Castaways

 Grand Cayman

As we were walking from the ship to a bus on a pre-booked “shore excursion”, I was debating cutting my loses, breaking away from the pack and hailing a cab.  We spent the majority of the morning getting wrist bands and waiting for others.  The tour leader kept repeating, “Two-by-two, line up two by two.”  It was worse than public elementary school.  Sam was exuberant, spinning around, pretending he was a sea bird, enjoying the sun and breeze and not hurting anyone except the ticket collector who was eyeing him as if he were an escapee.

A Disney cruise is a slice of mainstream America.  All of what’s good and bad rolled up into one big fat sunburned ball of choices.  We had a really fun week and got lucky with beautiful warm weather.  There was a lot to do on and off the ship and the boys met some nice kids.  I mostly policed sugar intake and observed the other parents.  I saw three basic types:  super-parents, intervention-would-be-nice and M.I.A.

Super-parents are constantly applying sunscreen to themselves, each other and their children, are always together and often wear matching t-shirts.  You will never find them in the nightclub dancing inappropriately or snoozing away with empty margarita glasses nearby.  I think they live on caffeine or some other drug I would like to learn about.

The second group comes from generations of stuffing faces and feelings.  Picture a beefy guy, lying on his lounge chair, yelling at his chubby little boy who was floating around in a pee-filled pool.  Imagine a thick “fuggedaboutit” accent and some barking about hurrying up to go to the buffet.  Similar looking and sounding wife next to him, sucking on a soda.

The last group checks their children into the “kids’ club” and takes off for hours on end.  I can see using the babysitting for an “afternoon delight” or dinner alone.  Some kids even beg to go, with seductive names like "Oceaneer Lab" (kids under 10) and "Edge" (tweens).  I get (and like) having some freedom and time alone, but isn't the operative word in "family vacation" "family", not "vacation"?  My son pointed out one couple to me that left their kids on the ship and went to the beach for the day without them.  Am I missing something?

I decided to teach my boys to swim upstream.  During the at-sea days, we got up early and enjoyed the ship before others were awake.  Then, as the sun rose high in the sky, we went inside and had leisurely seafood lunches and watched movies (first run Disney in two theatres on the ship, "Secretariat" was my favorite) when everyone else was lining up for pizza outside and deck chairs by the pool.

After that tour with the militant guide, we took our own port adventures.  On our best day, I almost gave up too soon.  We were on Grand Cayman walking down the beach looking for a place to park it.  Our bag was heavy with towels and water and even though the boys were helping, I was doing most of the toting.  I massaged my sore shoulder as we passed people head-to-toe on shore and looking like snorkel stew out in the water.  I couldn’t understand why they would stay all clumped together when anyone who picked up their head and looked could see lots of open space.

We made it to a stretch of sand and ocean where we had the place to ourselves.  I can’t explain the crowd.  Maybe they wanted to be near the restaurants, or bars, or other families.  I don't know, but we found paradise. 

Happiest Place on Earth

Suitcase #1:  41 pounds.  Perfect.  Enough room for the snorkeling gear.  Suitcase #2:  47 pounds.  Not enough room for a bottle of wine (3.5 lbs) but I could have squeezed in another pair of shoes (2 lbs).  I decided not to risk the weight allowance on the return trip.  We are setting sail on another Disney cruise.

This is probably the only vacation I can schedule without the Professor that does not incite sadness at him being left behind to work.  The Professor doesn’t do Disney and isn’t really a “cruiser.”  I learned early on not to drag the man to things that require him to stand in line or make small talk.  Think Larry David.

I knew I was right about taking a Disney cruise on my own with the boys when we were boarding last year—standing behind a woman wearing white Minnie Mouse ears with a wedding veil flowing out of the back.  As much as I wanted to roll my eyes, I didn’t want to model being a jaded snob. 

“Look, they’re on their honeymoon.”

“Is that why she has a special hat on?”

“Yes, it means they just got married.”

They gave me their sheepish grins, like they were in on some big secret. 

The song that plays as you board the Disney ship Magic is the one I have been humming to myself since I was seven years old.

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do

Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

Time to set sail!

P.S. I Love You

The first time my heart skipped a beat was when I received a valentine at school in the fourth grade from Jeff Shaller.  I analyzed every curve of every letter, convinced there was a secret message in there that he liked me.  Thinking back, I am sure it was totally benign and if his mother was anything like I am, he was forced to give a valentine to everyone, even the little fat girl.

In the dorms during my freshman year at college the social committee offered up “Secret Sweethearts” for the week leading up to Valentine’s Day.  Those of us who wanted to participate put our names into a bowl.  I cannot remember who I got but I will never forget who got me.  This is a good lesson.  If a boy likes you, he will hunt you down and find you.  You do not need to give him your number three times or make sure you are at every single party he attends.  Mike systematically went through the entire dorm until he found out who had me and then swapped with that person.  He gave me a week of thoughtful gifts with the grand finale being a silk rose in a glass case.  When he finally revealed himself I think I shook his hand.

