Kiss the Sweets Goodbye and Point Me Toward Tomorrow*

Note the side part with prized Goody barrette in my

fourth (third?) grade Saint Mary's School photo, circa 1971. 

Coaxed by my mother, I set my hair on pink sponge rollers the night before. 

The light blue, sparkly barrette matched the shiny silk dress 

(now faded in the photo), 

a hand-me-down from relatives in Connecticut.

Okay, enough. I've spent my life spinning fairy tales about sugar, and believing them. Sweets were special. They were magic. Enchanting. Not just euphoric, they added notes of beauty and style to a plain life, like that sparkly blue Goody barrette. It was from the grocery store, but it was a big deal to me. (As a mother, I took great pleasure on lunch breaks from Hearst browsing hair accessories for me or Figgy on Bergdorf Goodman's Beauty Level--I got her a slender black satin hairband with rhinestone bow. I would have done the same for Punch, but she is not a hair accessory type of girl.)

Spun-sugar stars in my youth included the Entenmann's chocolate chip loaf cake my New York City-born grandmother, Alice, got us at the Grand Union supermarket in Dumont. A gift. A Sunday, church-day treat. And the  soft Torrone nougat candies in little boxes that our Italian immigrant grandmother, Rose, sometimes brought us from the Bronx.

The treats were part of a better life, a privileged life. They were that one Christmas Eve with a glass plate of homemade cookies at Aunt Gloria's and Uncle Jim's down the block in Dumont, where my three pretty cousins (Annie, Cathy and Maria) lived. The magic of my Sweet Sixteen, a pink box-mix cake and pink icing made by my mother and shared with my friends at our dining room table with Quaker lace tablecloth. They were Stanley's Bake Shop in Bergenfield, a special 50th anniversary sheet cake with rich yellow buttercream roses and swags of frosting.  

I could go on and on and on. My fairy-tale cake walk. But that might fill a book.  

I.am.here.now. It is Sunday, October 26, 2025 at 3:24 p.m. and last night, at another lovely party held by our friends in Montclair, I consumed one sweet treat after another. Like Halloween tricks, they rose up and then vanished from my hands.

The clock ticked and I grew tired, having had a sad Friday night and a packed Saturday that began at 7:30 a.m. with cleaning (book group was coming), table setting, grocery shopping, coffee hour hosting, a meeting, flower getting, beauty salon, book group, phone interview for writing assignment, dishes and ending with the Halloween party. When I'm tired, I do reach for food to stay awake.

I think I have figured it out, at least for the moment. I love the hosts of these generous, spirited parties (themes include Super Bowl, summer garden, table games), the friends who attend, the chance to be out with Dan and sometimes even Punchy there. But so many love to bake (I do, too) and great bakeries abound. So first there is excellent food, often catered (last night, mac and cheese and pulled pork; excellent charcuterie boards; farmer's market focaccia). Even a bar, sometimes with bartender. And live jazz music!!!!

Last night I had:

• A Magnolia Bakery chocolate Halloween cupcake, dense and moist, thick yellow frosting cap.
• A serving from a dream-girl size glass bowl of peanut butter cream/Reese's/cake trifle.
• A big, soft ginger cookie.
• An Italian bakery double-decker cookie with jam sandwiched in between, chocolate dip, rainbow sprinkles (you know the ones).
• A small wedge of hostess J's homemade, tender olive oil citrus cake.
• And at the book group lunch here, since it was our Jeannie's bday, two slices of the flourless chocolate cake Karen made, with freshly whipped cream.

Hello? Yes, it's me. 

Am I out to kill myself? I am a sugar addict, and I can't seem to eat sweets in moderation. Yet the zero-tolerance approach may be too punitive? On New Year's Eve 2025, I planned not to eat the party desserts, told my hostess and looked away but by the time the ball dropped, a piece of the Smitten Kitchen chocolate cake found its way onto a plate in my hands.

I think that going forward, I will have to leave before the desserts come out. Physically remove myself, drive back home across town. Either that or get a big cup of coffee with cream and go in the pretty backyard? For many years, I filled my best crystal bowl with fresh red berries and brought a bowl of unsweetened whipped cream to these parties and to book group. (TBT, everyone loved that dessert.) But then I stopped.

What do you think?

Not surprisingly, I was exhausted and sluggish today, sugar hangover.

Now it's 9:17 p.m. Since 3:24, I took a walk with Dan (nice leaves), cut down the dead cone flowers, made sure Punch's friends headed back to their apartment in the Bronx, did a work email, ate dinner, loaded the dishes, played and failed at Wordle, started Spelling Bee.

My plan as of now is to again sidestep sweets, one day at a time. Look at the roads I have taken when allowing them in.

Scenes from the Goody barrette legacy:

Our daughter Figgy in 9th grade at Montclair High. Bergdorf hair accessory.

Figgy's senior portrait. I also got that pretty "White Christmas" style hairband at BG.

I forgot! I put my pearl bracelet around our Punchy's bun for her First Holy Communion. Her friend Nikki did the bun.

