Red Carpet Ready (on less than a budget!)

Did I just write Red Carpet Ready?

Yes, I did!

And yes, I did… get Red Carpet Ready, that is, for the Emmys!

It all began with Suave and the beautiful and talented Sophia Vergara, the Modern Family ensemble member who was nominated for an Emmy as Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series.  Sophia worked with Suave Professionals and allowed fans to vote for her Emmy-ready hairstyle…

… and Audrey was invited by Suave to head to LA to interview Sophia about hair and style and fashion and being a Mom and getting ready for such an exciting honor and Emmy evening…

… and Audrey was invited to actually attend the Emmys…  and something about 2 tickets… and… and… AND I GOT TO GO, TOO!

OK.  Red Carpet.  What comes to mind immediately?  A TEAM OF STYLISTS? (Well, yes, if I was nominated for an Emmy, maybe.  But I wasn’t.)  A TEAM OF STYLISTS? (Yes, again, if I was a presenter at the Emmys, maybe.  But I wasn’t.)  A TEAM OF STYLISTS? (Um… not this time!)

My big question was WHAT TO WEAR? Of course.  Hmmmm.  Something pretty.  Something fun.  Something comfortable.  Something sexy!?  I wanted to step out of my comfort zone with the LBD and into something more California.  More colorful.  More Hollywood.  But I didn’t want to spend a lot of money and I didn’t really have any time to shop anyway.  Next best thing?  Shop in my own closet.

I have a closet in a spare bedroom where I keep things.  Not hoard, exactly.  Just keep.  In that closet are “things for potential Halloween costumes and tea parties and such”… things like old/vintage blouses and shirts and belts and vests and hats and aprons and jewelry and white gloves and wigs and sunglasses that some members of my family might like to get rid of (Honey?!), but are always grateful when I can whip up a costume by just visiting that closet.  In that closet are the long dresses I wore to my children’s weddings… waiting to be shortened into cocktail dresses that I can wear to an event like the Emmys.  Who knew?  But not enough time for this Emmys.  In that closet are tuxes and coats and skirts and dresses that someone just might wear again if I keep them long enough… some dresses that Audrey has from her Donna Karan days to dresses that I bought for Audrey and Jane as far back as when they were in college (high school, even).

It was just that thought, the someone just might wear again thought, that drew me to that closet in the spare bedroom.  I stepped inside and went about my work, swooping each hanger aside, one by one.  The pink dress? No, too cute.  The red one? No, too casual.  The brown one? No, too plain.  The gray one? Maybe, but the back slit goes way, way up too high, right into Spanx territory.  Egads.  How about the Donna Karan navy blue dress? Worth a try-on.  The black-and-beige silky Donna Karan? Worth a try-on.  The mauve frilly Donna Karan wrap? Um.  No.  I’m not IN the Emmys, remember.  The steel blue sarong? Possibly.

I took each possibility out of the closet.  I tried each one on.  Too tight.  Too loose in the wrong places.  Too Spanx.  Too boring.  Too OMG, no.

Then, last but not least, I slipped into the steel blue sarong dress.  I had never worn this dress.  Heck, I had never even tried it on.  I know for a fact that Audrey and Jane each wore it a multitude of times.  I have photos to prove it.  Photos from quite some time ago. I don’t even remember having it cleaned, but it was all pressed and had been hanging so neatly by the two giant safety pins on the tattered paper around the hanger itself.  I liked it. Pretty.  Fun.  Comfortable (all kinda spandex-y and stretchy with plenty of room for those Spanx).  Sexy!?  Maybe, for me!

That was it.  That was “the Emmy Red Carpet dress.”  I slipped out of it and noticed the label.  EXPRESS.  I smiled to myself, knowing that I was going to the Emmys wearing wearing a someone just might wear again EXPRESS dress that I had probably purchased for my daughters for somewhere in the vicinity of… oh, $20.00… about, oh… 12 years ago.  It was the perfect recycling moment.

Then it was time to accessorize.  I got all into the shop in my closet challenge and vowed (to myself… because no-one else was around!) not to spend one cent on my Red Carpet-worthy outfit.  I had the dress and the Spanx.  I needed jewelry, shoes, a purse and a little cover-up.

Because the dress is a sarong-style, I knew I could get away with glamorous jewelry.  I wanted something sparkly and bold.  I am known for pearl earrings and necklaces.  Conservative.  I wanted the opposite for the Red Carpet.  I wracked my brain for ideas.  I went through Flo’s vintage costume jewelry, but she had only clip-ons in the boxes I have saved.  I thought of my Mom’s jewelry, but she’s too tiny to wear long chandeliers.  THEN I REMEMBERED Audrey and Vera’s Getting Gorgeous Party at BlogHer and the lia sophia jewelry.  I had picked out a pair of fabulous lia sophia crystal chandeliers… but where had I put them?  I looked everywhere.  I called Audrey and Jane.  No-one had seen them.  I finally remembered a lone bag that had been sitting on my dining room table since Blog-Her.  I gently opened it… hoping… hoping… and there was a lia sophia box.  In that box was a velvety soft pouch.  In that pouch were the crystal chandeliers.  Fabulously beautiful and bold.  I slipped them into my ears.  They sparkled.  And they instantly reminded me of a necklace that my Mom had recently purchased at a consignment shop in my town.  I knew the necklace would be a perfect compliment to the earrings.  I called my Mom, who was coming to dinner at my house that night… and she was so happy to bring the necklace as her contribution to the Red Carpet-ready feeling (remember that my Mom is the original fashionista)!  I also wanted to carry Barry with me, in something I could see and feel, and that was a silver bracelet he had given to me years ago while working as Dustin Hoffman’s stand-in on the film American Buffalo… the bracelet with 5 authentic Buffalo Head nickels… so meaningful and so perfect for this Red Carpet adventure.

The shoes?  That was easy.  I love to be a bit daring with shoes.  I like ‘em high and, well… high.  I have a pair of high, peep-toe, lavender-ish colored Calvin Klein shoes that I bought for a just in case occasion because they were incredibly beautiful and sexy (just ask Barry) and marked down from $150.00 to $49.99.  I had never worn them.  They were saving themselves for the Emmys.  And the purse?  Who knew back in 2007, at the InStyle Super Saturday Ovarian Cancer Research Fund-raiser in the Hamptons, that the awesome lavender-ish Banana Republic clutch that I’d bought for $5.00 would be the perfect mate to the shoes.  I had never used it.  It, too, had been saving itself for the perfect occasion.  Ahhhh.

And a sweet little cover-up, just in case the Nokia Theater was super-air-conditioned?  (Which it was… and outside it was a cool 60 degrees when the Emmys were over and Audrey and I were waiting for our limo.  Did I just say “limo”?  Yes, I did.)  Brrrrrrr.   The cover-up is a beige cotton lace blouse-y number with a very dainty tie.  I bought it, too, at one of the Super Saturday’s I’ve attended over the years.  I love it… and it was perfect.

