Thanksgiving Lesson

 

“We must get beyond textbooks, go out into the bypaths... and tell the world the glories of our journey."

--John Hope Franklin, History Professor Emeritus at Duke University

The traditional six-grade overnight camp trip was cut this year from the public middle school curriculum in our district due to budget constraints.  The whole program just folded up and vanished.  I decided to see what we could do to independently fund and send our students to a privately run camp.  I still remember how much fun I had when I went in sixth grade—it is an amazing opportunity for kids to learn through hands-on experiences out in nature. Students build their self-confidence, leadership abilities, and a respect for our environment.

I started the process in my kick-ass-and-take-names sort of way which turns people either on or off.  I got permission from the Principal to allow us to take the 330 6^th graders off campus for four days and then, with the help of two other volunteers, we researched our options.  We contacted the camps where the private middle and charter schools are sending their students.  Next step is to survey the parents to see who is willing to pay $275 to send their child, and more importantly, who is willing to help pay for other students to go.  We are facing numerous hurdles, and some days I get worn out and rude and say things like, “Pay to play, baby!”  I know, not cool.

We suggested to the principal that we have academic and citizenship requirements to qualify for going (knowing full well that would eliminate somewhere between $10,000 and $15,000 worth of fund raising we would have to do).  That was shot down.  Thankfully, my fellow volunteers pointed out:  1) The kids that need this the most are the ones who wouldn’t qualify; and 2)  Our kids already have so much, we are doing this for the ones who can’t afford it.

Then it hit me.  I am volunteering to keep the public school functioning in the ideal way, not turn it into a hybrid private institution.  I suddenly let go of all my anger about the free riders and people who don’t give.  I became thankful for the chance to work with caring, soulful people who are happy to give time so that we can keep the camp opportunity alive for all sixth graders—this year’s students, future classes, and hopefully, if we get the formula right, other public middle schools all over the city and state.

Haunted Trail

Last week First Born Prince was invited to the Balboa Haunted Trail, which has been around every Halloween since I was a teenager.  I only went once and remember it being over-the-top creepy.  The people who do the haunting chase you with chainsaws and touch you with slimy hands, crossing boundaries, seeming like they might be escapees from an asylum.  The other boys who were going attend a different school that starts an hour later than my son’s.

The mother offering this spooky treat asked me for permission to invite him, and even though I was tempted to just say no for him, I decided to test his ability to self manage.  I explained to my son that I thought it wasn’t a good idea and that I’d rather he wait until he was older and go on a weekend instead.  I am struggling with the balance between being a good mother and being a total killjoy.

He declined the invitation and then, afterwards, cried and pouted (confirming he was tired and needs to get his ass to bed on time) and accused me of being mean.  I ignored him (more meanness) and continued helping Charming Baby with his homework.  Eventually he snapped out of it and joined us in the family room, happy to be in pajamas, home, with us.

Later that night my friend texted me that they had to leave the haunted trail early because one of the boys got too scared.  I wished I could have saved her the gas and entrance money but she is trying to be a nice mom and sometimes that gets lost in translation.

High Price of Privilege

I realized last night sitting around a beach bonfire that my dark tales from childhood are par for the course in most of my friends’ upbringings.  It's comforting to know that I wasn't the only one raised with my parents goosing as much free child labor out of me as possible.  Listening and laughing to everyone’s stories brought back some of my best memories.

Like the way I spent my weekends not performing dance recitals or taking music lessons but helping my dad fix up the rental properties we owned.  I was a master at removing contact paper and old linoleum.  My brother and I both knew the difference between a Philips head and an Allen wrench. 

It wasn’t the middle ages.  My parents did take us to the beach, signed us up for baseball and we swam a lot in our backyard pool, but I got to know them the best when we were working together on a project or doing errands.  The way my mother effortlessly planned out a week’s worth of family meals and shopped from a list in her head, all while keeping both me and my brother from slipping sugar cereal into the cart when she wasn’t looking, still impresses me.

It was my mother and father who taught me how to cook, clean, garden and run a home.  I am not sure what to do with my skills and knowledge as the Professor and I employ a housekeeper, gardener, and handyman.  The Professor was at least trained how to pay for all of it.  I am just straddling the two worlds and trying to make sense of what exactly are privileges.

Case in point:  I now know two people that pay a dog poop scoop service to stop by their homes to clean their pets' messes up from their lawns.  Both of these families have strapping, capable children.  All I could think was maybe their sons and daughters were too busy doing all those things I never did as a kid to find the time to learn how to deal with the shit that is a normal and natural by product of owning a dog. 

I thought about it for about two seconds and then happily instructed First Born Prince and Charming Baby to get busy.

Rockin the Sabbath

The year before we left for New York, I was so overbooked that we almost never had long, quiet nights at home.  I dreamed of family game nights, family movie nights, but they rarely happened.  We always had people over, or somewhere to go, or I'd be tossing dinner at my kids while standing as I skipped eating because I was trying to lose weight. Often we’d meet for dinner out, usually at the local restaurant/bar that everybody goes to, sort of like a Cheers except with chardonnay and kid's meals.

I want to replicate the family time we had in Ithaca.  We had a lot of it there and I discovered the more time we spent together, the easier it was to get along.  It’s just that I need a little help prioritizing.  I decided to try having a regular Shabbat dinner, which means gathering your family for a special dinner every Friday night, to mark the beginning of the Sabbath, or Jewish day of rest.   You don’t have to produce an elaborate meal, it can be any little gesture—a table cloth, flowers, something that makes the dinner different than all the other nights of the week, a simple way of showing your family you are honoring what’s important. Plus, the Challah lady delivers the traditional bread to Hebrew school students in class on Thursdays, so we were halfway there.