Another thing I will never forget is my first Valentine floral delivery—a teddy bear hugging a vase of flowers.  It was signed, “I love you and miss you.  Ralph.”  Ralph was the name of my family’s first cat, long deceased.  When I asked my dad why he signed it “Ralph” he told me he couldn’t sign it “Dad” if he wanted to scare away any wise guys that might be getting funny ideas.

The last Valentine’s Day with my father I was single and home for the weekend.  He was making dinner as usual, but when he realized I was going to be hanging around all evening, he dashed out and bought one of those giant chocolate chip cookies.  It was in the shape of a heart.

After college I was living with my mom.  My father had passed away so I was keeping her company and trying to save money.  I had just met a guy who was also living at home.  He showed up on our doorstep that Valentine’s Day with an Entertainment coupon book he borrowed from his mother and told me to flip through it and pick out a place.  When I liked him I thought that showed confidence.  When we broke up I told my friends he was cheap and weird.

My husband always wants to have a discussion prior to Valentine’s Day so that there are no hidden agendas or hurt feelings.  I used to complain to him that he really takes the fun out of it.  Now I am just glad we’d both rather spend money on sushi than lingerie.

This is the last year my older son will make a Valentine bag or be given a list of his classmates’ names to use for addressing valentines.  I read the teacher’s note at the bottom of the party announcement, “Not required to bring valentines—this is optional.”  I asked my son what his plans were.  We had already bought a box of cards with candy for him to give out and I was surprised when he didn’t tear into it.  “I’m not sure.  We’ll see.  Don’t open the box, I might return them.”  This from the little boy who used to kiss anyone willing and shout, “Happy Wallentine’s Day!”  I have been eyeing the sealed box all week.

Volunteering for what, exactly?

I love volunteering at my sons’ school.  Elementary-age kids celebrate things that I would otherwise take for granted. I go in every chance I get.  The amount the teachers need you tapers off so that after 2nd grade you’re lucky if they let you in the door at all.   You can imagine my delight when the parents were asked to help out with an Ellis Island immigration project the kids were doing in the 5^th grade.

My first day with the older students I didn’t feel very helpful, sort of standing around, filling paint cups.  Then I got smart, walked away from the art table and started talking to some of the kids who were behind on their written work.  I spent a lot of time with one boy in particular who either had learning disabilities, family problems, or both.  He was sweet and earnest and his eyes lit up from the attention.

“Okay, the assignment is to think of 10 things that your person would pack in his suitcase for the journey to Ellis Island and you need to be able to explain why you chose them.”  I glanced at his list.

“Can your person read?”

“No.”

“Then why would he pack a book?”

“Because he is Catholic and it’s a Bible?”

“Good rationale.  Make a note that it’s the Bible.  That’s an important detail.”

He got a huge grin and I could tell we were on a roll.  He went through his list of things, from cigarettes to soap.

“Nice, you have a well thought-out list.  What will you make or bring from home for each of these things?”

I wasn’t sure why, but I got a funny feeling about his home life.  There were other kids struggling academically.  I didn’t pick up on any body language and he never said anything odd except that he thought he could sneak a bar of soap.

“You don’t need to sneak anything.  No reason for it.  I’ll send a bar of soap in with Charlie.  We have some extra little ones around that look old fashioned that I think will be just perfect.”

That made him happy.  He was proud of himself--his project was shaping up and he liked the list of things that represented his character.

The next day First Born Prince was sick and stayed home from school and I didn’t walk the soap into school.  I figured it wasn’t that big of a deal.  Lots of kids were making their suitcase items out of art supplies and the teacher said the things could just be representative of what they intended their immigrant to pack.

Since then, my new friend hasn’t been in school much.  I found out he is homeless and the reason he was gong to have to sneak the soap is that his mother finds a floor for him to sleep on at various neighbors’ and friends’ houses around town.  He never quite knows where he’ll be and now I get why he was so excited I offered up some help.  I am kicking myself and keep looking for him at school.  I carry the bar of soap with me everywhere now, just in case I get the chance to show him I didn’t forget.

Savings

Relationships are like bank accounts.  If you make a lot of deposits, no one cares when you make a withdrawal once in a while.  A marriage certificate or birth certificate only offers a tiny bit of overdraft protection.  If you go on a spending spree, without the savings to back yourself up, eventually a loan officer will step in and take over.

I’ve watched marriages, friendships and now, sickeningly, some parent-child relationships, fall apart because one or both of the people in the agreement weren’t managing their finances.

When you are young and everyone’s accounts are low in general, few people mind if you are constantly the one with the problem, or needing a favor, or the type of girl who only shows up when your boyfriend is busy.  But as we build our lives, the rich and the poor become obvious.

Recently, the biggest challenge for me is keeping my balance up where I want it with the boys.  I have to force myself to put down my notebook computer, my wine or the phone so I can be mentally present for the kids.

