I will really miss our playground being right on the beach.

I’ll miss my mom dropping by one day with fish from the farmers’ market, the next with toilet paper, chicken sausage and strawberries from Costco, the next with toy trucks she bought at her neighbor’s yard sale, and the next not even bothering to come up with an excuse, just stopping by because she had to see the baby damn it.

I’ll miss my dad’s face lighting up as I’ve never seen it before, when he walks through the front door and sees Aidan and says, “Hi, my baby!” and when he watches him cruising around the backyard, splashing the water in the cat’s dish, swinging the screen door, throwing one toy after another in the air, on the ground—”you throw everything down!”—dribbling his mini red soccer ball.

I’ll miss this girly giggle of my mom’s when Aidan does something especially cute like kiss her repeatedly or take wobbly steps across the room toward her. It’s very pure, genuine, unrestrained, almost as if tears will follow. It makes me realize that she was once a young mom who loved her new babies more than life. That laughter represents the overwhelming joy of finally finding the love of her life.

I’ll miss being able to go to a play reading of an irreverent, hilarious, politically charged play by Eve Ensler (called OPC for Obsessive Political Correctness) where I bump into people I know—my sister’s best friend from high school, my wedding photographer—and the audience is filled with the likes of Marisa Tomei, Kerry Washington, Jane Lynch, Rosario Dawson and Arianna Huffington, all hugging each other in acknowledgment of their mutual fabulousness. (I just can’t imagine that kind of fabulousness exists in Boston.)

I’ll miss working at a cafe five minutes from my house that is frequented equally by hipsters, homeless, hippies, wanna be’s, skaterats, surf bums, writers, painters in pajamas, potheads, stroller-pushers and Angelica Houston, Kevin Bacon, Laura Dern, Ben Harper, Maria Shriver, Ryan Gosling, Paul Giamatti, John Slattery, Paul Michael Glaser (Starsky! How many points do I get for remembering his name?)…all people I have seen either at Abbot’s Habit, one of our many local haunts, or strolling past.

Fine, I admit it…I’ll miss star sightings. (Do they exist in Boston?)

I’ll miss having friends so close (in distance and emotional bond), we can just drop by after the playground and hang out for an hour, me drinking tea, boo tossing glitter balls and chewing on the teething gel container, while they’re still in their PJ’s and bumming around, like we just do with Gretchen and Nona.

I’ll miss driving the PCH at sunset.

I’ll miss 83 and sunny in November.

I won’t miss June Gloom (although I’d trade six months of frigid cold winter for it any day).
I won’t miss figuring out what to do with the bees and spiders that hang out in my house.
I won’t miss whatever it is in the LA air that makes my throat itch, my eyes tear, my nose tickle.
I won’t miss the drive to Hollywood.

But I will miss Aidan’s delight as I open our blinds to yet another beautiful day, his fascination with our banana tree, our walks through our incomparable neighborhood down to the beach to conquer the stairs, swings, slides and sand, his glee when my parents show up at our door almost every day of the week, trotting over to give them the gift of his ear to ear joy. I can only hope Boston will offer him as many reasons to smile.

Aidan and his adoring grandpa

Aidan and his adoring grandpa

grandpa2

grandpa3

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