Rox and Roll

Spending Memorial Day with America's favorite pasttime

Today, the Guv and I checked off another first: the kids' first major league baseball game.  We hoped on the CalTrain's FanTrain, which runs from the Guv's office straight to the ballpark.  You can't beat door-to-Giants!  No one was more excited than Dash, as the little man already knows every major league baseball team's city and logo as well as whether they're National League or American League.  He's rationalized that we can root for the Giants (NL) as well as the Yankees (AL) unless they play each other in the World Series, in which case, the Yankees trump all.  And he was born despising the Red Sox, like any good son.

We had a blast on the double-decker train, as we caught one with the four-seaters facing each other on the way out; Dash hadn't been on CalTrain yet, and he had a blast checking out the passing scenery.  Throngs of people made their way from the 4th/King Station to the ballpark, where we quickly picked up our will-call tickets and headed for the entry ... only to find out that, even an hour ahead of the game, the t-shirt giveaway had run out.  (And I patted myself on the back for not hyping that to the kids.)  We scurried around grabbing up lunch for us all before settling into our Arcade seats, which, I have to say, I wouldn't repeat.  It's a nice stretch of the AT&T ballpark with seats between the park and the cove (where kayakers await home run balls), so we thought the seats would be extra-fun -- but didn't count on the hoards of standing-room ticket people who would hang out there, blocking the great cove view.  It's also hard-to-access benches, not individual seats (which, at this park, have cupholders).  That all wasn't a big deal, though, as the view of the field was pretty crisp, and the people around us all came and went often enough that they weren't annoyed when the kids wanted to get up every half-inning.

The game started with a beautiful tribute to the troops (and more were interspersed throughout the game), and then the Rockies proceeded to beat up the Giants in what should have been a pitching duel, except for Tim Lincecum's decision to suck today and to put a lot of people on base.  The Giants didn't score because the Rockies' pitcher held them -- no men on base, no runs!  I'm not a fan of either team, really (though my allegiance is with the Giants), but, seriously, that game stunk. 

We left between innings 7-8 when Dash had decided that he'd had enough on multiple levels.  After kicking over my Coke in the first inning (blast you AT&T park for not having lids!  kids need lids!  and cupholders are needed even in the bench seats!), Dash wanted one thing after another: a pretzel, cotton candy, did somebody say ice cream?  Where'd you get that camo hat!  Ooooh, an orange foam finger!  Why can't we have a boat out in the cove?  I need some sodaaaaaaaahhhhhhh...

So, I finally told him that if he couldn't sit still and watch the game -- because I actually enjoy baseball and wanted to watch it un-whined at for a bit -- he'd be punished by having to attend a Red Sox game at Fenway.

The kid cried so hard that we had to leave.  I am bad and punished, he says.  And I do feel a little extreme.

It was time to go anyway -- a line had already formed at the CalTrain station, and the train on the way back was raucus, and, thank God, express to San Carlos, just a few stops away from us.  There is no such thing as a bad day at the ballpark (well, unless you're at Fenway), but here are the lessons we learned:

1) When going to AT&T Park, get a seat with a cupholder.  Take your own cups with lids for kids (and maybe even for yourself), as a host of people around us had spills like us.  (The park doesn't allow lids or straws, with few exceptions like prepackaged lemonade.)

2) Especially when attending with kids, sit somewhere where there's easy entrance and egress.  This is not the arcade area.  Club level (company seats, usually) may be worth it if you can gain access to them just to have fewer crowds and less chaos.

3) Do leave the game early to get a seat on the train home.

4) Take kids to minor league games until they're "old enough," which will vary from kid to kid.  Dash, at 5, wasn't ready for the Big Leagues yet.  Next up: San Jose Giants.

And take a moment, on this day, to remember why we did this: we chose to commemorate Memorial Day by partaking in America's favorite pasttime. On this day, we remember those armed forces members here and gone who have or would give their lives for our freedom -- even if it's freedom to threaten your kid with Fenway or to deny an orange finger.  I'm grateful to live in this great country and thank the brave men and women in our armed forces for their service.

