts to cook dinner cooling on the table. My mother had loved holidays, making each event as festive as possible, bringing excitement and warmth to everything she did. One year she stuck 4th of July sparklers in the turkey as she brought it out to the table, bright sparks cascading down around her as she made her entrance. She was like that. And when she was gone her absence was profound.

Slowly, I got better at cooking the meals and my Dad and I learned to invite over as many people as possible to join us. Things brightened. My favorite Thanksgivings took place in California, where a mish-mash of friends and family would come together to cook. Each year the meals got better but in the beginning they were pretty bad. There was the year that Holly and I decided to put a turkey breast and a ham in the same pan to conserve oven space. We laughed all evening because none of us could tell which tasted more like the other.

The last Thanksgiving that my father was alive was great. He'd been doing radiation treatments for a cancer that had grown in his mouth and his taste buds weren't quite what they used to be, but he enjoyed it all the same. Liz's chef husband Kyle made the turkey, Holly's sister Laura made a lovely spinach soup, Holly's husband Kevin made his yummy roasted garlic, buttermilk mashed potatoes, Holly made her grandmother's rolls, Liz made a sweet-potato casserole and I made macaroni and cheese. 

The year after that my father was gone, but Holly and I took on Thanksgiving ourselves. We got a big, hormone free bird from Whole Foods and spent the evening before drinking cocktails and prepping for the creamed corn, homemade cranberry sauce and chocolate pecan pies. That Thanksgiving we feasted with our friends on a meal that we were seriously proud of (even if I did spend a portion of that evening crying in the hallway of Holly's apartment building). We cooked Thanksgiving every year together after that, our friend Liz from Georgia joining into the mix and bringing her heavenly grits florentine recipe. I miss those cobbled-together, makeshift urban family holidays, even though, at the time, I missed my real family.

This year I'll be with the Booses for the third year in a row. I guess I should say that this year I'll be one of the Booses for the third year in a row. An evolution of Thanksgivings and holidays, each one different than the last. I have this perpetual (and tiresome) habit of always reminiscing on the past, something that forever hinders my present. I know that however I feel about this current sphere of holidays, I'll look back on them wistfully someday soon.

For now I wish everyone a warm and present holiday week, wherever you are.