One & Only

DIY-Do it yourself. I never really was aware that growing up most everything I did was DIY. When I learned to tie my shoe there was no one there except me to do it–me and my mom standing over me, who always seemed to think (and still does) that if she just repeats the same thing over and over, except louder, that somehow I will finally realize what it is she is saying–that the bunny goes around the tree loop (first) instead of through it. You can all rest assured I know how to tie my shoes–been doing it for ages.

However, if you snapped at me I might cry–still do.  I couldn’t read facial expressions. I really didn’t know how to interpret a glare or what to do with it...I still don’t. If you grabbed something out of my hand, my gut would scream help–it still does. When I spilled the bowl of ice cream on the carpet there was no one there to blame except me. When I broke the neighbors window with a soft ball there was no one there to point to. My room was my own. My stuff was my stuff. My imagination was my company. But it never occurred to me that all this could have changed the dynamic of the situation had I had a sibling. I never thought about making someone else tie my shoe for me. I never thought about the need to fight for attention, the need to start a competition, or the idea of blaming someone else, that is not in the DIY manual, and being an only child was the only thing I knew, and so DIY was instinctive, and still is.

And until three nights ago I had never really thought about all the factors that go into being an only child and DIY. All these factors are things you can only understand if you, yourself, are an only child (DIYO- Do It Yourself Only). And until three nights ago, I had never been seated at a dinner hosted and shared with a group of “onlys.” Growing up, I was the only–only –until about middle school and then I met one other one, but we never talked about it. And so at dinner three nights ago, we discussed everything from the lighthearted to the heavy, the good times and the bad times… as an only.

While I cannot discuss what was discussed at dinner, (it is considered DIYOC (Do it yourself only confidential)) I will say that I came away with new perspectives, answers to unanswered questions, similarities that I can relate to, and a like minded sense of perspective and trust that was shared among all of us. There is no denying it; all of us were connected with the “only” gene.

Lonely? Hardly. Independent? Move over and watch me do it myself. Soft spoken? Sometimes. Bossy? Just as much as the next person. Spoiled? No, not compared to other kids I know. Knows how to handle her self around adults? Certainly. Has more imaginary friends then other people? Maybe, but who says that is a bad thing? Can’t share? Well, who likes sharing anyway? Patient? Test me. Loves my parents through thick and thin? Duh–everyone should. Can DIY? Always.

This cup is for the DIYO: Thanks for one of the best dinners ever

And to all the other DIYO children out there! Cheers to us!

Valentine

Wednesday night, after a long and unhappy day, I sat on my old creaky hardwood floors and got lost in a sea of hearts. As the watercolors dripped and faded into the white paper, mixing into a pallet of reds and purples I thought back to the days of fine glitter and lace trimmed paper. My mom would bring out the box of heart shaped stamps and we would cut and glue until our fingers stuck together and we had glitter in our hair. Not once did we ever go out to the store and buy a pack of Valentines. No matter how many kids were in my class, I would sit down with my mom and decide what it was we were going to make. I always loved the gluey part of Valentine’s Day.

This week I found out that we are no longer going to get mail on Saturday. Most of New York City rolled their eyes at the system, shrugged, and then hailed a cab. But for some reason I felt really bad about it. I am not one to get a ton of mail, but it is the possibility, the anticipation behind waiting, the hope that I could get mail–just maybe. To be honest, I send more snail mail now than I ever did before, and I love it. No matter what people say about email, there is practically nothing better than a hand written note. A long time family friend has been sending me post it notes filled with positive energy all winter. A friend from the sea has been sending me snail since we arrived back on land almost three years ago, and my mom takes that cake for most handwritten notes and care packages filled with good juju and love.

I live in a house that is filled with handwritten notes and reminders and I love it. This week, our toaster died and when I went into the kitchen it was sitting on the counter with a sign that said R.I.P. Sometimes, when I get home really late, there will be a sign with an arrow pointing to the kitchen that reads hot cider on the stove, help your self.

My hearts were a hit–all 25 of them. And as I walked home last night I saw The Empire State Building illuminated in a rosy pink glow that filled the city with love, and came home to a small hand written note taped to my door.

This cup is for Mel–thank you for being my Valentine

And to Twin (my forever pen pal), Caitlin and Nancy (for all the notes)

And to my Mom (you know why)

Happy Valentine’s Day

Nemo

It’s wintertime and I am sitting here in a heap of layers holding a mug steaming with chocolate-y goodness hidden under a mountain of marsh mallows. As the snowflakes fall outside, the night is so still I almost forget that I live on an island with more than eight million people.

We were bracing ourselves on Friday night as word spread across the island of another “historic storm.” News anchors provided no comfort as they threw out every adjective they could think of–wintery mix, flusters and blusters, record this and record that, severe, harsh, brutal, and ruthless to describe winter storm Nemo. As we crammed and jammed every non-perishable item we could think of into our pantry, and gathered around a big pot of chicken noodle soup, I couldn’t help but feel a little bit excited for Nemo to arrive. To me, Nemo seemed too cheerful to be a mean blizzard, and what the newscasters failed to mention were all the warm and fuzzy, cozy and snuggly things that take place during a snow storm. Puffy and fluffy, white and bright, snug and warm…these were just some of the adjectives that I was looking forward to this weekend. When Nemo finally arrived, all eight million New Yorkers were bundled up inside their lairs…except for the five of us, who threw on our coats and hats and headed out into the white night.

Folded into a blanket of snow, Central Park was serene. Feeling the soft crunch of fresh snow beneath our feet, we sang, we danced, we laughed, and made snow angels until we could no longer feel our hands and feet. We embraced the quiet, caught snowflakes on our tongues, and huddled together as we made our way home.

New York is in a constant state of hustle and bustle, and I know that in the long run there will be so many amazing things that I will remember about this incredible city–but what will stick with me forever will be the quiet moments that I had on the island with my friends, and this night will be one of them.

This cup is for Nemo

And my four comrades who braved the cold for some winter fun!