Stonyfield Is Now a Certified B Corp!

In news that should surprise no one, Stonyfield Yogurt is now a certified B corp. In short, this means that they have been certified to be socially and environmentally responsible, using their for-profit business for social good.

In becoming a B corp, Stonyfield joins more than 1600 other companies who have already been certified. According to, “B Corp is to business what Fair Trade certification is to coffee or USDA Organic certification is to milk.”

Stonyfield joins companies such as King Arthur Flour, Pete & Gerry’s Organics (eggs), Purely Elizabeth (granolas and cereals), Preserve (household products made from recycled plastic), Method (dish soap and other cleaning products), Pukka (tea), Warby Parker, and Patagonia.

To celebrate, Stonyfield sent me a basket of treats from some of their fellow B corps: sprouted whole-wheat flour from King Arthur, a toothbrush from Preserve, Method hand soap, Pete & Gerry’s eggs, Purely Elizabeth granola, and Pukka turmeric tea.

Congratulations, Stonyfield!

Step Right Up! CIRCUS 1903 Is Coming to Town! #Giveaway

I love a good old-fashioned circus. All those acrobatics and feats of strength and daring, high-wire acts and juggling and everything! Fortunately, a really cool circus is coming to Boston (and other cities) in a few weeks: CIRCUS 1903 – The Golden Age of Circus.

The producers of the world’s biggest magic show, The Illusionists have teamed up with the award winning puppeteers from War Horse to present a thrilling turn of the century circus spectacular…

…Sensational puppetry puts Elephants back in the ring as never seen before by introducing the largest-ever performing African elephant and her baby [NOT REAL — the elephants are puppets!], along with a huge cast of the most unique, amazing and dangerous circus acts from all four corners of the world, from strong men to contortionists, acrobats to musicians, knife throwers, high wire and much more!

Yeah, just doing a split on an ironing board held by 2 guys biking on a tightrope…what r u up to? (Photo credit Mark Turner)

The award-winning team of puppeteers and model makers who created the National Theatre’s War Horse will design, build and bring to life two stunningly beautiful elephants for CIRCUS 1903 –The Golden Age of Circus. Featuring groundbreaking advances in design and expression, the puppets appear throughout the show as the mother teaches her calf the tricks of the trade.

I cannot wait to see this live! (Photo credit: Mark Turner

Giveaway: I’m giving away 4 tickets to the show! Wednesday, March 8 at 7:00 p.m., BOCH CENTER WANG THEATRE in Boston. If you can make that show, jump into the giveaway! If you can’t, see below to get a 25% discount on tickets!

To win tickets: I’m doing this via Rafflecopter. It’s very easy, and you have several options to choose from.
a Rafflecopter giveaway


Discount Code: Save 25% on tickets to see CIRCUS 1903 – The Golden Age of Circus  at the Boch Wang Theatre!  Visit  and enter code MOMS to buy your discounted tickets.  Discount applies to all performances, while supplies last. Valid on all levels, excluding Orchestra Pit.

Tickets: In any case, tickets are on sale at the Boch Center box office, through or by calling (866) 348-9738.

Social Media: Follow CIRCUS 1903 –The Golden Age of Circus on Twitter: @Circus1903, Facebook and Instagram: @Circus1903.


Staying Fueled With Stonyfield Organic Whole Milk Smoothies

I’ll admit it: We eat between meals. I’m more in the six-small-meals-a-day camp, so I tend to graze. And the kids get hungry between lunch and dinner, after at least an hour of playground time after school. Who can blame them?

And they need to stay fueled for everything else, such as fort building,

ice skating,

homework, and more.

We don’t eat junk food, though. Our snacks tend to be veggies and hummus, cheese and crackers, fruit, nuts, or the occasional granola bar. A bowl of plain whole milk yogurt with a drizzle of maple syrup is something they sometimes enjoy, too.

My younger son sometimes begs me to buy him the brightly colored yogurt drinks at the store, but I rarely do. Then Stonyfield send me some of their new Organic Whole Milk Smoothies.

Hello there!

I’ve long eschewed the low-fat trend (I also refuse to make any recipe with “skinny” in the name). The texture of low-fat foods was never quite right. Let’s face it, fat tastes good! It improves mouthfeel, whether you’re talking about yogurt, cheese, a muffin — you name it.