We had to decline two dinner invitations and squeeze in a run to the market, but I pulled it off and we had all the ingredients for our first look-at-how-nice-and-sane-we-are Shabbat dinner.  We sang blessings as we lit candles, poured the wine and tore pieces from the ceremonial Challah.  I noticed we all lingered around the table talking for over an hour, much longer than our normal eating time.

Charming Baby was practically chirping and came over to me and curled up in my lap after dinner, petting my hair, feeling affectionate.  First Born Prince thanked me profusely for the cooking and I couldn’t believe it when they all cleared their plates and helped clean up without me even asking. 

I feel like we are setting a family tone and as the mom, I'm the DJ.  

Staycation's All I Ever Wanted

First Born Prince and I are teetering on the edge of what is one of the most tender moments in a child and mother’s relationship.  He is on the brink of becoming a young man and I can barely keep a dry eye or straight face.

We made plans for a few last hurrahs before school starts, and in San Diego with kids that means Lego Land, Sea World and the Zoo.  (I don’t advise the Wild Animal Park in the summer, unless you want the full African desert simulation.)  I’ve been wondering when my oldest son would outgrow these places, or more specifically, outgrow going to them with me.  How many times can you sit with your mom watching Shamu do a flip?  

He was only a little bit surly and rolled his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking.  I can handle most of what he challenges me on in my sleep.  What I wasn’t prepared for was how boyish he was at the end of our Staycation last night.  He asked me to tuck him in.

“The zoo was so fun, Mom.”

“I know.  I’ve never seen the koalas awake before.”

“I liked the lion.  And the jaguar.  And the tiger.”

He always did love the big cats, and used to carry a plastic tiger around with him when he was two-years-old.  After we went over the night zoo highlights, I watched him fall asleep while I looked around his messy room.  Nestled on his nightstand, in a place of prominence and importance (by his charging iPhone) was the little carved wooden tiger he bought on our way out as a souvenir.

Battening Down

I knew it was coming and I have been mentally preparing myself for months now.  There are no storm windows for the type of hurricane I am going through.  Reader, if you think I have it easy and don’t want to read about the perils of navigating life in an affluent beach town, then I will warn you to stop right now and go somewhere else.

The schedules and invitations are rapidly filling my in-box.  I went from casually volunteering at one elementary school and attending some university lectures to feeling like I’m running the state.  It’s unbelievable how much more there is to just do here.  The Professor keeps reminding me to not lose sight of the goals we set and deals we made.  Deals I struck in the middle of the night during a cold Ithaca winter.

I know it can be done, that I can carve out a quiet life for us here in La Jolla.  I see other people who appear to be operating at a sane pace.  How they are immune to the chaos of raising kids and building careers in a city is beyond me.  It is going to take a lot more than just picturing the smiles on my sweet, well-rested boys’ faces.  And it’s going to have to come from somewhere besides the knowing eyes of the Professor.

It looks like I am going to have to say it on my own.   Just purse my lips, press my tongue against the inside of my top front teeth and say it.  “No” and that’s it.  Maybe add on a “Thank you”.  No looking down, mumbling “I’m sorry” or “maybe some other time”… I will look temptation straight in the eye and be brave.

Thinking of time as more valuable than money should help.  I actually took a stab at a time budget, paying myself, husband and children first, then the damn dog, next of kin, and so on.  Nowhere in my sensible plan does it allow for hours of socializing, volunteering, excessive competitive athletics, and extra tutoring on top of the already committed two days of Hebrew school a week to get ready for the Bar Mitzvah I have yet to plan. 

The problem is that everything sounds good and important—etiquette and dance classes for the boys, tennis lessons, weekends away, business dinners, university clubs, writing groups, never mind the regular soul food I need from drinking wine and talking to my girlfriends.

I feel like an old lady with her trusted purse tucked tightly under her arm, bracing herself against whatever or whoever might try to snatch any precious spending capital she has left. 

Leaving...Returning...I'm Here

La Jolla, California

I’ve returned to California and after considering changing the name of the blog, or starting a new one or quitting altogether, I decided that continuing to just roll with it as is will be the best course of action. It’s a practical approach that works in most areas of my life.

As for the title, “Leaving California”, it still makes sense. What this journey is ultimately about is growth and change and the choices and trade-offs we make along the way. The stomach-sickening feeling of saying good-bye to people and places you love when you move on with your life is something we all deal with at one point or another.

Even if we stay with the same people or the same town, the relationships and places change. I cry regularly over how much I miss the sweet-smelling, little sweaty-faced toddlers in my house. I also am pissed off that the children’s book-store, “The White Rabbit”, and independent film theatre in downtown La Jolla gave way to an upscale dog accessory shop “Muttropolis” and a “Massage Envy” spa center.

I left California with two young boys and have returned with two strapping giants, all of us older and changed by our experience. I purposely under-scheduled the boys this summer trying to outsmart myself, thinking I would be so worn out with running them around, playing Camp Mommy, that I wouldn’t notice how much they’ve grown, but I did notice and I am just sick about it. I alternate, like a schizophrenic high on coffee or down on chardonnay, between wishing school would hurry-up and just start already and wishing I could freeze time. Right here. Right now. Me and my pre-pubescent boys, together, forever.

I refuse to wax poetic about how our town has changed. I can just get in line with the rest of the planet, can’t I? Suffice to say “M-TV Real World” has rented a house near-by and now I can’t get a parking space in front of our favorite local Italian place when I crave homemade pasta.