Deep Thoughts: Olympics Edition

July 31, 2012

OK, so I know that the last thing you all need is one more person writing about the Olympics.  To boot, I have zero qualifications when it comes to organized sports.  So my opinion means nothing.

However, if I may — I do have a few quick initial observations to share about the Games of the XXX Olympiad.  Because one can’t rely on Bob Costas alone.

 

1)  The Russians’ Secret Weapon

Who can I sue in the Russian Federation for the seizures I’m experiencing as a result of looking at their uniform jackets?

My eyes, they burn.

Remember those pictures from the 1990s when you’d stare long enough and you’d see another image?  Like this?

I learned they are called autostereograms.   And that’s what these jackets remind me of.  Now, it might be a brilliant competitive distraction strategy, but it’s killing me in high definition on my couch at home.

 

2)  Diversifying Bela Karolyi’s Skill Set

I’ve decided that I’d like to hire Bela Karolyi as my General Contractor.  More for my personal entertainment value than for his qualifications.  I’m reasonably convinced he can make things happen.

 

3)  The Shawshank Effect

How about the Visa commercials with the Morgan Freeman voice over?  Is it just me, or do they make you feel all Shawshank Redemption?  The only thing I want Morgan Freeman to talk about — ever — is meeting his friend Andy on a Mexican beach after making parole.  Perhaps they can incorporate that into the ad:  “Parole — it’s everywhere you want to be.  Go world.”  Or something like that — let me come back to you with some more developed pitches soon.

 

4)  The Independent Olympic Athletes = My Deficiency in Current Events

Did you see the five delegates for the Independent Olympic Athletes (let’s call them the IOA)?  Or, like many of us, had you already lost the will to live by that point of the opening ceremony?  I’m fascinated by this whole concept.  Basically if your country has dissolved (Netherlands Antilles) or a new one has been formed (South Sudan), you’re going all IOA.  And, apparently, you’re going to party your ass off at the opening ceremonies.  Godspeed, I say.

But the bigger issue, for me personally, is not having known that an entire country dissolved.  I missed that one.  And yet somehow I’m fully up to speed on the finer points of Suri Cruise’s custody arrangement.  I have to revisit my reading lists.

 

5)  Olympic Village Hook Ups

How many STDs do you think emerge from two weeks in the Olympic Village?  I mean — athletes in top physical shape, looking to relieve some stress, partying in glorified dorms away from home for two weeks.  Just saying.

* * *

The Olympic fun has just begun, my friends.  I haven’t even started watching Shooting, Table Tennis or Badminton yet.  If my retinas can hold off the long-term effects of those Russian jackets, there will be more to come.  Stay tuned.

 

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The Days Are Long

July 30, 2012

 

 

“The days are long but the years are short.”

I don’t know the origin of this quote, but I hear it a lot since having kids.  And I find myself thinking about it more and more — especially this summer, for some reason.

I think about the chores that summer brings.

Wake up and get the three of us ready to get in the car for camp.  In that 90 minute span, I break up repeated battles over toys.  I hear arguments over which snack will be packed for camp.  I negotiate breakfast choices.  I chase them down with sunscreen.  I might manage, if I’m lucky, to make myself look presentable to the general public.  And I herd, beg and plead them to move just a little faster so we’re not late.  Again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.  Just like almost every mom in almost every house.

I also think about the getaways that summer brings.

I get everyone packed.  Five million items, it seems, just for a long weekend.  I field questions, complaints and multiple song requests in the car for hours at a time.  I arbitrate back seat fights while driving up front.  I curse any and all highway construction that halts our progress.

Here’s the thing.  I know — I know — amidst all of this summer activity, I’m looking at it all wrong.  I’m thinking about the long days instead of the short years.

Do I want my kids to remember me rushing them to camp in a frenzy?  Or do I want them to remember the fun they had there — the favorite craft they made, the friends in their class, the names of their counselors, the excitement of Pajama Day? Or, even better, the time we spent together recapping all of these things when they came home?

Do I want my kids to remember the frantic mood I was in trying to pack up the car for a road trip?  Or do I want them to remember the time at  our beach destination — the dolphins we saw, the ball we threw, the way we wrote our names in the sand with sticks?

