Datebook: Monday, August 27th ~ 2007

Today is my birthday. Like all good moms I am celebrating it with a few tears.

Oh, not because of how many candles will be one my cake—I’m really past that type of doomsday countdown. (There is the story of the 45 year-old woman who wanted to go to law school but told the faculty advisor that she would be too old in three year when she finished the program. The faculty advisor wisely asked how old she would be in three years if she didn’t attend the program).

No, a few tears because I took my son to college yesterday where he will remain until the middle of May, with a few odd weeks at home thrown in here and there in between. Since this will be the first time that we will not be together as a family for any of the birthdays, we held a “Birth-Fest” on Friday night to at least symbolically celebrate the events.

In a type of Lion King aka Circle of Life celebration we exchanged gifts in the following manner: I bought a gift for my daughter, my daughter bought a gift for my son, my son bought for his dad, and his dad got a gift for me.

It was very joyous and moving, with cards with lots of “OXOXOXOXOs” on them.

My daughter garnered a new Kate Spade wallet.

My son acquired an Ipod holder for all those strenuous work outs.

My husband gained new running shorts and a Brooks Brothers shirt.

I received a note (in my handwriting) advising I could get a new outfit from Chico’s.

Even that weak link in the chain is not the reason for my tears.

Yesterday I decided to clean my son’s room since he won’t be living in it for several months. I found the usual expected items: a spoon in the covers, a cold pack with a sock tied around it under the bed, the ball of string I have been looking for since 2005, twenty-seven Star Burst wrappers, and a string bag with 54 pencils, pens, and highlighters in it.

But, I found some other things also.

There were cards from friends who thanked him for never letting them down. There were photo collages from girls who offered gratitude for helping them get through hard times and good times and always being there (true, these were coated in dust).

And it makes you think about these people we raise from childhood—they have as many sides as the Austrian crystal on most competition costumes—and how fortunate we are to share in their growth and development, for that surely continues on that linear continuum of time we know as life.

And then we come to the tears.

My son apparently knows me quite well also.

He left a card with a little message tucked inside:

“Thanks for always being there for me, and for not making me continue to skate past pre-preliminary when I was eight”!

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, August 23rd ~ 2007

I feel like I am living in a sequel world.

No, not another Bruce Willis action adventure of Die Hard V, or an update of Sandy and Danny in Grease III, or Napoleon and Pedro go to college in Napoleon Dynamite II.

I’m talking “Lake Placid II”.

Next week I am going back to the Adirondack Mecca in the north for the second time in less than 30 days. This is a little frightening because I just lost the twitch in my right eye and that feeling of something furry caught in the back of my throat from the first excursion.

But, I ask myself, how often can this happen? A Junior Grand Prix over Labor Day weekend, within a workday driving time.

It seems like fate, or at the very least, fated.

I realize this event will be different. Ann Greenthal won’t be able to work all of her magic at this competition because the ISU dictates how some things operate, but I’m sure she’ll be on the scene-- smiling, and finding some way to boost the spirits and cheerlead Team USA.

Anyway, I am staying at a different hotel for a change of venue and I’m probably staying out of “Charlie’s” as my last “Backporch Lemonade” in their lounge left a slow blur of some events—possibly not a bad thing.

If I were having T-Shirts made for the event, I would label them the “Examination of the Soul Tour—2007” and the cities listed underneath would be Lake Placid July31-August 4 and then, Lake Placid August 30 – September 2 . The logo would need to be some type of beaded belly-dancing German Rock band motif, but not too much pops up when you search that in Google images. The color would have to be red, but the red that fades a bit in the first washing much like a partially licked candy cane.

Examination of the Soul is what I have felt like quite a bit this summer. Some of it has little to do with skating—I mean, really, on the evening news Katie Couric was doing a piece about bulletproof school backpacks!

But some of it does have to do with skating.

Every year I look at our non-existent savings account and pray for a money parachute to fall from the sky. And it’s not that I regret spending the money, it’s just that it seems so excessively, well, almost grotesquely expensive.

We are all spending about the same.

