New England Mamas

My Favorite Things - The Lighting of Nubble Lighthouse, Maine

Amidst the hustle and bustle of the holiday season there is one thing that my family never misses...the lighting of Nubble Lighthouse down in York, Maine.  

For a lot of folks, I suppose cutting into a juicy turkey on Thanksgiving, or fighting their way through Black Friday crowds at the sales signifies the start of the holiday season.  For me, it doesn't feel like the holidays unless I've watched them flip the switch at Nubble Lighthouse and grinned from ear to ear as the magnificent beacon of safety to mariners is set ablaze with twinkly white Christmas lights!

Hello Autumn! Can I Just Say, You Look Beautiful!

Photo by me

Autumn and I have had a lifelong love affair that grows more exciting with each passing year.

She shows up on my doorstep, the gorgeous fiery red-headed beauty she is, hair blowing about her, insists I take her hand, and spirits me away on a yearly adventure.  She's never missed a year, despite the presence of an Indian Summer, or the early arrival of Old Man Winter.  She arrives and claims her time with me even in the face of the last hot boastful breaths of summer or the bone-chilling exhalations of an early winter.  I might be distracted, or not completely whole, but she never fails to demand my time.   She's a passionate and greedy lover and I am powerless to resist her call.  

I am even more drawn to her as I inhale her intoxicating perfume, a mixture of the first hints of apple-wood smoke from chimney's, a brisk chill in the air, apple cider, cinnamon, cloves and an earthy smell that when combined make me swoon with desire for my beloved.  As I walk with her, the crisp crunch of fallen leaves underfoot make me tingle with excitement and fill me with a joy unlike anything I experience any other time of year.  Autumn is a generous lover and gifts me with a bacchanal for my senses. 

Photo by me

I am 'silly in love' with Autumn.   Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you that I become just a little wild this time of year.   I'm not so dissimilar from the crisp amber leaf that finds itself carried away on a brisk fall breeze as it begins its descent from where it was born, grew, and spent its youthful glory upon the mighty arm of perhaps a maple or even a stately oak tree. 

All spring and summer long, it sat aloft and took in the rebirth of life all around it, weathered the tempter tantrums of spring and the fickle nature that is a New England summer.  Now it sets its sights on places unknown.  Maybe it's a short ride to the ground below where it will end up amongst its red, yellow, orange and amber colored brothers and sisters in a huge pile to be jumped into with the wild abandon of youth - and some not so young, or perhaps this breeze will carry it further afar to places unknown.  Maybe it's a brief journey upon the wind through apple-laden orchards, or across fields of golden corn, waiting for the coming harvest.  

Photo by me

Like me, the leaf is powerless to the beckon of Autumn.  She wants what she wants, and she always gets what she wants.

My yearly affair with Autumn is a bit scandalous.  You know what?  I wouldn't have it any other way.  I actually feel, (for the first time in a long time), with every fiber and cell of my being, like being scandalous, a little bawdy, and more than just a touch celebratory with the arrival of Autumn.  She excites my senses and makes me feel alive, more truly alive than I do any other time of year. 

More of life's absurdities and observations of life along the Maine coast from Audrey can be found at Barking Mad!

Wish You Were Here

As I sit here ready to post this, it's literally pouring down rain by the bucket-full.  There is nothing prosaic or pretty about this kind of rain...the kind of rain which was preceded by booming rounds of thunder and electric flashes of silvery tendrils of lightning.  Normally I love a wicked-good thunderstorm; the kind that sets the imagination ablaze with tales of shipwrecked mariners coming to rest upon the rocks buffeting ancient lighthouses, or ghastly stories of the ghosts of long dead New Englanders.  However this kind of rain?  The kind of rain that beats my shy little flowers into submission, drowns the newly planted seedlings and makes my cats howl with utter contempt at all that slippery wetness preventing them from running around outdoors as if their tails were alight?  I don't like it at all.

The thunder has passed and the lightning has all but burnt out into the drowning torrents of rain.  And now there is but rain.  A lot of rain.

