Gotta Live Like We’re Dying

The best part of what I thought was only a year sabbatical was that I spent my time wisely, careful to not blow off entire days mired in robotic activity.  I took classes at Cornell, started writing more, really got into hiking and spent more time in my role as homemaker, mother and wife than I have ever have, which I found rewarding.  It reminded me of how I felt when I first gave up my career in marketing to be a stay-at-home mom.  There is something extremely satisfying about dropping your head onto your pillow at the end of a long day of task mastering, even if you are trading “new business development” for “make grocery list.”

But human nature gets the best of me and the minute we decided to extend our time in Ithaca, I started slipping into old habits.  Thank God we adopted that sweet beast of a dog or I might not have spent my summer on the hiking trails and in the streams of upstate New York.  I might have slipped off to the pool club with sandwiches for the boys and sliced cucumber, hummus and white wine for me.  I never thought a dog would save me from myself but he did last July and August. 

As we round the corner into a new year, I am going to recalibrate my attitude and treat the days and nights like they are numbered.  I will find the energy to read another story as I lay there in Charming Baby’s bed, wishing he would go to sleep already so I could slip into a hot bath with a book that has more than 12 words per page.  And when First Born Prince asks me to come to his room so we can chat before he turns out the light, I’ll skip on over instead of rolling my eyes and yelling “I’m not falling for that stalling tactic!  Go to bed!”  They will be posting "Keep Out" signs on their doors soon enough.

I still have my nemesis to face—my job as ski club chaperone to Greek Peek Mountain Resort.  It begins next Monday after school.  Rather than tolerating the icy cold until I can whisk the boys into the A-Frame for dinner, I will look at the afternoon as a chance to play.  Not everyone gets to be with their kids from 2:00 – 6:00 pm. on a weekday.  I don’t want their memories of me when I am stretched out in my coffin to be of an over-dressed woman ticking off the minutes until she can get the hell off a mountain.  My plan is to stock up on hand and toe warmers and be the one to beg them to skip dinner so we can squeeze in one more run before we have to catch the bus home.

Changing the World. One Smile at a Time.

They’re haunting me.  No, not the perfect pair of shoes I tried on seven years ago at the Neiman Marcus after-Christmas sale but didn’t buy.  Nor the people who sent us holiday cards that I didn’t reply to even though their address was right there on the back of the envelope.  I think I was too busy or maybe was being chintzy with my cards.  Or both.

The voices are quiet at first, but steady as they nag me this time of year.  I hear them when I whiz past the man and his son standing at the Salvation Army red pot ringing the bell.  They get louder when I toss a Feed the Hungry request-for-donation mailer into the recycling bin without even opening it.  Then they start to sound like cries when I read an article about the sex trafficking trade while I am sitting in my optometrist’s office.

We all have a point at which we stop and listen.  First Born Prince can’t look at photos of children from The Smile Train—an organization that fixes poor children’s cleft lips and palates—without offering me some of his allowance.

The Professor can’t walk by a homeless person in the cold.  He once saw a man in NYC shivering on the sidewalk, ran into the nearest department store, bought some sweatshirts and gave them to him.

The young woman who works in the salon I go to cannot stomach animal abuse.  She told me about her friend’s boyfriend beating the crap out of his dog.  Regularly.  As she painted my toes, we devised a plan to rescue “Oscar.” 

My friend’s parents are academics and have built a life around research and study.  Her mom, who carries a purse repaired with duct tape, sent a $5,000 check to the rescue relief find for Hurricane Katrina.

I know we can’t help everyone, or all be philanthropists, or even save the world.  But we can help change and improve it by giving something, even if it is just a few dollars to help repair a smile or distracting a jerk while you dognap a helpless pet.  I really love that this time of year gives music to those voices.

Ice Sculptures

When I thought we were only going to be here a year I made sure I got off my duff and experienced as much as we could--hiking every trail, touring farms and museums, planning fun driving trips to places like Montreal.  I even faced my nemesis—Greek Peak—the ski mountain where I spent more time going up an ancient rickety lift in wind chill close to zero than I did zooming down an icy slope, begging my son to please make turns.

When we decided to extend our stay at least another year, something like a drug addict must feel after they finally get that needle into their arm flooded through my veins.  I could stay in bed on Saturday morning if I wanted to, refuse invitations if I felt over committed, and ignore pumpkin and apple festivals.

I started leaving the field trips to the Professor again.  He is the best at getting the boys out the door on weekends, leaving me to write or read or take a yoga class.  I only feel mild pangs of regret when they come home, full of details about the glass blowing or maple tapping.

My better half is in Vegas this weekend, so it’s up to me to plan something special or we’ll end up staying in our pajamas the whole weekend, listening to Christmas carols and making rum cakes.  It's not over til the fat lady sings.

I caught the local news last night and guess where we're headed?  Ithaca Ice Wars Ice Carving Competition downtown on the Commons.  Watching Friday night's report, it reminded me of how when we lived in California and the boys were really little, I always meant to take them to a sand castle building contest.  We never made it, just like we never went whale watching or tidepooling often enough.  (We lived 6 blocks from tidepools.)  I thought we’d be there forever and I’d get to everything eventually.  The kids are 11 and 7 and we are 3,000 miles away from those sandy beaches.  I have a really long list of things I want to do with my boys before they’re grown or we’ve moved on…I better go start chipping away….