*Adapted from "What I Did for Love," a song from the musical A Chorus Line with music by Marvin Hamlisch and lyrics by Edward Kleban.

Leaving the Cape Behind Again

The view from the path behind Coast Guard Beach at sunset Friday.

Old Coast Guard Station.

Dan on the bridge we love, which spans the marsh and meadow.

    

Don't look too close at these almost oldies.

Three nights/four days with Dan—in a motel near our (former) family house. We filled our hearts and souls with all the Cape we could fit. We rode the bike trail two days. Lapped up soft-serve vanilla with the best chocolate dip once (Hot Chocolate Sparrow). Early Bird Walk at Wellfleet Audubon. Sweet, tender lobster. Great Pond. Reading books. Naps.

Breathing deep. Feeling our age but also feeling the breeze. I see those two new parents biking over this bridge (pictured above) near sunset with a little red-haired girl on the tandem behind her Dad. Our knees weren’t stiff, and I was much slimmer, wearing a Gap khaki skort. Gray hair? No way. Later, I glimpse those same parents, tired but determined, with a younger, brunette girl who refuses to pose on the bridge for a photo except when making a face and wearing a red devil hairband. But her hair is streaked gold, proof of playful moments in the sun.

Oldness was not yet creeping in, or forgetfulness. And now we leave, but we shall return.

I’m posting this from the Amtrak waiting area in South Station, Boston. Beautiful train station. 

Catching Up: Spring Break & Easter Sunday

Figgy and me on Easter Sunday with Sis's sweet dog, Galena, aka Little Professor. 🍒🌸

Sorry to scrunch this all together in one post, but it's a constant push-pull. Do I have time to blog, which I love and miss, or should I Swiffer the dirty kitchen floor, feed the pansies and perennials in the garden, take a walk or send out story pitches? 

Load the dishwasher so I'm set up in a clean kitchen to cook another healthy meal or wait for Dan to get back and wade through that full counter and sink? (I'm opting for the latter today. But keeping up with an organized, usable kitchen cycle also encourages Punch, who enjoys cooking, with and without friends, including code name Romeo.) Yesterday I made a broccoli Cheddar quiche and still haven't cleaned up. If I have an assignment, I do focus on that first and foremost. After all, an editor is waiting on the other end. But in between, things get murkier.

Last week (April 14 to 18, including Good Friday) was Punch's high school spring break. It was Dan's idea to spend a couple of nights in a nice/splurge hotel in the city, where we could go to a Broadway show, see NYC sights on foot and P and I could get spa treatments. We took the NJ Transit train in and out of NYC from Montclair and the round trip cost (for each senior! age 62 and up) is only $8.10!!!! It was more comfortable than a crowded airplane, and the ride is under an hour. We enjoyed facials and pampering, and Dan and I saw "Oh, Mary!" on Broadway. Lots of laughs and wit, period details and a clever twist on Lincoln-era history. Cole Escola, 38, born in Clatskanie, Oregon, wrote and stars in the play. They are gifted.

Back in Montclair at 11:30 a.m. Easter Mass, I saw a single, beautiful white flowering branch on the altar. (My true friends at Bartlett's Greenhouses & Florist, a 100-year-old (+) family business in Clifton, do the Saint Cassian's flowers.) I saw pretty pink fashions on women--a mom and wife in flowy, taffy pink pants, the hems pooling over her high heels. A twenty something, with her boyfriend, wore an expensive sweater with subtle pinks and golds in the weave. Her brunette hair had a few copper highlights from the sun. I didn't spot a single Easter bonnet, but maybe I just missed them. I arrived late and didn't get a seat. Being old*, I had to go downstairs and sit a bit because unlike most Sunday Masses, Easter Mass was long, well over an hour. A long time to stand in heels. I liked the priest's white and gold vestment, the little girls in floral dresses, their well-dressed, well-behaved and attractive young parents, Dads in sweater vests, good shoes. I liked it all, that slice of Catholic life on a happy occasion. I thought of my own parents, how it must have been to bring four children to church. Wow.

Two nights and three days in a NYC hotel. Love that blue sofa.

I felt like we had a NYC studio apt. for that short time. Sunset was pretty. 

But I couldn't sleep the first night, Sunday. Trucks backing up, brakes screeching all night. 

Sanitation trucks? Mail trucks? I was up til 4:30 a.m. The second night, I slept like a baby.

 

Code name Romeo, Punch and Punch's friend in hotel room, 19th floor.

The friends bussed in and joined for one night. We had a suite.

Breakfast was included in the room rate. The lattes were everything I hoped for.

Sis and me on Easter, Branch Brook Park cherry blossom trees. 🍒🌸🌸

Now I'm back and I feel refreshed. And glad to have blogged again.

*I say I'm old in jest. I may be 64 but I feel like I'm 40. I don't feel old except when I acknowledge signs of old personhood, such as having to pee more often; owning deep frown lines and sun spots; and occasionally forgetting someone's name or an experience. Oh, and I like to be in bed by 10 p.m. latest, earlier if possible.

