Baby It’s Cold Outside…

A weather post?  Well, kinda. It’s March 25th and the weather mongos are reporting it’s twenty-six degrees outside.  TWENTY-SIX.  Seeing that the official ‘first day of Spring’ was Monday, March 21st (and also my son’s fifth birthday), I am finding this all completely unfair.  The first day of spring also brought us some snow… snow that stuck.  We got a reprieve on Tuesday and then Wednesday (when I had my son’s birthday party), we had… more snow.

While I’m not one to hugely complain about weather in lieu of something more substantial to say, I’ve got a few random thoughts and observances about this, one of the snowiest, coldest winters here in the Northeast.

 

• Snow weighs a LOT.  Especially when you’ve got about 500lbs of it on your roof. When this happens, things like leaks and collapses happen.  I was lucky not to have either occur, but my neighbor and her screened in porch were not so lucky.
• I should have invested in a roof rake. A WHAT?  Some telescoping pole with an larger-than-squeegie type thing attached which lets you take snow off the roof.  They were sold out… everywhere around here this winter.  Along with salt and shovels.  It was that bad.
• Preschools which are not publicly funded (as is the case with every preschool in my town), cancel school with glee and at will in the name of ‘safety.’  If it’s a dusting, school is off.   Some schools give days back.  Public school makes up days.  In January, 7 of 14 of the days my kid goes to school were cancelled.  We got a makeup.  One.
• Crafts and activities can be forced upon young kids who are otherwise not crafty.  Thank god for washable markers.  I also found out my son could draw a giraffe, an elephant and a meerkat.  I’ve since not see him drawn them, but I swear it happened.
• No matter who you are, or how old, layers are annoying. They bunch under your coat and get supremely annoying when you sit in the car. I tried to give this one to my son as he’d whine and cry when we got in the car this winter, but really…with cabin fever, Mommy had not much patience for temper tantrums.
• People from your frigid locale who move or vacation to warm climates and brag about it on Facebook are extremely annoying.  No matter how much you love them.
• If you should be so lucky to get to a warm climate yourself for a few days, nothing will yank the tan off you like a half-hour in an over chlorinated pool. Honestly, I could have slathered my body in petroleum jelly and it would not have stopped the peeling.
• Snowboots.  I’ve embraced a pair with fleece lining.  They’re as fashionable as I could find.  They’re black.

And with that, off I go to visit family…somewhere colder.  Boston.  It’s about a 2 1/2 – 3 hour drive, sitting with bunched coats and hearing a lot of ‘are we there yet.’   Spring… please… be here when I get back.

Riddles Solved by Silence

Spring is coming in the northeast where I live, and I’ve got a tan.  Chalk that up to a dysfunctional relationship with my father whereby I haven’t seen him in nearly six years.  That Daddy-Daughter hiatus brought me on a flight down to see him in Florida for a long weekend, Friday to Monday, by myself, leaving my husband at home with our boys (broken up by a visit to his family for some variety).  Awkwardness wasn’t something I was worried by in the reuniting, more like the chattering in my own brain.

My father is vastly different than my mom.  Anyone who knows my mom, aka ‘Bubbe’ (if you don’t…you will eventually through this blog), eventually asks upon meeting or hearing about my Dad, ‘How were they married so long?’  Unfortunately, my brother, Brian and I reached that stage of parent/child relationships where the dialogue between is as adults.  He dared ask the question, I was a casualty of hearing the answer from my Mom ‘Well, the sex was really good.’  After I stopped screaming and realized I was only temporarily deaf and blind, life continued in as normal a fashion as it could following.

Suffice it to say, my mom is outgoing, outspoken and very much engaged and connected to people.  My mother is my best friend, confidant and sometimes, I want to strangle her, as happens with people one is closest to.  I talk to her just about every day and sometimes, we just have this psychic, Hungarian connection where we can sense something is up with the other person.  It’s a Mother/Daughter relationship on steriods.

My dad is the total opposite.  He’s pretty content to keep to himself, by himself.  While I marveled at how many more entertaining stories he had than I figured after exhausting the standard weather and ‘How are you’ obligatory topics, he’s not the person moving too far off his standing point to talk to anyone at a party. My memories of him are of simple things; my brother and I as kids, riding with him on NYC’s old  M100 bus route on the weekend, eating accapurria and learning how to shoot pool at the depot during lunch hour.

