Happily, these three favorite people of mine are still dining out and about whenever possible, and in whatever manner and means this new world demands. The featured photo is from a sunny October weekend visit to Amore Breakfast in Ogunquit, something we will look to do again possibly next year, because there is always hope. All four of us keenly felt our extended absence from Ogunquit this year – it’s been too long, and we can’t wait to return when things get back to normal, or at least into a mode of new normality.
The other photos are from a recent birthday dinner at Yono’s, which is probably our favorite Albany restaurant (tied perhaps with dp: An American Brasserie) and I put them up here to remind myself as much as anyone else the importance of family at such times. In the next few weeks, when our country tears itself apart and who knows what may come of it, I find myself retreating and relying on those who mean the most to me – the family and the friends I have made into my family – and that’s how I’m getting through it.
Luckily, I have Andy to help see us through the difficult times, and operating under a safe veil of social isolation and a quarantine-like fortress, we will batten down the hatches and hole up in our home for the fall and winter to come. We will be all right. We have to be.
How do you celebrate Thanksgiving when you have to social distance and protect the elderly and otherwise-immune-compromised in a family? You get creative and rustic, and recall what they did in epidemics of the past, all while being flexible and willing to go with the flow. Keeping all that in mind, I came up with a possible solution to the worrying question of what the Ilagan family would be doing for this Thanksgiving.
Recently, I saw a picture of a class being given during the big flu epidemic of 1918, when open-air classes were an actual thing, even in January. The students looked as fine as students in a learning situation could be, all of them bundled up and at their desks, safely distant from one another in the open-sided airiness of what looked like a glorified tent. That gave me an idea.
My parents have a decent-sized garage, with a rustic wooden interior. Two traditional doors are in the front and back, three windows let in light (and air if need be) and the main garage door opens to allow for maximum air-flow and circulation. With a couple of heat lamps, some buffed-up electrical wiring, and decorations by yours truly, we have a Thanksgiving-in-the-making that will likely be one of the more memorable on record. A single long table (or pair of long tables) will make room for social distancing, while a wall of sheer curtains will allow for air movement and a pretty screen. An abundance of candles will add light and a surprising amount of warmth to the space. Most exciting for me is the opportunity for an expanded palette of wardrobe options. The fashion possibilities of wraps and scarves and faux furs that this opens up is a gift unto itself!
Taking lemons and making lemonade is something that 2020 has certainly taught all of us, so we will be well-equipped to re-fashion our holiday celebrations this year. Depending on how this goes, we may repeat the rustic glory for Christmas. (Though we might need heavier curtains in December…)
Yesterday my Dad turned 90 years old – a milestone for a man who has slowed down a bit in recent years, but in whom there are still glimmers of the hero I idolized from the moment I came into the world. Since that was 45 years ago, and Dad just turned 90, the math means that I am the same age at which my Dad first became a father. It’s the first time I’m realizing that, and the first time I understand a little more of my childhood.
Focused mainly on his work and career in those days, Dad was busy making a good life for my brother and myself as we grew up. The idea of having a child at my age fills me with a certain sense of wariness, and when I think back to the years when our Dad was somewhat uninterested in playing or running around when he got home from a long day of work, I suddenly have a better sense of where he was at in his life, as I find myself in a similar position, and gratefully without children. Seen in that light, I have even greater respect for my Dad, who did his best even with the unruly craziness of two rambunctious boys.
I’m filled with gratitude that I get to see that now, and at his best moments I hope Dad is able to appreciate that gratitude. My Dad never really did anything that required our forgiveness, but there were times we didn’t understand his drive for work over fun – now that I’m the same age that he was when I was born, I get it. His choices were made out of love and protection, and a keen foresight to plan for the future. That’s the mark of a good father. I understand that now.
When I was a little kid, one of the best things I got to do was crawl into the bed between my Mom and Dad if I’d had a nightmare or was freaking out about bugs being in my bed (oh, the joys of sleeping with me). Most children have the same experience: the supreme safety and coziness of sleeping next to your parents, when no matter what worries or concerns you have about school or friends or siblings, simply waking up with the two people who love you unconditionally makes everything better.
