Freedom

Swish, smash, slam!

I looked at my bedside clock. 11:47 p.m. WTF?

Clash, clamor, clink!

The Professor was either being really sweet or really annoying.

Thud, thump, thrash.

Or both.

We had our Passover Seder. Our roles have been defined for a long time now. We both invite, I plan the menu, shop and cook, set the table, he leads the Seder, we ro sham bo for who clears and loads, and then the pots, pans and wine glasses are left to the person with the least tolerance for mess. Or, as in last night’s case, the person looking to get laid or just can’t sleep. Or both.

My mother taught me never to criticize how someone does something or else they might stop doing it. So when I hear the dishes being tossed around the kitchen like Frisbees, I just do my best to turn a deaf ear. When I think a serving platter is being shoved into the dishwasher, I bite my tongue really hard. What is more important? The Professor helping out or a non-chipped heirloom?

Passover is about celebrating freedom. On this night, Jews all over the world get together, recline around a table, eat special foods, drink ceremonial wine and tell the story of how the Israelites were freed from slavery in Egypt. It’s an inspired tradition, to say the least.

I reminded myself of that as I turned out my light and went back to sleep. Who was I to tell someone how to hand wash dishes (super hot soapy water--glass first, greasy pots last) or dry wine glasses (do not attempt to force a towel in them with your large hand). No, I didn’t dare. That not only would have broken a covenant but would have cost me as well.

Freedom
You've got to give for what you take.

Meet Lulu

Last night I was awoken at 3:15a.m. by the bemoaning and ranting of Her Royal Majesty the Queen. Standing 13 inches tall and cloaked in silver fur, she rules with sharp tongue and declawed fist. She is most punitive when her food dish is empty or we’ve been away on a trip.

I think Her Highness was especially wrathful this time because not only had we left her for a week, but First Born Prince had inadvertently shut his bedroom door, thereby blocking her entrance to her favorite chamber. So, after her midnight hunting expedition and customary jaunt around the house looking for suitcases to defile, she sat in the hallway and started complaining at full decibel.

Long, guttural cry.

“Lulu! Lulu! It’s okay, we’re home.” If you piss on my suitcase, you are a dead woman.

More howling.

“Come here. Lulu! Sweet kitty.”

Short, mournful meows.

“It’s okay, Lulu. Come here.”

I made some kissing noises and rubbed my fingers together. This works for every cat I’ve ever met. The house was quiet as I listened for any signs of cloak and dagger activities. She found her way to my chest where she made some pies, gave herself a bath, and then, mercifully, went to sleep.

I am not sure if I was pardoned or not. The subjects are always the last to know.

Little Darlings

While watching the second of the three Cornell NCAA games last week, I ended up in a long conversation with a college basketball coach. That night Big Red was playing Wisconsin, and, if we won, we were going up against Kentucky, one of the top teams in the country. He filled me in on the "David vs. Goliath" view that most of college basketball felt. I was intrigued and so I followed up with some research. As I read about the public profiles of the two teams, it dawned on me that we were talking about a battle in a much bigger war.

No one can deny we are all living with the effects of capitalism and consumerism, but I was still surprised to learn that the coach of Kentucky has a four-year contract for $35 million. His job is clear: win at all costs. Kentucky has the fewest number of players graduating from college as compared with almost any other school. They even had titles revoked when follow-up research revealed that players didn’t meet the NCAA minimum SAT score requirements. When did college ball move from being about student athletes competing to a breeding arena for the NBA?

I am not writing this because I am bitter we lost to Kentucky. Our Cornell boys are smart and hard working and all of them will go on to graduate. Maybe one or two will play professional basketball, but the majority will have careers in engineering, medicine, or business. Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to go? I am all for awarding scholarships, but it seems like a joke to blatantly ignore academic standards at a university just so you can build a team of gladiators.

There is talk that Big Red’s coach of 10 years will leave, as he is being recruited and will probably have an annual salary of at least $1 million dangled in front of him. I hope that he will think about the spirit of the school and balance the temptation for more money against the quality of life found in a small college town like Ithaca and make a decision to stay. I wouldn’t blame him for moving on but it sure would be an inspiration if he stayed.

Consumers demand entertainment and March Madness delivers. Who knows if any of the teams' fans really care if the players in the games go to class at their schools, or what happens to them after the tournament is over.

I know, I sound like a mom. Well, that's what I get for caring about the people in the game.

Don't even get me started on the cheerleaders.

Miami Vice

We are staying in downtown Miami and have been trekking out to the Everglades for hikes and boat trips. After dinner last night we went for a walk at South Beach. It felt like cruising the Vegas strip, except everyone was fit and still had their shoes on.