When we were little, there were lots of hugs and kisses, fun playtime with my Dad.  We grew and as we got more complicated in our questions, our views of the world, so grew the space between us, sadly and unexplained.  Weekend or vacation time as a family was pretty mellow, echoing my Dad’s demeanor.  Content to sit in his rocker and read the New York Times on a Sunday or stand at the edge of a beach, toes nipping by the water as he kept a steady gaze out at the sea, staring off in silence.

And as I was in Florida, visiting my Dad, I found there not to be as much silence as I anticipated.  My father telling me stories I hadn’t heard before about his time there, about his past as an adult; surprising me that he now said ‘sh*t’ a lot and making me feel funny for being the kid around a cursing Dad.

And as I suspected, I thought about asking him why he’d never ventured north after his mother died to see his own children; to meet the grandchildren he’d never met.  But, I didn’t, knowing full well the lack of a good answer beyond his not wanting to journey to the cold northeast.  He said as much, for the umpteenth time in answer to my offering to take him to a Yankee game...in August.

‘Daddy.  It’s not cold in August. It’s HOT.’

‘No. No, no, no,’ he returned. ‘I’m not going nowhere. I love the weather here too much.’

He may as well have punched me in the stomach. It was a slight variation, a finite, closed one of the excuse I’d heard before. Used to it? I thought I was.  I thought I’d grown accustomed to it.  Apparently not. I sat silent for a few minutes as we drove to the beach.  I swallowed the tears, the hurt, hid them and waited to appeal to the sun to heal me.

Can’t understand it? Want to explain it with psychobabble?  Trust me, it’s not worthy of introspection.  It’s just that simple.  It has nothing to do with malice, hard feelings or otherwise.  It’s just that he’s lacking that chromosome that connects him to people and guides him to let his heart pull him to them. And for that, he doesn’t want to go outside what’s convenient for him, and doesn’t realize what he’s missing. His children, his grandchildren…blessings…love.  Somewhere in his upbringing, the will, the innate ability to connect to this was lost…damaged. This trait was not fostered, it was stifled, strangled in unspeakable ways. But, those are memories that are his.

As a parent, I find the past and lacking connection hard to justify as excuses. (Though I have been able to forgive his coming to NYC five separate times, that I know of, to see his ailing mother, but not think to call his own children, Brian and I.)  So, I accept that this is who my father is, that he is not drawn to meet his grandchildren, or see his own children if they do not come to him.  It gets easier with time, and with my years as time has me embrace humility, appreciation for my health, the blessings of my children, the abundance of love from my family, friends, and friends who are as family to me.

As I struggled with the riddle of how I ask my father directly why he does not want to come meet his grandchildren, I thought of telling him how his not meeting, not having any desire to, hurts me. But I decide as my time with him on this trip drew shorter, I do not want to muddy an otherwise fine visit, for an answer I know; an answer that maintains the sharpness of a fine, steel blade. For all the chatter in my brain that went on as a result of my taking this trip alone, the riddle of how to solve this one, how to quiet the question, how to erase the hurt of that same answer, eludes me.  It’s quelled by nothing but silence.

I press my face to my father’s. The moment is frozen in time…and silence.

Running in the Rain

I’ve got no problem with the rain…generally. OK, once it starts coming down, I curse under my breath for the impending frizz on the OFF chance that my hair isn’t in a ponytail. And I really hate not having the appropriate foot gear and/or landing in a puddle and having wet feet for the day.  Then there’s being stuck inside with the kids, or outside and then just dragging soggy, whining children around.  But otherwise, I’ve got no problem with it…really. Really.  It looks pretty, it makes stuff green, and…it ain’t snow.

After a ridiculous amount of snow and freezing cold days, the forecast has eased up a bit though and so has my stance on exercising out in the elements.  Once some of the frozen tundra of my small Connecticut town started to melt and give way to sidewalk, I decided it was time to don my warmer running togs and take it outside.  (Thanks to my bud, Anna for getting me the very thoughtful presents of a fleecy headband and running gloves for the purpose.)   I even said ‘what the heck’ and signed up for a 5K in NYC on March 6th with Anna.  I figured that if it’d be fun to run in what might be freezing weather with anyone in a ‘race,’ it’d be my friend Anna.  To boot, there was a ‘Kids’ Race’ (a 100 ft. dash or some such) which Cole was totally game for running in, so I registered us both and figured we’d make a family day of it.