Back then, my parents felt invincible, larger-than-life, and perfect in every single way. Before the light crept in, and before Dad got up to get ready, he would shift and slowly stretch his legs, raising each one up and down, slowly and methodically, working out the cracks and snaps, twisting slightly to stretch every muscle. He would do the same with his arms. Unaware of my observance, he went through this routine before he got going every morning, and it stuck with me. My Dad was doing his part to keep active and fit, and it was a lesson that has stayed with me to this very day.
It’s also something I think of when I see him slowing down, when his body is no longer able to do what it used to do. I want to see him keep going, to push himself to stay active. I write him letters imploring him to walk every day, reminding him that a little discomfort and muscle ache now might lead to a prolonged health and ability to keep moving later on. The way children and parents switch roles is an accepted way of life, and we all go through it in our own manner. I hope I’m doing some justice to the way in which Dad taught me so much.
For his age, he’s in remarkable shape, and there are still those moments when his eyes alight and he looks and engages like he is is his forties again and I’m a little kid, soaking in all his wisdom and heroism.
On this Father’s Day, I honor my Dad and all that he’s done for me, and for our family, for all these years. We get to have a outside visit, in this changed new world, and hopefully spend some more time together in the coming months.
We also remember Andy’s Dad, whose birthday was yesterday, because Father’s Day is about those we have lost too. Good Dads never stop watching over us.
Our recollection of Mother’s Days that came before continues with this concluding post of previous Broadway weekends. Theater, shopping, dining out, and simply spending time with Mom are happy events taken on their own – combined they are a bit of magical alchemy that lent such joy to our trips. The look back continues with the last three years of outings.
Suzie was back for one of our dinners this time, as was her Mom Elaine, so it was a triple Mother’s Day extravaganza, as I was the only non-mother at the table. (I’ve been hailed as a different kind of Mother, and I’m talking MoFo.) Over the course of the weekend, we saw ‘Hamilton‘, ‘To Kill A Mockingbird‘ and ‘The Cher Show’. A little bit of everything basically.
Thinking back on all these wonderful times leaves me with a pang of sadness that things are so different right now, yet there is such happiness and love in all these memories that they will see us through until we can make new ones. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you.
The calamity that is 2020 ended up canceling this year’s Mother’s Day Weekend on Broadway, making this pair of posts the closest we’ll be getting to the stage in quite some time. Originally we had tickets for both parts of ‘The Inheritance’, ‘Jagged Little Pill’, ‘The Minutes’ and ‘Six’. That’s quite a lot of dashed dreams, but such is the price of being safe so we’re not complaining. And while social distancing has kept Andy and I from properly seeing Mom and Dad since mid-March, I sent her a Mother’s Day gift box (fully sanitized of course) in the snail-mail which has already been delivered. With that, I wish her a very Happy Mother’s Day, and with this we’ll take a moment to look back at what we’ve done over the last few years.
Since we have some time, here’s a detailed and link-filled revisiting of our previous Broadway jaunts, all of which are filled with happy memories and wonderful recollections. We’ve been doing this off and on since the 90’s (see the photo below, taken the first time we saw ‘Sunset Boulevard’ in its original Broadway run in 1995). Our Broadway tradition has taken hold as a Mother’s Day mainstay, one that we’ll miss this time around, but we’ll make it up in different fashion sometime in the future.
Happy Birthday! Now you are ten years old! That’s a double-digit milestone, and an important one. This is usually the age where you will start to remember things. I know you have memories of your younger childhood, but even those are fading by the day. There is so much happening now, and it’s all happening so quickly. Maybe it’s good that we have birthdays to give us pause, to mark a day and a moment, to make a memory that lasts.
