The Jane Ithaca Book Club

My book club in San Diego had three rules: Try to have your book selections two months in advance, make sure it's a book that you enjoyed or comes highly recommended by a trusted friend, and no sleeping with anyone’s husband. When they were first told to me, I laughed out loud.

“You girls are such a hoot!”

“No, Lisa, we’re serious. It happened last year. She’s not in the club anymore.”

No offense, but it’s not like anyone is married to Clive Owen.

“Got it. You can count on me!”

I am a long way from California. Even though I am pretty sure none of the ladies in the Monday night Cornell Campus Club Book Club swing, our rules are much stricter.  The reading list is voted on and set a year in advance.

We spent last Monday reviewing options for the upcoming year and it was a knock-down drag-out. Since I didn’t have an infant glued to my breast or an oxygen tank to wheel around, I put on some boxing gloves and got busy. I noticed most of the women in the room were ignoring me and deferring to Jane on almost every book and I couldn’t understand why. I did my homework and had good book suggestions. I brought a nice bottle of wine and vegan dish-to-pass and didn’t take too many meatless balls from the buffet.

My friend and sometimes partner-in-crime saw I was getting flustered. She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Jane has a P.h.D in literature from Harvard.”

Why is it that in California you are warned about your potential naughty behavior and in Ithaca you are warned about your so-not-great-intelligence?

Forget-Me-Not

We were walking to school yesterday, talking about the end-of-year celebrations.  I looked over at Charming Baby, amazed at how independent he has become.   He organizes his backpack, remembers his sharing, and dresses himself.  Is that pasta sauce on his Spiderman t-shirt?

“Sam!  Are you wearing the same t-shirt as yesterday?”

“Yes.  And the same shorts.  I pulled them out of my dirty clothes bin.”  He grins, not an ounce of remorse.

“Sam!  Do you realize you have smudges of food all over yourself and today is your special class party and everyone is going to be taking pictures?”

“Yes!  That’s why I picked this shirt!”

“If I bring a clean one when I come to the picnic, will you put it on?”  Jesus, my standards have slipped.  I used to insist on collared shirts for special occasions…now I am begging my child to wear something that doesn’t have Monday’s dinner encrusted on the shoulder.

“Awww, Mom there are no good ones left that I like!”

“Your Cornell one is clean.”

“Okay.”  He seemed slightly defeated.

Later, as I was headed over to the party, I was congratulating myself for being on time and on the ball with my bag full of teacher gifts, food to share, real camera and…oh man.

I waited until after lunch before taking the picture that really mattered, figuring that even if I had brought the t-shirt, it would have had food stains on it by then.  Sam may forget to use a napkin, but he will always remember the two things he loved best about kindergarten--Mrs. Philipson and his Spiderman t-shirt.

Dads are for… LOVE ing

Charming Baby made his own Father's Day card. The teacher provided the front copy: “Dads are for…” and then he completed the sentiment inside by writing LOVE in all caps, next line “ing.” I watched the Professor get all choked up and give both boys huge bear hugs. After the kisses and wrestling and everything ending with a swift kick to my chin, we started off to celebrate.

Some say we have no control over what type of fathers the men we choose will become. I think you can spot the raw ingredients a mile away: compassion, tenderness, a sense of humor. The Professor is an incredible balance of teacher, care provider and friend.

I got clues on what makes a great dad from one of the best. My own father spent countless hours teaching me everything he could think of—how to properly clean an artichoke, balance a check book, change the oil in my car (as if!), be nice to boys, treat my mother with respect, throw a punch, make hospital corners, train a dog, drive a stick shift, and party like a rock star. He also took me everywhere (mostly for the free child labor) and teased me unmercifully.

Hell yes, I got yelled at and spanked and told to go to my room. Of course the Professor runs off for alone time, relieved to get a break from Groundhog Day for a while.

But even when they are taking away Legos or car keys or telling your friends it’s time to go home or get a life, they are giving it their best shot. It’s easier to remember that when we are toasting them over a BBQ or making a card for that special man in our lives.

