peevish mama

On Sunday night we went to see the Minnesota Lynx play game one of the WNBA finals against the Atlanta Dream. They’re the best team going in Minnesota right now and it was such a blast. LOUD music, rowdy fans, plentya hootin and hollerin, and complete, unabashed GIRL POWER. Damn!

I can’t decide if it was better for my girls to see that or my boy to see that. GO LYNX!

p.s. secretly, I’d love to go back with a bunch of ladies, drink a ton of beers and then go dancing. Maybe the Lynx would like to come with us?

Sometimes, when one goes dancing with one’s betties, and the music is really good and the beers are 2 for 1, one loses one wits – a bit – and one leaves without closing out the tab. On Thursday morning I woke with a start. Damn. I was going to have to drive back down to Clubhouse Jager to get my credit card. Big Red, Lunch Lady Rocker Chick and I had gone to Transmission for LLRC’s birthday. I can’t give any details, but fun was had.

Wednesday nights at Jager are, hands down, the happiest place to be in all of the land with DJ Jake Rudh spinning 80’s New Wave and all sorts of lovely music-heads of all ages and stripes geeking out and dancing with wild abandon. Seriously. The moves I can bust out in this environment are high school bedroom mirror material. It is the most free, chill, friendly, goofy scene. My favorites from Wednesday night: a pretty pale girl with a pompadour and a white polka dot dress who did not stop dancing for even one second – formidable!, a tall skinny Tim Burtonesque dude with plaid pants and freaky awesome moves, another tall skinny dude sporting something between a mullet and a rat tail who was way smoother than he should have been, and a foursome of pudgy, gender ambiguous, bespectacled girl/boys.

We don’t, can’t, go to this dance party every week, but once a month is turning into a doable, even dare I say, salutary occurrence. Despite the many PBRs, I wake up with enviable vim and vigor after a night of this. Except that driving back downtown to the scene of my shenanigans with my two little girls in tow to pick up my forgotten credit card seemed like a whole new kind of walk of shame. Unfortunately they don’t open until 4, so I had no choice but to wait until school got out. Damn. I picked Devil Baby and Supergirl up with Foxy Brown in the car, passed back some snacks and vaguely mentioned we had to drive downtown.

Supergirl: Wait. Why do we have to go downtown again?

Me: Forgot my credit card.

Supergirl: Where did you forget it?

Me: That place where I went dancing last night.

Supergirl: Is it a bar?

Me: Yes.

Supergirl: Was there a band?

Me: Nope. Just this great DJ.

Supergirl: How late were you there?

Me: Midnight. [small lie]

Supergirl: Was it fun?

Me: SO fun.

Supergirl: Do you want us to wait in the car?

Me: That would probably be good.

. . . a few moments pass . . .

Supergirl: You know, I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a bar.

. . .

Ten minutes later we’re all inside and I’m paying the tab, having been assured by the lovely redheaded bartender that I was NOT the only one to have forgotten my card last night. Jager looks downright homey in the light of day, with slanting sunlight and the smell of comfort food wafting out of the kitchen. I’m half tempted to stay there for an early dinner with the girls. Supergirl spins on her barstool cooly assessing the hipsters partaking in happy hour and appetizers.

Supergirl: Mom?

Me: Ya?

Supergirl: I just thought of the BEST name for my soccer team!

Me: What?

Supergirl: THE BLOODY MARY’S!

Me: . . .

We were most definitely NOT staying for dinner.

Hey ho! After being the shadiest writer alive all summer, I managed to squeak out a post for Simple Good and Tasty about the beautiful bodacious eggplant. Check it out here, homeys.