With only one outside run since Thanksgiving under my belt, I began to get nervous at the prospect of the run.  Anna is an outdoor exercising fiend; living in NYC where the snow disappeared quickly so she could run and bike at every chance she got (which is nearly every day).  My buddy Ward decided to register too.  And after a exercise hiatus, picked up running again and emailed me ‘Ugh, I managed to run 20 minutes today only at an 8:40/mile.’  Really??  An 8:40?  Have I told you how slow a runner I am and how i HATE it?  Yes…this might be interesting.

So no surprise that as the day approached, I DREADED it for the forecast of rain and for my nerves at being so slow and dragging Anna down (we knew Ward would start ahead of us and just meet up with us at the finish line).  Unfortunately, the impending rain put the nix on this being a family affair, thus I left the house at 7am alone to travel to the race.

Finding a parking spot was a challenge, but doing the race was not.  Anna and I started running together and surprisingly, I breezed my way through the 5K, barely noticing I was running.  We gabbed the whole way, up and back our childhood neighborhood in no particular hurry, getting a steady soak of rain and visual reminders of our childhood.  As usual, my mom and I continued our quasi psychic connection with my finding her on the route, standing with her partner Joanne, waving and cheering us on in the rain.  We hugged them coming and going.

For the first time ever, 3.2 miles ended in no time for me (though the clock would say differently, but who cared?!?)  Anna and I gabbed and laughed the whole way.  And something about the run and the rain told me that spring was indeed coming, as were good things.  The rainy day run provided a look back and a look forward to the spring.  The rain came in torrents for the rest of the day and into the evening.  I awoke this morning to find nearly all the remaining snow washed away.  I feel like running to the spring.  The path is clean and cleared for it.

 

Springtime. Some Things Just SMELL Like It.

It’s Sunday, and I’m preparing to head to the gym to a spin class.  It’s my bit of bi-weekly torture.  Sit on a bike, literally spinning my wheels, going nowhere and having crap for scenery and stale, sweat saturated air (mmmmm…delish).  My bike shoes which are normally clipped into my Trek 2.1 (aka The Big Blue Blovey), are clipped into a spin bike that goes nowhere. It’s so wrong. So foul. To my bike shoes, I apologize for the betrayal. It’s a necessary evil though, as I prepare to start on another (sounds impressive, it’s only my 2nd) triathlon season where I’ve plotted out one tri per month, starting in June and ending in September.  September will be the big finale for me this year, with my first Olympic Triathlon in Sag Harbor with the Mighty Hamptons Olympic Triathlon. A gorgeous place for a 1-mile swim, followed by a 25-mile bike ride through rolling, scenic green and beach vistas, followed by dragging my pathetically tired limbs through a 10-k run.  By the middle of the run, I’ll likely see nothing for my own sweat burning my eyeballs and the pain rendering everything else that isn’t a finish line a hellish, sight I’d rather gouge my eyes out for seeing.  But I digress.

Yesterday in 33 degree weather, I ventured out for my first run in a long while.  In fact, the last run I’d taken outside was a 5 Mile Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving.  (Also known as the ‘Pass-Me-Another-Piece-of-That-Pie-and-One-of-Those-Mini-Cannoli’s-Would-Ya?!? Run’)  As suspected, the slight inclines felt like mountains, and the post-nasal drip felt like waterboarding.  But, in those few moments which were NOT that old guy passing me, I felt good.  I felt REALLY good for the air, crisp, still smacking of winter and of wet ice taking a really gradual melt.  It was lightly peppered with the smell of grass struggling out to see the sun, buds making their plots to burst forth off branches.  And it stayed with me through the sniffling, hacking, and residual cold crap which carried me through the morning.

Later in the lull of the afternoon where my two-year old son, Noah SOMETIMES naps, I stole a few lazy moments on my couch and scanned the box.  In the vast wasteland that is often television programming, I found the YES Network was finally, actually, and GLORIOUSLY showing baseball.  RECENT baseball.  LIVE baseball.  The first of the Grapefruit League games for my Yankees.  Sure, it was mid innings so I got to see Yankees I had no about while Nick Swisher was interviewed riding around in a golf cart off field, but it was BASEBALL.  And to me, baseball is one of those sure signs of spring that makes my heart shine along with the promise of sun.

After a few minutes of basking in my ‘spring IS coming’ glow, I went downstairs to see how my older son, Cole was doing.  He was flinging cars down homemade ramps while watching cartoons in the playroom.

Cole: ‘So Mom, what are you doing?’

