Back to the 'Burgh

The day I graduated from college, I got into my parents' car, and did not return until four years later. That visit was a whirlwind for a friend's wedding, we had baby boys in tow, and I spent the bachelorette party expressing in the bathroom. Last Wednesday, I returned to Pittsburgh the way that I really wanted to--taking our time, with deliberate intention, and there to serve a friend.

Arriving by train on the eve of the G-20 conference of world leaders, there was anticipation in the air. That plus showing Pittsburgh to my girls plus seeing my dear friend pregnant after years of trying, I stepped off the train with a full heart. The odd humidity, the blocked off streets, and trying to find Alice almost distracted me from seeing the Greyhound Station, where, when I die, I want a memorial bench with a Neruda quote. Right away, my head was spinning with nostalgia. Alice (new wheels!) drove us to her flat, where she served us bubbling personal pot pies with the girls' initials cut out in the crust. We put the girls to bed and drank Rhine wine and toddies so late that she had to call in sick the next day.

Clara, Callio, and I, however, had a strong momentum and took the 51A down to campus. The thing about Pittsburgh is not the route you take from here to there but the view you have as you approach. When driving, you come out of the Ft. Pitt tunnel, round a bend, and the city is revealed like a blue-collar Oz, bridges and hillsides span and add to the unexpected elegance. This view always brought me to tears when coming back to school. Katiebird, mom-to-be, offered to drive this with me, I should have accepted. The way the bus approached campus, though, made up for it. We saw the music building where the Mr. Rogers archives are. The clean sand-colored stone, exactly as I had remembered. The students filing in the door, passing us on the street, were exactly as I had remembered too. Then we got off the bus at the end of N. Craig where we walked past Caliban books to meet Elli (my neice, senior there). The whole time, I'm thinking, that these are my peers, and that I have class to get to, then being jolted and surprised at the 2 and 3 year olds holding onto my skirt and the umbrella stroller on my shoulder is not my schoolbag, and instead of Petrarch in my bag, it is Richard Scarry and goldfish crackers.

We spotted Elli in the balcony of Kiva Han laughing with a guy dressed in what we called "alternative style" (I was thinking Kurt Cobain but I don't think they use either of these references nowadays.). She was giddy and played with the girls on the stanky couch while I sipped my coffee and repeated to myself "I am 32. I am 32." She was dressed for yoga and wore earrings made of metal measuring tape. She has the effortless beauty of 21, looking at her, you get the sense that time and gravity have not yet begun to mess with her. Don't get me wrong, I definitely do NOT wish I were 20 years old again with all of the angst and every gaping option staring me in the face about my future. I am just a nostalgic girl with a woefully good memory.

In this regard, I did spend the trip, sliding back and forth between fond remembering of those years and a sober joy about how my life did turn out. You'll have to ask Clara and Calliope-- about how many places we visited, about sitting in thrones in the Cathedral of Learning, about yelling up and down the infinite stair wells, about the bathroom in the Cathedral where I used to go after a particularly bad writing workshop (where my poems were described as "pedantic" or "dry and guarded"). My girls and I shared the sacrament of gum in that bathroom. Very healing for me. Also, Katiebird and I fed them O fries, which are largely responsible for my freshman 15 and Dave and Andy's Ice Cream where the cones and all the flavors are made right there. Also, they were drawn to the Water Wall at the Carnegie Museum, where I used to study and at the 61C cafe, spent an easy hour there, as if they'd been there before.

I got such a kick at every turn at sharing these places with my girls. A friend called it "latent Pitt Pride." I showed them where I saw Howard Zinn speak on Valentine's Day, Hemingway's pub where I did my last reading before graduating. We took photos on the corner in Squirrel Hill where Geoff proposed, The whole time, they were so game and interested. Maybe they just liked seeing me drunk on nostalgia and in the easy and warm company of my friends. I am so thankful for those years there and the things I learned-- oodles of modern poetry, wrote chap books full of poems, (some decent), lots about world religion, built a foundational understanding of faith, learned that it will take a community, learned that a person that thrills you isn't necessarily the one to make a life with, learned how to navigate heartbreak of all types (academic, romantic, friendship, and spiritual, heartbreak for others', sometimes my own).

It was a magical trip, and I know for next time, how totally crucial it is, to go at our own pace.

This Quote=This Weekend's Trip Back to the Burgh

"And so did you get what it is that you wanted--
to love and to feel loved on this earth?"

This quote is a paraphrase from an Anne Lamott epilogue. It is from my memory, which at this hour, is foggy and sleep-deprived.

