Minding my Ps and Qs

Otherwise known as adventures in Parenting Quinn.  Read it (and comment!  Follow!) over at my WordPress spot here. 

Beach Bonfire - UPDATED with photos!

When I was polling the boys, prior to our annual Cape Cod trip, about what they might be interested in doing Griffin requested a bonfire on the beach.  Yep, the same boy who took surfing lessons and wanted to visit L.A.  He's a dude in the making, fer sure.  

The process for legally having a fire at one of a select few of Wellfleet's beaches (3 ocean beach options) is fairly straight forward: you must have a permit and permits are issued on a first come, first served basis, day of only. By the time I hit the beach office at 10:00 in the morning, two of the three beaches were "full" already, leaving White Crest, a beach I don't recall visiting in the past, as our default option.  Because a full moon was expected, I happily took my free permit and mentally made a to-do list...

The little guys were in charge of gathering kindling wood and they did a super job making a pile of sticks and twigs.  Actually, they made two piles, one of which was firewood.  The other stack of branches was their arsenal of stick weapons.  Mostly rifles, I believe.  Both stacks were tossed into the car, and ultimately on to the fire, a situation which required profuse apologies and promises of weapon gathering come daylight.  Additional items acquired included graham crackers (we already had Hershey bars and marshmallows), more significant wood to burn (we had to choose from "hardwood" or "softwood." Have at it, jokesters!) and a lighter.  With all materials in hand, we headed to the beach just in time to see the moon seemingly rise from the majestic Atlantic.  Stunning.

You may have noticed I neglected to mention paper to assist in starting the fire.  

We neglected to think of, much less, bring paper.  No worries.  We cleaned our cars out of expired insurance id cards, printed out directions and other miscellaneous bits of paper from our glove boxes.  And the graham cracker box was pretty handy, too.  I have to say, we built a stupendous fire.  It was perfectly constructed in that pyramid/tepee shape and it burned beautifully. 

 

There was a breeze blowing from the south (east?) and the flames danced in the darkness as the moon played hide and seek with some errant clouds.  Marshmallows were toasted and our wild things frolicked on the beach, amped on sugar and salt air. Memories were made which will remain vivid far beyond the glow of our fire's embers. 

Great idea, Griffin.

Are you my mother? And who's my daddy?

image: http://blog.schoollibraryjournal.com

It's been a weird weekend...I kind of hit the wall on a number of levels, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, hit the wall  with numerous body parts.  Truth be told, I probably used my head the most.  I had so many options available to me; concerts, and old friends, and art and strawberries, yet I kind of shrugged it all off.  Unlike many decisions in life, I didn't get that immediate tingling sensation that confirms many of my choices.  I'm thinking maybe I'm a bit numb.  Summer vacation can't come soon enough.

Despite feeling less than great (I'm about to pop my 3rd Aleve in 2 days!) I've maintained my commitment to running 20 miles this week and it has been a struggle.  The music hasn't been quite right, and even if it were perfect, my right glute is screaming louder than any song playing.  Not tremendously fun or satisfying.

On my run Friday, I passed two elder(ly?) women walking.  They were on the opposite side of the street and I was wearing contacts, which don't do all they should to improve my vision.  I was taken aback by one of the women - she looked like my mother.  I think.  The last time I spoke to my mother in person was when she attempted a "scar-off" to prove that her heart surgery was way worse than my cancer surgery could have ever been.  Ok, you win and what have we proven?  That you have a heart and I can cut malignant things from my life and prosper? Fine.

Well, it is a little disconcerting to not be certain whether a person is, or is not, your parent. You'd think this would be a familiar sensation for me, growing up as I did wondering if every single man with a brogue was my father, but it was still weird.  I had a familiar train of thought ride through my head.  What will it be like when she's gone?  Will I stop seeing her everywhere the way I stopped imagining every Irishman to be my father once I knew he was gone?

I'm getting ready to be a stay at home mom for 10 weeks and I plan to slow down, enjoy my boys and try really hard to make sure that they always know who their parents are, two people who love them dearly.

Life's a bitch beach

image: beachfinder.org

Feeling my little guy's body shudder with sleep as he cuddles next to me, I consider something  said to me recently - that I make things look easy.  The manner in which I navigate through life somehow gave the impression that I don't struggle, that I don't sometimes feel the waves threaten to swamp me.  