Yesterday?  Not so much, although we were told to expect it.  Most of us along the coast of the New England seaboard were breathing a collective sigh of relief that our coastal areas and adjacent wetlands were not going to be in the direct path of Hurricane Bill after all.  It seems Bill decided to pass up blue crabs from the warm waters of the Chesapeake Bay and lobster from New England's deep indigo depths in search of other playgrounds to harass.  At least avoiding a direct hit gives the asylum here a brief reprieve in order to stock up on things like candles, batteries and a stockpile of Valium which will come in handy - if not during hurricane season then the subsequent Nor'easter season which will be upon us soon enough.  Two teenagers, a toddler and four cats, mixed with no electricity is enough to drive anyone over the edge.  Heck, even on a good day, when we have all the trappings of modern life, it's enough to drive me insane.

So what did we do yesterday in light of not-impending-doom?  We took a drive down to York Beach and Nubble Light to watch the breakers roll in and catch a glimpse of the massive surf that had been predicted for the Maine coast.  I just wish I'd read the bit about the "dense fog as thick as clam chowdah" in the weather blurb. It made the drive around the twisty bits of Shore Road  and the 1A in York, interesting. 

Once we hit Nubble Light, the fog cleared a bit and I was able to snap off a few halfway decent shots.

 

When my love of photography started to morph into something other than just a fun hobby, one of the goals I set for myself was to capture the essence of breaking waves on the shore.  So far I haven't been able to, or even come close.  Yet there's just something about the way the waves crash against the rocks and how the white caps slam into jetty that always takes my breath away.  

 

 

The sight, sound, and the smell of the ocean enlivens my senses and fills my soul with joy.  There is something about the sea that renews me when I am weak and reminds me that simple yet amazing beauty abounds in the state I call home.   I don't think I could ever live in a place that wasn't bordered by the ocean.  I feel a deep connection to the waters that border this land; a bond I have a hard time articulating.

The inky water which caresses our shores is just one of the many aspects of life along the coast that moves and inspires me.  One of my favorite flowers is the sea rose.  It's so very beautiful, delicate and soft yet must be resilient  in order to stand up to the constant salty sea-spray, the winds that wrap their arms about the shore and the pelting of sand.  The sea rose is  sort of an allegory for the kind of woman I long to be.

 

Of course, the most beautiful things seen a long the shore yesterday were two of the jewels in my crown...my kids.   Ever patient and always willing to let me click away at a moments notice. 

 

More of life's absurdities and observations of life along the Maine coast from Audrey can be found at Barking Mad!

It's Not ALL About the Lobsters

When you think of Maine, what is the first thing you think of? 

If you said "lobster" you'd be in good company.   When most people think of Maine, before they think of our bucolic coastline dotted with antiquated lighthouses,  shipbuilding, moose, or even the Maine blueberry, they think of lobster.  Often, they not only think of it, they start to salivate when they picture a fat juicy crustacean on their plate, accompanied by drawn butter, corn on the cob and maybe even a side of clam chowder, or "chowdah" as we like to say 'round these parts.

image credit

But before you start drooling all over yourself just thinking about a twin lobster feast, I'd like to point out some other interesting things about Maine that I think make it stand out.  There's a lot more to eat up here besides  lobster, a'yup!

Personally, I think the blueberry gets the short end of the stick when it comes to popular Maine culinary treats.   There are myriad things you can do with that roly poly, juicy blue ball that's chock full of antioxidants.   You can even pick these babies yourself whereas with lobster, you have to wait for a salty old seaman to dredge one of those things up from the depths of the ocean.  

image credit

Blueberry pie, muffins, scones and tea are just a few things that this versatile berry can do. Who ever heard of lobster muffins or lobster pancakes, or heaven forbid, lobster tea? And certainly not lobster pie!    If you love ice cream, why not take a crack at making some homemade blueberry ice cream?   Again, I don't think you're going to find any of our local dairy bars touting a cool, creamy lobster cone sprinkled with jimmies. 