We are paying coaches 85.00 to 120.00 dollars an hour to offer expertise and guidance in this sport, and we pay about 15.00 for an opportunity to practice at 45 minute clips of time. And we all probably have about 10,000.00 worth of costumes for this season and a few we might be able to use from last season, hanging in the closet. Yet when we go to a competition, almost any competition, we find out something needs to be changed, or something needs to be added, or taken out.

I’m just not sure who the experts are anymore. I’ve certainly lost the ability to have any say in what happens.

And even as I berate myself for this excess, sometimes seemingly without rhyme and/or reason, the Examination of the Soul is reflected in that I am secretly harboring-- on my dining room table-- the Fed Ex box that came this morning.

The gold waltz dress arrived—refitted and with additional beading and stones.

And seriously—nothing should be this beautiful.

When this is all over, I am having this beveled gown mounted in one of those shadow boxes to be displayed on my family room wall like a Cher outfit in a “Hard Rock”, (well that is unless Ann requests it for the wall at Placid).

And trust me, no dress has ever brought tears to my eyes like this one (well, maybe the dress with an accordion collar that my mother made me wear to a 9th grade Sweethearts Dance).

And what I probably should be thinking is how many children in a 3rd world country would the cost of this dress have fed, but, what I’m actually thinking is where is that photographer from Lake Placid One now?

You remember, the one that lets you buy a disc with every photo taken of your team (about 800 photos) for $260.00.

That clearly falls into the “need” category in the decision of needs and wants. Don’t worry; I will have T-Shirts available soon for all of us.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, August 20th ~ 2007

I am going through a bit of a “Mom” crisis right now.

On Saturday, I am taking my son to the University of Maryland where he will be living in an honors dorm for his freshman year. He is majoring in Biomedical Engineering and his schedule looks like Stephen Hawking designed it. Math apparently is truly infinite as he is starting with Calculus II—looking at the textbook ($145.00) makes me want to reach for the Calamine Lotion.
But, with all the Chemistry, Labs, Biomedical introductions, there is not one English class.

No Shakespeare, no Proust, no Eliot.

“Mom,” he answers my amazed look, “It’s not like I could ever use any of that stuff.”

“Oh, really! The greatest writer of all time. The Bard--who invented, inverted and invoked the written language. The man whose insight into the heart, the spirit, and the soul holds the key to all human interaction?”

“He would be the one. I guess if I’m ever a Prince in Denmark, I could do a Sparknotes version, but until then—not high on my list.”

What is high on his list appears to be decorating his dorm room in Beer Pong posters and a newly purchased Captain Morgan bar stool.

After Saturday I am powerless to protect him or mediate what he puts into his newly acquired 3.0 cubic foot refrigerator.

My daughter, living alone in her 580 square foot studio apartment, is also out in the harsh elements of life without my magic mom lasso, or invisibility cloak against heartache. It doesn’t seem to work once they reach 18 or move across the threshold.

And she could really use it now.

In a world that sometimes offers a caricature of youth living in excess and without direction, as skating parents we are typically dealing with the very opposite.

Our kids are focused, and driven, and self-motivating. And they seem to have some inner strength and insights that I wish some of our politicians possessed.

In the past few years the proudest moments I have had of my daughter have had little to do with the results of a competition or the medal count at the end. I watched her compete with a 101 degree fever when I felt like the worst mother in the world for even allowing her to take her guards off. I watched her compete after a fall in practice where I questioned if she would even be walking the next day. And I’ve watched her come back for rounds 2 or 3 with resolve and determination and give it all when I have quietly questioned my own ability and steadiness of spirit to have made the attempt if I were in her place.

The “mom crisis” comes from losing the power to protect them.

I can’t be there to make sure Power Aid is going in the dorm refrigerator.

I can’t stop the pain of a broken heart.

I can only do what we do as skating parents everyday-- Follow behind and gently remind them to take all the pieces with them as they go.

Of course, George Bernard Shaw said it better--“There are two tragedies in life. One is to lose your heart’s desire. The other is to gain it.”

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, August 12th ~ 2007

Typically when I return from the Lake Placid Ice Dance competition I need a week to recover. This is hard because non-skating people think I have been on vacation all week. I can’t complain about being tired or stressed-out because they quite frankly wouldn’t understand and might think I was a tad spoiled.