I thought of all the possible ways Charming Baby could have finished the sentence and am chalking up the fact that he got it so right up to dear old Dad.

Play Misty for Me

I took an eye-opening parenting class from Susie Walton (mother of Lakers’ basketball forward, Luke Walton, ex-wife of NBA legend, Bill Walton).  She raised 4 boys, all of them close in age.  No, I wasn’t looking for tips on how to keep 6’ 8” boys in food and clothes, although she did give me some good ideas on the subject. 

Beyond “teaching” rather than “threatening and punishing” your children, one of the key points I remember is that we don’t need to be over-achievers in order to raise successful, happy children.  The example Susie used was organized sports.  If you have ever seen a soccer team of 3-year-olds, you know what a joke formal teams, uniforms (and trophies!) for kids under 6 can be. Susie assured us if a kid has talent, they can start a sport at age 13 and still qualify for the Olympics by age 16. 

When I rattled this comment off at a dinner party, I had a father of a single child tell me that that was dated information and you HAD to PICK a sport by age 3, get your kid going and STICK with it or else there would be no chance of your child playing his sport competitively in high school or college, let alone pro anything.

I took a swig of my wine and thought to myself, “Susie’s information can’t be that dated, can it?”  I told the guy, “Well, I sincerely hope you and your son are enjoying all the practices and games and that you are doing it for fun, because if you are forcing yourself to do it so your kid makes the grade, we all know how that can backfire. Look at Tiger.”   He wished me luck with my philosophy and I wished him luck comforting his son when my son wiped the courts clean with him in 6 years.  (Just kidding about the last part.)

The doubt creeps in from time to time, although I did feel a little better when I saw that here in Ithaca—the birthplace of lacrosse—First Born Prince wasn’t the only 4^th grader who had never played before.  In fact, there were four other boys his age that tried it for the first time this spring.

Then, yesterday, I found it—evidence that I am not foolishly enjoying lazy afternoons in our backyard with my boys when I should be racing around to scheduled activities.

In the July issue of “O” magazine, there is an article about Misty Copeland, the talented 27-year-old ballerina now appearing in Swan Lake and The Sleeping Beauty at New York’s Metropolitan Opera House, “5 Things Misty Copeland Knows for Sure”.  And I quote:

“I didn’t take dance or gymnastics as a kid—my first ballet class was when I was 13…”

“There are ballet dancers who burn out by their teens, but I was ready to go and still hungry.  My body wasn’t worn down, and I didn’t have that craving for approval that gets ingrained when you start at age 3 or 4.  I was just dancing to dance, because I loved it.”

The whole article was inspiring and gave me the extra confidence I was looking for to go with my gut on this one.

Final Score

Closed-minded, assumptive Dad driving all over in car: 0

Investigative, informed Mother floating around in pool: 1

Star Light, Star Bright

Driving away from the elementary school carnival Friday night, I was guesstimating what we grossed, adding up the expenses and man hours in my head and trying to project the net profits.

“Mom, when we get home, can we get a blanket and lay down on the grass outside and look at the stars?”

I had been busting my ass all day and it was past 9:00pm.  Charming Baby’s bedtime is supposed to be 7:30, my back was barking and I felt like a dirty, sticky carnie.  All I really wanted was a glass of wine and a hot bath.

He looked up at me with those big brown eyes and long lashes.  I started thinking about how much fun the kids had at the carnival and that I really enjoyed working with the other volunteers.

“Sure, Sam.”

I took a quick shower, we changed into our PJs and headed out to the yard.

On the blanket, side by side, I realized Charming Baby was looking at me more than at the sky.  He had a huge grin on his face and was happy just laying there, being with me. 

Then we saw it…the first star.  We waited to make sure it wasn’t an airplane.

I closed my eyes and made my wish.

Wishing for something you already have counts, right?

Peace Out

Our community in La Jolla is closing a chapter. Becky Candra, the director of our neighborhood pre school, is retiring, so we gathered together to honor this amazing force. 