Happy Birthday to My Favorite Pizzaiolo

The pizza oven is here!  The pizza oven is here!  And it arrived just in time for the Guv's 38th birthday!  Whoo-hoo!

Here's a picture of my personal pizzaiolo, Brooklyn-born "The Guv," with one of our first pies.  Cooking in this thing is an art form.  One has to build the right kind of fire, burning hot (up to 800 degrees), and the fire is moved around the oven to properly heat it.  When the pizza goes in, it takes about 90 seconds to cook.  Magic! 

Tonight, we celebrated the Guv's 38th birthday with some fantastic friends, and the birthday boy himself tossed and baked some fabulous pies.  If it feels like I'm using a lot of superlatives, it's both because the Guv's pizzas are that good and because our friends bring good wines with them. 

When good friends, good wine, and good pizza come together, nirvana happens. 

We are so very lucky to live here in Silicon Valley, making our dreams come true (including this oven!) and surrounded by smart and fun friends who love pizza us.  

But since this is the Guv's birthday post, enough about pizza and friends: let's talk about why, this year, I celebrate him a little extra.  Here is my birthday toast (hiccup!):

Guv, we've shared twenty great years of belly laughs, stories that never grow old, conversations that are always interesting and inspiring, and a whole lot of fun.  I remember your 18th birthday, on which I gave you a picture frame with a picture of us to take to Yale.  (It was pink.  What was I thinking?!)  This year, you've gotten a convertible and a pizza oven.  So for my birthday, I'd like a Vespa and ... wait, this is your toast.  Seriously, this year has been hell, and you've had my back every step of the way.  I have no greater friend, and, as far as old men go, you're alright.  Keep that pizza coming, and I might keep taking care of you in your old age.  I hear that metal peel you're holding can double as a cane.  Just remember, before you come chasing after me to chastise me for this post, you don't want to throw out your back or anything.  Those kinds of things are a lot harder to fix as you approach AARP-eligibility 40.  But even when you get there, I'll be right beside you, and I'll lend you my arm if you need some help hobbling... 'cause that's how we roll, together.  I'll love you even when you're 98, you know; God-willing you'll keep me laughing that long.  To many more birthdays, pizzas and fun times, I toast you with a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY!  xo

Grieving

This past week or so has been a very, very low point in the life of Rox.  My ongoing health issues remain a factor; meanwhile, a situation in my extended family has wrecked me -- which, frankly, makes my health issues markedly worse.  Imagine having a disease in which you can't cry.  It's a good thing that, usually, I'm quite strong... just not this week.

Some of my friends recently circled their wagons around me, reminding me that my health and my feelings matter a great deal to a lot of people.  I am a hard person to bring down; regardless, these friends found a way to lift me back up as if I'd never been knocked off of my feet.  And when I fell down the next day, again, there they were again.  And again, and again.  Fall down seven times, get up eight, says the Japanese proverb -- and I wouldn't have gotten up once if it weren't for a host of very special people whom I didn't know two years ago.  I pinch myself every day that I wake up here in California.  

One friend in particular has offered me support beyond measure.  She brought me gluten-free cupcakes when I was down.  She always knows just the right time to ask me to breakfast, or suggest a playdate, or arrange a dinner out for our families.  She does these things even though she's been struggling with a lot on her plate lately.  She gives and gives and gives, tirelessly, to everyone she knows.  It is a blessing to have her as my friend and neighbor.