I was in Michigan visiting my parents with Saint James. My dad was at work, my mom was playing tennis, Doctor Dash was back in Minneapolis. We had not spoken yet that day. Cup of hot coffee in hand, I was trailing Saint James as he toddled around the house – the way we do when our first born is just one year old. My parents have beautiful Brazilian cherry wood floors, pristine and uncreaky compared to ours. Both of us in bare feet, we passed through elongated rectangles of sun and shadow, Saint James on the balls of his chubby feet, me back on my heels. The only sound I remember was the black lab’s nails clicking on the floor as she followed us – making a haphazard parade of three. Sasha moved up near Saint James and I nudged her to the side so she wouldn’t knock him over, sloshing some coffee on the floor. I went to get a paper towel and that’s when the phone rang. It was my mother. Viste la tele? She sounded out of breath, but it could have been the tennis. I turned on the TV in my parents’ bedroom and watched, not understanding at all what I was seeing. At that point, both planes had hit and the footage being replayed had the look of fiction. Of an action flick. Roiling smoke, balls of fire. Diehard. I ran to scoop up Saint James, put him in the room with me and shut the door. I sat on the bed to watch and listen, because this needed to be explained. What about the people above the holes? I thought of being in my office in Boston, overlooking the harbor – what it would feel like for my building to be pierced through the heart like that. I didn’t see the falling people until later. I had to be told by the voices on TV. My mom hadn’t gotten back from the club yet when the towers crumbled, slowly, almost gracefully, the buckling buildings seeming to elicit a gasp of horror from the universe. Or maybe it was just my own.

Oh wait! That’s not true. Thank god for Foxy Brown. My Devil Baby went to kindergarten today and as you can see, sister was ready. She was more than ready. It was hard to boohoo this because she was just so very excited. Plus I happen to think kindergarten is pure magic, so what’s not to like about your baby finally being able to put on a cute jumper and her new kicks and walk through the front door of school, ready to play and learn and make new friends? The world cracks open like a juicy melon for kindergartners.

And I really was believing my own hype. My lady buddies, Crackerjack and Nanook, reached out to see what I needed/wanted on my first day as a mother of all grade-school children a.k.a. a freebird. My response: hip hop and lunchy, please. In my email I also said that I was so excited for Devil Baby, I wasn’t going to be feeling like a freak-a-deak. Well.

I set aside extra time to help Devil Baby get dressed and braided her hair. We took tons of pictures and did a quick stop by Red Vogue’s house so she could see her all dressed up. By the time we got to school, Devil Baby was ready to fly. We took one last picture with her teacher (who I requested because she’s wonderful, totally old-school, loved and ‘got’ Supergirl and is just the kind of tough but loving lady who should be escorting children into their school lives) and as I hugged Devil Baby one last time, I could feel her little body straining to get away. You see, there was this whole bright sunny classroom! FULL of kids! FULL of intriguing objects and toys! She really had to go.

So I put on my sunglasses and walked out the door, turning around for one last look. I was fine. I forwent the back to school coffee because I was dressed for hip hop and I didn’t feel like meeting any bright and shiny young mothers with toddlers hanging around their hips. Done.

I got in my car and I drove away. I was fine.

Really.

And then at the corner of Upton and 50th, it hit me like a wave. Slowly, slowly, the feeling washed over me.

All of my little people, my children – in school. Me – alone.

The wave. It pressed on my chest, so heavy, I gasped. And the next exhalation, a wail. And I cried all the way home. The silly tears of the woman with the shortest memory in history. Was I not JUST bitching about how ready I was for my children to be in school? Weren’t they JUST driving me bananas, like two days ago?

Waiting for me at the back gate was the wriggly, panting Foxy Brown. Wagging with her whole body, squirming so hard to get closer, she kept sliding through my legs as I tried to walk. Thank god for Foxy Brown. Did I do this on purpose? Because this was a really well-timed pet, people. My savior and side-kick and I went for a brisk walk and then it was time for hip hop, which, as Crackerjack would say – makes me happy in my heart. And then lunch with my girls, a little wine and a lot of laughs and a couple hours later I’m feeling almost normal. Better than normal.

Really.

that I find myself typing in a dark sunroom in the wee hours of the first day of school. I can’t sleep. In a few hours this house will spring to life and I will have little choice but to put on a pot of coffee and spring with it. It’s not typical for me to be up so much earlier than the rest, but after Devil Baby bashed into a door on her way back from the bathroom at 4 a.m., there was no getting back to sleep. And why not just get up, tuck the laptop under my arm and tip toe to the downstairs sunroom? Quietly. Quietly. Don’t wake the dog.

