The Neighborhood

When the boys were very small and in car seats, I did all of the driving. The boys tortured me daily with the always something demands of toddlers (Help me! Watch this!), but even when they were pre-verbal they knew I was off limits when I was behind the wheel. Driving a half a day in traffic to visit family over holiday weekends was far easier than sitting in the back seat with them and tending to their oscillating requests, meltdowns, and ill timed poops. Similarly, the puppy has learned to take a rest or find a toy when I’m at the laptop. It’s an easy break from the always something demands of a tiny dog (Take me out! Play with me! Rub my belly. Love me love me love me!), but this morning I woke up with a fever of 102 and the only way I can get a respite from this dog is to feign productivity at the keyboard. So here I am. Writing about the puppy. Again.

After one month with this little guy, I’ve gotten to know the neighborhood much better. We’ve lived in this house for 13 years, but I haven’t taken many walks around the block. Now, it’s a twice a day thing and even if I haven’t made fast friends with new neighbors (this is New England and the stereotypes hold), I’m getting to know the Dogs of Princeton Road. Because Hero is a puppy and also THE BEST DOG IN THE WORLD, he wants to say hello hello hello hi hi hi to everybody. But because he isn’t fully immunized yet, he cannot do this with the dogs. This hasn’t stopped me from inventing nicknames and backstories for all of them, anyway.

Barks-a-Lot spends most of the time fenced in outside and based on Hero’s reaction to this fearsome pooch, his woof woof woof roughly translates as, “If I ever get outta here, I’m coming for you first.” There is Prancing Pooper (whose owner does NOT curb her animal) and that haughty bitch won’t even look at us. Yesterday we met a goldendoodle wearing a Patriot’s t-shirt and a tutu and I swear she told Hero, “I hope we can be friends in spite of this outfit.”

There are a lot of regular walkers in these parts, and now that I have become that person, I take a minor and fleeting offence when they won’t pause to pet Hero when he is straining at the leash and pleading with them to love him for a second. Even if they are allergic (as I am) or terrified of dogs (understandable), many don’t even acknowledge that we are sharing a street. Yesterday’s substitute mailman heard Hero whining and yelled from two doors down, “You talkin’ to me little guy? I’m coming over to meet you!” and then did. He’s my kind of people. So are the 9-year-old twins who now live in the Miller’s old house who told me they would “take care of Hero any time… FOR FREE.” I wonder what time they get home from school.

Hero is now a sleepy foyer lump and if I’m really quiet, he won’t notice me transferring from the laptop to the couch. I was a little panicked about spending an entire day alone with an almost but not entirely trained puppy while wondering if I have the flu. But like the boys in car seats on a road trip, I swear this pup senses I need a bit of a break today. Do dogs do that? Who knows. But this one is getting all of the good treats.

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Those People

As we enter our 4th week of puppy parenting/training/love-struck ownership, I realize we have become those people. Doggie treat dust lines all of our jacket pockets. Bernie and I share Hero’s new tricks with excitement equivalent to Teddy’s first swim without the Styrofoam floatie.

Have you seen him FAKE PEE for a treat? IS THERE ANY DOG SMARTER OR CUTER.

I already have a catalog of doggie ditties that accompany mundane tasks, and start each new day singing, “Good Morning, Mr. Wiggles.” I have a dog with an Instagram (@miniberniedoodlelee).

We. Are. Those. People.

To anyone who asks (bless you, fellow dog nutters), I will gush about how thoroughly unprepared I was for living with a puppy. And it has nothing to do with poop, and everything to do with love. We’re all just happier. There are teeny teeth marks on stairs and coffee tables, and we don’t care. Stuff is just stuff. Things on the calendar we’re not looking forward to? Cancel. Hero is taking a nap? Might as well shut my eyes for a spell. I take 26 walks around the yard and neighborhood every day. IN JANUARY. Vitamin D mixed with puppy magic is making dark days of winter so much brighter.

