Love is being *this* happy in a windy ass parking structure in Oklahoma City.

Ten years ago, two kids hopped into a silver Jetta and zoomed away from the DC Beltway.  They headed straight back to Austin.  They didn't pass Go, but they did pass a few Stuckey's and a LOT of Cracker Barrels.  

(I maintain:  Cracker Barrel is a fantastic place to stop and go to the bathroom on a road trip.  The restrooms are clean.  They are always in the same place, straight back through the "nostalgic goodies" from the door.  You can get an iced tea to go (sweet or unsweet, thankyouverymuch) and you don't have to stop and eat a Grampy's Breakfast.  But you can.  Up to you.)

Durel and I have decided that I can never get Botox because it will
inhibit my ability to make crazy expressions ALL THE TIME.
I'm a little bit disappointed, but whatever.
Also, this was taken at our amazing engagement party
 held on the DC rooftop of my dear Kristina's apartment building.  

Those kids were named Heather and Durel and they were gonna get married.

*     *     *     *     *

Today's Heather and Durel live in the suburbs, have two human kids and two furry kids, and go to bed earlier than they ever have.  I can't speak for Durel, but I've had bunion surgery and may or may not have Tums in my nightstand.  I have lawyered for a double digit number of years.  We are legit adults now.

We look back at those kids and think, "Damn."  

Young Heather and Durel were unencumbered by hangovers and fear of the unknown and guilt about debt and any thoughts whatsoever about 401(k)s.  I mean, they got their taxes filed and didn't run out of gas regularly (though I've come close more than I care to admit), but you know.  They were...kids.

*     *     *     *     *

On October 22, 2005, young Heather and Durel locked it down with one hundred-ish of their family and best friends watching.  I cried, as I knew I would.  (I'm a crier.)  When I got dressed, I had tucked a Kleenex into my cleavage, "just in case," and as I teared up I realized that I couldn't reach into my cleavage to get it in front of one hundred of our nearest and dearest.  Fat lotta good that Kleenex did me, standing in the oak trees before sunset.

Durel could read my mind then, as he still can now.  He saw the tears coming and saw a thought cross my mind and promptly get nixed.  He smiled a little and reached into his pocket, only to hand me a pressed handkerchief.  

We also look back at those kids and think, "Damn right."

Thanks for the decade, D.  The next ones will be even greater.  I know it.

Hope your big decisions are good for many, many decades.

Talk soon,

Heather

lasagna and salad

When I was a senior in college, I wrote an honors thesis to complete my major in English.  My thesis was one hundred pages long and filled with enthusiastic interpretations of several schools of literary theory.  My argument, as it were, was that the literary theory of feminism must make room for Romantic notions of subjectivity and self, even as it attempted not to due to its frequent alliance with postmodernism.

Phew.  

It's not as embarrassing to read snippets of that thesis now as it probably should be.  I did a good job for an idealistic poet who was trying not to freeze to death in Lewiston, Maine.  And my premise is kind of cute.  I was arguing for The Self.  Take all your theories and be damned if you don't value The Self.  Theory doesn't necessarily work that way, but I tossed in some Baudrillard and some simulacra and argued it with my bad self.

*     *     *     *     *

A few months ago, I took a hard look at my life.  I was in the car, in bumper to bumper rush hour morning traffic, as I was every morning.  I had dropped my amazing boys off at daycare and would be, yet again, late to work.  Austin's population growth had made my commute downtown take about two hours in the morning and one hour in the evening.

My back ached.  I should do yoga.  But when?  I should meditate.  Sigh.  Yeah, right.

My case load at work was more than full.  I was literally juggling cases.  Part of me loved the adrenaline.  (Lawyers love adrenaline, even if they say they don't.)

I hadn't packed my lunch.  I had already driven through the Coffee Bean for More Coffee.  I would buy lunch later.  It probably wouldn't be that healthy.  

I had no idea what we were having for dinner.

My lovely parents moved from Maryland to a retirement community in Austin about 6 years ago.  About three years ago, Durel and I moved to the same part of town so that we could be right down the street.  Mom and Dad's house is 3.1 miles from ours -- a 5K.  

I hadn't seen my parents in a week.  