Also, I never quite believed (as an adult) that lowering our fat intake was necessarily helpful. We never did switch the kids to skim milk (yuck). Turns out my instinct was right — fat isn’t horrible for you and doesn’t lead, on its own, to obesity. Plus, fat keeps you full longer.

Anyway. These whole milk smoothies are now available in Strawberry and Peach. They’re good! My kids like both but have a slight preference for strawberry. They come in four-packs, with each bottle containing six ounces. Each bottle has 7 grams of fat and 6 grams of protein. With 16 grams of sugar, they have more added sugar than I’d like, but sometimes that’s OK. They’re gluten-free, organic, and non-GMO.

I make smoothies for the kid almost every morning (Stonyfield plain whole milk yogurt, fruit, juice, protein powder). These organic whole milk smoothies are a quick alternative for days when we’re rushed, or good for an after-school snack (or a midmorning snack for me). I might also try adding one to a smoothie I’m making to sweeten it up a little.

Thanks for going full fat, Stonyfield!

Talking to Kids About Real Things (Gonna Be a Long 4 Years)



We were watching “The Wide Window” in “A Series of Unfortunate Events” when my phone buzzed.

Do you have the kids now?


I’m probably going to Logan. 

Earlier in the evening I’d shared, on Facebook, a compiled lists of protests around the country due to (this time) the new president’s new executive order banning people from entering the U.S. from certain countries. While some of them were in flight.

Yeah, this is horrifying on so many levels.

I responded to my text, quietly: -I would but have very tired slightly sick kids. Thank you for going!! 

Also, I don’t take my kids to protests in the middle of bedtime. We’re chasing a very delicate equilibrium these days and I try to keep the status quo as much as possible. The new custody schedule helps a ton, and I think Friday evening karate does, too. Yes, I know we’re privileged, and privileged enough to try to maintain order and a schedule and routine. I know.

I wished her luck and returned to watching the show with the kids, the younger one snuggled against me.

Twenty minutes later, when the show had ended and I was reading to the kids (George, about a boy who understands she’s really a girl and has a hard time telling anyone but really wants to play Charlotte in the school performance of “Charlotte’s Web”–an excellent book, and so well done, and the kids totally get it and it’s not a big deal to them, and I love that this book exists and hate that it is so out of the norm), my phone buzzed again. Another local friend.

“Mom, stop texting,” my older son grumbled.

“I need to check it. I can explain why,” I said.

The second friend was texting to see if I’d join her at the protest in Boston tomorrow. I checked her text because I knew it would be protest-related and wanted to know if I should connect her with the first friend, so they could carpool to Logan if need be.

“So,” I started, “the Statue of Liberty has a poem on it by a woman named Emma Lazarus, saying, ‘Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.’

“This country became a refuge for so many people seeking shelter and peace and a better life.* The United States welcomes all. Or, did. But our new President has signed something called an ‘executive order,’ an official decree, stating that people from certain countries — all of them predominantly Muslim countries — cannot come to the United States anymore.

“Some of the people were on planes at the time that he signed it, so when they landed here they couldn’t go to to where they were going, and they couldn’t be put back on a plane to go back to where they came from. They were sent to detention centers to talk with immigration lawyers about what they could do.**”

“Wait, why couldn’t they just be put on planes to go back?”

“Great question. For some people, it’s not safe to return to where they came from. They came here seeking a safe place. For others, there’s no reason to return. Maybe they were just on a trip. In any case, who would pay for the flight? So they are sent to detention centers.

“So people are protesting this around the country tonight, at different airports, and they are also marching tomorrow to protest. So I was checking my texts to see if S—‘s mom is going to Logan tonight, like J—- is, to see if maybe they can carpool. But S—-‘s mom is going to the march tomorrow in Boston. Want me to read a few more pages?”

And then poor George had to deal with her teacher refusing to take her Charlotte audition seriously. Ugh.

And then the kids conked out the way very tired children do, especially when they’re fed and safe and warm and secure. Sorry to lay it on thick. It’s been a long week, the first week of a long four years. We’ll be stopping by the Boston protest tomorrow, all three of us.

*For real, we talked about Europeans invading the U.S. and taking the land away from Native Americans and killing most of them and forcing the rest to live in crappy “reservations” just a few days ago, so I skipped that part.