Mere months ago I was an eye-rolling jerk-face when lovely people got all mushy about their pets and now I routinely baby-talk rhetorical questions to a small fur ball. “Who’s the cutest doggie in the world? Hero, Hero, HERO!” (That one is also in the puppy playlist of made up songs.) Last weekend because Hero was napping and we missed him, Bernie and I scrolled through other Bernedoodle Instagram accounts to predict how big our best boy will become. When I hear, “Mom, mom, mom, LOOK!” 138 times a day, it’s no longer a 2nd grader with a Lego creation. Now it’s a teenager who doesn’t want me to miss Hero sleeping with his favorite duckie toy or sneezing for the first time (which frankly, puts the cute-o-meter on tilt).

Those. People.

Hero came with me to Bible Study today. Though I was worried he’d christen the Old Parish House with excrement, he only greeted a dozen Christian women with unbridled enthusiasm—hi hi hi hi love me pet me love me– and then fell asleep in my arms. Alyson called him “furry blood pressure medicine.” But the quote of the day was from Father Mike: “Puppies make you realize that Love is not a zero sum game” and then assured me that it didn’t matter if Hero punctuated the Gospel of John with puppy piddle. Pretty sure Lees (and now Hero!) belong to a Church full of… those people.

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And Hero is his name

The decade has seen us weather the toddler to teen years, from kindergarten to high school. Facebook memories from 2009 portray an exhausted mom who yearned for adult conversation and bubbly. A fairly big chunk of the 2010s included diagnosis, treatment, recovery, and the never-ending aftermath of breast cancer. The past few years, Lees agonized over standardized testing, essay writing, and the sleep-depriving anxiety that accompanies high school admissions. Stevie navigated divorce, dating, neuropathy, migraines, college application stress for three children, and got cancer. More recently (because God is good) he’s experienced the miracle of new love and marriage. Steve wrote about all of these moments candidly and with humor. More often, I just complained about cardio. Our shared bloggy pursuits even went viral twice this decade. As 2020 begins, there is more good than awful in the accounting, but we’ll take “boring” for the next 10 years, please.

Boring, it won’t be. In the dark days surrounding the solstice, the Lees felt keenly bereft of joy. The stress of the holidays piggybacking onto an overly long and expensive home renovation project and three (minor, but still) car accidents and midterm exams plus a brief but serious consideration of a new job and move was enough already. Taking a hard look at all of the hard work all of us were doing—board meetings, conference calls, Latin declensions, concussions and cross country meets, fundraising, editing, international meetings, and too much travel that did not include umbrella drinks– we realized there wasn’t a lot of FUN happening. And so in what appears like the Lee Family’s Most Impulsive Move, we got a dog.

Decidedly not boring.

After years of insisting that I “am allergic” and “refuse to pick up poop” and “will never budge,” we got a puppy. A tiny, sort of hypoallergenic (y’all are really overselling this notion), absolutely adorable mini Bernedoodle is sleeping at my feet right now. Is this just more work? Maybe. But with teenagers doing the lion’s share of puppy play and taking the night shift, so far it seems like we adopted a big dose of joy in the softest, cutest, littlest package. And Hero is his name.

My boys went back to school today. On the 2nd, because their school is totally finger horns metal when it comes to the calendar. When Brodie brought a whimpering puppy to me at 4:30am, asking me sweetly to take over, I did this happily… but I’m still drinking coffee in jammies and have been up for FIVE HOURS. Am I counting the minutes until they get home? Maybe. Is Hero checking couches for napping humans because so far that’s all he’s seen us do? Yup. But those of you who are likening this stage to having another baby never experienced Brodie as a baby. This is hardly the lonely and exhausting time suck that was stay at home parenting with a newborn. And I could probably take Hero with me to get a pedicure. Perspective.

It was thought- and conversation-provoking timing to get a tiny new family member as the decade closed on such a huge portion of my boys’ lives. Will it be so sad to leave Hero when they go to college? Will Hero be alive when they get married? What will life look and be like in 2030? For the first time since my boys began high school, and now a handful of their friends started college visits and dove deep into application stress, we’re looking at the future with more what if/what’s next optimism. As my boys focus less on have-to’s and more on could-be’s, Bernie and I are clearing the calendar of stuff that doesn’t really need to be on it. We have a sleepy, fun, soft, love me love me love me puppy to Instagram. Together. And that makes him a Hero, indeed.

