Home..

the NY Municipal Archives has photos of every building in NY taken between 1983-1988. Some are better  than others and in our case of the home we grew up in, its fuzzy and tiny and oh so hard to see but there it is in all its glory.. 463 Broome Street.. the loft that we laughed, cried, yelled, crawled, danced, fought and played in. To anyone else, this photo would seem trivial.. silly, even.. fuzzy old picture, spray painted door, fire escapes.. but to me (and to you, I imagine) its our history. I love that moms chair is there, that white spot on the second floor fire escape, I can just see mom in it, with a glass of wine and some pair of $5 sunglasses that she can always make look chic, looking off into her Soho, before the tourists, before the malls.. I wonder what was going on in that loft that day..

catching dreams..

since we still have Milo in our room, and its seeming that our little buddy may be in his own room soon (humph humph sniff sniff) due to his crib getting small, him getting big and my hubs new sexy habit of snoring.. loudly.. and waking us all up.. its just seeming that it may go in that direction.. but not just yet.. not quite yet..
and even though i spent months of my pregnant days planning the nursery, painting different aqua patches on the wall, testing out gliders, the room isn't completely finished yet.. i would love to hang a dream catcher over Milo's crib.. i just have always loved them and like the idea of getting a nice one for him to keep.. maybe bring to college and make fun of his silly mom who would ask him (just like our mom) what his dreams were each and every morning..
a few contenders..

via etsy

another from etsy.. 

and yet another from.. you guessed it etsy

Going Home

I’ve noticed something funny the last few times we have gone up to New York; the act of visiting a place you once called home (even one you were born and raised in) can still make you feel like a tourist. In anticipation of our travels I make all sorts of lists in my head about what I plan on doing. I want to stroll through Central Park, frequent our favorite burrito joint, and come home with goodies that I am sure only exist in New York City. It’s a strange sensation to desperately want to soak up somewhere so familiar; on the one hand I love how deeply I have come to appreciate the uniqueness of a place I once took (somewhat) for granted, but on the other hand it’s odd to feel detached from a place I still consider home in many ways.  Despite these complicated feelings, I am chomping at the bit for our weekend visit. I have come up with a lengthy list of things I would like to do, but in the end I know I’ll be just as satisfied walking around our favorite side streets, and spending time with family and friends.  

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