The way the air feels - so cold, and still and full of promise - when I head out my front door and make my way to the sidewalk to pick up the newspaper on weekends in the winter.
Nora’s sense of humor and how laughing with her reminds me of the way I used to laugh with my friends in high school, once getting me and my friend Mark actually kicked out of class, as well as many other almost-instances of the same.
The incredibly close knit community we have in our neighborhood, where everyone checks in, and helps out and gets together. Where we barely go anywhere without seeing someone we know, and the central hang is a video rental place that’s also a coffee shop, community center, a music and special events venue, and an after-school gathering spot.
People with an irresistible, contagious love of life, who focus on the here and now.
That tomorrow can be different. It just can be.
That tomorrow you can lie in bed all day and watch shows.
That tomorrow you can go to Scotland, or Austria, or a grocery store that is not the one you normally go to, and therefore - exciting.
That the second season of “Severance” is out!
Making plans to tour colleges.
The bittersweet knowledge that I won’t be able to keep my travel-obsessed, adventurous boy with me forever, because the world keeps calling and calling, and he wants to go. One day he’ll be free to move about on his own, and he’ll see it all.
Good, hard, invigorating exercise and, especially now in my later (fine!) forties, stretching.
How Aidy writes me love notes so often, depositing them in the bedroom when I’m not looking, complete with envelope and stickers, in order to surprise me, but can’t wait, and shortly after asks, “did you see I left you a note?” And how they are always so sweet but also, every single time without fail, take it a tiny bit too far, like “I love you so much I don’t know what to do” or, “I am SO SORRY and SO SAD you are feeling tired today” or, “I’m trying not to bother you but Gabe is chasing me and I can’t handle living in this house anymore.”
Long-running book clubs.
Warm greenhouses on cold days.
All the novels I have not read, and how I could make a very compelling stack of them.
Funny Instagram reels, and that I will never learn how to use TikTok, but at least I’m not watching reels on Facebook like some very elderly-leaning people (it’s my husband).
All my favorite podcasts, especially Search Engine, Smartless and The Daily.
Political commentary, which I consume like it’s sports.
The way the little bit of snow that fell recently made the sidewalk sparkle on the way to school.
The winter farmer’s market, and all those extremely fancy mushrooms on display that I think I’m going to buy but never do.
My friends. Our therapeutic discussions, and weekends away, and epic text threads. Their excellent advice and hilarious commentary and the very real, very meaningful knowledge that we are here for one another.
How every time I talk on the phone to my mom she says that “nothing much is new” and I say the same and then we talk for like 45 minutes and there is lots that is new it turns out.
Blank notebooks.
Book proposal ideas.
Sharon Salzberg’s annual February meditation challenge.
All the plays to see and museums to visit and traditions to uphold.
The sheer acceptance of this stage of life where diving into a home improvement project is a true thrill.
Lunch hour at work when we are all in the office.
IKEA.
This new Ina Garten memoir I’m about to get into.
That I scored the very best family and in-laws in the entirety of human history.
Getting into the flow of an excellent new playlist; when each song, every note, sounds too good to be true.
When my kids come home in the afternoon and the house is once-again bustling; contrasting that with how I used to drive home slowly from social nights out when they were little, savoring the quiet for a few extra moments, because little kids are so all-encompassing and I longed for a glimpse of my former self. How it all changes all the time, parenthood. And the only way to learn it is to live through it.
Cough drops.
All the different kinds of tea! There are, honestly, too many kinds.
How New Haven is such a small but engaging, approachable city, with culture, great restaurants and the best pizza in the world, just accept it.
Sitting at the bar.
How Gabe made us all crepes constantly right after we returned from France, and J bought ingredients to make fondue. How trips stay with and inspire you. How they remind you that the world is so big, and you are so small.
The Pomodoro technique for scheduling work days when it’s tough to get going, and how I think I am not a person susceptible to productivity hacks, but of course I so am.
Nora and Gabe’s current nightly ritual of watching an episode or two of “Brooklyn 99” in the sunroom, the rest of us (affectionately) excluded, and how I was reminded recently of when they were so little, five and two-and-a-half or so, ambling along the seawall in our old neighborhood, and me thinking, “This is probably the cutest stage of my life,” but how this solidly teenage period of theirs is (in the way all the stages feel, somehow) the best one yet.
A martini with olives; an ice-cold Manhattan; a Negroni to start the evening.
How our house is so loud, and also having the house to myself.
When Maisie won’t come in from out back and we find her in the corner of the yard with a tennis ball and her paw up, like, “GUESS WHAT I HAVE AN IDEA.”
School concerts, and all the other musical events that fill up our calendars.
Bathrobes, slippers.
The teachers and coaches and specialists and therapists and doctors and nurses and everyone that works with young people, who are so very good at what they do.
Always and forever, knowing that most nights will end watching shows and reading books with J in bed (despite the fact that when he settles in he does so in an overenthusiastic fashion, thrashing all the blankets around, every single time, J) and having coffee in bed with him to start each morning.