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Please note my utter RESTRAINT in only posting one puppy pic

Smangry… by Steve Safran

How could he insult me, unprovoked, for the second time this year? He can’t really be this upset, I thought, reading a smug and angry (smangry?) comment to a joke I posted on Twitter. I mean, this isn’t some random troll—it’s my cousin. How did we get here? Why?

Because of Donald Trump, that’s why.

Since 2016 we’ve all read about family reunions stressed, friendships tested, and social media relationships obliterated because of the man who occupies the presidency. Today, I felt it keenly. I’ve only muted or “un-friended” two people in my entire social media history of 12+ years. One was a relative who made an outrageously homophobic slur. And today– my own cousin.

It hurts my heart that someone with whom I’ve shared genes and family dinners would set out to insult me. Publicly. But like too many people these days who react emotionally to opposing political views, the insult felt personal and on purpose. My cousin has become very sensitive to criticism of Trump. And on this historic day that the House impeached the president, I made a tame observational joke on Twitter:

“When history asks Tulsi Gubbard where she was when the House voted to impeach Trump, she will be able to say, loudly and clearly, “There!”

Not much of a joke, frankly. (WA-wa.) It had a shelf life of maybe 30 minutes. And note– it wasn’t even an attack on Trump. I don’t generally say a lot about the president on social media. It’s boring. There’s so much more interesting material to talk about. Like pants.

But my tweet raised some hackles. I will not reprint his reply, as I would never do so without permission, and I ain’t asking for permission. In short, he defended Tulsi and insulted the Democratic leadership with not particularly clever, off-color nicknames.

Mute.

This is disappointing and upsetting because I love debate. I think back to life at Trinity College in the ‘80s and the great debates that happened in classes, and likely less great but just as entertaining back-and forths late at night with friends. I especially remember one debate where, after a good half hour, an exasperated challenger finally said “YOU CAN’T POSSIBLY BELIEVE THAT!” and I responded, “Of course I don’t.”

The debate was the point.

Debate is to civics as testing is to the scientific method. Positions need to be examined for logic and merit, and public discourse is the “bench research” that generates data that lead to solid conclusions. Testing works well in a lab because the conditions are controlled (and because lab rats don’t ask you who you voted for). However, we have lost any attempt at control, or the ability to debate properly. Instead, debate has become argument. People are throwing lab rats against the wall and insisting rodents can fly.

Insults and arguments are the enemy of debate. True debate leaves both parties smarter. I may not agree with your position at the end but, dammit, I hope I learned more than when we started. Even if no new facts were uncovered, I now know something about you and your worldview. And that enriches me. Debate is at the core of this country. The great Enlightenment thinkers’ debates led to our founding documents. They didn’t sit around calling each other “Wacky John Locke” and “Fathead Thomas Hobbes.” Then again, they didn’t have Twitter.

I hope the children and young adults are learning the art of debate in schools and on college campuses. I hope they are engaging in better exchanges than what is being demonstrated on cable news channels and in Facebook comment threads. We have to learn how to disagree respectfully. We cannot continue divided, launching “smangry” comments into the ether, and harming our relationships with each other. To do so is to declare failure on the American Experiment. And that is the most important theory being tested right now. Insults and party-line adherence at all costs will only speed our failure.

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99 Cent Mitzvah

Yesterday, in a mad rush to ready the house for Halloween and prepare for Teddy’s crack-of-dawn birthday celebration, I used the self-checkout at the supermarket. I never use the self-checkout, because anything akin to accessing unfamiliar technology just reinforces blonde stereotypes. I mean, I cannot make Bernie’s iPhone turn on. Ever. I literally wave my hands over it like an old timey magician to no avail. But the other lines were too long with 11th hour candy shoppers, so I braved the DIY aisle knowing it would not go well.

BUT IT DID.