When I think about my life, I try to remain cognizant of moderation and balance.  With my mind's eye, I see myself juggling.  Constantly.  There are three balls I continually find myself tossing and catching.  The first contains my boys, beloved friends and family.  I need to place them front and center because I love them and want them to be happy.  The second ball is the me ball.  It's about exercising and writing and reading and whatever else I might do to stay healthy and challenged.  The third ball is all about responsibilities; work and home and finances.  These are the things which, while lowest in my personal priorities list, intimidate me the most.  Probably because I don't have control over them. 

I was raised to be responsible.  Whether it was waking up and getting myself ready for school at the ripe old age of 6 or paying my rent from age 20 on, I knew if it was going to happen I had to take care of it myself.  Decades later, I have more responsibilities than ever - 3 boys who seem to look exclusively to me when they need sneakers or other clothing for their quickly growing bodies, a nearly 100 year-old house with an accompanying mortgage. And insurance. And utilities.  A professional career that garners little respect despite an advanced degree and 15 years of experience in the field...

There are days that completely, totally suck.   When I realize I have missed a due date or deadline I can feel my spine tighten and my forehead bead with perspiration.  Obviously, I don't enjoy these sensations and I try to avoid them, but, you know what?  I'm not perfect and, as I frequently explain to my children, I'm doing my best.

Sometimes we forget or romanticize what the beach is really like. It certainly can be scenic and pleasingly comfortable, but we may neglect to remember that it is also kind of messy. You know, everything ends up sticky from sunscreen and sand and sea salt, demanding a thorough rinse off. The drawbacks of the beach might be nearly completely negated by an outdoor shower, preferably starlit, but it would be naive to consider the beach, or one's life, as perfect. Nonetheless, grab your suit and don't forget to bring a towel.

Very nice, funny and huggable

image: www.prlog.org

At least that's how my youngest described me in this year's utterly precious Mother's Day card.  Yep, it's a keeper.  This was my 16th Mother's Day and it contained both poignant and annoying moments. Kind of like motherhood,  in general,  I guess.

Quinn gave me a marigold, Griffin gave me a song and dance about the present I was going to receive at some undetermined point in the future, Liam gave me hope that he will one day shave that caterpillar of fuzz from above his top lip and they all gave me a hard time about walking the slightly over a mile distance to the Capital City Gastropub, our chosen brunch spot.  Just another day in paradise, right?

The death march walk on a beautiful late spring day was filled with conversations and complaints, probably in nearly equal measure.  I don't really remember Mother's Day 2011, my first as a separated parent, but I believe that this year was my first public Mother's Day as an unattached mom.  And it was a little weird.

The boys and I sat on the Gastropub's sunny front patio seated next to another unaccompanied by a partner Mom and thoroughly enjoyed our bountiful brunch.  I felt proud of my children for their appetites and their manners, Quinn's requests for a beer, aside.   When it was time to walk home, the older boys went ahead of Quinn and me, moving at a different pace than a 7 year-old with comparatively short legs and a 45 year-old with a belly full of smoked salmon and eggs.  As we approached Albany Academy, I suggested that Quinn hand his glasses over to me and take a tumble down the grassy hill, an idea that he enthusiastically embraced.  After his third spin, he staggered to his feet and remarked that he would have missed the opportunity to have that fun experience had we driven rather than walked.  

Very nice, funny, huggable and, dare I say, sometimes able to teach my boys that taking a walk and roll or two down a hill is a much more enjoyable way to travel through life than merely being a passenger. Hugs for everyone.

Motherhood - adapted and adopted

When my oldest son was born via an unanticipated c-section, I felt incredibly removed from the process.  I suspect it was more because of the drugs I was given than his method of arrival.  I believe I've mentioned I don't really care for pharmaceuticals before. Afterwards, I remember confessing to a friend that I could have been given any baby and would have loved it equally as much as I did that less-than-6-pounds-wonder that was handed to me by the trusting nurse in the operating room.  The process was completely unexpected but I adapted to the circumstances.  I became a mom. 

