When Superman's grief for Lois Lane compels him to reverse time by spinning Earth backwards, there must be a moment when time stands still. Or actually two, since he then restores Earth to forward rotation. (Don't worry if your chrono-spatial-gravitational physics is rusty. I have the unfair advantage of my own little resident Superman.) Though this ultimate statis is not only fleeting, it's imaginary, it comforts me nonetheless. Because right now my life is a blurrrr of motion.
Which brings me to- THE MARATHON. Yes, I ran! Loaded up with homeopathics and mulligatawny soup (thank you, Cheri!), augmentin (thank you, David!) and two days of rest (thank you, husband!), I awoke Sunday, November 6th to a brilliant sunny day in New York feeling well and eager. Together with 47,000 runners I made my way via two trains, the Staten Island ferry, and a bus to the starting line on Staten Island. Frank Sinatra got me crying for the first of countless times to "New York, New York" as we crossed the start and began our ascent on the upper deck of the Verrazano Bridge, all of New York Harbor, the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Brooklyn and the Atlantic below us. I was so thrilled to be there and so high on the enthusiasm of runners and the crowds that I ran too fast too soon, and I knew it, but I couldn't resist. Six miles in I found Jordy, Duncan, Reeve and our neighbor friends in the crowd, another adrenalin spike. A lull after parting from them, but another boost in Clinton Hill-Bed/Stuy where the crowds were spectacular. A gospel choir rocked us on. In Williamsburg I picked out two close friends from LA - another boost. Then a long hard road ahead... Are we in Queens yet? Finally the Queensborough Bridge - ugh. Like the transition phase of labor in child birth. Long, hard, the crowds gone, lower deck this time, the relentless rumble of vehicles passing on the level overhead. My right knee started to complain. My hamstrings were grouchy. At last - First Avenue in Manhattan. WOW, the crowds were suddenly many times as dense. Their voices exploded in my tired muscles like rocket fuel. God bless these strangers! I shot off. Briefly. Then remembered how far I'd come. By mile 18 I need to walk quite a lot. Living up to the meaning of its name, "the Hinterland," the Bronx felt like a purgatory from which I might never escape. And yet there were a Scottish bag piping troop, children with fruit and water, and a HipHop duo singing "Welcome... to the Bronx," over and over in the tone of a dirge, which somehow all comforted and amused me through to the final bridge back to Manhattan. From then on it was all low golden rays as the falling sun beckoned us to the final resting place. Harlem, Fifth Avenue, a woman who cheered specifically for me ("Go, Pink!") just when I needed it, a right hook into Central Park. Bare trees overhead, a fantasy of Frederick Law Olmsted (my guiding spirit of late) watching from a knoll with wonder at what his park has provided, winding familiar roads from so many races to bring me to this place, a final detour back out to Central Park South past my grandfather's New York Athletic Club, a surrender of my vain hope to make the New York Times as my time passed 5 hours, irrepressible cravings that this damn thing be OVER already, the finish line in sight, and suddenly - permission to stop.
But not. Like the relentlessness of time in general, we were not permitted to stop. The New York Road Runners Club knew what they were doing. To stop is to freeze up. They corralled us like so many cattle in a forced march that lasted about 30 minutes. Wrapped in silver plastic blankets that look like excess material from the lunar landing pods, supplied with bright orange "Recovery Kit" backpacks of energy bars, apples, and water, we shuffled toward the bivouacked UPS trucks conveying our personal gear from start to finish. An hour and a half and two more trains later I was home to hugs from four boys, flowers, and champagne on ice. (Lest I give the wrong image, I would be the one on ice, drinking champagne whilst in a bath of ice water. Grim, but effective!)
The marathon generates a host of metaphors. Life's a marathon, not a sprint. We're in it for the long haul. I hit the wall. You've got to pace yourself. I'm a "finisher." Once upon a time most people employed such metaphors without ever having felt a marathon. But with so many people running them now, the marathon offers a common language, a short-cut. (Ask any NY finisher about the Queensborough Bridge - say no more!) Having run the New York Marathon in particular, I'd argue it has become its own metaphor. "You ran New York?" evokes the whole wild wonderful thing -- runners and crowds representing every walk of life, every corner of the Earth, together making the world's biggest party out of something really hard and inviting everyone to be a part of it. Thank God, I got to run New York!
I wonder how the day and weeks after the marathon felt to the other runners. I felt like I ran off a cliff. I had some regrets. I wish I'd run it better, yadayada. But mostly I had lost my guiding star. Many RUNNER'S WORLD magazine subscribers must run New York, as they had a special article on overcoming the "post-race blues." My friend and mentor, Jimmy Moore, would have done as they advised and plotted his next race (perhaps an ultra next time). But it didn't feel right to make a new "goal." After sitting with this unease for several weeks, I realized why. What I crave now above all is stillness. Is it an oxymoron to make "stillness" a goal?
I started running again three years ago to pull myself out of the rut I'd fallen into after giving birth to two kids, having given up exercise, feeling glum. Running has restored me in body and spirit, and I will keep the habit going forward. But as I reflect over these three years, I also ran to keep up. To keep up with my "Rocket Reeve," who kept me running through my pregnancy with Tucker whether I wanted to or not. To keep up with Tucker, who by 15 months was off like a shot himself. To keep up with the pressured schedules of 3 boys with 3 different school schedules, and an average of 5 miles of daily walking/running behind strollers to move bodies where they need to go. To keep up my energy when sleep is in short supply (always). To keep up with my advancing age, which I believe is governed at least in part by expectations. And to prepare for something as yet unknown - the next hard, long, important thing. But I'm frankly a little tired of being on the run.
Maybe it's the approach of winter. An instinct to hibernate. The immobility of things frozen. Nature's relief of obligation to grow, strive, change. Now that I feel I can keep up, I'm not sure I want to. Instead I want to slow the whole thing down. I don't want to venture so far. I want to be quieter. To escape time. The first step, I realize, is to let go of all this wanting and not wanting, of striving even not to strive. Instead I'm doing more yoga, attempting meditation (never been very successful with it, but then again, what is success?! Incense helps put me in the mood, at least, and makes the house smell nice too), writing in my journal, trying to move slower, breathe more, expect less. None of this comes naturally to me (as my friend Jonathan's "perfume" name for me, "Flurry," evokes). Would that it were as easy as halting the Earth's rotations!
Then again, I'm really starting to look forward to summer. By then the kids will be bigger. Jordy has saved up more vacation. Maybe we'll be able to hike Mount Moosilauke together for the first time! Or head east to Mount Katahdin... After all this stillness, I'll be ready for some action.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Little Touches
Last week I went to the funeral home to view my husband's grandmother the day after she died. My aunt-in-law, who along with her husband comprised the other two visitors, invited me to touch her too. I was so glad she did. I never would have done so on my own. Grandma's hair was very fine, her skin very soft despite the cool hardness of her cheek.
I keep thinking about this final touch, about the feeling of her body, living and in death, on my finger tips, my cheek, in my arms. I remember how frail she felt in recent years, as if I might break her if I held her too tight. To the end she welcomed a squeeze of the hand, a brush of our cheeks, a hug nonetheless.
She was a woman who, I sensed without having known her then, really enjoyed her body in younger years. She spoke often of the pleasures of summers sunning herself at the beach. She took great pleasure in good food. She told of sleeping in spoons with her husband, recalled by my aunt-in-law last week over champagne toasts to Grandma, and the joyous sensations of being pregnant. I remember her watching me breastfeed my babies with interest, once asking me, "What does it feel like? You know, I never had the chance to do that. They bound my breasts at the hospital to stop the milk." Her question didn't seem to carry a political pro-/con-breastfeeding agenda; it felt like she simply regretted the lost chance to explore a new sensation.
In contrast to Grandma's final years, when touch was limited to her cat and greetings/partings with visiting family, my days are overrun with little touches. I often wake up to a soft little foot tickling my tummy or lodged under my chin. I'm so used to the small fingers that lightly roam my neck and chest while nursing that I can forget the gift of this wee, ephemeral bit of tenderness. I have "snuggle requests" from the bigger brothers upon waking and before sleep, hand-holdings across streets, and kisses on heads of ruffled hair. I enjoy the embraces of my husband throughout the day, sleepy snuggles, and the brushes of our fingers and bodies amidst the bustle of packing lunchboxes and dressing boys for school.
We are still in the stage of family life where a kiss and a hug provide miraculous healing. Although the two bigger boys have achieved the rational capacity to question the mechanism for this effect, when push comes to shove comes to real ouch, they still want a kiss and a hug first. Two-year old Tucker puts his faith in both Band-Aids (for invasive, non-invasive, and thoroughly imaginary wounds - so much fun to open! stick!) and Kiss-Kiss/Hug-Hug remedies.
With three young boys, our little touches can get acrobatic. We recently built new Ikea beds and dressers for the boys' new "mountain" bedroom. As I climbed into a case to screw in tracks for drawers, my rear end must have suggested a horse, as Tucker promptly climbed on for a ride. At music class yesterday during the "free dance" portion, he required not only that I carry him, but that I flip him upside down repeatedly (exhausting!). The boys love nothing more than "Tough Time" with Jordy at the end of the day, which consists of Jordy lying flat on the floor while one-after-the-other the boys hurl themselves at him.
This morning Duncan, the big seven-year old, required a snuggle on the rocker, curling up pretending to be a baby again, arms gripping me hard. This fall Reeve took to crawling into bed beside me at night, so stealth that I wouldn't realize his presence until waking in the morning to the slow rise and fall of his breath, his warm back against my arm. To my relief and chagrin, he has quickly adapted to his new bedroom, sleeping as late at 7am in his own "big boy" bed.
These touches wrap me in a warm web of life, a web that reaches beyond memory to my mother's countless loving touches of little me. I fear the loss of touch that will happen as they and we age. It happens so gradually I often don't notice. No morning snuggle this morning with Reeve, and he is fine, and so am I. Then one day they will leave home. And one day Jordy or I will loose the other. I have to hope the gradual nature of the changes will make it bearable. And give me time to get a seriously snuggly dog.
Grandma once told me that one of the hardest things about getting older for her was the dissonance between the way she sees herself inside with how she knows others perceived her. In her mind's eye, she was eternally 40. Healthy, vital, teenage kids at home, in love with her husband. I am there now. Since 40 I've had a baby, got the chance to run a marathon, and enjoy good health and affection all around. I'm grateful for these little touches, and to Grandma for helping me see my bounty.