In fact, it went so well that an exasperated elderly gentleman attempting to buy only one slim canister of CometTM demanded I scan his item for him. “I DON’T UNDERSTAND ANY OF THIS!” he accused, as he handed me his sink scrub and waited for me to make the bee boopy pay machine work for him, too. And it did. Except I hadn’t finished my transaction, so it added his purchase to mine and now the official, blue-vested employee who was watching all of this play out was equally exasperated because my helping made everything worse. Until it didn’t. Because the obvious solution was gifting him the CometTM and getting the hell outta there.

A day later, I’m thinking about my late friend and neighbor, Maida, and how she would have TOTALLY scammed someone like this. Just for fun. Just for the story. Halloween trick? Probably not. But the treat was in the memory of helping out and giggling with The Millers… who once sent me to the market to buy one (1) acorn squash and the “big bottle” of vodka. That was it. That was the whole grocery list. In her dotage, Maida enjoyed “senior discounts” more than a kid loves snow days, but also occasionally pretended she was less capable than she was in order to reap small rewards. Other times, she simply assumed preferential perks because of her impressively long tenure on the planet. One time, while visiting Harold after another of his famous falls, she called the phone in the OR where Bernie was scrubbed to ask him for a ride home. We’ll never know how she was patched through.

What kind of seniors will we become? My inability to access Bernie’s phone suggests that someday I could find myself angrily demanding someone to scan my Metamucil for me. Maybe I’ll morph into a Maida, charming the younger neighborhood moms into sharing their baked goods and doing midweek liquor runs. Will these teenage boys I dote on, cook for, and give presents to before the sun rises pay it forward? Our new dependence on the Theragun, reliance on contoured pillows, and inability to drink coffee after noon suggests we’ll need them sooner than we know.

See you in the self-checkout aisle, friends. I’ll be the one buying strangers cleaning products because I don’t know how not to.

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Reconciling October

When I get overwhelmed with posttraumatic cancer reminders (e.g., beloved family and friends newly diagnosed, an unfamiliar bony ache, the entire month of October), I text Stevie. He gets it. I hope all of us touched with the terror of unbridled mitosis have at least one killer cancer buddy. My Shitty Sorority friends and I have a legion lingering only a few keystrokes away, armed with sympathetic emojis to ease our Pinktober ennui. I was warned that the initial October after diagnosis and treatment would be… a lot. And for me, the first time I was aware of all of the awareness, it was in the aftermath, when I had already acquired implants and more than an inch of hair. Still, I probably became a bit of an asshole.

After a few years, I mellowed and even championed my own boys’ desire to Walk for the Cure. Ever supportive April expensively sponsored swanky evenings at the BCRF Hot Pink Party, where she grabbed my hand with love during the patient stories, and then again later to drag me to the dance floor. A good friend knows you need hand holding for both. Especially in the beginning. Those fancy nights were the only times I felt anything close to accomplishment? pride? relief? Or some mix of those that bolder women must feel when they say they “beat” this disease. I’ll never have that much bravado, no matter how many champagne flutes I’ve drained. The only way we’re ever going to “beat” breast cancer is with research for metastatic disease, and the BCRF is probably the best place for your donations to support scientists actually working (not walking) for answers.

Nearly eight years later, cancer could/should be very much in the rear view mirror. And it would be if there weren’t devastating daily reminders from scars, Tamoxifen… and the entire month of October. Even so, more often text exchanges with Stevie are about marriage, must-see Netflix shows, and why there should be a law mandating teenage boys sit to pee. With two of them in the house alongside a rotating cadre of handymen, electricians, and roofers, I’m occasionally one Chlorox wipe away from losing my trademark sunny disposition. So when the canister reminds me I’m also cleaning for the cure, it’s hard not to get grumpy. It all becomes… a lot. Especially in October.

Next week I’m flying to the Midwest to support one of my favorite people as she starts this journey from diagnosis to healing. My phone is full of hundreds of texts from friends, friends of friends, cousins of friends, dry cleaner’s sister-in-law, babysitter’s bridesmaid, and women of ever-further degrees of separation that become obliterated when I’m asked to be their point person as a breast cancer veteran. Dear friend Emily called it my Cancer Concierge Service, and mostly I am happy to pay forward the support I received years ago from Lisa and Kelli and Hester. There is a call/text at any hour level of intimacy between those of us in the Shitty Sorority. However, this will be the first time I’ll be offering a week-long fluff-your-pillows-and-strip-your-drains on call service.