Scenes To Remember:

-Benicio sitting across the floor from Maxine, holding his ipod earbuds up to her ears.
-Clara standing with her ballerina peers, all in pale pink with their hair up in neat buns (as per the dance school handbook).
-catching a glimpse of Manny in the backseat, arm around the seat next to him and chewing gum, I was startled at this glimpse of him as an adult.
-Geoff using a compressor and a nail gun to put the wainscotting in the first floor powder room.
-biking in the dewy late summer morning with Cloe singing to herself behind me.
-singing "One Bread, One Body" at Mass and not needing the hymnal.
-meeting our neighbor in the backyard where she gave me a requested lime (mojitos!) and a gift of a bottle of white wine called, "Mommy's Time Out."

Clara's First Day

big yellow school bus

my day, in thirds

Into the school year only four days, I am beginning to see a pattern. The first third of my day, is spent sending them off. The second third is about getting them all back in the nest, and then the third third is about getting ready to do it all again the next day.

Years ago, a friend asked me why I always went to Walden Pond, why couldn't I switch it up and come to the zoo or the museum? And I said because I was getting Walden down perfectly. I knew exactly what to pack. I knew what time to go to avoid traffic. I timed the diaper change with the ride home. I knew that it took almost 15 minutes to get from the car down to the pond, arranging things onto the stroller and strapping the boys in there. I knew what snacks did not attract bees but was enough to get us to lunch time. Anyway, I had the outing down to a science. I wore a groove into that road but I just adored that rhythm, the sameness. Sometimes, I varied it up by stopping first at De Cordova sculpture garden or meeting a friend to show them the Revere statue in town but for the most part it was me and my boys and OUR day.

So this is how I am beginning to feel about our school year. I sit up, as if rigged by springs, around 5, do my quick but essential regimen of hygiene and spiritual devotions (okay, basically it's a shower, reading some promise-y passages, and then praying some beggy prayers for us and for our kids.) But then, I go down the steps and do breakfast setup-- eggs, bowl and whisk by the stove, cereal and its accoutrements on the counter. Then I quietly go upstairs and make sure the outfits are weather-appropriate. This morning, BTB had laid out green shorts, his green globe T, even green undies! As they get dressed, I send them downstairs where Geoff is pouring juice and making little scrambles for them. The morning's great crescendo is putting the boys on the schoolbus. The denoument is coming back to the girls who watch an episode of Miffy, get a yogurt-fruit bowl and I get to do their hair. Then it's about getting Geoff off to school, the girls wait at the front windows to watch him take off up the alley and down the street. On her first day, I was able to bike with Clara on the back who described my bike as nicer than Dad's but my ride was "crashier" (low branch, solid helmet.) Dropping her off at nursery school is without fanfare, I think she will be the type of kid that wants to be dropped off two blocks before the high school dance so she can apply lipstick and light a cigarette. (Not that I was like that AT ALL as an adolescent.)

But then Calliope is my partner erranding, getting dinner ingredients, and folding laundry. While I check email, she sits under my desk with her back-to-school gifts from my parents (a tiny canvas bag filled with little thrifted figurines and Hershey Kisses). Then we fetch Clara, who has outgrown naps and whose afternoon activities include brushing her own hair and writing on post-it notes. We read stories and simmer dinner until it's time to walk to meet the school bus. I brought a lawn chair out there yesterday. The chair, the Kevin Henkes stories, made a half hour pass easily. Until that walk home with my four ducklings, I cannot rest. Which may be why, when they came home yesterday, I passed out for 15 solid minutes, noodles bubbling on the stove.

Geoff is Mr. Mom for the post-dinner bedtime regimen. He clips nails, bathes, and reads to all of them. This is when I step out for a workout or go strip paint. But then it's back to the backpacks, with forms to fill out, lunchboxes to excavate. This is when Geoff and I wearily check email, speak with family, and try to have meaningful interaction before falling into bed.

Wow, this is a lot of verbiage: but it's a documenation our cadence, the pace of our days right now. Like those trips to Walden, I am understanding how this goes, how to perfect these deep worn grooves into the day.

Invitation to Comment

Hello, dear blog reader:
In keeping with my strong conviction that when air and light are brought to the matter, it is a good thing, I now, after blogging for seven years, take this time to invite your comment.

I myself am a closet-blog-reader. The few times I have come out to say something, once got misinterpreted and once got ignored completely. So, if you choose not to comment, I totally get it. But lately, I've gotten facebook messages, emails, even phonecalls from folks who are against odds, helping me and dialoguing about things that need to come out.

Just look at it like one friendly soul reaching out to you with my words. If something strikes a chord with you, comforts you, or charms you (as my kids are wont to do), please reach back because this odd form of human contact, my blog, really helps me.

I know I have said, but I started doing this after Manny was born and while I was pregnant with Benicio. From my little closet/office on St. Rose St, I began to blog or "biog" back then as a document for our kids about our life. I am a shabby archivist--Manny's baby book is perfect and tidy Sara Midda, Benicio's a plump but messy Liebowitz notebook, Clara's a Michael's scrapbook 1/5th complete, and Calliope's is a Nikki McClure book that I haven't seen since before she could walk. So this blog is my that. A baby-book project gone global.