**Admittedly a little heavy for bedtime. But I’m not going to shield my children from their president’s actions for the next four years. I cannot. It’s impossible and stupid to try. Instead: Hey kids, here’s what your president is up to. We’re so, so sorry, and it hurts so many people. 

In a Field of Crappy News, Some Joy

It’s true the news is kind of ugly out there. But here’s something that might make you cry for different reasons:

My town has a Facebook page. OK, it has a few: “parents,” “everything is free,” “online yard sale,” and the basic town list.

Someone posted to the regular town list that her adult disabled stepdaughter (age 35, spina bifada) was finally getting her own apartment and needed pretty much everyone one would need to furnish an apartment, so if anyone had anything to donate, that would be great.

A-listers, my adult disabled stepdaughter is finally getting an apartment on her own.
She is going to need everything that you can imagine to get her apartment set up.
If you have things that you are no longer using and would like to put them to great purpose I would be so grateful.
Really she needs pretty much everything.
Thank you!

Well. The outpouring was tremendous. So the woman posted a list of specifics.

A- listers, you have overwhelmed me with kindness for help getting my step daughter, Christine’s apartment set up under way. Many have asked for the whole list. It’s big! One of our nice neighbors has offered to set up a google list so we can all see what is filled and what needs she still has. Here goes!
Christine’s new apartment wish list:

Christine has spina bifida so she is a petit gal. Things that are lighter in nature will be more helpful to her.

Dishes- lightweight or corelle style
Non stick cooking pans
Dish rack
Tea kettle
Drinking glasses
Cooking knives
Glass blender
Glass baking pans
Brita or similar
Swiffer/brooms etc
Cheese grater
Pizza cutter
Pizza pan
Rolling pin
Soap dispenser
Large kitchen bowl
Salad spinner
Food Processor
Kitchen utensils- spatulas, spoons, whisks, ladles etc.
Cutting board
Oven mitts
Automatic can opener
Lightweight step ladder

Table lamps
Area rugs
Sleeper sofa
Side tables
Desk or swivel chair
Coffee table
2 floor lamps
Full size bed frame
Storage ottoman
Grabber for high things
Non slip bath mat
Large storage bin
Shower curtain rings
Lightweight snow shovel
Basic household tools
First aid kit
Book shelf

I mean, she obviously needs EVERYTHING.

A few days later:

I wanted to post an updated Google doc with Christine’s evolving list for her apt (many have asked for an update) I hope to be able to pick up all of your nice items next week.

The Google doc, edited for anonymity:

Christine’s new apartment wish list: Updated 1/7/17

Wow we are closing in!!!



Swiffer/brooms etc

Pizza pan

Rolling pin

Soap dispenser

Automatic can opener

Lightweight step ladder



Grabber for high things

Non slip bath mat

Lightweight snow shovel

Basic household tools

First aid kit


Oven mitts- have

Storage bin- E—– pu tues or weds

Cutting board- R— pick up weds

Dishes- lightweight or corelle style- E—  to drop off

Cutlery- 4 flatware M—-  pick up Tues am, also C—

Non stick cooking pans-2 ready to pick up at D—- Tues (Bel)

Dish rack

Drinking glasses- I believe we have plastic ones offered

Plastic reusable cups- pick up T— Picking up Tues

Cooking knives- S—

Glass blender- J— to drop off Sunday

Glass baking pan- M— will let me know

Brita or similar- S—

Salad spinner- Someone  is including this I believe

Crockpot- L— pick up on Tues

Food Processor- pick up at S—- Tues

Kitchen utensils- spatulas, spoons, whisks, ladles etc.

Mixing bowls and platters- Z—- dropping off, mix bowl C—

Dishtowels etc.  R— to drop off

Pasta strainer L—- will drop off

Check it out. How much stuff people are donating. How many are dropping it off so the stepmom doesn’t have to pick it up.

I didn’t have much to donate; I shed extras pretty hard when I moved in August. We’re actually a little tight when it comes to dishes and seating, in fact. But so many had so much to give.

A mere week after the very first post, the stepmother posted this:

Seriously fantastic neighbors,
In just one week you have rallied together to help my disabled step daughter get set up in her first apartment at 35. My jaw dropped at the initial outpouring of offers to help. But the fact that virtually ALL of you who replied with offers came through, was astounding.
Each reply, each messenger response and each warm wish made we want to burst into tears. Christine is one lucky gal to have the fortune of your generosity.
The massive list I posted just days ago, has been whittled down to a short list.
A huge hug to all of you, and I will be posting some move in pics of Christine and the new apartment soon!