So.  Red Carpet ready, I’d say, on less than a budget… for an absolutely PRICELESS time with Audrey!

Thanks, Suave… for the memories… including watching Sophia receive an Emmy, along with her cast/production members, for Modern Family’s Outstanding Comedy Series win.

Cheat Sheets

During my 30 years of teaching English & Reading, I stumbled upon some rather unique and I dare say ingenious Cheat Sheets (not that I ever condoned this practice, but kudos for originality).  I always told the would-be “cheater” that it would have taken less time to study than to develop the Cheat Sheet scheme.

So how do I now find myself with my own Cheat Sheet scheme?  Because I’m no spring chicken.  That’s why.  First and foremost, I don’t remember things like I used to.  Second, I don’t remember things like I used to.  (Did I just repeat myself?)  Third, I don’t remember things like I used to.

Here I am training for a HUGE Half Ironman triathlon… the Clearwater 70.3 Championships.  Until recently, training of any sort involved a downloaded training schedule, a wristwatch, and how many minutes to swim or bike or run on any given day.  That was good enough to get me through a 5K, a 5-miler, a 10K, a half marathon, a sprint triathlon and my first and only 70.3 race (Amica Providence).  Clearwater is a different story.  I have to be more prepared.  Physically and mentally.

My training now involves internal training.  When I go out to swim, bike or run, I must break the training into little segments… like:

AM: W/up 200 EE swim, 8 X 50 (25 drill – 25 swim) @ 5 sr, 4 X 300 EE (1st swim, 2nd pull with band – small pads, 3rd pull with band) @ 30 sr, 2 X 200 kick on back/streamlined (choice short cut off fins) @ 30sr, 200 AR choice cooldown

What!!?? How am I supposed to remember that!!?? Never mind memorizing the codes!!??

So I’ve found myself a little way to remember while I’m swimming, biking or running.  Not unique or ingenious in any way.  Standard issue Cheat Sheet.  Circa 1960’s.

The Cheat Sheets have even run around to the other side of my hand and up my wrist.  But the interval work (Cheat Sheets included) will (hopefully!) build me up a bit better physically.

Now if I could only find Cheat Sheets for my memory.

“Everyone has a twin…”

I’m sure you’ve heard it.  You know… the “everyone has a twin” thing.  And there certainly are people who look like other people.  Shared similarities.  Facial, especially.  There is actually someone very famous who looks just like my husband…

But have you ever seen someone who looks so much like someone you know that it literally made you stop in your tracks?  Do a double take… or quadruple take?

This happened to me Saturday night at Baseball Tavern in Boston.  Barry and I had made last minute plans to head to a Red Sox game.  It was a beautiful afternoon and we had tickets to the 7:00 game.  Audrey and her family were on a cruise somewhere in the Bahamas.  Jane and Brian were in New York City.  Keith and his family were in New Hampshire.

And Adam and his family were with friends back at Bonnet Shores Beach in Rhode Island.

Or was he?

Barry had talked to Adam while on our way to Fenway Park.  Yes, Adam was at the beach.

So why did I spot Adam as Barry and I walked across the roof-top bar at Baseball Tavern on Boylston Street?  And why didn’t he seem to see me?

I must have looked very odd indeed as I stopped, stared, continued walking… turned around and stared again.  I did the whole squinting eyes and knit brow thing.  But “Adam” didn’t blink.  He kept right on talking to his friends, none of whom I recognized.

I caught up with Barry at the bar and told him to turn around and look at this guy who looks like Adam.  Barry did.  He was obviously intrigued.  We got a couple of beers (our first ones, by the way… so no blaming the beers on the eyesight) and walked by this impostor again.  I asked Barry if I should tell this stranger that he looks like our son.  Barry was all no way… too weird.

But I did talk Barry into wandering over to the center of the roof-top of that Baseball Tavern bar and snap a photo.  What a guy Barry is.  Huh?

So OK.  I leave it up to you.  Get rid of the stranger’s tussled hair and add a smile.  (And, of course, understand that Adam is far more handsome!)  Can you see why I did a quadruple-take as I saw this guy at the Boston Tavern when I knew that Adam was at the beach in Rhode Island!?

You know what they say…  

Leave your inhibitions at the door… !

If there is one day each year when all people and all things are equal… and equally fabulous… it’s the Carnival Parade day in Provincetown, MA, the seaside haven at the very tip of Cape Cod. Barry and I had heard of the parade, but we literally stumbled upon it 2 years ago, up close and personal, at one of the saddest times of our lives. Barry’s Mom, Flo, had died… and when everything had been taken care and we were left with, well… emptiness, Barry and I headed to Cape Cod for a couple of days. We wanted to re-group, to collect our thoughts… to begin our acceptance of this change of life as we knew it. One afternoon, we headed to Provincetown for a nice Portuguese meal at one of the lovely restaurants… and we were “hit” with the most fabulous day, darling… perfection in the fun and fabulousness that was Flo.

We vowed to return each year. To honor life. To honor Flo. Last year, we headed to Provincetown with our dear friends Bill and Renette and Barry’s beautiful cousin Donna and her husband Ronnie. These are people Flo LOVED. LOVED. LOVED. The fabulousness continued…

Carnival Parade day is a day of eclectic diversity. Young and old. Reserved and bold. Costumed, and not. Ordinary and HOT. Nested locals and far-away yokels. Totally clad and “egads!” Every Rainbow color, size, shape… and more. Check your inhibitions at the door!

This year’s Carnival theme was JUNGLE FANTASY. Lions and tigers and bears. OH, MY! Loin in a little closer for a better look! In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the lions… well, dance on floats!

Smiles. Smiles. Smiles. Humanity meeting at its very edges and its very core.  Everyone appreciates, loves, admires, engages totally fun and fabulous, darling… !

Bill and Renette, Donna and Ronnie, Barry and me… a tradition begun and continued:

The “Girls” Come Out to Play at Estee Lauder’s BCA Pledge Campaign

The “Girls”…

We push ‘em, stuff ‘em, hide ‘em, enhance ‘em, peek-a-boo ‘em.  We marvel at them, stare at them, covet them, are fascinated with them, and sometimes even worship them.  We nourish with them. We wish for bigger ones, smaller ones, rounder ones, fuller ones (and OK, at my age, perkier ones).

Breasts. Next to hair, is there another woman’s feature that gets as much attention?

