How Old Are You Now?

Lately I find that I have to pause and think when someone asks me the dreaded (and tacky?) question, "So...how old are you?".

I had always assumed that this subject was off limits in casual conversation. Right up there with politics and religion.

Apparently I was wrong.

Since we moved to our new house, countless (ok, maybe not really countless, but many) new neighbors have inquired about my age. The first time it happened I was not only taken aback by the actual question, but also by how to answer it. Because the first number that comes to mind is always 27.

Unfortunately, I am not 27.

Yet it takes some degree of restraint to not blurt out this knee jerk response. Instead I pause, do some quick math, and slowly respond with a "36" as I shake my head in disbelief.

I believe everyone has a mental age and a physical age. And wouldn't it be nice if we were allowed to go by our mental age when faced with the 'how old are you' question? Because that number seems to be more accurate. More sensible.

Who cares what the calendar says. What age do you feel? Older? Younger? Right on target?

My mental age is clearly 27.
I am single. Living alone in a city apartment for the first time. Driving a new car. Enjoying cocktails after work. Staying out late and not feeling it the next day (amazing how our bodies change). I have money to blow on lattes and beer and clothes. I have an amazing boyfriend (who will later become my husband) and we have a close circle of friends. I have responsibilities, but not too many. I am comfortable here.

My physical age is 36.
I have been married for 8 years. I live in a 4 bedroom home in a quiet neighborhood. I have 2 kids. I stay at home with them. We watch our money. We save for retirement and college funds. We invest. We eat most meals at home. Going out involves the hassle of finding (and paying for) a babysitter. I have responsibilities. A lot of them. I'm happy. And if it weren't for the furrows on my brow, I'd swear I was still in my twenties.

When someone asks me how old I am all of these discrepancies race through my head. I experience a Talking Heads 'well, how did I get here' moment. Damn, I don't even feel like I hit my 30's yet, but here I am. Where did the time go?

I may be a mom of two, but inside is a 27 year old who hasn't spent one second worrying about wrinkles...

What's your mental age?

Tree Peeping (of a sort)

My family is an old one..we are descendants of some of the first families of New England. My parents claim they can trace back our ancestry to William Bradford on one side, and William Brewster on the other. There is a sea captain (by marriage) on my Dad's side, and some speculation that there were some interracial marriages early on into the Wampanoag tribe. On my Mom's side, we can only trace her father's family back to a certain point. As the Penobscot (and many other peoples) sometimes did to survive in the 1800's, they pretended they were white. Tribal records only go back so far, and when forces of society made it seem necessary for members to change their names to sound more English, the family trees were broken, and we were left with a mysterious past.

There are missing roots of our tree that probably lead deep into the lives of a people who were here thousands of years before my ancestors Bill and Bill decided to kiss the Netherlands goodbye and grace the New World with their particular brand of intolerance. And they were here long before the silversmith who was my great great grandfather on my Dad's side decided to move shop to New England sometime in the 19^th century.

As a result of all this hidden family, sometimes we come upon unexpected moments when we see a resemblance too close to be just chance. While traveling up in Maine during our honeymoon years ago, Dr. Science and I visited Indian Island, in Old Town, Maine. A reservation on a tiny island in the middle of the Penobscot River with a population of a little over 400 people, I was depressed at the thought that this people who had once roamed so freely through the wilds of New England and Canada were now just as confined as the rest of us to land, house and money (or lack of it). Once caretakers of the earth, now caretakers of their history, and their children who continue to learn the songs, the dances, the language, and the skills of their ancestors.

The Penobscot Nation Museum is a small building that reminded me of camp lodges I had visited as a child. Dr. Science and I wandered in to a dim interior, kept darker to preserve the old photographs, and the beautiful works of art we found within. At some point in time growing up, I'd heard somewhere that there is no “Native American” word for art. That beauty and utility were almost synonymous, and that there should never be one without the other. All art could be utilized, and all utensils were art. I've no idea if this is true, but I love the concept.

I've also heard that taking a photo of a person is akin to taking their soul. To look at some of the old pictures, I could easily believe it. There were so many faces, elders with elaborate tribal vests covered with double curve designs, young children in traditional dress leaning against Penobscot bows, school children stiff and silent in itchy looking clothes, and then...one face suddenly arrested my attention. I stood staring through the glass at a small black and white head-shot. It was an image from the 1920's, a young girl, in three quarter view, gazing at the camera with a quiet, inscrutable smile. I couldn't speak for a moment. Because it was my mother I saw, staring up at me.

