Viva La Down Time

We were in Viva Taqueria, my favorite place to get a margarita and a buzz.  It's fun to take our out-of-town guests there because of the totally happening people, great music, and delicious, fresh food.  Charming Baby had to go to the restroom so I went with him (I was on margarita number two).  Waiting in line, we swayed to some Air Supply and watched waitstaff with colorful tattoos and perfectly ripped jeans run by with trays full of drinks and nachos.  All of the sudden my youngest son wrapped his arms around me and buried his face into my chest and sighed, “I miss you.”

We had been together for 16 days straight, but I knew what he meant. Between Entrepreneurship at Cornell and two Spring Breaks (ours and our friends’), we have had three sets of visitors from California in the past two-and-a-half weeks.  In the middle of that, we went to NYC for my mother-in-law’s birthday, Passover, Easter, and a Cake show.  I hugged him back, smelled his hair and said, “I know, me too.”

“You’ve been so distracted.”

How is a seven-year-old able to articulate his feelings so well?  His future wife owes me so big time.  He had made a similar observation about some of our visitors, commenting that they were looking at their smart phones all the time, even during dinner.

I thought about how it all must have seemed to my son.  He wasn’t used to the multitasking business professionals from our city life.  He had grown accustomed to the slower college-town pace.  These past few weeks, I had become preoccupied, trying to get everything done in between museums, nature centers, campus tours, and evenings out.  We were all enjoying the company and travel, but I was also trying to keep my commitments and projects rolling.  At one point, I was e-mailing with one hand while wrangling the dog with the other on one of our hikes. I didn’t realize what I had been missing until that tender moment at the back of the Mexican restaurant.

Sometimes I forget I am the gatekeeper to his entire world.  No one else is going to manage the schedule to ensure we have long, one-on-one talks and book-filled bedtimes.  As much as we loved the recent excitement, I can’t wait to get back to our routine.

The Gambler

In every relationship someone holds the aces.  The Professor and I play a pretty friendly game most of the time, due to the fact we spent years in marriage therapy learning how to throw our cards up in the air once in a while and say, “Oh, well, what the hell!”  I am still developing my poker face and penchant for calling bluffs. 

In case you haven’t heard the whole story…we were visiting Cornell for a year “sabbatical”—a year off from the rat race, a chance for my business-world warrior to unwind and give back, an opportunity for me to wipe my jammed-packed dance card clean and take some writing classes, an adventure for our children of living somewhere besides an expensive beachside community where the biggest threat to their safety was being hit by a woman texting while driving her Range Rover to a Botox appointment.   

A strange thing happened.  We fell in love with Ithaca and the Cornell community.  My husband loved teaching so much that his new nickname became “the Professor.”   He wears sport coats with patches on the elbows and long overcoats as he dashes around his ivy-covered workplace.  His students and colleagues are really cool.  My kids look like they are running through a Norman Rockwell painting most days and now we have a Coonhound who needs so much exercise, he really belongs in the country.  We extended our year “sabbatical” for another year. 

When Cornell offered the Professor a full-time position, it was like my husband played two pairs.  I winced and wiggled and wormed around for months trying to decide if I should pull out my three-of-a-kind:  I was slowing down from the long, gray, cold winters, I missed the sun and infusion of energy from my west coast family and friends, and I yearned for the vibrant colors all year round.  As we threw down our cards, the stakes went higher and higher.  At one point, the chips overwhelmed me.  How I could choose a bankrupt economy, in an expensive, crowded state over the stable university’s offer in a very affordable, agreeable town?

I felt like I was trying to bring down the house.  I sounded silly even to myself as I tried to explain why I was dragging my XL family away from the spacious life, back to a tighter world, all because upstate New York winters were cramping my style.  The Professor did everything he could to talk me into making Ithaca our permanent home.

The more I thought of staying, the more not returning home gnawed at me, until I hit my breaking point:  I envisioned myself five years down the road, depressed and pissed off, wearing my parka inside a crumbling, old mansion, trapped indoors because it was -6° outside, while some happy, vivacious lady living in my beautiful California home, blocks from tide pools and a morning walk alongside ocean waves, threw open the windows in the middle of January to let the breezy air fill her life.  The clarity startled me, I had found an ace.