And it starts early.  I remember, as a little girl, watching my Mom get dressed.  She could be getting ready to go to the commissary at the Naval base or dressing up for a date with my Dad.  She wore all the same stuff I did… you know, panties, shirts, pants, skirts, dresses, socks, shoes… but the bra was a whole different animal.  This device had such purpose, such expertise, such grandeur.   It was such a grown-up thing.  I remember my Mom putting her bra on backwards, around her waist, clasping it, turning it around to the front and then sliding it up and over those beautiful things that I could only wish for.  I am my Mom’s only daughter (I am sandwiched closely between 2 brothers who were not, as I reflect, watching my Mom get dressed)… and we were living in California, all the way across the country from my aunts and Nana and cousins and anyone else with whom I could share this wonder of breasts.  I used to peek into my Mom’s lingerie drawer where she had her bras lined up like nesting dolls… back then, bras were always white and my Mom hand-washed hers to “keep their shape.”  I actually remember my Mom saying these words:  keep their shape.  Ah.

By the time I was ready for my first bra, my family was living in New Hampshire.  I was 11 years old.  I probably didn’t need a bra, but my cousin already had one and she was younger than me.  Yikes.  By then, I had discovered that each of my Mom’s 3 sisters were, well… more endowed.  Yep.  And I seemed to be on hereditary line with my Mom.  Oh, well.  I remember asking my Mom to please, please, please not tell my brothers that we would be bra shopping.  My Mom fully agreed with me that this was a private moment and all silence would be maintained.  Like my brothers wouldn’t know.  Ha ha.

The first-bra excursion was both exciting and frightening.  Back in those days, girls went pretty much from white cotton undershirts to bras.  This made it particularly funny for 11 and 12-year old boys.  I think the boys had radar (I’ll call it BRA-dar) for girls wearing bras for the first time.  The galloping big fun for a boy was detecting and snapping the bra from behind… just a little hormonal reminder that breasts were pretty interesting.  I knew the score and fully realized that boys (even brothers) had a 6th sense for these things.  I don’t remember the department store that my Mom and I went to, but I’m thinking it was a Sears because that’s about all we had back then.  I do remember going to the girls’ section and heading to the lingerie… tentatively.  I guess I intuitively knew how this one purchase would send me from girlhood to womanhood in the clink of a cash register.  I remember my Mom and I gently going through the selection of bras.  (Who am I kidding?  The “selection” was one white, elastic-y training bra… yes, those were the days of the training bra.  What the bra was training breasts to do is still a mystery to me.)  I was a bit taken aback when a saleswoman approached and loudly asked if I needed a training bra.  Well, yes… can’t you see these awesome buds popping through both my awesome white undershirt and blouse?  Before my Mom could speak, the saleswoman had grabbed one of the training bras, whipped it around my breasts on the outside of my blouse, clasped it and announced, loudly again, that it was a perfect fit.  I could have melted into the floor as I stood there in that department store with my first bra on the OUTSIDE of my blouse.  My Mom realized my pain, quickly unclasped the bra, paid for it while the lady kept right on talking… and we were in the car in no time.  Phew.

As I think back, I still wonder what all the fitting was about because all the training bras were the same.  White and elastic-y.  Today’s little girls begin wearing sweet little camisoles and half camis and sarongs  in the most exquisite designs and colors and fabrics at such young ages that maybe the first-bra shopping excursion is a thing of the past.   That would be a little sad, I think.  But anyway, I did get my bra snapped by the boys at school the very next day and I did get teased by my brothers and I did feel kinda cool and awesome that all this was happenin’.  Rite of passage?  You betcha, sistas!  My breasts were here to stay and could only improve!

And they did.  I never improved to the “status” of my aunts and some of my cousins, but I could live with that.  In fact, by the time I entered college, almost every young woman I knew was feelin’ so groovy with the times as they were a’changin’ about her breasts that size, shape and imagined “beauty” mattered less than the revolutionary freedom of liberation of mind and body… and bras became the symbolic restriction of women.  The bra’s purpose and expertise and grandeur diminished the raw power of self as a woman.  I embraced the opportunity to shed my bra and felt the power of women… in this relationship of power and breast.  This me was quite radical to both my Mom and Dad… remember my Mom with her drawer-full of perfectly laundered nesting bras… but they understood, unlike the proverbial Mr. Jones.  There were many family dinners in debate, some heated, about those times.  I was blessed to have parents who listened.  Who talked.  Who shared.  And breasts were stand outs in those discussions.  Pun intended.

And I loved the fashion freedom of going bra-less, too.  I loved halter tops (especially the ones styled from silk or cotton kerchiefs, folded in a triangle with an attached piece of ribbon or rawhide for the neck and the ends tied around the waist.)  I loved halter sweaters (yes, there were such things), and I loved halter dresses.  It was while wearing one of my halter masterpieces that my husband-to-be first took notice.  We were both teaching summer school and there was a softball game scheduled for the students one Friday afternoon.  The school was air-conditioned (very novel for that time), and I wore sweaters inside.  This outside thing was different.  Off came the sweater. On came the former softball player in me… you know, with the running bases thing… and the untethered breasts.  My husband says he still remembers that afternoon… ’nuff said (so as not to mortify my children).

What I will always say I wasn’t prepared for in the breast department was pregnancy.  Holy cow.  Literally.  Two months in and I was banging into things.  Spilling things on them.  Using them as a dinner table (well, almost). This is when I pushed ‘em and stuffed ‘em and tried to un-peek-a-boo ‘em… but I guess the pride they felt in the life inside of me just radiated to the outside.  A new center of balance became my game.  I spent my first pregnancy researching and learning everything there was to know about breast feeding… but when Audrey was born 6 weeks prematurely, after having spent 32 hours in labor before an emergency c-section… after 3 days of trying to pump and failing miserably and crying and Audrey losing more of her barely 4 pounds… with one nurse begging me to let her formula feed Audrey while another nurse was scolding me with “breast is best”… I allowed Audrey to be formula fed.  Audrey immediately thrived with weight gain and beautiful color and less and less tubes became necessary in her brightly lit incubator. I felt that my breasts had let me down…  for exactly one minute I felt that my breasts had let me down. I knew my breasts were there to nourish my baby… but something was preventing this.  Something went wrong and I didn’t have time to waste.  I had made the right decision. That same nurse who had begged me to formula feed came back to visit me every single night… and she walked me up and down the corridors, her arm wrapped around my waist… and she walked me down to see Audrey in her incubator in the ICU at all hours of the evening and early morning hours… any time I wanted.  The scolding nurse never returned.

Jane was born 2.5 years later.  I had reconciled myself to the possibility of not breast feeding again, but I knew I would try.  I wanted to.  I had known the wonder and beauty of feeding Audrey close to my heart, with her tiny face nestled into my bare breasts… as the begging nurse had suggested.  I loved it.  I knew I could do this again, but I did want to try breast feeding.  Of all the fascination and worship and covetousness and symbolic freedom of breasts… nourishing is what breasts are meant for.  I wanted to try.  Jane’s birth was very different from Audrey’s… she was a full-term, planned c-section… and with no begging or scolding from anyone, Jane latched and nursed.  For 3 years.  Yes.  I wrote 3 years.  My breasts became Jane’s.  She owned them.  She named them.  She loved them.  We had discussions about them.  It was the night before Jane turned 3 that I lay next to her in her bed and explained that it was time to say good-bye to my breasts (I remember their names, but that is so perfect and private that I cannot say them here).  Jane looked at me with her big, beautiful blue eyes and said, “OK, Mommy.”