I feel like I spent all summer trying to wrap my head around summer. It was so odd, starting out cold and then getting unbearably hot, and then, just now it seems, falling into perfection. August was a gift this year. We rode our bikes, licked melty ice cream cones, scooped up countless outdoor concerts, lingered at farmers markets, swam in lakes, walked the dog in clusters of twos, threes and fives under streaky darkening skies. We packed up the minivan and spent a week on beautiful Spider Lake, just us, no phone, no internet. My family fished, I swam and read and cooked. Foxy morphed into a proper wild country dog, flying through the woods and into the lake.

It seems a pity, to have to put everything in a box just as things are getting good. Which is to say, I am sorry that my kids have to go to school today. Which is also to say, they are ready. I am ready. But I still feel a sharp pang at the thought that many many hours will go by without my seeing them. I will go about my day, my thoughts straying to one or the other of them, pretty certain (and honestly, glad) that they won’t be thinking about me.

It’s kind of lonely to be a mom on the first day back to school.

Woah. Eleven! When I look at him, I can totally believe he’s eleven. He looks eleven. What I can’t believe is my eyes, when I look at him. I also can’t believe my hand when he holds it. His hand is suddenly bigger, almost as big as mine. How many times do I have to let go for a moment to measure his fingers up against my own, clasping it again with a sigh. Not bigger than mine. Yet.

This big boy of mine – joyous, independent, curious, complicated and sweet – just keeps getting better. I failed to consider that this would happen. As certain things are lost to the past (wobbly first steps, chubby legs, toothless smiles, baby voices) other things, better things if that’s even possible, are taking their place. A sense of humor, an increasingly complex inner life, a point of view, his own personal taste. There is nothing better on earth than sharing a laugh – a true laugh – with your kid. He’s beyond only laughing at what’s HA HA funny and has a quick eye for the absurd, for the things are funny, but not in an obvious way.

On the threshold of middle school, Saint James is becoming a person with depth and ideas and a way of looking at things that is uniquely his. He’s getting moody and broody, like there’s much more going on than meets the eye. He’s quietly confident, rarely rattled by anything or anyone. What does he know that I don’t? As much as I thought I’d be panicking about this headlong jump in to big boyhood, I have to say that I am fascinated by the way he’s changing on the inside. And hey, I like this kid. Not just love, like. Here’s the litmus test: if we were the same age in college, say, would we have been friends? You tell me. A smart cutie with an easy laugh, a big heart and the confidence to pull off (and he does pull them off) hot pink shades? We would have been thick as thieves.

Happy Birthday, Saint James! I love you, sweetness. But you know that.

I’m feeling it. Best part of summer, baby. Right here. Right now. But it’s flying faster than a newly minted five year old bike rider veering wildly down a hill. Yikes! Feeling slightly out of control, but luh uh uh ving the ride.

Thanks to art camp this week, I won’t be able to pick Devil Baby out of a crowd at the State Fair. Wow. Is that ever a look. Girlfriend is feeling it, though. Sheesh.

You all know how much I love the little lake down the street. We’ve been in, around and on this lake virtually every day this week. Saint James and Supergirl fish almost daily, wiling away hours at a time, coming home with tall tales and triumphant grins. The other day Supergirl hooked a two and a half foot muskie with dark spotted green skin and “shark eyes”. She said her arms were shaking and her knees were knocking before the beast snapped the line and got away. Needless to say, my scared little fishergirl came home more than a little pumped. The two of them don’t even keep count of the sunnies and pumpkin seeds anymore. They’re in it for the big ones now.

We’ve taken dips in the morning, at sunset and in the night. Every time I do, I can’t help myself from swimming out past the bouys and flipping on my back – a watery heart opener to the sky. The water feels so silky compared to pool water – sorry, even with a occasional caress from a fresh water weed, I so prefer lakes.

We’ve listened to music at the Bandshell twice, plopping down on the grass next to our bikes while the kids run around in the dusky night. Saint James practices juggling a soccer ball and last time he ended up in a little juggle session with a very tan hippy boy and a portly dude – both obviously soccer players in a former (or maybe not so former) life. He’s up to 127, in case you’re wondering.