Of course, it couldn't have been her, and it wasn't. Joe Neptune, the wonderful curator who spent literally hours talking with us about the museum, life on the island and in Old Town, and the history of the surname “Neptune”, said the picture was of Mary Alice Nelson, aka Molly Spotted Elk, an entertainer from the 1920's and 30's.

She had 13 siblings, so perhaps a connection to the family isn't a far-fetched as one might believe, but it isn't necessarily something I need to pursue. It was the moment that was the gift...the surprise of seeing my mother, and myself in that glass case, hiding somewhere behind the eyes of a woman we never knew, who lived a life we can only dream of. Her extraordinary life.

But it is as if that blood still flows in our veins, because behind my mother's deceptively quiet countenance lies another extraordinary life, who has shown me how to see the extraordinary in the ordinary as well...the art in the utensil, the beauty in the banal. And for that one can't be buried in the past...just intensely, immediately present.

I think I need to get out more

I have a friend coming here today from New York for a weekend visit.

She has never been to Rhode Island. It's my chance to play tour guide, show off my surroundings.

And I am at a loss.

I mean, when I want to do something fun and different, I go somewhere. Someplace, well... different.

So now that my place is someplace different for someone else, I feel like a total disappointment to my little state.

Have you ever noticed that sometimes you don't participate in the activities that are close to you simply because they are so readily available?

I had a friend in college who lived on the Cape, but had never been to Martha's Vineyard. Meanwhile, I went there with my family every summer.

Then again, I had never been to Block Island until two years ago, even though it is much closer and easier for me to get to than the islands off the Cape.

And then there's a super swanky restaurant that everyone raves about right down the street from my house. Steve and I have been meaning to try it since we moved to our city - three years ago. But Steve's sister, who lives an hour away, has made three trips there in that same span of time.

So now my friend will be arriving soon, and I feel dreadfully ill-equipped to show her around my native state.

I think it's time to hit Borders down the street (now there's a place I know front to back) for some guide books.

- Jane

P.S. I think you fellow New England Mamas, of all people, will enjoy our pick today on Pinks & Blues. Especially if you think R's ah fah losahs.

Baking in the Sun

Today it will be 85 degrees and sunny in Connecticut.

My children went to school wearing shorts, and my hanging baskets of weeping petunias boast new fuchsia blooms.

Local fruit orchards are bursting with apples, peaches, pears, and plums, and it seems almost criminal not to retire to the kitchen and bake them into pies.

I had every intention of doing just that. Armed with overflowing bags of farm-fresh fruit, I planned to storm my kitchen with a paring knife and get to down to business. Oh, it wouldn't have been pretty with all the peelings and pits strewn about, but the aromas would have made up for all that.

Now that's one attractive pie.

My house would smell like a slice of warm apple pie. Or a bowl of peach cobbler with a big scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on the side. Or irresistibly sweet apple crisp.

Alas, fruit flies buzz around my ripening fruit like vultures circling the dead and dying. I've had to discard entire bowls of moldy peaches and plums, and the apples I proudly displayed on my kitchen table now bear curious little brown pock marks.

Oh autumn you tantalizing tease, for the sake of my fruit and prematurely carved pumpkins throughout the land, come back to us.

Until then, we'll be baking in the sun.

Preschooligans

My oldest son will officially be ready for preschool next fall. He currently goes to a toddler program and I'm pretty happy with it - except for the fact that he has to go for six hours a day. That means that I'm paying for him to nap there when he could easily nap at home for free. I tried to see if the center had any flexibility on that six-hour minimum - like could he attend for four instead?

"Sure. You can pick him up whenever you like. But we have to charge you for the full six hours."

I'm also free to set a pile of money on fire every month, but I'm not about to do that either. So I foolishly thought we'd just send him somewhere else. How hard can it be to find a preschool? My requirements are pretty simple:

1. It must be safe
2. It must be clean
3. It must be a happy enviroment - smiling teachers, happy kids
4. It has to be within a 15 minute drive from home (why add more stress to my life?)

I'm happy to drop him off at any school that meets those basic requirements so that he can glue leaves to construction paper and kick balls in the playground to his heart's content (as far as I can tell this is the bulk of his school day - save for snack time - snack time is HUGE at his school).

So I start calling and visiting the local schools, checking to see if they had any room for my son. Surprise! They're all full! And the waitlist? Full as well! Did you know that you have to apply at least a year in advance in order to get into PRESCHOOL?

Let's take a minute here for a reality check: My applications to graduate school were due in January and by April I was looking for an off-campus apartment. It takes 3 months to get into business school, but it takes 13 months to get into PRESCHOOL.

My mind. It is boggled.

Thankfully, none of the preschools I'm considering are on Boston Magazine's list of the "finest preschools" or I'd be in real trouble.