I keep thinking about this final touch, about the feeling of her body, living and in death, on my finger tips, my cheek, in my arms. I remember how frail she felt in recent years, as if I might break her if I held her too tight. To the end she welcomed a squeeze of the hand, a brush of our cheeks, a hug nonetheless.
She was a woman who, I sensed without having known her then, really enjoyed her body in younger years. She spoke often of the pleasures of summers sunning herself at the beach. She took great pleasure in good food. She told of sleeping in spoons with her husband, recalled by my aunt-in-law last week over champagne toasts to Grandma, and the joyous sensations of being pregnant. I remember her watching me breastfeed my babies with interest, once asking me, "What does it feel like? You know, I never had the chance to do that. They bound my breasts at the hospital to stop the milk." Her question didn't seem to carry a political pro-/con-breastfeeding agenda; it felt like she simply regretted the lost chance to explore a new sensation.
In contrast to Grandma's final years, when touch was limited to her cat and greetings/partings with visiting family, my days are overrun with little touches. I often wake up to a soft little foot tickling my tummy or lodged under my chin. I'm so used to the small fingers that lightly roam my neck and chest while nursing that I can forget the gift of this wee, ephemeral bit of tenderness. I have "snuggle requests" from the bigger brothers upon waking and before sleep, hand-holdings across streets, and kisses on heads of ruffled hair. I enjoy the embraces of my husband throughout the day, sleepy snuggles, and the brushes of our fingers and bodies amidst the bustle of packing lunchboxes and dressing boys for school.
We are still in the stage of family life where a kiss and a hug provide miraculous healing. Although the two bigger boys have achieved the rational capacity to question the mechanism for this effect, when push comes to shove comes to real ouch, they still want a kiss and a hug first. Two-year old Tucker puts his faith in both Band-Aids (for invasive, non-invasive, and thoroughly imaginary wounds - so much fun to open! stick!) and Kiss-Kiss/Hug-Hug remedies.
With three young boys, our little touches can get acrobatic. We recently built new Ikea beds and dressers for the boys' new "mountain" bedroom. As I climbed into a case to screw in tracks for drawers, my rear end must have suggested a horse, as Tucker promptly climbed on for a ride. At music class yesterday during the "free dance" portion, he required not only that I carry him, but that I flip him upside down repeatedly (exhausting!). The boys love nothing more than "Tough Time" with Jordy at the end of the day, which consists of Jordy lying flat on the floor while one-after-the-other the boys hurl themselves at him.
This morning Duncan, the big seven-year old, required a snuggle on the rocker, curling up pretending to be a baby again, arms gripping me hard. This fall Reeve took to crawling into bed beside me at night, so stealth that I wouldn't realize his presence until waking in the morning to the slow rise and fall of his breath, his warm back against my arm. To my relief and chagrin, he has quickly adapted to his new bedroom, sleeping as late at 7am in his own "big boy" bed.
These touches wrap me in a warm web of life, a web that reaches beyond memory to my mother's countless loving touches of little me. I fear the loss of touch that will happen as they and we age. It happens so gradually I often don't notice. No morning snuggle this morning with Reeve, and he is fine, and so am I. Then one day they will leave home. And one day Jordy or I will loose the other. I have to hope the gradual nature of the changes will make it bearable. And give me time to get a seriously snuggly dog.
Grandma once told me that one of the hardest things about getting older for her was the dissonance between the way she sees herself inside with how she knows others perceived her. In her mind's eye, she was eternally 40. Healthy, vital, teenage kids at home, in love with her husband. I am there now. Since 40 I've had a baby, got the chance to run a marathon, and enjoy good health and affection all around. I'm grateful for these little touches, and to Grandma for helping me see my bounty.
Friday, November 4, 2011
The Long View
I decided to run a marathon almost three years ago. I was 39. I got on the treadmill at my in-laws house one snowy evening in New Hampshire. I hadn't run regularly in a number of years, and it was a little painful, but a marathon seemed the perfect answer to turning 40.
In April we found out we were pregnant. Marathon training would have to wait. I kept running until the end of my first trimester. In fact, Tucker ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon with me on Memorial Day, then we decided to down-shift to brisk walking. A month after the 2009 NYC marathon I went into labor, which was not unlike a marathon but with a far better trophy.
So again, come winter 2010, I put my running shoes back on. My first race was the Run for Haiti in Central Park. 4 miles. That year I completed the 9 races required to qualify for the NYC 2011 Marathon. Come winter 2011 I started extending my runs. Ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon again at the end of May. Deja vu, but better. The delay had stretched out my training, deepened the endurance, made it more habitual than an act of will.
Three weeks ago I made my last long training run, 23 miles all in Brooklyn. It was a glorious, if exceedingly windy, day. The mile along Coney Island's boardwalk had to be re-routed inland for the blasting sand kicked up by 20 mph winds, and I got splashed numerous times by waves breaking along the coast under the Verrazano Bridge. The highlight was passing Duncan's soccer game at mile 22 and waving to my four guys. I felt great. I felt ready. My mantra was: "Now, if I can just avoid getting sick..."
Now here I am, it is Friday, Marathon day is Sunday. And I have a fever. This is day 2 of 100+ temps, aches, shakes, the usual seasonal misery. I pumped myself up with Advil and went into the city to pick up my race bib anyway. It's been 3 years - how can I give up now? I ask myself what Jimmy would do. (Jimmy Moore, my running friend and guru, now 90, from Mississippi.) He would tell me to listen to my body. That I can always give it a shot, and if I'm not up to it, there's no shame in going home and trying again another time. I hope I will have the courage to make such a call if need be. This strikes me as the wisdom of the marathon-view of life. Even the marathon is not the marathon. It's the finish line past the horizon that keeps us reaching farther than the one we can see.
In April we found out we were pregnant. Marathon training would have to wait. I kept running until the end of my first trimester. In fact, Tucker ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon with me on Memorial Day, then we decided to down-shift to brisk walking. A month after the 2009 NYC marathon I went into labor, which was not unlike a marathon but with a far better trophy.
So again, come winter 2010, I put my running shoes back on. My first race was the Run for Haiti in Central Park. 4 miles. That year I completed the 9 races required to qualify for the NYC 2011 Marathon. Come winter 2011 I started extending my runs. Ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon again at the end of May. Deja vu, but better. The delay had stretched out my training, deepened the endurance, made it more habitual than an act of will.
Three weeks ago I made my last long training run, 23 miles all in Brooklyn. It was a glorious, if exceedingly windy, day. The mile along Coney Island's boardwalk had to be re-routed inland for the blasting sand kicked up by 20 mph winds, and I got splashed numerous times by waves breaking along the coast under the Verrazano Bridge. The highlight was passing Duncan's soccer game at mile 22 and waving to my four guys. I felt great. I felt ready. My mantra was: "Now, if I can just avoid getting sick..."
Now here I am, it is Friday, Marathon day is Sunday. And I have a fever. This is day 2 of 100+ temps, aches, shakes, the usual seasonal misery. I pumped myself up with Advil and went into the city to pick up my race bib anyway. It's been 3 years - how can I give up now? I ask myself what Jimmy would do. (Jimmy Moore, my running friend and guru, now 90, from Mississippi.) He would tell me to listen to my body. That I can always give it a shot, and if I'm not up to it, there's no shame in going home and trying again another time. I hope I will have the courage to make such a call if need be. This strikes me as the wisdom of the marathon-view of life. Even the marathon is not the marathon. It's the finish line past the horizon that keeps us reaching farther than the one we can see.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Uncle in the Outfield
Yesterday for Father's Day my three sons, their dad and I went to the Brooklyn Cyclones v. Staten Island Yankees game at Coney Island. It was awesome. Fathers and sons (or daughters) were invited to come out on the field to toss the ball before the game. The kids in the Precinct 78 baseball league were invited to run the bases. Duncan wore his "Hotwheels" orange jersey; his buddy, little neighbor Charlie, wore his green jersey. The two of them cheered wildly, thrusting their foam "Cyclones #1" hands in the air between stuffing blue cotton candy in their mouths.
During the game I sent a text to my sister to tell her we were thinking about Gary. This time of year is extra hard. In rapid succession she faces her daughter's birthday, Father's Day, the last day of school, and the anniversary of her husband's death. This year the last two fall on the same day, as they did six years ago when Gary was driving to catch up with his family after the boys' last day of school. The night before he had played baseball with them. The next night he was gone.
The coincidence of Gary's death with the summer equinox and the height of baseball season has always felt connected to me, as if by some gossamer threads that hold reality together but which are too delicate to be quite seen, much less named. Something about how the planet is reaching for the sun, the bonds of this realm and another loosened, a ball flying into the sky - invisible momentarily as the powerfully close sun blinds the eye, before it falls back to earth, but what if it doesn't?
Aunts and uncles and older cousins from every corner of the country dropped everything and flew back to New York to be with Kristin and the kids. I remember feeling the necessity to link arms with the living in those hot days after Gary died, to form a ring around a hole that had opened leaving a powerful vacuum in existence. All of nature raged. Thunderstorms hammered us for a week. Humidity cloaked us in a sticky layer we couldn't escape. Mosquitoes bit fiercely. The earth had shifted on its axis. We all felt profoundly useless. What could we possibly say or do in the face of this?
Play baseball. Through scorching heat, thick air, killer insects and dashing storms, a game of baseball went on and on in the backyard. As darkness fell, fire flies joined the game. This aunt, who would be described as a "fair weather fan," looked heavenward numerous times to give thanks for the game of baseball. It felt like it saved our lives.
Duncan was 8 months old when Gary died. As a consequence, Duncan's age each June marks the number of years Gary has been gone. They never met. We had planned to fly back east from California to introduce Duncan to his cousins, aunt and uncle later that summer. Our trip came sooner than planned, but too late. Among the many regrets we all live with daily, I count the fact that Uncle Gary couldn't see Duncan play on his first Little League team this spring.
Last week Duncan joined his dad and two high school friends for a Yankees v. Red Sox game at Yankee Stadium. Jordy and his friends were, of course, decked out in Red Sox attire. Despite our best efforts, Duncan has become a devoted Yankees fan and dressed appropriately. While they waited through a THREE AND A HALF-HOUR rain delay (game started at 10:30PM), thunderstorms raging once again around the perimeter of the baseball field, Duncan became the mascot of their cheering section, upheld by the Yankee fans as a hold-out against his father's bad influence.
