A couple weeks ago I went to the University of Scranton to accept an award they were giving my father, a graduate of the school, to recognize his achievements in the field of community service.

I was - and am - really proud of him for getting the award, which he undoubtedly deserves. And I also felt that this awards ceremony - part of their alumni weekend - was a big deal at the university. Those are two of the reasons I went. But also, I knew it would be fun. Everyone, including my father and my contact at the school, was so appreciative that I’d even consider driving all the way there (it’s only three hours away), taking time out of my busy life to do this, and I was like, “Listen, you want me to attend some cocktail parties, talk to strangers and make a speech? All of my favorite things, while getting some alone time and not changing any diapers? Don’t thank me. I’m thanking you.”

As I’d expected, the whole thing was so much fun. J unfortunately couldn’t come with me, but from the minute I arrived at the beautiful campus I felt like I was surrounded by friends. Each award recipient was greeted by an undergraduate who helped get us from location to location and answered any questions we might have. My undergraduate, Ashley (hi Ashley!!), was incredibly cheerful, interesting and was doing amazing things with her education and life.

At one point Ashley asked me if I missed college, and I told her that I missed some things. For instance, I said, I miss my English and philosophy classes - all that talking in depth about the great works that you just don’t get in the real world. I told her that I could, I suppose, join a book club, but that nobody would want to join a book club that had the works of Kant on the roster. Because she’s awesome, Ashley told me that she’d join that book club.

But then I explained that, truthfully, I don’t miss college in the sense that it was the best time of my life. It wasn’t. It was a really, really great part in my life. I loved every second of my time at Boston University. The school was huge, which was exactly what I’d wanted. I made a small group of tight knit friends, friends I made amazing memories with, although some days I’d get lost in the crowds on my way to this class or that and barely see anyone I knew. I loved the occasional feeling of anonymity after going to such a small high school. I loved the city of Boston and all it had to offer, and I loved my classes and professors. Except not Irish history. That was a huge mistake.

However, I told her, my life has gotten so much better since then. So I don’t long for my college days. I like things the way they are now.

Anyway, I went on to have a wonderful night, meeting many accomplished people, including several members of class of 1960, who were there for alumni weekend, and who I was seated with for dinner in my father’s place. We talked feminism, religion and politics.

When the night was over, I went to my dorm room. That’s right, my dorm room.

The University of Scranton graciously offered me a dorm room, as I was staying the night and driving back in the morning. Others who’d traveled to be there were doing the same. Mine was a resident advisor’s room, with its own bathroom, but it was a dorm room, alright, complete with an extra long twin bed, desk and reading lamp. I’d been looking forward to the experience, but I must admit it was a little lonely once I’d settled in. Uncharacteristically quiet for a dorm since it was summer break, even as others trickled in to their own rooms throughout the night. I made my bed and switched on the lamp and read for a while before falling asleep at a very decent hour. I couldn’t help thinking about how it was such a difference experience than that of my actual dorm room years at BU. No late night pizza? No mini fridge full of illegally-attained beer? No music blaring? Nobody laughing or crying or or having a party?

When I awoke the next morning it was raining. I gathered all my things together, showered and made my way downstairs to the lobby. While I was waiting for the elevator, I noticed the communal kitchen, very similar to the one we had in my freshman dorm, except that this one was much newer and nicer looking.

In the lobby I very happily discovered carafes of coffee provided for the overnight visitors. I made myself a cup and lingered for a few minutes, watching the rain outside. I don’t know why, but I started thinking about that kitchen and all the funny things that probably happen in there. Dinners that get burnt and board games played. Maybe some studying, maybe some drinking. Probably some making out. I started thinking about my own dorm experience and how people used to put hats on the doors as a hook-up warning for their roommates. I thought about the time it snowed four feet unexpectedly in April and classes were canceled. We ate junk food and played outside. I thought about when my roommate made a “beer angel” in the hallway one night by lying on her back and moving her arms and legs through her spilled drink. I thought about how the boys used to wreak havoc and play pranks on their floor, often shirtless, and how it was kind of scary to go down there. About how all my friends were right there, and we left the door open all the time.

