Balance

I’ve been thinking a lot about balance lately, courtesy, at least in part, of my children’s foray into the wonderful world of ice skating. The pondering began with literal balance; I marveled at my daughter’s ability to stay upright as she successfully navigated the swirly lines etched on the ice by the teacher, her body swishing and swooshing from one end of the rink to the other. I would be happy to be that graceful OFF the ice.

My son’s experience very quickly veered off grace and landed (literally and many, many times) on the side of resilience. The task for the littlest ones was to pick up a toy from a basket, throw it as far as possible, and go pick it up. Eliot fell, and fell, and fell again, each time following the spill with a raised “thumbs up” to let me know he was ok. No matter how many times he tumbled, he got himself up and grabbed some more toys to throw and retrieve, happy as a clam to be on the ice.

Let me tell you in no uncertain terms: I am completely convinced I would have had to be airlifted to the nearest hospital.

During their class, my eyes darted from child to child, each of mine in different sections of the rink with their own age group. I flinched with each potential or actual thump (thankfully, Cora only had a couple), and I wondered where, along the road to becoming who I’ve become, I lost my desire for adrenalin. I know it didn’t stay behind with my first broken bone because many other broken bones followed. What changed me from a basic version of the carefree (if somewhat reckless) creatures my babies are now into the overly cautious adult I am?

You will not find me on ice any time soon (thanks for the save, arthritis!), but maybe I can find balance by pushing limits in other ways. Maybe I can try to be a little bit more active outside of work. Maybe I can try to be more present in the moment. Maybe I can push my creative limits and see beyond the obvious.

Maybe I’ll start today.

Adaptation

I hadn’t had a mango since I moved to this country; I’ve bought them before, but they always went bad before I ate them. Kathy would chastise me rotten mango after rotten mango, frugality being an integral part of her very English constitution. I would apologize and say I hadn’t had a chance to eat it, and she would alternate between muttering under her breath and offering a loud grunt the next time I brought one home or - the nerve! - asked HER to buy me one when she went shopping.

Now, eating a mango is not exactly the culinary equivalent of running a marathon; it’s not a feat one must prepare for, ordinarily, so maybe her irritation was ever so slightly justified. But marriage is full of irritation, and if this is what she ends up conjuring when we eventually end up in couples therapy over my failure to consume fruit in a timely manner, I think we can all agree that she won at life.

This morning, we went shopping together - a rare occasion as it is bound to be interrupted by an emergency involving one or, exponentially worse, both of our children, which, yes, happened today - but that’s a story for another time. I spotted three different varieties of mango as soon as we got to the fruit and veggies portion of the excursion, which made the whole Market-Basket-on-Friday ordeal worth my while again (I’m more of a meat aisle kind of lady, and once rib eye, ground beef, and salmon are in the bag, I’m happy calling it a day). I waited until Kathy went looking for limes to surreptitiously sneak one into the shopping cart, and if she saw it while we were checking out, she kept her disappointment to herself.

We drove back home from Reading and, as we unpacked the car, Kathy pointed to our front yard, 98% snow-free after today’s warmth and rain, and asked whether I thought we’d get any more snow this year. And I said something I never, ever, ever, EVER thought I would say. I replied, “I hope we do.”

This statement was immediately followed by a look of horror (mine) and laughter (hers), and my dear Kathy would have been excused had she wondered whether the spirit of Adelaide Manning, original owner of 323 Grove, might have momentarily taken over her Latina wife’s body at approximately 1:30 p.m. on Friday, March 15, 2019 to speak from beyond the veil. But no, I was the one doing the speaking. I do hope we get more snow this year. I, Thais Mapstone, no longer resent New England weather.

We came into the house and put all of the groceries away - all except for the mango, which I ate with a strange mixture of reverence and childlike excitement and found to be sweet and perfect and just like the mangoes I picked in my grandfather’s orchard and at Mamal’s house, and the mangoes that fell out of mother trees and dented cars in Belém, my granddad’s hometown, with alarming regularity, and the mangoes that littered the streets of Brasilia, where I grew up.

New England is finally home.

Provincetown Family Week

It can be hard to explain what Family Week means to families like mine. I live in a so-called “liberal bubble”; we are lucky that, most of the time, side-eyes and mean comments about our family composition are essentially non-existent, with an exception sprinkled into the mix every now and then just to keep us on our toes. We get to go about our lives pretty much exactly as I imagine families headed by a mom and a dad go about theirs. Pretty much, anyway.

And then Family Week arrives. We pack our car to the brim with everything we own - really, kids, do you need ten stuffed animals each? - and head down 93 to Route 3, praying that traffic won’t be too bad on the bridge this year. (Maybe I’m praying to the wrong gods because traffic is ALWAYS bad on the bridge every year.) We arrive 9287528375 hours later, and when my feet hit the sand at the Provincetown Inn beach, a weight I didn’t know I was carrying melts off my shoulders. This happens with every arrival, but I’m invariably surprised and overwhelmed by how freeing it is to be in this amazing place with my chosen family: old friends, new friends, and friends I haven’t met yet sharing the beach and the sun and the joy of being surrounded by families like our own. Also, the joy of pizza from Twisted. Let us not forget pizza from Twisted.

As I sit here anticipating another snow storm (maybe a snow day this time?), I’m dreaming of Provincetown and looking forward to seeing my new friends, old friends, and the friends I haven’t met yet this year. Someday I’ll move to Provincetown permanently. Until then, we’ll have Family Week.