I chuckle to think, instead, that Duncan's Yankee devotion is evidence of his uncle's good influence. Gary was a quiet, serious student of baseball. His passion for the Yankees did not take the form of inebriated riotous behavior at the ballpark, or obnoxious derision of other teams or their fans (even the Red Sox). He would have found a lot of the glitz of the New Yankee Stadium beside the point. He took a long view of the game and the team. He knew his stuff.
Gary sometimes lamented that his elbow ached in the night from all the Catch he played with his sons, Christopher and David. One of the prices we pay for becoming parents relatively late in the game. But all that Catch imparted to his boys not only physical skill, but a spirit about the game - and athletics in general. Christopher ("H" as Gary called him) and David ("David Bear") are good athletes, but moreover they are good sportsmen. They are decent. They don't mock.
At their wedding, Gary's best man's toast described Kristin as the "second best catch of his life," after an epic catch in the field earlier in his life. Gary and Kristin's was a mixed marriage with all the inherent excitment and risks that attend such things. Like James Carville and Mary Matalin, their relationship rested on a foundation of respect for each other's devotion to the game while it was enlivened by the rivalry of their chosen teams.
In 2003 (need I remind anyone?) the Red Sox came painfully close to beating the Yankees in the ALCS. That loss, in the 11th inning (even this fair weather fan cringes at the memory), sent my sister into a month-long depression. Her sons, 7 and 3 at the time, were unnerved by their mother's periodic bouts of teary distraction. The lone Red Sox fan in a household of Yankees fans, she was in a very vulnerable place. Never one to gloat, Gary gently explained to the boys how long and hard the Red Sox (and their long-suffering fans) had fought for this, helping them to imagine how very disappointing this would be (despite their own glee). This Father's Day I'm struck by the imprint such a reflexive reaction of generosity left on Gary's children. I'm sure Christopher and David wish they could retrieve more specific memories of their dad, but this one exemplifies Gary's good nature and his legacy.
Last summer Christopher and David ran a "Sports Camp" for my sons, Duncan and Reeve. They patiently taught the fundamentals of baseball and soccer. They played Catch for hours in the blazing summer heat. If Duncan's allegiance to the Yankees was negotiable before their camp, it was sealed by week's end.
And so, when I watch Duncan play baseball here in Brooklyn, I realize Gary is present after all. He taught his sons who taught my son. He's our uncle in the outfield.
And although they never met, Gary sent Duncan the following cover letter and CV upon his birth:
November 23, 2004
Dear Duncan,
Enclosed is my CV. Would you please review as I wish to be considered as one of your uncles. Uncle is a an important person and should not be confused with an aunt. However, they are commonly found together. In my case I will be found with your Aunt Kristin.
Hope to see you soon.
Love,
Uncle Gary
P.S. I have enclosed pictures of Cousin Katie.
C.V. Gary Lehmann
November 2004
DESIRED POSITION: Duncan Ira Green's Uncle, Northeast Region
UNCLINGS PHILOSOPHY: Dirty knees and a full stomach: no baths required.
CURRENT POSITION
Dad, 1996-Present, responsibilities include:
* Maintain family playground, including state of the past (emphasis Gary's) baseball field with grass, dirt and scrape board bases
* Ice skate lacing, puck and stick supply and pond ice snow shoveling
* Golf lessons - a combination of mini-golf, woods and irons at the driving range and an introduction to requisite colorful language
* Book reading - personal favorites: Go, Dog Go; Put Me in the Zoo; Goodnight Gorilla
* Animal and human husbandry
* Forced marches (also termed hiking by flatlanders)
* Driving lessons on John Deere
* Family grump
* Day job - Blah, blah, blah
PRIOR EXPERIENCE
* Watched The Man from UNCLE
* Nephew for four uncles
* Uncle for four nephews and one niece - one broken nose, no long term damage inflicted.
* Best friend for four dogs.
INTERESTS AND FAVORITES
Travel
I like to visit Dunkin Doughnuts and attend baseball and hockey games. I have also traveled abroad. As a result my passport stamps include Cooperstown, Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park, Wrigley Field, Memorial Stadium (1969 World Series, Brook Robinson is spectacular), and Dodger Stadium (1968, Bob Gibson's streak of 50 consecutive scoreless innings ends in the first inning).
Music
I like both kinds, country and western. (1)
Beverage
Root beer, hold the root.
Favorite Historical Figures
Bobby Orr, Bobby Murcer, Wayne Gretsky
Favorite Olympian
Cami Granato (2)
Best Movie Dialogue
Kermit and Fozzy Bear are traveling in a car with Fozzy in the driver seat and Kermit to his right in the passenger seat. They approach a y-intersection and:
Kermit - "Fozzy, bear left."
Fozzy - "Kermit, frog right."
REFERENCES
Andie Lehmann, Binghamton, NY, Retriever
Lilly Reeve-Baker, Hanover, NH Springer
________________
(1) Acknowledgments to the Blues Brothers
(2) Duncan, Cami is famous for being Tony Granato's sister. Maybe you will have a sister who can be famous as Duncan Green's sister.
During the game I sent a text to my sister to tell her we were thinking about Gary. This time of year is extra hard. In rapid succession she faces her daughter's birthday, Father's Day, the last day of school, and the anniversary of her husband's death. This year the last two fall on the same day, as they did six years ago when Gary was driving to catch up with his family after the boys' last day of school. The night before he had played baseball with them. The next night he was gone.
The coincidence of Gary's death with the summer equinox and the height of baseball season has always felt connected to me, as if by some gossamer threads that hold reality together but which are too delicate to be quite seen, much less named. Something about how the planet is reaching for the sun, the bonds of this realm and another loosened, a ball flying into the sky - invisible momentarily as the powerfully close sun blinds the eye, before it falls back to earth, but what if it doesn't?
Aunts and uncles and older cousins from every corner of the country dropped everything and flew back to New York to be with Kristin and the kids. I remember feeling the necessity to link arms with the living in those hot days after Gary died, to form a ring around a hole that had opened leaving a powerful vacuum in existence. All of nature raged. Thunderstorms hammered us for a week. Humidity cloaked us in a sticky layer we couldn't escape. Mosquitoes bit fiercely. The earth had shifted on its axis. We all felt profoundly useless. What could we possibly say or do in the face of this?
Play baseball. Through scorching heat, thick air, killer insects and dashing storms, a game of baseball went on and on in the backyard. As darkness fell, fire flies joined the game. This aunt, who would be described as a "fair weather fan," looked heavenward numerous times to give thanks for the game of baseball. It felt like it saved our lives.
Duncan was 8 months old when Gary died. As a consequence, Duncan's age each June marks the number of years Gary has been gone. They never met. We had planned to fly back east from California to introduce Duncan to his cousins, aunt and uncle later that summer. Our trip came sooner than planned, but too late. Among the many regrets we all live with daily, I count the fact that Uncle Gary couldn't see Duncan play on his first Little League team this spring.
Last week Duncan joined his dad and two high school friends for a Yankees v. Red Sox game at Yankee Stadium. Jordy and his friends were, of course, decked out in Red Sox attire. Despite our best efforts, Duncan has become a devoted Yankees fan and dressed appropriately. While they waited through a THREE AND A HALF-HOUR rain delay (game started at 10:30PM), thunderstorms raging once again around the perimeter of the baseball field, Duncan became the mascot of their cheering section, upheld by the Yankee fans as a hold-out against his father's bad influence.
I chuckle to think, instead, that Duncan's Yankee devotion is evidence of his uncle's good influence. Gary was a quiet, serious student of baseball. His passion for the Yankees did not take the form of inebriated riotous behavior at the ballpark, or obnoxious derision of other teams or their fans (even the Red Sox). He would have found a lot of the glitz of the New Yankee Stadium beside the point. He took a long view of the game and the team. He knew his stuff.
Gary sometimes lamented that his elbow ached in the night from all the Catch he played with his sons, Christopher and David. One of the prices we pay for becoming parents relatively late in the game. But all that Catch imparted to his boys not only physical skill, but a spirit about the game - and athletics in general. Christopher ("H" as Gary called him) and David ("David Bear") are good athletes, but moreover they are good sportsmen. They are decent. They don't mock.
At their wedding, Gary's best man's toast described Kristin as the "second best catch of his life," after an epic catch in the field earlier in his life. Gary and Kristin's was a mixed marriage with all the inherent excitment and risks that attend such things. Like James Carville and Mary Matalin, their relationship rested on a foundation of respect for each other's devotion to the game while it was enlivened by the rivalry of their chosen teams.
In 2003 (need I remind anyone?) the Red Sox came painfully close to beating the Yankees in the ALCS. That loss, in the 11th inning (even this fair weather fan cringes at the memory), sent my sister into a month-long depression. Her sons, 7 and 3 at the time, were unnerved by their mother's periodic bouts of teary distraction. The lone Red Sox fan in a household of Yankees fans, she was in a very vulnerable place. Never one to gloat, Gary gently explained to the boys how long and hard the Red Sox (and their long-suffering fans) had fought for this, helping them to imagine how very disappointing this would be (despite their own glee). This Father's Day I'm struck by the imprint such a reflexive reaction of generosity left on Gary's children. I'm sure Christopher and David wish they could retrieve more specific memories of their dad, but this one exemplifies Gary's good nature and his legacy.
Last summer Christopher and David ran a "Sports Camp" for my sons, Duncan and Reeve. They patiently taught the fundamentals of baseball and soccer. They played Catch for hours in the blazing summer heat. If Duncan's allegiance to the Yankees was negotiable before their camp, it was sealed by week's end.
And so, when I watch Duncan play baseball here in Brooklyn, I realize Gary is present after all. He taught his sons who taught my son. He's our uncle in the outfield.
And although they never met, Gary sent Duncan the following cover letter and CV upon his birth:
November 23, 2004
Dear Duncan,
Enclosed is my CV. Would you please review as I wish to be considered as one of your uncles. Uncle is a an important person and should not be confused with an aunt. However, they are commonly found together. In my case I will be found with your Aunt Kristin.
Hope to see you soon.
Love,
Uncle Gary
P.S. I have enclosed pictures of Cousin Katie.