 

 

The days are long.  The fights.  The requests.  The tantrums.  The errands.  The laundry.  Sometimes it’s like Groundhog Day.

But the years are short.  Pieces of who my kids were one year ago are already gone, and I can’t get those pieces back.

Last summer, my daughter couldn’t say lawn mower.  She said “shamon.”  I have no idea why, but we loved it.  A la vintage Michael Jackson.

Last summer, my son continued on his Thomas the Train bender.  Every train memorized by name, lined up in its place and played with daily.

Now, my daughter announces the arrival of the lawn mower as the grass is cut without a hint of “shamon.”  And the Thomas engines? Well, they are sitting in a bin, getting dusty, as ninjas and dragons take their place.

It’s already almost August.  The summer clothes are moving to the sale racks in the stores, and the back-to-school marketing blitz is underway.  We have done a lot this summer, with a few more adventures in store, but I can almost feel the beginning of summer’s end whispering over my shoulder.  And that gives me pause.

The chores.   The misadventures.  The sibling argument arbitration.  They are so very draining at times.

The days are long.  Long indeed.

But they are all parts of a greater whole.  What will my kids remember about the summer when they were five and three?  Maybe nothing — perhaps they are too young.  Maybe a fleeting snapshot in their mind.  Or the photos I’ll keep.  Or maybe, if I’m lucky, they’ll remember this summer as the one when they loved their backyard pirate pool.  Or the summer they learned to play Marco Polo in the water.  Or the summer they pretended to have dolphin races on their bicycles in the driveway.

 

 

After Labor Day, we’ll introduce kindergarten into our lives for my son.  And my daughter will go to pre-school.  For just over two hours every day, they’ll both be out of the house.  Both of them.

The years are short.

And I can only hope that the chores, the arguments and the repetitive tasks of June, July and August will have amounted to a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts.  That it becomes a page in the summer memories of their childhood. The page in their mental archives before they could swim on their own and before they went camping or chased fireflies — but when they simply knew that the summer was hot, and the pool was fabulous, and camp meant Italian Ices every Thursday.

 

And if they don’t remember, I will.

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Say It With Tape

July 18, 2012

You know how your kids’ teachers and/or camp counselors send home notes to remind you about things?

And then, you know how you never really saw the note?  Because you, uh, threw it out.  Or plain forgot to read it.  Or both.

So then you didn’t know about Pajama Day. Not the one where you wear pajamas to the camp drop-off.  The other one.  And then you suck because your kid is the only one not wearing last night’s pajamas to school/camp.

Or you didn’t know to send in 37 paper towel cardboard rolls to assist with this week’s craft.  The ones that you should have been collecting for seven months in anticipation of this very moment. Naturally.

Well, fear not.  These slips no longer happen to us! Because our summer camp has taken parental notification to a whole new level.

They tape all reminders directly onto the children.

 

Here, you see the different iterations of today’s reminders on my children to bring in $2 for Italian Ice Day tomorrow.

I’ve been thinking about this system.  And, if I’m being honest, I’m torn.

On the one hand, I’m pissed because it calls my bluff.  Now, I can never say “Oh I didn’t see that reminder.” Because it would be akin to “Uh, yeah, I didn’t look at my kid all afternoon.” 

Then, I feel a little insulted.  Like I can’t be trusted to heed repeated reminders in the camp newsletter about the two damn dollars every Thursday for Italian Ice Day.  But, OK, maybe I forgot that once.

Yet, I also have moments of gratitude.  As in, “Finally, this camp — to which I feel like I’m paying a mortgage — is doing something to make my life easier.”  That is, until the clothes inevitably go through the washing machine and dryer with masking tape on them.

However, the more I think about it, there are some real opportunities to apply the Tape Notification System to my daily life.  By using this messaging vehicle, I can channel my true Inner Nag without yelling and repeating myself.

Here are some options I am considering.  {I’ve taken the liberty of adding captions since I know that my handwriting can veer toward the serial killer end of the spectrum at times.  And notice that I’m using blue painting tape.  Because it really adds a certain je ne sais quoi.}

 

For My Kids:  The smallest resident of Fordeville has agreed to model the Tape Reminders, after being plied with extra Teddy Grahams.  Although you can see she is not entirely sold on this gig.