Of course, blueberries are wicked awful when it comes to getting  that drippy purply-blue juice off your clothing or fingers.  I reckon I've tried just about everything to get blueberry stains out of my three year old daughter's clothing.   After canning several jars of blueberry preserves, my fingers and nail beds have been so stained that I've had people ask me if I was getting enough oxygen.   There's nothing worse than taking your toddler out to run errands and have people stare at you because her lips, cheeks, and fingers are stained blue.  It's lovely having people think your offspring is part smurf, or suffering from several oxygen deprivation. 

Don't even get me started on what happens when one of those round little suckers rolls off the counters and the kittens come scampering after it, drag it into the living room and then somehow manage to smear it all over the white suede furniture.  Yeah, lets not even go there!

Maybe, just maybe the blueberry is getting the short end of the stick for a reason.

How about those moose? 

What can I say about moose?

Well, they are big.  There's no doubt about that.  Oh and get this, if you visit Maine you can even check out our very own 1500lb solid chocolate moose.  That's right, Linny is all chocolate. 

I bet if Linny were to come careening into your SUV out of nowhere, he'd do some pretty major damage.  Well, if he didn't melt first.  If you do happen to come across a real non-chocolate moose on the road and just happen to run into one (although I'm of the personal opinion that they launch themselves at passing automobiles),  make sure you repeatedly tell your toddler that Linny is just fine and no, all that chocolate is not going to go to waste.  Your car has just been totaled but it's important that your kid knows they can just melt Linny back into the moose he was and all will be well.  Of course, you're probably going to be picking pieces of windshield out of your mouth and hair for a while, and having a heart attack when you realize you opted for a larger deductible on your auto insurance so that you'd get lower premiums, but so long as the little ones know Linny is OK, then it's all good.   Not that I'd know anything at all about that.

Now that I've thought about it, I suppose the case for the lobster could be made after all.  They don't stain your fingers or mouth, causing people to wonder if you're part fictional cartoon character or dying from a severe lack of oxygen.   Maybe you can't make lobster pie, but you can make a killer lobster bisque.  

I can't recall the last time I saw anyone out driving and then suddenly swerve to avoid hitting a lobster.  I seriouly doubt that a lobster sent bouncing off your windshield will do any harm to anyone but itself.  They aren't likely to total your car either.  Bonus!   Besides, in my relativly short aquaintance with the bottom-dwelling crustacean, they've been much easier to introduce to my three year old, than a moose. 

The ironic thing about this?  I can't stand lobster.  Hate it.  Can't even stomach the smell.  I know, I know...I live in Maine and don't like lobster.  Or blueberries and certainly not moose.

If you're visiting Maine, perhaps it really is all about the lobster.

More unsual obsurdities from Audrey can be found at Barking Mad!

Titles. Tags. And labels. STAY AWAY!

I was at the playground yesterday with the boys. There were 4 other mothers standing around next to me watching their kids play.

None of us had ever met, but we all had kids that were about the same ages - 5 and under.

Out of the 5 of us there, 4 of us had 3 children.  So there were 14 kids playing together.  It was very cute.

But then one of the little boys started crying because his older sister “by mistake” threw sand at him.

This mother (obviously embarrassed) ran over to diffuse the sibling situation.

As she was doing her “thing,” one of the other mothers asked the group of mothers, “So which one is your cry baby?”

Cry baby!? Gee… great term for your child.

All of us were a little stunned by the bluntness.  After all, we just met.

But then… she goes on.

“My oldest is my cry-baby. All he does is whine. My middle daughter is an emotional roller coaster. Drama. Drama. Drama. She’s up, she’s down. And my youngest is my shining star. He’s the easiest child.”

So let me digest.

Older one = cry baby.

Middle one = drama.

Youngest = star.

Can’t see this not messing them up at all. And let me interject that her youngest is exactly Benjamin’s age. He just turned one last week. Let’s face it, anything could happen.

I just sat there listening to 2 of the other mothers “labeling” their kids too. Shy. Outgoing. Reserved. Little clown. Attention-getter. My athlete. My bookworm. Needy. My messy one.

