Tag Archives: Me Before Kids

Finally Embracing Facebook

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The most amazing thing just happened to me the other day. I actually found a relevant use for Facebook. A month or two ago, a friend told me that I HAD TO create an account and that I’d become instantly addicted. Well I created the account and then pretty much forgot about it until last week. Then for some reason I got a number of “Friend” invitations from both people I know well and people that I haven’t seen in years. Being in Key West, away from my day to day responsibilities, I had some time on my hands. So I actually updated my page with more details and did some searching through the Friend lists of my Friends for other friends (using the caps to differentiate between Facebook “Friends” and my “friends”). Okay – so my OCD tendencies kicked in and I felt compelled to comb through everyone’s Friend list to make sure I caught each and every last acquaintance.

Still this was just one of the many tedious exercises I put myself through (again – my OCD), and I didn’t expect to get much more from it than the usual momentary sense of accomplishment. But then something really wonderful happened. I actually found one of my best childhood friends whom I lost touch with almost ten years ago.

Last time we spoke, she had just moved to LA and couldn’t afford to fly back to DC for my wedding. As it sometimes happens with long distance friends, we let too much time pass and the next thing I knew, it had been years. But we were close during that period of childhood when your friends live at your house and treat your family like their family. I never had a sister, so Madeline became my sister. Here are some of the things that come to mind when I think of Madeline in fourth grade:

  1. She was the middle child of one of those big Catholic families (five kids), with two older sisters and two younger brothers. Her sisters were teenagers with bedrooms on their own floor of the house. They would put make up on us and style our hair. They gave Madeline her first “winged” haircut and we thought it was very sophisticated. They also told Madeline that she would be the prettiest of the three. I always thought how wonderful it must be to have glamorous teenage sisters with such high hopes for your future.
  2. She actually was a beautiful little girl, and once a woman stopped us on the street to tell her how lovely she was and remark upon her long eyelashes. We laughed about how weird that was, but Madeline was secretly pleased and I was secretly jealous. In spite of being quite petite and pretty, she was also a bit of a tomboy and was always good at climbing trees and bossing around her little brothers.
  3. The first time I played at her house it was a sleepover and I marveled at how she had her very own little black and white TV in her room. We stayed up late watching Benny Hill and Saturday Night Live and laughing at everything – even the jokes we didn’t understand.
  4. One of Madeline’s little brothers had Down syndrome and even though he wasn’t the youngest, he was cherished like a youngest child. Madeline was somehow very protective of him without ever making him seem any different from the rest of them. As small as she was, everything Madeline did was big. And her love could be best described as fierce.
  5. Madeline and I fought like sisters and once I actually punched her in the face. I was not a tomboy and had never done anything like that before. She laughed and I got a bloody nose. I was good at holding grudges, but she was always able to get me to come around. Most of the time I didn’t deserve it.


I could go on and on about the things that I remember about Madeline – about all of my childhood friends and how much I still remember about them. Who would have thought that something as commercial as Facebook would bring one of the lost ones back to me. Now I’m looking for Frances McMillen, Jerry Dougherty and Sarah Squire. All friends from different times – friendships both long and brief. They all count and now I want them all back. So we’ll see what Facebook has to offer.

I haven’t actually asked for comments yet (since you all seem to prefer e-mailing me directly…). But why not? What about you? Looking for a missing person? Who are they and what are the little but big things that you remember about them?

Please Dance Responsibly

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Well Chris is out of town again – so I’m back to BUI. Not as bad as last time – but I was a little shocked when I saw the dent I made in that wine bottle. This time, I’m putting it away before I can finish it. And I made sure to eat something substantial before sitting down to write (no off color, out of character innuendos – and I know that a few of you are disappointed).

But that one too many glasses of wine made me think about another “interesting” effect that too many drinks will instigate. One that I didn’t mention last time is the well known phenomenon that I think we can all relate to. Too many drinks make us all just a little too confident on the dance floor.

Just picture yourself at that wedding, college reunion or any celebratory event that usually includes an open bar. You start out the night catching up with old friends, hesitantly approaching people you don’t know well or haven’t seen in a long time, and possibly even doing a little restrained dancing along with the rest of the group. But fast forward about two to three hours after you’ve been too busy talking to eat the dinner that was seemingly whisked out from under your nose minutes after it arrived. After you’ve moved past the cocktail you ordered for yourself, to the less desirable one that someone else ordered for you, to the wine glass that seemed to be refilled every time a server visited your table, to the rounds of shots that you would never in a million years have accepted if you hadn’t already consumed the equivalent of your typical month’s alcohol intake. Now you are not only happy to be there but well aware of how happy everyone else is that you are there. You are quite possibly one of the most sought after conversationalists present and you are now ready to show your admirers that you are far more than just a pretty face. You are an exceptionally talented dancer.

