I'd bet it all on a good run of bad luck

It had been awhile since I'd had a good travel mishap, so I guess I was due. I just didn't realize yesterday that it was going to be a two day affair.

Yesterday I flew out of Denver to head to D.C. for our annual trip to the Outer Banks. I slept for the first part of the trip and then started watching some episodes of The Last Kingdom that I had downloaded onto my phone. I was totally engrossed and completely oblivious to what was going on around me.

At around the time we were supposed to land, we landed. I took my phone off of airplane mode and texted my mom.

"Just landed."

"Where?"

I found this response extremely confusing. I looked out the window and realized we were not at Dulles Airport. 

I took my headphones out of my ears and turned to the lady sitting next to me.

"Do you know what's going on?" I asked.

"Yeah, we were diverted to Louisville because of weather in D.C. They're on a total ground-stop. Nothing is taking off or landing there."

Oh. 

I felt like a moron, but also recognized that it was kind of funny.

"Are we going to be getting off the plane?"

"No, they're refueling and then we're going to wait until we get the go-ahead to take off and head to D.C."

We waited for a while. People were standing up to stretch their legs, chatting with their neighbors. Everyone was pretty chill. The flight attendants handed out snacks and drinks. 

The pilot came on the intercom and announced that the ground-stop had been extended another hour. Everyone was bummed but there was nothing to do but wait. So we waited some more.

After about 20 minutes, he came back on the intercom and announced that the ground-stop had been lifted early. Time to go!

We finally arrived in D.C. two hours later than we were supposed to. I was reunited with my children, whom I hadn't seen in four weeks. They astounded me both with how beautiful they are and with how tall they are getting. I gave my parents big hugs and kisses. I helped my mom finish packing the cars. We watched an extraordinary basketball game and then went to bed, preparing to head out early in the morning to beat the bad traffic. 

I went to sleep late and woke up early - about 3:45 a.m. Denver time. I drove with the kids in my dad's car and my mom and dad drove in her car. For three and a half hours, the drive was uneventful. Down I-95 past the sites of famous Civil War battles - Manassas, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania. Stopping as we always do for breakfast at the McDonald's at mile marker 118. Through Newport News and Norfolk and Chesapeake, past the battleships and aircraft carriers. 

The kids slept and bickered and played Connect 4.

Then, about 15 miles from the North Carolina border, Zeke tried to adjust his seatbelt and got stuck.

He was in the front seat with me and had wrapped it around himself to move the shoulder strap so that he could sleep more comfortably. He unclicked the belt at the bottom but discovered that it was twisted around his body and he couldn't get it loose - the mechanism that catches the strap at the top (like in the event of a crash) was stuck and we couldn't get it to release. Every time we tried, it got tighter and tighter around his waist. He was in pain and freaking out. 

We came up to a section of road that had a wide flat median - I pulled over and ran around to his side of the car to try to help him, but nothing worked. He was getting more and more upset and I felt helpless to figure out a way to get him loose.

There was a police officer and a guy from the Virginia DOT nearby - they saw us and came over to try to help. We pulled and twisted. We even removed some of the covering to the section of the door where the belt mechanism was housed, trying to find a bolt or a button or something that would release it, but there was nothing. In the meantime, Zeke was in terrible pain and discomfort.

Finally, the police officer took out his pocket knife. 

"Say the word and I'll cut the belt."

"Go ahead and do it," I replied. "I don't see that we have any other option."

So he cut the belt and Zeke was free. 

The officer also summoned the emergency rescue folks, because apparently that's the protocol.

Zeke thanked him profusely and said he was OK, but the officer insisted that we stay so that the paramedics could check Zeke out to make sure he was fine.

Within five minutes, there was a big fire truck, an ambulance, and another police rescue vehicle pulled up around us. The paramedics ushered Zeke into the ambulance and checked his vital signs while the police rescue guys took down our information. 

It seemed like overkill, but apparently that's their process. 

"Well, this is a new one for me!" the police officer said.

"Tell me about it," I said.

Finally, we were given the OK to leave. The police officer even directed traffic away from us so that we could pull out into the road without any difficulty. 

A couple of hours later, we were at the house. We unpacked and headed to the beach for a bit before some bad weather rolled in.

Josie rides her skim-board before the storm.

All is well. It's raining and thundering outside but comfortable inside. Everything's fine.

But man, it's been a hell of a weekend. 