Thank you!

Today, she posted pics of her stepdaughter in the new apartment…with rugs, furniture, lamps, everything.

Christine’s apartment adventure update:
Today was the big move day. She had not seen one thing that you all donated to her (as it’s all been in my house for the past week)
Let me just say she was thrilled when we started unpacking. She couldn’t believe how nice the things you donated were, and she was overwhelmed with the idea that people in A—- rallied on behalf of a total stranger.

She feels a bit uncomfortable about accepting help for her disability. But honestly, this is about so much more than that (as I explained to her) this is about freaking great neighbors who care about each other.
I have never been prouder of our town.
Thank you all so very much!

I can’t (and won’t) post the pics here, because they’re on the town list, but trust me: one very happy woman has moved into her very first independent living situation thanks in great part to the kindness of strangers.

This town — and most humans in general — are great. Let us remember that. Let’s keep this kind of decency and kindness in mind as we move forward.

And Christine, congratulations! Enjoy your apartment and new life.

Teaching Kids About Holiday Giving With Stonyfield

My kids like Christmas. They have warm, secure lives in two decent homes and are fed well. They are fortunate. They know that I donate to various organizations (some combination of Planned Parenthood, local public radio, the Greater Boston Food Bank, Rosie’s Place, Home for Little Wanderers), plus we’ve been known to make care packages for people in the nearby homeless camp (socks, cookies, a little money, toothbrushes and toothpaste).

This year, I opted into a “pay it forward” campaign with Stonyfield; they sent me a $50 Visa gift card, and I got to decide where and how to spend it.

With the Stonyfield card, I talked to the kids about how we could “pay it forward.” Should we contribute to something global, such as Heifer International or Save the Children? To a national social justice organization, such as the Southern Poverty Law Center? Something more local, like the Greater Boston Food Bank? Something even closer to home, such as the Food for Free’s Cambridge Weekend Backpack Program, which recently suffered devastating budget cuts?

I explained each organization and what it does. Max chose the Cambridge Weekend Backpack Program. I think the idea of kids being hungry and not having enough food on the weekend was most relatable for him (he’s knows he is well fed and has all the snacks he wants and needs, but considering that some kids don’t have anything to eat on weekends struck a chord with him).

Before I could make the donation, an “Urgent!” email came from our school PTO. Every year our school has a Giving Tree with tags marked with item, size, and price, so that everyone our town who celebrates Christmas can have gifts under the tree. You take a tag, buy the specific item, and leave it in a box under the tree. This  year, at deadline time, there were still a few unclaimed tags. I read aloud the options to my children: sneakers and shoes in various kid sizes, a toy helicopter, a toy jet, a jacket.

Oh, whoa. Every kid should have adequate footwear and cold-weather gear and a dream toy. I told my kids about the tags. I suggested we consider giving to this, too. The boys decided on the size 12 boy’s sneakers, which were $40, and we all decided we would use the other $10 for the backpack program in Cambridge (which, thankfully, has received a lot of donations since the announcement of the budget cuts).

Thanks, Stonyfield, for the opportunity to “pay it forward” this year. And I love that my kids got to consider different options for spending and choose the ones they could relate to.

Happy late December, all! And happy holidays, too, if you have a holiday to celebrate soon!


Today I Tried Ballet

Feel free to start imagining a bull in a china shop, or an elephant dancing.

I have absolutely no rhythm and no sense of body movement. I have taken a multi-week hip-hip/jazz class (and yes, was the person who actually crashed into everyone else because I went right when they went left). I have tried Zumba (really not my scene, and also I can’t do it because I have no sense of rhythm).

Here’s what I can do, before you think I’m totally lame: I can run an ultra with training. I can run 25 miles of technical trail without training (yeah, that shocked me, too, and my Achilles are still kind of pissed about it). I can do an hour-long HIIT or Tabata or boot camp workout without breaking much of a sweat or hurting the next day.

But I cannot dance.