But best of all this week was Supergirl’s idea that we take our meager two hour window while Devil Baby was at art camp and rent a canoe. It was sheer joy to be out in the middle of Lake Harriet with my middle child. We paddled, we idled, we chatted, we sighed. It’s just so pretty, she kept saying. Indeed. This has been a hot, fast, sometimes frustrating, sometimes wonderful summer. Out of all my moments, this is the one I will always remember. I hope she does too.

In this article over at the Huffington Post, author Lisa Bloom points out that complimenting a little girl on her looks or dress or shoes or hair is “our culture’s standard talking-to-little-girls icebreaker.” Bloom argues that this teaches a girl that the first thing you notice is her appearance and therefor that her looks are the most important thing. We are supposed to try a new approach with the girls we meet: ask, what book are you reading? What sports do you play? What do you think about global warming?

I’m not sure what to think. Putting aside the fact that the writer is slightly annoying in a self-congratulatory way (Look at how I crouched down and asked my friend’s daughter about books with a twinkle in my eye and taught her a valuable lesson about her self worth!), it is an interesting proposition. In theory, I agree that our culture puts way too much emphasis on beauty, youth, and general hotness. But for some reason I’m finding myself trying really hard to sidestep this. I want to argue with Lisa Bloom and I don’t know why.

For starters, it’s a physical fact that we do notice someone’s looks first. The first thing you see, is what you see. Right? Perhaps, with girls, we just feel more free to say what we think. Little girls are adorable or funky or gorgeously tomboyish and I think most of us just let it fly. Not so with the boys. I can’t tell you how many times I see one of Saint James’ friends looking especially cute, but I squash the urge to say anything because I don’t want the kid to melt in embarrassment. Hell, there’s one in my backyard right now. He looks like a dark version of Saint James  - handsome as all get out – they would make an unbeatable duo out in the bars in a few years. But will I tell him this? No. All bets are off with the girls, though. Red cowboy boots, feathers in the hair, tutus and Chucks, jean skirts, knobby knees, curly blond chlorine hair – I mean there has to be a limit to the cuteness I’m expected to see and ignore!

Second of all, just because a physical or sartorial complement is the first thing you might say, it’s not the only thing you’ll say – it’s not the most important thing you’ll say. A greeting is a greeting – it’s an icebreaker, a bridge to more talking. Maybe I’m the superficial one, but I think we do this with grown women too. Giving or getting a complement is disarming and a way to get closer to someone. It’s not as craven as it sounds – it’s social short-hand, taking you quickly through safe terrain, until you can settle in for a deeper conversation. And it’s not always complements – if someone looks stressed or sad, well, you aren’t going to notice her cute boots, you’re going to ask how she’s doing. Aren’t we just passing on a bit of social currency to our girls, albeit inadvertently?

Lately I’ve talked to girls about fencing, Harry Potter, babysitting, and middle school. I’m sure we talked about clothes and hair too, but I can’t remember. Maybe I can be blasé about this because my oldest girl seems impervious to the trappings of conventionally girlie things. Oddly though, Supergirl has taken a recent liking to watching Toddlers and Tiaras. I’ve put the kibosh on it, not because I fear she’ll get sucked into the pageant culture, but because I think she’s too young to be feeling superior to and disgusted by fellow Americans on TV. And maybe I’m naive, but even if Devil Baby continues on her present trajectory of a dramatic girlie girl, I cannot imagine a situation where she’s going to end up wanting a boob job at age 20. Child may like sparkly things but child is fierce.

I’m not arguing that there isn’t an issue with girls’ self-esteem and a disproportionate value placed on the exterior package by our culture. I just think pinning even a little bit of the blame on the four or five words that come after hello is convenient, simplistic and misplaced. Bloom does admit that her idea won’t “change our multibillion dollar beauty industry, reality shows that demean women, our celebrity-manic culture.” Of course it won’t. At this point, I get the sinking feeling nothing will. So we need to focus on the girls and make sure their lives are filled with books, art, sports, current events, deep friendships, healthy food and cooking and yes, consistent conversations that are challenging, complex and colorful. Also, if they take you there, a reasonable dose of fashion and pop culture mixed with a little irony, caution, humor or whatever else we’re feeling about it, isn’t going to hurt. Call me vapid, but if I see my neighbor girl with her Tiger Beat magazine, I will sit shoulder to shoulder with her and flip through with gusto.