The Professor can’t wait to get down to the beach today. He has probably deduced that if what we saw last night is considered evening attire, he will be in luck with the sun shinning hot today. I voted for another kayak trip to a swamp, thinking I would rather instill a love of nature…

I didn’t win, but I am not worried. I figure it’s all a balancing act anyway and with any luck, my boys will care as much about saving wild life as they will about dating it. I am hoping that if they get a few eyefuls when they are young, maybe they wont bring home a stripper when they are in college.

Not that stripping your way through Cornell Pre-Med is a bad thing.

March Ups and Downs

March Madness has been bittersweet this year. The headlines out of Cornell University this past month have been as taunting as they have been haunting.

Cornell clinches NCAA berth -- Cornell earned the Ivy League title with an 86-53 win over Harvard Saturday.

College on edge after recent wave of student suicides --A wave of suicides at Cornell University in the past two semesters is a "public health crisis," the school's mental health initiatives director said.

Historic day for Cornell: Basketball team upsets Temple, advances in NCAA...

Cornell posts lookouts on bridges after suspected suicide…

Cornell basketball dominates Wisconsin, will play Kentucky in NCAA Tournament Sweet 16…

Two suspected suicides confirmed at Cornell; total now at six …

I have been impressed with how the university community has reacted to the suicides. The Administration is doing a tremendous job reaching out and the students are rallying to support each other, too. The feeling on campus is that people care. Students even took it upon themselves to take the words of encouragement printed in the newspaper by the President of Cornell and write it in chalk on the bridges, “Ask For Help.”

It has been shocking to read some of the comments following the online media reports.

“Spoiled little silver spoon kids. Too bad being born with money can't buy you a perspective of having to work for everything you get!”

Thankfully articulate students responded to those posts.

“You are obviously ignorant to say spoiled ivy league kids ... What does learning how to make a living for yourself by working have to do with Cornell suicides? Nothinggg.”

Since I have been in class with them, my husband teaches them, and my kids are babysat and coached by them, I can tell you they are smart and work harder than any students I have ever met. And by the way, most of them are not rich.

At Cornell, you can see the spirit of the school in sports, too. Between all the hockey and basketball we have watched this year, it is clear these Ivy Leaguers are serious student-athletes that are recruited because they are not only passionate and talented, but are willing to sacrifice in order to achieve goals.

Trying to make sense out of all that has happened this month for us in Ithaca, New York, I can tell you in one word what does work: Teamwork.

Kings, Kites & Ketchup

Some tips on savoring the precious gifts we have been given:

In order to really connect, you need to communicate properly with your children. This means you need to speak their language. There is a difference between a lord and a king, a ninja and a samurai, a wizard and a warlock, and a chief and a captain. You may not use the titles “Lieutenant” and “General” interchangeably, or mix up the terms Battle Droid and Clone Trooper. Learn it, know it, use it.

Also, friends, there is a window of time you will be invited to play with them, rather than simply asked to facilitate fun things for them to do with their friends. So when any little one asks you if you want to go fly a kite, rather than look wistfully at your pile of laundry you were planning to fold, jump up and holler, “Yes, I do! Right now, as a matter of fact!”

Finally, when your grimy, sweaty, dirty love bug gets a sweet look in his eye and wanders over to you, wraps his arms around you and presses his face against your belly, grinding ketchup into your new white GAP t-shirt, don’t run for the Tide stick. Just hug as tightly as you possibly can and hold him there for as long as he will let you, kissing frequently.

Repeat as needed.

Lucky Charms

There is a black and white photo on my dresser—it’s of me, two-years-old and I am tucking in my baby – bent over a doll cradle, fussing with a blanket. I love that picture, the essence of a busy mama.

I picked up the frame and was thinking how fast childhood goes, how precious the memories are, and I started getting all choked up.

Wait a minute! Look at the size of those feet! That is no baby doll! That is my one-year-old little brother! How on earth did I manage to lure him into that?

He was such a good sport—always there to shop in my store, attend class at my school, eat in my restaurant, and apparently, when he was very young, sleep in my nursery. He never questioned our games, just faithfully handed over pretend money, menus and math homework.

I used to tell people he was my Irish twin, but that was before political correctness, when you would say things like "sit Indian-style", "No way, Jose", or "You better not gyp me!" Now it’s uncouth to say anything that hasn’t been run past a lawyer or team of government experts.

We weren’t even Irish, but I liked the idea that we were twins of some sort and I was usually trying to model myself after our Irish neighbor. Her family attended church every Sunday and they sat down to hot lunch together on weekends.

Whatever you want to call us, I am so very thankful I had a live-in playmate. The closeness in age meant we usually ended up in tears or tattling, or both. We vied for our mother’s attention and would fight to the death for the last Ding Dong, but mostly I remember a friend, always around, almost my height, definitely as strong, and up for anything!