One of the things I love most about J is his knack for picking up new hobbies. Some of them, like bird watching, have become real hobbies, tried and true, which are now woven into the structure of our lives.

If I see something unusual fly overhead while I'm driving, for instance, I'm excited to tell him about it. The birds in question are almost universally categorized by me as "maybe a cool hawk," which is not a description he can really work with, but still, I like connecting with one of his interests, even if it's on a very basic, possibly annoying level.

And I love watching our children observe and absorb these interests: Nora's new love for wildlife and Gabriel's ability to identify so many of the Star Wars characters. All three of them memorizing facts about the planets and schooling me when I suggest things - in jest, please note - like how it would be fun to live on Saturn. "Um, live on Saturn? We wouldn't be able to breathe."

But what about my own hobbies? I've certainly touched on the idea in the past that since having children, I've let my own interests slip away a bit. The difference between making that realization today and making that realization a few years ago, as a newer mom, is that I'm much more ok with it now.

I'm fine with the fact that I'm an addicted to talk radio, and haven't anxiously purchased the latest from a favorite band in a long time. I'm ok with the fact that I don't write as often as I used to on this blog.

However!

I also realize how easy it is to let yourself slip away when you have young children and more importantly, I realize that if you don't work at it a little, you won't get those interests back.

Guys. I used to read all the time. From the time I could read, I read voraciously. The Babysitter's Club. The Saddle Club ( as an adolescent, I was super into horses, and obviously extremely cool as well). John Steinbeck. Thomas Wolfe. Emerson (even beyond the assignments in class!). Thoreau. Tolstoy. That book "Siddhartha" by Herman Hesse that my friend Matt made me read. Just for fun.

I read at night when I should have been sleeping, and made notes in my books and reread my favorites. "The Catcher in the Rye." "Cannery Row." Countless times.

I've always read, and always finished what I've started: novels, biographies, books of essays, whatever. But then I had my first child. The reading slowed down a little, because I was tired. I could barely get through a couple sentences at night within passing out. Then I had two children and it slowed down a little more. I read mysteries set in Italy - sticking to that one genre which includes, strangely, many authors and titles - and didn't stray much from my comfort zone for a while, although occasionally I'd find the time to devour something popular. A page turner. Preferably funny. "Gone Girl" (not at all funny but couldn't put it down). "Bossypants" by Tina Fey and "Yes Please" by Amy Poehler (I laughed out loud).

So, yeah, I read, but not like I used to. In recent years, I've started books and then misplaced them. I've gone months without turning a page. I've been reading the beautiful "TransAtlantic" by Colum McCann since last summer. Last summer. I pack it in my suitcase when I'm on trips, like, "Oh, reading? I read!" then opt for a magazine, or watching shows (so many shows) on J's iPad in bed.

Like I said, I'm ok with these new habits. I have three little kids, and viewing the entirety of "30 Rock" over the past few months before drifting off to sleep every night was exactly what I needed to unwind at day's end.

But like the other thing I said, sometimes you have to work to preserve the hobbies that make you...you. I want my children to know that version of me, too.

Nora's very into reading as I mentioned in my last post, and the other night she expressed some frustration because she'd finished all the Junie B. Jones books she owned, and told me, "I have other books I can read, but I'm used to those books, so I don't want to read something else." I knew exactly what she was talking about and told her so. It was a moment of total familiarity. I've never been much for playing on the playground or cartoons or board games, but helping my child get excited about a new book? Yes. I was overjoyed.

Plus, I want to finish "TransAtlantic." I mean, come on! So the other morning while I sipped coffee and it would have been very easy to grab my phone for some mindless internet wandering, I pulled the book from my bedside table, found my place and started reading. Then I flipped back 20 pages because I had no idea what was going on and needed to refresh my memory.

Anyway, if you've stuck with me for all these paragraphs, I should get to the point, which is that this summer I want to read. That's only one of many summer goals, and it's not a very specific one (no, I'm not putting "Ulysses" on the list this year although you never know). But it speaks to a general theme of getting back into old hobbies, and nurturing new ones.