OMG! Did you hear Justin Bieber got pulled over in Miami because the cop thought he looked too young to be driving? LOL!

Photo by Steve Cohen – Metromix

It has been a while since I’ve woken up with the need to dump the contents of my heart on the floor and sort out all the pieces like legos. If you had asked me yesterday at five o’clock whether I was excited to be seeing U2, I would given you a not entirely convincing yes. I just haven’t been into U2 as much in the last few years – there has been so much other music. Somehow this show seemed like an over blown event that absolutely every one I knew was going to, and call me peevish, but I tend to not like being part of a hoo-ra-ra. If only I could hear myself. I sound like an a-hole.

But I had forgotten one thing: U2 is U2. For people our age, and those a little older and a little younger, they are, for better or worse (and today I argue for better), our defining band. I was completely unprepared for the surge of emotion as the four of them walked on that incredible stage in the softly darkening night. It turns out I have deep, latent reserves of affection for those lads and for the beautiful music they have given us through the most turbulent and raw parts of our lives: our early adolescence through our early adulthood. Not to mention the fact that Dash and I have had big love for Bono ever since we spotted him outside the Four Seasons in Boston and he held baby Saint James, said something about missing his little guy and let us take a picture. Look at these. I’m mean, come ON!

They started with ‘Even Better Than the Real Thing’ and I could have fainted. It’s hard to overstate how amazing the sound stage was, a giant claw being one of those ideas that might have sounded ridiculous on paper, yet worked as a cool and strangely unobtrusive way to frame the band and the incredible 360˚ video screen that has been all the hubbub. The acoustics were great – from where we were sitting I could feel Larry Mullin’s drums and Adam Clayton’s base pounding in my ribcage. Possibly my favorite physical sensation in life, as you know. Bono introduced the band and I kept leaning over to Dave, yelling in his ear. On Larry: (I used to have THE HUGEST crush on him!), Adam: (Ohhhhhh, I have SUCH a soft spot for him!), The Edge: (AHHHH! I LOVE THE EDGE!!!) Poor Dash. I am such a fiend. He just nods, smiles and massages his ear drum. (But he kind of looks like Bono, so . . . mmmmm . . . he’s the one I love the most, hands down.)

About half way through the show they were playing ‘Beautiful Day’ (which he dedicated to Gabby Giffords) and her husband, Commander Mark Kelly, was up on the screen in space and for a second I thought it was live and my head was going to explode. Live from SPACE?! In a touching little riff off Bowie’s Space Odyssey, Kelly said tell my wife I love her very much . . . she knows. And then Bono echoed in his inimitable wail. Seriously. I could have sobbed. There was also a beautiful moment when Somali rapper, K’Naan joined Bono on stage to sing ‘Stand by Me’ in order to raise awareness of the famine in Somalia. The thing is, U2 can get away with anything. They can be as earnest and dramatic and florid and shwooshy and tender and hopeful and outraged and uplifting and awareness raising as they want. It is literally impossible to be cynical about them or their music when seeing them live because that band, as a band, has such a lion’s heart. They swallow you whole. She never stood a chance.

And this was just about the point where the magic really started to happen.

The wind picked up, seemingly stirring 60,000 people into a palpable frenzy and I had a total Beyonce moment dancing with my dress and hair whipping around like a banshee. I actually thought: if I get struck by lightening in this moment, I will die happy. Morbid, I know, but y’all, I was ee-mo-shun-al! And then came the rain. The rain. First in teasing droplets and then in buckets – I was soaked to the skin. I could have housed goldfish in my chuck taylors. And my people, my hardy stalwart Minnesotans made me proud, pulling foul weather gear and rain ponchos out of every orifice and singing even louder. Even with the lightening, nobody left.

And this was where U2 showed us how it’s done – why they are such an iconic band. They didn’t miss a beat and charged on through the driving rain. Bono acknowledged the weather and then took it and owned it, making it a part of the show. It looked so cool on the LED screen – I just couldn’t figure out how they could still play their instruments, how their fingers didn’t slip. They were as soaked as we were. And poor Bono in his leather pants must have had the worst case of swamp ass ever. Wait, am I allowed to speculate about Bono’s swamp ass? You take the humidity, add the torrential rains and mix it with the leathah? I’m just saying. He gave no clue as to the conditions. A true professional.