Me: ‘Well, I came down here to tell you that I’m upstairs and guess what I’m watching?  Baseball.’

…and he says (music to my ears): ‘Is it YANKEE BASEBALL?’

…and I say ‘Yes. Would you like to come watch it with me?’

…and he says ‘Yes.’ And he does…for a little while.  And it makes me think of the end of summer, when it was still hot, but it smelled like fall was coming, when I went with Cole for the first time to Yankee Stadium.  We sat right behind the dugout, protected by net, taking in pre-game warmup with Robinson Cano and Jeter doing long toss right in front of us, the net protecting us from Cano’s missing the ball for being lost in some other thought.  At the end of the game, we stayed and waited for a game ball (which he still carries around) the fall air lurking as the sun started to settle itself lower.

It smelled like fall was coming then too, in the same way it smells like spring now.  And I’m breathing it all in, and looking forward to it.

What the hell happened?!?!?

So I’m back… after a hiatus that I really hadn’t intended and included a raging sinus infection, nasty pants stomach flu, a blizzard induced power outage the day after Christmas (with my mother-in-law in our house for a few days) and THAT’S  just the interesting stuff. Somewhere after running a 5 mile Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving (thereby proving I will not shatter into a thousand pieces running when thermometer is below fifty degrees), the mere thought of getting up at 6AM to write for twenty to thirty minutes a day had been gobbled up by holiday madness. And now it’s March and here I am.   I pulled such a literary Snow White.

For a few days, I was honestly wondering how I’d continue to write the blog. I sometimes write about my family, most often about my two little boys, and sometimes about the trials and (ahem) tribulations of marriage. You know, relatable stuff.  (And building an audience is ALL about relatability.  Hear that husband?!?!) But in my last post about trimming our Christmas tree by myself, I managed to piss off my husband. He took umbrage to one sentence in particular and the way he thought the tone of the piece came off. It got heated and thus I didn’t write for awhile, thinking about honoring his request not to include him at all in this blog. But time has passed and, well, if I’m ever to tackle the regularity of this blogging thing and the eventuality of (of course, my dear husband) writing a book in my ‘spare time,’ he’s going to have to roll with it.  That midlife crisis Porsche and our summer home in INSERT FAVORITE LOCALE here depend on it.  He’ll have to realize that my audience is just a smidge below Huffington Post rankings and, I’m just a shade below J.K. Rowling on everyone’s list of writers to get an appointment with.

Alas I digress. What the hell happened to me? Well, as my word count gets up, I gotta get down with the dirty details. So for now, here they are, with the glorious specifics to come in posts to come.  (Feel free to comment on what your favorite is.  As you can see, I’ve got a lot of material to write about.)

1. Hosted a Christmas for eighteen people.  (No one got killed.)
2. Managed to survive a near two-foot snowstorm the day after Christmas which produced a power outage while my mother in law was here.  (I shoveled a 100ft.+ driveway like a madwoman thinking ‘I WILL NOT GET STUCK IN THIS HOUSE AND DIE HERE WITH HER!’)
3. My son Noah, turned two on New Year’s Eve and we all went out two TWO parties that evening where his birthday was an afterthought. (We’re priming him for birthday celebrations for the rest of his life, really.)
4. On said New Year’s Eve, I made beef wellington for the 2nd year running.  It was delicious, but WOW… the Points Plus values on THAT puppy! (Yes…I’m a Weight Watcher.  No, I didn’t mean Wheel Watcher.)
5. Sinus infection. Dragged children in desperation to walk-in-medical clinic.  Fast visit + antibiotics = Insurance-Didn’t-Cover-A-Lot. Oy
6. On New Year’s Day (12:01AM to be exact), I registered for what will be the first of 4+ triathlons this year.  I’m currently doing treadmill running… lots of it.
7. Stomach flu.  I’ll spare you the details, but know the three pounds I lost, came back.  Fuckin’ optimism inducing water weight.
8. For the month of January, my older son only went to school SEVEN out of his FOURTEEN scheduled school days. Snow.. I hate it.  Oh.. wait…
9. We went to Stowe, VT twice and snowboarded.  Cole went to ski school both times…loved it.  Noah came with us the second time, survived the daycare and we ALL survived being in a room together for two days without the comforts of home and Noah being deprived of his precious sleep.  No hips broken by us old folk.
10. I bought a dress I’d seen in early December.  It was early February and it’d since went on sale.  Unfortunately, they only Size 8 available.  I tried it on.  It fit. I’m still waiting for a place to wear the thing…inside out and backwards of course.
11. I turned forty and the day brought me dead flowers and toddler diarrhea performance art.  Still, I felt pretty damn good. FORTY. I’m all over it like MSG.  BRING. IT. ON.