And that was it.  My breasts became mine again.  Bittersweet.  A journey.  A marvelous, miracle of a journey with these “girls” always with me.  Changing with the years.  The decades.  Gravity pulling every which-way but up!  Watching my own daughters, with their own breasts, the centers of their own femininity, enter and engage and exit phases of their lives so similar to mine.

Then I was hit with breast news that no-one could be prepared for.  My cousin Cathy, at age 36… 7 years younger than me… was diagnosed with breast cancer.  My Mom’s sister’s daughter.  Beautiful, physically fit, mom of 3 children… Cathy.  Cathy with the warmest spirit and loveliest voice and most soothing laughter.  The diagnosis was not good… and with every medical intervention imaginable, Cathy died 7 years later, in June 2004 at age 43, leaving a grieving family and circle of friends who could only marvel at her fight, her courage, her tenacity and her strength in the face of her suffering.  It was my last visit with Cathy that she both begged me and scolded me to get my yearly mammograms… something I had, like many of us, put off.  Cathy became my ambassador for Breast Cancer Awareness.   I have honored her wish and spread the word to everyone I know that mammography is still the best tool for detecting breast cancer early.  Mammography saves lives.

It was Cathy who immediately came to mind when Audrey, Jane and I were invited to participate in Estee Lauder’s Breast Cancer Awareness Pledge…. as a blogging family of women representing different generations.  The Pledge involved a photo shoot.  The photo shoot involved letting “the girls” come out to play.  Yes, I’m saying that Audrey, Jane and I committed to baring our breasts at a photo shoot… in New York City, for the Estee Lauder Breast Cancer Awareness Pledge.  But before I get into the details of the photo shoot…

… let me tell you about the inspiring and powerful 2010 global Estee Lauder Breast Cancer Awareness Campaign, titled “Connect. Communicate. Conquer.” - Prevent Breast Cancer One Woman at a Time.  The Pink Ribbon.  Wear It.  Share It. Raising awareness through communication is the very key to spreading knowledge about breast cancer and the stigmas attached to it, and The Estee Lauder Companies has, since 1992, raised over $45 million for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation and distributed 110 million-plus pink ribbons worldwide.   Connecting, communicating and wearing and sharing the pink ribbon… preventing and conquering this disease one woman at a time.  The campaign, featuring women with hands over their breasts in a pledge to spread the word, will debut in October, National Breast Cancer Awareness month.

So back to the photo shoot.  My life with my breasts has been rather standard, I’m sure.  From being enthralled with my Mom and her grown-up breasts to needing my own bra to cover my pre-adolescence ones, from letting my breasts stand up and be counted in another time and place to catching the attention of my guy and future father of my children, from pregnancy to nestling and nourishing my children, from menopausal gravitational pull to posing topless.  Wait! What was that last one?!

Posing topless never quite made it on my list of things to do.  It is now.  It’s another of my 57 in 52 that came from somewhere beyond me… a poignant and powerful and amazing experience that will remain with me forever.  And to do it, pose for the photograph… topless… with my 2 daughters… actually brought tears to my eyes.  First, Audrey, Jane and I were pampered with exquisitely soft white robes wrapped around us, treated to a delectable buffet, and made Estee Lauder lovely by hair and make-up geniuses.  Did I mention geniuses?  They were.  When it was time for the actual shoot, we were brought into a room that looks just like a room where fabulous photographs are taken.  Airy, yet intimate.  Open, but cozy.  Dark, but dazzling with lights.  When it was time to disrobe, I thought I would feel uncomfortable standing there with renowned photographer John Midgley and the campaign’s director and several assistants and make-up and hair artists and guys with more cameras and video equipment… with my 2 topless daughters, Audrey and Jane.  I didn’t feel uncomfortable.  I felt beautiful and powerful as the photographer smiled and gently told us where to stand or sit and where to put our hands and how to lean in or lean out just a bit.  I felt Audrey and Jane’s warmth all around me, just like when they were tiny babies in my arms.  We laughed and we smiled and we were serious,too.  Topless. This Breast Cancer Awareness Campaign is serious, but it’s also all about communicating and connecting. There is fun in connecting, even while topless.  And Cathy came.  My cousin Cathy was in that room and she was laughing and smiling and serious, too.  I felt her.  Cathy taught me to love my breasts and the stories they tell.  Cathy taught me to love my life.

When the shoot was through, and the robes were back on, I felt tears in my eyes and beginning to stream down my cheeks.  Right through my smile, the tears came.  Others felt it, too… and that was good.  Powerful.  Emotional.  Strength.  Connecting. Woman to woman.  Person to person.  Angels among us.  Conquering this insidious disease.

The “girls” got put away again before we hit the City streets and the train ride home.  (Not sure how Amtrak would have responded to the toplessness of 3 women.) But I left that New York City studio with such an amazing sense of the true connection of people… from everywhere and from every generation… and the ability to reach millions of people… one at a time, if need be.  Breast Cancer has touched nearly everyone in some way.  It is time to prevent it from ever taking someone from us again… thank you, Estee Lauder, for the wonderful opportunity to spread the word.

Our breasts truly are miracles.  Let’s all keep them healthy by giving Breast Cancer Awareness all of our attention.  Yes, go out and CONNECT.  COMMUNICATE. CONQUER. WE CAN PREVENT BREAST CANCER ONE WOMAN AT A TIME.

THE PINK RIBBON.  WEAR IT.  SHARE IT.

And maybe you’d like to share a breast story or two… or a photograph…  along the way.  TAKE THE PLEDGE to spread the word.

(Oh, one more thing.  My Mom’s bras are still lined up in her lingerie drawer like beautiful nesting dolls.  Mine are rolled into balls and usually found in a random gym bag or at the bottom of a pile of laundry.  Definitely not keeping their shape.  Sorry, Mom!)

76,543 things to do

As a wife, mom, mother-in-law, grandmother, daughter, relative, friend and business partner with my daughters, I have about 76,543 things to do every single day.

If you are reading this, you too have 76, 543 things to do as well… and taking the time to read this just upped your day to 76,544 things.

SO. People ask me all the time how I squeeze in exercise and training for events like 5K’s, longer distance races, sprint triathlons, a Half Ironman and now the focus of all of my training energy on the Clearwater, FL 70.3 World Championships in November. Most times, people are genuinely interested in my answer and hope to find some secret for more time for their own fitness endeavors. Very rarely (but it does happen), someone will respond to my answer to their question with how many more responsibilities they have than I do and how focusing on themselves would be… um… (they can’t seem to get the word out… but the meaning is clear)… selfish; i.e., I am selfish.

