I had a Lender’s bagel for breakfast this morning.  A packaged name brand bagel that I pulled out of a smashed stack wrapped in plastic, a far cry from the real one I had two mornings ago–a chewy hunk of dough toasted to perfection and smothered in good cream cheese.  It’s one of the things I love most about big cities–food, and lots of it.  And it’s not just that it tastes good, it’s the fact that food’s available in such a diverse selection of places and cuisines, at any time of day, and amid the ambience of your choosing. 

So yes, crappy bagel this morning–I’m back from New York.  Yawning, moving slowly, but home.

Hot pretzel at the corner of 5th and 51st.

New York is intense–the sights, the sounds, the motivation, the energy.  Even the die-hards–the ones who need taxi exhaust like oxygen and can’t sleep in silence–they’ll tell you they have to get away from the city sometimes too to recharge themselves.  While one moment they’re gushing about their love for the quick beat of their city’s pulse, the next they’re hopping a bus to the Hamptons to escape the effect of New York–they’ve flatlined.

I say all this because there’s something about that love/hate relationship for big cities that sheds light on what makes them so fascinating to me–it’s the way the good and the bad exist together symbiotically.  The height of the Empire State Building needs small buildings to highlight its greatness.  The diners and cheap hamburger joints need the contrast of expensive fancy restaurants to make them what they are–affordable.   Adverse settings and situations dwell in almost every corner in New York, and hardly anyone even notices the differences, as if it’s all part of the city’s harmony.  Graffiti on gorgeous church walls, garbage littering the entrances of ornate buildings, bright city lights against the dark night sky, courtyard gardens sprung up along urban streets, run down buildings sharing the shadows of impressive new architecture, and life and color brilliantly splashed against otherwise unnoticed landmarks. 

There is a distinct beauty to how it all exists together.

This city is a powerful place to utilize the gift of perspective.  Somewhere between the downfalls of grimey, crimey, loud, smoky and stressful and the romanticized notions of art, culture, power, luxury, rich and famous is the middle place of what the big city is to me–an anthology of colors, cultures, ideas, and ways of life.  They exist both old and new, and it’s all important–every neighborhood, every person.  If only everyone could see that.

Okay, I’m taking off my essay shoes and slipping into some comfy stream-of-consciousness slippers.  And speaking of shoe exchanges, unrelated sidenote:  Saturday morning, I walked a gazillion blocks (no really, a gazillion) wearing wedges, and my feet will never ever be the same.

I suppose that beginning city sermon does wrap up our weekend because among the inconvenience of travel, there was so much–um…how you say in English?–awesomeness. We here at Enjoying the Small Things like to give credit to said awesomeness.  So, I’ll dish it up outline style because I used to be a teacher and teachers like outlines.

A:  City Babe.

Dash spent almost every moment of the trip tucked in a baby carrier.  It was wonderful, almost like being pregnant again except I could really kiss his head instead of imagining kissing his head.  His body remained glued so tightly against me, shielded from the city, like he was part of me. I peeled him off for a few photos in Central Park.

Thank you to my dad and Gary who came along on this trip to help out

He slept. He slept, he slept, and he slept. And when he wasn’t sleeping for those two little seconds, he was yawning because apparently little babies aren’t amused by really big cities.

I’d like to interrupt this post to feature Mr. Pea, the cat who I promised his picture would appear on the blog. He photo bombed everything this week until finally I was like, “Dude, alright.  You can be on the blog.”  Then he bribed me to title this post “The Sexiest Cat in New York” and, well–now you know where the title came from.

B. Kill Five Birds with One Stone. (Except we don’t kill birds. Because that would be inhumane.)

This trip worked out timely to incorporate several things I needed to do–a Bloom paperback publishing meeting (check in tomorrow for fun paperback release deets–book clubs are the new black!) as well as the Books for a Better Life Awards for which Bloom was nominated as a finalist in the “First Book” category.

Bloom didn’t win, but the night was incredibly meaningful–being there among authors I respect and admire, hearing so many stories of people striving to live their best lives and writing to help others do the same, sharing the evening with people I’ve “just met” but feel I’ve known forever.  There was a lot of smiling.  And it was very special seeing the cover of our book on a big screen, knowing it’s out there in the universe helping people.  (for a list of all the incredible books that were nominated and those honorees that won, see the Books for a Better Life site.  The MS Society has done so much to help people live better lives, and recognizing these books is just one of many.  I have a whole list of new reads after attending)

We also shared part of the weekend with a fabulous group of women at a brunch to honor Claire Bidwell Smith and her book, Rules of Inheritance.

Left: Claire and Jessica of Momma’s Gone City

We talked about grief and loss, raising kids and writing, but also about the importance of women supporting women–how we need each other, how we are more powerful both individually and collectively when we respect and celebrate each other. 
That theme continued when I had the opportunity to meet Sarah, an NYC reader who had shared her story with me a few months prior.