I improvise in the seven days after the event by quietly going for a pedicure and sitting in one of those massage chairs while the technician beats on my legs with the flat of her hand—if I close my eyes I imagine for a brief time that I am at a spa—and by eating and having a specialty drink at Don Pablo’s where for an hour or two I can pretend I am sitting in a cantina in Cabo with the warm ocean breeze rippling my hair.

This year, however, I have “Lake Placid hangover”. I am not recovering all that quickly and the mood of the event keeps hanging over me days after the last zamboni run.

This was a roller coaster event for us. We (please, I feel I was out on the ice too, even if my memory of the event resembles footage seemingly shot by a head cam) skated great, but had some glitches and falls which of course translates to the scores not agreeing that we had a great skate. By Saturday, I wanted to call the medical supply house in Saranac Lake and ask for a portable oxygen tank to be delivered to the rink because there was no way I could continue breathing on my own. And even though we left with two medals, I feel a bit like the members of the debate panel from the classic Adam Sandler movie “Billy Madison” in that I feel “stupider” for having lived it.

For example: I still don’t know what the Original Dance is supposed to be like.

I do know that the costume is seemingly the most important component—although I cannot find too much for it on the scoring sheet-- and nothing—nothing--can be over the top. Most of the teams, if not all, were told to go back and add more to the costume. I wish now we had selected a Carmen Miranda number so my daughter could have worn a four-foot high hat made of fresh fruit and during the footwork sequence they could have juggled bananas and mangos back and forth, finishing with a inside back edge that successfully sliced a ripe melon in half, but I think it is too late to make that change now so we are left to send out for more beading, fire batons, and xylophones.

Some of the message boards have comments that things seemed “off” this year.

And they were.

There were many big changes and omissions.

“Goldberries” restaurant has been replaced by “Charlie’s”, and although a fabulous new establishment it served as a haunting reminder that our top skaters were not there. The real “Charlie” that we associate with Lake Placid and his gorgeous, porcelain-complexioned partner Meryl were not in town. The ever musical and vivacious Kim and her handsome leading man Brent, did not don skates although they teased us all a bit by sitting and watching some of the events. Emily and Evan and Maddie and Keiffer also did not take to the ice which means for many of us we must wait until January to see the mastery of their programs.

For me, without them, it was a bit like when Michelle Kwan didn’t skate in the Olympics or when Wendy’s stopped using the cartoon image of the little red-haired girl. You keep expecting to see them any minute even though you know it isn’t going to happen—no matter how many Frosty’s you buy, the cups are never going to have the little girl in red pig-tails again.

And so, it is just not the same.

We try to improvise and move on, surely like Fisher Price did when they replaced all their Farm and House people with the fatter Weeble-type creatures they now foist off on pre-schoolers.

We want to tell them, as they clutch these new fist sized toy people, “Oh, if only you could seen how they used to be.”

And I guess that must be the remedy for my hangover from Lake Placid.

I have to remember how it used to be.

Mombo

Editor's Note: Friday, August 10th ~ 2007

Mombo is enjoying a brief break after the Lake Placid event. Posts will start up again soon, so check back!

Datebook: Friday, August 3rd ~ 2007

Yesterday was one of those outer body experiences, or at the very least a “Why did I shave me legs for this” afternoon.

As a parent we are called on to offer advice, give consolation, and keep the arm ready for support. Yesterday was a marathon opportunity for that.

Our team did not come out very high in the rankings after the Free Dance—in fact it was probably their lowest standings ever, which then makes it a historic event. With that said, they skated better than I have ever seen them skate—except for the six seconds they were sitting on the ice, which also took out about 20% of their total score in element points without factoring in the PCS deductions— (for future reference--do fall on step sequence portions of the program if offered a choice).

It makes me wonder what other athlete’s mothers say to them in similar situations—

What would Vi Ripken have said to Cal if he struck out at the plate but his last strike was so powerful he bruised his left shoulder and was out of the game for two weeks?

What would Mrs. Armstrong have said to Lance if he swerved to avoid a turtle on the last leg of a race he was winning and careened down a ravine?

What would Mrs. Jordan have said to Michael if his foul shot bounced off the backboard, hit the arena window and flew out into traffic and landed in the bed of a 1984 Dakota pick-up?