And then there’s the one person (OK, maybe two) who have had no problem berating me for wasting my time on nonsense.

I am of the opinion that everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, so I don’t get too riled up about opinions anymore.  (Barry may disagree with me here because when I get on a roll, he still jokes with me by saying, “Tell me how you really feel, Honey.”)

But back to my 76,543 things to do every day.  Yes, I am busy.  But I am retired after 30 years of teaching.  This gives me more flexible time.  This doesn’t mean that I have any more time than anyone else in the world (we’re all given the same 24 hours per day), but I can better choose the times to do certain things.  For example, when I was teaching, I left my home each morning at 6:30 am and got home at around 3:30 pm.  Now, I may be running or biking swimming at 6:30 am or noon or 2:30 pm.  But when I was teaching, I didn’t have 9 grandchildren, I wasn’t the sole caretaker of my Mom, and  MomGenerations.com did not exist.  I didn’t have daytime appointments to plan for my Mom, any writing to do, or any grandchildren activities.  Same amount of time… different things to do.

Squeezing in training is just one of the thousands of things to do.  But it’s something I love.  Each time I head out on my bike or for a run, it’s a poetic journey.  The clouds are never the same as yesterday.  The sky is always a different shade of blue.  The shadows leap from one side of the street to the other.  Rocks and boulders are sometimes whales, sometimes dinosaurs, sometimes bears or leopards.  Tree stumps are reminders of people from another time, people who perhaps sat under that tree with a lover or a newborn baby or a grandparent with stories to tell.  The water in the harbor is blue or gray or blueish-gray depending upon the time of day, and it too tells of the journeys of thousands seafaring folks who sailed on those ripples and waves.  Flowers unlock the secrets of their seeds and foretell another season with their colors.  Trees dance and even sing.  Gates swing open in welcome and sometimes are locked shut for reasons we cannot know.  Meadows sway in the wind and freshly cut grass fills noses with summer or fall or spring.  The sun is often yellow, sometimes orange, and even white hot.  Colors and sounds and textures and aromas combine in kaleidoscope fashion, blending light and design in a constant changing pattern.

This is why I get outside as often as I can.  This is why training for a running race or a triathlon is so important to me.  It’s the poetry.  It’s the poetry of nature that makes me so happy and peaceful and fulfilled.  It’s why I squeeze it in… even when there are 76,542 things left to do in my little corner of the world.

And every once-in-a-while, I stumble upon a sight so extraordinarily lovely and POETIC that I must stop… and accept the loveliness as the gift that it is.  Nature’s poetry.  And then return later with my camera…

This is why I squeeze training into my days of 76,543 things to do.

Bullies and Broken Hearts

I never, ever wanted to write a post about this.

Bullies. Bullies with a mob mentality. Bullies and my grandsons. Bullies and broken hearts.

I know a thing or two about bullies. I taught high school English and Reading for 30 years, and I had a lot of experience with adolescents coming into their own. I know a thing or two about mob mentality, too. I’d like to think I prevented a broken heart or a broken spirit or two during my teaching career… because I did not tolerate bullying and made a point to address the behavior head-on and immediately when it arose.

Today bullying touched me in the most personal of ways. It seeped through the lips and arms and hands of a group of boys… like an insidiously dark fog that envelops good air… and penetrated two of my grandsons.

It all began innocently enough. A couple of “older” boys (probably 8 years old, or so) were throwing tennis balls up and over a playground slide, through an enclosed tube, and down the slide on the other side. They were obviously having fun. William (5) and Benjamin (3) were playing on the playground when this little game began. William was immediately intrigued with this tennis ball game and asked if he could play. The boys handed William a tennis ball and William began this little game, too. William has a pretty good throwing arm and was keeping up with the game. Benjamin continued to climb on the other parts of the apparatus.

I was sitting off to the side on an old, crooked painted bench. In the shade. Enjoying the day.

Within a few minutes, another boy had joined the tennis-ball-group. Now 3 older boys were tossing the tennis balls over and up and down the slides… but tossing them much harder and faster. I guess that’s when the group became a mob. Before I could even blink, I noticed that William was up on the platform that connects the slides with the the tube… like he was hiding. I stood up from that shady bench and watched as William crawled from that platform, to the jungle gym, over another platform and down the furthest side of the equipment… and over the sand to the grassy area beyond. Ben was running after William with one of the tennis balls in his hand.

I quickly walked around the perimeter of the sandy area and caught up to William. He told me that the boys were throwing tennis balls AT HIM. So he left. I bent way down to his little face and asked him if he wanted me to go back and talk to the boys.

“NO,“ he answered. “I just want to go to the swings.” He was hurt and embarrassed.

So we did. But on the way to the swings, William told me that he didn’t like getting hit with tennis balls.  I stooped way down again, took his hands in mine, and we talked about how awful and helpless and sad it feels to be bullied.  I used the word bully so William would always know it and always recognize it.  Bully is not a good word.  It sounds bad.  It IS bad.  He still insisted that I not go back to the playground, and I decided to respect his decision.  We did talk, though, about how he would never want to make anyone else feel that bad and that sad.

We stayed at the swings for a good amount of time.  I pushed both William and Ben high, high, high up in the air and listened to their beautiful child laughter.  Then Ben wanted to go back to the playground to throw his tennis ball up the slide, through the tube and down the other side.

I was thinking… not such a good idea.  I could see that a couple of other boys had joined the mob.  William said that he would help Ben.  I made a quick judgment call that William needed to help take care of his brother… maybe making up for what had happened to him.  I was hesitant to return, but…

Ben wasn’t on the sand one second when one of the boys took his tennis ball right from his hands.  Ben was this close to tears when a Dad came to the rescue.  The Dad said, “Hey, Buddy… I have an extra tennis ball.”  And he went to his bag, got a tennis ball and handed it to Ben.  I thought this Dad must be the father of one of the boys and I felt that the situation may be a bit safer.

Not so.

The boy with Ben’s tennis ball threw the ball at Ben’s back.  Bare back.  Ben scrambled up the apparatus and the only thing he could think to yell was this:  “MY DAD IS AT HOME.”

The boys began to mimic Ben.  “MY DAD IS HOME.  MY DAD IS HOME.”

I knew Ben, in his 3-year old world, was trying to let the boy know that HIS DAD WOULD RESCUE HIM. I called to Ben to come on down.  I wanted to get him and William off that sand and off that playground ASAP.  Ben crawled down and William and he were near me when another boy grabbed Ben’s tennis ball again.  Ben is a tough little guy (the 3rd of 4 boys) and  he grabbed the ball back.  That’s when the boy pushed Ben down into the sand.  Ben looked at the boy and said, “Why did you push me?”

