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.