AND LET ME REPEAT… the kids are all 5 and under!  Not one of them is in kindergarten yet! 

And the list went on.

I just kept remembering a family friend once telling my parents in front of Jane and me as kids… “Well, I can tell who the little shy one is out of these two.”

It was me. I must have been about 7 or 8 years old. And I have never forgotten that comment. I never had thought of myself as shy, my parents certainly never called me out on it. I just remember thinking, even at the young age, I will NEVER do that to my kids. I always respected my parents for never “labeling” or “tagging” or putting “titles” to any of us 4 kids.

So William, Alex and Ben… yes, you all have different personalities. It’s a beautiful thing to see. And yes, one of you is a little more comfortable in group situations. And yes, one of you likes to be holding my hand. And yes, one of you attracts a lot of attention from strangers with your funny little antics.

But you will never know which one it is. At least not from me. All of you are the funniest… cutest… most outgoing… and most LOVED little men in my life!

Old me vs. New Me

I was chatting with a college friend last night on the phone.

She’s not married (yet!).

No kids (yet!).

Lives in NYC.

Works in the fashion industry and gets some AWESOME designer duds for free (or at least a very good discount!) once in awhile.

Lives in a beautiful high rise with a gym and pool in the building.

Oh - and doorman…

Dines out every night (or at least orders in!).

Actually reads the NY Times.

Takes a cab to work.

And if she works late - gets a car service.

She sleeps late on weekends and workouts every night.

I almost have to repeat that just to make it sink in - she sleeps LATE on weekend and workouts EVERY night…

OH MY GOD - THIS WAS ME BEFORE KIDS!

As my friend and I were chatting and she was getting “beeps” while we were talking about where people were meeting up that night… and she was putting on makeup while she was talking to me and trying to figure out what to wear…

I was being interrupted by a little man upstairs screaming “MOMMY - I’m wet!”… I had 2 storage containers in my living room as I sorted through maternity clothes… and I kept noticing while I was on the phone that my feet kept sticking to the ground in certain spots (hmmm… grape juice!?).

It’s so funny that the “old” me is gone. Believe me, I’m still the lip-singing in the car… make me laugh so hard I WILL pee… can imitate people fairly well… definitely still care about what I wear and what kind of bag I carry…

But the “old” me? Even though I’m 29 years old… she’s gone. She used to live in NYC, working for Donna Karan, without kids. She used to take cars to work and run sample sales and workout every night. She used to do sushi and order in pizza or Thai food. She used to go to Starbucks every morning for a large coffee and cinnamon scone. She used to read Vogue and Bride Magazine. She used to live in a high rise building and have an apartment which overlooked 58th street and Columbus Circle.

But me “now” ... well, it’s a new version of me!

I’m still the same “old” Audrey, but, like I know now… just a luckier one!

Do we all have to get along?

I’m very lucky. Right now all of my sons' friends have cool mothers.

Especially one of them. Tara and I met on this random day last year at the Kids Library Hour.

We just hit it off from the start, and since then she has turned into one of my best friends. 

And even beyond that, my Alexander and her son are exactly the same age. It couldn’t get any better.   

And perhaps this is somewhat selfish on my part, but since William and Alexander aren’t old enough to go seek out friends on their own yet, I like that I get to do the seeking!

And so (again, maybe this is completely selfish on my part) I have gravitated toward kids whose parents I want to hang out with.

After all, at this stage in our kids’ lives, they aren’t doing anything on their own. If they’re at the playground, we’re there. If they’re at a restaurant, we’re there. If they’re at the park, we’re there.

The reason I bring this up is because I was telling a family friend this the other night, and he couldn’t believe how “greedy and petty” it sounded that I like to find friends for myself in my boys’ friends’ moms. (I should mention that he isn’t married and he doesn’t have children.)

I just don’t agree.

I distinctly remember a few incidents where we have met kids who are William’s and Alexander’s ages, and like a cow bell ringing in my ear, I could tell their parents were not the kind of people I wanted to hang around with… especially not alone for hours at a time.