Maybe because I just came home from Bible study, or because I love to tie these essays up with a bow, I find a bit of grace in having the time to give and a familiarity with this exact disease to help someone I’ve known and admired my entire life. To hold her hand through this. To be her killer cancer buddy. Though I have the personal and surgical experience to be helpful, I’ll be referencing the lessons I learned from those of you who amused, supported, and loved me eight years ago. In this long, dark month when so many essays will instruct us on what not to do or say or expect from our cancer-ed friends, I’m thinking about all of the hilarious, generous, and awesome things done for me. And I’m asking for your best prayers/juju/vibes once again.

This time, for Diane.

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Dreaming of a day we won’t need a breast cancer themed month and can focus on rebranding October to support parents of teenage boys everywhere

Mrs. Garrett

Bow tie pasta with Vidalia onions sautéed with champagne and tomatoes; Marinated grilled chicken; Green salad with avocado and bacon, fresh herb vinaigrette

Beef stroganoff over egg noodles with grilled lemony asparagus

Three cheese tortellini with prosciutto, tomatoes, fresh herbs; Tuscan herb marinated steak tips

Grilled salmon (the good olive oil, S&P); Ina Garten’s corn salad with sherry vinaigrette

Breaded veal cutlets (lemon/egg bath), Linguini with red sauce; Green salad

Flank steak with soy ginger marinade; Pan-fried ramen noodles with shitake mushrooms and sesame caramelized onions; Cucumber salad with rice vinegar soy dressing

Burgers, every fixing, but absolutely pickles and Williams Sonoma Burger Bomb

Garlic ginger soy marinated pork tenderloin; Grilled, garlicky haricot verts and white rice

Chili lime grilled shrimp skewers

Vanilla French toast with cinnamon sugar, berries, syrup

New York crumble coffee cake

Toasted bagel with scrambled egg, pepper jack, honey ham

The best oatmeal cookies on the planet (because white chocolate and butterscotch chips)

Still warm brownies with vanilla ice cream

This is the rotating menu Chez Lee, and I’ve had anywhere from 2 to 9 teenagers in my house for breakfast, lunch, and/or dinner and dessert almost daily since the beginning of July. I’m Mrs. Garrett, running a boarding house for boys who are never not hungry.

And it’s awesome.

Summer is ending, as is my seasonal stint as a short order cook. And it is, indeed, short order. I am insufferably boastful about my ability to get a meal onto the table in 17 minutes. But the real gem of it all is the Family Dinner tradition that lends itself to fantastic conversation, often quite unguarded, as these kids break bread together. Something’s lost over a box of pizza. Scooping heaping mounds of bow tie pasta onto plates, fighting over the Asiago, and bargaining for the last steak tip or shrimp skewer is the backdrop for 100 discussions about girls (big time mysteries), horrible math, tennis triumphs and losses, embarrassing anecdotes from years past, and what movies can arguably be considered “classic.” (Not one of them has been on the planet more than 18 years, but they still think they have valid opinions, bless their hearts.)

The other moms have been checking in all summer to ask if I’m cool with them spending another night (and morning) around my dining table, and the answer is always, “Yes!” I love knowing where they are, what they’re doing, what they’re eating, and especially what’s on their minds. It’s a summer tradition that begins Memorial Day Weekend, and wraps up in only a few weeks. It’s already getting darker sooner, it’s chilly when a cloud passes, and the boys have begun talking about school, SATs, college visits, “Honors” this and “AP” that… and all the accompanying stressors.

Very wise (and equally beautiful) Sarah, who was the church school director for a generation of lucky kids, offered this sage advice when my boys were little and I was blissfully unaware of what parenting teens would entail:

Sometimes it’s our job to provide the space where the stress is lifted. Sometimes that meant we told our girls that no one was doing homework, and we were going out to dinner together.