By the time I was expecting my second child, the friend I had confided in was anticipating the arrival of her daughter, via adoption.  After years of interventions and attempts at conceiving a biological child, my friend and her husband had navigated the foreign adoption process.  They brought their infant home a couple of months before I delivered, naturally, my full term, full sized baby boy number two.  Our babies were introduced in my newborn's first week of life on the outside.  My friend told me she had been comforted by my admission years earlier, that those words had helped convince her that having the capacity to love a child had very little to do with having the ability to birth one.  She became a mom. 

Adapting to becoming a mom or adopting to become a mom, are equally enormous leaps in a woman's life, certainly too huge to be honored in a single day. To all you women out there who have ever made the decision to love a child - I wish you a Happy Mother's Day.  

Mama's boys to men

Two of my three sons are now taller than me. I rarely look at them without shaking my head in amazement. When did that happen? I've officially been a parent for a third of my life. How is that possible? My boys are turning into young men in front of my very eyes and the evolution is remarkable.

There have been some recent instances which have caused my heart to swell with pride and satisfaction, occasions that have certainly bolstered my positive response to those who inquire about how the boys are doing. In the past couple of weeks, the boys have demonstrated to me that beyond merely being fine, they are, in fact, growing up nicely. My 15 year-old opened my eyes to this fact by pointing out that I don't let him help me. It was a simple statement but I've heard his words repeating in my ears since he spoke them. And I'm trying.

We watched a wonderful movie the other night, Midnight in Paris. I know, welcome to spring 2011, right? Anyway - I'm glad we delayed viewing this movie until the ideal time because we both were utterly charmed. It was a lovely, lovely film. During one of the scenes, as the camera panned around the magnificence that is Paris, Liam asked me if I wanted to go there. I assumed he was angling to add a day or two to our hoped for trip next year - the visit to Germany that he has requested for "his" next special trip. I've been to Paris before, but only long enough to determine that it was the most beautiful city I'd ever visited.  I acknowledged to him that I would love to go to Paris again and he said I should go next year.  When I pointed out that he was in the rotation for next year's trip, he asked me a stunning question: 'Mom, when is it your turn?"

Well...isn't that an interesting perspective. 

On timing, springtime and past times

How appropriate was it that my divorce should become official as the religious celebration of rebirth approached? There are times in life when timing is perfect, and this is a fine example of that phenomena. New life, miracles wrought by faith and love, light where there had been darkness...This is very much a season filled with hope and optimism for many, including me.

I've been guilty, more than once, of saying that holidays aren't very important to me. I find it just as potentially meaningful to have a meal with those who I love any evening of the year - a red letter day isn't necessary to make a shared dinner special. I can appreciate however, the power of a holiday to make an experience a lasting memory. The boys will be with their dad this year and the promise of Easter baskets at Dad's will motivate them to move a little faster than usual on this Sunday morning. Last year Griffin and I flew east Easter Sunday after spending an idyllic Passover in Palm Springs - not too shabby for the goyim, right? We spent the afternoon in Connecticut with family, the same relatives I hope the boys will be enjoying the day with today.

My childhood Easters are a mishmash of memories - hunting Easter eggs after an ill-timed late snow, organized annual activities at the home of a gracious Greenwood Lake resident who opened their property to the community's children for festivities, pretty dresses, baskets filled with plastic grass and shrink wrapped chocolate bunnies. Dinner was always ham - from a can, naturally. Pineapple rings, maraschino cherries and brown sugar elevated that piece of meat into something that never fails to make me smile. Good memories.

Spring break was the school vacation that found my brother and I daring one another to jump in the lake for our spring "baptism." We leaped into the barely thawed water shrieking with laughter and life. Alive. Afternoons were spent collecting sacks of polliwog eggs, fascinated by the thought that from this cold jello-y substance frogs would come. Miraculous.

I hope you and yours, today and everyday, know the miracle that is life. Enjoy.

15 years of parenthood

Fifteen years ago today, on the warmest February 27th on record in Albany, I became a parent.  While I've spent the last decade and a half teaching my son about life, the world and his family, I would be remiss in not acknowledging all the things he has taught me.  