You know it's hard out here for a shrimp

 I am not a tall person. I think that is something on which anyone who has met me can agree.

In most areas of my life, it's not a big deal. It's not like I have to shop in the children's section or anything like that. 

In some ways, it's a plus.

I'm never taller than the guys I date, even if I'm wearing big-girl heels. One of them is a solid foot taller than I am. He is very useful for things like reaching items on high shelves or putting skis and bikes up on the car's roof rack. My shoulders are at the perfect height for him to drape an arm around me - I think he does it as much to have a comfortable place to rest his arm as to show affection.

Airplane seats are no problem. All of those enticements to pay extra for an economy plus seat in order to have more leg room elicit a shrug. My legs are short. They don't need extra room. 

Same with sitting in the back seat of a car. Push your front seat as far back as you want. 

I tend to fit in tight spaces. I can buy petite-sized pants that are the right length. I'm low to the ground, so my balance and stability tend to be good. 

On the other hand, crowds are terrifying because I'm squished and can't see anything. Overhead bins can be dangerous affairs. When I'm in a group photo, I'm so much shorter than other people it looks like I'm standing in a hole. Even my fellow shorties are taller than I am. 

I recently had a three-year-old look me up and down and say, "you know, you're really short!"

Oh yeah? So are you, pipsqueak.

This past weekend I stopped by the kids' dad's house to pick up some clothes that I'm going to bring them when we go to the beach next week. I pulled up in my usual spot behind his house. I went in, got the clothes, we chatted a bit, and I left.

We were still chatting as I got into the car. I started the engine and pulled out and immediately heard an awful crunching sound. 

Oh, fuck, I thought.

I got out and saw that I had driven into a large pile of yard refuse, including a tree stump that had been left out for garbage pickup. My lower front bumper was dented a little bit, but luckily the car was otherwise fine and drivable. 

And the frustrating part is that it wasn't like I hadn't been looking or paying attention. It was that I had been looking and paying attention, but I'm so damned short that even with my seat raised as high as it will go, I couldn't see it. 

"Dude, that sucks," he said,

"Yeah," I sighed.

Story of my life.

Beating jet lag in the Land of Fire and Ice

Back in April, Iceland said, "hey, world, if you're vaccinated, come hang with us." 

Because most other countries were heading in the opposite direction, lots of people with a hankering to do some end-of-the-pandemic travel said, "sold!"

In late April or early May, I made the decision to go in late June. I know of at least five friends who were either there or were going within three weeks of the time I was there. 

The requirements related to COVID were pretty unobtrusive. Show up with a vaccination card, take a rapid test after landing, and "quarantine" at your lodging while you await your results, which they send you via text within about four hours. 

Our flight landed at 6 a.m. Check-in time at our hotel in Reykjavik was at 2 p.m. So we decided to "quarantine" outside by hiking to see an erupting volcano, which just happened to be about a 30 minute drive from the airport. 

Technically not the type of quarantine the authorities had in mind, but we figured it was worth a shot. 

My only concern about the plan was that after an overnight flight during which it was unlikely that anyone would sleep much, we would be totally gassed. But that's why coffee was invented. 

On the way to the trailhead, we stopped at a gas station for coffee. The cups I saw sitting out were small, so I asked the guy behind the counter for the largest size coffee he had. He scoffed, "we have only one size. This isn't America." 

Duly chastened, I ordered two. 

We weren't entirely sure what the hike would entail because the lava flow had covered up some of the trails that people had been using to get the best vantage points. The estimates we heard were about 5-6 miles round-trip, which would have us finishing just in time to check into the hotel. 

It was rainy and chilly, but we were prepared. I had my rain jacket and rain pants and hat and gloves and waterproof hiking boots. We parked our little Suzuki Jimmy in the extraordinarily muddy parking lot, managed not to get the car stuck in the mud within 45 minutes of picking it up, and set off. 

What followed was one of the cooler experiences of my life. 

First was the lava field, still smoking and smoldering and glowing orange. It was extraordinary and surreal and beautiful. I was also struck by the fact that there was no crowd control - we could get as close to the lava as we wanted. No barriers, no warnings, no waivers to sign.

I didn't have a good sense of where we were relative to the crater, so I wasn't clear on whether we would be able to see more than what we had seen. Our initial foray up the ridge gave us views of the size of the lava flow, but not the crater itself. 

We saw some people who had hiked a couple of miles on to a high point on the ridge.

"Is it worth it to keep climbing?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, most definitely," they responded. 