Kidding aside, it felt good to let myself go back in time through their music. It felt good to dance in the rain. It felt good to hug Doctor Dash during ‘With or Without You.’ It felt good to shelve my jaded, wise-ass self for a few hours. No doubt about it, I was feeling the love. I even had an epiphany of sorts about what I need to do next in terms of my professional (non-mom) life. You never know when you’re going catch a good thought (although dancing in the open air with a smile a mile-wide is a good place to start). And today, I feel happy. All that angst about the driving and summer schlepping from a few days ago seems to have dissipated like the steam coming off the stage lights last night. U2’s songs are a really good way for me to track my life and emotional journey and dare I say, an inspiring reminder that I am truly blessed to be on this journey at all.

So, you know how every once in a while I read something that throws me into a bit of a tizzy and I rethink, review, reimagine, rehash, reiterate, rewind and revamp whatever small piece of the status quo happens to be at issue? Well, this one is a biggie and I’ve been sitting on it for a couple of weeks because I just don’t quite know how to tackle it, given how deeply and fiercely entrenched I am in this.

From the July issue of The Atlantic, the article’s title – How to Land Your Kid in Therapy – is sort of beside the point. What is supremely hair raising, is the notion that we super-involved parents, who are literally devoting all of our time to making our kids happy and successful, could actually be doing them a disservice in the long run. Our ”discomfort with discomfort” is actually leaving them ill-equipt to deal with the real life stressors that will eventually come their way, and in fact may be turning them into little narcissists. Saying “good job” has become a verbal tick. To the extent that our kids believe us every time we say it (and why should they not?), they are left thinking they are pretty friggin’ awesome. When is the last time someone said good job to me? And yet I haven’t dissolved into a puddle of insecurity, have I? Obviously, kids need encouragement and some kids are more sensitive than others, but when I read this article, I realized my kids are in far greater danger of turning out to be clueless and entitled, with inflated senses of self than they are of having low self-esteem. Low self-esteem? Fat chance.

If you ever sit near the diving board at our pool you can hardly carry on a conversation for the constant yelling coming from the peanut gallery. Holding up the line, you have little Ashley or whoever screaming mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! mom! until her mother interrupts her conversation, watches her jump off the diving board, waits for her to emerge from the water and gives her a dutiful thumbs up or a big wow! good job! What the HELL? We aren’t talking toddlers taking their first plunges. These are 8, 9 and 10 year olds who insist on a captive, fawning audience at all times. My kids do it too and I’ve actually felt guilty saying No, I’m not going to score your dives right now. But damn if sometimes I don’t feel like averting my eyes to the pages of a magazine instead of watching them.

A couple weeks ago, Saint James and his soccer buddy walked in the back gate after having been at a soccer camp from 9-3. They were visibly hot and sweaty and had practice in an hour and a half, but they stopped at the rebounder and started kicking around some more. I had just read this article, so I was super self-conscious about my mother-henning, but was I crazy to think those boys should cool off after 6 hours of soccer? So instead of addressing them directly, I whispered to Doctor Dash to tell them to come inside. Of course Dash perfunctorily blew me off with an oh, they’re fine and asked me not to involve him in my article-craziness. So I went stealth. I banged around the kitchen for a bit, made an icy concoction in the blender and nonchalantly crooned out the back door – hey guys, want some smoothies? Mother. Hen. Wins.

Just this past week I was on my laptop at the pool and a tweenish girl ran up to me and told me that Devil Baby had gotten a back smack during dive practice. I sprang up and saw that she was being comforted by the assistant coach. I thought of the article, about letting kids sit with discomfort and just as I was about to sit back down, one of the moms rushed up to me and told me that Devil Baby was crying. I felt like yelling So What???? She smacked her back on WATER!!!! She’s FIIIIIIINE! But as such, unable to withstand the societal pressure to check on my child (who was FINE), I shuffled over, because isn’t that what I’m there for? Just waiting in the wings until they need a little pat on the back?