*     *    *     *     *

I'm taking a break from the practice of law.  I am CEO of our household.  I am in charge of knowing what color Jack's class wears every Wednesday.  I am in charge of costumes for Nursery Rhyme Parade day.   I am in charge of home repairs, vet appointments, dog grooming, grocery shopping, dry cleaning, flu shots, runny noses, meal planning, meal preparation, appliance repair, exterminator appointments, and about one zillion other things.

I am also present in the lives of my children.

I am also present in the lives of my parents.

I am also present in my own life.  Which is pretty rad now, in the wake of my scary ass health experience, which makes me value my time here, and with these people, more than ever.

Apparently, I'm still making arguments for The Self.  

*     *     *     *     *

Hope you know what you're having for dinner.  We are having lasagna and salad.

Talk soon,

Heather

Napa, Part One: The Sappy Stuff

I moved from DC to San Francisco in 1998.  It was the high point of the "dot com boom."  

People talked a lot about angel money.  CEOs were like, babies. Corporate Foosball table ownership soared.

I worked for Burson-Marsteller, one of the big PR firm greats.  I did brand marketing.  One of my clients was Evite.  (They had a Foosball table AND a baby CEO.)

I lived in Nob Hill and walked to work in the Financial District because it was downhill the entire way.  I took the cable car home, because it was uphill the entire way and because, CABLE CARS.

I had not been to San Francisco since I left in 2000.  I went back last month.  I hadn't left my heart there, per se.  But a piece of it?  Yes.

Oooh, a plane trip without a baby.  That was nice, dude.

*    *     *     *     * 

We all moved to Lewiston, Maine in 1993.  They lived in Page.  I lived in Parker.  I think we all met at the orientation clambake.

(Yes.  We had an orientation clambake.  Bates is a divinely preppy place.)

None of us had gone to, like, Andover or Choate, so we didn't have automatic groups of pedigreed instafriends.  But, we found one another pretty quickly and have been friends ever since.

We realized that we've been friends now for longer than we haven't been friends.  (I love that.)

We decided to take a trip to Napa for our collective fortieth birthdays, all of which happen in 2015-ish.

I wouldn't say that I left part of my heart in Lewiston, per se.  But I did leave part of my heart wherever these ladies are.

And yes, the next post will have annoyingly gratuitous pictures of wine.  Just had to get the sappy stuff said first.

Hope you annoy someone with your unbridaled sentiment today.

Talk soon,

Heather

don't cut barbie's hair, and other important life lessons

Once upon a time, I was a snoopy little sister who read her big sister's diary.  I was about 10 years old, which would have made her about 17 years old.  

I thought her diary was full of VERY SHOCKING THINGS.  (Side note:  I was ten.  Cutting your Barbie's hair was VERY SHOCKING.  Context, people.)

I was smart enough not to tell anyone.  Because I knew that I would hate life if my sister knew that I had read her diary, and I also knew that I shouldn't have read it in the first place.  I think every kid is instinctively has the "fruit of the poisonous tree" concept hard-wired into them.  I certainly did.

So, I did what any smart-ass ten year old with a shred of self-preservation instinct would have done:  I went to my OWN diary and recounted what I had read.  I reacted to it, and I'm sure there were a lot of exclamation points.  I wasn't ever one for puffy hearts.

A few days later, I went to write in my diary again (replete with the "lock" for your secretive 1980's self) and found a note from my big sister.  I don't remember exactly what it said, but it was the emotional equivalent of a horse's head in my bed.

Message received.  "Hey kid.  Don't read my diary again.  You got it?"

I got it.

*     *     *     *     *

The other morning, Sawyer and I went to wake up Jack.  And this look happened.

Message received.  "Hey Sawyer.  I think you're amazing."

He got it.

*     *     *     *     *

For the record, I don't read other people's diaries anymore.  And my sister has long since forgiven me.  And I did cut my Barbie's hair, and it was shocking.  And it does not grow back.

I'll do what I can to pass on what I know to my amazing boys.  Clearly, we're all learning here.

Hope your sibling dazzles you today.

Talk soon,
Heather

saturday morning jumped out of bed

When I lived in San Francisco, my mom used to call me every Saturday morning.  

