We Are the Underhills

That’s right, we’ve got a posh pool club membership now. Our pool even has a fancy name, Mirabella. (I’m sorry, Marie, I know I wasn’t supposed to tell everyone about our private pool.)

Just tell the pool people you’re with the O’Rourkes.

Yesterday, we ventured to the North End. I hustled the kids out of the house with my trademarked parenting strategies of timers, threats and inconsistent rewards systems (it’s complicated and it mostly doesn’t work), rushed them to the train, and dragged them about a half mile to the pool (stopping for only one photo op, showing great restraint), only to find out the pool didn’t open until 11. It was 10:15.

The one photo op. Photo direction: “Why is this finger pointing at me?”

Fortunately, our pool club also has a sprinkler park (for those keeping count, our 5th this summer) and a playground right outside. So we recommended American Ninja Warrior training on the monkey bars and running wheel, admired our favorite Boston bridge (what up, Zakim!), and tried (and failed) to swing into the river.

By 10:58, we were overheated and ready for the pool.

How sweet is our pool? That’s the (river) water, right there beyond the (pool) water. Also, there’s a sweet snack bar there with pizza and all the good/bad ice cream treats like that SpongeBob pop made out of 100% synthetic ingredients. 
We brought our lunches though, and I won bonus mom points for using the star cookie cutter with their sandwiches.

Unfortunately, this day took a really bad turn at the end. On the way to the pool, we walked by Neptune Oysters on the way to the pool, which is supposed to have the best lobster roll in Boston. It just so happens that I don’t really like sandwiches (of the non-lobster variety), even if they have stars cut out of them, and we had to head back to the T around 1:00 to make it home for George’s nap. I figured it was time for a splurge. All morning, I dreamt of that Best-of-Boston lobster roll. I didn’t even eat as much Pirate’s Booty as I normally would have in anticipation of my feast. On our walk back, there was quite a line outside Neptune’s. No worries, I’d be getting mine to go. I squeezed past the crowd, calling them suckers in my head. “Could I get a lobster roll to go, please?” I asked the lady who was about to break my heart. “We can’t…” she said in that super-annoying head-tilt type of voice. I got ginger chicken and rice from inside Boston Public Market because I had already written off my turkey & cheese sandwich in my head; it was okay. Sorry if this story bummed you out.

Gotta go, we’re off to the library (again). Someone has discovered that you can reserve books online and that they have the graphic novels (pronounced NO-vals) that she likes.


2 thoughts on “We Are the Underhills”

  1. Vassilis and I have been eating our way through New England’s best lobster rolls. You’ll have to make it back to Neptune at some point. Even better was Scales in Portland ME. We’ll be making our own next week at some point. Field trip to Somerville?


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