Survival

Check out our second Virgin Writers post at Grub daily! This one is all about surviving the workshop.

Timing

We always planned on having two kids, but then we had Girlie and were pretty sure we weren't doing it again. And by it, I mean it, on both accounts, the making and the birthing because having a child not only rocked our world - it pretty much took us to the back shed, whipped us both silly, and then dumped us off miles from home, leaving us both lost along the roadside for a few years (though, at least together, at least that).

Eventually, around age four things got a little easier or maybe we just got used to not knowing what we were doing. Either way, we started thinking about another child, about getting back to the original plan. We started having dates and it was back on the table. When Girlie was five, we had Little Guy.

For about six months after he was born, I thought I had accidentally made the most brilliant parenting move in the history of family planning. Having children with a large age split meant that Girlie was pretty independent by the time Little Guy was born. Watching my friends with kids close in age struggle with the baby-toddler thing, I figured we had done it right.

Except that there are few economies with two this far apart. No same interests, no playing together except when older is tolerating younger, lots of juggling big and little interests. Lots of juggling. Granted, a shorter age gap never guarantees these things, but there are some areas that would be easier if we'd gone ahead and had a second child before five years had passed. We could have two in school, a kindergartner right now. We could be well past the tantrum stage, saving the nine year old some humiliating trips through the Target parking lot. We could be nap free on weekends and able to let them both run the neighborhood unsupervised after dinner. They could watch the same movies.

Except, I always have to wonder, would my second child have been Little Guy three years earlier? Or is there a split second, a single moment, when a person comes to be?

Because there is that certain part of it - the thing that has nothing to do with timing.

Boston: One year, ten pounds

So it isn't quite the freshman fifteen, but my first year in Boston hasn't been so good on the waistline.

Yes, I did just mention the summer-long quest to find the perfect fried clam strips yesterday. It's not like I have been in denial or anything, more like the Scarlett O'Hara approach, as in I'll think about it tomorrow. And that's been working out until this morning when I noticed that I have the chub face in every single photo. I gain weight in my face almost immediately. Great.

So what's the deal? Eating like the newly in love. My body insulating against the frigid weather. Stress eating. Abundance of craft beer. Too many trips to the North End.

Does it really matter?

Yes, it does.

So I came home from the clam shack and walked 3 miles. Walked 3 more this morning. Might hit it again later with Little Guy. Up the veggies and fruit. More water. Less Smuttynose Ale. Maybe even skip the onion rings at the clam shack. No dessert.

Which really stinks because they have some damn good homemade ice cream up here.

Lobsta rolls and fried clams and ice cream, oh my!

A New England summer is all about clam shacks and ice cream shops. And apparently, chilly drizzly weather, but I hear that all ends in July.

I hope it ends in July.

So we're on a quest to hit as many of these places as we can. Today we're headed to Woodmans over in Essex for fried clams and lobster rolls. We chose it as our first stop because it is one of the most famous clam shacks.

And also because we can already pronounce Essex without sounding like tourists.

Fourth grade, time to get my crap together

Girlie's last day of third grade is today. By September I will be the mother of a fourth grader.

This is significant to me because fourth grade is around the age that I can start to recall the details of my childhood. Before that, I can bring to mind some of the big moments, birthdays, trips - the time in third grade when my mother forgot to pick me up and I walked home in a rainstorm.

In fourth grade, however, I remember some of the day to day stuff, smidges of the homelife as I came to understand it. Which means up until now as a mother I've been in the parental grace period.

Nine more years until she's out of the house. Probably twentyish before she starts therapy. Time to make it happen.