She was in Maryland, waiting impatiently until a "civil" time to call.  She usually waited until 9 or 9:30.

The trouble with that is the whole pesky time zone thing.  So, alllllllllllll the way in San Francisco, my phone would RINGRINGRING at 6 or 6:30 AM.

The trouble with that is that Saturday morning comes after Friday night.

For example:  We used to go to a bar in the Mission called the Makeout Room.  They played Social Distortion and had a baby doll head in a jar of formaldehyde behind the bar.  We took cabs and stayed until closing time.  I had a black faux fur Hello Kitty purse.

*     *     *     *     *

Last Saturday morning, Jack had his first ever soccer game of life.

The game was on the fields just down the street.  They start at either 8 or 9.

Jack and his doppelganger, A., ran around, passed the ball, made shots, made those shots at the correct goals, and scored a few times.

Look at my soccer mom photobomb.  Look at it!

I, never one to cheer, found myself whooping on the sidelines with the best of'em.

The trouble with this is that I think I am now TECHNICALLY a soccer mom.

For example:  Durel is the team's coach.  I emailed all the parents to rotate who brings snacks to the games.  I brought them this time.  I brought Goldfish, orange slices, and 100% juice pouches.  I wore (hot pink, thankfully) sneakers.


*     *     *     *     *

Tell me how you spend your Saturday mornings, and I'll tell you who you are.

Hope you diversify over time.

Talk soon,
Heather

what we're thankful for

Right this minute, Sawyer is thankful for his thumb, that toy, his awesome teachers, and his cozy bouncy chair.

Right this minute, Jack is thankful for his new "blue and green running shoes" and his favorite dinosaur socks that he made at school recently.

 

Right this minute, I am thankful for this day, my beautiful boys, wonderful husband, and quite possibly a million other things.  I haven't counted.  But it's a super mega lot.  I'm a lucky gal.

Hope you take a moment to marvel in what's good today.

Talk soon,

Heather

it's those preppy choices that can get you

I applied Early Decision to Middlebury.

To someone not from the East Coast and/or who doesn't treat liberal arts college admission as a competitive sport, that doesn't mean much.

Middlebury College is a gorgeous college in Middlebury, Vermont.  It is a very academic, very preppy, and very picturesque place.  I had decided that's where I would be an English major, run around in autumnal splendor, and spend four years becoming my most awesome self.

Here's a picture, so you can picture it:

Image credit.  Seriously, right???

 Apparently, Middlebury was not as enamored of me as I was of them.  My application was deferred to the regular decision applicant pool, which was a hard core slap in the face to my idealistic, enthusiastic, overachieving high school self.  That means you have to apply to other colleges and, like, wait it out. [Insert Kristin Stewart's one facial expression.]

So, the search continued.  The family search committee, led by Captain Dad, the College Hunter, explored New England, because that's where I had decided I wanted to be.

We visited a lot of places.  [Smiley face.]  One of them was Bates. Bates is cool.  I walked around the campus to do a "vibe check."  I liked it.  I didn't feel out of place, like I was dressed like an idiot, or like people realized I was a stranger.  Hmm.  

And, let's not overlook that Bates is also gorgeous, very academic, very preppy, and very picturesque.

See?

We totally had classes sitting outside on the Quad.  Not even joking.

 

This picture does not show a lot of snow.
When you live in Maine, this is not a lot of snow.

As it turned out, Middlebury did accept me.  But by then, Bates had already accepted me, too.  Faced with the decision of where to go, I found myself totally happy about the thought of going to Bates.  I also found myself completely annoyed with Middlebury for making me wait for so long and feel all icky and half-rejected.  

I realized that I was just a name on a list.  (Granted, this was true at both schools but it pissed me off vis a vis Middlebury.)  And that if I didn't take the spot, they would call some other girl and make her happy that she'd finally gotten in.  

Screw that!, I thought, with a lot of emotional bravado, to myself, at age 18.  

I'm going to Maine.

And so, I did.  It was awesome. And I, as predicted, was an English major, ran around in autumnal (and snowy) splendor, and spent four years becoming my most real self.  It was fan.tas.tic.