Sarah lost one of her twin boys some years ago when he was 15 months old.  This mama has experienced the deepest grief, the hardest loss, and all I wanted to do was hug her and not let go.  We sat and talked about life for a while until she stopped and pulled out something from her purse she wanted to pass on–some knit booties for Dash that used to belong to her James.  They are so special–we are honored to be able to carry on his memory.  This mama is a strong one, and she too is using her heartache and her love to share with other women, to connect, support and move forward. 

The incredible energy of this city belongs to the people, and every time I return, I meet new faces, hear more stories, and come home inspired.

Meg Thompson–my agent and dear friend

C.  Coming Home is Good

Brett texted me pictures of the girls every day, this one my favorite:

‘sup, Canadian readers?!

They’re wearing their Canada shirts.  And their “Hi Mom, We Miss You” faces.

Thankfully it’s spring break this week, so all the pieces of our puzzle are present.  That was a lot of P’s.  We have messes, a suitcase of laundry, work to attend to, cheap bagels but a family reunited.  In city terms, we’ll call that grafitti on a gorgeous church wall.  It all exists together which makes it exactly what it should be…our life, our own little city.  Minus one sexy cat. 

During my current stay in the little town between Pants I Used to Fit and Pants with Elastic Panels That Stretch Up to My Neck, I hit the Gap yesterday to try on some “loaners.” Dash slept in the sling while I browsed tables of current trends—their color scheme reflecting my rubber bracelet-covered forearm in third grade: Neon explosion. That’s cool. I happen to love glow sticks. And being that I have a quick trip to New York this weekend, I thought what better place to rock neon than the big city.

I grabbed three pairs of vibrant jeans, a couple shirts and walked to the fitting rooms in the back of the store where I remembered how complicated it is to try on clothes while holding a baby. Like patting your stomach while rubbing your head. There’s an art to this though, and I pride myself on conquering it, so I determinedly started the try-on method which goes a little something like pull one side of pants down while holding baby—switch—pull other side of pants down while holding baby, lean on wall for support, balance on one foot…nevermind. If you’ve been there, you know.

I managed to get two legs into the first pair of neon pants while keeping Dash sleeping in my arms, a singlehanded feat of sliding jeans to knees only to discover they’re not really jeans—they’re jeggings. Which basically means you need Vaseline and a shoehorn to get them on. And even then, if you manage to get them buttoned and can turn yourself toward the mirror without ripping a seam in the back, you’ll find that your reflection blatantly answers the Should I Buy Them question. And it sounds like Hell No. Unless you want your pants to show your Costco panty lines and everything else that shouldn’t be shown.

So I pulled them off. Rather, I tried to pull them off.

Note to Self: Jeggings do not come off. Ever.

I felt a sudden wave of panic as I stood there holding my baby, wondering how I was going to get back into the safety of my roomy skirt which was lying in a heap on the floor next to the other two pairs of jeggings I wouldn’t be trying on. And then Dash started crying.

“I’m going to die in this dressing room,” I thought to myself while simultaneously noticing that the Universe was mocking me with the presence of a giant mirror. As if I was begging to see what I looked like half naked, postpartum, calves shackled together by fuchsia jegging handcuffs.

I remembered I had bumped into my friend Lynn at the front of the store ten minutes prior.

I wonder if Lynn’s still here.

So I called her name, faintly at first: “Lynn? Lynn? Are you there?”

Crickets.

What is it about calling someone’s name from inside a dressing room that depletes me of all confidence? My dressing room calls always sound so feeble and uncertain as if someone noticing that my call for a friend remained unanswered is the most embarrassing thing that could happen. I was seconds away from hobbling out of the Gap fitting room in my Costco underwear to fetch a clerk to pull my pants off; the last thing I needed to be ashamed of was my call for a friend who didn’t come.

I yelled Lynn’s name a little louder, but Lynn was gone, Dash was crying more robustly, and it was time to lay down some Mom Ingenuity. So I did. Clark Kent done went and busted out that phone booth, and Supahmom climbed out. I balanced my kid, I hopped on one foot, I stepped on the pants that dragged behind me to hold them down and I shimmied out of those jeggings like David Blaine.

And, like magic, I won—and in doing so, regained normal heart rate.

Back in the comfort of my skirt, I found a dressing room chair, fed the baby and smiled at the stack of neon jeggings now sitting in the Put These Muthas Back pile. I’m sure I’m not the last mom who will optimistically attempt to try them on and fall victim to their entrapment. And somewhere, there is a willowy stick-legged teenager who will appreciate them, her hips yet unfamiliar with childbirth, her music taste still confined to One Direction. I will consider the fact that these pants don’t fit a badge of honor: I am Mother, Hear me Roar.

…or faintly holler from a dressing room.

Pre Pants Debacle  (and also how great is the word “debacle”?)

Besides, I’ve found another place for the neon trend.

Lipstick.

*Note: There is a reason spell check doesn’t recognize the word jeggings. I’m just sayin’.

******

In other news, we’re getting used to our bigger family–ironing out the kinks.  A few favorites from our week:

To Market

And finally, finally–some more alert and awake moments.  Our sleepy boy has realized there’s a great big world to explore.

Have a wonderful weekend!

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