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.

Ice Making & Dishwashing

 Charming Baby examined the plastic ice cube trays as if I had brought home some interesting fossils. 

“What are these for, Mom?”

“They’re ice cube trays!”

“Why do we need special trays to carry our ice?”

“They are for making ice!  The automatic ice maker is broken, so we’ll use these instead.”

He was fascinated, and asked if he could be the one to fill up the trays and put them in the freezer.  He kept checking on them all afternoon, reporting on the progress.  At one point he said, “Dad is going to be so happy we made ice for him!"

Can we just freeze everything right here?

As luck would have it, the dishwasher then broke, so I have been doing all the dishes by hand this past week, too.  At first I was on the phone pushing the appliance repair guys to hurry up and save me and then I realized no one in upstate New York cares if you are left washing your own dishes or making your own ice.

I found a therapeutic rhythm to my evenings.   Why is it so incredibly satisfying to clean up an entire kitchen?  Have I gone completely mad rattling around this old house?  I even love vacuuming up the floor at the very end, clearing away all the dirt that has been dragged in and crumbs that were carelessly dropped.  Maybe it is taking something from a mess to spotless, all while enjoying a glass of wine, that feels like an accomplishment.

Or, it could be knowing that if I can manage the 300 square-foot heart of our home, no matter what breaks down, I can somehow handle the rest of it all.  I am on guard these days as the boys race towards independence and maturity.  They need me less in many ways and so much more in others.  One day I am scheduling play dates, the next I'm supervising e-mails and texts.  I can’t freeze time or wash away problems but I can be there, with plastic trays and rubber gloves, making sure nothing gets the best of us.

Growth Spurts

The first time I dined with a conscious eater I thought maybe she was in a cult.  Before diving into our meal, she bowed her head and quietly moved her lips whispering something I couldn’t hear.  This after giving so many amendments to her order that I thought for sure the waiter was going to wipe the floor with her tortilla before serving us.  I remember thinking there must be something wrong with someone who inquires about the origin of a fish she’s going to eat.

I’m different now.  I try to model slow, healthy eating for my boys and I definitely think twice about where my food comes from.  I understand what my friend was doing all those years ago in the booth at our favorite restaurant.  Sitting down to a bounty of food is a privilege and it’s really nice to stop and take a moment to thank somebody—God, the farmer, the cook.  I am trying to teach my children to not take it all for granted.  Also to not shovel food into their mouths. 

On the average, my boys grew over 8 inches a year when they went from babies to toddlers, are now growing at the rate of 3 inches per year, and according to the last doctor we saw, will have the majority of their growth between the ages of 12 and 17.  It’s all very exciting to be raising Beowulf and Bunyan but it’s almost impossible to work gratitude, conversation and mindfulness into the meal experience.

“Mom, Charlie didn’t put his fork down between bites.”  Charming Baby tattles as he’s licking the sauce off the chicken he’s holding like a lollipop.  The owner of the Thai food place walks over to our table and offers him a knife.

As I am cutting the chicken off the skewer for him, he gets grouchy and impatient.  I try to redirect him.

“How was recess today?  Did you play wall ball?”

“Fine, yes.  Mom!  Don’t’ let Charlie take any of my chicken!”

First Born Prince’s eyes are scanning the table like a snake near a baby bird’s nest.

“Never mind, don’t worry, settle down.  There is plenty to eat!”

They both harrumph.

Gone Local

The woman in the organic produce section stuck out like a sore prima donna.  She was wearing huge sunglasses, as if she were impersonating a bee, with her thick hair ballooned up in a big, loose bun on top of her head.  She had on shiny tights (Exercise? Fashion?  Superhero?) and some black boots that looked like they belonged at an after-party with Eminem.  Any one of those items individually would have announced to the world of Wegman’s, “I have style!” But all together they suggested she needed an intervention.

As I was looking for a check-out line that wasn’t three shoppers deep, I caught her again, wheeling her child, organic mushrooms and paper towels over to the Express lane.  I glanced at my own cart and kept going.  I sometimes make jokes to the cashiers or the person behind me if I notice them staring at what I’m buying.

“No, I don’t have a pet Killer Whale at home.”

I started thinking about crazy ballerina and what her story was.  I can’t remember a time when I had the leisure of waltzing through a store with just a baby and 10 items-or-less in my cart, but I do recall feeling out of place in a town where if you wear make-up, people will ask where you've been.  I used to hope for things like my jeans working the magic my friend promised they would.  Your ass will look better than Jennifer Aniston’s in these!  Now all I want is to be waterproof and dog friendly.

I loaded up.  My car, dirty, hadn’t been cleaned since before winter.  Washing cars in upstate NY is borderline mental.  Reusable grocery bags, torn, but still in working condition.  Wouldn’t replacing them be defeating the purpose?  I turned the radio on, the college station still blaring from when I was bopping around from home to school to the dog park to the gym earlier.  And what else would I be doing?  I sat behind the wheel, happily munching on my local apple. Without realizing it, I had gone totally Ithaca.