Influencing the Influencers

1. Yesterday I attended a virtual "lunch & learn." Writers/reporters/bloggers went to a 30-min presentation (1 to 1:30 p.m.) from Shaker Rawan, inventor of the Woddle, a futuristic AI diaper changing dock with built-in scale, warmer, night light, noise machine and touchscreen tracker to log diapers, feedings and sleep. Also, app syncing, so parents and caregivers can share the info. Cost, about $299. It's marketed as an AI parent coach: "Get instant answers and milestone reminders when you need them most." 

           

Naturally, Shaker is a father himself, with a son and a daughter. I've been invited to sessions where             organizers dangle a Starbucks card code so you can enjoy a coffee while you listen. And to info panels where the beauty products are sent to us ahead of time, the better to experience them. This is the first virtual lunch I attended with an Uber Eats code. That was smart, and a worthy investment when you consider the social media coverage an event like that can generate. Invite below. I think it's okay to share it here. 

2. Also yesterday: Three boxes of Bubbies mochi, the treats with a Hawaiian history, arrived at my door in a snug chest with dry ice. It worked: The individual ice cream portions were frozen solid. You have to let them soften a bit for pure enjoyment. The roster includes new flavors like Milk Tea, Churro, Matcha Green Tea and Raspberry Cheesecake. I requested samples of Cookies and Cream, Alphonso Mango (a creamy mango native to India) and Ube Purple Yam for mochi lover Punch. (I see they also make plant-based mochi, with oat milk, which I will find for Figgy.) 

I noticed this brand for decades in the Kings and Whole Foods freezers but now their profile is busting out of the boxes. They are even at Costco. The crayon-colored purple ube ones are inviting; 90 cals each, good portion control if you defrost one at a time. Fun to look at and eat. Celebratory.

Punch, 18, was most excited about that ube flavor, which vanished first. But mango is her favorite fruit. "They taste like real mango," she said. And we know real mango. We remember the one she had that Labor Day when we walked over the Brooklyn Bridge with me and Dan. A lady was selling cut mangos right before the bridge incline. For Easter, I asked Dan to get mango. I usually slice it myself but we got precut. "It's not ripe," was the first thing Punch and I said upon tasting. I wanted to bring it back to ShopRite and get a refund with the receipt, but it was Easter, and I didn't follow through.

"Bubbies was named after our founder Keith Robbins’s grandmother," says Eleni Fritz at Rachel Kay Finn Partners in NYC. "Keith started it as a scoop shop in 1985 on the island of Oahu, where he perfected ice cream and mochi recipes." In 2018, Bubbies moved from Hawaii to mainland USA.

Sign up for the newsletter at https://bubbiesicecream.com/ to get a BOGO store coupon. 

According to dictionary.com

mochi

[ moh-chee] noun

1. Cooked and pounded glutinous rice formed into various shapes and used to make traditional Japanese sweets and other dishes (often used attributively) mochi balls; mochi ice cream

2. Also called but·ter mo·chi. a sticky, spongy Hawaiian dessert whose principal ingredients are butter, sugar, eggs, rice flour, and coconut milk.

Grace & Dignity

Two words I hope to embrace more in my life. Enjoy your day.

Code Tarantula

Bridal Trousseau is one of my I.D. codes this evening. This image is from Brides. Link: https://www.brides.com/what-is-a-bridal-trousseau-1860910. Photo BY 515 PHOTO CO.

I'm not feeling humorous or bridal lacy, just tired, scared and sad, so this title might need a more serious word than tarantula. But catchier Code Red, Code Blue and Code Black have already been taken in emergency room lingo. 

Some notes and funny words to recall things yesterday and today:

1. Slip-on sneakers patterned with sunflowers, worn by a young lady working at hospital. She swung her feet over the floor, as one can do when one is shorter. The swinging conveyed a moment of girlhood joy.
2. I.D. words for officials yesterday. No real names, to protect privacy. But they were pivotal. Bridal Trousseau and Honeymoon on the Riviera, secret phrases to help me remember. There were some words of wisdom.

Really reaching here. I think that's it for now.

As the Sand Passed Through the Hourglass

Note the little bulbs on the brown algae. Fig and I squeezed them to release a beauty treatment to work through our hair. After all, they sell seaweed shampoo at the store.

The surf was rough in Maine--I mean crashing and scary with Punch. Like, get back on the beach, this shark-infested water could kill you. I won't go into details. And it continued to be terrorizing last night, upon return at 11 p.m., and today.

If future me wants to remember the pain and fear (oh, yeah, that's what happened that trip), my code words are Fireside Inn, soap in can and bus ticket.

