NYC Bus- "Dra-mom-a"

Boston to NYC
9:25am: Kiss my husband and daughter goodbye in front of train station

9:26am: Daughter reaches out her arms for me from car seat as they drive away- Heart ripped from chest.

9:45am: Stand 1st in line to board the China Bus for first dibs on seating.

9:55am: Tall brunette college student asks to sit next to me. Thank goodness it’s her and not that guy 3 rows ahead talking to him self.

10:52am: Dabble a bit of writing in my journal.
10:54am: Stop because the girl sitting next to me is trying to read it.

Noon: Wake up from the road-raging Chinese bus driver laying into the horn while swerving through traffic.

12:15pm: Repeat

12:45pm: Starving. Must pee really bad, but will wait for pit stop.

1:30pm: Given up all hope for a pit stop. Bladder about to explode. Stomach self-digesting

2pm: Arrive in NY Chinatown. Bolt off bus. Find out nearest train station to friend’s apartment is 5 blocks away.

NYC to Boston
2pm: Say goodbye to friend and hail a cab.

2:15pm: Wonder why the cabby is taking the wrong streets to Chinatown.
2:17pm: Sit in traffic. Watch the meter tick higher and higher. Understand why we’re taking the long route.

2:25pm: Hand the driver $12 for what should have been a $6 cab ride and slam the door.

2:30pm: 3rd to last to board China bus.

2:31pm: Grab only vacant seat near window. Pray someone doesn’t sit next to me so I can sprawl out.

2:32pm: Teenage girl asks “do you think you can sit next to someone so that me and my daddy can sit together?” (“Daddy”, how old are we?). < Sigh> “Fine!”

2:33pm: “Move to the only vacant seat, right next to a guy wearing a yarmulke.

2:34pm: Guy wastes no time initiating conversation. Asks all sorts of questions with big flirty smile. Lose any hope for napping.

2:45pm: More questions. Try to get a word in edgewise to mention my HUSBAND and DAUGHTER.

2:53pm: Guy confesses his strong desire to find a wife. Wish I was anywhere but here.

2:55pm: Find out that I was just hit on by a RABBI. Lose all hope for religion. Quickly pull out a picture of my daughter on her first birthday.

2:57pm: Guy sits back, closes his eyes to sleep - Hallelujah!


Summation:
- Great time in NYC with old friend as always.
- Bus ride to NY- quick, precarious, physically uncomfortable.
- Ride back home- Long, disheartening, quite uncomfortable all around.

Conclusion:
- Leaving my husband and baby girl for a 24 hour sample of the city life- heart-wrenching at first, but sooo worth the mani & pedi and full day of no tantrums.

- When recapping for my husband, I’ll blame the shameless hit on by a rabbi on my small wedding ring size. “People must not be able to see it”. Must address immediately.

A Day In Maine

For my husbands Birthday weekend, we decided to embark on yet another one of my signature “stealth-weekend-getaways” that usually encompasses approximately 24 hours in another city. Completely blank on ideas on where to go, I somehow managed to stumble upon $20 Amtrak tickets to Maine. You can hardly get half a tank of gas for that these days.

I had no idea what to expect on our first journey to Portland, Maine. In a nutshell, it was “nice”. After visiting NYC several times in the past few months, and now living near Boston, I had become remiss of what land was like when left completely untouched.

As I watched the landscape pass from our coach-car window, the endless view of greenery and blue sky instilled a sense of peace that I can hardly describe in text; miles and miles without a hint of concrete, a car, street light, or human life. Only every so often were there were subtle marks of suburban life- a house here and there, t-shirts flapping on a clothesline, a swimming pool (geez, I hope it’s heated). Just tiny flickers of the rural lives tucked away in the pockets of Maine.

In true form, us Corredera’s took on the streets of this foreign town (at least to us) with no car or any real plans. Figuring out the city bus system and how to get around with a toddler (and no car seat) was quite the challenge, but we were up for it. Luckily, our bus driver was incredibly kind and guided us well in our unmapped quest.

Within our 24 hour stint, we managed to steer through Portland’s old and uneven cobblestone streets, and bask in the salty air along the harbor. The abundant art inspired locals were reminiscent of the artsy San Franciscans we had once visited; with their dark, streaky-dyed hair lying over their fair skin that must have been hidden from the sun all winter; often times carrying a sketchbook or a guitar. They all seemed to walk with a heavier step than what I am accustomed to. Possibly because of the long, wintry lifestyle they must endure. Speaking of which, we were clearly “the visitors”; the only family walking down the streets wearing sweaters, much less sleeves. I guess 45 degrees and sun, equals shorts and tanks tops here. Pay no mind to us wussy southern Californians running for cover from the wind.