That’s right. We’ve all been there – and some of us have been unfortunate enough to be documented in pictures and video. As fun as it is at the time – as great as we think we look at the time – we all know that once the glitter is gone and the fluorescent lights are on, we just weren’t as fabulous as we felt.

How often have we cringed when we woke up “the morning after”? Very few of us have the strength of character to either stand by our electric boogaloo moves or to withstand the character assassination from our nearest and dearest via digital photo eblasts and YouTube footage. But here’s to those who march to the beat of their own inner DJ. They somehow never look dorky. And if their moves don’t convey mad skillz, their enthusiasm encourages those around them to join in the fun.

As for those “mornings after” – well, I’ve had many. I will be the first to admit to having the Footloose urges that a few drinks tend to inspire. And while I do cringe a little, I also try to remember the fun and the lack of inhibition. Living in the moment offers a thrill that we rarely allow ourselves in daily life. And it helps to be able to laugh at yourself (even for people like me who take themselves very seriously).

I remember once making plans to meet up for drinks with my friends Nancy and Maureen on a Friday night shortly after I returned from my honeymoon in 2000 (when we were 28). We agreed to meet at J. Paul’s in Georgetown. It was a central location with good atmosphere and a restaurant if any of us needed to grab dinner. It was always packed, but not too crowded. We had a great time catching up, and after a few drinks (and no dinner), decided to move on to another bar for another drink. Next stop was Mr. Smith’s – again, not too crowded and conducive to conversation. This is where we probably could have called it a night, but we were having SO much fun that we just had to move on to a third bar. And what is across the street from Mr. Smith’s, but everyone’s favorite (at least at that time) post-college bar, The Griffin Room at The Guards. We walked in there like we were 23 again – just more sophistocated, with better clothes. After ordering some very cheap gin & tonics, we took a moment to enjoy the ubiquitous “everybar” music and check out the scene.

Having graduated from Fordham in New York, I have great nostalgia for Frank Sinatra classics which at that time had not quite infiltrated mainstream DC nightlife (or at least not the just-out-of-college crowd). I can’t resist the urge to dance to this mainstay of my college bar experience; and The Summer Wind could be considered the mother ship for me and all of my fellow alumni. The minute I heard those opening notes I began to search the room for a dance partner. And as soon as I spotted him I knew he was the one. Too much hair gel, obvious Italian heritage and a black leather jacket – he was exactly what I needed. He was just the guido I was looking for. In all of my liquored up bravado, I marched right over and said, “You’re from New York. You like Frank Sinatra. Come dance with me.” And he did. He asked me how I knew that he was from New York, and I tactfully responded that he was very “urban” while most DC natives were more conservative. This seemed to please him, and I blissfully spun and dipped knowing that my friends were right there with me doing the same.

After that, everything went downhill. No idea what happened to my Italian friend, but we subsequently spiraled down into a haze of current pop music and groups of Eurotrash players. But surprisingly, I made it home at a respectable hour – and with some aspirin and late night food, avoided the expected hangover. Having graduated from considering any wild night a great time to suffering pangs of mortification for the slightest memory of exuberance – I was fairly pleased with my ability to dance at The Griffin Room without making an ass out of myself (even if I didn’t remember very much of it). Then about a week later, when Nancy and I were driving to see Cirque de Soleil, we talked about what a fun night that had been. I remarked upon how we had managed to be so silly without doing anything embarrassing. That was the exact moment that the song Who Let the Dogs Out started playing on the radio. And then it all came flooding back. The circle dance, the moves, the strutting. Oh – the humiliation… Well what can you do? We just laughed.

But some people throw themselves into dancing regardless of whether they have been drinking or not, and they have my utmost respect. My father is one of these people. Anyone watching him dance will say, “he is fantastic!” He certainly looks like he can dance. He has moves, he has fancy footwork, and he twirls his partner in very intricate rotations around the dance floor. But the truth is – my father is a loose cannon. He doesn’t follow any set dance steps, so his partner has no idea what to expect. He loves to do complicated things involving pretzeling of arms and whipping motions that send his partner ricocheting in all directions. This was a source of great concern for my mother when it came time to pick a song for our father-daughter dance at my wedding. I was a bit windblown by the end – but we managed to make it through without any injuries.

Once at my cousin Kristin’s rehearsal dinner, he almost killed her grandmother. Mrs. Sharon is Kristin’s mother’s mother (my father is her father’s brother), so we didn’t know her well. But anyone could see that she was an extremely elegant and dignified woman. There was a pianist and a dance floor at the event; and when dinner concluded, my father asked Mrs. Sharon to dance. I was sitting next to the dance floor with Chris and my mother and we watched with great trepidation as my father tossed the sweet lady around in something that resembled a lively jitterbug. Toward the end of the song, he pulled out one of his signature moves of spinning her out and then back in, but somehow lost hold of her hand in mid fling. Then everything went into slow motion as we saw her turn about three times in a trajectory aimed directly at the dining tables. Three seconds later she was under a table. All we could see were feet sticking out from under the beige linen.