Because I am unemployed right now (and can only apply for so many jobs per day, because there are only so many jobs out there), and because I’m sick with a cold,* today I decided to go to the gym. There was a Burn class followed by a ballet class (the suburban branch of my gym has classes all day long to meet the needs of a big stay-at-home population, which is awesome). The Burn class was great. Very familiar stuff: weights, core work, some cardio and Tabata thrown in.

I had read that the ballet class was open to everyone. I saw people in ballet slippers and skirts lining up at the door. I ran down to the locker room to get my barre socks (I once did a barre class and was given the grippy socks). I got into ballet after class started.

The people were very kind. They had lots of pointers for me. There was no space for me on the bars in the middle of the floor, so I had to go to the front of the room. The teacher demo’ed each warmup thing. The very nice (and amused) woman behind me cued me in a whisper throughout each routine.

People, ballet is complicated! And fussy! And the instructions are all in French!! And your arms aren’t just waving mindlessly; there’s actually some sort of protocol for arm movement, and your eyes are supposed to follow your hand (did you even know that??), and anyway even if your feet are doing silly things your arms are also supposed to be doing something that coordinates, and your head/eyes should follow, making it a lot more complicated than it should be.

Plus, the teacher kept saying “Fondue!” but there was no cheese. But I think I kicked ass (no pun intended) at arabesque.

So we did half an hour at the bar, following her routines. Please note I was the youngest person in the class by far.

Then the bars were pushed aside and we moved into the middle of the room. And then all the friendly wonderful nice people kept coming up to me to say, “You should stay at the back of the room” and “Watch the woman in the gray tie-dyed tights; she keeps it simple” and “We’ve been building on this choreography all month and today is the 30th, which is why everyone knows the routines but you” and “We’ve all been dancing together for 20 years; this is our second teacher!” and “You should try the beginner’s class on Monday” and “When you plie, keep your back upright; don’t lean forward” and “It’s so brave of you to be here!”

Yes. I’m the bravest ballet motherf*cker on the planet. The name is Bond. Ballet Bond.

So they were all doing parts of this choreography they’ve been working on all month and everyone already knew the routine.

I tried. I tried hard. And then I gave up. I couldn’t handle the tinkly piano music and constrained movements anymore. My movements are big. I carry too much. I can do mind over matter like nobody’s business. I can push myself to the edge when no one else gives a shit. I can carry a bundle of asphalt shingles to the roof (or, used to be able to; it’s been a while since I’ve had to). I can run. But I cannot dance at all.

I am not a ballerina. (Note: I deeply respect ballerinas. They’re super-strong and work incredibly hard and obviously can handle mind over matter. But we are different.)

So I sort of tried to follow the routines but just needed to move my body. I stepped. I kicked. I pirouetted. I leaped. I flapped my arms.

Everyone encouraged me to come to the Monday beginner class.

Honestly, I’d rather do boot camp.

*I have this theory that if I have a bad cold, I’m better off getting out there and moving and working rather than just sitting around sipping tea. I mean, I do that, too (and also drink tons of hot garlicky lemony broth spiked with cayenne), but I can’t do that all day. Exercise is good, too.

Post-Election, With Kids

I have children. We listen to NPR a lot, such that when we’re driving anywhere, if we don’t have a favorite book on CD, the older one (age 8) asks for 90.9, WBUR. So what if I want a little hip-hop or hard rock or pop music for a change. Nope, he always wants the news.

Granted, it’s not been the easiest year for our children, what with the parental separation and then the moving. But even for kids with the most even, smooth lives, this has not been an easy election season.

How do I know this? Because I while I have my political opinions and am honest with my children — to an appropriate degree — they’d come home from school with statements and questions such as, “If Trump becomes President, he’s going to make all the Muslims leave.” Or, “Is it true Trump would start slavery again? I heard a kid at school say that.” Or, “I hate Trump. He’s a liar.” Or — out of nowhere, it seemed, “Mom, why would any woman vote for Trump if he’s against healthcare for women?” (My admittedly flip and feminist response: “Why would any man vote for him, for that exact same reason?” before getting into a brief explanation, which honestly I couldn’t answer, because I do not understand why anyone but either the severely disenfranchised white male or else someone who’s totally privileged and can’t see outside their own little window would vote for him. Also, not sure where he heard about this except from NPR or kids at school; I sure as hell haven’t brought it up.)