But there were still some nice moments amidst the fear and danger:

1. The wedding party at Mere Point for Leah and Greg.
2. Drive to Rockport with Figgy to my niece Anna's tiny house in the woods, built by her Dad. Fig had never been there. Anna served us coffee and fruit and Grape-Nuts with a high-protein yogurt I plan to buy. Icelandic, I think, and lemon-flavored without a lot of sugar. It was lovely to see her, and see the girls together.
3. A leisurely stop by the rocky coast to explore with my firstborn and a visit to Dot's Market in Lincolnville Beach, a pricey gourmet shop with a great edit. No, no, I did not notice any chocolate peanut butter cupcakes with fat caps of swirled icing. Nope.
4. Seeing my sisters-in-law (all four). That counts Therese, with a flower in her hair; Sheila, natural beauty and gifted cook (she filled the grill with hotdogs, burgers, chicken and street corn and managed it all); Martha, intellectual, funny, fit, blonde, insightful; and Eileen, Dan's capable, professional, stylish little sister, who moved up to Maine with my mother-in-law as a young girl.
5. Biking over the historic Belfast bridge, and then walking it another day when Fig roller-skated over the span.
6. Small talk with strangers on the bridge about dogs and fishing.
7. July Fourth cookout. Nice hotdog on grilled bun, homemade potato salad.
8. Seeing our nephews' little children--and the Dads we knew as boys.
9. Belfast Co-op.
10. Chamomile flowers. I bought a plant for Anna and one to plant here at home.
11. Baking a Blueberry Galette from a Down East-published book found in Southern Maine with Nancy. The crust was raggedy, hard and off-kilter, I piled the berries too high and the juice ran all over the cookie sheet instead of staying in the galette but it still tasted good. I tried. My life was/is raggedy, hard and off-kilter, so why shouldn't the galette be? Still, I liked gathering ingredients and baking in my sister-in-law Martha's yellow kitchen.
12. Visiting dear Leah at her house on my way home to NJ. Seeing her beautiful pocket gardens and paint colors and home office and pet bunny for the kids.
13. Seaweed hair treatment. Fig and I squeezed the clear juice from the bulbs on seaweed/kelp found in Belfast. Snap, squeeze, finger-comb through hair. We like doing things like that.
14. Cocktails (I had sun tea) at Pat and Martha's neighbors' lovely old farmhouse. Smoked Gouda, sliced baby cucumber from the garden and juicy little strawberries, the fruitful gems of summer in Maine.

I was going to say sorry for another sad sap post but it's not my fault, so can't say sorry.

That's it. The pain is real but there was some beauty. And while I see that 14 might seem like a high tally, in my mind, it did not/could not cancel out even that one first night in a Maine hotel.

Private Eye

Private Room

Private (rank in the Marines or Army)

Private Practice

Private Dectective

Private Benjamin (my earlier blog code for therapy appointment)

Private Party

Private Conversation

Private Matter

Privacy

Things have been messy and hard and I am not at liberty to divulge here. Trying to remain standing in grace rather than lying in misery and fear.

Skipper and Young Romeo Go to Prom

At our home. One thing Skipper and Romeo have in common, among other things, is nearly jet black hair. Also, they both love to season food with Latin adobo and get drinks/"bevs" from Panera, QuickChek and Starbucks. They seem to talk frankly and deeply. She is 17, he is 18. 

Here are the photos from Skippy's/Punchy's prom night Thursday, May 30 with her boyfriend, code name Romeo, a senior. Skipper is a sophomore (she started kindergarten late). It was at The Legacy Castle, which looks elegant. Romeo is from Wayne, about a 15-minute drive from here.

I started calling our girl Skipper in this blog a while ago, because she reminded me of Barbie's little sister, following Figgy. I do not mean that she is plastic, or shallow, or just a doll. It is an affectionate term. Skipper is real, very real, and brainy in her own way. And both she and Romeo have caring hearts.

The weather was beautiful. We were all happy to celebrate such a happy occasion. My next-door neighbor and friend, Julie, told me Montclair High School now does pre-prom photos at Van Vleck House & Gardens, so we went to that gated property. So lovely. 

Most of us here have busy lives and jobs, including Romeo's young mom, pretty blonde Y; Romeo, who works many hours at a restaurant and saved money to buy his car, shown; Skipper's young grandma, a school principal, who looks so much like Skip, who in turn looks so much like her late birth Dad, and her birth mother; Figgy; Dan; and me, though I work freelance from home. So it was great to all meet up pre-prom. Mimi brought sub sandwiches, cheese and crackers, watermelon chunks. I wanted to catch some family photos in the gardens.

Skipper and Romeo with his mom and two younger brothers. I love that purse, which Dan and Skip found at Bloomingdale's on prom day. It has a chain for a shoulder option. Y helped us with dress shopping at David's Bridal in Paramus. As an older mother, I am not fully on trend with prom styles and satin platform shoes.

Selfie by Dan. Skipper and Romeo and his family again, plus me, Skipper's Mimi, and dear Figgy on the end. 

Mimi and Skipper. So beautiful.

Romeo and his brothers.

Romeo and his chariot. He worked hard to save money.

And here is a link to photos from Figgy's senior prom, 11 years back. She was 17 at the time, as Skipper is today. We got a good shot of just Fig and Skipper on Thursday night, but no one has been able to find it on their phone yet. 