YES — You must wash your hands.

 

Pick it up. Whatever it is — just pick it up.

 

I’m leaving. GET. IN. THE. CAR.

 

OK, so they can’t read yet — there is that caveat.  But I’m thinking long-term strategy here.

 

For My Husband:  You know who can read?  The man I married.  And while I did not subject him to the humiliation of modeling this system in person, I swiped one of his favorite shirts to act as his stunt double.

Garbage Day. Repeat: Garbage Day. Take. Out. The Trash.

Please pick up milk. Not donuts. MILK.

 

I need a bigger piece of tape for this one, but I’m also working on: “Did you walk the dog before you left for work?  Because if he craps in the house, I will kill you.”

 

For the Dog:  Speaking of Señor, we can’t leave him out.  Like my children, he is also not an adept reader, per se.  And I didn’t put the tape directly on him due to our previous legal battles.  But he deserves to be a part of the system too.

NO BACON. Just no.

 

 

For the Mom in the String Bikini at Parent/Child Swim Lessons:  Just because.  {Note:  I do not own similar apparel for the purposes of replicating her bathing suit.  And I couldn’t find any adhesive dental floss, so excuse the inauthentic staging.}

FYI: We all hate you.

 

I’m working on my swim class rage issue.  But in the meantime, this might be a good way to vent.

Also under consideration:  Special Edition Tape Notifications for my General Contractor.

 

All in all, I think it’s a good system.  Less yelling.  More communication.  Written evidence of said communication.  I mean, you can call this whole thing over the top, but my kids will never miss another Pajama Day, damn it.

Everybody wins.  Except, maybe the dads in the parent/child swim class hoping to get more views of String Bikini Mom.

 

 

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Cover the Zeroes

July 14, 2012

My two sisters and I are all very different.  However, we have three key things in common:

1)  Political leanings

2)  A love of Motown

3) A real affection for roulette

Actually, it’s four things if you count our collective and pronounced disdain for Keanu Reeves.

But today I’d like to focus on #3.  Because on Sunday, they are taking me to Atlantic City.  It’s my 40th birthday present — how excellent is that?

{And yes, this is officially the last mention I will make of celebrating this birthday, two months after the fact.  Unless you’re my husband, in which case, there are still ten more months in The Year of 40 to celebrate.}

We love us some roulette, my sisters and me.

How did this happen, you ask?

Hmmm.  It’s hard to pinpoint.

Oh wait, it’s coming back to me now.

Something in my childhood home.

Perhaps a piece of furniture.

Could it have been:  This?

Yes, yes, it’s true.  We grew up with a roulette table in our living room.

Is our father a bookie?  No.  Just Italian.

See, my grandmother used to take a lot of trips back to Italy.  And she usually brought home some very cool things from the homeland.  Like jewelry.  Or dishes.  Or wine.  Or a nice leather bag.

Or, this one time, an Italian gaming table with four matching chairs.

They make them in Sorrento.  On the outside they simply look like your typical Italian, gaudy furniture sets.

But, no, they hide a treasure trove of gambling fun.  You remove one leaf at a time to find ornately handcrafted backgammon, black jack and poker boards.

Then.  You open up the bottom layer to find the roulette situation.

God, I love the Italians.

Look, it’s not like we sat around playing roulette as kids on Saturday mornings.  My parents used the table for parties every now and then, and we actually weren’t allowed to touch it.  But, on the eve of my spring break trip to the Bahamas in my senior year of college, my mom had three of my friends and me stay overnight at our house.  And she busted out the roulette table.  You know, to show us the ropes before we lost the shirts off our backs.  {We were all 21, if any of you are feeling litigious.}

And, there, in that Bahamian casino, my love of roulette was complete.

I guess it’s genetic among us sisters.  We love the game.  Not in a lose-your-house-kind-of-way.  We’re not high rollers, by any stretch.  In fact, we’re pretty happy to sit at any $5 table we can find and stretch out $100 for hours on end.

