The boys come home tomorrow

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Today has been such a nice day, leisurely in a way only possible when the boys aren't here with me. Truth be told, I mean that in both an opinionless, factual way and also with some sense of wistfulness. When they are here, I am rarely without them for more than six hours, a span of time which always sounds much longer than its passing feels. Unless I'm at jury duty. Or on an airplane with them. In that space, minus the caveats, I must make time to accomplish very real to-dos but also to sit and think and write and recharge, all of which I do best when alone. I think the fact that I crave solitude often surprises those who know or have met me. I'm gregarious, social, extroverted, involved. I've got a lot of energy, and I truly enjoy being around other people. But to really feel restored, I require quiet time by myself.

It doesn't take a genius to recognize that solitude and motherhood don't usually overlap much, and this is the source of my mixed emotions today. The boys have had a marvelous time with my parents and my parents with them. There is a real and mutual love affair among them all, and I feel so, so grateful for that. Weeks like this one negate much of the toll distance could take, and I think it's tremendous that the boys are as close to my parents (1,200 miles away) as they are to Tom's (6 miles away). We are all fortunate and the better for these relationships.

Yet, in the way many folks start to feel some re-entry anxiety on Sunday evenings, the work-week quickly approaching, I too feel a tinge of "oh god, it's almost over" as the twenty-four hour mark approaches. I cannot wait to hug the boys' warm, sweet little bodies, to have their hands in mine, to hear Ol whisper about which princess he loves most at that moment, to be astounded by something clever Jack says; but I would be lying if I said I didn't feel preemptively nostalgic for the slower, quieter pace I've been able to enjoy this past week.

I've tried everything I can think of, have asked for advice six ways to Sunday, but we simply seem to be a family whose tenor is louder and faster and more insistent than I wish. Perhaps this is a function of the boys' youthful ages (all parents of boys hear that the early years are the most difficult because of their activity level and rambunctiousness); perhaps I've set the bar too high for what they can expect of me; perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. It's likely all that and more.

I'm acknowledging my sense of flux in the hopes of now putting it aside and enjoying this beautiful, calm afternoon with no further consideration or sighs. Nutmeg jumped from Ol's bed up to the little windowsill on which sat his potted shamrock and now there's dirt all over the comforter and pillow. I'm going to clean that, read the paper, and start in on dinner for my T: King salmon with dandelion-walnut pesto; roast broccoli; a grain TBD. Buona sera!

NYC

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I love a good light-up magnifying mirror in the bathroom. Preferably a heavy-bottomed, shiny chrome one with a light that rims the circumference of a mirror which definitely shows you your pores in close-up but doesn't scare the crap out of you. I do not want one of these in my own bathroom, but in a nice, well-lit hotel toilette, yes please. I loooove to move in CLOSE and examine things: are there any rogue eyebrow hairs just begging to be plucked? How is that freckle looking? And that one? What is up with the blackhead congestion around my chin? Let's have a look-see, shall we! My good high-school friend, Lauren, used to give herself gently "pore purges," a soft-tipped Q Tip in each hand moving in on her T-zone. I myself was never patient enough to heed her admonitions to do the same and that is one reason why she became a model and still has perfect, luminous, porcelain skin. And I did and do not. She is now a make-up guru in LA, and I am super proud and impressed.

Y'all don't act all surprised about the pleasure I derive in a good self-facial; most women I know looove to do the same. In fact, my cousin, Jill, once told me she went to town on her nose in the middle of a workday -she went to the bathroom and while washing her hands leaned in for a look and then couldn't resist. Long story short, she then recoiled in horror at the bulbous red Rudolph nose she'd provoked and had to stay in the ladies' for quite some time.

During her rehearsal dinner at Antoine's (yes, the famed Antoine's in NOLA), I had more than a few glasses of wine and was then moved to give a toast. Oh.god. All emotional and full of love, I teetered up to the front of the room and started going on (unplanned; horrors) about how Jill and I had always been so close, and I just loooved her, and was so happy for her, and let me tell you a story. I was going to tell the blackhead-picking-at-work story but I suspect she thought I was going to tell a more R-rated memory because she furiously started the slice of the throat, "get the hell offstage" pantomime, and then I got nervous and exited stage right as quickly and with as much dignity as possible.

Fortunately, because 95% of the people there either grew up in Louisiana or had made it their hom, and as such had been instilled with or adopted LA partying habits, no one much noticed anything, but I do wonder if the groom's family, lovely folks from VT, thought Jill's cousin might have tied one too many on.

Whatever. Tom and I are in NY now, our hotel has a fantastic magnified mirror of which I have taken good advantage in the well-lit bathroom , we ate lunch at Gramercy Tavern, walked the High Line, and discovered a phat Italian market at which I went hog-wild buying cheeses/pastas/flours/etc. We raced through the Greenmarket, bought more cheese, some tomatoes and plums, bagged our dinner reservations in lieu of a room picnic, enjoyed said picnic and decided to head back out around 8:15p. Only in NY could we then get dessert (me), go to Nordstrom Rack (Tom), meet up at The Strand bookstore, find that James Franco was there, buy some books and head back home. On the way back to our hotel, we passed the Union Square Regal theater. I was reminded of yet another fab NY memory which hails from my years living here, 2000-2003. A friend and I went to the Regal to see a movie; I don't remember which. As the lights went down, someone in charge yelled, "it's actually a sneak of Harry Potter #1" and the tape rolled. Too damn cool.

I love New York.