 

Ho-Ho-Hold On. I Might Be Getting into the Holiday Spirit After All.

Saturday. I always look forward to it. At the end of a long week of twelve-hour days, filled with the constant Mommy duties of personal chef, social coordinator, chauffeur, maid, laundress and… (last but not least) poopy-diaper cleaner, I am always SO glad to see Saturday. I sleep in perhaps (7AM is a luxury), then get started on my usual routine which usually includes an early AM gym run and some errands. Today, after the usual Saturday AM run around (literal this morning after a MUCH needed 4 1/2 miles on the treadmill), I got home and hung with the boys for a bit before they headed out to a birthday party. Luxury for me continued as I got to shower alone, uninterrupted and then… I ACTUALLY did my hair and applied makeup.

How did I continue this day? What could be incredibly fun for some ‘Mommy-time’ alone you ask? Well how about going to the dentist and having a cavity drilled. Yes folks, that’s what prevented me from attending the THIRD kiddie birthday party
in as many Saturdays. Yes Dr. Dentist. Inject me with some novocaine so that I may drool on myself for a few hours afterwards, because at least when it’s my drool, I know it doesn’t have Goldfish and snot mixed into it. Sit me in a chair, drill my teeth (my nightmare is things happening to my teeth.. as in ‘Marathon Man’ kinda ‘IS IT SAFE?!?’ sort of thing). Sign me up. It’s silent… it’s lovely… and while it costs me $245 for the pleasure, at least I missed out on the sugar, cake, candy fest.. topped off by a magician. PHEW!! And then.. I headed back home to my bandy of boys, their goody bag cookies and stretchy lizards and the usual chaos. Is there more coffee? Good.. I needed it.

And where did the holiday spirit come in you ask? It came in compliments of my fellow Jew-girlfriend from grade school, bike buddy and sista-from-anotha’-mistah… Ms. Anna. Like many threaten but FEW DARE to do, she actually came up to the ‘burbs to visit me. We ‘lunched’… we shopped… and we even braved Westport without me wanting to strangle someone. I felt good about there being some semblance of holiday spirit in my house as she admired our Christmas tree, and when I myself returned home from the dentist, realized that the bows on the veranda, the tree… they looked all ‘Tis the Season’ and the warm, enveloping capper on it was the smell of fresh baked cookies still in the air from yesterday’s latest batches.

Before browsing the sparkly sweaters, the sunglass store with way too much holiday music, Anna and I lunched at a BBQ place that has some tasty salads (though I decided to order the chili for myself on this, a pretty chilly day). We talked about stuff… girl stuff…. and then woman stuff. Stuff about friends, thoughts, feelings for people close to us, stories we’d hope the best for.

Then… we were interrupted. It sounded as if a party of about thirty had wandered in.. and I wondered when they’d be muffled to a private dining room. Silence fell and I was thankful we could resume our conversation without the distracting background noise. Then a sudden swell. Voices… harmony… a chorus of about forty voices singing ‘Jingle Bells.’ I thought perhaps Anna would be annoyed, or that I’d get annoyed. We were talking… and it was SO rare for me to have the chance to sit and chat with a girlfriend without distraction of the usual day to day with the kids. Another commonality Anna and I have is our general distaste for holiday music. And while that may sound a bit scroogy, let me quantify that it’s more like the holiday overkill.. or just lacking the need to play it all the time during the holidays. Not many of those songs are good. But.. this was good. The harmony was good. After ‘Jingle Bells,’ they sang ‘Silent Night,’ with the first chorus in German, the second in English. It was what the holidays should be.. in perfect sound translation. The warmth of enveloped me in family, friends and the feeling of being fortunate. And in that moment, I remembered.. this is what the holidays are all about. Yes… I’ve got so much to do and I haven’t even started making the lists yet…but the biggest part is already done. The spirit is in place. Let it begin.

TYPE-A Jew Holiday Decorating.