I'm going to the family house on Cape Cod Monday morning for four nights with Sis, Meg and Greg. Will report back. I look forward to bird watching walks, Great Pond, the bike path--and lobster.

xo

10 Steps Out of the Sinking Marsh

I can wallow in being overwhelmed and discouraged today with the course of events in this household at this moment but instead I will choose to dot i's and cross t's on my work assignments and:

1. Reread the beginning of "Miriam" (1945) to note the narrator in a tale by talented Truman Capote and start, once again, crafting a short story of my own. (I published a story in Good Housekeeping as a newlywed.) Type and think and click and capture, save it in a folder named SHORT STORY AS OF APRIL 2024 on my MacBook desktop. Begin to polish my pearl, my goal: To do my best to transport you, and me, to another place and time. Done.
2. Think about "A Room of One's Own" (1929), the extended essay by Virginia Woolf and be grateful for the time and space and paying assignments I have. Be thankful for my proficiency and skill set, for a room to claim (two, counting the dining room). "A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction." Done.
3. Be grateful for my health--and my sister's health on her 70th birthday today. Done.
4. Look forward to sharing in the gift she wants most for her birthday--to go the Turtle Back Zoo tomorrow with the girls, see the lions and feed lettuce to the giraffes. You will recall she went on an African safari, a lifelong dream. Done.
5. Plan healthy meals for today. Start with breakfast.
6. Walk to the Post Office to return a package on this sunny day.
7. Start looking into cars we can buy.
8. Shampoo with lovely, lavender-tinted Love shampoo from Davines. Special-occasion suds.
9. Water my candy-cane-striped dahlias. 
10. Pray. For acceptance, for hope, for faith, for guidance under angel wings, for compassion (for myself and others), for love.

Back from Eclipse Chasing

Punch + Romeo on the museum terrace, near Central Park.

The teens made fast friends with New Yorkers around them, 

from a retired teacher to a museum guard. 

I used odd "lasso" effect to encircle photo. I'd like to redo/perfect/play 

with it more, but I have to do my work.

Michael + Dan near Canada. Full totality.

Our threesome in New York, New York.

I was on the terrace behind the Museum of Natural History in New York, New York to watch the solar eclipse with family (and strangers, who became fast friends). We three, even our hard-to-impress teen girl, are glad we went. Romeo, Punch and I are tired now. Walked to cute old train station in Montclair, boarded 10:56 a.m. double decker to NY Penn Station, explored Moynihan Train Hall, bustling and fun, and took C subway to 81st Street/museum stop ($2.90 per person each way when I used my debit card at the turnstile, still a pretty good deal).

Dan and his close pal drove all the way up in Vermont near Canada to see the full effect and are stuck in crawling traffic back tonight. They couldn't find coffee or a bathroom on those narrow highways. Figgy and friend drove to Lake George and then another viewing destination in New York State. (Both parties left a day ahead and found lodging.) Punchy's school closed at 1 p.m. today for the eclipse (so everyone "could stay safe") and Romeo has spring break this week. So we let Punch miss the short school day. It was history. It was good. So cool to see that flat, perfectly round shadowy black skillet bottom glide slowly, slowly over the fiery cooking flame of the sun. We didn't see totality but all cardboard eclipse glasses on, necks craned, faces to the sky at 3:25 p.m. Eastern Time. No flash in the pan. Totally worth it.

Joan Didion + Prayer

Joan Didion, John Gregory Dunne and Quintana Roo, likely in Malibu, 

or somewhere else on the California coastline. 

Photo by Julian Wasser from here.

I'm reading Blue Nights, a memoir by Ms. Didion. Much of the weave connects moments with and memories of her daughter, Quintana Roo. Quintana was adopted. 

I have loved the author's crisp, precise writing since I took Slouching Towards Bethlehem, an essay collection, from my sister's book shelf in our shared bedroom to read on the long bus ride to Atlantic City to visit my boyfriend. Words carefully parsed, sentences lean and slim, but they say so much. They say everything.

Something in Ms. Didion's steeliness, especially for such a small woman, inspires me. She sees it and says it. I also read that she enjoyed buying beautiful clothing, such a little cashmere sweater, for her girl or herself, sometimes even matching. I did that, too, with Figgy and later, Punch (though not matching for Punch, since she was away from our fold from age 15 months to 6.5 years).  

Dan returned on the red-eye today after being flown out to Palm Springs to write 60-Second Novels at a fancy party at the Dinah Shore estate. He was home by 11 a.m. and then had to leave by 6 p.m. (in an Uber, still no running car) to write stories at a party in NYC, a bar mitzvah.

I was so low. So low about many things. Coincidence that Figgy moved out a week ago yesterday? Did the significance of that escape me? I'm happy for her, and she is happy, building an IKEA dresser with her friend, choosing pretty accent colors for her bedroom, setting up her plants. But with her absence, I'm fretting these days over worries I have about Punch and Young Romeo. With Figgy gone and Dan away, my lens has zoomed in and frozen. I need to zoom out.

Our kitchen sink is backed up. Don't ask, we had an expensive new garbage disposal installed but we can't turn it on until an electrician or two comes to install an outlet under the sink, since this model has a plug. I managed to catch up on all the dishes, by hand (vintage china) and in the dishwasher tonight. I have a half-price-after-Easter pot of tulips on the mantel. Can't tell what color yet, since the flowers keep their secrets in those tight green hoods.

