The world feels absolutely crazy. While it may not actually be post apocalyptic, it’s as close as I’ve ever been to it and way worse than anything I’ve ever imagined.
My youngest child has asked me twice if I’ve ever experienced anything like this before. I think he repeated the question to give me a chance to respond differently having not liked my initial answer of “No, never.”
This situation we’re currently experiencing is new territory and I very much appreciate the decisions being made by some of our remarkable leaders. I would never want the responsibility that business owners and administrators and politicians have weighing on them these days.
I took my last yoga class today and it was really, really hard. The instructor is super delicate looking but actually is strong as f*ck. The core flow practice felt as if it would never end, like it would be dark outside when we finally finished. I expect to be sore tomorrow.
Speaking of sore, I ran for the first time today. It was slow and not particularly pretty, but I did it. The hills were a challenge to my knees, but I listened to my body and took it easy. I listened to a Waterboys playlist and it was the perfect soundtrack.
My hands feel incredibly dry. It must be related to the excessive amount of hand washing I’ve been doing, along with the odd pump of alcohol based antibacterial gel. I’m convinced the bee balm base of my hand moisturizing product creates a seal which is protecting me from catching a cold, or worse.
I feel like I’ve been eating really well. Cooking homemade meals with lots of vegetables from my Field Goods’ bag and a glass of wine on the side calms me. Especially with an early episode of Sex and the City as a chaser. Escapism isn’t so terrible when one does it with their eyes open.
These are, like I said before, absolutely weird and crazy times.
Category Archives: moms
The world feels absolutely crazy. While it may not actually be post apocalyptic, it’s as close as I’ve ever been to it and way worse than anything I’ve ever imagined.
- It sucks that my knee is injured and I can’t fully do the active things I enjoy doing. I see a surgeon in early February and my only question will be: In your experience, what is the most successful plan of treatment for women in my age and activity range who are most interested in being able to resume normal activities (even at a modestly modified level) in the speediest fashion? That’s my bottom line. I want to run.
- There were two articles which really spoke to, and for, me recently. There are things in life which will forever cause me to shake my head, sometimes in a nod and other times in “no.” Both of these NYT pieces made me forget to breathe. I can only link to one because they other one, “I Quit a Seven-Year Affair,” has been removed from the Times’ site.* I’m not sure how I feel about that move, but the piece did remind me of Mrs. Maisel’s choice to share as much about Shy Baldwin as she did in her performance at the Apollo. I knew there would be repercussions.
- For god’s sake can we leave Megan and Harry alone? They’re entitled to their one precious life, too and Harry’s already seen how an uncivilized society can kill a woman he loves. Who cares how they choose to live?
- Speaking of caring, there’s so little of that in the world right now. This recent picture of an absolutely beaming Megan Markle walking with her baby and dogs, collected some heated comments about Megan’s son not being safely fastened in his front carrier. Everyone had something critical or nasty or judgmental to say and no one simply offered to help her accomplish the task. We’re moms. We need to be nicer to each other.
- At a just-turned-green light, I hesitated prior to shifting into first gear and the man in the big truck behind honked his horn and then pulled into the left lane to pass me, giving me the finger as he jerked his vehicle in front of me. I shrugged. Whatever. As we approached Fuller Road, I moved into the right hand turn lane and, again, he aggressively yanked his truck partially in my path. I’d be afraid to witness his response to something beyond a too slow start at a green light.
- This morning, J, shared a story about some kids pulling a Ding-Dong Ditch which resulted in the deaths of three teenagers. The home owner whose bell was rung, felt the need to pursue these kids at high rates of speed prior to ramming his vehicle into theirs and forcing them off the road and causing them to crash. What is the matter with people? Why are folks overly reactive to minor transgressions, yet numb to the way our government is broken? Is it an assertion of control in a world which feels increasingly unspun. Or maybe it’s actually overspun.
- In the last week I was recognized by a reader I had never met (Hi P!) in a really complimentary way and told at an event a few nights later that I looked like Emma Stone. That’s a good week right there.
- I can’t imagine a better Friday night than a winter one spent at Cafe Capriccio eating eggplant, drinking red wine and hearing a set of quality live jazz.
- Happy Chinese New Year. It’s the Year of the Rat, but, honestly, isn’t that what we’ve been living with for the last three years?
Before Waze and Google Maps, I often found myself lost, unsure of the direction in which I was driving. I was way too cool for a dashboard mounted compass or anything like that, so I recalled my Girl Scout training and tried to orient myself with the sun, with varying success. Most of the time, though, I was content with simply knowing that I was traveling in the right direction. It was enough.