Today, this friend who's seen me through so very much lost her mom.  Her mom, a cancer survivor and a friend to all who knew her, went into her beautiful kitchen to make coffee this morning; the theory is that she suffered a massive heart attack that ended her life quickly right there in her kitchen -- a kitchen into which she once invited my daughter to stay and make cupcakes with her granddaughter, cupcakes which led to a homemade spaghetti-and-meatball dinner and dessert from a Jacques Pepin recipe.  That afternoon and evening meant the world to my kid, as it was like she had some local grandparents for an evening.  In that same kitchen, I watched the vice-presidential debate before the last election... celebrated my friend's 40th birthday... celebrated the holidays with some fellow bloggers... and I've only been here a couple of years.   Hearing more and more stories about the lives she's touched for far longer, I am truly amazed.  We should all be so lucky as to have such a positive impact on others' lives and to be remembered so fondly.  What I will remember most about this amazing grandmother is the support she offered to me as I struggled with my still-undiagnosed illness in the fall.  I was around her at several different points, and each time, she asked how I was doing -- and she listened, offered encouragement, and truly cared.  She knew what it was like to need hope in a dire situation, and I looked at her: a picture of health, a conqueror of a battle, a strong and happy woman.  She inspired me.  She made me believe I could be well. 

How can she be gone?  And how can I help my friend, whose mother has lived near her and been a significant presence in her life on a daily basis?  

The grief of this past week has overwhelmed me.  If I cry, I stand to make myself sicker.  But how can I not cry for my friend, my poor, dear friend, and her wonderful family ... I cannot imagine their loss.  It is unbearable, and unthinkable, and all wrong. 

Fearing that I cannot do much else, for my friend, I pray: God, in your mercy, bring comfort to my friend and to all of her mother's loved ones and friends in this time of grief.  May her love and strength live on in all of our hearts.  May the positive way in which she lived her life inspire the greatness that lies within all of us.  May her soul rest in peace, and may we all find peace, in this life and ever after. Amen.

Silicon Valley Moms Group Book Club: The Body Scoop for Girls

In this post, I am participating in the Silicon Valley Moms Blog book club.  We read "The Body Scoop for Girls" by Jennifer Ashton, M.D.  The purpose of our book club is to share in the reading of books that will inspire blog posts and conversations; we do not review books.  This book inspired me to think about having "The Talk" with my daughter.

I have a confession to make.  I have talked with my daughter a lot about growing up.  I've talked with her about where she might want to go to middle school/high school/college, what she might want to study, what kind of career she finds intersting, what it's like to raise kids, why nutrition and exercise are important, what a role model looks like...

... but I haven't talked with Petunia yet about the physical changes she's experiencing.  She's only 9 years old; she started the school year at 4'5", and now she's 4'9".  She's aware of breast development and the appearance of body hair because it's been happening to friends, but I don't think she knows what's coming next.  I find the need to explain it all stressful, mostly because I fear I'll do it wrong.  We had health class for these things back in my day; now, there is no class, and the parent must be the teacher.  (I should note that I believe that my mother explained these things to me, too; I just remember health class more, probably because of the sheer embarrassment of it.)

So, I've been preparing for The Talk.  Beyond not knowing about her forthcoming menstrual cycles, I'm pretty sure she doesn't know anything about sex, either.  And it kind of all lumps together, doesn't it?  What a talk it will be ... whenever we have it.  I'm not going to lie; I've been hoping she brings it up.  It's too hard to figure out where to start on my own.

It's likely that Petunia won't raise the subject before it is a pressing concern, though, so I hatched A Plan.  I ordered a book: an American Girl book called "The Care and Keeping of You"  -- a book that remains wrapped up and hidden because I ordered it blind and don't like it much.  For starters, it's from American Girl -- the company that brought us the dolls with which she still plays.  (I mean, ewww!)  It's very youthfully designed, which led me to think it might be age-appropriate.  Unfortunately, there are references in the book that I don't find appropriate for a 9 year-old, such as references to cutting and to eating disorders.  I don't want her getting ideas -- just information.  Basic information.

So it was with great eagerness that I signed up to review "The Body Scoop for Girls."  By an ob-gyn who specializes in adolescent care, the book is surprisingly thick and rich, and it's definitely not overly "girlie" or youthful.  But... it references even more stuff that I don't want my 9 y.o. to see, things like STD's and drugs in addition to cutting, eating disorders, etc.