My halls are decked. Kinda. I mean, if you consider knicks on the molding from Hot Wheels car crashes to be decoration. OK.. it’s not THAT bad. Last week during the coldest days, I managed to put the red bows across my veranda, one on the garage and while I did NOT get frostbite, my hands got SO dry that material makes an AUDIBLE sound when skimming across my hands. So ladylike.. I KNOW. Martha Stewart just doesn’t tell you about this shit. More likely, she just has ‘her people’ take care of this type of thing. Surely she was not teetering down her attic stairs after dragging down a boxes and bag of decorations, wrapping accoutrement and such, risking a broken leg or tempting a case of teatnus grazing one of the nails protruding from the roof boards. And NO… I did not hire a babysitter for a few hours while I did this… and YES.. I did this with one or both kids underfoot. (Before you call Social Services, please know the attic routine was done while the near two-year old slept safely in his crib.)

This weekend, we got our tree.. albeit late and not (as is standard for us now) picked and cut down by our own clan at a local tree farm. No.. this year, my brother’s gall bladder decided to rot itself black and full of stones, inspiring him to emergency surgery for it’s removal. Last weekend, after taking the kids to see Cirque du Soleil ‘Wintuk’ in NYC on Saturday (which was a circus in and of itself), I collected my mother in Washington Heights, brought her back to our CT compound and then journeyed on Sunday to see my brother who had just been released from the hospital. (Nothing like a little Mommy-love for the boys when they’re sick. He got a full four days of my mother which resulted in a stocked freezer and a full, speedy recovery.)

Thus, our plans to cut our tree that weekend were kayboshed. This past weekend, we hit a local nursery in Pound Ridge and got our tree. Was it more expensive? A touch. But not as expensive as say, our cutting the tree down ourselves.. which last year resulted in my nearly losing an eye after my husband tried to secure the tree to the top of the car with a bungee cord.

Cost of tree, ten bucks tip and a quickly and safely secured tree later, I took both my eyes and kids inside with husband to pay and check out the ornaments and such. ‘DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING!!!’ I screamed a billion times, visions of dollar signs dancing in my head. We took both kids to the back of the store and low and behold (f*ck.. forgot my camera) .. SANTA!!!! He was sitting in a room all by himself.. a very nice Santa.. but looked like he could use a little sandwich. Noah (the two-year old) sat on his lap.. no hesitation. The man did have a candy cane for him, so there’s confirming that fear that a stranger could INDEED lure at least one of my kids with candy (the older.. perhaps pasta or sugar cereal might work).
I got two pictures with my crap cell phone camera and we were on our way. On the way out, I got a pair of holly berry scented candles (delightful when it doesn’t smell like poop around here) and some pretty plant with white flowers.. which.. in a shocking development, I have managed NOT to kill yet.. and it actually appears to be THRIVING.

The tree got home. The tree got in the stand and no one got killed. That was Saturday. Sunday, I managed to string all the lights on (this year, boring white… my huband’s tradition. Classic.. yes. Boring… yes). Cole was kept at bay for a bit while I did so, waiting for the time where we’d put the ornaments on. Once that was done, green light to the ornaments. Cole unwrapped nearly everything and hung a few. Trying not to feel terrible for my continued commands of ‘put some on the back!’ and ‘put them further back on the branches so they don’t fall!’, Cole and I (yes.. Noah was asleep… by design) got the tree decorated without incident or broken ornament. I was glad to get everything up and looking good… though I felt less than festive for doing this with no participation from my spouse. He’s usually good for a few ornaments… not many.. but it’s something. (This year.. he had no inclination…. and it kinda left me feeling less than festive and a bit lonely.)

I had visions of making hot cocoa, filling the house with the smell of cookies, but this year, things were just off on timing. My house smelled of cookies days earlier and the tree trimming day, like ratatouille and chicken sausage. Oh well. I guess tradition is what you make it and some years, it’s completely off from what’s standard… but it still works out just fine.

SH*T STORM Part Doo: The Pre-Holiday Edition

Thanksgiving is coming. My humblest wish is that I don’t hit traffic in travels to my brother’s house (pfft). Perhaps I should have just wished for something simpler… like an easy few days leading up to Thanksgiving. You know, days devoid of sinus infection, kid illness, car servicing, driving my husband’s car for a late night errand only to find the tank is on empty. Alas.. no. Here’s how things are panning out lately:

i get noah (the 22 month old) from the bed this morning… poop.. the very liquidy kind.. EVERYWHERE. as in.. take child at arms length and deposit into tub… strip sheets.. the whole nine. did i mention cole had school today.. so we were under the gun.. ya know.. to get out and to school. noah has another liquidy evacuation. great. so now i’m packing diapers AND a change of clothes for my trip to (wait for it) get the car serviced 45 minutes away from where i live.