Becky had a very profound influence on all of us.  She led with passion and conviction and had the vision and clarity to stick to her guns in the most loving, big-hearted way. 

Our director’s legacy is much more than providing a school filled with inspired teachers and a progressive nest for our growing babies.  She nurtured by gently reminding stressed out, busy people that all that really matters is love and a sense of humor.

Somehow she got all of us to drop the shit and feel like we were genius and generous.  So we kept thinking and giving.  And Becky built an empire of happy families that way.

As I drank and danced and laughed until I cried at the fundraiser-slash-retirement party last Saturday, I realized we really were celebrating Becky in the best way—coming together for the greater good.

Thank you, Becky. Pax Vobiscum.

Notorious

One minute you are happily collecting a caterpillar family with your six-year-old on a hike, marveling at their cuteness. The next, you are having the evils of the Gypsy moth larvae explained to you at the elementary school playground.

A French scientist brought their eggs to Massachusetts in 1868 as part of his silk spinning research.  During his work, some of the caterpillars got loose and have been systematically decimating millions of acres of trees in the northeast ever since.

Charming Baby took the creatures into class for sharing last week and then asked me to hold them for him after school while he played with his friends.  Thankfully, the treasurer of the PTA peered into the plastic bin and gave me the low down on the invasive species we were hoarding.

“Oh, yeah, they are a huge problem.  They multiply really fast and are a very tough pest to control.”

I thanked her profusely for saving me from an indeterminable fall from grace.  With the hot weather and stuffy little enclosure we had them in, I was planning to let the bastards loose later that day! 

Flashes of barren, rotting trees and the sound of caterpillars chomping away in the night will serve as a constant reminder to be more vigilant about who we invite back to the house. 

As much as I hate to admit it, we never would have ended up harboring criminals if I had abided by the scout hiking rule:  “Leave only footprints, take nothing but pictures.”

Jim Miles

I used to see the senior custodian every morning on my way into the boys’ school before I was banned from walking Charming Baby all the way to his classroom. Last winter I was alone with Jim on the front concrete steps while he shoveled rock salt out over the ice.

“Oooh-weee, it’s a cold one.” He gave a long whistle as he rhythmically scooped and tossed.

“It’s our first winter. We are really enjoying the snow.”

“Well you can have it.” He chuckled as he spoke.

“Oh, yeah?  You tired of Ithaca winters?”

“Yes I am. Yes I am.  As soon as I retire, I am moving south.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know, but someplace warm!” He laughed again.

I remember looking at him, all bundled up in a giant, hooded Yankees sweatshirt, and wondering how many people actually make it out of upstate New York. The cost of living here doesn’t exactly translate to cushy retirement on a beach, but what did I know about this man? I hoped that he would end up somewhere warm and nice.

Jim suffered a heart attack in the staff break room last Wednesday. None of the students were around and he was taken away without them even knowing in an ambulance. He died quietly later that afternoon in the hospital. It was 84 degrees.

Pledge Allegiance

On Memorial Day I realized I left more than my mother, a permanent tan and friends who like to party with white wine in San Diego. I left my American flag.

I noticed there was no flag bracket on our house here. I think flag brackets are standard issue back in La Jolla. Not sure if the reason is that San Diego grew up around the U.S. Naval base or because we lived in a neighborhood that rivals Norman Rockwell storybooks.

Driving around Ithaca over the holiday, I didn’t see much in the way of red, white and blue. I thought I would at least see a few porches boasting the symbol of the free world. I guess no matter where you live, for the majority, the day means sales at the mall, baseball or a reason to BBQ. If I want to teach my kids patriotism, I have to fly my own flag.

I get this from my mother who did things like make us all stop for a moment on Thanksgiving before the fight over drumsticks to bow our heads, or, spent her Christmas reminding us of the “reason for the season.”

Now it’s my turn and with the kids asking me questions about Afghanistan and Iraq, and now Korea, I feel it’s more important than ever to talk about the fallen soldiers and what serving your country means.

It’s a big concept and makes for good conversation when you have a day off.