Steve took Bub to a birthday party today, which gave me an entire Saturday to myself. A luxurious treat for any parent. Wanting to take advantage of gorgeous September weather (when it’s finally pleasant in Chicago), I invited a dear friend to explore Wicker Park with me.
Wicker Park, the place where it all began. Where Steve and I finally committed to becoming adults together. That’s a weird way to put it. What I’m trying to say is that Wicker Park is where Steve and I made some major adult decisions: it’s where we bought out first condo, where we lived when I found out I got my first corporate job, where we lived when we got married, where we lived when we got a puppy together. We spent hours walking the 606 talking about our hopes and dreams. We watched Sunday night football games at the Blue Line, scarfing chicken pot pie and wings. I spent many a lunch perusing the salad bar at Goddess and Grocer. I purchased life-changing secondhand books at Myopic Books. I remember sitting at the window of Stan’s Donuts on a cold winter afternoon, people-watching while dunking my cinnamon roll into a hot cup of coffee. I miss the farmers’ market on Sunday mornings and the chaos of Six Corners.
What I miss most of all is that chapter in my life when I lived there. Young, full of hope, trying to figure out what being an “adult” means.
Four years later, I’m finally back in my old neighborhood. Thirty-three years old. A mom. And while I’m not sure I’m any closer to figuring out adulthood, I’m absolutely sure that no one else is either.
It was wonderful to be back for an afternoon with great company, a seat right away at Big Star, a stroll down the 606 as the sun set. How strange yet familiar to be back in a place I used to live - as if nothing has changed and yet, everything has.