I would love if you'd be a part of it. Join the conversation, say something you'd want my kids to read later. I know it will mean something to them and to me.

Deliverance: the magic of the school bus

Now that four ducklings are back in the nest, I can describe our day:
-Never take a spinning class a day before you need to ascend and descend the stairs 5500 times.
-We had our Primary Brothers breakfast: egg sandwiches with vermont cheddar on 12 grain bread, melon, granola and life cereal.
-We ran to the bus stop, my self-afffirmation: I gave birth to them, I can put them on the schoolbus. I gave birth to them, I can put them on a schoolbus . .
-I videoed, held Clara, while Geoff helped them board the bus holding Calliope, and taking down the busdriver's cell phone number, which he doesn't seem to answer. . .ahem.
-We immediately got into the car to meet the bus at the school. You might think that's crazy but there were maybe 7 other families doing the same thing.
-The magic of the bus arriving (before the bell!) and delivered to school safe and sound. We parents clustered like paparazzi, I was shifty and my legs were cold (Clara has deterred me from pairing jeans with dresses). And then, amazingly, the bus files in behind the car line. And then, we watched our kids, an straggled string of them, walking the path down to their classrooms. We, the anxious paparazzi, they the backpack toting stars on the red carpet. Manny and Benicio did not break stride but waved shyly at us. We followed them down the path.
-After a minor continence glitch, the boys got settled into their classrooms. Their rooms are next door to each other. We stood back and noted how different the tones were in each room, evident even in the first few minutes of the year.
-The girls and I dropped Geoff off and spent the morning at Clara's playgroup. And I could process things and laugh. My favorite was discussing the sewing project of making one's own menstrual pads, Maggie, with conviction and certainty, "No, not at all. What would the OPPOSITE of that be?"
-Then we erranded (Whole Foods, Ballet School, library) until it was time to meet the bus. Due in at 3:50, I spent a 10 frantic minutes praying, "Trust, trust, trust." And yet speed-dialing mamas whose kids were on the same bus. When, at 4:03, appearing like an enormous whale beaching on the intersection of Green and Washington, arrives Andy the bus driver, and I can see my sons emerging the aisle, smiling and bounding down into my eager arms.

*Stay tuned for pictures and more about life with two first graders.

forgetting about it to death

A friend of ours used this phrase to describe the closing of our church site. I know I walk the fine line of criticizing and maybe even gossip but if a girl can't parse her heartbreak on her blog, then, I ask, where can she?

I remember when we joined this church, when we had only lived here two seasons and we only had the two boys. Right away, Manny was chatting with the worship band, the painter-hipster offering for him to strum the Stratocaster. Benicio was taken with the other children, the gaggle of rambunctious boys. Geoff and I thought, they're comfortable here. We know God wants us to be in the city. We kind of fit into this scene of transplanted suburbanites turned hip and edgy by college and by reading Tim Keller and Jack Miller. We like this. We are like this. So, in haste we took the steps of membership. I took sermons on my ipod to the gym and to the market. I went through the Westminster confessional with the boys. We went to home group, to planning meetings, to vision-meetings, to search committee meetings, in-covenant retreat, leadership retreat. We tried with all available might to develop friendships while doing so. All in the name of community. Trying to weave this great garment together.

And after the stuttered and awkward steps of planting a site in the Northwest, the thing started to come apart. Our leadership, made of broken sinners, as we all are, had a bad string of mishaps. Family sickness, mismatched talent-set, a pool of poorly-suited pastoral candidates, and now our church must close its doors. Those friendships, some hearty and full of stories of mutual rescue you'd want to cry. And some friendships are brittle and shallow from competitiveness and sarcasm.

I sometimes think, as our friend puts it, that if I could forget about it all to death, that this wouldn't hurt. I vacillate between thinking paranoid thoughts that the church leadership is Big Brother out to get us and thinking that a season of closure and recreation would be good. As a good religion major, I know this is normal. That it is absolutely human to turns one faith over and over in one's hand-- sometimes seeing that the whole thing could be nonsense or that the whole thing is all you have.

As we go forward, I'm not interested in the ways we have been wounded, the slip-ups, the ways we were shafted or overlooked. I am interested in the shoots, the impossible and improbable growth and maturity that will, that fucking have to, appear.

disbelief

-I cannot believe that summer's over.
-I cannot believe that I have four children who can strap themselves into their car seats.
-I cannot believe that Clara's going to stay for lunch bunch.
-I cannot believe that we didn't finish all of our sunscreen. Will it hang on for another year?
-that the raspberries are almost all gone from the backyard.
-that my boys will ride the bus.
-that Calliope will be our own little duet--going to daily Mass, to the library, to the market.