We like to talk strategy.  I’m not saying we’re academic about it, but there are major decisions to be made.  Like playing the inside versus the outside.  Doubling down on a winning number or vacating it.

We like to talk numbers.  I mean, everyone has their numbers.  No, I won’t tell you mine, but I hope you know to always cover the zeroes.

We like to sit back and watch the tables for a bit before committing to the one we like.

We like to decry what my uncle has dubbed The System.  For years, he had our extended family believing he had cracked the code on roulette.  It worked for a while, in small doses.  But my sisters and I, after years of experimenting with it in different iterations, have officially declared The System to be bullshit.  Or just dumb luck.

Speaking of dumb luck:  Yes, I realize that roulette has the statistically worst odds in the house.  I know that counting on a ball spinning in a wheel is absurd.

But I do love it.

So.  Wish us luck.  And if you have a favorite number, let me know.

 

 

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Found: The Funny

July 11, 2012

Wednesdays can suck in a lot of ways, right?

I guess that whole “Oh-look-it’s-already-the-middle-of-the-week” thing can be uplifting.  At least I’ve heard.  Or, if you’re like me, you might think of Wednesday more like “Holy shit, I still have to make it 2.5 more days to get to the weekend.”

But, I have good news.  Turns out there are two nice upsides to Wednesdays:

1)  The summer drink special at the bar up the street from my house

2)  Finding the Funny

Finding the Funny

If you’re not familiar with #2, it’s a great weekly link-up of — you guessed it — funny posts, hosted by Kelley’s Break Room and My Life and Kids.  I usually try to link up something I’ve written, hoping it’s funny enough.  And even if it’s not, it’s always fun to read the other submissions.

This week, I had Finding the Funny homework.  I’ve been tasked with telling you which are my favorite five out of this week’s 52 posts.  Not a bad gig, right?

So, here we go.

1)  Ah, This is Push It — Ninja Mom.  She lives inside my mind, Ninja Mom.  And apparently inside my shoes as well.  It’s all about how subtly you can physically “prompt” your kids out the door, now, isn’t it?

2)  Make 4th of July Fun or Die Trying — Hollow Tree Ventures.  Why, yes, this national holiday is a real hoot while trying to navigate pyrotechnics with your children.  I felt her pain.

3)  9 Things I Learned at the Water Park of America — People I Want to Punch in the Throat.  Seriously, this singlehandedly validated every. single. fear. I have of water parks.  Sorry, kids, I have now pushed back our water park timeline from “maybe we’ll go next year” to “probably never.”

4)  No, It is Not Hot Enough for Me — Good Day, Regular People (The Empress).  Look, she invokes both Chuck Norris and Bananarama.  Need I say more?

5)  Firecracker, Firecracker, Sis-Boom, Blah Blah Blah — Actual Times May Vary.  More July 4th fun with the kids.  Bonus points for mosquito-feasting graphics and insanity-inducing repeat bathroom trips.

At the risk of sounding like a late-night ginsu knives informercial — Wait, there’s more!

Honorable Mention:

Aw, nuts.  Or, how puppies and testicles are related. — The Bearded Iris.  So, really, if you weren’t already considering using your pet’s genitalia as an opportunity for a life lesson, this should sway you.

Lessons Learned by Seeing Magic Mike — Let Me Start By Saying.  Hang onto those matinee listings, folks.  Read this first before you buy your popcorn.

Hello Mudder, Hello Fadder.  Here I am at Camp Granada.  — Bad Parenting Moments.  Oh yes, the magical pull of summer camp.  I packed those lunches, sunscreen and medical forms a little faster after reading this.

* * *

So if your Wednesday is sucking the life out of you, stop by these blogs and have a read.  Although they won’t bring your weekend any closer, they will give you something fun to do while you plan Friday’s happy hour in your mind.

{T minus 58 hours.}

 

 

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The Backyard Summer Olympics

July 10, 2012

Do not bother me from July 27 through August 12.  I’ll be in London.

Well, I’ll be in front of my TV.  In New Jersey.  But on London time.

