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.

I can see clearly now the rain has gone

image: http://phoenixlasiksurgeon.org

No, literally.  I have new glasses and an intense rain shower just moved furiously through the DelSo. Things look different, both sharpened and softened somehow, and I feel as if I am seeing my surroundings with new eyes. 

These two events got me to thinking about my vision over the years, recalling when I first knew I needed glasses.  I think I was in third or fourth grade and I was struggling a little when I read the chalkboard.  Naturally, my mother said it was because I read too much and that my eyes were fine, an assessment I accepted until 5th grade when the school nurse referred me to an optometrist after  I failed an eye exam. I got glasses. 

In high school I decided I needed contact lenses to be pretty.  I saved my money ($100!) and got myself a pair of lenses despite my aversion to touching my eyes.  I'll never forget the sensation of looking at the streetlights as the sky grew darker, and truly seeing the preciseness of the light emanating from tall street lamps.  It no longer appeared to me as a fuzzy cloud of light, I could see the individual bulb and it was remarkable.  Equally unforgettable was my inability to take my contacts out that first day.  It might have been the beer which caused me to balk at the thought of pinching something off my eyeball, but there's no doubt I'd still be wearing that pair of lenses if my friend Anthony hadn't matter-of- factly plucked them out for me. 

And now, 25+ years later, I'm sporting my first pair of progressive glasses.  You know, the line-less lenses that have distinct areas to look through for distance viewing, reading, and normal vision.  The first few days were a little rough - there was a bit of nausea and a little frustration as I learned to move my head up and down to utilize the area of the glasses necessary for the task at hand.  Two weeks in and I have to say they're working for me.   

What have I learned from my history with vision correction?  Well, I understand that sometimes children know more than their parents.  I know that seeing distant things more clearly doesn't negate our need for friends to sometimes take charge of a situation close at hand. And I'm beginning to grasp that clarity can occasionally be achieved by a mere shift of one's gaze.

May Day

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In Germany, where my mother comes from, May 1st is a holiday.  There are flowers and Maypole dancing and tree planting ceremonies on this day which celebrates spring's midway point. It is a sweet, sweet day, reminiscent of a more simple time. My mother, the third of fifteen children, never really celebrated her own birth on this special day, nor really on any other day. For her, May Day was just another day to be disappointed by life.

My second child was due on May 1st, 1999, his soon-to-be-Oma's 61st birthday.  I was mildly distressed by this coincidence because I certainly didn't want my child to share a birthday with someone who didn't acknowledge her own life with joy. Of course, since there was little I could do to determine Baby #2's arrival day, I just hoped for an early arrival and, when my water broke on April 29th, I knew I got lucky.   Griffin Hudson arrived exactly one day early, beautifully pink with a hearty cry and a bald head. Unfortunately, his birth was a disappointment to my mother since she had fervently wished that I would have a daughter. You know, a girl as revenge for all the trouble I had caused her during my teen years, trouble I presumably still cause as an adult. At least one of us was happy.

I remember bringing Griffin home from the hospital, driving down Hackett Avenue and noticing that in the 2 short days since Griffin joined our family, everything looked different. The tulip beds in the median had popped and the blue sky was filled with white cottony fuzz from some unknown tree. Spring had arrived with this perfect baby boy.

Although I have considered Griffin to be an old soul since his infancy, today Griffin enters the rank of teenager. It's a weird thing to know that I'm heading to the Wine Bar tonight to work rather than preparing to share a special meal with my boy, but, I know his Dad has things covered. I was fully present the afternoon he arrived 13 years ago and, on his request, we'll enjoy dinner tomorrow, May Day, at Cafe Capriccio. At least there will be someone joyfully greeting the month of May. 

Skiing Saratoga Spa State Park

see?  i'm not the only one who likes x-country!

Hi.  my name is Silvia and I'm a cross-country skiing addict.  Whew - that feels better.  Maybe not as good as being outside on a beautiful day with skis on my feet and the sun on back, but, good nonetheless.  The past few years have been  rough for those of us who are dependent upon mother nature for a good time, but she is really making up for the recent "dry" years with a season as good as any I can remember. 

My  love for Capital Hills has been well documented and I don't imagine there is a better free place within 5 minutes of my house, but variety is the spice of life and I'm all about mixing things up when I can.  That statement probably doesn't jibe with your librarian fantasy stereotype, but, believe it or not, not everything in my life is orderly.  Hello!  Have you been reading?  Anyway...

little geyser

Friday afternoon, after making a vat of soup, I drove up the Northway to Saratoga.  After checking into the Hilton Garden Inn, I got into my ski clothes and headed over to Saratoga Spa State Park to check out their trails and get some calorie credits prior to the evening's indulgence(s).

I've skied here a couple of times before in years past and love the southwest area of the park for its quiet hills and beautiful scenery, so that's where I headed.  The trails were a mixture of groomed and untouched, with the roads retaining enough snow cover to provide a decent enough trail for those less inclined to explore the wooded paths.  I had a great little run through, going past Peerless Pool and a number of the pavilions, before heading back to the hotel for a soak in the hot tub prior to dinner.