C.V. Gary Lehmann
November 2004
DESIRED POSITION: Duncan Ira Green's Uncle, Northeast Region
UNCLINGS PHILOSOPHY: Dirty knees and a full stomach: no baths required.
CURRENT POSITION
Dad, 1996-Present, responsibilities include:
* Maintain family playground, including state of the past (emphasis Gary's) baseball field with grass, dirt and scrape board bases
* Ice skate lacing, puck and stick supply and pond ice snow shoveling
* Golf lessons - a combination of mini-golf, woods and irons at the driving range and an introduction to requisite colorful language
* Book reading - personal favorites: Go, Dog Go; Put Me in the Zoo; Goodnight Gorilla
* Animal and human husbandry
* Forced marches (also termed hiking by flatlanders)
* Driving lessons on John Deere
* Family grump
* Day job - Blah, blah, blah
PRIOR EXPERIENCE
* Watched The Man from UNCLE
* Nephew for four uncles
* Uncle for four nephews and one niece - one broken nose, no long term damage inflicted.
* Best friend for four dogs.
INTERESTS AND FAVORITES
Travel
I like to visit Dunkin Doughnuts and attend baseball and hockey games. I have also traveled abroad. As a result my passport stamps include Cooperstown, Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park, Wrigley Field, Memorial Stadium (1969 World Series, Brook Robinson is spectacular), and Dodger Stadium (1968, Bob Gibson's streak of 50 consecutive scoreless innings ends in the first inning).
Music
I like both kinds, country and western. (1)
Beverage
Root beer, hold the root.
Favorite Historical Figures
Bobby Orr, Bobby Murcer, Wayne Gretsky
Favorite Olympian
Cami Granato (2)
Best Movie Dialogue
Kermit and Fozzy Bear are traveling in a car with Fozzy in the driver seat and Kermit to his right in the passenger seat. They approach a y-intersection and:
Kermit - "Fozzy, bear left."
Fozzy - "Kermit, frog right."
REFERENCES
Andie Lehmann, Binghamton, NY, Retriever
Lilly Reeve-Baker, Hanover, NH Springer
________________
(1) Acknowledgments to the Blues Brothers
(2) Duncan, Cami is famous for being Tony Granato's sister. Maybe you will have a sister who can be famous as Duncan Green's sister.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Super Reeve
One of the many advantages of having Superman as my son is that he walks around singing his own theme song, which then gets stuck in my head during my morning run, which gives me the fleeting impression that I am, in fact, flying. (When, in actual fact, I am dragging my sleep-deprived over-forty very human body through this soupy New York summer.)
An even greater advantage is the peace of mind that the world is safer because Reeve is in it. The other day he reported that his pre-school friend Miri got stuck climbing the slide during recess, but he climbed right up, got her unstuck, and "saved her." She was, by all reports, totally amazed.
And then there is the helpful added benefit that food, such as honey cereal but even green vegetables, provides essential energy for super powers and therefore gets eaten not only without protest but with actual gusto.
As a superhero with a human-like appearance but super-human powers, my little Superman finds his own identity perplexing. He announces with certainty today that he is "actually an Alien who looks like a person but a good alien not a bad alien," while tomorrow it turns out he is "actually a Human but from another planet so with extra power." He grapples with the nature of his obligation to Humanity. If he's just a visitor, why does he need to save everyone? If he is one of us, what makes him so different? And if his mommy and daddy came to Earth, which he explains is impossible because they blew up on their planet Krypton, but just "IF" they could, would they be supermans too? Which leads us to a discussion of the extra density of Superman's bodily tissues on our planet, because of our specific distance from the sun as compared to Krypton's distance from its sun and the gravitational coefficient therein something something -- which leads us to the question, is it his body's strength that really makes him Super or something else in his nature? Because he could do anything he wants with all that added power. Why does he try to help people? And, importantly, "Mommy, is Superman ever scared?"
Reeve has ever been an early riser. The (early) morning ritual now has a new first step before eating/dressing/pooping/going to school: Stop at the rubber band drawer, find a rubber band, and fasten Cape. Recently my little Superman won't leave home without it. He wears it to the Farmers' Market, Music Together, the playground, school. One never knows when superpowers will be needed. Unlike his mentor, he does not attempt to conceal his superpowers; rather he quite delights when strangers declare with awe, "Look! There goes Superman!" Such recognition tends to inject a little extra fuel into his boosters -- he flies off, one arm forward, the other bent back (standard flying form), cape flapping in the wind wake he leaves behind.
He has recently grown interested in Superman's alter-ego, however, asking repeatedly, "What's Superman's name again when he's not Superman?" We practice saying "Clark Kent" again and again. It's a hard one for him -- he's wrestling with articulating the letter "R" generally, even in his own name but especially embedded Rs. But maybe there's more to it -- maybe he's reluctant to learn the name, the clumsy shadow side of his super-self. Clark Kent is not another part of the Story; he seems to represent the Real. The tightrope between the two seems to be what my Super Reeve is trying to walk. When he senses that others are "buying" his Super persona "too much," he quickly assures them, "I'm not really Superman. It's just a costume." Occasionally he meets with an audience unwilling to accept the reality check, insisting that he really is - or at least maybe really is - Super. Reeve seems to find this response both perplexing and great.
And then, of course, there is the real Superman, as in the man in the movie, none other than Christopher REEVE. It is not lost on our Superman that his own name flashes across the screen in the opening credits, a message from Space Itself.
At least until he strips down to his undies and cape to become... Captain Underpants! TRA-LA-LA! Or strips further to become... Captain NO Underpants!
The other day a parent with expertise in child development put it all in a box that would fit neatly in a diagnostic grid: "He is at the age for it." Implication: The Cape will fall to the bottom of the toy chest. He'll get over it. Meanwhile, recently in our backyard, Night turned to Day, Clear skies to Rain as Paramount Pictures filmed the new Spiderman. And out of the blue, a book arrived Special Delivery for my husband from his mother - The Seven Spiritual Laws of Superheroes. When he called her to ask why she sent it, she said simply, "Because you're my Super Hero."
And you, Super Reeve, will always be mine.
An even greater advantage is the peace of mind that the world is safer because Reeve is in it. The other day he reported that his pre-school friend Miri got stuck climbing the slide during recess, but he climbed right up, got her unstuck, and "saved her." She was, by all reports, totally amazed.
And then there is the helpful added benefit that food, such as honey cereal but even green vegetables, provides essential energy for super powers and therefore gets eaten not only without protest but with actual gusto.
As a superhero with a human-like appearance but super-human powers, my little Superman finds his own identity perplexing. He announces with certainty today that he is "actually an Alien who looks like a person but a good alien not a bad alien," while tomorrow it turns out he is "actually a Human but from another planet so with extra power." He grapples with the nature of his obligation to Humanity. If he's just a visitor, why does he need to save everyone? If he is one of us, what makes him so different? And if his mommy and daddy came to Earth, which he explains is impossible because they blew up on their planet Krypton, but just "IF" they could, would they be supermans too? Which leads us to a discussion of the extra density of Superman's bodily tissues on our planet, because of our specific distance from the sun as compared to Krypton's distance from its sun and the gravitational coefficient therein something something -- which leads us to the question, is it his body's strength that really makes him Super or something else in his nature? Because he could do anything he wants with all that added power. Why does he try to help people? And, importantly, "Mommy, is Superman ever scared?"
Reeve has ever been an early riser. The (early) morning ritual now has a new first step before eating/dressing/pooping/going to school: Stop at the rubber band drawer, find a rubber band, and fasten Cape. Recently my little Superman won't leave home without it. He wears it to the Farmers' Market, Music Together, the playground, school. One never knows when superpowers will be needed. Unlike his mentor, he does not attempt to conceal his superpowers; rather he quite delights when strangers declare with awe, "Look! There goes Superman!" Such recognition tends to inject a little extra fuel into his boosters -- he flies off, one arm forward, the other bent back (standard flying form), cape flapping in the wind wake he leaves behind.
He has recently grown interested in Superman's alter-ego, however, asking repeatedly, "What's Superman's name again when he's not Superman?" We practice saying "Clark Kent" again and again. It's a hard one for him -- he's wrestling with articulating the letter "R" generally, even in his own name but especially embedded Rs. But maybe there's more to it -- maybe he's reluctant to learn the name, the clumsy shadow side of his super-self. Clark Kent is not another part of the Story; he seems to represent the Real. The tightrope between the two seems to be what my Super Reeve is trying to walk. When he senses that others are "buying" his Super persona "too much," he quickly assures them, "I'm not really Superman. It's just a costume." Occasionally he meets with an audience unwilling to accept the reality check, insisting that he really is - or at least maybe really is - Super. Reeve seems to find this response both perplexing and great.
And then, of course, there is the real Superman, as in the man in the movie, none other than Christopher REEVE. It is not lost on our Superman that his own name flashes across the screen in the opening credits, a message from Space Itself.
At least until he strips down to his undies and cape to become... Captain Underpants! TRA-LA-LA! Or strips further to become... Captain NO Underpants!
The other day a parent with expertise in child development put it all in a box that would fit neatly in a diagnostic grid: "He is at the age for it." Implication: The Cape will fall to the bottom of the toy chest. He'll get over it. Meanwhile, recently in our backyard, Night turned to Day, Clear skies to Rain as Paramount Pictures filmed the new Spiderman. And out of the blue, a book arrived Special Delivery for my husband from his mother - The Seven Spiritual Laws of Superheroes. When he called her to ask why she sent it, she said simply, "Because you're my Super Hero."
And you, Super Reeve, will always be mine.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Road to Heaven
My good friend Jimmy Moore has told me countless stories over the years, but this is one of my favorites.
"I was in church one Sunday, and the preacher asked everybody, said, 'Anyone who wants to go to heaven, raise your hand.' And there was an old guy in the front row that didn't raise his. And the preacher asks him, says, 'Son, you mean you don't want to go to heaven?' And the fellow says, 'Sure, I want to go to heaven. But I thought y'all was fixing up a load to go today!'" Mr. Jimmy added, "That's how I feel about it. I'm ready to go, but it'll be OK with me if I'm left awhile."
Mr. Jimmy will be 90 this July. I had the chance to visit with him this weekend at the Veterans Administration Nursing Home in Jackson. I was apprehensive before our visits. Would he remember me? Would we be able to carry on conversation, as we used to for hours on end? Would his restricted living conditions be heart-breaking?