I went on two Zoom support groups today and made two phone calls. I prayed, in fear and desperation. Over the known and unknown, over things I can't control. I think I am okay.

Good night.

Graces

I still believe in the power of a "Hail Mary" prayer, though did not say one today. 

It begins with "Hail Mary, full of grace." Do you pray? Image from here.

Grateful after school on this overcast March Thursday that:

• I talked calmly and openly to two teenagers, almost 17 and already 18, in my living room. (And BTW, I'm changing Punchy's boyfriend's blog name from GREAT SMILE DEEP THINKER, which is too long, to YOUNG ROMEO, shorter and more fitting.)
• I conveyed my observations and concerns about something involving Punchy that is possibly red-flag dangerous, but that both would be privy to, without my lip quivering, tears brimming in the back of my eyes or my voice wavering. In the past, I was less confident, would quake and shake when I addressed important issues of my heart and mind. My eyes still sprout tears when I make a toast to someone I love, because they mean so much to me, watch a graduation march or a funeral procession or walk back from Communion at a funeral Mass and pass the family in the front row of the church. When I asked for a raise at a magazine once, I fumbled, my heart raced, I said a prayer to my dead but dear grandmother Rosie--something along the lines of I want to make you proud, look at my job, and you came on a boat from Italy with little education--and knocked over the wastebasket on my way into my editor's paneled office.
• My heart didn't jump erratically due to sugar substances consumed in a frenzy of fear and anxiety. Of powerlessness. I didn't raise my voice, accuse or curse. For today, I did not need cookies, a brownie, donut, cake, candy, frosting or other sweets, the softer, the better--or salty, greasy Fritos--to fortify and arm myself against discomfort and worry. Or to soothe myself after the confrontation, which was much more this time like a rational discussion. A chance for all three of us to be seen and heard. To not hide. Although, I must say, teens can persist in their hiding. I am grateful for the exchange.
• I did not delay or procrastinate. I was proactive.
• I heard an observation from Figgy, her calm perspective when she returned from work on the campus. (The front door of our Dutch Colonial opens right into the living room.)
• I had prepared (pre being the key part) oatmeal and turkey chili and was able to grab a healthy, filling breakfast and lunch.
• I have a nice tall glass of ice water and am about to walk around the block. Two virtual appointments with Punch support team members today, plus this living room talk, required time, effort and energy. Water and walk should help replenish.

Have a good evening.

9:41 p.m. update: I once again did not walk, around the block or anywhere else. Tomorrow, tomorrow. But Dan and I went out for sushi, which was nice, and now we are watching The State of the Union on CNN.

This Mother Wants Bubble Wrap

DBT (dialectical behavior therapy*) "wise mind" model  from THIS SOURCE.

I want some cushioned wrap, maybe pink, to protect our teen girl, so she will not break when dropped or squeezed between hard places or bouncing on a horse on a rutted path. So she won't lose her way and enter an unsafe place, never to reverse her road again.

We can't wrap them in bubble wrap, our first DBT therapist said when I worried. She told me that in several conversations.

I've had fears and scares with our older daughter, Figgy, and met them with determined efforts to fix and cure mental health issues. As if. We parents can maybe help hold the reins when kids are young (after all, we have traveled unpaved roads ourselves), but we cannot clear away the bumps and rocks on the trail. We might help burnish the saddle for safer, more comfortable rides and hope the road rises with our girls and their hopes and dreams as they trot out of our sight. I held onto my cowboy hat as Fig's path circled dangerous dramas, veering toward and away from them. She is doing quite well now, thanks to grace, luck, fate, timing, a keen brain, artistic eye, genetics, loving family, true friends, professional mentors and hard work. And gradually, she/we have learned to face down bandits on life's trail rather than retreat.

So this is not my first rodeo, as they say, on this journey with Punch, who will turn 17 this Monday. 

And yet I am still surprised when I come upon a teen behavior that scares me. Many of her peers (I can't say "friends," because most truly are not) bring on and bring out the worst inclinations, unloved girls who are doing very unsafe things involving, for example, social media photography, running away from home, disrespect for themselves and adults and yes, even behavior that brings in the police at tender young ages. 

But I know now how to apply DBT "accepts" (a noun), to use my wise mind and not gallop with abandon in my emotional one. DBT tenets do help and so do distress tolerance skills, a nurturing school environment, trained therapists for both mother and child, Dan being present and involved, extended family and friends, perspective and smart doctors. I am grateful for all of those supports this morning. And also for boyfriend GREAT SMILE DEEP THINKER, who shares a lot of wise insights with Punch. But I remind myself that he has flaws, too, like the rest of the world. Wise mind. Acceptance.

Hope you have a good day.

*Defined on the internet as "evidence-based psychotherapy designed to help people with emotional dysregulation."