My kids have had a lot of questions. I have tried to be honest. I have been careful not to badmouth. I have tried to answer their questions with facts. In our little bubble, we only know one Trump supporter,* and I only know one Gary Johnson supporter (in a swing state, no less). Fortunately my kids are not yet aware of the role of third-party candidates in swing states. (Yes, we live in a very precious little bubble here in Eastern Massachusetts.)

As kids do, they have some opinions, and they also hear things from other kids.

I went to an election results party Tuesday night (which, yeah, was probably the least relaxing party in the history of parties, with people getting tense; some of us crying; some of us warning people we’d just met that we might need to hug them, for comfort; one guy swigging Maker’s Mark from the bottle at 2 a.m.).

I don’t know what time it was or where in the results we were when I turned to a friend, another parent, and asked, “How will we explain this to our children tomorrow?” Neither of us had an answer.

I wasn’t with my boys last night or this morning. I picked them up after their after-school program today. “He’s mad,” said the older boy’s after-school yoga teacher (also my sometime yoga instructor). “They all are,” she added, nodding toward two third-grade girls talking about how much they hated Trump and some of the bad things he might do.

It wasn’t until dinner that we could really talk about it. Until then, it was clear the boys were a little edgy and angry.


I get it. I woke up and started to cry this morning, after too little sleep. I reached out to a friend and we met for coffee — after I stood waiting near the kindergarten drop-off at school and had to move away so the kids didn’t see me crying, and other parents passed me after dropping off their kids and stopped to hug and also start to cry. I texted faraway and near friends to share support.

I cried more. I tried to work. I took a break to listen Clinton’s concession speech. I turned off CNN and worked more. More texts, hugs, support, plans, love shared. I got myself to the woods for a little bit and ran and cried and was grateful for my local favorite trail and forest and nature space.

I planned on an easy dinner and a slightly more involved comfort-food meal tomorrow, bought groceries, and went to pick up the kids from school.


They played on the playground with friends; we came home and they did homework. Emptied lunchboxes. Set the table. As usual.

We sat down to dinner.

“So, did anything happen at school today? Did your teachers talk about anything?”

Older boy: “You mean the election?”

“Yes, I mean the election. Did your teachers talk about it? Did kids talk about it?”

“Some kids did, but then then the teacher wouldn’t let us talk about it anymore.”

Ok. Let’s grab this bull by the horns.

So one time, years ago, I dated a grumpy comedian, and though he usually sucked, he did this one show at the Davis Square Theater (now renamed) in which he completely improv’ed and completely blew our minds. He started to talk and I have no idea where what came out came from, but it was amazing and stitched together somehow and led us on an amazing journey and brought us out the other side, laughing hard. It was spectacular.

(That was actually the only time he did that. It was amazing. The rest of the time, I winced as he bombed, poor delivery and timing and clumsiness and all that; I think he eventually gave up and went into social work).

I kind of felt like I channeled that one amazing show of his at dinner tonight, minus the humor.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I launched into a friendly monologue about how this election surprised a lot of people, but Trump isn’t evil (*crossed my fingers*) and we’re all going to work together and move forward. And we can work for change, but we support each other. and we’re not going to call Trump supporters bad names. We’re all safe and going to be safe. So are your friends. No, we are not going to build a wall. Yes, you’re right; there are a lot of ways to get over, under, or around a wall with Mexico, but there will not be a wall. And the President of Mexico reached out to Trump and they will work together (that shocked them). And other world leaders reached out, and they will work together. And it’s not perfect and we are going to work hard for change, but you’re safe and you’re loved and your friends are safe and we’re going to move forward and work together, and we’ll all be OK. It’s all OK.

I answered their questions as they arose, and by the end they seemed bored. Which, honestly, is fine with me for children who’ve had a year of many tough transitions. I will work hard for change, and they will at some point really understand what it means and why it is important.

**Yes, they know of only one Trump supporter in their sheltered world. I suppose that’s a special sort of privilege. And I would love to know how that Trump supporter can look her own granddaughter in the eye and admit that her vote says that her granddaughter’s healthcare needs and rights don’t matter at all. That her vote says women don’t really matter and they’re at fault if they’re sexually assaulted and maybe they’re not pretty enough to be pussy-grabbed, which they should not dare complain about should it happen. That her own immigrant parents shouldn’t have been able to stay. That her gay friends don’t matter. And so much more.