Nonetheless, the trip was as success; just a little sample of another town; one more coastal place where seagulls’ frolic and confetti the sky; where caws evoke blissful memories from the past. A place where the warm orange and powdery blue skies blanket the town below while the sun tucks itself away at the close of another day.

No Singing in the Rain

Four days and four nights of wind, rain, sleet and snow, any reminiscent longing for a rainy day has surely been fulfilled for years to come. The weather man on the tube attributes these nearly 70 mph wind gusts and local flooding here in Boston to a new term for us called a “Nor’easter”. Us Florida natives have another name for it- a “Hurricane”.

Somehow I was misled throughout my life in Florida and California, that spring showers carried only rain. Where there is just enough water to coat the pavement so that tiny split-second footprints appeared as people walked by. Who knew spring showers could carry enough force to bring the puddles to your face?!

It’s been five months since we arrived in Boston, and my daughter has now developed an unhealthy loathing for just the mere sight of her coat. As have I. So we cross off yet another day of this relentless “Nor-icane”. The water continues to fall from the sky and with it the mercury in our thermometer outside. Loyally at its side is the howling wind, crying for a dryer sight of spring.

The Ex Box

Ever since I sifted through a miscellaneous drawer in my night table, there's been this question I can not seem to shake. Stuck between two pages of a small photo album, I came across an old, photo-booth shot of me and one of my ex- boyfriends. Besides my immediate thought of "geez, I look so much younger there", I was instantly taken right back to the time when the photo was taken- a warm, sunny day at the beach, wanting nothing more than to be in this person's company. With eyes closed, I remembered how enchanting the day was having sand between my toes while walking next to him. THIS was clearly going to be a problem.

What am I supposed to do about past relationships now that I'm married? I mean not all ex-boyfriends suck, right? In fact, what if you shared incredible memories with someone else; memories that linger with you, even as time moves on? When Jamie planted an unexpected kiss on me after school in 6th grade, I thought I was going to hurl all over him! Some things you just can't forget. But what do you do with them?

Somehow I'm sure I’ve already broken some unwritten law that forbids any notion of a man from the past. You know, now that I've taken my "marriage vows" of silence and all. If only I could tuck the feelings away like I did the photo right back into the place I found it. Or even a way to delete these files from my memory and empty the recycle bin.
But is that really fair? I dated some of these men for years; some for even longer than my current marriage. Add them all up, and that's a good portion of my life. Lost in the moments of these relationships, I gave it my all (usually). Occasionally, I was fortunate and the man reciprocated. In retrospect, I have no regrets, but now I'm left with sweet taboo memories that hang about when walking on the beach on a warm, sunny day.

Am I committing "reminiscent adultery"?

Closet Junkie

Alright, so I’ve come to terms with the fact that my days of bottles and breastfeeding on demand are long gone. Ella is now 19- months and has become quite the toddler; in a sense, maybe even a little “mini-me”. She wants to wear mommy’s shoes. Say what mommy says. She even has a little vacuum to push along while I’m vacuuming. Except for me, the thrill of the motor and suction has long faded. (If only Fisher Price made ones that really worked, this place would be spotless!) I digress; she unfortunately also wants to eat whatever mommy eats too. LORD HELP ME!

As flattering as it may seem to have a little girl look up to you and want to mimic your every move, it can surely tug on ones nerves at times. Today for instance, I chatted on the phone with a friend at the end of a long and stressful day. While swapping war stories about the office, I fall into that “oh, I need some chocolate” mood, to get me through re-living the scenario again. So unconsciously while reaching into the cookie jar, I continue walking and telling my story as cookie crumbs trickle down the number pad. I close the door behind me and sit down for a breather. Amidst the juicy gossip, I'm interrupted:

Friend: “Your voice is echoing, where are you? And what are you eating?”

Me: “huh? Oh, I’m in the laundry closet hiding from Ella so I can eat my cookie!”

I could barely keep the crumbs from flying out of my mouth, we were laughing so hard! What great lengths we take for such simple pleasures.

Is it too late to tack one more to that list of New Year’s Resolutions???

She's Got the Look

“She is eighteen (months) going on nineteen (months)
Fellows will fall in line
Eager young lads and rogues and cads
Will offer her food and wine

Totally unprepared is she
To face a world of men
Timid and shy and scared am I
Of things beyond her ken”

Click- Clop. Click- Clop. Click-Clop....
As I'm working on my laptop, I hear this rhythmic sound dragging across the rug. I peek up over the monitor, and this is what I see!