I'm starting to realize that this is all stuff that I'll need to take on with my daughter, but I have to admit that I'm frustrated at how hard it is to find a book that doesn't have TMI -- at least, TMI for a 9 year-old.

What I want is a story that we can read together... I can lead in to the story with a tale of the changes that will soon be happening to her, and I can share how it came about with me.  I can back it all up with pictures and information -- information that she can read and re-read until she's comfortable.  Information about what she needs to know now, before Aunt Flo comes to visit.  We can segue into how babies are made/sex soon after she's processed the first round of information.

I'll be ready to talk with her about all of the other stuff (eating disorders, cutting, prophylactics, STDs, etc.) in a few years, but not in fourth grade.  She's just not ready for that yet, and neither am I.

In all likelihood, I'll photocopy pages from the Body Scoop book for her to reference, unless I come across something more appropriate in the meanwhile for my fourth grader... or unless they bring back health class, something I never thought I'd miss.

I'm glad the next one's a boy and his dad gets to have that Talk.

For every SV Moms book club, I offer whether or not I would recommend the book we read.  In this case, I offer a tentative "yes."  It is a handy resource to have on hand, especially when Petunia reaches the teenage years and the bigger issues arise, and it will help with my ultimate goal of raising a kid who will make smart choices based on solid information, which the book has in spades.  I'm just not comfortable leaving it where my daughter can read it freely yet; she'll be in high school before I feel okay with that.

Disclaimer: I received a complimentary copy of this book.  I did not commit to reviewing the book at all, let alone favorably, and am not being otherwise compensated for participation in this or any other book club.

A special kind of tired, but happy

There is a special kind of tired one gets when one is world-weary, which happens after days like today: days when all I want to do is go to church and find some peace on this (theoretical) day of rest, but, instead, I spend the morning cleaning my kitchen for the Girl Scouts, who will arrive at noon so that I can teach them to cook mystery ingredients over a roaring campfire built in my backyard hibachi.  Then, after the Girl Scouts leave, I help my daughter prepare for a school trip for what seems like hours.  (Wait, it was hours; have you ever tried to help a 9 year-old pack for what she's sure will be the greatest experience of her life to date?)  Then, I author my high school class notes, due last week (extension granted).  Finally, I attempt to polish a newsletter for my job on which I've spent hours, only to be thwarted by buggy software rendering me unable to finish.  Somewhere in there, the Guv whisked us out to dinner.  I can't even remember what I ate.

On the one hand, this is the stuff of life.  On the other hand, I'm tired... tired of being tired because I'm still not 100%, tired of not finding the balance in life, tired of never having enough time for anything I want to do anymore... things like reading the book for my book club on time for once.  (It's "Little Bee," and I'm 1/3 of the way through and enjoying it, a page at a time.)  I feel like I'm doing a whole lot of things for a whole lot of people -- things I value, perhaps, but they're of service to others and not, necessarily, for me.  Somewhere in there, despite successful attempts at scaling back earlier in the spring, I'm at it again.  I've overcommitted, and I've lost myself.  How do I return to that place that I knew two months ago, the one where I wasn't this out-of-whack?

But just as I'm feeling most sorry for myself (and really, I loathe self-pity, so it'll end with writing it down), I look in on the kids, who've been bunking together for a few weeks now after Petunia has decided she isn't such a fan of the loft bed, which she thinks has "seismic safety issues" among other things.  I look into Dash's room, and I find his sister lying next to him instead of in the top bunk.  Her arms are around him, and he's lying right on her heart.