Yes, yes, and yes. He not only remembered me, but he'd managed - with the help of a sensitive social worker - to make a note on the bulletin board and review day & time so as to expect my visit on Thursday, May 12th at 3pm. We were able to talk for hours, first about his experiences in World War II (I had been guided by family members to engage his more distant, and hence clearest, memories) but eventually also about running, about marriage, about the blessings of God in our lives. The details of any given topic were fuzzy, as if the artist had taken his finely drawn canvas and rubbed the whole thing -- no single running race remains fixed in his mind, not even the details about his courtship, marriage, and parting with Eva are fixed -- but the colors are true and vivid, and he cries easily at the improbable grace of it all. "I've never felt better in my life, Samantha," he told me.
Sitting side-by-side on his bed, we watched the film we made together ten years ago about his life and running. (view film & website here) Reflected on the iPad's glass, I watched his 90-year old face beside his 80-year old self, the laughter at his own good humor amplified by the joy of remembering. After the moment in the film when he describes holding Eva at the moment she died, the screen goes black for a moment. In that space remained the reflection of Mr. Jimmy now, tears flowing again. I made the film for me and others I hoped would love him and be influenced by him as I have been. But at that moment I realized the film's potential to restore memories even to him. His mind is something like a library whose card catalog is beset by a mischievous monkey yanking and re-ordering the cards. Today he might not remember that we watched the film together last Saturday, but in the moment he had the lovingly worn books back in his hands.
Mr. Jimmy walks the hallways with the lightness of a dancer. His running shoes and hoodie make him appear, from behind, like a teenager out on the town looking for adventure. It is painful to watch my dear friend's mind betray his abundantly healthy body. I've been gripped by the urgent desire to "do something," but what?
My mother, who accompanied me, explained how Alzheimer's makes of our minds a film playing backward as we regress through the decades to some essential self. There can be a stage of intense anger, which I did not witness with Mr. Jimmy. What I witnessed was a man subject to spontaneous crying out of joy and gratitude to his Lord for giving him this life, a realization rooted in the trials of World War II. I saw a man who continues to check his watch with the regularity of the train dispatcher he once was. I saw a man who continues to measure his life in miles - how many traveled, how many yet to go. I saw a gentleman who couldn't place my mother, but afforded her the courtesy and warm welcome he would to any visitor to his home - even when it was a nursing home.
However blurry the colors, Mr. Jimmy knew this was our chance to exchange essential words. That we can't rely on a next visit, even if, God willing, I can get to Mississippi again while he remains with us. He knows enough to know his mind is slipping. We shared a long cry about how much we treasured this unpredicted friendship across time and space. And then it was time for us to go. Always a gentleman, he insisted on walking us to the door.
**********
When I got home to Brooklyn, Wiley had declined visibly during my three days away. The inverse of Mr. Jimmy, Wiley's eyes met me with the clarity of mental presence but the strain of great physical pain. His front right paw now shakes all the time, the one that was broken years ago. He may have been hit by a car, or a motorcycle from the reaction they draw. The bones in that arm fused into a single rigid staff that served him adequately until a few months ago when the arthritis grew unbearable. To compensate, his back hips have bourne more than their share of weight but are now buckling from the effort. To keep weight off that right front leg, he can only sleep curled to the left, which exacerbates the pressure on that left hip. Yesterday his back end went out from under him. He flailed, panicked, on our oak floors until I gathered his hind quarters for him. Last night I could only convince him down half of the stairs needed to reach the sidewalk to take his whizz; he off-roaded to the neighbors patch of garden, thrashing about under a bush until freezing, unsure how to get himself out. Jordy had to carry all 87 pounds of him back inside.
I have had the dream to take Wiley back to New Hampshire for his last days. Where he can perk up to the familiar smells on the approach to highway exit 8. Where he can roll in the grass again. Where he can live off leash, drinking the late afternoon sun into his black coat. Today I doubt he will make it that far.
At the end of the film, Mr. Jimmy takes a water break along the Appalachian Trail. He reflects to me that the running and hiking "prepares you for death, for leaving this world. Because you discover you can enjoy life right up to the end." When I left the nursing home, Mr. Jimmy gave me some simple training advice - "Just run. Run as much as you can, as often as you can. I mean, do the things you've got to do, like go to church, but then just run. And soon you'll discover you can run forever."
I would like to imagine that Mr. Jimmy and Wiley will run off together, trees and blue sky overhead, sun on their backs, minds and bodies aloft with health and vigor, forever.
"I was in church one Sunday, and the preacher asked everybody, said, 'Anyone who wants to go to heaven, raise your hand.' And there was an old guy in the front row that didn't raise his. And the preacher asks him, says, 'Son, you mean you don't want to go to heaven?' And the fellow says, 'Sure, I want to go to heaven. But I thought y'all was fixing up a load to go today!'" Mr. Jimmy added, "That's how I feel about it. I'm ready to go, but it'll be OK with me if I'm left awhile."
Mr. Jimmy will be 90 this July. I had the chance to visit with him this weekend at the Veterans Administration Nursing Home in Jackson. I was apprehensive before our visits. Would he remember me? Would we be able to carry on conversation, as we used to for hours on end? Would his restricted living conditions be heart-breaking?
Yes, yes, and yes. He not only remembered me, but he'd managed - with the help of a sensitive social worker - to make a note on the bulletin board and review day & time so as to expect my visit on Thursday, May 12th at 3pm. We were able to talk for hours, first about his experiences in World War II (I had been guided by family members to engage his more distant, and hence clearest, memories) but eventually also about running, about marriage, about the blessings of God in our lives. The details of any given topic were fuzzy, as if the artist had taken his finely drawn canvas and rubbed the whole thing -- no single running race remains fixed in his mind, not even the details about his courtship, marriage, and parting with Eva are fixed -- but the colors are true and vivid, and he cries easily at the improbable grace of it all. "I've never felt better in my life, Samantha," he told me.
Sitting side-by-side on his bed, we watched the film we made together ten years ago about his life and running. (view film & website here) Reflected on the iPad's glass, I watched his 90-year old face beside his 80-year old self, the laughter at his own good humor amplified by the joy of remembering. After the moment in the film when he describes holding Eva at the moment she died, the screen goes black for a moment. In that space remained the reflection of Mr. Jimmy now, tears flowing again. I made the film for me and others I hoped would love him and be influenced by him as I have been. But at that moment I realized the film's potential to restore memories even to him. His mind is something like a library whose card catalog is beset by a mischievous monkey yanking and re-ordering the cards. Today he might not remember that we watched the film together last Saturday, but in the moment he had the lovingly worn books back in his hands.
Mr. Jimmy walks the hallways with the lightness of a dancer. His running shoes and hoodie make him appear, from behind, like a teenager out on the town looking for adventure. It is painful to watch my dear friend's mind betray his abundantly healthy body. I've been gripped by the urgent desire to "do something," but what?
My mother, who accompanied me, explained how Alzheimer's makes of our minds a film playing backward as we regress through the decades to some essential self. There can be a stage of intense anger, which I did not witness with Mr. Jimmy. What I witnessed was a man subject to spontaneous crying out of joy and gratitude to his Lord for giving him this life, a realization rooted in the trials of World War II. I saw a man who continues to check his watch with the regularity of the train dispatcher he once was. I saw a man who continues to measure his life in miles - how many traveled, how many yet to go. I saw a gentleman who couldn't place my mother, but afforded her the courtesy and warm welcome he would to any visitor to his home - even when it was a nursing home.
However blurry the colors, Mr. Jimmy knew this was our chance to exchange essential words. That we can't rely on a next visit, even if, God willing, I can get to Mississippi again while he remains with us. He knows enough to know his mind is slipping. We shared a long cry about how much we treasured this unpredicted friendship across time and space. And then it was time for us to go. Always a gentleman, he insisted on walking us to the door.
**********
When I got home to Brooklyn, Wiley had declined visibly during my three days away. The inverse of Mr. Jimmy, Wiley's eyes met me with the clarity of mental presence but the strain of great physical pain. His front right paw now shakes all the time, the one that was broken years ago. He may have been hit by a car, or a motorcycle from the reaction they draw. The bones in that arm fused into a single rigid staff that served him adequately until a few months ago when the arthritis grew unbearable. To compensate, his back hips have bourne more than their share of weight but are now buckling from the effort. To keep weight off that right front leg, he can only sleep curled to the left, which exacerbates the pressure on that left hip. Yesterday his back end went out from under him. He flailed, panicked, on our oak floors until I gathered his hind quarters for him. Last night I could only convince him down half of the stairs needed to reach the sidewalk to take his whizz; he off-roaded to the neighbors patch of garden, thrashing about under a bush until freezing, unsure how to get himself out. Jordy had to carry all 87 pounds of him back inside.
I have had the dream to take Wiley back to New Hampshire for his last days. Where he can perk up to the familiar smells on the approach to highway exit 8. Where he can roll in the grass again. Where he can live off leash, drinking the late afternoon sun into his black coat. Today I doubt he will make it that far.
At the end of the film, Mr. Jimmy takes a water break along the Appalachian Trail. He reflects to me that the running and hiking "prepares you for death, for leaving this world. Because you discover you can enjoy life right up to the end." When I left the nursing home, Mr. Jimmy gave me some simple training advice - "Just run. Run as much as you can, as often as you can. I mean, do the things you've got to do, like go to church, but then just run. And soon you'll discover you can run forever."
I would like to imagine that Mr. Jimmy and Wiley will run off together, trees and blue sky overhead, sun on their backs, minds and bodies aloft with health and vigor, forever.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Puppy Love
My sons are in love. I didn't expect this moment to come so soon, seeing as they are 6 and almost 4. But hearts are on fire in our house, and they keep burning and burning with no end in sight. Their puppy love is no casual, capricious thing. It is absolutely serious and steadfast.
For Reeve, it began sometime last fall when we began to hear her name. Anna. When he said it loud, it was music playing; soft, it was almost like praying. We didn't know Anna; she was new to his class this year. Had he imagined her? She was never there when I picked Reeve up from school. Was she a character in a book? But soon his teachers too were advising us, "You need to make a playdate with Anna! They have such fun together." They showed me her picture. She had bright eyes, a spirited smile, reddish brown hair. The weekly class photos started to include many of Reeve with this Anna -- together on a school bus built for two on the playground, dancing side by side to Morah Debbie's guitar. At last we met her one afternoon, a sprite in a blue jacket with matching blue hat, chatting enthusiastically as she raced out the door with her babysitter - in Russian. Reeve's Anna didn't speak English! This posed no obstacle to their devotion. Reeve's father noted the universality of the language of love.
