We had this amazing day yesterday. As the day was happening, I was planning this pleasantly snarky post with tons of the photos I took about trouble on the Green (the whole family woke at 4:15 a.m. to go see the re-enactment of the Battle on the Green at 5:30 a.m.), and about how the kids stood almost patiently in 33 degree weather, toes freezing, to see the Shot Heard ‘Round the World. About how Adam went to work so the three of us went home and actually played a game together in which no one got upset (unbelievable, I know!). About how we went to Town Hall to see Paul Revere and William Dawes come to warn us the Regulars were coming, and how we knew when they were arriving because we tracked them on Twitter, and that they signed autographs to boot! (Well, they did if you were a pair of adorable seven year olds). About how we went to a playground, and Doodles, Pie, Jasmine, and her older sister all played beautifully together, even though it was nippy out and our family, at least, was oh-so sleepy.
But while we were sitting at the playground, Adam called. “Did you hear?” he asked. “There was an explosion at the marathon.”
And my perfect day fizzled away like last week’s soda pop.
We’re lucky. Adam’s longtime friend had finished the marathon 20 minutes before the bombs went off. Doodles’s third grade teacher had running problems and bailed on the run midway through. We had decided the weather simply wasn’t good enough to go watch.
Not everyone was so lucky.
I rag on Boston. I mean all the time. I complain it’s not a real city, that the football team is overrated (Pie and I agreed: When the Patriots are against the Redcoats, we root for the Patriots. In all other circumstances, we root for the Dolphins), and I just don’t get the baseball worship. Dunkin Donuts leaves me cold. I cringe every time my girl says, “Mirra,” when she means, “Mirror,” and I’m not shy about correcting her… or her friends.
But you know what? Boston is my town. It’s where not only my husband, but both my kids, were born (all three in the same Boston hospital). It’s where I’ve made the kind of friends you only get to make once in a lifetime (friends like Beetle and Keaton and Scooby and the Duchess and so many more who are important who don’t have blog names, but should). It’s where I built my home, my marriage, my family. I’ve lived in Boston for more consecutive years than any other city in my life. I’ve lived in this house for longer than any other home in my life.
Yeah, Boston sucks. The roads make no sense. The drivers suck. The sports are crazy. The coffee is bad. The accent is fierce. The colleges are snooty. But if you dare trash this place, you’re going to answer to me.
Because Boston is my home. As much as a home as I’ve ever had.
And no one should f*ck with it.
It was a tough day. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in the eleven years I’ve been here, Bostonians are bad ass. We’ll recover. We’ll be here next year to celebrate another Patriots Day. It’ll just be a bittersweet one.