Where was I going with this?

Oh, it was cold today in Austin, and this happened.  

And my heart burst into a million pieces, and I don't even want to think about him going to kindergarten, much less college, and I got all nostalgic for Maine and changing leaves, and how was college so long ago? and sunrise, sunset so quickly go the days...you know?

Hope you find an unexpected wellspring of emotional bravado today.

Talk soon,

Heather

my cute mom

The other day, I had the pleasure of a luxe Sunday brunch with my parents and two dear friends.

They charmed, as they always do, that Jan and Morris.

In fact, my sisters and I have a running list of our friends who would like to be adopted by the Davies, should they suddenly start adopting extra, fully grown children.  That's a testament to their unique brand of cute and cool.

This picture was taken that day, and it's too damn cute not to share.

To know Jan is to love her.  And to help you know her just a smidge, here are a few things about her that I find notable/fascinating/funny/cool.

1.  Though she humors Dad and I in our tastes for fancy food, she would really always prefer a cheeseburger.

2.  She lurves her some John Denver.  

3.  She also lurves her some lavender.  It is her favorite color.  Big time.  (Note:  Her blouse in the picture above.)

4.  When I was in 7th grade, she had a benign brain tumor the size of a grapefruit adjacent to her occipital lobe (related to vision and short term memory).  After 13 hours of open-head brain surgery, she essentially did her own physical therapy by doing daily crossword puzzles and resuming her intricate sewing and embroidery.

5.  She never curses.  (And wishes I wouldn't, either.)  

6.  She LOVES Christmas.  And boy oh boy, so do I.  We decorate, play Christmas carols as early as possible; decorate huge trees -- the whole nine yards.

7.  She taught me to embroider.  She taught my sisters, too.  Admittedly, Cristy is doing the most with this knowledge.  

8.  At her linguistic peak, she was fluent in Spanish, Portugese, and conversational in French and Italian.  She is still fluent in Spanish.  It's awesome.

9.  She cares not one bit about cars.  She doesn't know a Gremlin from a Rolls.  My dad and I marvel over it, but it's endearing nonetheless.

10.  She does not "do the computer."  Therefore, to be fair, I will print this and show it to her.

Hope your day is all fun like a top ten list.

Talk soon,

Heather

the one where I pick a fight with my to-do list

Every weekend, I make a to do list.

It always includes the basics of a Type A working mom's life:  laundry, cleaning, planning the menu for the week, grocery store.  It usually includes some aspirational me time:  yoga?; pedicure? (These are always accompanied by a question mark because I know, deep down, they are unlikely.)  And it usually includes like a dozen other things that I can't recall but seem very important to me at the time the Type A-ness washes over me and the list-making begins.

In other words, it's always far too long.  

Never mind that from Monday through Friday, I have no less than 10 separate to do lists with multiple tasks in them blinking at me from the wonderful (pun) app that is Wunderlist.  Never mind that.

No, my weekend lists are different.  They're old school -- on paper, in pen.  They sit on the kitchen counter all weekend as I go back and forth past them in my rush hours of doing.  They make me happy when I cross items off, but then, somewhere around lunchtime on Sunday, they start making me sad.  Because they are un-doable.  Un-finishable.

I've been this way for a long time.  Over-planner.  Poor manager of my own time.  Exceedingly ambitious. List-maker extraordinaire.

In fact, once, in a law school class that shall not be named, I wrote and wrote through the entire class with a determined and thoughtful look on my face.  (For most of law school, I was a dinosaur and hand-wrote my notes and exams rather than using a laptop.)  

One of my classmates asked me after, "How on earth did you pay attention and take all those notes?  That was SO BORING!"

I blithely responded with the truth.   "I wasn't paying attention.  I was making to do lists for every area of my life."

He roared with laughter (and relief, because law school is nothing if not competitive) and walked off.

The Interwebz are awash with articles about unplugging.  Don't look at your phone all weekend, they say.  Be present in the moments, they say.  Don't clean so much, they say.

And for the most part, they are totally right.  (I'll ignore the obvious paradox of using the Internet or even Facebook medium to communicate this to an audience of clicking multi-taskers.)