EVENING NEWS, 7:06 p.m. I want the bubble wrap even more based on this afternoon's events. But I took a warm bath, made a healthy salmon/sauteed mushrooms/polenta family dinner (that the teen might not touch, but vegan Fig will eat the last two) and am going to 7:30 restorative yoga class now. Booked it last week. 

Hand to Heart, Fingers to Keyboard in a Maine Kitchen

It's a wonderful life in Belfast. The tree lighting and visit from Santa Saturday at 5 p.m. 

at Post Office Square. Photo by Eric Sanders, a friend of Santa's.

"Santa is very popular," Eric wrote when he posted this epic photo on Facebook. 

Thank you, Eric, for this remarkable visual memory.

My friend Shirley and I try to text each other three gratitudes every morning. As life takes the wheel, and we allow that, we forget to stop and text. Today I will do it again.

But now, sitting at the kitchen island in the Mill House, a wonderful place built by my talented brother-in-law, I want to dash off a list before we clean up and scoot home, after seeing Dan's mother first.

Graces

1. Figgy. I hugged Fig, encircling her closely in my arms, at the Belfast tree lighting yesterday. This is a rarity lately, that hug. Her belted wool coat against my worn Tory Burch camel sweater. She is so petite compared to my 5'9". Funny how it happens that way. (Punchy stayed with Romeo and his family back in NJ and had a big Thanksgiving there.)
2. Abraham's Creamery. Wow, the jug of small-batch pumpkin kefir from the Belfast Co-op. That's why I love shopping there, the farm finds. Ingredients: Fresh goat milk, Maine organic maple syrup, pumpkin, pumpkin pie spice and cultures. It is so good. I see they make one with wild Maine blueberries when in season. Triple yum.
3. (I have to speed up now.) Bar Harbor. The long and rolling road to get there. Want to go back to Window Panes, where I bought a favorite tablecloth decades ago.
4. Belfast. Old-time charm, lampposts on the lane, strings of Christmas lights. Imagine all the important, loving, heart-warming and -wrenching letters and packages sent and received from that historic P.O. during wartime, peace time, Christmastime.
5. Mrs. Claus. Mingling at the tree lighting in her white knit poncho, long dress, red cap (Diane). Mrs. C. is always a delightful standby, kind and sweet.
6. Santa and Buddy the Elf. Two Hurley brothers arriving on fire engine, possibly M (it's a secret) and my Dan.
7. Thanksgiving. At Martha and Pat's, 24 people for dinner, though all could not fit at the table. (Overflow at kitchen island and in living room.) Ian's tender dinner rolls made from his mother's recipe, Sheila's turkey and gravy, Martha's and Erin's pumpkin pies, whipped cream by Leah, Pat's coffee.
8. This beautiful view. A pond, trees, birds, farmland. Hard to leave, as usual.

But we must.

Capers: A Note from North Eastham

Good morning from Cape Cod.

It is 10:38 a.m. on Monday and Dan and I plan to leave the house by noon. Already ran the dishwasher, folded the red plaid blankets, put the insulated Lilly Pulitzer cooler bag in the freezer so it's ready for our fridge unpack and the journey back to NJ.

I want to do a chart HERE vs. THERE but don't have time to format it since we have a lot more scuttling around to do--spritzing and spraying, sweeping and vacuuming.

The chart would have illustrated HERE joys like renting bikes from Idle Times Bike Shop in Eastham and THERE worries like Skipper refusing to get up for school while Figgy is holding down the fort. Or other stresses. Skip didn't want to come with us, and her school summer program runs through tomorrow anyway, and Figgy is working.

Dan and I have been gone four nights. 

• We biked (about six miles one way) on the bike path to the Hot Chocolate Sparrow. We were superhot under those helmets when we arrived. We each had our one ice cream of the trip. I got sugar-free coffee flavor with the Sparrow's exceptional chocolate dip--that melty dark coating that hardens on contact--only available in the summer. Dan got a soft-serve vanilla cone with the dip darkening the swirls and swoops.
• I did the 8 a.m. to 10 a.m. Early Bird Walk program at the Audubon Friday morning. L.O.V.E.D. it. Ospreys, snowy egrets, purple martin, heron, turkeys, little shore birds. Also bullfrogs, green frogs ("like Kermit," a Boston walker said), and fiddler crabs. Great group of people and young leader.
• We had our bike rentals for 24 hours ($30 each). Yesterday we pedaled to Nauset Light Beach. Dan ran into the sea (61 degrees water temp).
• Dinner last night at Mac's on the Wellfleet Pier with our friends from NJ, who are here for the week. Yum. Bluefish, steamed local vegs, rice, (fried oyster plates for our friends and a jumbo lobster roll for Dan), then more talk back at our friends' cute rental house.

Today, we plan to go to the Audubon for another nature walk before joining the cars on Route 6 West for the 6- or 7-hour trek home. But first, we have to lock up the house.

I Might Have Written

It is Tuesday, July 18. I might have written of nice summer nights or plunges in the ocean. I took two plunges in the last two weeks—a Wednesday evening one week and a Thursday afternoon the next—playing in the waves at Spring Lake beach on the Jersey Shore, feeling like a girl again. Saltwater, frothy ride, watch what's coming. Swimsuit, the scent of pretty suntan lotion. Wet hair. When you're in the ocean, good bet you are there for fun.