I stepped toward the boy and said, “Yes, that’s a good question.  Why did you push him?” I didn’t want to be antagonistic. But I wanted the boy to know I was there.

The boy looked up at me, but before he could answer, Ben said something that broke my heart.

You must understand here that Ben is 3 years old.  He is a very loved little guy.  His brothers love him.  His Mom and Dad love him.  We all love him.  Audrey has always called Benjamin her BABY ANGEL.  Ben now calls himself BABY ANGEL.  He always says, “I’m Baby Angel.” It is his way of knowing and feeling how much he is truly loved.

As Ben lay there in the sand, waiting for an answer from the boy, he said, loudly, “I’m Baby Angel.”

The boy didn’t know what to say.  The mob did not know what to say.

The moment lasted a lifetime. And in that lifetime, my eyes filled with tears at the innocence and beauty and loveliness of Ben.  His entire lifetime has been Baby Angel.  This is what he knows.  This is what he tried to explain.  Why would someone hurt Baby Angel?  It is unthinkable.

The moment will be locked in my mind like a tableau.  The only movement was William coming to help Ben.  Everything else is frozen in time.

My heart broke for my little guy.  Why didn’t I think to say to those bullies, “WHY WOULD YOU PICK ON BABY ANGEL?”  It’s the perfect question.

THE WORLD IS FILLED WITH BABY ANGELS AND THE BULLIES WHO FEED ON THEM.  VICTIMIZE THEM.  TORMENT THEM.

The moment that lasted an entire lifetime was but a moment.

The boy looked puzzled.  Then he ran off.  And the mob followed him.

It was over.  BABY ANGEL had saved the day.

I picked Ben up, brushed  him off… and William and Ben headed to the pool.  I thought, “Yes.  A good cleansing.”

I don’t know who those bullies belong to.  None of them were the nice Dad’s kids.  He was just there with his little girl.  I don’t know if I could even identify them tomorrow.  But I won’t let my grandsons play at that playground alone.  Ever.

Bullies are everywhere… most always in numbers.  Bullies are rarely all that when alone.  It’s the audience that fuels them.

But I do know one thing.  BABY ANGELS chase them away.  It’s the most important thing I’ve learned in quite some time.

I never, ever wanted to have to write a post about this… but I do want the world to know what one BABY ANGEL can do.

The Initials in the Tree

There’s a beautiful little playground near my home. It has all new swings and slides and climbing apparatuses and a new-age design see-saw. It has a little, tiny covered Club House area where kids can play or picnic or pretend it’s an ice-cream shop or any other thing that kids imagine. This playground has a nice, safe fence around 3 sides and the 4th side opens to beautiful grassy fields and hills.

But the most lovely thing about this playground, I think, is the big, beautiful tree in the center of the little universe of playthings. I don’t know much about trees, but I do know that this tree has been around for awhile. This tree is tall and stately and happy.  Its trunk is gloriously wide, almost like two trees intertwined. This tree extends its generous arms up and out and over… protecting and shading and smiling at the little ones who come to play and the grown-ups who come with them. Around this tree is a built-in sitting area of six connected benches… a wonderful reprieve to sit and enjoy the sights and sounds of children having fun.

Whomever decided to design a playground around this wonderful tree is a saint. Truly. Maybe there is a Saint Playground, for all I know.

This little playground used to be not so beautiful. It had a couple of broken-down swings and one of those slides that heats up in the sun like a skillet. But it did have that beautiful tree. The tree wasn’t actually inside the broken down fence of that old playground that surrounded the swings and slide, but some of its branches leaned over the fence as far as they could to lend shade on a warm day.

I’m sure if that tree could speak, it would thank Saint Playground for understanding just how lovely and gracious and important that tree is, and how it needed to be inside the fence of the new playground… a centerpiece of beauty that grounds the vision itself.

But hang on a second… because I know that tree does speak. That tree has stories to tell. And that tree spoke to me and my grandsons just the other day.

William (5) and Alex (4) had been asking me to take them to the playground. It is less than a 10-minute walk from my house… a very pleasant walk past a couple of churches, a magnificent view of our little harbour and very near our town library. I packed a couple of bottles of water and some cookies and off we went. The boys climbed and played and imagined and slid down the slides. They swung high up in the air and “sold” ice cream at the Club House.  When they were hungry and thirsty, we sat on the benches under the tree and enjoyed the coolness of its branches.

That’s when the tree began to speak.

William heard it first.  He was staring at the tree with such inquisitiveness when he said, “Grandma, someone carved things in this tree.”

I turned around to face the tree.  Alex whipped around to face the tree. And there, in its bark, were many, many carvings.  LOVE carvings.   You know, things like initials.

I said, “Those are carvings of people who were in love.  Initials.”

“What are initials?” asked William.

“Yeah,” Alex chimed in as he stood on the bench and poked his finger along the carvings.

“Initials are the first letters of your first name and last name,” I answered.  “My initials are S.C. for Sharon Couto.  Yours are W.M. and A.M. for William McClelland and Alexander McClelland,” I explained.

“But why would someone hurt this tree with their initials?” William asked.

I smiled.  “Someone didn’t mean to hurt this tree,” I said.  “Someone was telling the world about being in love.”  We looked at all the initials and all the names and I told William and Alex that these people were in love, or at least in like, when they carved their initials and names and heart shapes.  I told them that the tree was telling their stories… maybe even years and years and years later.

I told them that the tree was the keeper of these little love stories.

Alex was enthralled.

William wasn’t convinced.  “But why do you have to carve it in a tree?”  he kept asking.

“Because it’s a tradition.  Because it’s permanent.  Because it will be there forever.  Because people think they will be in love forever. Because the tree is the keeper.”  I had to smile at his practical analysis that people might move away or forget.

And that’s when I remembered something that I had forgotten.  My initials.  My initials in a tree in New Hampshire.  I told William and Alex that when I was 10 years old, and I had a different last name because I wasn’t married yet, I thought I was in love (or at least in like) with a boy whose initials were R.G. and I carved S.K. + R.G. in a tree right across the street from where I lived.

That’s when William got really, really practical.  “But what about Pop-up?” he asked.

“I didn’t know Pop-up way back then,” I explained.

“But you should carve out those initials with that boy and put in your new ones with the S.C. and B.C. for Pop-up,” he said.

“But everything happened the way it was supposed to,” I explained as I hugged William to me, on that bench, under the branches of that tree.  “I thought I was in love with a boy named Robbie Gilman.  I carved our initials.  I moved away to Rhode Island with my family.  I grew up.  I fell in real love with Pop-up.  We got married.  We had your Mommy. She grew up and married your Daddy.  She had you and your brothers.  I love you guys more than any initials could ever, ever tell.   Those initials in that tree in New Hampshire are part of me growing up.  It’s part of my story.  That tree holds that little, teeny part of my story.  We can’t carve those parts away.  They make us who were are now.  Today.  In love with Pop-up.  And you.”