I still do need to clean a little this weekend, because if I don't, the dog hair will adversely possess my house.  And I do need to buy groceries.  A pedicure would be nice, but you know what else would be nice?  A trip to Starbucks with Jack, where he eats a scone and we talk about what he wants to be for Halloween.  A nap when Jack naps.  (What?!  I know; crazy talk.)  A run before it's 104, while the guys are still sleeping.  All of those things would be fantastic.

So, you know, I think that's my to do list for this weekend.  It can't go any worse than the ones I usually make.  And regardless of how much I finish, it won't make me sad.  Which is pretty cool.

Hope you reevaluate your list today.

Talk soon,

Heather

dreaming

One of my most sincere goals for parenthood is to encourage Jack to dream.  I want him to know that the world is wide open to him.  I want him to know that he can create art, create change, create joy, create adventure.  And that to create, you need to dream.

Admittedly, this is a lofty goal when I'm still wiping his bottom, but parenting is a marathon, not a sprint, people.

Anyway, one of my favorite Irishmen summed this up pretty well, I think.

Yes, I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can find his way by moonlight, and see the dawn before the rest of the world.  - Oscar Wilde

Hope you dream big today.  And wipe your own bottom.

Talk soon,
Heather

hot, hotter, hottest

I moved to Austin in the middle of summer, 2001.  Jenny and I had just finished a glorious cross-country trip, where we argued some but mostly impressed people with how well we were getting along.  (A story for another time, certainly.  Three weeks.  San Francisco to DC.  Southern route.  We drove a pickup truck that we nicknamed Patsy Cline.)

Cross-country trip aside, I was relocating to Austin from San Francisco, where I had been a happy yuppie for several years.  Strike that:  I had been a happy, chilly, yuppie.  San Francisco is gorgeous -- alternately windy and foggy or crisp and sunny.   But it's never hot.

People who live in San Francisco can always spot a tourist.  They're wearing shorts and sneakers (all the walking!) ... and bright new fleeces that they bought in Fisherman's Wharf with the Golden Gate Bridge on them.  Because it's hard to understand how cold you will be when the fog rolls in over Nob Hill.

Anyway, I got to Austin and it was 102.  I was impressed with myself for existing in such brutal heat.  I was taking a hiatus from being a working professional, so I didn't have to wear a suit.  My apartment complex had a swimming pool, so I didn't have to slog through my days without swimming.  I thought to myself, "How do people do this??"

Then, it was 104.  I thought, to myself, in all seriousness:  "Surely, people don't have to go to work when it's 104.  Don't they have, like, a heat advisory or something?"  My overheated brain was scrambling back to the only extreme weather it had ever experienced.  When there is a blizzard in the East, they cancel shit.  Surely, they will do that, right?

Nope.  People still go to work when it's 104.  Some of them wear suits, even.  Some of them work outside, even.  My eyes were opened.  And I was not just a little bit afraid.

So, fast forward (ulp) 12 years.  It's summer 2013.  It was 106 yesterday.  It is probably 106 today, too.  I go to work.  I do things.  I do not expect them to be cancelled.  I sweat.  We all sweat.  I wear flip flops all the time.  I have learned.  Dare I say it, I may have even acclimated.

Anyway, here's what 106 degrees looks like on a sunny day in Austin, Texas.  

Clear skies, cool boots, can't lose.

Hope you feel like you've acclimated to something today.

Talk soon,

Heather

trees, tears, and elevators

We've gotten into a pretty solid book routine at bedtime.  I read Jack two books and then tell him it's time to get into bed.  Then, he cons me into "a last one in bed."  So, we read a third book while he's under the covers.  I kneel on the floor and lean in with the book.  (He's got a tough life.)

The other night, he insisted on a book from the top shelf of his bookcase which incidentally, is where I put books that we will grow into.  I have vintage hardbacks of things like The House at Pooh Corner and Robinson Crusoe.  I look forward so much to reading those with Jack, but never want him to grow big enough that it's time.  (Freezing time.  Isn't someone working on that?)

Anyway, the other night, Jack insisted on "that one!  that tree book!"

He was pointing at this:

I tried to talk him out of it.  He insisted.  We sat on the couch and read it.