It is now February, and their relationship has grown and matured. Reeve has enjoyed two playdates with Anna, and we've had the delight of getting to know her lovely family. Anna and Reeve now speak English together. Reeve's favorite color has changed dramatically from red to green, which you might guess is Anna's favorite. Recently he made a mosaic picture frame for her photo so he can gaze at Anna at home. Over after-school hot cocoa the other day, Reeve explained to Duncan, "I worry about Anna, and Anna worries about me." At Anna's birthday party, Reeve sought grown-up intervention, "Anna needs help! Anna needs help!" when twisty-ties frustrated the birthday girl's effort to liberate a toy from its packaging. The teachers, once on their side, have now asked us to refrain from sending two green apples in Reeve's lunch box, one for Anna, in the interest of encouraging play with other kids as well. They've separated the two for quiet time so they will rest instead of gazing at each other.
Duncan is cultivating the big-kid habit of privacy about his affections, which we mistook for lack of developments. But after months of listening to Reeve talk about Anna, he admitted he had a special friend too. We had heard that various girls at his school enjoyed his company, and he's had one special girl friend since his pre-school years, a friendship that remains strong and important to him. But since Duncan started Kindergarten, we heard mostly about chess, the bus, Angry birds, parasha (Biblical) stories, his phonics workbooks, how to count by fives to one thousand, hot lunch, in other words, the kinds of typical school things parents hope to hear about. Jordy and I have often sighed in relief that his social life moved at a pace familiar to us from our own childhoods. We didn't remember all this loving and pairing up until our fourth grades at the earliest.
But it wasn't so. A few weeks ago Duncan casually let drop, "You know how Reeve has Anna? I have someone like that too." Duncan received a letter home that many will never receive in a life time. It was a manifesto of love: "Did you know I love you? And that I am in love with you? And that I love you very much?" It was decorated with rainbows and hearts. He showed it to his parents and Magdalena proudly and keeps it in his room.
Valentine's Day preparations were serious business in this house. Scissors swishing, glitter glue gooing, markers in young ladies' favorite colors marking. Reeve made two Valentines, both green of course. Duncan's was an elaborate collage that studiously avoided pink, which his beloved does not like (a preference he finds "cool"). In the interest of avoiding hurt feelings, Duncan's school does not observe Valentine's Day, presenting a delivery crisis. The Valentine would have to be delivered off hours. He begged me repeatedly to contact her mother for a playdate, going so far as to leave me a note on the counter simply stating her name. So I called her family, but the number in the school directory was mistakenly switched with another family's; in my distraction, I almost invited Ezra for a playdate to deliver a Valentine, which his parents might have been cool with, but realized just in time and hung up. No email was listed, so I had to track the mom down through Facebook. I am tracking my son's love interests down through Facebook!
They have a playdate scheduled for Friday. On the subway to school this morning I asked Duncan if he'd rather have her to our house or go to hers -- her mom was fine either way. His first answer was, "My house." Then he thought about it. "Why don't I ask her which she would prefer?" My little gentleman.
I told Tucker this morning that there will be no romantic attachments for at least two more years, except of course with his old Mama.
For Reeve, it began sometime last fall when we began to hear her name. Anna. When he said it loud, it was music playing; soft, it was almost like praying. We didn't know Anna; she was new to his class this year. Had he imagined her? She was never there when I picked Reeve up from school. Was she a character in a book? But soon his teachers too were advising us, "You need to make a playdate with Anna! They have such fun together." They showed me her picture. She had bright eyes, a spirited smile, reddish brown hair. The weekly class photos started to include many of Reeve with this Anna -- together on a school bus built for two on the playground, dancing side by side to Morah Debbie's guitar. At last we met her one afternoon, a sprite in a blue jacket with matching blue hat, chatting enthusiastically as she raced out the door with her babysitter - in Russian. Reeve's Anna didn't speak English! This posed no obstacle to their devotion. Reeve's father noted the universality of the language of love.
It is now February, and their relationship has grown and matured. Reeve has enjoyed two playdates with Anna, and we've had the delight of getting to know her lovely family. Anna and Reeve now speak English together. Reeve's favorite color has changed dramatically from red to green, which you might guess is Anna's favorite. Recently he made a mosaic picture frame for her photo so he can gaze at Anna at home. Over after-school hot cocoa the other day, Reeve explained to Duncan, "I worry about Anna, and Anna worries about me." At Anna's birthday party, Reeve sought grown-up intervention, "Anna needs help! Anna needs help!" when twisty-ties frustrated the birthday girl's effort to liberate a toy from its packaging. The teachers, once on their side, have now asked us to refrain from sending two green apples in Reeve's lunch box, one for Anna, in the interest of encouraging play with other kids as well. They've separated the two for quiet time so they will rest instead of gazing at each other.
Duncan is cultivating the big-kid habit of privacy about his affections, which we mistook for lack of developments. But after months of listening to Reeve talk about Anna, he admitted he had a special friend too. We had heard that various girls at his school enjoyed his company, and he's had one special girl friend since his pre-school years, a friendship that remains strong and important to him. But since Duncan started Kindergarten, we heard mostly about chess, the bus, Angry birds, parasha (Biblical) stories, his phonics workbooks, how to count by fives to one thousand, hot lunch, in other words, the kinds of typical school things parents hope to hear about. Jordy and I have often sighed in relief that his social life moved at a pace familiar to us from our own childhoods. We didn't remember all this loving and pairing up until our fourth grades at the earliest.
But it wasn't so. A few weeks ago Duncan casually let drop, "You know how Reeve has Anna? I have someone like that too." Duncan received a letter home that many will never receive in a life time. It was a manifesto of love: "Did you know I love you? And that I am in love with you? And that I love you very much?" It was decorated with rainbows and hearts. He showed it to his parents and Magdalena proudly and keeps it in his room.
Valentine's Day preparations were serious business in this house. Scissors swishing, glitter glue gooing, markers in young ladies' favorite colors marking. Reeve made two Valentines, both green of course. Duncan's was an elaborate collage that studiously avoided pink, which his beloved does not like (a preference he finds "cool"). In the interest of avoiding hurt feelings, Duncan's school does not observe Valentine's Day, presenting a delivery crisis. The Valentine would have to be delivered off hours. He begged me repeatedly to contact her mother for a playdate, going so far as to leave me a note on the counter simply stating her name. So I called her family, but the number in the school directory was mistakenly switched with another family's; in my distraction, I almost invited Ezra for a playdate to deliver a Valentine, which his parents might have been cool with, but realized just in time and hung up. No email was listed, so I had to track the mom down through Facebook. I am tracking my son's love interests down through Facebook!
They have a playdate scheduled for Friday. On the subway to school this morning I asked Duncan if he'd rather have her to our house or go to hers -- her mom was fine either way. His first answer was, "My house." Then he thought about it. "Why don't I ask her which she would prefer?" My little gentleman.
I told Tucker this morning that there will be no romantic attachments for at least two more years, except of course with his old Mama.
Friday, February 11, 2011
The Penguin Mom Gets in Touch with Her Inner Tiger
On January 8, 2011 my life as a mother changed forever. For this, I have to admire Amy Chua. On that day Chua, aka "The Tiger Mom," published her incendiary article "Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior" in the Wall Street Journal. Within hours four independent (i.e. not Facebook friends to each other, i.e. evidence of widespread viral penetration) friends sent it to me. The WSJ site received thousands of comments. The blogosphere went nuts. Chua, rumor has it, received death threats.
The Tiger Mom shocked me too, but in a good way. I would describe our encounter as a reality check. If I were an animal mom, I'd be the Penguin Mom. My husband and I are small-ish people, more likely to waddle up and try to be your friend than to claw your back to get your kill. We work hard to share parenting: Jordy sits on the eggs while I trek to the ocean to feed; then I return to vomit up krill for the chicks while he waddles off to replenish his own wasted reserves. We are social (some might say compulsively so), enjoying the comradery and security of huddling with other penguins against the cold. We especially love it when one of the other penguins leads us in a song -- we are likely to dance along with great enthusiasm.
The Tiger Mom appeared on the edge of my snowy landscape like an animal that had escaped her cage, pacing the zoo with growling frustration to stir the rest of us to revolt. You live in a cage! She snarled. That snowy landscape? An artist's rendering to trick you into accepting limited horizons! Your so-called "hunt"? A zookeeper tossing you a fish! Don't accept the flattery of school children at the window as substitute for the pride of achieving your full animal potential!
Many found the Tiger Mom offensive, stereotypical, abusive, self-impressed, dismissive. I get those reactions. But I think she's worth listening to too. She believes many American kids are suffering from a needless lack of accomplishment, not just for status but for authentic self-confidence. As a former high school teacher, I appreciate this message; at the extreme, I had tenth graders who could barely read. I hear her message that Americans (yes, too broad a category but nonetheless) undervalue repetition, i.e. practice, as a route to mastery. We fear anything "rote" as a killer of creativity. Malcolm Gladwell would back her up that hours in = mastery out, and he uses the Beatles as an example. Practice hardly killed their creativity! I accept this criticism of myself and my parenting. I've always been lousy about daily practice of anything, and I fear I'm already passing my lassitude on to my children.
Over time the Tiger Mom has inhabited the parenting lobe of my brain. She gives me advice. I question her assumptions. She questions mine. We debate. Am I a good mom? Do I help my children achieve their fullest potential? Do I offer them a clear enough set of values to guide them in a confusing, contradictory, and often frivolous world? There are two things I've particularly grown to like about her point of view. First, she has confidence in her role as a parent. This speaks to a cultural neurosis in our generation. In my observation, many "American" parents tell themselves they should neither demand performance from their kids nor take credit for it. Why? To uphold our ideal of individualism? So as not to crush their spirits? Or as insurance against the existential risk of linking our fates with others? Chua makes no bones about it: She both expects and takes credit. Kind of refreshing. Does her investment diminish the kids' pride in their own accomplishment? I don't know. Second, I like that Chua doesn't complain about the hard work required of her to parent well -- a stark contrast to countless conversations I've had with women who are finding mothering "unfulfilling," "a burden," and who want their "lives back." Isn't this the flipside of the first coin? How can you find satisfaction in the hardest job you'll ever do when you don't allow yourself to take pride in it? And, moreover, your culture (and economy) doesn't take pride in you for doing it?