I won’t ever know what those mothers may have said—that’s the problem with being a parent—there are no handbooks or instructions written in twelve languages. I said what I believe to be true—

“That was amazing. I have never seen you skate with such feeling and expression. Great job going for it.”

I did hear a few skaters mention some of the advice they had been given during the afternoon by judges, coaches, and the ticket guy at door.

“You just have to work harder.”

I don’t think anyone said that to my daughter, if so she would probably have had a dazed look on her face—a blend of pain and disbelief—perhaps as if we were driving down 5th Ave without cabs attacking us past a Louis Vuitton 75% off sale and we weren’t stopping.

I don’t think most of these kids can work any harder. They are putting in a combination of 8-hour days on the ice and off.

In reality what we should be telling them is to maybe not care so much about the end result that day because it is only that day. One day in the life of skating. Tomorrow is a new day.

But of course, this is not a bumper sticker. Tomorrow is now here and we are set to begin a two-event competition day.

I am feeling queasy and anxious. My daughter is looking relaxed and even laughing a bit about setting a new team record yesterday.

I am going to the deli to buy cheese so I can have the paper bag to breath into during their events as the new restaurant “Charlie’s” (perhaps after Charlie White?) is not serving Back Porch Lemonades this early in the day.

Another Charles’ mom recently reminded me that if they have the courage to go out there and skate, then we, as parents, need to have the courage to watch them.

Although I agree with that in my heart, I still feel it would be so much easier with a Xanex.

Perhaps next year Ann could make up a parents welcome bag and offer coupons for Ben and Jerry’s and Rite-Aid.

Mombo

Datebook: Thursday, August 2nd ~ 2007

While in the bathroom this morning, I had an epiphany about the direction of my life and it has to do with family heritage.

Some of my friends or acquaintances bemoan some of the duties that go into being part of the “family”. There are the occasional baby showers for second cousin Sara, the 80th birthday for Uncle Nick, the long weekends spent with the in-laws. We all have those. But some people also have the extras; the family vacation house in the Hamptons, they are forced to wear an inherited ten-carat ruby ring set in platinum instead of white gold, or their great aunt is holding the first 10,000 shares of General Electric stock and passing it on to them on their next birthday.

“Try to deal with it,” I advise them, “Old houses might seem drafty and boring, what with all those stairs and ocean breezes wafting in, but maybe you’ll hear a few bars from your “Piano Man” neighbor. And, I guess that rock does get snagged on everything, maybe you should take it off when you do the dishes. And gee, all those light bulbs we’ve bought through the years, it was like your own personal piggybank.”

I, on the other hand, inherited my grandmother’s arms.

Let me be more specific here. It isn’t like she actually left them to me. The lawyer didn’t bequeath them to me from her will. In fact, I had forgotten what they looked like until this morning when I was holding the diffuser to my head at 7:00 AM.

And then I saw them.

I am embarrassed that my first thought was not nostalgic.

“What is that”? I asked my reflection (another sign that I am at a competition on the day of a skate—talking to self 101).

I did pause and try to recreate the memories of cinnamon toast, half aprons, and quilting bees. The tender moment was interrupted by the continued jiggling of my underarms by the steady vibration of the diffuser.

“Jelly rolls,” my grandmother would laugh. When I was six I thought she was referring to the line of Mason jars she used to can blackberry and boysenberry jam. Later I understood it meant that tender bit of flesh that jiggles and bounces and is the last to leave on any diet plan. At one time I thought I was immune—it was not to be part of my heritage.

This morning, standing next to the Big and Sexy hairspray can, I discovered the truth.

It wiggles for no reason.

My daughter woke up to sunshine, a warm room, and a case of butterflies in the stomach. I hastily put on my light jacket even though it was about 80 degrees in the room—no sense traumatizing her more by giving her a crystal ball into her future.

“I don’t know why I feel like this before a competition. I feel like I have jelly legs!”

Perhaps the lights dimmed in the bathroom due to the recent power drainage. I certainly looked paler for a moment.

Jelly Legs.

I refused to look down. I would save that for another day—probably the same reason they do the OD and the Free Dance on different days. Too much to take in all at once.

“You’ll be fine once the music starts—no more jelly legs for you.”

They won’t be permanent for another 25 years.

Mombo