I will never forget one Mom at the playground one day in March actually asking me, “Now, can Alexander recite the alphabet yet?”

And as I said, “Not yet,” she gasped. And not a little quiet gasp. It was as if I just told her that I don’t believe in clothes, which is why my kids are running around the playground naked (I’m totally kidding here, I don’t do that!).

But, it got me wondering… as the boys get older and they forge relationships on their own, what do I do when a Mom comes along who - well - I’m just not that into? 

And I mean here the type of Mom who you absolutely know in your heart of hearts, when you’re with her, you just can’t act like your total self.

The kind of Mom with whom you may feel uncomfortable bringing up certain topics. The type of Mom whom may not agree with your parenting style (and will tell you what you’re doing wrong, in her opinion). 

The type of Mom whom you know that if you met under other circumstances, you would avoid like the plague.

I’m sure we can all still rattle off in our heads the girls throughout our lives whom we stayed away from because, for some reason or another, we just didn’t mesh with.

Well, what happens if that type of woman is your child’s best friend’s mother?

And I don’t even want to go there (yet!) - but what if that woman becomes your son’s or daughter’s mother-in-law (good thing that’s years and years down the line)!?

But in all seriousness, should we all just try to be friends for the sake of the kids? 

I know I had friends as a child whose parents my Mom and Dad would never have been be friends with. But I was older and had met these kids in grade school. I wasn’t under 5.

I’m talking right now.  The kids are younger and aren’t looking for their true “best friend” yet.

Am I really “greedy and petty” for seeking out Mom friends with whom I enjoy spending time?

- Audrey

Providence Children's Museum

My husband's away on business this week.

Yes, that's right... here I am with 3 boys, and 6 months pregnant, alone for the week and looking for things to do!

Thank goodness for mothers and sisters. Literally.

My mother suggested that each day we do something different... and ALL things to keep the boys busy.

With a 3 year old, a 2 year old and an 11 month old... we're a little limited. We can't go roller skating. We can't even go to the Kids Gym activities at our local YMCA because you have to be 4.

So...

We racked our brains.

Monday was Easter Egg Day. Yes, the "Easter Bunny" came early because the boys have been so "good!"

Tuesday was BOWLING DAY! A fantastic thing to do on a weekday... the bumpers were up, nobody was there, we could be as noisy as we wanted... and the kids had a blast!

Wednesday... now this was the true gem! We went to the Providence Children's Museum! I don't know how many of you out there have been to this museum, but it was perfect!

The boys played in the water room. They played in the RI History rooms. They played on the trucks. And the bridges. They played with the books and the magnets and the legos and the wooden blocks. They played in the animal room. They went into the mirror room.

And... (LOVED THIS!) they played for an hour in the Little Woods Room. Yes, this heavenly safe zone for kids 4 and under was the perfect place for the boys to romp, roll and play. The treehouse. The cave. The slide. The "rocks." And the infant pillow/cushion haven for my little guy Ben.

It was the BEST place to let everyone "go"....

If you haven't checked out the Providence Children's Museum... it's a wonderful place to hang out. A lot smaller than the Boston Children's Museum... but the perfect size for little guys looking to let some energy out and just have a grand old time!

- Audrey

Dance, Grandma... Dance!

This morning, Audrey and her little family came to Grandma and Pop-up’s (that's what they call Grandpa) for breakfast.

And there are many “rules” to breakfast with three little guys, a pregnant mama and one hungry daddy. 

First, the bacon must be already sizzling when they arrive.  Audrey loves the sounds and aromas of bacon.  It reminds her of going to her Nana Flo’s house for breakfast when she was a little girl.  Nana Flo had the not-so-secret-anymore recipe of mixing bacon grease (I can’t believe I’m sharing this compete-and-total saturated fat secret) with her pancake batter to create the most delectably crunchy pancakes imaginable, and Pop-up has mastered the art. And oh yeah, Audrey has craved bacon this entire pregnancy with her little Henry!

Second, and very important… the coffee must be ready.  Not brewing.  Ready.   