About halfway through, I remembered why my first instinct had been to try and read something different.

It's beautiful and heartbreaking.  It's simple and complex.  It's sweet and devastatingly philosophical. 

(In short: I was sobbing.)

Jack looked up at me and said, "Don't cry, Momma."  

(SOB)

I was recently talking to a friend who isn't sure she's ready to have a baby.  She's scared of losing herself.  And I totally get that.  I mean, it's a real fear.

In response, I said this: 

It's like, all your life, you've been living your life and things are awesome.  You believe that you've taken the elevator to the top floor -- house, marriage, family, pets, etc.  Life rocks.  

But then, you have a baby.  And you realize that there's another floor above you.  So, you take the elevator one floor higher.  And when you get there, it is SO MUCH BETTER than where you were before.  And so many people you know are there!  And you wonder:  How the hell did I ever think that what I had before was the best it was going to get?  THIS IS SO MUCH BETTER.

She teared up.

I didn't mean to make her cry.  I was just sharing what I feel to be true.

Shel Silverstein didn't mean to make me cry.  Hell, maybe he did.  I'll never know.  Either way, he was sharing what he knew to be true.

Ain't life grand?

Hope you can enjoy some truth today.  Even if it makes you cry a little.

Talk soon,
Heather

P.S.  Just to end on a happy note, wasn't Shel Silverstein a bad looking dude?

Zen and the art of crab eating

Every Father's Day, we had a crab feast.  

Granddad would drive to Rock Hall early in the morning to get a bushel of Number Ones.  We would all go to the house in Worton and sit in the shade of the huge evergreen trees in the backyard.  It was the only time I remember using the back door of my grandparents' house, and it felt special.

The picnic table was covered in several weeks' worth of the Kent County News and the Cecil Whig.  There was a fancy dancy crab mallet holder in the center of the table.  It even had a spot for the roll of paper towels, which is imperative.  The grown ups drank beer.  I have no idea what I drank.  Probably ginger ale.

We would eat crabs until we were full.  But you know, that's pretty hard with crabs.  So, I'll say that we all ate crabs until we were tired of picking them, tired of washing our hands when we had to get anything other than a crab, etc.  Tired of Old Bay getting into the increasing number of nicks and cuts on our fingers, because crabs, well, they get you.  Even when you're from Maryland, born and raised.

Granddad didn't ever get full of crab.  The rest of us would have cashed in long ago, washed our hands, gotten something fresh to drink, shaken off all of the Old Bay crumbs that had accumulated everywhere, and come back outside to hang out.  Granddad just kept going.

He was methodical.  He opened every single leg, even the ones that usually "aren't worth it" to me.  He got every single piece of meat out of every crab.  He enjoyed it.  It was sort of Zen to watch him eat crabs, now that I think about it.  He wasn't fast.  It was not gluttony.  It was thorough, measured, enjoyment.  

At some point Mom and Grandmom would give in to the realization that they had to pick the rest of the crabs, so that someone could use the crabmeat.  Someone had to make soup or crabcakes or something, and you know ... "those crabs don't pick themselves!"  Someone would always say.

* * * 

This year for Father's Day, Durel, Jack, and I were in Houston.  PapaDu and Dustin drove to Kema in the morning to get crabs.  Then, the Bernard men boiled them with seasoning and "groceries" (sausage, garlic, celery, mushrooms, pure deliciousness) in the driveway.  Then, we put our own spin on the Father's Day tradition and ate them.  

They're going to hate me for posting this.
But it was so awesome.
D, I kept it small.  Does that help?

It's a little different.  Plastic on the tables instead of newspaper.  Shrimp in addition to crab.  Groceries in addition to just crabs.  (I love that, maybe the most.)  A new backyard.  A new tree (or lack thereof) to sit under.  A new back door to use.

And a new person to partake.

Jack did not pass Go.  He did not collect $200.  He sat down and started eating some serious crab.  As fast as Donna and I could pick it, he would eat it.  He easily ate 4 or 5 crabs' worth of meat.  And that's really saying something.

Granddad was so proud.  I could feel it.

Hope you feel some love from above today.

Talk soon,
Heather