I still remember your first birthday. It had rained all morning, but it was warm – a balmy spring day that was perfect for starting two new lives. Uncle Andy picked me up from work as usual and we drove to the hospital to find the two of you – so tiny and impossibly small – wrapped tightly in little blankets. You each fit in a single arm. I loved you instantly, and that’s rare for me.
In those early days, you didn’t do much. You slept, you cried, you fussed, you drank, you slept, you pooped, you cried, you slept, you peed, you cried. And gradually you grew. Little by little the tiny infants you were turned into babies – with more recognizable human attributes. A smile, a frown, a laugh, a coo, a shriek, a cough – and a growing recognition of the world around you. What did you see when you first recognized your Uncle Al? I’m afraid to ask.
By the time you were walking, I wanted to tell you to slow down, to stop growing, to stop moving toward the future, even when that’s exactly what you should be doing. You may need to remind me of that, because there are going to be times when your Uncle is wrong. (It won’t always or often happen, but it will on occasion.)
The years flew by and there were glimmers of the people you were about to become. How slow the days must have felt to you, how long a single week stretched out in your young minds. Your impatience was a mark of childhood – you didn’t want to wait for anything and I only wanted you to wait a little longer and stay as young as possible for as long as possible. Most of us, if we’re lucky, miss our childhoods.
Our first family vacation with you was in Cape Cod, where your Dad and I spent so many vacations as kids. Lolo and Lola joined Uncle Andy and I, and we had the best time watching you play on the beach, burying your Dad in the sand up to his head, and walking to dinner as the sun went down on each perfect day. Still, time moved forward, as much as we may have wanted to pause in the summer sun.
When you were old enough, you began to stay over for longer periods of time. As unaccustomed to babysitting as I was, we managed to get along rather swimmingly. Your Uncle can be as much of a kid as the two of you, if not more childish on occasion. We knew how to have fun together. You reminded me of that, and your own wisdom taught me things I had both forgotten and never known. We could learn from each other.
We could also be silly and completely ridiculous, something I’d always wanted to be but never quite allowed myself. You brought that back into my life, and I will always love you for that. Who knows what you thought of your crazy Uncle Al for mirroring your silliness, but you never seemed to mind. Don’t ever change that.
We watched you play with Suzie’s kids, Oona and Milo – the next generation of an Ilagan-Ko alliance bravely marching forth into a new world. It tickled all of us, extending the idea of my world into our world, broadening my typically-self-centered existence into something more. You expanded and enriched our lives. Whenever you doubt yourself, think back to those days, and what I’m writing to you now, and realize that even at a young age, you were bringing happiness, and perhaps some necessary chaos, into the world.
You have my promise that I will always do my best to be a better person when I’m with you, and hopefully that will go beyond. You know me pretty well, so you know I won’t sugarcoat anything, but I will put some sparkle and pizzazz on things. I will try to bring some magic and enchantment to your world, a little dose of crazy creativity and artistic sensibility to the doldrums of school and rules and proper behavior. Above all else, I hope to remind you that it’s ok to be different – and even better than that, being different is sometimes the best thing to be. It marks you as special. It’s not always easy to step apart from the pack and do the right thing, it’s not a simple move to be good instead of popular, but these are the things that will make you into someone marvelous and magnificent. I know you have it in you. I’ve already seen it in action.
Emi and Noah – you give me hope. I know the world sometimes feels scary, and there may come a time when you wonder how things turned so dark just when you were coming into your own, but that’s good. It will be up to you to make things better, and if you keep your hearts and your sense of kindness and fairness and goodness, you will help lead the rest of us into that better place.
Have a wonderful 10th birthday. For the past decade you have lit up our lives. I can’t wait to see where the next decade takes us. And always remember, your Uncle Al loves you.
‘On these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.’ –J.M. Barrie
“That’s not how this works, that’s not how any of this works… ” were the words running through my head whenever I would envision how to go about getting my Mom onto FaceBook. The Ilagan family was planning a big summer reunion, and the hundreds of messages I was getting from that FaceBook group were too much to wade through when one has a full-time job, makes his own dinner, and dresses himself in the morning. So Mom had to get on FaceBook, if only to deal with that. Besides, most of my daily activity is chronicled there so I figured it might make for a more communicative relationship. This was another way of staying in touch, so that’s how I’m billing it.