It’s been a few weeks since my daughters and I returned from Taylor Swift’s November 16 Eras Tour show in Toronto, an event that was near incomparable, at least in my recent, personal history, when it comes to pure, unadulterated fun. When it comes to - and I don’t think we consider this quality enough, honestly - sparkling. I spent the week following at least, and still, like right this minute, if I’m being real, wishing I could relive it (and that’s a rare happening when you’re a grownup).

As in I’d look at my pictures and think, not - “That was great but exhausting,” or - “I am so glad I made this happen for my children,” - but, instead, “Oh my god, I want to be back in that room.”

That room. That stadium full of all my new best friends, because who else would you scream-sing “DON’T YOU LET IT GO” at the top of your lungs with like that, light-up bracelets going white to lavender, all unencumbered, unabashed, crying even?

You might recall that I wrote about the Eras tour previously when I lamented being unable to secure tickets for Nora, who was (and is) a huge fan. What happened? Well, Taylor extended the tour - Nora was 14 when I wrote that first post! - Aidy became fervent fan, too, and I guess you could say that I lost my mind with the possibility. I thought about how I could at least explore the resale ticket market and give my daughters this incredible gift for their 10th and 16th birthdays this year – when would ever they be these ages again? when would they both love the same artist so very much? – and once that thought grabbed hold I couldn’t drop it. This is how parenting is sometimes. It is thinking about how to get one kid to taekwondo and another to swimming in the same evening; it is visiting the StubHub site for embarrassingly large swatches of time to monitor prices.

I’ll tell you the moment that I knew that purchase was worth it. I mean, beyond when I gave the tickets to the girls on Aidy’s 10th birthday late this summer, and they reacted exactly in keeping with who they are. Nora with her quiet disbelief then graceful exaltation, and Aidy screaming “is it real?!” then running from the room sobbing.

The next moment I realized it was worth it, one of many that day, was when (after an absolutely giddy road trip, including when Nora dropped the passports beneath the seats exactly at the moment we were approaching our turn at the Canada border patrol, and an overnight at the Red Roof Inn outside Buffalo NY, where we watched a Hallmark Christmas movie before falling asleep) we walked inside our Toronto hotel and “So High School” was playing loudly from lobby speakers, every single employee wearing Taylor Swift shirts, a bracelet-making table and decorated photo backdrop near the front door, and Swifies (sequins, high heels, hair bows) everywhere. That was when I thought: ok, then. And the calculations about, “should I have done this?” vanished because the answer was undoubtedly yes.

The thing about the Taylor Swift show, and I’ve heard others who’ve seen her say the same, is it wasn’t just the show. The show, I mean, of course. So much anticipation that I, who had been nothing more than a basic fan in the months leading up to my decision to buy tickets, was full-fledged by the time the clock on stage counted down and Taylor and her entourage emerged; as starstruck as they come in my Taylor Swift cardigan, so on-brand it even said “Taylor Swift” in the lower left corner. I didn’t know it when I ordered it but hey, if you’re going to do this thing, then do it, right?

So much anticipation that as Gracie Abrams, that night’s opener, appeared on stage, Aidy turned to me and told me that she was not ok. “I’m shaking all over,” she told me, crying (the second of three Swift-related crying spells). “We’ve been waiting for so long, for so many months, and Taylor is going to be there on that stage, I can’t do it.” Full scale panic! Fandom to the max! So totally Aidy! I held her hand and we breathed together while she calmed down, singing with Gracie (who she loves, as well) coming back to herself.

Once Taylor appeared, Aidy was all in, all alright, fist-to-her-heart in harmony with everyone, everywhere, who has ever idolized a singer with the earnestness of a 10-year-old girl. And Nora knew every single word to every single song. I knew she did, I suppose, but to see it like that. How does she do it? Her in-the-moment-ness still so poised? The stadium glittering, all of us gems. I got tired just once, during the slower cadence of the Folklore/Evermore set then roared back to life as the 1989 era hit, opening with my favorite song, “Style.”

But back to how it was more than the concert itself. Before we entered the stadium, a security officer (who could have been, but wasn’t in the slightest, overwhelmed and annoyed by the endless manic fans, none of us having the slightest clue how to get where we were going) helped us with directions to the proper gate, then pulled Aidy aside and pointed out some Ricola cough drops sales representatives (“take some of these to help your throat after you’ve been screaming all night!” they beckoned to us) and told her to “go see my friends over there, I think they’ve got one more friendship bracelet left, and it’s for you.” The streets were flooded with streamer-laden bicycle taxis, the bars all had her music pouring out the windows, everyone was on cue.