Parenting can create a similar emotional state. Yes, there are plenty of tools to offer guidance, and there are some large beacons to indicate if one is on a reliable course, but the bottom line is you just never really know exactly where you’re at when you’re a parent.
So, you look for signs along the way and try to keep your eyes on the road. In the past couple of weeks I’ve observed a few things which have me feeling pretty positive about where my kids are going, literally and figuratively. Please allow me to share.
My oldest son recently returned from his first solo vacation. When he initially told me he had purchased a plane ticket and made hotel reservations, in all honesty, I was kind of concerned. He has a tendency to be impulsive and, while I was excited that he had shown initiative, I feared he might have paid more than he should have for his trip. I don’t know if it’s a firstborn thing but he is resistant to asking for help with anything, which frustrates me. While I’m not interested in micromanaging his life (I swear!), I do wish he would seek advice sometimes.
Turns out he did a wonderful job of making arrangements and planning his time in Florida. He managed to spend time with family, utilized public transportation effectively, planned his theme park visits really well and returned from his week away happy and confident in his abilities.
This week my middle son is heading to London for a long weekend with friends. I’m sure there are parents who would find it crazy that I would be enthusiastic for my child to take time off from work to jet to London for 4 or 5 days, but, I couldn’t be happier for he and his friends. Their plans sound perfect – walking, eating and skateboarding. Bon voyage, my son!
Last month my youngest son started high school. His explorations are of a different type than those of his brothers. Instead of finding his way geographically, he’s doing his best to navigate socially through what we all may recall as a confusing, and sometimes frustrating, time. He is an emotionally sensitive kid, but I have been so proud of his realizations relating to how he should expect to be treated and what a young adult friendship should look like – a fun addition to an already enjoyable life.
I continue to wonder where we’re each going to eventually wind up, but I’m confident we’re all moving in the right direction.
There was a time when I had no interest in watching a tennis match. It was just so boring to me and the scoring made no sense with some points being worth 15 and others 10 and what the hell was advantage and deuce? No, thank you.
But, then I learned how to keep score and began to understand the rules, and there was Andre Agassi, and I was hooked. I no longer minded when big matches were on television and even attended the U.S. Open a number of times and just loved it. What a great game.
During most of my time appreciating tennis, the Williams sisters have been on the scene. I’ve seen both of them play a number of times and even met their Dad, Richard, one year at a match and found him to be approachable and pleasant. While Venus was always the more appealing player to me because of her quiet demeanor, Serena awed me. Her strength is remarkable and she plays, like all my favorite players, with her heart pinned to her
catsuit sleeve. She can be confrontational and combative, but damn it, she is a warrior.
There’s been a lot of talk about the number (23) of Grand Slams which Serena has won and the record (24) being within her reach. I personally don’t know if it is Serena’s goal to match or beat Margaret Court’s achievement, but if it is and she’s feeling disappointed or frustrated after losing in last night’s final to a woman half her age, I’d like to offer her some advice.
Goals can be motivating and provide focus. It can certainly be positive to have a target for which to aim. Training and practice can be grueling and keeping an eye on the prize can provide the inspiration necessary to keep one going.
Earlier this year, I decided that I wanted to run 1,000 miles this year, a feat I accomplished a couple of years ago. I also declared that I’d like to run 25 half marathons before I turn 55 in 2021, feasible with a dozen under my belt already. Both of these goals were achievable, I thought.
But, then my body started to complain. My feet hurt and the first few days of my vacation were remarkable for the limp I had related to discomfort in my hips. It was painful to walk, which made running impossible, and I essentially took the entire summer off running a total of 8 miles in two months. I watched my goals get away and was left feeling badly about my perceived failure.
I’ve gained a little perspective, though and have come to appreciate that not every goal is meant to be achieved. Life, babies and physical limitations can get in the way and demand our attention at times. Honoring our bodies and treating them with respect is essential for our long term health and wellness and that’s the most important end result to me. When it comes to goals, sometimes, you’ve just got to let that shit go.
When I awoke from my afternoon nap to the sound of the wind in the trees, for a moment, I did not know where I was. I smiled that my response to that temporary state of being was excitement and not fear. Good. I prefer the unknown to be interesting instead of scary. I took a breath and, before opening my eyes, recalled where I was…the Cape, in the most perfect house I’ve ever stayed in the two decades since I began visiting this lovely area.
I’ve lost count of the number of other houses there have been over the years. The first few trips to Cape Cod were short getaways of just a couple of nights. My older boys were little guys and we were in the depths of daycare expenses hell which didn’t leave much of a vacation budget. We stayed in an adorable bed and breakfast/inn in Harwich Port and I fell in love with the adorable town and watching my babies enjoy the waves and sand. I was hooked.