I didn’t intentionally stay inside for weeks, only leaving for groceries or to pick up or drop off the boys at school, sports and play dates.  It was Cornell basketball and hockey season.  The Professor had season tickets and was out every Friday and Saturday night.  Of course I could have gone, but I couldn’t find the energy.  The inertia had set in, I pulled out another ace. 

When we talked about it, my heart raced and tears streamed down my face.  I understood the benefits of staying, and I tried to embrace all the goodness of our new life, but my emotions ruled my intellect.  He can’t stand to see me cry, either, ace number three. 

Ten more years until both boys are off to college. That means one long haul ahead of being chained to the house, trolling the schools, and figuring out things like summer camp and ski trips. I am a homemaker.  It is really hard to equate what I do with what my husband does, because everyone knows that teaching manners and building egos doesn’t pay the same as teaching private equity and building companies.  Thankfully, my final ace was right there all along—the Professor himself.  He said he understood me.  If he had my job, he’d rather do it in La Jolla and since we were fortunate enough to have the two options, he was going to back my choice.

I don’t know what to call it, a win, lose or draw, but I am running, not walking, away from the table!

Hear Ye, Hear Ye...Spring Has Arrived

Last spring the first thing I noticed come to life after the long winter was the forsythia—the little yellow blossoms are like tiny trumpets heralding spring’s arrival.  They are all over town and a sunshiny surprise every time I turn a brown muddy corner.  I didn’t even know what they were called until I went home and Googled them.  Google is like having your grandpa with you everywhere you go.

This year it was a different type of herald that caught my attention.   Yesterday I headed out the door for my walk with Lucky Bastard without my earpieces jammed in and my music cranked all the way up.  Not because I forgot my iPod, but because last week in the barbershop, I overheard two old men talking about how good it was to hear the birds again.  They talked about it the way you might hear other men talking college basketball or women discussing a great pedicure.  They were joyful and shared in each other’s appreciation.  I couldn’t wait to hear spring for myself.

It was like a music fest out there.  The only birds I could name were the cardinals.  Their distinct head shape and bright red feathers helped me identify them.  I tried the iBird ap to see if I could figure out a few others but it was no help.  Definitely not like hanging with Grandpa.  The birds are prolific and perfectly adorable.  Just like last spring, when I was so excited to see the flowers that I felt like waving to them, I felt like whistling hello to the birds.

Other animals are out now, too (the rabbits and turkeys in full force).  I saw our groundhog for the first time yesterday in months.  We spent last spring watching him eat the garden through our kitchen window.  He’s fat and sweet looking and has hilarious mannerisms.  I think he pantomimes for us.  Thank you for the perennials!  Next year, more tulips!  FBP had feared he was a goner after we found a dead one in front of our house.  We are happy to report Groundhog is alive and chomping.

Before my first Ithaca spring, someone told me, “Just wait, it’s euphoric.”  I thought they were exaggerating and a little bit nuts.  Now I am so thankful I got to experience springs like these.  They helped me regain simple appreciations.  We should all be lucky enough to get excited over seeing flowers bloom, hearing birds sing and considering rodents our friends.

Foot Hand Art

Charming Baby had his first Tae Kwon Do class last night.  He has been saying he wants to “do Karate” for a long time now.  Not competitive in nature, he shirks team sports and would rather play Ninja than shoot hoops with his brother.  He doesn’t walk from room to room in the house, he leaps through air giving kicks and spinning around.  He’s pretty good, actually.  We decided to check out martial arts.

I liked the well-rounded approach to Tae Kwon Do (Tae=”Foot”, Kwon = “Hand” and Do= “Art”).  The tenets are courtesy, integrity, perseverance, self-control, and indomitable spirit.  The disciplines include style-forms, self-defense, sparring and break-test.

Before jumping into the popular Tae Kwon Do studio, where you have to commit to twice a week, minimum two-month trial for $200, plus I think you also have to buy a uniform, I thought it was wise to test out his interest level by taking an introductory course at the Ithaca Youth Bureau (IYB), where they meet once a week, for six weeks, for $40, and you can wear sweatpants and a t-shirt.

In my mind I pictured some well-meaning young camp counselor type explaining ancient philosophy to the kids and putting them to sleep.  Charming Baby had visions of doing flips in the air. 

