Road Trip Down Memory Lane

I just spent a weekend in upstate New York with my writers group. Unseasonably warm fall weather, great eats at great restaurants, and the fact that one of us grew up in Woodstock and could serve as tour director, contributed to yet another wildly successful road trip. Another reason for our visit: as a young mother some 23 years ago, I lived about 8 miles from Woodstock. I haven't thought about that phase of my life in a long, long time. Now, I'm thinking.

We moved to Kingston when our oldest was 6 months old. It was a change we were looking forward to. Steve had just finished a grueling stint at a Boston law firm; he would stumble through the front door at 10 PM every night only to face a colicky infant and the kid's frustrated and exhausted mother. An offer came to our rescue in the form of an alternative energy start up located in upstate New York. Still a lot of work, but more reasonable in its demands as well as more in line with his interests.

Real estate prices in that area of the Hudson Valley were low compared to the Boston suburb we were leaving and so we were able to buy a big old rambling colonial in the middle of the city of Kingston. We loved the converted carriage house that was now a detached garage. We loved the large backyard which could contain a playset and a sandbox and a garden. We loved the side sun porch with the gleaming wood floors. We could walk Uptown for lunch or coffee or ice cream. It was a great beginning.

Then, I tried to make friends. There were no neighbors close to our age, adults or child. I couldn't find a playgroup. It is difficult for me to remember how we spent those days, some 23 years ago. I soon discovered while our little part of Kingston was fine, we couldn't walk TOO far without hitting some areas in which I was uncomfortable with a stroller: Broken beer bottles on the sidewalks. Crumpled up trash blowing across the street. Deserted buildings and shattered windows. You get the picture. I do remember taking long drives: to Stone Ridge, to Boiceville, to Ellenville to meet Steve for lunch. I was on the phone a lot to folks back home in Massachusetts: friends, my mom, my sister.

Our second child was born in the middle of a really hot summer eighteen months after our move. That fall, we enrolled our oldest in a local preschool that took 2 year olds located just outside of Kingston. Aha, I thought! Now I will meet people. Oops! Not so fast. I had very little in common with everyone I was running into. Many parents were ex-hippies who once-upon-a-time moved up to the Woodstock area and now were tooling around in late model BMWs with their toddler Dylans and Jonis, espousing the joys of country life and tie dye t-shirts while waiting for the nanny to arrive. Others were folks down from the mountainside, badly in need of a bath or a shave; sometimes both. Where were the in-between people?

I made one friend. One. But she was a good one. Our kids were the same ages. We both read the same books and liked the same movies and laughed at the same jokes and shared the same politics. One of my best memories of that whole wretched 3-1/2 years was rigging up a small TV on her patio so we could watch "Blue Velvet" outside on a hot summer night and drink glass after glass of red wine while the kids played inside.

So, I returned last weekend armed with my one pleasant memory and many more distressful ones. What did I discover? Not much had changed, except that my lovely oasis of a house had aged badly, looked neglected and lonely, and unfortunately fit in too well with its dilapidated surroundings. So sad. So glad we left when we did.

Who Knew?

When I pulled my youngest child out of public school near the end of third grade to homeschool, I had some doubts but I was pretty sure it was the right thing to do. We were all miserable and frustrated, parents, child, and teachers alike and homeschooling seemed like the best solution.

Wow, everyone said. This is going to be a huge time and energy commitment on your part. I know, I told them. I got a bit swept up in what a wonderful martyr I was. Anything for the kid.

The truth was it was easier to help him follow his interests and be excited about learning again than it was dealing with the bureaucracy and narrow-mindedness of our public school system. Instead of focusing on what he had difficulties with, we focused on his strengths and passions. He read voraciously (considered a “problem” in school because “All he wants to do is read”). We joined support groups, went on field trips, and became active in our local 80+ family homeschooling coop. That funny, bright, wise-ass personality that we knew before he entered school was reemerging. He made many many new friends. And, much to my surprise, so did I.

I went into this homeschooling thing as a rescue mission. I will sacrifice all my personal interests and time, I thought, because that's what one does as a parent: if your child needs something, you provide it. I was ready to do what it took, and then resume my own life at a future date. Boy, was I wrong.

When we first started going on group field trips, picnics, and gym days I was undeniably aloof. I was here for my kid, I already had plenty of friends, I would like to use this opportunity to read, thank you very much. And, to the credit of the adults around me, I was left alone. Then a funny thing happened. Overheard conversations sounded really interesting. These parents aren't just talking about their kids (although that certainly happened too) but politics and travel and friendships and food. Hmmm.

As more time passed and we spent more hours at the coop, I put my book down more often. I found that I enjoyed the conversation and the camaraderie. Before I knew it, more than a few relationships extended beyond the bond of homeschooling, and true friendships developed outside the realm of what we were doing with our kids. Book groups, martini tastings, trips to San Francisco, snowshoeing, bike riding, coffee drinking. When I received a serious medical diagnosis a few years ago, these new friends rushed to help out in any way they could, making sure the kid got where he needed to go so I didn't have to worry about that, at least. One made me a beaded “Fuck Cancer” bracelet, which showed how much she understands me. On the last day of chemotherapy, I arrived in the hospital parking lot to find that my car had been decorated with with balloons, humor and good wishes. My tears lasted the whole way home.

Most recently, I am part of a writers group which consists of 3 other women whom I first knew through some avenue of homeschooling; this group has been a major source of creative and emotional support over the past year. We meet, we laugh, we eat, we go to the movies, and sometimes we even write. When you share your writing, you share everything. You trust with the truth. These girls have become my go-to safety net and Ultimate Truth Tellers.

What I did 8 years ago for my kid was what he needed and deserved.

What I did 8 years ago for my kid was one of the best things I ever did for myself.

Who knew?