I jokingly posted, “My Mom is on FaceBook. Now I have to be good.” People said to block her, or tone down posts, or other such nonsense, all of which was laughable. Why would I block my Mom? She sees this website (hi Mom!) and she’s certainly seen much worse than anything that FaceBook would allow. One of the main social media adages that I’ve always applied has been to only post what you’re comfortable with your mother seeing. So there.
The challenge won’t be in censoring myself or making it palatable and easy to navigate – the challenge will be in getting her engaged and involved, because otherwise there’s no point. I’m trying to paint it as an online version of her New Year’s Day gatherings, where chosen family and friends come together to mingle and share a memory or a story or the simple workings of their day. It’s kept me at touch with people I wouldn’t normally get to see, and made the world a little warmer on lonely nights. It also reminds you of when birthdays are and other events, and eventually, if you invest information and engagement, it will leave you with a diary of sorts once the memories start piling up. That’s more useful than scrolling through fifty thousand photos from two years ago.
Plus, this will make gift-giving so much easier because I tend to post and link exactly what I want as soon as I see it. Everyone wins.
This story has been told here before, and probably in better detail, but I’m going over it again because it’s a sweet one. When my brother and I were kids, before adolescence and personality quirks defined and distanced us from one another, we generally got along pretty well. Born just a year and a half apart, but diametrically opposed as to the season (his birthday is today; mine is as far as you can get from the calendar day – August 24) we managed to maintain a pretty close friendship, mostly because for a lot of the time we were all we had. Not that we didn’t have arguments and periods of not getting along, but we always came back to each other. And every once in a while we’d feel extremely loving and generous and put it on display.
While we were close, we were lucky enough to have our own bedrooms, separated by the wide berth of stairs and hall that led from one side of the house to the other. On one particular weekend afternoon, when the winter sun was not quite deigning to shine, and we were holed up inside for the day, one of us – and I wish I could remember who initiated it – placed a small gift outside the door of the other. It wasn’t anything major – maybe a candy bar or a small toy or keepsake – something silly, but the meaning of it came through. We weren’t always so kind. On this day, it inspired the other one to return the favor, and soon there was a succession of little gifts that we left outside the door of the other. We raced back to our own rooms before we were discovered each time. It went on for a little while, and it touched me in ways that remain to this very day. I often think back to that afternoon, and it always makes me smile.
Today marks my brother’s birthday, so this is my little gift to him, dropped in this online room, waiting for him to discover it. Happy birthday, baby brother.
My Mom doesn’t look a day over fifty, even though she is, quite literally, a couple of decades older than that. She wears it quite well, and I remain astounded by her perpetual grace. I learned a great many things from my mother, not the least of which is poise and elegance, and a certain icy, nonchalant disregard to the unimportant aspects of life. Her analytical and scientific background as nurse and professor was a wonder to behold, and her ability to remain unflustered (with the occasionally notable exceptions of dealing with her kids) was something to which I aspired and ultimately achieved.
The 2019 Boston Children’s Holiday Hour took place under the shadows of the missing. Alissa was no longer with us, and Kristen and Anu’s families weren’t able to make it. However, we welcomed Tommy and Janet and their kids for the first time, along with Suzie’s family and a late last-minute appearance by Chris. All in all, some of my favorite people for one of my favorite new traditions, perhaps the last of its kind. Change was in the air this year, for better and worse.
Suzie arrived extra-early, which was a bonus, as the twins were already antsy to begin the festivities and the preparatory exercises. Emi cut the cheese and everybody laughed. Noah did a few dishes. We all partook of the charcuterie board, and the mandarin oranges, and eventually the chocolate milk that Tommy put on, scalding hot water and all. (Cut to a bunch of kids putting ice on their tongues in dramatic, histrionic form.)