I totally get Olympic Fever.  It’s true.  And really, it’s sort of odd, considering I’ve never played an organized sport in my life (though I feel very strongly on some days that I could easily qualify for a competitive eating event).

As the Games of the XXX Olympiad draw near, it’s clear that Olympic Fever is contagious here in Fordeville.  Particularly with my kids.

They are on a mission to medal in some of the lesser-known summer sports.  Not Shooting. Or Handball.  Or Badminton.

No, no.  Even lesser-known.

Here I give you the Fordeville Summer Olympic Backyard Line-Up:

Rhythmic Whining:  This entails high pitched moans of the following:  “I’m booored.”  “When can we gooo to the poooool?” and “Nooooo sunnnnscreeeeean.”  Not strictly a verbal sport, critical extra points are awarded for flexibility during the mandatory Limbless Tantrum component.

Speed Snack Requesting:  Wherein a perfect triangle is formed on foot, every 6 to 12 minutes — all summer long — by small children, between the fridge, the kitchen table and the garbage can.  This is their path of snack consumption.  It takes not only physical, but mental duration to outlast one’s competitors and repeat this exercise all goddamned day.  Every day.

Full Family Combat:  Not to be confused with Judo, this family room crowd pleaser means smuggling a favorite toy away from one’s sibling, running full speed out of the room with it until someone gets his/her ass kicked by the opposite team/sibling.  Or until someone falls and hits a wall first — also called Sudden Death.

Pool to the Bathroom Sprints:  With no protective or traction-bearing footwear, root for your favorite team member to make it from the town pool to the disgusting bathroom before a public health hazard occurs in his/her swimsuit.  Bonus points for not falling onto one’s little ass on the slippery and highly unsanitary floor.

Sunscreen Application Rodeo:  Not unlike the efforts of a greased pig, watch the backyard Olympians successfully out-squirm their mother, time and time again, as she tries in vain to apply SPF 5,000,000 to avoid a trip to the ER.  This multi-day competition entails changes in venue like the park, the pool, the zoo and climbing the swing set.

 

I mean, I love a good Team USA Gymnastics moment.  But I can’t count on it.   I have to make sure my own Olympians are being groomed to their fullest potential here.

So far, they serious medal contenders.  And it’s only early July.

 

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Three

July 8, 2012

Three years ago today I had this meeting for the first time.

Like every child does, my daughter stole my heart the moment I saw her.

Today was all about her.  Turning three.  Or maybe twelve.  It’s hard to tell sometimes.

 

You may know that I get a little nuts with my Birthday Cake Baking Guilt affliction.  But I let it go this time — mostly because my daughter didn’t have a strong opinion about it.  And, like most aspects of parenting — if I can get a loophole clause, you bet I’m going to use it.

So I outsourced the cake.  Which considerably slowed down my aging process.  Order, pay, pick up.  Wow.  That’s 40 hours of my life I got back.

But look who is calling my bluff.

At three, she is ready to take on the world.  She has a distinct sense of adventure.  Of joy.  She is her brother’s biggest fan and also his greatest agitator.  And, she has enviable comedic timing.  She’s not just in on the joke, but she’s in charge of it.

She is well on her way to taking over this household.  And then, possibly, the universe.

Happy birthday to my sweet, sweet girl.  I’m so excited to see what this year brings you.

Right after you recover from today’s sugar overdose.

 

 

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De Madrid al Cielo

July 5, 2012

 

 

I think I might be ready to accept the fact that my vacation is over.

It has become increasingly obvious over the last few days that the laundry and grocery shopping are not going to get done on their own.  So I suppose it’s time to put my Spanish holiday in the “this happened a million years ago” files and return to real life.

But.  Let me just say, it was a heavenly trip.

In fact, there is a popular phrase in Spain that sums it up:  De Madrid al cielo {“From Madrid to the heavens”}.

Meaning, once you see Madrid, heaven is the next best thing.  And I get that.

As I suspected, Madrid did not disappoint.  Yes, of course some things have changed in the 19 years since I lived there, but so much is just as I remembered it.

I was gone for a week.  It felt like a month and it felt like a day all at once, if that makes sense.

If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just dump a bunch of photos on you.