We moved on to renting a tiny cottage for an entire week – a big leap forward. The lack of a dishwasher was a drag, but what really propelled us into getting a different house the following year was the need for a washing machine. Beaches + boys = laundry, and lots of it.
Our criteria for a rental now included the following: dishwasher, laundry facilities, dog friendly and an outdoor shower. We found a house a bit further out on the Cape that met each of these demands and rented the same place for the next few years, happily. I learned to immediately remove all the little throw rugs for the duration of our stay, thus avoiding the game of slide-around-the-oversized-kitchen, and somehow managed to sidestep any medical emergencies other than swimmer’s ear and the chicken pox.
During some exploratory drives beyond Chatham, I fell hard for Wellfleet and directed my attention to finding a rental there for the following summer. Fifteen or so years later, this remains my favorite spot on the Cape. The houses we’ve had have mostly been winners, but there were a couple of exceptions.
At this point a week on the Cape had become two weeks, sometimes divided between the Cape and Martha’s Vineyard. For a number of years there was an awesome “upside-down” house that featured a second story kitchen, dining and living room which gave the place a tree house feel. The deck wrapped around two sides of the place and there were turkeys in the back yard and a hammock the boys would swing in until someone reliably got unceremoniously dumped.
We switched things up the next year for a house with newer furniture and a better yard for the kids to play in, but these perks came with unexpected consequences – ants and mice. After a week of storing all of our food in Rubbermaid containers, we knew it was a one and done kind of situation. There was no looking back.
Honing in on our happiness took us closer to the water, near Lieutenant’s Island. The first year was a fail in a house that failed to indicate that going from the upstairs to the downstairs required walking outdoors and down an external staircase, not great with still smallish children. The stone fireplace on the deck wasn’t enough to get us back the next year.
We made the leap over the bridge, (which is inaccessible during high tides), to a decent house within a 10 minute walk to a calm bay beach. During our stay that first year, the kids made friends with a boy in a nearby house and I took the chance to take a peek inside. It looked perfect for us and was in fact an ideal set up with bedrooms and baths scattered over three stories with awesome decks, including one outside of my bedroom that attracted hummingbirds from early morning through dusk. Despite the tight galley kitchen, I really loved that place and we returned to it for the next 3 or 4 years.
As the kids got older, though, the bay didn’t appeal to wave seekers and we shifted our eyes to the other side of Route 6 where we found what is now my ideal house. Hidden in the woods with a semi-private pond directly across the rutted dirt road, the place I’ve visited the past three years is as close to perfect as I can imagine. A 15 minute walk gets us to the ocean and Wellfleet Center is a drive just slightly longer.
The house itself is ideal with a small footprint, but three stories tall. The kitchen and dining area are spacious and open directly onto a large screened porch with a view of the gardens and “our” pond. The separate cabin was perfect as a “crib” for the boys and avoided a whole lot of arguing about wet towels and swim suits on the floor, because I just didn’t have to see it.
The “boys” are older now, though, and no longer interested, or able, to spend a week away from friends or jobs. Last year, for the first time ever I spent a week away from my children at the Cape and filled the house instead with friends. The small cabin became an oasis for a couple and the bedrooms on the second and third floors were occupied with a fluid array of grown ups.
We never ran out of milk. I didn’t drive for five days. We ate when we were hungry and drank when we were thirsty. There was a rager of a party, which we celebrated by taking a swim in the dark in the pond. It was dreamy.
This second year without my sons feels even more indulgent. I’m as infatuated with this house as ever, but I’m looking forward and thinking I’d like to explore some new beaches, maybe in Greece again. The price of the beautiful home I rent is about equal to the cost, I believe, of what I can instead spend putting together two weeks in Greece. It’s time to make a new tradition.
Wait. Maybe that sounds harsher than I intended. It wasn’t actually a lie when I said it, more of an attempt to say the “right” thing. Because when we travel away from our family and friends and lover, we’re expected to tell them we miss them, aren’t we? It provides some sort of consolation in our absence and verbally demonstrates the importance one places on their presence in your life. It’s what people do.
The truth is, that when I’m away, I’m gone. I’m in some other place, hearing languages I don’t know, smelling scents that make me turn my head to locate the source, seeing things I’ve never before imagined and tasting foods that literally make me moan. I’m walking roads made of marble, swimming in remarkably warm and blue waters, and feeling the sun on my back and the wind in my face.
I’m absorbing as much as I can of the place where I am so I can carry it home. Where I will share it, with those that I love who were not with me for this most recent adventure. So, when I say “I miss you,” what I’m really saying is “I’m sorry you’re not physically part of this marvelous experience, but, I am. Completely.”