1.  His birth, from the earliness of his arrival (5+weeks premature) to the method of delivery
(c-section) taught me that despite a combination of meticulous planning and the miracle of
conception, being a parent is often about yielding control.
2.  My post delivery drugged condition left me with very little interest in holding my new baby
boy.  His dad demonstrated the beauty of paternal love and attention as he cradled his son
in his arms.  Beautiful.
3.  Life changes with parenthood, but balance remains important.  People who have nothing to
talk about other than their children are tedious.
4.  Exposing children to travel and culture from an early age is as valuable as any formal
education they will ever receive.
5.  There is no pain that my children have suffered that I wouldn't gladly absorb as my own.  
Since this isn't possible, my job is to help them develop tools for dealing with negative
situations and experiences.
6.  Providing my boys with a healthy mixture of reality and possibility is an inspiring part of
being a parent.
7.  Time moves quickly.  Really quickly.  I lost my breath recently considering that in 3 or 4
short years Liam will be in college.  Wow.
8.  Children come with their own preferences.  Accepting these preferences is an excellent
exercise.
9.  My ridiculous rate of speed and multitasking is not a realistic thing to expect from my
children.  I've been told a number of times that I need to stop giving multiple directions
simultaneously.  I'm working on it.   
10.  Having my first baby at 30 was pretty ideal.  I can't imagine having started my family any
sooner than that.
11.  Traveling with children is like taking two trips - yours and theirs.  Twice as cool,
frequently twice as exhausting.
12.  Seeing how other people perceive your child is fascinating.  
13.  From their first steps, children are preparing to walk away from their parents.  It's ok!!  
They'll have so much to share when the come back home again.
14.  I always imagined myself as a "girl" mom.  I was wrong.
15.  Fifteen years have gone faster than I ever could have imagined.  There is nothing like
parenthood to teach the value of time.

Doing new math

image from: www.valdosta.edu

I was working on homework with my youngest son the other night.  He's in first grade and we were doing math.  I encountered a problem that absolutely boggled me for at least 90 seconds. No, really.  It was a simple addition question, but the method my son is being taught is very different from the way I originally learned addition.  Students are being taught to make "tens" when they have problems in which the solution is more than ten.  Like this question: 8+5 would be figured out by adding 8+2 (=10) + 3(5-2) = 13. Now, I believe I've mentally being doing math this way for years, but it caused me to wonder are children being served by taking this eventually intuitive method of math away from them before they can fully grasp it?  And, like I asked when I was in geometry class, how do, we use this stuff when we grow up anyway?

Well, grown-up math is a bit different than algebra and geometry. (I can't speak of trigonometry or any other higher orders of math.  I never got there.) My favorite math class was algebra, probably  because it was word math.  Replacing variables in a sentence or problem, with definite numbers, and solving for a specific answer often expressed with words, flexed my brain and satisfied me.  As an adult, many of the word problems I encounter involve taking chances in life - accepting risk in the hopes of achieving an satisfying solution.   Counting on people to do what they promise and intend.  Weighing risks and odds and making the decision to try and solve for X. Will A + B - C = Happy?  Who knows?  Will it all add up?  

In life, (as in math) there are positives and negatives, and just because I've always been more a word girl than a numbers girl, please don't ever assume I'm not capable of doing the math.  I may not yet know the ultimate solution but I'm more than willing to show all my work.

We All Fall Down

image from: hachettebookgroup.com

I have a dark fascination with addiction. I don't understand it, but I know that it is real and accept that it is a part of our society. It's everywhere. Of course, for every drug addict there is an ever widening circle of the people impacted by the drug addict and their actions. I think it would be very difficult to find a person who has not been touched in some way by addiction. Despite my years in the restaurant business, I have had minimal exposure to hard drugs or the people who use them. Most of my knowledge comes from reading memoirs and the experiences I learn about when there is a drug related death in a friend's life. Unfortunately on this particular day in January, I've spent time reeling from both of those occurrences in a single day.

A couple of years ago I read two nonfiction works written individually by a father and son, David and Nic Sheff. The father's book, Beautiful Boy, shares the heartbreaking story of losing a beloved child to a life of drugs, prostitution and criminal activity. And that Beautiful Boy, of course, is Nic. His tale, Tweak, told matter-of-factly, with false bravado and a persistent tone of disbelief, taught me about a world where drugs repeatedly ruined, and sometimes ended, lives. Nic has a new book out, We All Fall Down, which I just read in record (for me these days) time. The repeated trips to rehab, the 12 Steps that never were taken, and the disappointment that constantly waged war with the hope for a happy ending, made this book a real page turner. Knowing that Nic had relapsed after the original success he experienced with Tweak was disheartening, but this was one of those books that can cause a reader to hold their breath. Powerful.