Third, Pop-up better not have already mixed the pancake batter.  3-year old William loves to help Pop-up measure and combine the eggs, milk and batter into the smooth and creamy mix.  And he loves to chat with Pop-up about the entire process.

Next, it is a pretty good idea for me to have 11-month old Benjamin’s oatmeal cereal and bananas ready.  Benjamin has to be the easiest baby I have ever met, but the little guy loves his morning meal!   

Last, I should have 2-year old Alexander’s counter space pretty clear.  He must climb by himself onto his stool at the counter where he can color with his crayons ‘til the “pancanks” are served.

And everything went as expected… except for Ally.  He sauntered into our house holding his Little Tykes boom box.  Without taking off his coat or hat, he pressed a couple of buttons on his boom box and said to me, “Dance, Grandma.”

“Okay, Honey.”  This is what Grandmas do. 

So I moved my arms a little while simultaneously helping Audrey with coats, hats and mittens.  This is what Moms do.

“DANCE, Grandma!” was Ally’s response to my “dancing.”

A couple more buttons.  Another little tune.  “Okay.”  Now I move my arms a little more rhythmically and add leg movement.

Well, not rhythmically enough.

“DANCE, Grandma… DANCE,” was Ally’s response to my obviously pathetic attempt at breakfast disco.

So I danced.  Arms.  Legs.  Spins.  Dips.  Twist.  Freakin’ Limbo. 

I danced to Little Tykes with wild abandon. 

Let me just say here that I cocktail waitressed my way through college (one very long stint where my “uniform” was a red tie-up-the-center corset with white ruffled panties… yes), and I was often on-duty for morning/breakfast business meetings where pillars of society asked me if I “danced.”  Well, no.  But that was the early 70’s. 

And anyway, I guess all that waitressing and hey-she-looks-like-a-dancer prepared me in great measure for my darling little grandson asking his Grandma to get her groove on.   

Hey, at least he didn’t toss me a quarter.

That’s a lesson for another breakfast.

Thanks, Little Ally… you made my day!

- Sharon

The polite smile

We've all done it.

That polite smile.

You know what I mean... the type of smile when somebody you're talking to goes on and on and on (and on...) about something you already know about, but you still must stand there listening.

I don't know about you all, but I often find myself doing the polite smile.

Yesterday, for instance.

I had to go to the DMV to update my license.  Not something that's ever fun.  EVER.

I was prepared for the long wait, so I brought some magazines and my latest Barbara Taylor Bradford novel, The Heir.

As I was settling in, I heard a voice say to me... "When are you due?" I turned around to see a woman about my age, sitting there with a big belly that matched mine. I greeted her with a smile. 

Not the polite smile, a real genuine, oh-cool-someone-I-can-chat-with smile.  For those of you who know me... I'm a talker.  I could chat for hours.  Just give me a willing individual!

It turns out the two of us are due about 2 weeks apart.  Both with boys.  Both having C-sections. Ironic, huh?

So we began to chat about our pregnancies. And truth be told, I really didn't get a word in edgewise.  Looks like I was up against the talker-of-talkers.  She went on and on (and on and on) about everything pregnancy. About everything baby. I guess, in some ways... she viewed herself as an expert.

I did get a word in here and there. 

"Oh yes, my oldest son had a Papasan." 

"No, I formula fed all my kids."

"We found out the sex of all our boys."

"My 3rd son had horrible acid reflux."

And you know something is a little amiss with your conversation when, after chatting for a half hour or so (and saying the statements above) she asks me... "So is this your first?"

Ahhh... that polite smile. That polite smile that speaks a million things going through your mind... but you can't possibly say those kinds of things in a public place.

"No... this is my fourth."

To which she replied, "Will this be your first boy?"

Polite smile. (And an eyebrow raise.)

I pretended my phone was buzzing. Said a polite "good bye" and "good luck with the rest of your pregnancy" and got up and walked away.

The highjinks of Britney Spears and Angelina Jolie had suddenly become much more interesting!

- Audrey