William thought about all of this as he studied that tree with all of its little stories.  Alex continued to trace as many initials as he could reach with his little fingers as he listened, too.

Finally, William said, “So, Grandma, who are all these people?”

“Ah,” I answered, “this tree knows all those people and all their stories!  Maybe if we come often enough, the tree will let us know who still comes to visit.”

Then William really, really surprised me with his romantic side.  “Grandma, will you ever go back to New Hampshire to visit your tree?”

I’m not often speechless.  But this innocent little inquiry left me speechless.  Soon both William and Alex were waiting for my answer… looking at me with their big blue eyes that have come from my journey and Barry’s journey and generations of journeys just the way the journeys should be.  “Yes,” I said, “but only if you guys come with me!”

So this trip to visit that tree that I hope is still across the street from my old house in New Hampshire is another of my 57 in 52.  I don’t remember how high I had to climb to carve those initials.  I don’t remember if Robbie Gilman even liked me back (well, he must have because he did throw an icy snowball at my face while sledding one day and I did chase him for what seemed like miles ’til I caught him, knocked him down, sat on his back and shoved his face the snow. Now, that’s 10-year old love.).  I don’t remember if he even knew I carved our initials in that tree.  I haven’t been up in that tree in all of 47 years.  And I don’t know if I can still climb a tree.

But what I do know is that beautiful tree in my neighborhood playground not only tells its own stories, but it tells the stories of other trees as well.  It tells stories to my grandchildren.  Yes, trees do speak. We just have to listen… and thank Saint Playground for keeping that particular talking tree, of course!

HAPPY 2nd BIRTHDAY, DYLAN!!

Our 9th and youngest grandchild, Dylan Joseph, turns 2 today! It is a beautiful day for a birthday, all summer and sun and blue skies and happiness… which is so appropriate because Dylan brings summer and sun and blue skies and happiness to our family and to this world every single day!

Dylan is a smile boy. He is pretty much always smiling. He will stop for a photo any moment of any day… dazzling the camera with his SMILE. And he squints his beautiful blue eyes into two little hyphens as his smile appears. Dylan loves to be in his Daddy’s arms, like a little koala bear, all snuggly and fit-just-right for a nice ride. Dylan is generous with his hugs and kisses and he can chase the big kids like a champ. He knows how to make his sister Maddie, his brother Jake and his cousins laugh… with his cute little faces and words and the way he eats macaroni and cheese. Yum! Dylan is pure joy all wrapped up and tied with a great big bow! Dylan is LIFE with a capital L!

I will always remember telling my mother-in-law Flo about Dylan. She was in the hospital on the day Dylan was born. It was a Sunday morning. Barry and I rushed to see our newest little grandchild – a beautiful baby boy – and then we couldn’t wait to share the news with Flo. We drove the couple of miles from one hospital to the other, and when we arrived at Flo’s room she was sitting up in bed. I said, “Mom, Adam and Aimee had their baby this morning. A boy. Dylan Joseph.” Dylan is Adam’s middle name and Joseph is Barry’s deceased father’s name. Flo had been struggling to speak for the few days prior… but as soon as I told her about the baby, she smiled and said, as clear as a bell, “Isn’t that something!”

I can still hear Flo saying, “Isn’t that something!” I can’t wait to tell Dylan some day all about the day he was born and NanaFlo knowing about him and smiling about him and saying those precious words about him.

NanaFlo would pass away 12 days later. But I think she was waiting for this new baby all along… waiting to hear the gender, the name, the date, and of course the excitement that this new baby would bring to our family. NanaFlo was all about the babies.

Dylan turns 2 today. And I can’t help but saying, “Isn’t that something!”

I don’t think NanaFlo will mind at all if I use her words today.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEAUTIFUL DYLAN! GRANDPA AND I LOVE YOU SO, SO MUCH! XOXO!

‘Cause I had a bad (hair) day…

I’ve never had a BAD day in my entire life.

Oh, I’ve had SAD days and ANXIOUS days and STRESSFUL days… sometimes moments or minutes or hours so overwhelming that they almost consume you.

But BAD?  Like when someone says, “I had such a BAD day.” No.  Never.

So why am I writing about this?  Well, yesterday had its share of BAD moments… that all seemed to start with BAD HAIR.

First, summer is not a good time for my particular hair.  My hair is naturally curly, and I was born at precisely the WRONG time for curly hair.  I guess it was OK when I was a baby because my Mom did some cute little things with hair ribbons and barrettes and such  to make my baby photos look kinda cute.  But from then on, STRAIGHT HAIR was in vogue.  My pre-teen and teenaged years were spent ironing my hair (more like singeing with a real flat iron), straightening with huge rollers (including soda cans… try sleeping with those on your head), and basically wishing I had naturally straight hair.  Like Cher.

My Mom gave me no sympathy because she has pin straight hair and, of course, always wished for naturally curly hair.  Like mine.  Go figure.

By the time BIG CURLY hair came into fashion, I was a wife and mom and English teacher.  I didn’t have time to comb my hair, never mind get my nice big curls all super-sprayed and hot-looking.  I can just hear the questions… “Honey?”  “Mom?”  “Mrs. Couto?”  Nope. No Flash Dance look for me.

Now, straight hair is totally back in again.  And I’m stuck with curls.  Summer curls.  I’ve grown used to my hair and I even like it on occasion… but yesterday was more that a BAD HAIR DAY.  It was a DREADFUL, HOPELESS, EVIL HAIR DAY.  I had washed my hair Sunday night, put it in a ponytail and slept on it.  First mistake.  I awoke to waves and curls and curly ANTENNAE.  I’m not kidding.  I had curly ANTENNAE sticking up in front, in back, on the sides.  I tried to straighten it with a straightening iron.  Second mistake.  That just made STRAIGHT ANTENNAE.  I tried to whip it all up into a ponytail, but the antennae multiplied.

Then it was too late to do anything more because Audrey was on a train to New York City and I had promised to take William, Alexander and Benjamin to the pool club for the morning.  So off I went with my EVIL hair.  I text messaged Matt that I was on my way… but realized that I didn’t have any cash on me.  The pool club has a little snack bar that Audrey rarely uses (the $ thing), but I wanted to treat my little guys to something decadently fun… like M & M cookies before 9:00 am.