And before that, back in the hotel lobby, we took pictures with fellow concert goers on the stairs, they did the same for us, lots of “want to trade bracelets?!”, lots of “you look GREAT.” The positivity, so pervasive you couldn’t escape it, who would want to?? None of them freaking out in a bad way. Not one girl angry at her mother, or vice versa. Every misstep, forgotten item requiring an elevator ride back up to the room, dismissed with a laugh. How?

And before that, when our room wasn’t ready early as requested, no problem, but then also wasn’t ready at 4 when it was supposed to be, the front desk representatives so very apologetic, and the three of us fine, rolling with the very gentle punches. We’d get ready in the hotel bathroom, and as it turned out a group of four twenty-something-year-old women were doing the same. They’d come to the city on a whim, buying their resale tickets right there outside the toilet stalls, hours before showtime, the audacity! That self-assured certainty a bunch of girlfriends can summon so beautifully in those situations: that everything will work out.

Curlers and straighteners plugged into wall sockets, I joked that I hope we wouldn’t blow a fuse, leaving the hotel in darkness (but, actually). There was a lot of glitter and a lot of smiling excitement, some sweet offers to share products, and then we drew “13” on our hands because that, if you aren’t aware, is Taylor Swift’s favorite number. And that is what you do. “HAVE THE BEST NIGHT EVER!” we wished one another in farewell. It was sort of already the best night ever.

It’s not news to anyone here that as you get older you acquire more responsibility. Sometimes, if you let it, that responsibility can run amok, claiming too much, posing way too many questions, until you’re stuck, and it’s not even responsibility anymore, it’s something entirely different. Something that’s not philosophically admirable, even while it’s posing as such.

I can certainly get like that, all mired in the indecision. Taylor thought, she was the antidote. All outfit changes and knowing glances and bracelet trades in the line at the snack bar, at breakfast the next morning, at the rest stop on the way home, way outside Canada. In the aftermath, what I am telling you is that it is advisable, near mandatory, to - every once in a while, or what the hell? as often as possible! - have that kind of fun.

When we got home that Sunday, following a long but happy, punch-drunk and candy-fueled, eight-hour drive, I found Aidy in bed – where she’d retired immediately – quietly weeping (this was number three). I pulled the comforter down from her face. “It’s over,” she said. “We waited so long and it’s over.” Ah, the corollary to her pre-concert meltdown. And I said the only thing one can say in that situation, overly sentimental, but true, about how we’d always have the memories.

Plus, I told her, there’s so much fun out there to be had. I said that for her, who inherently knows it, despite the letdown. I said it for me, who’d been reminded. Who knew it now, too.

Here's one substantive note about the music, and forgive me, I’m no critic, and don’t want to be maligned by the more serious fans out there for my overly basic interpretation. But in my metamorphosis from “knowing some of her songs” to whatever I am now with my Taylor Swift-embroidered Taylor Swift cardigan, I am truly enamored of this singer’s ability to write and perform music that captures her superstardom, and the regularities of everybody’s lives, so that a mother and her two daughters, and an entire stadium of screaming fans, all think, “this song is about how I feel.”

A song I’d never paid much attention to is “You’re on Your Own, Kid,” which just so happened to be one of the “surprise” songs at our concert, and is also Nora’s favorite. Nora, who truly values the lyrical mastery. Who, when I told her I’d finally listened to the words of that one post-concert, and, “you know what! that’s a great song!” rolled her eyes at me and was like, “Yes. I know.”

I explained to her why, couldn’t help myself, I was a new woman, all hopped up on StubHub thrills and imagining when I’d wear my new flowy dress again. She goes through this whole thing about her career or whatever, I said, and it’s kind of tough. “You’re on your own kid.” Then at the end….she flips it around to something positive. Quoted it to my 16-year-old daughter like she wasn’t fully aware.

“Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned/ Everything you lose is a step you take/ So make the friendship bracelets, take the moment and taste it/You’ve got no reason to be afraid.

You're on your own, kid
Yeah, you can face this
You're on your own, kid
You always have been.”

Take the moment and taste it, I said. That’s very good!

And Nora humored me, her suddenly star-eyed mom. I spared her further analysis because it would have gotten embarrassing to have me rambling on, but I think she got it just the same, the original fan in our family. Taylor ends it on a high note, about her, about us all. Take the moment! That’s what we did, and will do.

Forty-seven things I am grateful for on my 47th birthday

My post-Taylor Swift take on life