Last Friday afternoon I wanted to write.  I had been hit with a huge wave of inspiration and I wanted to surf it until dinnertime.  Charming Baby had other plans.

“Mom, I don’t want to sled anymore.  Will you do something with me?”

It was getting late and it was my weekend, too.  I could have put a movie on for him.  I thought about how the number of times he comes looking for me is diminishing.  He’s growing up fast.

“Okay, Sam.  What’ll it be?”

Charming Baby loves coffee cake so we dug around, found all the ingredients and I didn’t even holler when he got lots of little pieces of eggshell in the batter and spilled my real vanilla. 

It doesn’t take a CPA to figure out that you can’t live on plastic.

She's Just a Girl...

A girl called First Born Prince for the first time Friday evening.  It was 7:30 and her phone etiquette wasn’t that great. I figured she was shy.  I felt something akin to sympathy for her and handed the phone over to my son.

She called again the next morning at 8:15.

Good Lord.  It was barely twelve hours. 

I am totally uncomfortable with this.  When a few of his girl classmates started e-mailing him a few weeks ago, we had a heart to heart.  I explained to him that we didn't think 5th graders were ready to date or “go out.”  What happened to model horses and Barbie?  He was welcome to eat lunch with his new friends at school and that maybe sometime a few of us moms could take a group of them to the movies, but that was about it.

We went out for our usual winter Saturday—basketball game, lunch, Huck wrangling.  He scrolled through our Missed Calls on the handset when we got home.

“She called a lot.” 

As if on cue, the phone rang, Caller ID showed it was her.  He looked at me and I detected a plea for help in his eyes.

She’s hunting him down like a dog.

I fibbed and said he wasn’t home.

The same fifth grade girl (she is NOT, do you hear me, his girlfriend) rang back again an hour later and I started to feel sorry for her.  Where was her mother?  Who was coaching her to make these incessant phone calls?  I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I grabbed the phone and in a very sacchariny voice explained that he was busy with his family for the rest of the evening and Sunday too.   He would see her at school on Monday.  I felt like church lady.

She quietly just hung up the phone, not even whispering a good-bye.  It seemed like defeat, not defiance.  I got a pit in my stomach.  She is only ten years old!  She can’t possibly be after anything unnatural or indecent.  Maybe she’s just bored, or I don’t even want to type this….lonely?

I turned to the Professor.  “Do you think we should invite her to the movies with us today?”

“Are you crazy?  You just told me that he is too young for this and we shouldn’t encourage it.”

I snapped back to thinking about my son.  I went through all the permutations in my mind.  I turned the ringer off on the phone and told myself I was doing the right thing.

Baby Blue

“Are you okay?”

It was only 6:00p.m. and I was standing there in my pajamas and snow boots making dinner.  After a long day, I had taken a hot bath and actually was feeling pretty good.  I wondered what the Professor was worried about.

“Lacrosse was cancelled.  Ice storm.”

“Did you go outside today?”

“Yes, I slid all over town, running errands and stocking up for the blizzard.” 

Because of the ice, even if you have snow tires and are driving slowly, your car fishtails when you try to stop.  I felt like I was swimming around in a big snow aquarium, looking for food.

“How are you feeling?”

I could see he was genuinely concerned.

“I’m fine.  Really.  I had a great day.  Met with Godsend, got a lot of work done, even had acupuncture.  I feel like a million bucks.”

“I think you have a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder.  I’ve seen this in you before, with postpartum.”

I thought back to the weeks following each of my sons’ births.  I realize it’s not sane to come home from the hospital with a crotch full of stitches and cracked nipples and be such a control freak that you insist on organizing a dinner party for 50 yourself, but it’s what I did.  Twice.  Jewish families often celebrate the birth of a son with a Bris—a religious ceremony that is basically an at-home circumcision followed by a party.  Barbaric?  Maybe.  I was sort of bitchy those weeks, full of hormones, with engorged boobs and a houseful of guests.  I don’t think the sleep deprivation enhanced my mood either.  I wouldn’t attribute my behavior to a medical disorder.

“I am not depressed, nor was I depressed after the boys were born.”

He is afraid that the beach flower he took from the shore in southern California and carried all the way to the hills of upstate New York might be suffering. The truth is, the long winters and lack of sun do affect me.  I almost lost it last May when it was below 30°.   But it is hard to complain when the snow is beautiful, my boys are like bottled sunshine and we all are loving Cornell, the people and the energy of the town.

"I've watched you slow way down.  You can't tell me something isn't bothering you."

Point taken.  I wasn't on top of my game.  I think most of it is due to my fractured toes.  Did he forget? I should complain more about the pain.  Maybe I could get some sympathy Vicodin out of him.  He hoards his meds.  It was killing me to not work out and I missed my long walks with our dog.  Or maybe he was right.

“Okay, maybe I have a touch of it.”

“See, was it that hard to admit weakness?”

“I’m not weak.  I’m being held captive in Ithaca, New York.”