Not quite sure where this look came from, but I assure you it wasn’t from me!

Twenty-Something

Certainly some of the best things in my life thus far have been unplanned. Growing up in a strict and disciplined home, I was molded into quite a workhorse, but bucked at any notion of spontaneity.

When I saw those 2 pink lines that cold winter morning, I froze. Sliding down the wall as my legs gave way; I sat atop the cold ceramic tiles of the bathroom floor, stunned by the sheer hard truth that fell before me. Pregnant, and twenty-something– not exactly what I planned.

After many years of working with the most fragile, tiniest preemies in the world, one would think I would be better prepared for this role of motherhood. I mean, I’ve helped a fair share of children born at less than one pound to survive all odds in this world. And I’ve also seen many more suffer and pass; sometimes in my very own hands, alone.

This acute, fast-paced career of mine would surely have me groomed for being a parent one day. Or so I thought. After a year and half in this parenting business, I find just the contrary.

I’m a twenty-something mom caught in the cut throat, evolving world of motherhood. Yet again trying to find my way, and a new self. There are “young moms” and there “older moms”, but “20-something moms” are caught right in between. Like the listless middle child struggling for their own identity. There’s a reason why they made Jane Brady a little nuts-o in The Brady Movie.

I’m too young to know enough or accomplish all that needs to be before starting a family.
And I’m too old to hold on to those reckless dreams; to just break free and run. At times I feel as if I don’t have enough tread worn from my sneakers to be taken seriously, or I’m just a tattered old sole that must be tucked away in the suburbs. I’ve reached a point where I want to just take my shoes off, leaving nothing left for them to judge. How’s that for spontaneity?

I’m a mom. I don’t want to live my life like Britney Spears (I like my hair). I’m not ready to live in the confines of some gated community in the ‘burbs. I want to be a good mother. I want to feel like a woman, a mother, an individual. I don’t want to live my life in sweat pants. I don’t want a white picket fence.

Quarter life crisis, anyone? I’ve got one here, hot and ready to serve.

Hit the "Reset" button

Wandering down 7th avenue in Greenwich Village, my friend and I stumbled upon the Village Vanguard. (Yeah I know. Shocker I left the house, much less trek to a trendy town in NYC for a day). The endless line outside their dark and eerie doors drew intrigue. How curious this tiny place could draw such a crowd? Once at the door, we were greeted by a kind-faced man requesting “$35 dollars please”. My thoughts-- this place better be damn good!

As the heavy door swung open, a steep and dark staircase led us deep beneath the depths of the bustling city. A small, congested room appeared as we turned the corner. Soon another 70 or so people crammed themselves in there with us, making us a sure fire hazard. The rows of seats were solid wood, and terribly uncomfortable. Drinks were pricey and reminded me of those tiny beverages offered on airplanes. But no one sat down here for a comfy seat or tasty beverage. What would soon begin is what we all came to consume.

The room darkened more and a warm red light filled the stage before us. Six musicians took their places and began to gear up- two saxophonists, a drummer, guitarist, bass player, and a signature piano man. A miss-mash of keys and chords played as they warmed up. Then with one deep breath, a “1-2-3”, I was soon blown away to a whole new place.

I was captivated as each musician grew lost in their own ecstasy playing their instrument. What are their thoughts while up there on stage? Do they worry about their bills, kids, or even a ride home? Watching the man with his eyes closed tight while straining to hit a high note, I thought- No way! This must be their escape; their bliss. Doing what they love, and playing before a crowd hooting and hollering for more. What a feeling that must be? To satisfy the music cravings of people each night.

And that I did. I craved. The music. The city. The absolute escape. And then it happened-a key change. The piano man massaged the ivories with a bit more oomph, and the guitarist strung a heavier chord. The music ran right through me. As the walls shook from the passing subway train, my body warmed from every sound within the room that came to create perfect harmony. A moment where I wanted to lie down before the stage and close my eyes to remember; to just devour the moment for just a bit longer. Ironically enough, I turned amicably to my New Yorker friend, only to find her fast asleep (oh geez, and not even a mom yet!). I chuckled. My night owl eyes were still wide open at this ungodly hour, like they were years ago.

In a New York minute, everything DID change--body, mind, and spirit. What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four little hours. It was my much needed mommy escape. A re-awakening of my soul. Only in New York- the city that never sleeps.

Winter-07