The Head of the Charles Regatta was held last weekend, a very big deal annual rowing regatta.
It holds a nostalgic place in my heart. Our first autumn here, it snowed the weekend of the regatta and I didn't attend. Instead, I laid my pregnant self on the couch and wondered what we had gotten ourselves into, moving to this place where it snowed in October. I emailed my parents in Arkansas several times to tell them that it was still snowing. I didn't know it, but I was days, rather than weeks, from having Frances.
Last year, Frances and I went sans Mark, who was studying at school and couldn't come. Frances was almost a year old and busy doing age-appropriate things, like eating rocks. I spent most of the time being a little overwhelmed with how naive I'd been the year before about all that was about to happen - the week in the hospital followed by months of little sleep and much Frances.
This year, Mark finally got to come too, but he was sick and cold. Frances was much less interested in the boats than I'd expected. She was more interested in two-year old things, like dancing on manhole covers...
...and throwing rocks into the Charles...
...and other squirrelly two-year old things.
Oh, my Lord, next year Frances will be three. She can almost count to three. Her counting goes like this: "Three, two, three!" in a very enthusiastic voice. She may not be ready for Harvard yet, but she's not too shabby, either. Maybe one day she'll compete in the regatta.
Dare to dream, ol' Mommy.
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