boston times

{7:30 a.m.} Hear little Max’s little cries and am tempted to try motherly hand at calming him. Said motherly hand is “out of practice” if not non-existent.

{8:30 a.m.} Wake up to Mr. Bright Eyes himself: a flurry of hand movement, kicks, stifled breathing and an intense eye-to-eye gaze. Still too young to know I’m not Mom so can get away with snuggling for just a little longer.

{10 a.m.} Late again. Curtis’ watch, my “alarm clock” says it’s 8 a.m. Still on Utah time. When looked at this way, didn’t really sleep in too late.

{11:30 a.m.} Finally out of the house, Honey Bunches of Oats in my stomach, scarf around my neck. Lane pops into Starbucks for peppermint hot chocolate with red sprinkles. She opens lid to make sure they’re actually there, then shows them off.

{12:30 p.m.} Browse the headstones in relic-packed graveyard hosting remains of pilgrims, early colonists and other revolutionaries like Mother Goose. Mysterious rocks carved up with angels of death, skeletons and skulls; Old English: "Here alfo lyef Fufanna Goofe"; and names like Mary, William and John, of course.

{2 p.m.} Lobster bisque at Faneuil Hall for Curtis and a thin-crust pizza topped with spinach and halved cherry tomatoes for me. Can't locate a straw for my Coke, but am happy for the refreshment, not to mention miraculous sunshiney forecast.

{3:30 p.m.} A stroll in late-afternoon glow of New England countryside leads to old grist mill, charming white chapel and original, yes original, red school house where “Mary Had A Little Lamb” originated. We ask simultaneously and aloud, “There are twelve verses?” Later, a dusky view of the sunset at the Old Bridge in Concord. Lane makes all laugh with her relentless goofiness--runs into group of tourists assumes is her own, dances stupidly, realizes her mistake and runs sheepishly into the darkness.

{5 p.m.} Dark already. A quick trip into H&M on Newbury proves fruitful, and truthfully, not so quick. In favorite moment, all five Anderson women check into fitting room stalls at same time. Doors swing open and closed, frustrating the attendant, with “lemme sees,” and “where did you find thats,” and “I wouldn’t pay more than $29 for thoses.” Too much affordable, girlish fun.

{7:30 p.m.} Who’s hungry? It’s deli sandwiches again back at sweet three-bedroom pad in what’s endearingly dubbed “Boston Harlem.” Just want something fresh and homemade, and heavy on provolone and tomatoes from the vine. Feels good to kick up feet, give the dogs some rest.

{9 p.m.} Nertz time, again. Twizzlers, M&Ms, Mt. Dew and Dr. Pepper complete comfy, cabin-like aura, though we’re on a city vacay on the preppy East Coast. Ashley and self prove a daunting pair; Curtis and I start off poorly, but pick up the slack at last. Jamie shows promise as one-man team, not surprisingly.

{12 a.m.} Time for bed, too much talking left to do. Where will we be next year? What additions to the family will be made? Who will go back to school and where? Curtis entertains crowd with tales of former desire for batteries in his earlobes and a skull-and-crossbone tattoo on his chest. Britton tells of airplane full of rats—the entire crew declared dead upon arrival. All laugh about thug-ish kid who yelled at a minivan of white “country” folk, “Yo! I OWN this car. I OWN it.” Slowly all saunter quietly to bed at random, as if plucked. Curtis, Pam and self always last to give in. Sleep soundly in bedroom shared(!) with newlyweds Grant and Jamie Anne. Hoping they'll forgive Curtis' chatty, inquisitive nature and our intrustion. Am happy in warm, full house.