There were games in place of crafts, which worked out quite well. Thank God someone knows about kids because I truly don’t. And thank God for Janet, who saved a chair after hot chocolate spilled all over the antique table and ran onto the fabric of the chair. Much as I did when a candle went flying a few years ago, splashing wax all over the carpet and a curtain panel, I remained remarkably detached from the whole fiasco. It’s always a good lesson in easing up on my perfectionist nature. Kids have a knack of leading these lessons.
There were many happy moments, most of which revolved around Tommy and Janet, whom I haven’t been lucky enough to see in Boston in many, many years. This was a good reunion, and the next generation was already stepping up to the plate.
By the time we had finished an order of pizza and Thai food, Chris rolled into town for the night, joining in the bonhomie and bringing the Cornell Crew into the majority. The twins taught him a new card game that they had just learned from Suzie, and new friendships were made. It’s the best thing that can happen at a Children’s Holiday Hour.
The next morning came with the let-down of having to depart. I was emotionally drained and physically exhausted, as Chris and I had much to discuss when the twins went to bed. The last time we had been together in the condo, Alissa had been with us. A note she had left was still on the fireplace mantle, a ghostly whisper of raw loss, a searing jolt reminding us of her absence. There she had stood, there she had sat, there we had hugged, there we had said goodbye until the next time. A heaviness had set in, and we each felt a little lonelier.
Luckily there was little time to dwell, as twins will not sit still for long. I paused in the remembrance, still not quite ready to process anything, and allowed myself to get pulled into the mundane matters of the day, the only way to move forward. One tiny step of getting the twins into their winter hats, and going from there.
We headed to brunch at Boston Chops, where Noah bravely tried Eggs Benedict for the first time, and Emi had the fired chicken and biscuits. At nine years old, they knew how to behave at a restaurant, and had been pretty good for the whole weekend. I don’t know if this is a tradition we’ll get around to doing again – after five years most of the original children aren’t even children anymore – and that’s too far away to predict or think too much about. For the moment, we bounded back toward the condo, pausing in a few stores and stopping to pick up a piece of chocolate and a lollipop at the candy store.
We had a quick and uneventful ride home – the best possible thing to hope for at this late stage of the weekend, and they asked if we could have one more cup of hot chocolate with Uncle Andy, heavy on the whipped cream. I couldn’t refuse.
It began with this stern but friendly warning from me to the twins on how we would best get through our first weekend away together: “Ok, listen. I need you to behave and stay close. If I lose even one of you this weekend, I’ll get in trouble.”
Happily, they heeded the warning and we made for a more-or-less agreeable Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, one that took up the whole weekend and worked to heal some of the hurt from the previous month or so. Andy’s absence cast a pall over all the proceedings, lending shadow to my mood, but children have no need of moods, nor much care to be concerned. I took that lead and did my best to shirk it off. I’ve become quite adept at compartmentalizing the various pieces of emotional baggage I’ve been accruing these past few months. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
We traveled in the afternoon, once the twins got out of school. On the day before the shortest day of the year, we drove to the east, and by the time we arrived in Boston, the light had drained from the sky. Warmth was absent too. Still, Boston was lit from all the holiday cheer, and Christmas scenes led our way to dinner. The chocolate fantasy world of Max Brenner seemed the best choice for our entry meal, and it was listed on a kid-friendly dining guide for those of us in need of such guidance.
Following dinner we picked up a few supplies, and dessert, at Eataly, where we found a $2000 block of cheese that Noah just had to touch, after which he complained about the smell on his hands until we got back to the condo. After telling us ten times to remind him to wash his hands when he got back, he managed to remember himself.
That night, we cuddled on the bed and watched ‘Mary Poppins Returns‘ – who provided the inspiration I would use to guide us on our way. When in doubt, channel Mary Poppins: stern and a little blunt, cold but caring, stiff upper lip and all that sort of thing. When the movie was finally done it was almost midnight – a late night even by my standards, but I don’t get to see them much, and when at last I gave them their goodnight hugs, we were all fast asleep within minutes.