Which brings me to the other part of my day. Perfectly lovely parents are not guaranteed that their children will escape the allure of hard drugs. I've been to some wakes and funerals over the years and too often they have been for people younger than myself. To witness a parent bury a child is to witness one of the deepest sorrows imaginable, and as a parent, I think it is impossible to attend these funeral services without projecting how one survives such a tragedy. I don't want to ever know.

Addiction is an illness frequently accompanied by undiagnosed mental illness. Depression is common, as is a history of abuse, and self esteem issues. Closing the book on Nic Sheff's struggles only to learn about a friend's loss of their beloved child to addiction and depression, is nothing short of shockingly sobering. On Friday morning when I share books with students as part of their class' requested "booktalks," the Sheffs' books will be included. While I've never subscribed to Nancy Reagan's Just Say No policy, I will do my best to make sure that children Know the reality and perils of drug experimentation and addiction. And then, Friday night I will attend the wake of a friend's child and do my part to offer consolation from the ultimate loss. We all fall down. I suppose that being surrounded by family and friends willing to support us, through our struggles and sorrows, is what allows us to keep picking ourselves up.

Tradition!

Considering Liam's love for Fiddler on the Roof, it should come as no surprise that he pulled out the "t" word last week when we were having a discussion about when to get our Christmas tree.  Since we like to cut our own, and are believers that a tree should settle a bit prior to decorating, I offered (after consultation with the boys' dad), two options: Saturday afternoon with the four of us or Sunday with 5 Lillys in a 'vo*.  He opted for the second choice stating that we should all go together because it was a "tradition."  I agreed without hesitation, but did spend a little time later thinking about traditions and their importance.

When I recall my own childhood Christmas memories, I think about things like that wacky silver tree we had for a few years in the early 70's, and the special linens and dishes which only got pulled out once a year.  I remember the hushed mystery of midnight mass and eggnog sprinkled with nutmeg and packages wrapped with more care than I can ever muster.   Even after so many years, the images in my head remain vivid (perhaps that metallic tree burned itself into my corneas) and the season's festiveness holds a special magic I am happy to immerse myself in during the month of December.

The power of memories and traditions as an influence on our own actions and celebrations can't be minimized.  As a child I loved the tradition of Christmas cards - the special stamps and glittery excitement of what each day's mail might bring.  I myself have continued the practice of sending Christmas cards despite my annual threat to seriously cut back, if not eliminate the practice due to the emotional expense of getting the perfect photo and creating the perfect card and honing and continuing to perfect my list of recipients.  But it isn't really about perfection, at all, is it?  

When my son used the "t" word, it made me proud to know that, despite the upcoming dissolution of our marriage, his dad and I have been able to navigate our way to a place where our boys still believe in and respect family traditions. So, last weekend the 5 of us drove together to the tree farm we've been going to for years (our original place slid into the Normanskill some time ago) and we picked two trees for the first time. I picked a different type of tree than we've ever had - it is smallish and has beautiful long, soft needles that didn't shred my hands when I placed the lights on it in my slightly OCD fashion. The boys' Dad got a ridiculously huge tree which I would have most certainly done my best to veto in years gone by. I'm sure we both believe we have Christmas trees that are perfect but, more importantly, I know we have provided our children with imperfect holiday traditions they will continue to honor long after the trees have shed their needles and hit the curb.  

*a fond abbreviation for Volvo

Happy Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was always my favorite holiday.  I loved the smells that wafted through the house gently waking me with the promise of turkey, to be followed by pie.  No two Thanksgivings were precisely the same, the faces around the table varied, but there was a familiar quality to the day - watching the parade while playing a board game, helping with dinner preparations by staying out of the way until it was time to set the table. There was always laughter and a sense of sharing that transcended a mere meal consumed simultaneously.

I feel sorry for Kristi Gustafson Barlette.  Despite being one of the few people  "who actually likes her family," she doesn't seem to get Thanksgiving.  It isn't about the food being bland or the time of day it is being served.  Or even what we're wearing.   The significance of taking a day, (or a half day these days due to the commercialization of our national day of giving thanks), to pause and consider all of the gifts we receive, got lost somewhere on the way to her emotional in-box.

