If I don’t write, I will burst.

6 May

So, as you well know, I’ve been on a little wriatus. I’ve taken some time off the grid, and it’s been nice.

Certainly, I’ve missed chronicling my daily moments of wonder (from the quick photo snapped of a tiny tush in even tinier skinny jeans to a 2-year-old’s inventive original song lyrics to the foodshots of my many missed meals), but I’ve also been enjoying these things so much that I don’t think I will soon forget them (whether they are cyber-documented or not).

All that said, I thank you for tolerating my absence, and know that I was thinking of you. All the time. Seriously. And you look really nice tonight. I love that color on you.

In any case, I am just recovering from (reeling from. reliving. rejoicing in…) a weekend experience that was so special to me, so overflowing with happiness and emotion

that I could no longer contain myself.

This weekend, I visited my sister’s city, to both cheer her on for a big race and to help a dear friend to celebrate her special birthday.

And this weekend was SO important. Not only was it the first time that I left the baby and her daddy together,

but it was a real weekend away, during which I could feel like me again.

On my way to the train, I got a text from my dearest mama friend, and she told me this:

“Enjoy your Becca (not mommy Becca, not wife Becca, just you) time.”

I mean, come on. How lucky am I?

And so I took that advice and I ran with it. I ran with it in the kind of high wedge sandals that I could never wear while carrying my kid.

I let myself have a total girlie weekend

with my sisters (by both birth and by experience)

and it was so special.

So much about yesterday was wonderful; the bright red manicure my sister coaxed me into getting; the time we had to pour over the different styles of lace in a fancy lingerie shop; the snuggle session on my dear friend’s cozy couch, pouring our hearts out over kale chips and Prosecco; the fact that I had my TWO hands free, at the same time, for 24 hours straight; the moment I saw my sister cross the finish line at a sunrise half marathon, as she obliterated her previous race times; this weekend was so special and I will tell you more, I promise,

but for now,

all I can give you is a single snapshot:

My sister and I got to have lunch together, yesterday. Just the two of us. We were tucked into a small table in the far corner of the coolest little restaurant. We were enveloped in the music of Roy Orbison and The Ronnettes and the other amazing tunes that filled the air. And then there was the food. As I mentioned, my sister was preparing for a half-marathon, so we had to make sure our lunch was a feast (OBVIOUSLY I had to be there for moral support. No one can eat like that alone. I know. I’m a giver.) And so, we decided to order everything on the menu that appealed to us. We started with donuts. One for each of us, and we polished them off so quickly that I barely had time to bop along to the song from Dirty Dancing that swirled over our heads. And then, our table was soon covered in everything from blueberry buttermilk pancakes to perfectly runny eggs to homemade sourdough toast. And more. Lots more. And for two little girls, we put a real hurting on this meal. And by that, I mean we did not leave a single drop. Not a crumb. And this was not just because she needed to store up on resources before running over 13 miles; we ate because we were dining and we dined because we were lost in conversation; the kind of conversation that has become such a luxury for us. When I became a mom, my sister became an Aunt

(an AMAZING Aunt)

and so our conversations are now brief, and in between naps and bedtime, and usually with a chatty toddler chiming in in the background. We do our best to stay in constant (or at least consistent) contact, but it is hard.

But during this brunch, with our favorite songs playing

and our bellies full

we were able to talk. To really talk. We talked about future baby names and gave each other life advice and we planned things together and it was precious. So precious and it brought us

–us as the “us” we became 23 years ago when we became sisters–

back to life.

And we both knew it.

Because, when it’s all said and done, she’s my sister. And I will have no other.

She’s the one who knew, an hour after brunch, that it would take me at least 15 minutes and 3 “false starts” before deciding on my nail polish color.

I’m the one who woke up with her every hour from 1am-3am to make sure she was OK before race day.

She’s the one who lit up and shouted in surprise and glee, her arms raised high over her head, as she saw us cheering for her at mile 9

and I’m the one who felt so grateful that I was there to cheer right back at her.

She’s the one who just called me, as I sat here typing these words about my adoration for her,

just to thank me for being so supportive of her and making her so happy.

And I’m the one who says,

I love you, too. More than you will ever know.

So, a snapshot of two sisters

who love each other more than they could ever express

and who,

no matter how many things they have going on in their own lives

will always make time for each other.

And for donuts.



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