I think this article touched a nerve for me because I am at the absolute apex of my kid summer business. I spend ALL of my time driving them around so they can be super happy super humans – but to what end? I can tell you based on the last couple months that it is EXHAUSTING watching other people exercise. If I were on any one of my kids’ daily routines, I would be ready to do a triathalon tomorrow. I’d be freakishly buff. Outlandishly fit. But I’m not. I’m tired and crabby. AND I haven’t gotten to build a fort, ride a horse or learn graffiti art.

The weeks wear on, the novelty wears off, the boredom sets in and I pick up an article that shines a spotlight on something I’ve been kinda sorta thinking anyway. We fill up their plates because we want them to have fun, try everything, gain that muscle memory early on, so that in the future, it won’t be a struggle to learn how to play tennis, or ski, or swim laps. But what’s wrong with sucking? We all have to stink at some thing, some times, don’t we? And what’s wrong with being bored and “unhappy” during the summer time? It’s like it’s verboten to even suggest that. But don’t some of your best childhood summer memories involve time spent scampering around your neighborhood with no agenda? The problem is that there are very few kids around these days for my kids to scamper with. Everyone is busy.

The god awful truth of the matter is that, in more ways than I care to admit, my schlepping justifies my existence right now. To do all this work, as mindless and frustrating as it can be, and then engage the possibility that not only is it not the best thing I can do for my kids, but that I may actually be doing it for myself, well, let’s just say that smarts.

I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m doing. I keep reminding myself that the number one thing that broke my heart about working was not being able to be with my kids during the summer. I have a palpable, gut memory of pulling up to my house with my babies (who had been in their posh air-conditioned daycare all day) just as a gaggle of wet kids were spilling out of my neighbor’s minivan. I can still see all the colorful towels wrapped around heads, being dragged on the grass. My neighbor was tan, her hair wet. I was so envious and sad. And now, these many years later, we are all about colorful wet towels and yet, I am feeling truly burnt out by a different kind of rat race.

Mother hen needs a wee break, I think. And maybe the chicks do too.

It’s supposed to be 100 degrees today, an absolute sauna. The only place in the Western hemisphere more humid than Minnesota yesterday was the Amazon jungle. I am not cut out for this. Not at all. Even when I resolve to give myself over completely to the heat and the sweat, I hate it. And now I’m about to drive out to the National Sports Center in Blaine for a soccer tournament. Saint James’ team is playing Rio Select, a team from Brazil. I’ve got a cooler full of ice and enough Bomb Pops to share with the other team. Saint James is so excited to play today, it’s hard not to get caught up in it. So lets do it. Let’s sweat!

Can’t get this out of my head.

For the record: Minneapolis United: 9 Rio Select: 4

Tonight. It is hot and I am irritable. I tell Saint James to take Foxy for a walk and he replies that he isn’t wearing shorts. I grab the leash. I’ll do it myself. Barely to the corner, I hear a small cry. Mom! I turn and my son is running towards me in the giant t-shirt he wears as a night shirt, shorts hastily pulled on, feet bare. He grabs my arm and leans against me. His wet hair feels cool on my shoulder. It’s an awkward way to walk, but it’s so humid, we aren’t going anywhere fast. We decide to walk to the lake and back. He spots a couple of owls in a tree.

Bard owls.

Barn owls?

Bard owls.

Barn owls?

No. Bard owls.

Sometimes I really can’t hear my son. Especially when he’s speaking in his hushed nature voice. We stop and watch. Owls are cool – large, mysterious, knowing, and, as of last night, my new favorite bird. They blink down at us, seeming to understand why a woman and her boy would have stopped in the near dark to stare up at them. We stay and watch way longer than most people would. Minutes go by. One owl flaps to another branch.

A short exhalation, sounding like oh! and Saint James thrusts the leash at my chest. He runs under the tree his hands extending toward the inky branches. Owl feather, he breathes. And I see it. Floating down through the thick air. I watch from the sidewalk. It seems to take forever – a small object settling to the bottom of the sea. Until finally, Saint James captures it in his palm. A gift.

He turns and looks at me. A giant smile. A gift.