A little more than a month ago, Pete went to a job interview in Boston.
“BOSTON?!”, we thought, “As if we would EVER move to BOSTON!”. I’m almost positive my exact words as I dropped him off at the airport were, “Get a grip on life. There is no WAY I’m moving. Nope. Enjoy your flight!”. A few weeks later they asked him to return for a second interview, and invited me along for the night. I mumbled and grumbled around the crooked sidewalks of South End like the Grinch of Beantown until I realized that it actually wasn’t *so* bad. In fact?
I started to think Boston was kind of cute. Like a teeny, tiny, REALLY CLEAN version of Park Slope. Kind of. So when we returned to Brooklyn, our cozy apartment now seemed claustrophobic and maddening. The impending cost of LJ’s preschool for next year seemed asinine. Some unhinged maniac kept setting off fireworks in the middle of the night that sounded like gunshots. Everything just seemed too loud, too crowded, and too expensive. We started to question our choices.
Weeks later, Pete received an amazing offer, I cried my eyes out, and the decision was made. One morning, when we told a sleepy LJ we were moving to a city called Boston where we could get a house with a yard she looked at us excitedly and shrieked,
WITH A SWIMMING POOL?!!
Uh, no, definitely not with a pool.
WITH A KITTY CAT?!!!
Sure, you can get a kitty.
YAY!! HOLD ON!! LET ME GET MY SHOES!!
So, that’s it. This chapter of our lives, with these playgrounds, friends, dance classes, brownstones, museums, subways, bus rides and stoop chats are over. All of my daughter’s favorite things, the ONLY things she knows, she probably won’t even remember.
So this post is for her, because I don’t want her to ever forget where her life began.
(Please excuse me while I go sob into my everything bagel with lox.)
Boston, here we come!