Later, my father said that all he could think was, “oh god – please don’t be dead.” But moments later, the poor woman popped up to give everyone an “I’m okay,” wave. They then returned to the dance floor in a more subdued attempt to save face. Once the wheezing laughter had stopped and we were wiping the last few tears from our cheeks, the song ended. And as my father and Mrs. Sharon passed by, we heard him say, “let’s take a breather.”

So whether you reserve your best moves for the open bar events or proudly display them whenever the opportunity presents itself, think before you frug. If there is a videographer present, walk away from the light. Beware of friends bearing digital cameras. Your dancing never looks half as good as it feels so why ruin it with documentation. Truly, it’s all fun and games until someone loses their integrity doing the Electric Slide.

Mini Me

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Now that my toddlers are becoming little people and aren’t little babies anymore, they’re really starting to pick up on our behaviors and mannerisms. Initially, they’ll have inherited traits that will provide the foundation for their personalities – like Oliver, my three year old’s tendency to fight change. But it’s the little day-to-day quirks that most surprise and amuse us.

Just the other day I caught Oliver doing something that I now realize I do all the time. He wanted something out of the refrigerator and when I said no, he pretended that he didn’t hear me and opened the door anyway. Then he very seriously put an index finger to his chin and said, “Hmm. Let’s see….” And then I couldn’t escape it – every time I opened a door or a drawer to select anything, I’d catch myself saying, “Hmm. Let’s see…” He definitely got that one from me. He’s also taken up a quirk of mine that goes back to my college days. In my junior year, I lived across the hall from a group of lacrosse players. They were pretty friendly even though I didn’t know them well. A few weeks after moving in, I noticed that whenever I would see one of them, they’d always say, “Oh, HI Kate.” I’d just return the pleasantry – but after a while, I realized that they were making fun of me. When I finally asked what this “oh hi” business was about, they explained that I never just said “hi” or “hey” – it was always, “Oh, HI.” Since I’ve never much enjoyed being the butt of a joke, I made a concerted effort to stop saying that. Apparently it didn’t work. Whenever someone of note enters a room, Oliver will look up and say, “Oh, HI!”

All of these connections that I find between Oliver and me have been a pleasant surprise since before the twins were born we all thought he was exactly like his father. But that just goes to show how young personalities develop and change over time. I’m sure that in a few years, when he’s more of a little boy playing on sports teams and doing guy stuff, we’ll think he’s more like Chris again. And that can continue to change – it’s impossible to get everything from one parent. This is the reason that it drives me absolutely crazy when people insist that one of my twins is more like me and the other is more like Chris. George and Eleanor are still three months away from their second birthday and they have already changed so many times. I just let people say whatever they want and agree with them. It’s not worth the effort to correct them, but whenever possible I say that my children are going to try out a lot of different roles as they grow up and I’m always going to support them in that. Especially if they resemble me.

And I love now seeing the circularity of this in how I resemble my own parents. I swear that when I hear my never ending voiceover in the hours of video footage we take of our children not doing the adorable thing they were doing five seconds ago, I sound EXACTLY like my mother. In fact, while growing up I always identified more with my mother. I was more artistic and less athletic, I was a little reserved, I tended to think a lot about what I was wearing and I was creative with my accessories (I’ll have to post some embarrassing photos of that sometime). But Dad had to get more than just his genes in there.

Now that I’m older I see SO many behaviors that make me Terry Coveny’s clone. Just like my Dad, I must provide a solution for any given problem I hear. If you told him that you felt like you may have missed out on some opportunities in life, Answers Man will ask you a few questions and then take you through a step-by-step plan for how to think positively, take some risks and get more out of your future than you did in your past. There’s no venting with us – we are a strictly problem-solving operation. I also make it my mission in life to carry every shopping bag into the house in one trip. If I have a pile of ten items to transport from one room to another, I will engineer a construction that I can carry all at one time. I may not be able to see where I’m going, but damn it, I won’t waste precious minutes running back and forth. I need that time to clean up the mess when I inevitably drop everything. And of course, as implied above, I take myself VERY seriously . I will not be mocked (I’m getting a little better about that one – it’s all about growth).


So it will be interesting to see which of my children comes down the stairs wearing a rhinestone pin on a vintage scarf (hopefully it won’t be George – but you know I’ll be supportive if it is) or crashes around a corner with something that resembles the leaning tower of Pizza. Even in their most infuriating teenager phase when Chris and I want to move away and not leave a forwarding address – We will never feel completely honest in any form of criticism. Secretly, we’ll always know that they got it from us.