* * *

The trip was sort of divided into phases, which worked out really well.

Phase One:  The Good Old Days.

I flew over with my close friend Rebecca, who had studied there with me back in 1993.  We had 48 hours there together, and we walked every inch of the city — taking it all in and remembering old times.

We also met up with our Spanish friends, whom we hadn’t seen in 19 years.  These guys were so good to us when we lived there — they showed us their city and taught us how to act like Spaniards.  And they basically partied with us every night of the semester.  They were dear friends.  Rebecca and I knew what a special time that was for us, but I don’t think we ever understood how fondly they remembered it as well.

So imagine, all these years later, to be able to see them again, and to meet their wives and sons.  To hear about all they have been doing.  To see that they are still the kind, generous souls who want to make us feel at home in their city.  Their hospitality was beyond measure, and it was amazing to feel as though we could pick right back up again.

And strangely, I found my Spanish coming right back to me in conversation.  On day one, I was hesitant and intimidated.  By day three, nearly fluent.  Which I totally did not expect.  Could I pick up every word?  No.  But I had an 80/20 rule that worked out pretty well, as long as I didn’t miss a key point in that 20% gap.

 

Phase Two:  24 Hours in Zurich.

While the impetus for the trip was to celebrate Rebecca and me turning 40 (though she still has a precious few weeks holding onto 39), the timing also worked out spectacularly that our dear friend Alicia — also part of the original study abroad group — just had her first baby.  In Zurich.  So, what’s a little side trip?  We were already across the ocean, right?

I’d been to Zurich once before to see Alicia.  It’s a fascinating place.  Not only is it textbook-gorgeous, but, as Rebecca said, it’s like visiting the future.  Everything is super-clean and super-efficient.

The irony of this is not lost on me.

It’s always great to have the three of us together, though it happens so infrequently.  Nothing is off limits in our chats.  You know those friends?  The ones you can have TMI girl talk with at turbo-catch-up-speed?  It was that.  A little unfortunate for Alicia’s boyfriend, whom we may have traumatized.  But he was a total trooper.  We had a fabulous and much-needed 24 hours together.

 

Phase Three:  The Newbies Arrive.

Rebecca had to fly back to the US from Zurich, and I headed back down to Madrid just as my husband and our friends from Boston arrived for the second half of my trip.  Of the three of them, none had been to Madrid before.  So it was in my hands to show them the city and make sure they loved it as much as I do.

It’s fun to be a tourist.  To walk and wander and discover something fabulous at every corner.

 

To join silly bus tours.

 

Oh, and to stop every hour or so for food and drink.  Because it was flaming hot.  About 104 degrees.  Basically, it was the Sunscreen Olympics I’d been training for my entire life.

So I ate and drank my weight in the following:  Spanish ham.  Churros con chocolate.  Cafe con leche.  Wine.  Cheese.  Times one thousand.

And we had some culinary adventures too.  Like eels.  And sea urchin.  And blood sausage.  Delicious, every one of them.

Truly, the Spanish lifestyle is one I could embrace in earnest.  They know how to live.

{Side note:  Why has nobody made a fortune off of a proper churros franchise in the US yet?  How the hell has this not happened?}

Anyway.  My husband loved Madrid.  So did our friends.  I couldn’t have asked for anything more.  Except, maybe, to have the Euro Cup Spanish victory occur one week earlier, when we were still there.  Instead, we watched at home with Spain’s newest fans.

 

* * *

So now I’m back and, somehow, my kids seem to have grown six inches each and appear a year older.  It’s funny how a week will do that.

I feel somehow like I never left home, while I wash dishes and pack lunches for camp.  And at the same time,  I feel myself still clinging on to the photos in my mind of my week-long adventure.  It’s odd how a place can feel so close to you and so far away.  How real life automatically hums and buzzes back into gear while your memory holds onto what was a temporary alternate reality.  Sometimes you need those photos just to prove to yourself that it actually happened.  That you were really there not that long ago.

It’s a strange feeling, the re-entry to real life.

But, above all, I feel lucky.

Lucky to have gone.  Lucky for how well it worked out.  And truly lucky that Spain has stayed in my soul after all these years.

 

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