Just because everyone is vying for competitive team spots and Ivy League acceptances doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck for them. I’ve watched an amazing kid with an already incredible SAT score study hours a day all summer in an attempt to inch up to the 99%ile… and no one is telling him not to do this. It’s not surprising that some of these kids are already burned out before they get to the quad. Probably I was a less motivated high school student, or maybe things were easier then, but I’m worried about these kids, these boys around my dining table. I feel protective of their youth.

Here at the Lee’s, summer is for talking and eating and being together. And though the shortening days and faded hydrangeas mean it’s time… there is still time for a bit more grilling, laughing, negotiating for the last brownie, and introducing these kids to Spicoli. There are a few more days to protect the space where the stress is lifted, where meals are shared. Just a few more moments for them to memory bank a time when we require very little of them… before we inevitably ask them to be perfect again.

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Dinnertime at the Lee house… 

 

The Cat’s Ass

Those of you who know me have heard me talk about Paddy. I call him The World’s Most Irish Man, but he’s actually my contractor, my can-fix-or-build-anything, filth-talking, manic, fiercely loyal, and endlessly entertaining friend. With three coffees and a full strength Coke on board, he’s unstoppable. Last month his car was stolen, possibly by joy-riding teens, leaving him without transportation or his tools. I asked Father Mike and Zealot Sister for prayers and find no coincidence in the fact that Paddy’s car was located a few days later with minor damage and all of his equipment. But in aftermath of the theft, when the outlook was bleak, we lent our SUV to Paddy, who almost immediately wrecked it. In retrospect, I’m happy he hit the curb instead of the pedestrian backlit with sun glare. In the moment, I couldn’t understand a thing that was happening because voice-to-text cannot translate brogue. Even in person, a caffeinated, pissy, excited, happy, or most often joke-telling Paddy needs subtitles.

“Paddy, my friend Nicole needs help with something.”

“Ya, Monahan? Happy to help a fellow sun-dodger.” (Insert your best accent)

With my car in the shop, and the building permit finally signed by the architect, we’ve embarked on an expensive entryway redesign. Should I be worried that bad things happen in threes and there is something skulking in the shadows after a stolen car and a crashed one? I am. But Paddy assures me that it’s all right and good and the house will look like “the cat’s ass” when completed. Apparently this is an enviable outcome.

Meanwhile, back at the Cape, the boys and I are enjoying days that still feel long. And by “boys” I mean a tangled mess of teenagers that varies from my own 2 up to 8 each night. Because I have known and cooked for them for nearly a decade, possibly because I used to be a doctor type of person and still carry antibiotic ointment and Tegaderms in my beach bag, and mostly because I’ve spent a billion hours with them at this point, they tell me (almost) everything. One of my favorite kids, who could always charm the Dickens out of any minivan mom, has convinced some pretty little thing his own age to be his one and only. In their world of SnapChatting Instagramming nonsense, it’s refreshing to hear that stomach butterflies and actual, in person dates with park walking and car kissing can still be attained.

Watching them grow up and begin dating themselves makes us (ok, just me) ridiculously nostalgic, and this week I recalled the first time I had to make my sort of secret but definitely official relationship with Bernie public. As a 4th year medical student, it wasn’t exactly kosher for the Chief Resident to be dating me. Maybe. We didn’t ask, and back then human resources didn’t bother themselves with the shenanigans of surgical trainees. But one late night on call in the ICU, the very pretty and super smart intern confessed to me that she had a major crush on the boy I would be engaged to 6 months later. My boys and their friends (and oodles of you) have heard the story of how I met Bernie many times, so you already know how goddamn charming Dr. Lee is on the job. I wasn’t surprised when Sarah asked,

“Do you think he’s dating anyone?”

Umm, yeah. Sarah was tall, gorgeous, everyone’s favorite intern, and liked my boyfriend. A more normal person might have felt a bit intimidated. Or jealous. But I’ve always been me, and frankly, it just made me like Bernie more (if that was possible). Sarah manned the guest book at our wedding.

“Wait. So Bernie is dating YOU and this hot doctor girl is into him? We gotta start talking to Bernie more.”