We walked in at 6:00 sharp (class meets from 6:00 – 7:00) and everyone was already rolling.  The head instructor was a very professional looking and sounding middle-aged woman.  She had two rows of assistant instructors, all in uniform, with different colored belts, lined up like a military unit.  Charming Baby kicked off his shoes and immediately jumped into the pack of kids standing in front of the teachers, waiting to begin.

The instructor did an amazing job of blending theory and practice.  She had them bowing one minute and punching the next, seamlessly, without any misbehavior.  You might think this isn’t special.  Then you’ve never watched a coach or a teacher try to keep command of 30 kids, aged 7 to 12, the hour before dinner.  Even I put my book down and was entranced.

She had the entire room, dozens of kids, line up in specific order, by rank, and if someone entered the room that was a higher rank belt, they all paused and bowed to that person.  The troops then had to shuffle down one spot, to their left, to make room for the higher-ranked person entering the line-up.  The order went something like Black, Brown, Purple, Yellow belts and then, last, the beginners, White.  Charming Baby had No Belt.  I wonder how long it will take him to ask for a uniform, or try to wear his Halloween costume to class (it’s black nylon not white cotton but he wouldn’t care).

Charming Baby loved every second.  This is a big switch from his usual shrug he gives me after I drag him to something we want him to do.  I am wondering if maybe we are on to something.

Modeling Money

“Mom, the clay set I want is fifty dollars.”

“Five-O?  Fifty?”

“Yes, fifty.  Please, Mom.  It has every color.”

“It must be some clay.”  I wonder if it will get rid of fine lines and wrinkles.

Charming Baby looked at me with the sweetest little face. “I’ll pay twenty if you pay thirty.”

“Sam, you have $52 at home."

First Born Prince butted in, “Sam, fifty dollars is too much for clay.”  He has mastered the value of a dollar and is learning to help out when I am being ambushed.

“But it’s art supplies!” He has mastered negotiation and is learning swindling.

“I’ll have to take a look and then we can talk about it.”

We are trying to teach the boys about saving and budgeting.  I will usually spring for books, but everything else they have to pay for with their allowance.  Art and office supplies are in the gray zone.  I have to be careful about this.  They start to act like lotto winners when we are in a book, office or art supply store.  When it’s coming out of their pocket, they scrutinize every purchase, often deciding at the last minute, “Oh, I don’t need that.”  But when I am paying, all of the sudden comic books, mechanical pencils and Perler beads are must haves.

We walked over to the modeling clay shelves.  He pointed out the smallest little package of clay:  $1.49. 

“Honey, it’s only a dollar and forty nine cents.”

“Oooohhhh.”  He was excited.

“Will you pay for all of it then?”

Minivans & More

 Danny DeVito & John Travolta in "Get Shorty"

Sliding behind the wheel of a minivan feels about as sexy as inserting orthotics into my shoes.  So far, I’ve been able to avoid one but not the other.  I have to wear arch supports most of the time.  I did not get to this place honestly.  My mother wore her orthotics even with sandals, so committed was she to substance over form.

Maybe that’s how women who hobble around in heels and drive convertibles with car seats in the back are made.  They were raised by the type of women who wear backpacks instead of handbags and have no idea why someone would make fun of a car with remote-control sliding doors.

My friend from Marin County drives a minivan.

“That must kill the mojo, huh?”

“Hey, it’s an ego boost.  You know you've got it going on when you're checked out in this thing.  Anyone can turn a head driving a Range Rover, but to get double takes when I’m navigating a dented white Honda, now that's something.”

Part of me is envious she can be practical and not care.  It makes me think driving one would be cool, like when John Travolta’s character, Chili Palmer, in "Get Shorty" was only able to rent a minivan and everyone saw it as a great thing to have because he was so hip.  The joke really had nothing to do with the sensibility of the car; it was more about group herd mentality.  As much as I respect and adore my minivan driving friends, I can’t bring myself to buy one.

I feel selfish and a little bit mean, stuffing two huge boys, and sometimes their friends, into my small SUV.  I even have a coonhound to drag around, but I jam him in there, too.

I am not alone.  There is an underground militia of people who are fighting yellowing teeth, expanding waistlines and graying hair.  Our battle cry is, “I am not going down in a minivan!”  It’s admirable if you can cruise around in a Consumer Reports Top Buy! and correctional footwear.  Maybe someday I’ll cross over and sever the ties that bind me to fast cars and impractical shoes, but for now I’ll remain a rebel in tight blue jeans.