Tea & Sympathy

We have a weekly family movie night.  Sometimes I am lazy and we just scroll through what’s “On Demand” and hope for the best.  I usually try to research a quality film, appropriate, yet interesting enough to hold the attention of ages 8 – 45, order in advance through Netflix, and have it ready, with healthy snacks, in time for the weekend.  I know, I am a miracle worker.

First Born Prince wanted some tea to sip during the show last Sunday night, a sweet little tradition we started in Ithaca.  He takes his with milk and honey.  I prefer mine spiked with comfort but I usually settle for plain.  If I can’t catch a buzz, then I am a purist.

“Mom, can I have some tea?”

“Sure.”

Neither of us moved a muscle.  He was, of course, waiting for me to hop up, put the kettle on, make a fuss with the tea bags, etc., etc.  I was already horizontal with “War Horse” all queued up, a dog by my side and a bag of Power Berries from Trader Joe’s in my lap.  (If you haven’t tried these chocolate “berries” made with acai, blueberry and pomegranate juice, DON’T—they are highly addictive.)

“Charlie, why don’t I teach you how to make it?”

“Okay.”

I walked him through all the steps, including running down the hall to ask the Professor if he wanted any.  Note:  This is a serious step when making anything in our house.  It didn’t occur to me to tell him to use a potholder or oven mitt.

“Aaaggghhh!”

He had grabbed the kettle, boiling hot, by its metal handle.  I couldn’t see what he was doing, because, remember, I was busy getting the sofa and snacks ready for everyone from my spot on the pillows.  He was fine, the burn wasn’t too bad.  I tried not to make too big of a fuss.  He’s almost six feet tall and is certainly capable of pouring hot water on his own.

It got me thinking about the process of letting go, knowing they’ll make mistakes and realizing that even when you’re lying there, eating fake healthy carbohydrates only a few feet away, that even then they will get hurt. 

If we’re lucky, they will learn from these mistakes and go off to college knowing how to make a cup of tea.

Academic Regalia

We are having a perfectly lovely, long, lazy Memorial Day weekend.  The kids and I have been hiking and catching movies. We’ve been barbequing and swimming. The Professor walked in ceremonies with his graduating students on Saturday and Sunday. It is so hot and humid, even he was tempted to wear shorts under his black, heavy gown.  But both days he donned his dress pants.

“I think that’s the right thing to do, although no one would blame you for going naked underneath in this heat.”

“Yeah, I know, but I’d feel terrible if one of the old professors looked down and saw my bare ankles.”  There are some scholars here who have been teaching for decades and take the ceremonies very seriously.  Their regalia is so grand they rival even Dumbledore’s velvet robes.

As I drove to campus to drop him off for his second day of honor and torture, I saw some grads in sandals, no pants.  They looked silly.  They looked like boys who would rather be tapping a keg than participating in commencement.  I also saw plenty of young men in proper ankle-covering clothing and dress shoes.  They looked proud, like they had just accomplished something huge.

I know I am a sucker for pomp and circumstance.  It made me think about how when we watch the ceremonies honoring the military today, I won’t see our enlisted men and women wearing shorts or flip flops!  I don’t care how hot it is in Washington DC.  If you stop to think about the people that have dedicated their lives to the finest institutions in the world—our universities and our military--and the parents and kids that have sacrificed time, money, and even their lives, I think the least you can do is put some pants on.

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!

Lessons for Everyone

The Professor is going to Saudi Arabia today to teach a few classes at the King Abdullah University.  We’ve been joking around for weeks about what will happen to him.  He never predicted he’d be working in a place where a man can get caned for wearing shorts in front of a woman.  Preparing for the trip went beyond deciding what to pack.  He had to file for a travel visa, and while he may occasionally forget to claim a wad of Cuban cigars stuffed in his pocket, he doesn’t fudge government documents.

“I’m putting down my religion as Jewish,” he informed me.

“That’s good, better to play it safe.”  As if everything about him doesn’t say “Jewish guy from New York.”

Then, as he was digging around for two-ounce plastic travel bottles this morning, he started tossing the good stuff out of his Dopp kit, like the expired Oxycodone he carries for kidney stone attacks.  When I asked why he was worried about a few painkillers, he mumbled something about the kingdom’s Royal Order and hillbilly heroin.  I wonder what the street word is for chardonnay?

Neither of us really worried about the trip but I did do a quick Google search just to check it out.  Wow!

The King Abdullah University of Science and Technology (KAUST), funded with a $10 billion endowment from the king, is central to Saudi Arabia's effort to overhaul its system of higher education and become a global center of collaborative science and technology research. The university is home to "Shaheen" -- the world's 14th fastest computer, a six-sided virtual reality facility, 10 advanced nuclear magnetic resonance spectrometers, a coastal and marine resources laboratory and bioengineering facilities with labs for studying cell molecules for DNA sequencing (not to mention male and female students studying side by side!)

The university, described by the king himself as a new Beyt al-Hekma, or House of Wisdom (referring to the medieval center of learning in Baghdad), will be governed by an independent board of trustees and open to researchers from across the globe. Its charter stipulates leading roles for women and people of diverse nationalities and faiths.

Well, I am resting easy and not just because I got all of the Professor’s discards.  It’s a relief to hear about the positive going on out there.  In the face of last week’s political storm over the shooting in Arizona, I am happy to report that even in the places you least expect it, there is hope and progress.

Under Electric Candlelight

I met a graduate student in my book club—she’s engaged to a post-doc here.  They are planning a small wedding.  She told me she wasn’t wearing a ring because she’d rather use the money to go to Alaska.  Oh, how I love a sensible woman.

Except when I was 27 I wasn’t so sensible. I ignored my mother’s advice when I was planning my big, fun Jewish wedding.  She told me that if she were me, she would use the money for a time-share in Hawaii.  Funny, when I look at my wedding photos, my mother is laughing and dancing the most of anyone.  Maybe she was relieved she was able to marry off such a big-mouthed daughter.

I think we would have had a different type of engagement and wedding if we had waited, but we were young and romantic.  He got down on his knee to propose to me in a park in London.  I remember he was crying and I was afraid he was going to tell me he had a terminal disease.  Later, I tried to talk him into getting married in Mexico, me in a white sundress and he in a pair of shorts, barefoot on the beach.  The Professor was horrified, afraid of the drinking water and inability to confirm travel plans through American Express.  Plus, he had always envisioned a formal wedding, complete with tuxedo and gown.  He probably played house as a child, too. 

I am glad we went for it, though.  We both loved our wedding day.  It was beautiful and it’s tough to beat celebrating with family and best friends and a few tables full of people we can’t identify now.  We drank champagne and danced all night.  And I’ve got the album to prove it.