then i go to take the car serviced after i drop cole off.. and they tell me (wait for it) it’s a ‘longer service’ which will take ‘about 2 and a HALF hours.’ BINGO!!! i then crowd into the kids waiting room with four other moms, five kids.. and then people/kids just kept coming and going as we continued to wait. of course… noah’s got more liquid that comes out the tail end.. and… then i go to change him and (wait for it)… OF COURSE there’s no changing ANYTHING in the bathroom. no diaper station… no counter…. nada. so.. i grab a plastic bag from under the counter of the sink and put noah on that.. on the floor.

in between all this.. i manage to get an email from eric.. telling me he’d like to go out the next THREE thursdays. perfect timing to think about that in the pipeline.

oh yeah.. and i had to go to a walk in clinic yesterday (my dr. is off my list… they’re HORRIBLE at the front desk).. to get antibiotics for the nasty sinus infection i’ve been denying since last thursday. of course.. i am starting to feel better.. and it’s nice that the weather is warmer now. alas.. by thursday when i’m running a five mile race like an IDIOT at 7:45AM.. it will be f*ckin’ freezing. that should help me since i haven’t worked out since thursday. i can only hope that I don’t pass out in my turkey that night.

Rhythms Interrupted

Stepping of the Metro North into Grand Central always starts me on the race. Perhaps race isn’t the right word…because it’s usually just me finding a rhythm to get where I need to in the fastest, most direct footpath possible. Though when the doors to the Metro North train open and I’ve waited the requisite time to be politely patient in getting off the train, perhaps it is a race at that point. Stepping onto the platform, I try to find my way to the exit and expanse of space past the cattle-car like platform chute of people. Annoyance is immediate at the people lollygagging to wait for a friend, or finish reading that last bit of newspaper or novel. We’re moving people… and all in the same direction. Look up.. move along.

Once in Grand Central Station I steal a glance if path allows and cadence of step is not interrupted so as to delay anyone else’s forward progress. The frescos on the ceiling DO look nicer for having been restored and the decades of grime cleaned away and I still wonder about that Campbell Apartment. (Surely an eventual drink there will disappoint the years of hype.) People stand like potted plants to meet others… the requisite ‘Meet me by the Clock’ makes cutting a diagonal through the main hall a slalom challenge on the way to the 4/5/6 Subway. Forgetting how much I have on my Metro Card (seldom used these days for infrequency of NYC trips.. pitfall of suburban living), I press a prayer closed with my eyes for $2.50 at least in remainder and swipe the card. Familiar ‘BEEP’ and I’m through.. criss crossing to the Downtown platform. Some large, African American dude in puffy bomber jacket crossed my feet, catching my toes in his heel on the way past. He’s tripped up and I keep going, unfaltered. He looks around to see who tripped him… clearly pissed… ready for confrontation. I think ‘Really?’ and almost hope he knows it’s me because the absurdity of it would be a hoot. I’ve got a big mouth. 99% of time I’m more New York than those carrying the biggest attitudes. Alas, he continues.

Jockeying for the right place on the subway platform, I often prefer the spot right beneath the stairway, not on the tiny lip of platform left.. but just behind it, close enough to the lip so as to get the benefit of a lesser amount of people competing to smush on the train when the doors open. It comes. I get on. I am amazed. It’s all still here. The dude sitting with his legs WAY spread apart to take up two seats, the people getting on a crammed train with backpacks firmly still strapped on, turning this way and that for smacking people at every turn. Can you unstrap from your blast off pack? I promise the Space Shuttle will not leave without you.

My mole-like sixth subway sense leaves me the EXACT spot I need to be at the Twenty-Third Street stop. (So much so in fact, I make it to the restaurant a full five minutes before my friend, who was ‘stuck waiting to get out because, you know, they only have that one exit at the Twenty-Third Street stop.) And then I walk a few blocks. I wonder a few familiar questions. These I leave you with, at the final destination of this post:

1) MUST you text, tweet and twat ALL the time? With cabs, buses, bike messengers who have nary a care for their own lives (much less that of others), looking up would seem the #1 thing to do when walking or say, crossing a street. At the least, if you’re walking directly into my path with your nose in your stupid-smart phone, I will mow you down.