I don't mean to completely rag on KGB, but she does seem to court criticism and controversy in an apparent bid for attention and blog traffic. There were plenty of comments made on her post about this topic and many were in complete support of her younger, much taller Scrooge impersonation.  As I ran a flat, suburban 5k this morning, I counted far more blessings than miles.  I decided that what I really loved about Thanksgiving was that it reminded me of a second Sunday - a fat newspaper to leisurely read, more coffee, maybe something with bubbles scandalously early, cooking, football or music, people we love nearby...

I just finished having a late breakfast with my boys.  This is the second year I've planned a Thanksgiving that did not include spending the entire day with the boys, or the extended family to which they will always belong.  The fact that we ate bagels instead of  a predictable  mix of white and dark meat had no bearing on the value of our time spent together.

After a meal shared with my children,  a meal when Liam sang, with tears welled up in his eyes,  a beautiful version of a hymn he learned attending church with his grandmother, Griffin shared stories of himself - a 7th grader straddling the intersection of boy and young man, and Quinn shared his bagel and his last piece of pear, Thanksgiving remains my favorite holiday of the year.

Black Forest Bastards

Decisions, decisions...

No, I'm not talking about my brother and myself - I'm referring to the cakes I made recently.  Last weekend I spent some time with a group of very old friends celebrating my brother's birthday on the fantastic date of 11/11/11. The birthday boy has a large, comfortable home and a liquor cabinet which speaks of his fondness for bourbon and dark rums. He also has a hot tub, which came in handy both after the hilly runs I took with our friend James, and in the evening after one of our delicious group effort meals.

My one (semi)homemade contribution to the weekend's menu was my brother's birthday cake. When we were children, our mother would accept requests for special dinners and cakes on our birthdays and my brother always seemed to choose Black Forest Cherry Cake aka Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte. Although I must have seen her bake this cake a dozen times over the years, I had no interest in duplicating her steps precisely, a statement which can be used to summarize our entire relationship, incidentally. But, I digress...

Over at Vinoteca, I pretty much gave the directions to replicate this Meder family recipe.  The most important things are the Kirschwasser and the cherries.  And being with people you love.  

Buttermilk Fried Chicken

I may not look like I've got soul, but believe me, I am an appreciative fan of both the music and the cuisine. I particularly love the side dishes - okra and greens and beans, all cooked in a fryer or with a generous hunk of pork fat, naturally. Of course, eating this kind of heart challenging diet isn't something I often do, but, my boys are young and healthy and I believe in indulging children in cleanly made treats on occasion. Things like home baked cookies, Meadowbrook Farms eggnog and bacon from my favorite butcher shop, Falvo's.

Making this boy favorite meal is so easy that the most effective way to maintain its status as "special" is to make it with great infrequency. 2 or 3 times a year - tops. I cluster the occasions so I can reuse the oil and I try to coincide the festivities with an event that gets me out of the house for a day after the extended frying frenzy. I have convinced myself that the smell of fried foods nauseates me.

I initially made fried chicken when I found myself with leftover buttermilk after some baking adventure. Maybe scones? When I googled to get some ideas as to how to use the remainder of the .5 quart of buttermilk, my results leaned heavily to fried chicken. What follows is not a recipe, just what I do. Adapt to your own tastes, or like me, be a slave to your children's palates and go simple. Place chicken pieces (I like bone-in thighs) in a bowl and cover with buttermilk. Allow to soak in fridge for 12 hours to two days. Remove chicken from milk and drain on a baking rack over a baking sheet for 10 minutes or so. Heat up vegetable oil in a deep pot. Put some flour, salt, pepper and a couple of sprinkles of corn meal to add some crunch, together on a plate. White pepper and some paprika would be nice here, but the boys are still in a muted stage flavor-wise. It's ok, they're a bit of a longterm project.

Dredge the drained chicken in the flour mixture, taking your time to make sure the chicken is evenly and thoroughly coated. Test temperature of oil. I usually drip a drop or two of water in. You don't want spatter, just sizzle. Scientific, right? I cook the chicken, a few pieces at a time. Don't crowd the chicken! TUrn the chicken after about 10 minutes and cook for an additional 10 or 15 minutes. Since I'm cooking in batches, I usually place the chicken, on a baking sheet layered with a brown paper bag topped by paper towels, in a 200 degree oven to keep warm. Once that chicken comes out of the oven, beautifully brown, crunchy and glistening lips inducing, believe me, keeping it warm isn't an issue.