Friends, last night and today are hard. But we can mobilize. We can make change. Let’s go.



Yeah. Stuff Is Hard.

My old pal and running partner Sasha used to say that you can only do three things well. At the time, we both had small children and were training a lot for races. Her three things were running, writing, and parenting. Mine were….running, parenting, cooking, working, knitting….I might have been trying to do too many things, actually. I’m like that. It doesn’t mean I’m doing them well. It just means I “never have time” and I have too much going on.

I’ll be honest: I am having a hard time lately. Obviously, I cannot say too much here. But that is the truth.

A big part of it, I’m sure, is the damn election. As for probably every other woman out there, it’s triggering rage at the lifetime of sexism, minor assaults, etc. No need to belabor this point. At all.

And divorce. It’s hard. I’ll just leave it at that.

The cat I lost custody of* went missing for several days (one of which was cold, rainy, windy, stormy). Thankfully, she’s been found, and in other happy news, my landlord said I can get a cat, so the boys and I will start looking around for a kitty for our home. So that is very happy news.

Here’s what I’m doing:

  1. Parenting, trying to help my kids be happy and healthy and thriving during this big transition in their lives.
  2. Working (and I have an extra client right now, one I want to impress, of course, but it means the current couple of weeks are kind of a strain on me).
  3. Training for an ultramarathon (go ahead and say, “WTF are you thinking?”).
  4. Socializing and trying to recover myself and my interests (climbing, mountain biking, baking, etc.).
  5. Finishing unpacking and setting up this apartment (actually, screw that; I’m hopefully here only 10 more months and I don’t want to put much more money into this apartment or unpack anything else; we still need some rugs and some storage items, but I’m not doing much else).
  6. Figuring out what happens next regarding the divorce, where we’ll all live next year, future employment, and so on.

That is a lot. 

Honestly, fitness has fallen right out the window. I’m not going to the gym. I’m barely running. I should be doing multi-hour runs at this point. Instead, I’m trying to get sleep or get extra work-time in when I can.

And sometimes, like tonight, I just need to spend some time baking and vacuuming and then curled up on the couch watching old episodes of “House.”

So if, by Sasha’s rules, I had to pick three, it would be parenting, working, self-care/sleep. Some of that self-care involves time with friends; some of it involves baking; some of it involves time on Facebook, and I am not ashamed of that. Some days Facebook provides my only social interaction, since I work from home. Don’t judge.

Anyway. Lately things feel hard. Maybe I’m doing too much. The ultra training, much as I hate to say it, has to go. I just don’t have the time or energy for it right now, and it’s not where I should be putting my energy, and it’s becoming a stressor instead of something to look forward to. I hate to let go of it. But I need to take care of myself and conserve energy (physical and mental) right now.

So that’s where I’m at. Feel free to give me an unsolicited hug. Or ask how I am. Or tell me a joke.

*because when I found this apartment, it was “No pets allowed,” so C took the cat when we all moved in August. But now I can have a cat, YAY THANK GOD.

The Fresh Horror of Bike Accidents

*Warning: This is a horrible post. I saw something awful today (though not the accident itself), and it reminded me of another bike accident I saw years ago, and talking about what I saw is a way of coping. Feel free to skip this post. I completely understand. And if you’re a cyclist or pedestrian, please use all caution, and if you’re driving a motor vehicle, please check twice or three times, and yield the road.*

Today, as I was biking to meet friends/colleagues at a cafe for a work-date, I turned onto Mass. Ave. into very heavy traffic. I don’t normally travel Mass. Ave. at 9 a.m., but it seemed extra-heavy to me.

And then there was a cop, diverting traffic off of Mass. Ave. near Porter Square. I had a feeling…I asked someone walking what had happened.

“Someone got hit,” he said, gesturing up the street.

“Cyclist?” I asked. He shrugged.

I had to cross, because the street was not only cordoned off but screened off. Imagine big colored tarps hanging so you can’t see what’s behind them. I asked a cop directing traffic what had happened.

“A cyclist was hit around 8:08 a.m,,” he said.

“Is the cyclist…deceased?” I asked. Deceased. Why did I put it that way? Who says that? I don’t know. Maybe because I feared the worst. He gave a curt nod and, observing my bike/helmet/yellow cycling jacket, told me to be safe.

I joined the small crowd near a semi, which had its hood open. The screened area was behind it, and there was another, smaller truck behind that.