2) The ‘Where Am I Going’ pause. Don’t know where you’re going? No problem. You can figure that out, quietly and UNINTERRUPTED by stepping to the side of the sidewalk.. AWAY from doorways, pathways and the general flow of traffic. Trust me my genius Magellan, it WILL be easier.

3) ‘I Had A Miscarriage’ in Banana Republic. One day, ages ago when I could go to Banana Republic (aka GrrrAnimals for adults) and get a nice, cotton top that didn’t fall apart or dull after one laundering (because, sigh… for the decrease in quality, now they do) I was perusing the wares there. The stunner and still champion of all publicly overheard cell phone conversations.. a young woman telling someone (the person on the other end of the phone and me and whomever else overheard at Banana Republic), that she had miscarried. I would have said ‘suffered a miscarriage,’ but it seems that losing a baby had no ill or lasting effects on her as she looked around for the wheat colored-Martin-style pants in her size. No rhythm interrupted.

Falling behind.

At some point in time, when the humidity made me all clammy and rendered the donning of the nearly permanent summer ponytail, I felt like I’d had things under control. A PhD in multi-tasking perhaps. Proud for having kept off the forty-seven pounds I’d lost over the previous year, for having completed two triathlons and, generally keeping a somewhat together and happy household. The icing, of course, two sweet and happy boys who were entertained by yours truly for a long, hot summer. Mixed into the sun, the allergy cocktail of pollen and grass, and the ember and flames of barbeques, was a thought, formation (perhaps) of a goal to do something else. Something I needed to do, something I was OWED. To steal myself more time to indulge my longtime passion, escape and cheapest form of therapy… to write.

The nights were taken by the endorphin addiction…my need to work out. Swim, bike, run had garnered my plenty of fun, achieving the triathlon goal (and new hobby) and making me fitter on the outside in the process. The inside… the brain melt I’d suffered by 7:30PM was only half taken care of by the endorphin release of workouts. Somehow I needed to write, as I always did, to express myself, to release feelings, release humor…to inspire myself to something greater.

‘I’ll wake up at 6:30 in the morning,’ I thought. Then I immediately revised that to perhaps 6:15, or 6:00. Or, whatever the time would turn out to be when I set the alarm for whenever, accounting for that weird interval of fast I made my clock so as to afford me more time. (The mental math of it escapes me, but it always nets me more time than I need when I’m waking up obscenely early for ‘something.’)

It was a GOOD plan. It was a plan I followed… for TWO DAYS. Two days that were scattered across a gigantic expanse of calendar…. a grid of days that looked abundant tacked to my kitchen wall, or on my iTouch. Two days that MOCKED me and said ‘What the fuck happened?!?’ (The voice in my head then added.. SLACKER!’ for good measure.) Lack of time. Ironic, figuring the few random minutes I managed to steal with that fancy alarm clock maneuver. Apparently, it was not enough. Daytime sees laundry, chauffering the kids, trying to ‘run the household,’ which no one seems to care about and I make myself a bit nauseated about when I feel proud for the momentarily clean kitchen floor. Indeed these days, I DO cry over spilled milk.

After 7PM, when Eric arrives home, I usually bail out of the house to the gym. A stellar example of ‘A Bat Out of Hell,’ with my workout clothes donned, bag slung over my shoulder, iTouch loaded with music to carry me somewhere else. At the end of the day, I need to remind myself that I’m not the bitchy mom, the nagging wife, the broken record. I need to recharge myself, to feel good about myself for more than five minute intervals of time. I get it.. and then the boomerang returns itself.

9PM…I arrive home. I shower. I don the practical pajamas. I heat a cup of tea. In another hour, I go to bed. 6:30AM usually brings some rumblings from Cole, who at the age of four, does not appreciate sleep as much as he should. And so it begins, the food, the getting stuff ready, the errands with one or two kids in tow. The domestic goddess crap that swirls about me like a tornado…eats up my time, decimates what every month looks like an optimistic and reasonable calendar of time to accomplish writing. Some writing… ANY writing. Not nearly enough writing. Not nearly anywhere near prodding the larger project I think about, but never have the balls to touch, or more correctly, to even begin.

Looking at the clock I figure, I NEED eight to nine hours of sleep. To be on the go for twelve-plus hours a day… my body, my mind, my patience, my Mary Poppins gear on overdrive, I NEED at least that. 10PM to 6AM gives me eight… so I’ve got a half-hour… right? A half-hour to write.. right?