Hurricane Prep ~ Lilly Boy Style

Is there a better way to prepare for a major tropical storm than practicing getting tossed around by water and wind?  I don't think so!  Screw that filling up the tub with water nonsense and buying more toilet paper than a typical family of four uses in a month of eating tacos.  Not here - we prepared for the elements.  We built up our tolerance for being splashed in the face and getting our feet and bodies drenched.  Bring it on, Irene!

We're at the point in the summer when we make a mad dash to attempt to squeeze in all the adventures and escapades possible to reflect upon during Albany's long(ish) winter. Zoom Flume has been on our to-do list ever since I cut that $5 from the Times Union months ago.  The fact that I could put my hands on said coupon is a reflection of my mad organizational skills - and the fact that 20 bucks is 20 bucks and I wasn't tossing that away recklessly.  Speaking of reckless...

See that shadow of a boy in the Mighty Anaconda?  That's my Quinn, who decided yesterday to brave all the attractions I would permit, despite his newly acquired, rather crude, swimming skills.  Damn him and his excessive height (48" at age 6!) because now he can basically partake in any of the attractions other than one which specifies swimming ability as a requirement.  I must admit, his big brothers were awesome lifeguards for him, remaining in the water to shepard Quinn out as necessary.  Good job, guys!

Zoom Flume is less than an hour south of Albany and a perfect place to give your kids a little length in their leash.  It's small with maybe 10 or 12 water rides and/or play areas.  I may get one more season of all three boys being entertained with what's offered here - beyond that, I think we'll be aging out.  It's one of those old school, Irish Alps kind of places.  They're really chill about allowing you to bring in picnic items and the folks who work there are pretty pleasant.  Unlike last year when we visited Great Escape, at about the same point in the summer, ZF is fully staffed with all attractions open.  The lines were really short, parking was convenient (and free) and we left there feeling as if we got good value for $20 per person. 

Is it fancy?  Nope.  Is it well maintained and clean?  Yep.  New for 2011 was the Riptide Cove Wave Pool, a smallish wave pool that the boys found to be a little "lame" after days spent swimming off Chappaquiddick earlier this month.  If you're lucky enough to have less blase' children than I do, I'm sure they'd find it to be enjoyable.  The best part of that particular attraction for me, was the available chaise lounge where I was comfortable enough with the safety of the pool to grab a quick nap. 

The ZF season runs until 9/5 so there's still time to get there, assuming we all survive Irene.  Better go prepare for Mother Nature's next temper tantrum by filling up the bathtub with water.  And bubbles!

CQ Researcher aka Curious Quinn

Fellow librarians will be disappointed to discover that I am not going to devote a DelSo post to CQ Researcher, a fantastic reference tool published by Congressional Quarterly.  I am most certainly an enthusiastic fan of the database, however, the topic today is Quinn and his current phase of curiosity, particularly about life and death.

While we were away earlier this month, Q showed an interest in Cleo, a dog I had for a good chunk of my late teens and through my entire 20's.  When it was Cleo's time, I decided that having her cremated was the way to go.  I even paid extra to have her privately cremated to ensure that the plastic bag of powdery ash and disconcertingly large bone pieces were hers and hers alone.  For the past 12 or 14 years she has resided in a covered piece of pottery on a bookshelf, still spoken of occasionally but gradually becoming eclipsed by Cassidy Bono Lilly, our family's 10 year-old lab.  Quinn wanted to know what happened to her after she died and I decided to be honest and explained the process of cremation and told him where she was in our house.  I think I may have had a single day home, after returning from the beach, before Quinn picked up the conversation again and asked to see her.  So, I took the pot down off the shelf, opened it up and gave him a good look at what remains of Cleo.  For those of you at home, here's the unopened crypt:

Not a bad final resting place, although I have instructed the Lilly boys that I would prefer my ashes to eventually be scattered in Greenwood Lake, the Hudson River, and the Atlantic off the coast of Wellfleet.  No rush on that, by the way.  Quinn's curiosity seems to satisfied for the moment because he has an interest now in eggs...