The chill remained in the air the next morning, but the condo was cozy and there were windows of sunlight in between the clouds. We stayed close, with a quick breakfast at the counter of Charlie’s, before venturing out again. In an attempt to stay warm, we walked through the Copley Mall into the Prudential Center, then across Boylston for some hot chocolate at Starbucks. Fortified by that, and a trio of mint mocha samples (wait, are children supposed to have coffee?) we went back out for a mini holiday stroll of sorts, pausing in the lobby of the Mandarin Oriental and sitting by the fire for a spirited few rounds of ‘I Spy’ then playing with their menagerie of stuffed animals. Emi gave us a math lesson on the little chalkboard, and both of the kids colored in a couple of Christmas tree magnets on hand.
We did a little shopping on Newbury Street, finding a couple of gifts for their Dad and Lola, then we stopped at one more fireside lobby – the Lenox Hotel, where they got to spin a couple of dreidels. Noah wanted to head back to the condo before the party, so we made our way from whence we came. It was time to prepare for the Boston Children’s Holiday Hour in proper.
My grandmother wasn’t the greatest cook, according to my Mom and, later in life, agreed upon by me. Like everyone, however, she had a few signatures that we loved. I loved her apple pies and walnut cookies. As I got older, I came to appreciate her pecan pies too. (She also made a killer kielbasa, but if you put a kielbasa in the oven, what’s to stop it from getting done?) Out of this rather thin list, I savored the walnut cookies the most. They signified the holidays, and Gram would put them in cookie tins, line them with foil, and cover them with basically an entire bag of powdered sugar. As she got older, the cookies got bigger and bigger. She earned the right to do that, to say to hell with rolling a bazillion balls and just making three or four marge ones, shoving them in the oven, tossing on a bag of sugar and calling it a Christmas cookie collection.
When I was in Savannah last I found a cookbook that had a recipe for Mexican Wedding Cookies. Not quite sure how they fit into Savannah, aside from the pecans, but there was butter and sugar and almond extract and how can that go wrong? I didn’t realize how similar they were to Gram’s walnut cookies, but when I popped one in my mouth it brought back a wave of happy memories.
They may not be much to look at, but that was Gram’s style. Simple, humble, unassuming, no-nonsense. And oh how good they tasted – it was a beauty that belied their simplicity, a grace that transcended their material shell. It was a lovely little entry into this year’s holiday season.
“To know oneself is, above all, to know what one lacks. It is to measure oneself against Truth, and not the other way around. The first product of self-knowledge is humility . . .” ~ Flannery O’Connor
On that first night in Savannah, it rained and turned cooler. The world was changed. When we woke for a breakfast at Clary’s, the rain had just stopped. Water clung to the leaves and flowers, and the resurrection ferns had greened and lifted their fronds into the cool air. Hope and sadness intertwined, as it did in the weighty history of the city whose squares and ancient stones we walked upon. I was lucky to be with three of my favorite people ~ Andy and Mom and Dad ~ and together we did our best to make the most of our trip.
Spanish moss hung from most of the trees, a visual treat for Andy, who did his best to capture the effect with his camera. Mom and Dad slowly strolled through the squares as we made our way to a tour of the Mercer House. Early in the day, before the crowds arrived, this area was quiet and peaceful. It was exactly what we needed ~ a soft entry into the historical riches that were stored all over Savannah.
Tired from the walking and the tour, Dad wanted to head back to the hotel, and after sitting for a bit in a nearby square, we all ended up taking an afternoon break. A siesta is one of the greatest luxuries of a proper vacation. Andy and I took a nap as well, and when we woke the sun was well on its way down for the evening.
That night we had the greatest dinner of our trip ~ at The Olde Pink House. Easily the best Savannah restaurant we have been to yet, it was a magical night ~ a balmy antidote to the intrusion of all the serious concerns that getting older entailed. Our wonderful server Anjail was a highlight of the meal, guiding us to some of her favorite dishes and recommendations, and we followed every bit of her advice, to happy results.