All of a sudden I missed college so much. So much, and I realized that I just needed the proper inspiration to arouse those emotions. So Ashley, I revise my answer. My life has gotten so much better since I was an English major at Boston University, but I do miss college, and I miss more than the classes and the academic discussions. I miss all the insanity and fearlessness. I miss the antics and the major life moments, and living so close to all my new friends.

And, although one night was certainly enough for a while, I even miss the dorm rooms. Doors open. Music loud.

It didn’t even give me a stomachache.

So far:

go to Maine
have a Frappuccino
walk by the water almost every day
drink (most of) our wine
read “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest”
reread “Wuthering Heights”
make mint iced tea with my mint plant
run a road race
grow and eat our own tomatoes
see the coffee exhibit at the Peabody
publish another first person essay
eat at Lenny’s (again)
go to Poland
see some fireworks
take Nora to the beach
take a walking tour of Yale
read “For Whom the Bell Tolls”
show my parents how to video chat
publish another first person essay
buy some new bookcases
read a non-fiction book
read another non-fiction book
take a class, any class
organize the basement
go to Scranton
bake my own bread
steam my own mussels
see a live concert
have a picnic in Prospet Park
have coffee on the patio

I know that in my last post I complained about a certain neediness inherent in our day to day life at the present, but I want to point out that just as many moments, if not more, are like the below, and for that, I am very grateful. As a mother, there are a litany of things I am grateful for…things I didn’t really think about so much prior to having children. I am grateful for coloring. I am grateful for grapes.

I wrote about the song playing in the background - “I Got Two Dogs” by John Lithgow - on the Motherland blog. We’ve listened to the CD (it’s a book, too) about 87 times today. In the most shocking development of my life over the past 20 months, I am not sick of it yet.

Please note how Nora - contrary to the usual state of affairs as of late - does not pay any attention to me, yet seems to have the end of the song memorized, down to the second, so that she can make the appropriate demand the instant it’s over.

It’s been a while since I wrote an update on Nora at a specific age, but for the past few weeks doing just that is something I’ve been thinking about a lot. I’ve been thinking, too, about the post I wrote on her thirteenth month, and how that month - contrary to all the others - wasn’t my absolute favorite month of her life so far.

Because, as I’ve mentioned, people tell me, regarding children, that “it gets so much better” and I can never believe it when they tell me that. Instead I think, “No! Sixteen months! Have you checked out my baby’s vocabulary? Have you heard her giggle?” or “There is nothing in this world better than my 18 month old child and if it were scientifically possible I’d freeze her this way forever!”

The point being that when Nora is going through a stage that I don’t particularly care for it is pretty striking. And I hate to say it but right now is one of those times.

Nora, my ever-confident, I-don’t-need-my-mother-to-help-me, outgoing child, is going through a clingy stage, which manifests itself in several ways. 1) There is the crying that occurs when we take her to daycare or any other location where we are clearly going to “abandon” her, despite the fact that she has been going to said locations for years. Ok fine, one year and eight months. 2) There is the gripping of my legs as I am trying to make dinner or empty the dishwasher or, you know, just be a free standing human being. 3) There is the general neediness…needing us to play with her or help her or get her something or feed her something and so on and so on, while before she would entertain herself for hours.

Now I know - I totally know - that this is a stage and even as I type I recognize that she is already working through it. The other day we went for a walk and she wanted to hug perfect strangers, and drop off at daycare this week was decidedly less dramatic. I am comforted by the fact that my confident daughter will return, stronger than ever, and that no stage will ever trump her true personality.

But it’s been difficult for me. Clinginess - both in its emotional and physical forms - is difficult for me, even in other adults. Say we’re walking down the street and you go to throw your arm around me in an an impulsive hug born out of some burst of affection, and then you proceed to hang on to me because you think that’s really cute. Well, I might like that. Or, if I’m not in the mood, I might punch you. Kidding, I wouldn’t punch you! Probably!

Anyway, there’s nothing really profound about these observations, just that this stage - which I know is common and brief - has been a little bit of a struggle for me, and for Nora, too, as she navigates all these new feelings and ideas and concepts. The fact that Mommy and Dada can be somewhere that she is not. The fact that - wait a second - they could be paying more attention to her at any given moment.

But, of course, there is an upside.