In her memoir, Chua recounts forbidding her kids from taking drums because kids who play drums inevitably "do drugs." I laughed at loud: Our 6-year old had just had his first drumming lesson. When he starts smoking pot at age 12, the blame will be mine. (Then again, drugs may be pre-requisite to success in the field of drumming. Exhibit A: Ringo Starr. So we're right on track!) But after a month of lessons without a single practice session, this Penguin Mom found her inner Tiger.
Yesterday when I picked Duncan up at the bus, he asked what we were doing after school. I dropped casually, "First we'll practice drums for 10 minutes, then-"
"Why? Why do I have to? I already had my lesson yesterday! I only want to play with Dan! No fair! ..." Despite the 21-degree air, he collapsed on the sidewalk in a huff, immovable. I walked on, my confidence boosted by the tiger. When we got home we ate a snack, then, hoping I'd forgotten, Duncan proposed playing with the baby.
"After we practice the drums," I reminded, in a neutral voice. Repeat meltdown. I let it subside, then I calmly threatened to take away Angry Birds for all time. With that we went to the basement to practice.
In fact, he loved showing his younger brothers and me what he had learned. It only got dicey again when we practiced a more challenging clapping pattern. He wanted to stop at one repetition, after which it fell apart. I demanded he keep going until I said stop. He tried, more mistakes. He stomped off. I told him mistakes were fine; the effort is what mattered. Tears, frustration. I told him to try again. He refused. I pushed it, "You think the drummer of the band quits when he misses a beat? The band depends on him. You have to keep going till the end of the song."
Anger. "Now you're hurting my feelings!" he yelled at me.
To which, thank you Tiger Mom, I was prepared with a quiet but powerful response. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. But do you know what should actually hurt your feelings? If I said, 'Ok, you're right, this is too hard for you, you can't do it.' That should hurt your feelings. But I don't believe that. I believe you can do it. I believe if you try again and again, you will get it." He groaned, then tried again, and did it.
I could never go to the lengths Chua went with her kids, but I was glad for the prompt to go further than I had before. Duncan was proud of getting past his fear. I was proud of getting past mine. Amy Chua and I will always differ in our definitions of success for our children, and her methods will never be mine. I am a penguin after all, and I am happy hanging out on the iceberg with my chicks, not always practicing our diving or roosting skills. And I think the world is big enough for all kinds of Moms and kids, and that we shouldn't let the proximity that modern life gives different cultures -- our contemporary zoo -- make us feel we have to prove one way "superior" and all do that. Then we'd all just be lemmings. But this penguin owes the tiger sincere thanks for helping us reach our fuller penguin potential.
The Tiger Mom shocked me too, but in a good way. I would describe our encounter as a reality check. If I were an animal mom, I'd be the Penguin Mom. My husband and I are small-ish people, more likely to waddle up and try to be your friend than to claw your back to get your kill. We work hard to share parenting: Jordy sits on the eggs while I trek to the ocean to feed; then I return to vomit up krill for the chicks while he waddles off to replenish his own wasted reserves. We are social (some might say compulsively so), enjoying the comradery and security of huddling with other penguins against the cold. We especially love it when one of the other penguins leads us in a song -- we are likely to dance along with great enthusiasm.
The Tiger Mom appeared on the edge of my snowy landscape like an animal that had escaped her cage, pacing the zoo with growling frustration to stir the rest of us to revolt. You live in a cage! She snarled. That snowy landscape? An artist's rendering to trick you into accepting limited horizons! Your so-called "hunt"? A zookeeper tossing you a fish! Don't accept the flattery of school children at the window as substitute for the pride of achieving your full animal potential!
Many found the Tiger Mom offensive, stereotypical, abusive, self-impressed, dismissive. I get those reactions. But I think she's worth listening to too. She believes many American kids are suffering from a needless lack of accomplishment, not just for status but for authentic self-confidence. As a former high school teacher, I appreciate this message; at the extreme, I had tenth graders who could barely read. I hear her message that Americans (yes, too broad a category but nonetheless) undervalue repetition, i.e. practice, as a route to mastery. We fear anything "rote" as a killer of creativity. Malcolm Gladwell would back her up that hours in = mastery out, and he uses the Beatles as an example. Practice hardly killed their creativity! I accept this criticism of myself and my parenting. I've always been lousy about daily practice of anything, and I fear I'm already passing my lassitude on to my children.
Over time the Tiger Mom has inhabited the parenting lobe of my brain. She gives me advice. I question her assumptions. She questions mine. We debate. Am I a good mom? Do I help my children achieve their fullest potential? Do I offer them a clear enough set of values to guide them in a confusing, contradictory, and often frivolous world? There are two things I've particularly grown to like about her point of view. First, she has confidence in her role as a parent. This speaks to a cultural neurosis in our generation. In my observation, many "American" parents tell themselves they should neither demand performance from their kids nor take credit for it. Why? To uphold our ideal of individualism? So as not to crush their spirits? Or as insurance against the existential risk of linking our fates with others? Chua makes no bones about it: She both expects and takes credit. Kind of refreshing. Does her investment diminish the kids' pride in their own accomplishment? I don't know. Second, I like that Chua doesn't complain about the hard work required of her to parent well -- a stark contrast to countless conversations I've had with women who are finding mothering "unfulfilling," "a burden," and who want their "lives back." Isn't this the flipside of the first coin? How can you find satisfaction in the hardest job you'll ever do when you don't allow yourself to take pride in it? And, moreover, your culture (and economy) doesn't take pride in you for doing it?
In her memoir, Chua recounts forbidding her kids from taking drums because kids who play drums inevitably "do drugs." I laughed at loud: Our 6-year old had just had his first drumming lesson. When he starts smoking pot at age 12, the blame will be mine. (Then again, drugs may be pre-requisite to success in the field of drumming. Exhibit A: Ringo Starr. So we're right on track!) But after a month of lessons without a single practice session, this Penguin Mom found her inner Tiger.
Yesterday when I picked Duncan up at the bus, he asked what we were doing after school. I dropped casually, "First we'll practice drums for 10 minutes, then-"
"Why? Why do I have to? I already had my lesson yesterday! I only want to play with Dan! No fair! ..." Despite the 21-degree air, he collapsed on the sidewalk in a huff, immovable. I walked on, my confidence boosted by the tiger. When we got home we ate a snack, then, hoping I'd forgotten, Duncan proposed playing with the baby.
"After we practice the drums," I reminded, in a neutral voice. Repeat meltdown. I let it subside, then I calmly threatened to take away Angry Birds for all time. With that we went to the basement to practice.
In fact, he loved showing his younger brothers and me what he had learned. It only got dicey again when we practiced a more challenging clapping pattern. He wanted to stop at one repetition, after which it fell apart. I demanded he keep going until I said stop. He tried, more mistakes. He stomped off. I told him mistakes were fine; the effort is what mattered. Tears, frustration. I told him to try again. He refused. I pushed it, "You think the drummer of the band quits when he misses a beat? The band depends on him. You have to keep going till the end of the song."
Anger. "Now you're hurting my feelings!" he yelled at me.
To which, thank you Tiger Mom, I was prepared with a quiet but powerful response. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to hurt your feelings. But do you know what should actually hurt your feelings? If I said, 'Ok, you're right, this is too hard for you, you can't do it.' That should hurt your feelings. But I don't believe that. I believe you can do it. I believe if you try again and again, you will get it." He groaned, then tried again, and did it.
I could never go to the lengths Chua went with her kids, but I was glad for the prompt to go further than I had before. Duncan was proud of getting past his fear. I was proud of getting past mine. Amy Chua and I will always differ in our definitions of success for our children, and her methods will never be mine. I am a penguin after all, and I am happy hanging out on the iceberg with my chicks, not always practicing our diving or roosting skills. And I think the world is big enough for all kinds of Moms and kids, and that we shouldn't let the proximity that modern life gives different cultures -- our contemporary zoo -- make us feel we have to prove one way "superior" and all do that. Then we'd all just be lemmings. But this penguin owes the tiger sincere thanks for helping us reach our fuller penguin potential.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Hope Springs
On the one hand, it's hard to make conversation about anything but this winter's brutality. On the other hand, we here in New York are leaping at any sign of spring. A few illustrations...
On Sunday I ran around Prospect Park near sundown. I passed four riders on horseback, despite the still substantial snow cover. Reveling in the balmy 39-degree breezes, many joggers ran in shorts. Crossing the inner loop required deft timing as bikers, no longer fearing Death by Black Ice, clogged their lanes. I was surprised to find many kids still eager to sled, despite the punishing layer of ice that last week's rain lay over the choppy remains of the snow. The playgrounds teemed with tots again, even though access to the swings required traversing snow and slush waist-high to a two-year old.
Yesterday Reeve rode his scooter to meet Duncan at the bus. This would seem a small triumph unless you'd been living, as we have now for weeks, in 1-foot wide foot paths of ice where 4- and 8-foot wide concrete sidewalks used to be. On our return home, Duncan scaled the grimy peak of a glacial bank where he flexed his arms, announcing his super strength as a result of the "metal parts" in his body that draw power from the Cold. At home, I was finally able to break up the 6-inch deep ice jam on our back steps and clear a path to the backyard for poor old Wiley and his hips. And I did so without wearing a coat!
Make no mistake. It's gross out there. Trash pick-up has gotten the shaft as sanitation workers have been diverted to snow plowing. Public bins overflowed for weeks onto snow banks that are now melting, leaving a pervasive gray soggy detritus all over the city. (Yummy, Wiley says.) And we are still more than two months from seeing a leaf on a tree. But the hopefulness of New Yorkers itself lifts my spirit, however delusional we may be.
On Sunday I ran around Prospect Park near sundown. I passed four riders on horseback, despite the still substantial snow cover. Reveling in the balmy 39-degree breezes, many joggers ran in shorts. Crossing the inner loop required deft timing as bikers, no longer fearing Death by Black Ice, clogged their lanes. I was surprised to find many kids still eager to sled, despite the punishing layer of ice that last week's rain lay over the choppy remains of the snow. The playgrounds teemed with tots again, even though access to the swings required traversing snow and slush waist-high to a two-year old.