I detoured to Main Street to hit an ATM (not hit as in rob, of course).  I actually drove into one bank parking lot where there’s a nice drive-thru ATM, but I knew I would be charged a fee and my frugal side got to me, so I headed a couple of blocks further to my bank.  This bank has a step-out-of-your-car, walk-up-a-ramp, unlock-with-your-card ATM… and I had on only my bathing suit and a little pair of shorts and my EVIL hair… but no-one was around… so…

… I jumped out of my car, ran up the ramp, unlocked the door and was immediately hit with a 900 degree ATM vestibule.  OK.  This is for the grandkids, I reminded myself. I put in my card.  I was sweating bullets.  The magic-card-money clicking noises went on a bit too long.  I was ready to pass out.  This is for the grandkids. ClickClickClickClick.  Where’s my money? Oh, no.  Two more cars had driven up behind me and two people were standing outside the locked door of the money sauna.  Then the clicking stopped and on the screen were these EVIL words:  TEMPORARILY OUT OF ORDER.

WHAT?  I waited for my card to pop out.  It didn’t.  I frantically pressed my pin number and sweat was pouring from my brow and I was panicking because that is the only credit card I carry. I waited another minute or two and then needed to get out of there.  I told  the two people waiting that the machine was out of order and it had eaten my card.  The next guy in line said that it is out of order almost every Monday morning… and he stormed off.  The next woman left, too.

Now I had EVIL hair, no credit card and no cash for some delectable little treats.  (And I would have to go back to the bank later in the afternoon to get my card back… hopefully.)

I was not going to let this Evil Hair Day get the best of me.  I called Barry.  He told me to pick up the boys and he’d meet me in Cranston with some cash.  I did.

Finally, we arrived at the pool.  I got William settled into his swim team practice and I took Alex and Ben to the kiddie pool.  I love arriving at the pool early in the morning because we’re the only ones in the kiddie pool.  Yesterday was no exception.  It was lovely.  I (almost) forgot all about my hair.  Alex swims like a fish and he was gliding and cruising and gleefully happy.  Benjamin, who just turned 3 in April, had begun to swim last Friday.  Audrey was rather surprised at this and even sent us videos of him jumping into the big pool, over his head, and swimming to the side.  Benjamin put on a little show for me yesterday…  swimming under water and popping up and just having the time of his life.  The one problem with Ben is that he has very, very sensitive skin and he cannot even tolerate swim goggles.  Audrey has to get him some latex-free goggles… but she hasn’t had the chance since he decided to teach himself to swim.

Alex and Ben swam and swam together in the kiddie pool.  Until… until I heard a piercing scream.  There is a big step at the deepest part of the kiddie pool and Benjamin, without the aid of goggles, had swum right into it.  Head first.  I ran to the step, picked him up and saw the immediate red blotch on his forehead.  He was screaming.   I rushed him to the first aid station where Beth, a lovely lifeguard, immediately cracked open an ice pack and told Ben to keep it on his forehead.  Ben loves Beth… well, she is awesomely friendly and happy and just happens to be beautiful, too.  So Ben listened to Beth.

Of course, with an injury comes a request.  “Can we have our M & M cookies now?” Ben asked.

“Yes.  Yes.  Yes,” I said.   And we did.  Alex and Ben and me.  I knew William would be asking for his treat after swim team practice, so we just sat and ate and watched the kids practice… EVIL HAIR and all (I could see my HAIR in every pair of sunglasses worn by every person who spoke to me).

I am not a superstitious person, but I do remember thinking of that old saying about Bad Things Happen in 3’s. I thought: 1) EVIL HAIR; 2) card-eating ATM sauna; and 3) forehead smash.  That would be it for the day.

It wouldn’t be.

When the cookies were all gone except for the crumbs, Alex and Ben and I went back to the kiddie pool where they swam and splashed and jumped again.  That’s when the pool club manager and head swim coach came over to the kiddie pool and told me that someone had put too much chlorine in the pool and maybe it would be a good idea to NOT swim in it.  But.  But.  But.   They had been in the kiddie pool already… Alex and Benjamin with his extremely sensitive skin and eyes with no goggles.

Alex understood why they had to get out of the pool.  Ben did not.  He stood in the center of the kiddie pool and screamed, “I don’t want to get out.”  By now more people had arrived at the pool club and every eye turned to me and my lack of grandparenting skills.   Or was it my HAIR they were looking at?

Anyway.  I had to go into the pool to retrieve Ben.  By then, swim practice was over and Alex and Ben’s swimming lessons were set to begin.  William got his M & M cookie and watched from the picnic area as Alex hopped into his lesson and Ben DID NOT.  No.  Ben wanted to take a lesson with 4-year old Alex because, as he announced, “I can swim like Alex.”

And yes, he can swim like Alex.  But Alex can swim.   Ben wanted to jump off the side of the pool.  I said, “NO.” And he cried for 30 minutes.  Straight.  Loud.  To the point where two mothers actually came up to me, sympathetically, and asked if there was anything they could do for me.

Or maybe they were referring to my EVIL HAIR.  And that’s when I began to blame my HAIR for all this stuff.  Wouldn’t you?  I mean… the HAIR.  The ATM.  The forehead injury.  The super-chlorine.  The lesson.

When William finished his cookie, he tried everything to get Ben to stop crying.  (All this time, I had Ben in a hand-lock because I knew he would find a way to jump into that big pool.)  Finally, William hit on THE PLAYGROUND.  Ah.  THE PLAYGROUND.  Ben’s tears stopped like magic and I told him we’d go to the playground when Alex was done with his lesson.  It worked.  Thanks, William.

And I did take them to the playground, which is down a little hill and awesome to play on.  There were other kids down there, too, which was a total bonus.  I settled on a nice, shady bench… hoping no kids would actually notice my EVIL HAIR.  And within seconds of that nice shady settling, the sky turned from brilliant blue to calamitous gray and BAM!  Thunder.  Lightning ripping across the sky.  I said, “Run, guys!” as the lifeguards were calling up that little hill, “CLEAR THE POOL!”

We made it to my car and huge raindrops began to fall.  It poured.  It was a drenching rain.  A relentless rain.  A half hour drive in a torrential downpour. With Ben crying that he didn’t get to play on the playground, and his eyes turning chlorine-induced redder by the minute.

I dropped the boys off at home and then had to set out to retrieve my ATM-devoured credit card.  In the drenching rain.  You would think I had a history of bank robbery by the way I was questioned about getting my card back.  One bank teller wanted to know what time I was there, details of the ordeal… and she studied my license like she didn’t think it was me.  Oh.  The HAIR was different. I did get my card back.

Was all finally well on this EVIL HAIR DAY?  No.  Audrey’s train home from NYC was delayed forever because of the storms (see above… how to make a little grandson very upset), and she didn’t get into Providence until 10:30 pm.  Barry and I picked her up, and even through her exhaustion at the delays, she said, “Mom, what happened to your hair?”

“Why?“  I asked.  “Does it look BAD?” And I burst into laughter.  We all laughed.  At my expense.

And that’s OK.

So I’ve been thinking.  Did I let that BAD HAIR get on the INSIDE of my head?

‘Cause next time I have that kinda BAD HAIR DAY I’m just gonna wear a baseball hat and be done with it.

Next Page »