But one, I'm trying to save essays for spaces where I can earn money for them. I have feelers out. 

And two, many of our summer nights are not so nice but rather challenging and stressful, laced with worry and fear.

Fear does nothing for anyone--not for the worrier, nor the object of the worrying--but still, our old foe jumps eagerly to our side, her head coiffed with jagged alarm wires, not soft, springy curls.  

I/we used to think that the adrenaline jolt prompted by fear of missing an article assignment deadline (and displeasing our editor, not being successful) was just a fact, part of the creative process, that we did our best work then. But that is not true. That kind of fear can feed unhealthy habits and erratic behavior, short tempers with family, money wasted on takeout because we are working through dinner times. Instead, we can be organized and trustworthy, do our best work and hand it in on time but not in a state of exhaustion and frenzy. 

We can count on ourselves to count on ourselves.

Still, if only everyone would do what we want in life. We have to meet the goals and character perimeters we set for ourselves, and that is enough to manage. 

Acceptance.

I might have written about the coneflowers (aka echinacea, a native wildflower that draws butterflies, bees, and songbirds), now that Figgy is here and helped us fill the garden. Or about the angel hair pasta with zucchini "cream" (SmittenKitchen.com) that I made at 9:30 tonight, after my support group. (The most involved things about the recipe were mincing garlic and shredding zucchini. I couldn't use my mini food processor, so I used a box grater, and the zucchini was browned, not fresh green like in the photo. Oh well. Acceptance.)

I might have remembered refreshing showers or blueberries from a farm share. On the flip side, I may have written about a call from a Montclair Police detective received on the drive to Spring Lake (this time, not about our child). Or about dashed hopes, dashed in the moment, for now. Stay present. 

I might have written a lot more but that will take pushing Alarm Curls to the side. 

I might have written. 

I plan to write.

Good night.

Postcard to Self

Cap't Cass Seafood, Rock Harbor, Orleans. It closed during the pandemic; a new owner is remodeling it. Can't wait to get another clam roll. Photo by Meggy. Check capecodchronicle.com for "New Owner Eyes Spring Reopening For Cap’t Cass Restaurant."

The view from Salt Pond Visitor Center terrace. A tonic.

With Meggy at the Audubon.

Ornithologist James at the 8:30 a.m. bird banding program.

Highland Light, Truro. Photo by Meg.

Dear Present and Future Alice,

You had a great time this week. You drove to the Cape with Sis in her Connecticut car. As the promised land came closer, you looked for cranberry bogs to the right, on Route 6 East. Each mile driven was another measure away from drama and fear over teen struggles. You filled your lungs, unclenched your heart and breathed. Dan was good to hold down the fort for five days; school was in session.

Meg and Greg came from Vermont. You all took so many walks. You had two dinners at home (Meg made jambalaya and Sis, chicken with lemon, shallots and kale) and ate two dinners out. You enjoyed calm companionship and conversation.

You put your feet in the sea, let the water swirl around. You stood tall. Your gaze held steady on the horizon. You picked up a rock tumbled by the waves and a broken clam shell, souvenirs. Broken shells are better because they are real, like imperfect life. Jagged maybe, but still beautiful.

The pink and white salt spray roses smelled sweet. How resilient they are, how plucky. Blooming by the rugged sea, thriving by saltwater, churning and rough. Honeysuckle perfumed the air on the paths. You saw old touchstones from childhood. Coast Guard Beach. Salt Pond Visitor Center, with that hidden, unchanged museum. Scrimshaw and a whaling captain's top hat, recordings of Wampanoag stories, an empty wooden cradle, a primitive bicycle. Memories of Cape Codders gone by.

Now, home. You can't pour from an empty cup, the young DBT therapist, E., said this morning before starting a telehealth appointment with Punch. You had mentioned your time away, and E. had approved.

The bathroom mirror. You looked in the bathroom mirror up there on the Cape, where you have sought the truth and judged your beauty since age 19, when the house was new. Then, no makeup. Now, mandatory concealer and brow pencil. Mascara. Then, longer hair. Now, shorter, and colored. Skin crinkles. It's okay. It's all okay. The secret to beauty is accepting yourself.

You saw yourself there as a young mother and wife, with Dan and Figgy. All the things you did with them. Your short white nightgown with thin straps and scattered flowers, you turning the faucet, adding the bubbles, filling the tub for Fig so she could drift to sleep clean and fresh. Then Punch as a restless baby, never tired. Dad, of course. Friends and their children.

Already, less than 24 hours back home, the stress meter is up. Problems don't vanish. You're not saying that out of self-pity, or for sympathy, only out of self-truth. But you do not have to amp up the stress.

Remember your cup. Remember to fill it. 

Love, Alice, age 62

Selfie.

Ranger-led lecture on lobsters.

Meggy, dear friend and roommate from Douglass College, with her camera.

Sis looks good in that hat!