Friday's quick spin through the park was a mere precursor to the more extended run I took Saturday with a couple of friends.  I know that I've said this at least three times so far this winter, but I've sincerely meant it each time I've uttered the following words: The conditions were the best I've ever seen.  Really.  The skies were a brilliant blue, the sun shone brightly enough to convince me that I got a touch of tan on my face and there wasn't a hint of wind.  Absolutely ideal.  Period.  

a wooded path near the gideon

The loop we took was an extension of the path I had taken the previous day.  We started off downhill on the road and worked our way through a good portion of the southwest corner of the park, staying south of the Avenue of the Pines and west of Route 9.  The terrain had some mildly challenging spots but was better groomed than it had been a day earlier and we had a blast.  

It was the kind of day that, if we had unlimited time, we could have easily spent 5 or 6 hours tooling around the park with an occasional pit stop at either the warming hut or the Gideon Putnam's bar.  Or both.  But, alas, we all had places to go and responsibilities to resume, so after an hour and a half we packed it in and headed back to life, with a quick stop back at the hotel for a last dip in the hot tub.  Sublime.  Saratoga is not just for summer.

the epitome of saratoga in the winter

On being not cool...

3rd Row

Friday morning I got a Facebook message from a fellow Laker-girl making a couple of tickets to the DMB show available to me. Day of the show miracle, I call that.  I was so excited to get home and surprise Griffin with the unexpected news.  History: after relying upon someone else to get us tickets and being disappointed with their lack of follow through, Griffin and I were resigned to the fact that weren't seeing the show and the date of the concert had pretty much fallen off our radar.  When I got home in the afternoon and made the big announcement, it was very well received.  Griffin was psyched and after changing into a DMB t-shirt I bought him at a previous 2010 show, and a pair of skinny jeans without ripped knees, we headed down to his first big indoor arena show.  With a light meal at Dale Miller to proceed the show, naturally - he was feeling like filet mignon.  Not too shabby for an 11 y/o, right?

The fact that we had some quiet time to dine prior to the concert, gave us a chance to talk quietly - which was good.  It allowed Griffin plenty of time to express his appreciation and excitement about the meal and show, as well as the perfect opportunity to complain about how completely uncool I am.  Apparently part of the problem is my refusal to allow him to obtain a Face Book account.  Sorry - rules are rules and they have rules for a reason.  I'm all about breaking a rule which doesn't make sense...like the No Right on Red sign in the Delso neighborhood, which I pointedly ignore at 5:30 in the morning on my way to the gym, solo in my family wagon.  But the Face Book rule seems like a reasonable one, especially when you're talking about it in the context of an 11 y/o who too often texts me during the school day to complain about how bored he is.  Obviously, he already has some challenges following rules related to social networking and modern communication.  No reason to condone or encourage an additional means of rebellion. 

The other major coolness flaw I'm sporting is connected to our household adherence to the recommended audience for video games - if it is rated M for Mature, my kids aren't playing it - or at the least, they won't be playing it at home on our Wii.   I realize that they are exposed to some violence and inappropriate humor while watching television, but they don't watch it over and over again while trying to shoot someone.  And don't get me started on those games designed to simulate robbing a bank, stealing a car or sexually assaulting women - nope, not in my house.  I understand the Supreme Court is preparing to debate this issue, but I don't really need Clarence Thomas to tell me what is inappropriate for my child.  Thanks, but, no thanks.  This topic can certainly be revisited at some point in the future, but for now the decision has been made.  

Someday, I hope Griffin will understand and appreciate how being a cool mom has a lot more to do with with the places I do take him, rather than the virtual places I refuse to permit him to visit.  Until then, I'm okay with being "totally not cool."

Soccer and Serenity Now

Although I wouldn't admit it to just anyone, I don't mind sharing with you that I'm a soccer mom.  Albeit a reluctant one.  My inability to completely embrace this persona probably is the result of a few factors, things like I don't drive a minivan.  Or 100% understand the rules of the game or the various positions on the field.  And, maybe, just maybe, I get a little resentful of the demands on my life as I try to manage the practice and game commitments of two players essentially by myself due to my husband's work schedule.  But, the little guy loves it and my middle guy craves a competitive outlet and I find soccer to be a more appealing option than some of the other past times with which he would find himself involved.  As I often remind him kiddingly, it's what keeps him out of juvie.  

Fall season is barely underway and already it's time to try out for indoor travel soccer.  That's the way this sport is - there are opportunities to play essentially year round.  Now, the outdoor season has definite advantages over the winter season.  Aside from the fact that the evening practices occur when it is still light out, I really prefer being outside in the fresh air rather than in a stuffy school gym or under an Afrim's bubble.  Last week's game allowed me an opportunity to sit in the grass for an hour or so and enjoy being outdoors.  Something kind of weird happened, though.  As I alternated my attention between the book I was reading and the clump of 5 year-olds clustered around the ball with feet flying, I became conscious of a voice requesting "Serenity."  Of course, I interpreted this almost-chant as some sort of new-age exercise in personal centering, a la Seinfeld, but somehow the tone was all wrong - too impatient, not beckoning enough to achieve the desired state.  But then I realized that Serenity was not in fact a personal aspiration for the speaker, but was instead the name of her child - the child she was dealing with in a decidedly unserene fashion. 

I try to not measure my successes and failures as a person, and/or parent, by any yardstick other than my own, but when I witness that type of irony, it is difficult to resist.  And when I received a beautiful candle this week as a birthday present, a candle who's scent was called Serenity, I thought of this other struggling mom and wished there were  a way for me share my gift of serenity with her.  Because we're all ultimately on the same team, aren't we?