Now, I realize that it's not technically summer yet, and the geek brigade that resides in this house with me would probably scold me on that point, but it's summer enough. The barbecues have begun and we've turned on the ceiling fans. The bugs are proliferating in the backyard and the children are playing in the backyard and screaming about the bugs. Summer of 2015. Let's go.

read
grow a patio garden
become a confident martini-maker
dance at weddings
declutter!
pick berries, make jam
run the circumference of Southport Island
plan a tenth wedding anniversary trip
see the (not real) bear in Maine (courtesy of Gabriel)
find a piano teacher for Nora
spend far less energy on snacks and much more on meals
start learning Spanish
toast the sunset
regularly use my jogging stroller
have chocolate chip pancakes and bacon on a weekend morning
cold beers with good friends
take a museum tour
frame a family photo
get in the ocean

For the past few months I have been explaining to other parents that six-year-olds are like a treat for the countless, labor-intensive hours you've spent during all those months prior taking care of helpless, tiny creatures.

They're cute, yes, very little children. So cute, and I'm enjoying every moment of Adriana's babyhood in a way I didn't really know was possible, don't get me wrong. Now eight months, she is opinionated about the things she wants (all the food, and my iced coffee, and the toys that her older siblings very specifically does not want her to touch). She is babbling and flirting with everybody who so much as glances as her. I absolutely adore her, and am desperately clinging, as well, to the remnants of Gabriel's early years; the dimpled elbows that will soon be history.

But Nora! Nora has entered stage of youth that is delightful in completely new ways for me and J. She started first grade an uncertain reader, then - seemingly overnight - morphed into a total bookworm, with a basket of favorite titles by her bed sorted into varying piles. After our nightly bedtime ritual with them, Gabriel falls asleep quickly, but she flips on her little booklight and reads to herself for awhile.

She has myriad interests and hobbies that materialize in an instant. And she's cocky about her successes and expanding knowledge, but in a completely unassuming fashion, so it's endearing, rather than annoying, the way it can be with adults. "Well, I'm done with another Junie B. book," she'll tell us in a mock-disappointed tone that she doesn't quite pull off, as she's clearly dying for us to comment on her outstanding speed-reading skills.

The other day, scanning a nature guide about monkeys from the backseat of the car, she asked me my favorite kind, and I responded that I like capuchin monkeys because, let's be honest, that's one of the only kinds I'm aware of. She asked me if I knew where they were from, and I said Costa Rica, because I had, indeed, seen them there during our honeymoon. Then she asked me where squirrel monkeys were from. I didn't know. What about howler monkeys? I didn't know that either. She was overjoyed, holding the answers there in her hands, and not sharing them with me, as I was clearly undeserving.

How about Japanese macaques? She was pretty sure I didn't know where those were from! And she was getting an ego high, but I took her down a notch. "Um, I think they're probably from Japan, Nora."

She's suddenly aware of the whole wide world in a very real way, and of all the things she can do in it. We spent her spring break in Maine with my parents, and she decided she wanted to learn to knit. It was a difficult skill to teach, but she was a good student, and mostly got the hang of it. She wants to take piano lessons so badly, and when I told her that would be difficult because we don't have a piano, she wasn't deterred.

Then, this weekend, the inevitable, when she finally took a keen and sudden interest in the kids birding books and bird journal she'd accrued over the years. She was off and running, observing species in our backyard then noting their coloring, calls and habitat (for the house sparrow entry, she wisely entered: "sky.")

She and J had the nerd level in our house off the charts before too long and Nora's already scheduled their first birding trip for an upcoming Saturday. Needless to say, I'll skip it, but it's great to know that my husband finally has a willing partner for this particular hobby. Someone detail-oriented enough to truly get into it, and affectionately condescending enough to make fun of the rest of the family members when we can't tell a crow from a raven. If ravens even live here. Which I guess proves my point.

Summer goals 2015

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