And then I saw it. The bicycle where no bike should be, under the cab of the truck. But then I could see the body, through a corner of the screening, covered in white, on the road, well behind the truck. An hour after he (it turned out to be a he, age 60) had been hit.

Cops were all over the scene, not just directing traffic but rolling on those little mechanic’s dollies under the truck, checking things, studying the underside of the truck. The whole scene was cordoned off.

Two younger women walked by. “Ohmigod, why is everyone staring? Is that truck, like, about to explode?” one asked her friend. “I think it broke down. Why don’t they just tow it away?” said the other. They stood watching.

It was time for me to go. I was shaken and had seen enough. I paused as I passed the two young women, who were still staring at the scene. “The truck didn’t break down,” I said. “Look under the cab.” I said this as gently as possible. “A cyclist was hit and killed.”

Their faces registered the awful bike, the awfulness of it. Their hands flew to cover their mouths. I don’t know why I had to tell them except maybe I wanted them to understand the gravity of this, that we weren’t a bunch of dumb-asses staring at a broken-down truck. People get killed, and it could have been any of us on our bikes.


I used to bike to work all the time. From North Cambridge out to Lexington. From Central Square to the South End in all weather. From Medford to the far side of Waltham. It was such a nice way to get to work. I knew accidents happened. I joked that the 77 bus was out to get me (seriously, that bus was terrifying). I refused to ride on Mass. Ave. in Boston because it was too much of a mess of traffic and buses and trucks and too scary and dangerous. I had other routes.

One day, in 2002, my friend Lisa drove me home from work for some reason. As we approached Central Square, we saw emergency vehicles and the road being hosed down. Being hosed down. We were diverted. “I bet there was an accident,” I said. “I bet it was a cyclist.”

I don’t know how I knew.

It was a cyclist indeed, named Dana Laird, doored by an SUV and thrown under the back wheels of an MBTA bus, and it was horrible, and a nearby light post was covered with flowers and notes for a long time.

Her death has stuck with me. I stay well out of the door zone, when possible, and try to give buses a lot of space.


I left the scene, finally, walking my bike until I felt I could ride it again. I locked it up when I got to the cafe, amazed. “I’m alive. The rest of us are alive. It’s all chance,” I thought.

And on the way home, going through a tricky part of Harvard Square (also up Mass. Ave., of course) a car tried to edge me out of the lane (there was no bike lane or shoulder). I know my rights and took the full lane, which you’re allowed to do, and glory be but then there was a sign: “[Bicyclist] May Take Full Lane” and I pointed at it as I biked past. And the car passed on my left, the driver shouting at me, something about “Cambridge” and “bikes,” and he drove on, and I biked on, thinking Don’t you know? Don’t you know we can take a lane? Don’t you know bikes can travel on these roads, and another person just died this morning?

…and then I went through Porter Square again, more than five hours since the accident had happened (and please leave now if you’re squeamish, but I need a place to put this). The body had been removed; the screens were down. The truck was still there. The driver (the poor driver! Yes, I have sympathy for him; he may have been careless, but I’m sure he didn’t mean to harm or kill anyone) was gone.

The bike had been removed from under the cab and was at the side of the street. And this, this is the awful part: Three people dressed in full medical-type protective gear and headcoverings (the surgical kind) were under the truck, with spray bottles and small brushes, carefully spraying and scrubbing the treads of the rear tires, and I want to throw up when I think of it.

I’ve just recently gotten back into biking everywhere, in part because I reclaimed an ancient Fuji steel-frame total beater 10-speed I’d lent to a friend, which is a comfortable ride and I can park it anywhere, even if I’ve forgotten a bike lock (yes, really — let’s hear it for ugly old bikes). But today reminded me to be more careful than ever, to assume nothing, to trust no cars or trucks and to get off and wait on the sidewalk and walk my bike on the crosswalk in some places rather than make the left turn I’m legally allowed to make. I’ve been so lucky for years.

But the Greater Boston area has a long way to go in becoming a safer place for cyclists. And as-yet-unnamed cyclist, your death was needless. And truck driver, you’re not evil. I hope you can get some sleep at some point.

I trust a ghost bike and memorial will appear tomorrow.

Be safe and careful, everyone.

This just in: A bunch of elementary school students saw the crash.