This, I think, is why all of the other schlock in my life doesn't matter.   I've bitten off more than I can chew on too many occasions, over-promised and under-delivered at others, and yet: look.  Can you picture them?  He wears his favorite hand-me-down blue monkey PJ's while she sports her pink monkey nightgown (they don't plan to match, they just do); they hold on to each other, needing each other and loving each other so fiercely and protectively that, already, we fear the day when one will leave for boarding school or college.  His ear is to her heart; he needs the comfort of the sound, and she needs his nearness to her.  They can't get married someday, as Dash insists they will, but I do want to freeze this moment when he believes it, especially after a day when it seems like all they did was annoy the living daylights out of each other.  It all comes down to love, after all.

Tomorrow, I'll wake up and greet Monday with joy.  Most of my "work" is done for now, and, while I'll continue to do my various jobs, I won't raise my hand and take on anything else extra before the school year ends.  Not that it wasn't fun to try to teach a bunch of little girls to cook over a hibachi fire I had no idea how to build creating food I'd never before cooked ... but, yeah, I won't be doing that again.  My happy place is pretty far away from that, no matter how helpful I want to be.  My happy place is under the covers with my own sweet little kids, listening to their heartbeats, which echo, "love you, love you, love you." 

Love Is ... This.

Twenty years ago today, the Guv and I met for the first time.  We attended boarding school, where he was a graduating senior, and I was a year behind him.  While we had common friends, it was a big school, and I didn't know his name until that day ... or maybe the day after.  I called him Mr. Captain Varsity Baseball, a tribute to the fact that a) a jock asked me out, which was weird, because b) I dated poets and musicians, not jocks, so a distinct nickname was in order, and c) he was impressive and warranted a "title."  Besides, I've always been a sucker for a baseball uniform, especially worn by a rather handsome man.

Within hours of our meeting, though, I knew that the Guv was much more than a cute guy in a uniform: he was (is) the smartest man I've ever met.  I won't claim that I fell in love that first day -- it took six days -- but I was intrigued.  At 16, I felt sure I was what we called back then a "senior fling" (he was headed to Yale the next year, and I'd be left behind) -- but I was okay with that, because, for nearly three weeks, I would have access to that vast library of his mind. 

Near the end of that first few weeks, one of us wrote a note to the other -- I can't remember which one! -- that said, "Let's take each day as it comes, and worry about later later." 

We haven't spent a day apart (at least not at heart) since May 13, 1990.

Now I share his last name, and our son plays baseball.  In a month, we'll head back to the school where we met and remember the past fondly while wondering if our children's footsteps will ever grace the same halls.  

Especially in the past year, when we've learned a little bit about the "in sickness and in health" part of our vows, I've given a lot of thought to this crazy life we've built together.  I realized that, for us, this is what love is: the unpredictable, welcoming the blind turn in the road and embarking on it together, growing and changing in different ways, but always side by side ... having kids, but not losing each other in the process, seeing ourselves in them while letting their lives unfold by their own script ... always having something to talk about, and never losing the conversation ... sharing dreams both individual and together, supporting each other when our plans take different paths, but always returning to this one shared home and heart. 

Five days after we met, the Guv told me he loved me and, moreover, that he'd marry me someday.  I spent the night talking to girlfriends in my dorm about whether or not I should dump him, because, clearly, he was weird.  By the next day, I realized he was right.

So, Guv, happy 20th.  You were right.  (There, I said it.)  I love you, too, to the ends of the earth. 

A toast for mother's day

I know ... I haven't been blogging much. 

The good news is that I'm feeling better.  The bad news is that I'm still more tired than normal ... and since blogging is what I used to do late-night, it fell by the wayside as my bedtime crept earlier.

No worries ... I'll be back next-week with a giveaway and some juicy new material.

In the meanwhile, I want to wish all my fellow "mommy bloggers" a Happy Mother's Day.  My mom will arrive a couple of days afterward and, for a late mother's day celebration/her birthday next Friday, I'm going to recreate some of the experience I had in San Francisco a few weeks ago ... including a visit to the original Blue Bottle (pictured).  

In the meanwhile, here's wishing you that perfect day with that perfect cup of happiness.  Cheers!