With the new concepts come so many new words. Words, and more words! Putting words together in new ways, and making tiny sentences that make total sense when taken literally, but not so much grammatically. Nora has learned about possession (”Nowa’s breakfast,” “Nowa’s hair,” “Nowa’s paper”) and about compassion, putting her dolls and toys to bed (”night night”) and giving J and I - and others - kisses when we greet her upon coming home. Then there are the countless other pieces of information she’s collected. Things we sometimes have no idea how she learned. Like that boats are heavy, and how she always knows, before we’ve even gotten there, that we’re almost home.

I know that all parents feel this way, but we are constantly amazed. She counts like this: “two, seven, nine, twelve, thirteen” and she knows that C-A-K-E spells cake and, HOLY CHRIST, she really wants some cake.

I could go on about her skills forever, honestly I could, but I don’t think there’s a great need for any parent to type up every single detail about their child. If we all did it, the World Wide Web would explode.

I’d rather point out what’s become, I’m sure, a tired refrain for me, but nonetheless true, and that happens to be that just when I think things aren’t going so well, it turns out that I’m way off.

This idea played out perfectly the other day when Nora and I had a free afternoon and I was trying to figure out what to do with her to avoid the clinging-to-the-leg type scenario that I’d declared I would die of if it happened one more time. I know, shut up about it already, but when you’re home with a child and you’re trying to get some stuff done and it’s not working because she is making it physically impossible by executing a monkey-grip on your calf, I don’t know, it’s really hard. And lonely. And boring. And the worst part is that when you tell someone how hard and lonely and boring that very mundane and domestic situation is, you end up sounding pretty lame, even if the rest of your day was fun.

So we had this free afternoon and I made the horrible mistake of saying something to Nora about how maybe we’d go get some ammi, which is what she calls ice cream. I was just thinking out loud which, by the way, you can’t do with a twenty-month-old who knows every single word in the world, it seems, or at least all the ones that are important to her, and especially the ones that she has made up herself, but that you have started using as though it is totally normal.

I thought - and hoped - she’d forget about the ammi comment because I wasn’t sure I wanted to deal with that particular obsession, but when we got in the car to go somewhere - anywhere, I hadn’t decided yet - she started chanting, quietly but persistently, “ammi, ammi, ammi, ammi, ammi.” I was torn. What I really wanted to do was go get some coffee. I felt exhausted and like I couldn’t possibly deal with the rest of the day without it, and hey, I didn’t need to cave to my toddler’s desires. She’s not in charge.

Yet something about her joyful declaration moved me, I guess, and I suddenly realized that I’d like nothing more than to sit at the local ice cream shop with my daughter, talking about Abby Cadabby or how many fingers she has. That I’d be privileged to do just that. So we drove into town under menacing-looking clouds and were inside placing our order just as it began to pour. They had coffee ice cream. And that’s how a bad afternoon turned into the best.

go to Maine
have a Frappuccino
walk by the water almost every day
drink (most of) our wine
read “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest”
reread “Wuthering Heights”
make mint iced tea with my mint plant
run a road race
grow and eat our own tomatoes
see the coffee exhibit at the Peabody
publish another first person essay
eat at Lenny’s (again)
go to Poland
see some fireworks
take Nora to the beach
take a walking tour of Yale
read “For Whom the Bell Tolls”
show my parents how to video chat
publish another first person essay
buy some new bookcases
read a non-fiction book
read another non-fiction book
take a class, any class
organize the basement
go to Scranton
bake my own bread
steam my own mussels
see a live concert
have a picnic in Prospet Park
have coffee on the patio

1. The oil spill. Are you kidding me? What’s going on now? Top hat? Kill level? What? I’ve been alternately obsessed with and disgusted by the coverage. And always depressed.

2. All the pollen. Nononono no no no no no no no no. Stop it with my head.

3. This, oh my God, let’s discuss this.

4. How J’s mom got him an espresso machine for his birthday this year - in fact I’m having one right now - and it’s one of the very best presents I’ve ever received. Um, wait. He’s ever received. Because it was his birthday.

5. My life. I’ve felt a little overly domestic recently. As in, I’ve already done some vacuuming today and started on dinner for us later (quite a feat as J and I usually eat at 9 p.m.). But…

6. …my summer goal is to work on doing more writing…and to get paid for it.

7. The pink petunias that I planted out front.

8. Our Memorial Day weekend, which was perfect.