Yesterday Reeve rode his scooter to meet Duncan at the bus. This would seem a small triumph unless you'd been living, as we have now for weeks, in 1-foot wide foot paths of ice where 4- and 8-foot wide concrete sidewalks used to be. On our return home, Duncan scaled the grimy peak of a glacial bank where he flexed his arms, announcing his super strength as a result of the "metal parts" in his body that draw power from the Cold. At home, I was finally able to break up the 6-inch deep ice jam on our back steps and clear a path to the backyard for poor old Wiley and his hips. And I did so without wearing a coat!
Make no mistake. It's gross out there. Trash pick-up has gotten the shaft as sanitation workers have been diverted to snow plowing. Public bins overflowed for weeks onto snow banks that are now melting, leaving a pervasive gray soggy detritus all over the city. (Yummy, Wiley says.) And we are still more than two months from seeing a leaf on a tree. But the hopefulness of New Yorkers itself lifts my spirit, however delusional we may be.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
It's only February 1st
The sky is so low you can reach up and touch its icy shards. Crusty snow banks have made a maze where neighbors exchange miserable grumbles. My boys' bodies have broken out in angry rashes, and the dog's arthritis, aggravated by the cold, makes him hobble on three paws. It is hard to detect the lengthening of the days under this persistent darkness.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Aquatic Channel
If you visit our house, you'll enter the front door to a familiar blue glow in the corner of the living room. You'll do a double take, realizing that the source is no longer the TV, but rather a fish tank inhabited by a mermaid, a Grecian urn, a pirate's treasure chest, and 8 tropical fish. The Aquatic Channel, 24/7.
Granted, I was raised to hold a skeptical view of television. Taped to my mother's TV was the quote: "Television is called a medium because it is neither rare nor well-done." Summer days swimming in my grandparents' lake were punctuated by the daily argument between my father and sister, who left the dock at 3pm sharp to watch "General Hospital." These things made an impression.
But I also loved television. I loved Sesame Street, Zoom, Wonder Woman, The Incredible Hulk, Charlie's Angels, The Brady Bunch, Eight Is Enough, 3-2-1 Contact. In middle school, I watched for hours "with" my best friend Anna (on the phone). I later worked for PBS where I promoted television as an instructional tool in the classroom; then I went to film school. I am not reflexively anti-TV. As a parent, I try to teach my kids how to moderate their viewing rather than pretending TV doesn't exist. I hope they will become discerning viewers, choosing quality over quantity, yadayada...
So it turns out that we have Scooby Doo to blame, first for the decision to cancel cable, then to remove the TV all together. It started innocently enough. Our oldest son discovered Scooby around the age of 4, and from that point on, he had no interest in Sesame Street, Max & Ruby, or any other sweet little developmentally appropriate program with a smidge of instructional value. His younger brother, age 2 at the time, hadn't a clue which witch was which, but he loved the dog and the bright colors and the groovy tunes. I was worried it might be scary, but Duncan assured me, "Mom, the whole point of Scooby Doo is that the ghosts are never real, so we don't need to be scared of them!" I figured if he could grasp that essential Scooby truth already, then an episode a day wouldn't hurt them, and it allowed me to get dinner made earlier, which made bedtime earlier, which was all good-
Until we all became addicts. The two boys had their favorite episodes and so -- a curse upon On-Demand TV -- a daily battle ensued ("taking turns" was beyond the rational capacity of the two-year old). I had come to depend on it to keep them engaged so I could return a phone call, make dinner, sit down for a moment... When my On-Demanding offspring got too wild, I had a powerful lever: no TV today, but of course that was a punishment to me as much as them (picture little heroin addicts in withdrawal). Their loving grandparents, eager to please, bought several feature-length Scooby DVDs to watch at their house. Now, rather than jumping out of the car to play in the beautiful outdoors of New Hampshire, our kids would race to Nana & Poppa's TV for "Scooby Doo and the Legend of the Vampire."
We hit rock bottom mid-summer when Duncan spent an entire night awake, seeing Scooby ghosts in every shadow. This despite his insight two years earlier. That was it.
The recovery came in steps. First, we stayed in NH without TV for several weeks, fishing, going to the library, building a treehouse with Grampy, etc. Then, upon our return to Brooklyn, we cut the cable. Without On-Demand, there was nothing to demand. TV became a family event reserved for a Saturday night movie and a few DVD episodes on Sunday morning. No TV at all during the school week. And then, the final step, Jordy hauled the TV to the basement and we bought the Fish Tank.
It turns out that the Aquatic Channel provides a great variety of viewing pleasures. The first was a procedural drama, call it "CSI-Fish Tank." We started with just 4 fish; after a few days, one of the little Neon Tetras went missing. No body floating belly-up. No body stuck in the filter, attempting escape like Nemo. We spent days searching, reviewing evidence, developing theories. We drew the grisly conclusion that he was cannibalized. The Aquatic Channel took a turn toward the soap operatic as the black Molly, who schooled intimately with the orange Molly, developed a life-threatening fungus around its eye. We had hoped for babies, but alas, the Molly lovers were ripped apart by nature and fate (and perhaps lame fish-tank maintenance). We found the black one belly up inside the Grecian urn. (It is now stiff in a sandwich bag in the freezer, awaiting spring for burial in the back yard.) After the water quality stabilized, we bought 6 more fish including a very aggressive and large Angel fish. At this point, the Aquatic Channel took a turn toward Reality, a la "Survivor." We watched for days, expecting to find the meeker fish pecked to death by the Angel fish. To our surprise, all eight have now survived two full weeks.
But the real dramatic development is happening outside the tank. What the fish see on the Human Channel is two boys and a baby coming home from school. They kick off their boots and dig into the toy chest for puzzles, or markers, or Play-Dough, or new books from the library. They entertain themselves for the hour, sometimes two, their mom needs to feed the Baby and Dog, return phone calls, and make dinner. Not a very exciting channel, but an evolutionary improvement upon our past.
Now, about Angry Birds...
Granted, I was raised to hold a skeptical view of television. Taped to my mother's TV was the quote: "Television is called a medium because it is neither rare nor well-done." Summer days swimming in my grandparents' lake were punctuated by the daily argument between my father and sister, who left the dock at 3pm sharp to watch "General Hospital." These things made an impression.
But I also loved television. I loved Sesame Street, Zoom, Wonder Woman, The Incredible Hulk, Charlie's Angels, The Brady Bunch, Eight Is Enough, 3-2-1 Contact. In middle school, I watched for hours "with" my best friend Anna (on the phone). I later worked for PBS where I promoted television as an instructional tool in the classroom; then I went to film school. I am not reflexively anti-TV. As a parent, I try to teach my kids how to moderate their viewing rather than pretending TV doesn't exist. I hope they will become discerning viewers, choosing quality over quantity, yadayada...
So it turns out that we have Scooby Doo to blame, first for the decision to cancel cable, then to remove the TV all together. It started innocently enough. Our oldest son discovered Scooby around the age of 4, and from that point on, he had no interest in Sesame Street, Max & Ruby, or any other sweet little developmentally appropriate program with a smidge of instructional value. His younger brother, age 2 at the time, hadn't a clue which witch was which, but he loved the dog and the bright colors and the groovy tunes. I was worried it might be scary, but Duncan assured me, "Mom, the whole point of Scooby Doo is that the ghosts are never real, so we don't need to be scared of them!" I figured if he could grasp that essential Scooby truth already, then an episode a day wouldn't hurt them, and it allowed me to get dinner made earlier, which made bedtime earlier, which was all good-
Until we all became addicts. The two boys had their favorite episodes and so -- a curse upon On-Demand TV -- a daily battle ensued ("taking turns" was beyond the rational capacity of the two-year old). I had come to depend on it to keep them engaged so I could return a phone call, make dinner, sit down for a moment... When my On-Demanding offspring got too wild, I had a powerful lever: no TV today, but of course that was a punishment to me as much as them (picture little heroin addicts in withdrawal). Their loving grandparents, eager to please, bought several feature-length Scooby DVDs to watch at their house. Now, rather than jumping out of the car to play in the beautiful outdoors of New Hampshire, our kids would race to Nana & Poppa's TV for "Scooby Doo and the Legend of the Vampire."
We hit rock bottom mid-summer when Duncan spent an entire night awake, seeing Scooby ghosts in every shadow. This despite his insight two years earlier. That was it.
The recovery came in steps. First, we stayed in NH without TV for several weeks, fishing, going to the library, building a treehouse with Grampy, etc. Then, upon our return to Brooklyn, we cut the cable. Without On-Demand, there was nothing to demand. TV became a family event reserved for a Saturday night movie and a few DVD episodes on Sunday morning. No TV at all during the school week. And then, the final step, Jordy hauled the TV to the basement and we bought the Fish Tank.
It turns out that the Aquatic Channel provides a great variety of viewing pleasures. The first was a procedural drama, call it "CSI-Fish Tank." We started with just 4 fish; after a few days, one of the little Neon Tetras went missing. No body floating belly-up. No body stuck in the filter, attempting escape like Nemo. We spent days searching, reviewing evidence, developing theories. We drew the grisly conclusion that he was cannibalized. The Aquatic Channel took a turn toward the soap operatic as the black Molly, who schooled intimately with the orange Molly, developed a life-threatening fungus around its eye. We had hoped for babies, but alas, the Molly lovers were ripped apart by nature and fate (and perhaps lame fish-tank maintenance). We found the black one belly up inside the Grecian urn. (It is now stiff in a sandwich bag in the freezer, awaiting spring for burial in the back yard.) After the water quality stabilized, we bought 6 more fish including a very aggressive and large Angel fish. At this point, the Aquatic Channel took a turn toward Reality, a la "Survivor." We watched for days, expecting to find the meeker fish pecked to death by the Angel fish. To our surprise, all eight have now survived two full weeks.
But the real dramatic development is happening outside the tank. What the fish see on the Human Channel is two boys and a baby coming home from school. They kick off their boots and dig into the toy chest for puzzles, or markers, or Play-Dough, or new books from the library. They entertain themselves for the hour, sometimes two, their mom needs to feed the Baby and Dog, return phone calls, and make dinner. Not a very exciting channel, but an evolutionary improvement upon our past.
Now, about Angry Birds...
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Packing Up the Rickety Ladder
The puppies and I were running through the woods above the Top of the World yesterday when a thought unrelated to anything arose that it...