That was Markie’s take from the teen peanut gallery. He’s not wrong. It’s just that if you’ve met Bernie, you know he doesn’t talk. Throngs of friends and patients and teachers and students and residents and neighbors probably feel like they’ve talked to Bernie, like, had an actual discussion with him. But Bernie is a genius of facial expressions and well timed hand gestures. He’ll pour you a drink, but have me tell the story. If you’ve had a heart to heart with Bernie, you’re in a small circle. He’s not giving up trade secrets.

Like Paddy, Bernie needs subtitles… for everyone but me.

Is being around all of these teenagers with their obsession with Love Island and hardly guarded gawking at physically perfect bikini beach teens throwing me into soupy sappy appreciation for my own husband of nearly two decades? Yup. And it’s the cat’s ass.

Happy still summer, friends.

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Fireworks

When did it become popular and edgy to be an asshole about fireworks? I get that our beloved furry friends aren’t a huge fan of the week-long boom boom booming. No one loved Brandy, the Stockton Family golden retriever, more than we did. But Brandy was scared of the vacuum cleaner and lived a long, happy life amidst a more than weekly aural assault by the electric closet monster. It never occurred to us to find a less terrifying dust sucker or resort to sweeping. And fireworks are for all of us. They’re colorful and fun and celebratory and magical (except when they are blowing off the bits of amateurs). I say more fireworks. MORE.

Here at the Cape, we’re getting more. The neighborhood show is tonight and I’m as excited as a little kid who yells, “AGAIN!” after each blast. July 4th celebrations coincide with Bernie’s birthday (and mine a few days away), picture postcard weather, and Lees taking vacation days by the beach. We have resting smile faces. The biggest decision today will be where to nap.

Because we’re human, there are a few real stressors lurking. As we sit here draining the coffee pot, Bernie says aloud what we’re both thinking: ugh, there’s a lot of work to do. However, we have decided to actively NOT THINK about it today. So I’m not thinking about the large and expensive home improvement project that is delayed because my contractor’s truck and tools were stolen, or that he somehow crashed my car mere minutes after borrowing it. Nope. There’s a cookout and fireworks later.

I’ve never been a small stuff sweater, but Bernie is a champion at putting the bigger things (like crashed cars) into perspective, too. Summertime makes me more aware of the Big Picture. Maybe there is more time for reading, for prayer, for real relaxation. Maybe it’s also because summertime is a rather constant reminder of cancer for me. Bathing suits that have outstretched their ability to hide scars and summer friends who ask in hushed concern, “how’ve you been… are you OK?” are prompts to recall the whole scary time. To be clear, it’s sweet that they ask; after all, they watched me grow hair for three summers. And I am OK. So does it matter that the car we hardly use is in the shop? Nope. There’s a cookout and fireworks later.

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Missing Teddy

“It’s kinda lonely up there without Teddy.”

No kidding. Blessed with wanderlust, a growing proficiency with Japanese, and an indulgent, adventurous, and spry grandfather, Teddy has embarked on his second “buddy trip” with A Gong. They left over a week ago and I’ve received not one single text. NOT ONE SINGLE TEXT. The scores of pictures uploaded onto Facebook and the LINE group chat for the Lee Clan tell me he’s in some Japanese equivalent of hog heaven. But we miss him.

Here at the Cape, Brodie still shares a room with his slightly smaller, definitely stinkier, late-sleeping, Kanji work-booking little brother. And because Teddy is not here, but also living 13 hours into the future, we feel like he’s on another planet. His absence feels big. Last night the whole gang of Cape kids landed in my family room and we made fun of him and missed him together.

When Teddy was in 5th grade, he had a math assignment wherein he was given a mock budget of $5000 to plan a trip with a fictional friend. His travel plans included an 80-year-old travel pal named Jerry.

“Teddy, who is Jerry?

“He’s my travel friend.”

“Who is he?”

“I made him up.”

“Why is he 80?”

“For the senior discounts!”

Teddy sourced the seediest hotels and hostels and blew almost the whole budget on tickets to Hamilton. Money well spent.

According to my AmEx records, Teddy recently checked out of their hotel in Tokyo to spend a few more days in hot baths eating food that looks deliciously adorable. Next stop: Taipei. 22 more days without Teddy on this side of the world, 22 more days with his 80-year-old travel buddy over there.

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