I’ve always been thankful for my family and my husband, and never more-so than on this night. We didn’t want it to end, so we splurged on a couple of pieces of chocolate pecan pie. A contented sigh that could only be found in Savannah…
“Accepting oneself does not preclude an attempt to become better.” ~ Flannery O’Connor
Being an adult isn’t easy and, whenever possible, I try to avoid it at all costs. But when you’re in charge of watching over your niece and nephew you have to put on the big-boy pants and act like a grown-up. For the most part, that’s what I managed to do when Andy and I hosted Noah and Emi for their first sleepover at our home. It was a test-run to see if they were going to be invited to Boston with us for this December’s Children’s Holiday Hour.
It began with Suzie and her family joining us for a pizza and Ghapama, a very traditional Kardashian dish, or so I told the children. They listened a little too attentively (why does ANYONE listen to what I say, especially children?) and peppered me with Kardashian questions over the course of dinner.
Lesson #1: children are very literal. Too literal. My life is like a simile – no, my life is a metaphor, and a literal reading of what comes out of my mouth is a recipe for disaster. Oh well, it’s far too late not to be fanciful now.
After dinner, it was just Andy, the twins and me, and we went on a treasure hunt to see if the fairies left any gifts around this year, as they had in years past. It was dark out by the time we were ready to go on our search, which made following a rainbow ribbon to the metaphorical pot of gold an intriguing and slightly spooky experience. With flashlights in hand, we walked through the backyard before finding our way to their gift baskets, in which they were given a few crafts and fun Halloween items, including some monstrous fingernails.
We also made a cornucopia for next month’s holiday which added to the coziness of the night. There was some, shall we say, discussion about whether the twins were going to sleep in the main guest room or the basement where the television was, and there was another discussion about which DVD they were going to watch, so the compromise was that Noah picked out the movie ‘The Money Pit’ and Emi picked the sleeping quarters (the guest room).
Lesson #2: when it comes to children, especially twins, everything is a negotiation. Pray that a compromise rears its welcome head.
Uncle Andy made some popcorn while the twins and I started the movie. It was about to be a Shelley Long weekend, which brings back its own memories of my brother, who called to see how things were going. We put him on speaker phone, gave him a brief update, then went back to the movie. The last time we attempted to watch a DVD together we couldn’t make it through the whole thing. This time we had a break to get something to drink, and then finished it out. It was a good sign, and boded well for a trip to Boston.
These twins know their way around the selfie, and I could see they are just beginning to become a bit phone obsessed, so I made the most of the time we had now.
Lesson #3: Madonna was right when she said she lost her kids to the cel phone. Make the most of the time now. Or just tell them to shut it off and engage in the real world like Uncle Al did.
My biggest fear was that going to bed would be an argument, but as we traipsed upstairs to the guest room, they didn’t put up any resistance. I asked them to brush their teeth and told them Andy and I would be in to tuck them in, then explained that we could go to a diner for breakfast the next morning. We hugged them good-night, then they set about to settling in. Emi asked if they could watch some videos on their phone before falling asleep. I said that was fine.
Lesson #4: maybe cel phones aren’t entirely evil.
The next morning, we woke and set about our day. Noah caught me brushing my teeth and did the same without asking, then we dressed for the diner. As the fun Uncle, it’s not my responsibility to nag and instill healthy-eating habits into kids, hence these ice-cream covered waffles from the 76 Diner. I ordered the Eggs Florentine but clearly no one wanted to emulate that kind of behavior.
Lesson #5: sometimes you just have to let kids be kids, even if that means ice cream for breakfast.
For a first sleepover I think it went remarkably well. As the test run for our upcoming Boston Children’s Holiday Hour, they passed with flying colors, so Andy and I gave the go-ahead for them to join us in December. I’m already working on ways to make it magical…