Last week he asked me if I had anymore eggs - an odd question from a child who doesn't eat them fried, poached or scrambled.  "Of course," I said, "They're in the fridge."  "No, not those eggs," he replied. I sat down with a little sigh.  I knew where this was going.  Apparently he was wondering if I had anymore baby eggs because he wants a baby sister.  Now, believe me, if he had any idea how many of those baby eggs it took to get him, I imagine he would have shown a bit more sensitivity in his request - especially since he was supposed to have been the baby sister to the two older Lilly boys.  I think the only way I eventually got out of that conversation was by pointing out that his neighborhood friends had a new baby sister at their house and that they just might be willing to share her with him.  (Sorry, Maisie, I think he'll be gentle.)  And, when all else fails and Curious Quinn threatens to be relentless in his pursuit of knowledge beyond his years, I've discovered a surefire way to silence him, albeit on a temporary basis.

I would not trade this boy for the world.

Sunsets

Lieutenant's Island, Wellfleet

Lieutenant's Island, Wellfleet

 

Lieutenant's Island, Wellfleet - G and me

Vineyard Haven, Martha's Vineyard

My boys and me

Vineyard Haven, Martha's Vineyard

Vineyard Haven, Martha's Vineyard

Table for 5 (or why dinner as a family can be continued despite impending divorce)

I believe most people get married believing it is forever, not for ever. Introducing children to a relationship adds some additional concrete to the mix and, when all is said and done within the marriage and it is time to move on from being a couple, the presence of children continues to cement the two of you together for the imaginable future. Obvious, right? Nothing ground-breaking, just classic, common sense.

Although it is evident that every marriage has its own unique set of circumstances, it seems that divorces meet a few consistent themes. Usually they involve a quality of life diminishment, damage to the children, complicated visitation and financial arrangements, a complete re-writing of the holidays and traditions...

Positive impacts of divorce, and there is the potential for there to be some, aren't spoken about in anything above a whisper. Things like more focused parenting, increased time for personal interests and pursuits, less conflict, opportunities to rewrite holidays and traditions...

Every family has meaningful rites, whether it is the appreciative phrase one says as they arrive safely at home, or a special song played during a particular annual car trip. Things that have significance. I think most of these rituals are priceless, yet cost nothing. Why wouldn't a family want to continue these traditions? With some sensitivity and humor, I think it can (and should) happen - everyone benefits.

So, we gathered together as a family of five for a few days at the beach and everyone survived, I mean thrived. Picnic lunches were shared, our natural rhythm of tag team parenting easily fell back into place, and we went to our family's beach joint for a meal, where we sat together as a party of five. Instead of the boys recalling this as the summer their parents split, maybe they'll remember making some more family beach memories with Mom and Dad. And we'll all try to remain cognizant that a table for five is a privilege, not a punishment.

Thompson's Lake

Holy hot, huh?  I know I've mentioned before that for some unknown reason (general contentment, perhaps?) the heat isn't really bothering me this summer.  Actually, I've kind of enjoyed it.  That being said, getting out of Albany and into the hill towns holds a certain appeal on a 90+ degree day and a recent trek to Thompson's Lake made everyone happy.

The drive from the DelSo up to Thacher Park takes about 25 minutes, significantly longer than that if you're riding your bicycle as the boys' dad enjoys doing.  Pretty impressive, honestly.  

Thompson's Lake is a State Park which offers all sorts of amenities such as rowboat rentals, playground equipment, volleyball courts and picnic and camping sites.  And, of course, a sandy beach.  If you're so inclined, overnight camping will set you back $24.  For us, though, it was an afternoon escape and that comes at the bargain price of $7 a carload. 

For a sunny Sunday afternoon, this place was not incredibly crowded.  We were able to park directly across from the bathrooms (Score - real bathrooms!) and had no trouble finding a spot on the beach that even offered a bit of shade.  The water was comfortable, the lake mostly free of weeds and most important, there was a lifeguard on duty.  This summer, I very much feel as if we've turned a corner in maturity and swimming competence.  I actually brought a book and even got through a few pages before dozing off for a power nap. 

Aside from being a perfect beach for those with small children, I imagine this spot would be a lot of fun for a group of more grown-up folks to gather.  The mere drive would be scenic any season of the year and worth your time.  So, if you're looking for a place to cool off during this genuine summer we're experiencing, give this place a shot.  And, for you hardcore cyclists, a dip here might be the perfect way to break up your ride.