Latke Love

Our neighbors invited us to a latke party last night.  We were excited to get to know them a little better.  The Professor and I had met the couple before at other social and work events, but our kids were interested in the two boys they have seen out in their yard, from a distance over the past year.

Charming Baby walked in the house, saw a photo on the entry way table and shouted gleefully, “Ethan!”  A little boy magically appeared with a huge grin on his face, “Sam!” and the two scampered off.  Our hostess laughed and said, “So this is THE Sam.  We hear about him all the time.  We didn’t realize it was the same boy!”  I could see Sam felt the same way about Ethan. They attend the same elementary school and are in Hebrew school together.  Now that the two of them have figured out there is only one fence keeping them apart, we are in for it.

The Professor and First Born Prince sauntered around checking out the food and seeing if they knew anyone.  I filled my wine glass and was immediately swept away by the sight of our host—a rock star of an academic, highly regarded computer science professor at Cornell, outside in the snow manning two large fry pans of oil.  He was wearing a knit cap and was all smiles.  We ran out there to tease him.

“Wow, what a great open kitchen you have!”

He explained he was keeping the oil smoke and smell out of the house.  The man knew what he was doing, turning out dozens of perfectly cooked potato pancakes as fast as we could eat them.  It reminded me of our friends in La Jolla who host a latke party every year and Bill, who isn’t even Jewish, fries up those babies all night long. 

Something about watching a man cook when entertaining a houseful of guests really puts me in the holiday spirit.  It follows my favorite rule of helping out—cuts the work in half and doubles the fun.  Nothing says, “Let’s party” like a guy with a grin and a spatula.

Merry Moo Cow

 Huck (aka Lucky Bastard) gets to go to Doggie Daycare on a farm to play, run free, smell horses and bark at old barn cats twice a week.  As I was getting dressed this morning, I checked my weather app and it said, "21 degrees."  I was relieved to be driving him to the farm instead of suiting up to take him into the woods.  That is, up until we were actually in the car heading out there.  It was sunny and the snow was all sparkly and everything looked so peaceful. Especially since I had my seat warmer cranked up and a mug full of hot coffee.

I used to feel the same way when I would drop either of the boys off at preschool on a spectacular day.  I’d think to myself, “Why the hell am I parting ways with the best little playmate in the world when it is so gorgeous out?!”  I would be tempted to phone him in sick and hit the park with a picnic.  But then I’d rationalize it all to myself.  He is better off.  Friends his own age, stimulating art projects, educated people redirecting him in a pleasant voice.  I would suck it up, turn off my emotions and go run my errands.

I noticed the cows were all outside of their barn which was unusual for 8:00am.  One of them was mooing really loudly, too.  I spotted Ellie, the owner of the farm and Canine Comforts.  She majored in Animal Behavior at Cornell University.

“Hey, Ellie.  Are the cows excited by the snow and sun today or what?  I’ve never heard them moo before.”

“Oh, that.  They’ve been dropping calves all over the place. She probably can’t find it.”

That made me laugh.  What I had projected as glee over the new winter scenery was an engorged milk cow complaining.  I think about Huck running around with his crew of furry friends and how my boys STILL speak so fondly of their preschool days and try to turn off my urge to moo.

Turtles and Other Tragedies

I grew up on a cul-de-sac in a subdivision of San Diego.  One of the dads painted a tennis/volleyball court in the middle and drilled holes on either side so you could pop in metal poles and adjust the net for the sport you fancied.  One of the moms organized a summer BBQ where we sat out in front of our houses, played volleyball and acted neighborly.

Of course I was too young to be aware of the dark side of the neighborhood.  The family that didn’t chip in for the paint/holes/net, the man who drank too much, the lady who wore her curlers everywhere in public, the people whose dogs were always out running wild (us!).  I was too busy making eyes at David, the Jewish boy who lived next door.  He had two older sisters who wore the latest jeans and knew all the words to Casey Kasem’s Top 40 on Sundays.

My best friend lived two doors down.  Her father was a Professor of Economics at the University and her mom stayed at home.  She had a younger sister and a Barbie collection that was worth enduring the canned Spaghettios lunches her mother served us when I went over there to play.  I was sort of envious of her but also aware that her mother spent a lot of time doing things my mother waved off with an, “Oh, who has the time?”   I was fascinated she clipped coupons, chased down loss leaders at grocery stores, and went to three different stores to find the real Holly Hobbie for Christmas instead of giving her daughter the less popular brown-haired friend, the Heather doll.

I did love my Heather doll.  She fit nicely into my collection of misfit toys.  There are some good lessons in there.  Valuing your time, befriending the unwanted.  First Born Prince bought three turtles in Chinatown over Thanksgiving when we were in NYC last week.  One of them died the first night we had them.  He had tears in eyes and his voice cracked as he explained what happened.

“Mom, my turtle died.  I picked him because he looked sick and like he needed food and I thought I could help him.  But now he’s….dead….[more crying]…”

I looked at him and he reminded me of myself at age 11 with my room full of odd toys and sick pets.  I had to decide how much was true sadness and how much was staying up late and the excitement of cousins and friends and too much Cornell Apple Orchards Pear-Apple cider.

“Aw, Charlie, I think it’s great you tried.  You can’t save the world, sweetheart.  Your turtle had the best last day of his life possible (for a creature born into the Chinese pet trade) thanks to you.”

He perked up a little.

“Really?  Do you think? How should we bury him?”