So we kept going. The hike was not super difficult, but not easy either - a relatively significant gain in elevation and a path with no switchbacks to ease the ascent. Being at sea level after coming from Denver helped. 

Eventually we came to the point that was supposed to offer the best vantage point. And holy shit, was it worth it. 

You know that thing where you're seeing something incredible and you keep taking pictures of the same thing over and over, as if each time you're going to catch something you didn't catch before? By the time we finished the climb, I had close to 50 photos and video shots of the lava bubbling in the crater. And when I'm looking back at my pictures, I look at each one multiple times because it's just that amazing.

All along the hike, I kept marveling at how great I felt. I expected to feel exhausted after traveling and not really sleeping, but the more we walked, the more invigorated and awake I felt. I figured I would start to crash when we got back in the car, especially if we decided to go to the Blue Lagoon (a huge pool of milky blue geothermal seawater) before heading to the hotel. 

We ended up going to go the Blue Lagoon because why the hell not. We were chilled and physically tired after the climb, and it's a major attraction even though you're paying an exorbitant amount of money to lounge in a hot pool created by nature. They make it feel fancy by throwing in some goodies like alcohol and mud masks, which are essentially the silica goop that settles at the bottom of  the lagoon. It's a racket, but I didn't care. 

It was fabulous, which surprised me because I generally do not like sitting around in hot water. I don't like long baths or sitting in hot tubs or visiting hot springs. But between the sun coming out and the post-hike glow and the alcohol, we had a great time. We lounged around in the pool for 2 1/2 hours.

You would think that an overnight flight followed by a hard hike followed by hours of drinking alcohol while sitting in hot water would have brought on fatigue. But I felt totally awake. It was very confusing.

My travelling companion was not so fortunate. He fell asleep lying down on the floor of the lagoon (at a point where it is extremely shallow), and when we were driving to the hotel in Reykjavik, I made him pull over and let me drive because he was about to fall asleep at the wheel. 

We checked in and he went to bed. But I was still very much awake. So I went for a walk to see the Hallgrimskirkja and get something to eat. 

The church with a statue of Leif Erikson in front of it. The Erikson statue was a gift from the United States to the people of Iceland in 1930 to commemorate the 1000th anniversary of the Althing, Iceland's first parliament. Kinda cool. Also, these pictures were taken at 8:00 p.m. 

I finally went back to the hotel at around 9:00. I went to bed, thinking that the jet lag would hit me the next day, as it generally does on day two of a big time difference. 

Nope.

Over the course of the trip, I never once felt tired before bedtime. We stayed up later and later, to the point that when we got to Akureyri, we were hanging out at a bar well past midnight. 

And eventually I realized that it was because it never got dark. We were there the week of the summer soltice. During the night, the sun would dip a little lower in the sky, but it was always light out. My body was like, fuck it, if the sun doesn't need to go to bed, neither do I. 

To wit: 

The Jökulsarlon (glacier lagoon) at 9:15 p.m.

Akureyri at midnight:

Grundarfjorður (where you can see the famous mountain from Game of Thrones) at 8 p.m.:

So in the end, the answer was simple. 

The way to beat jet lag in the Land of Fire and Ice?

Go to the Land of Fire and Ice. And make sure you do it in June.

I'm just spitballin' here

When we were in New Hampshire this past weekend, I was on driving duty. We had a bitchin' Chrysler minivan because the rental car company was out of SUVs. 

The lady at the counter said, "are you OK with a van?" 

Initially, we all thought she meant a utility van, like a big Ford Econoline or something like that. 

I was like, "umm, I guess?" 

I mean, I can drive a big van, but didn't exactly relish the thought of schlepping everyone around in one all weekend. 

Then I thought to ask, "do you mean a van like a plumber might drive, or a minivan?" 

"Oh, a minivan," she laughed.

I was relieved. 

Anyway. 

On Sunday my mom and I took a bunch of kiddos (mine, Josh's, their friends) to Exeter to walk around, go to the bookstore, get some ice cream, that sort of thing. Before heading back to Josh's house, I need to stop at Walgreens. 

As we were driving, I heard giggling from the back seat. 

"Mom! MOM! Look at the mirror!"

I looked in the rear-view and saw a spit-ball. Then another. And yet another. 

Earlier in the day, we had been telling funny family stories, and I told the kids about how Josh and I used to goof off in the car when we took road trips. Even after Sam was born, Josh and I were the perpetrators because Sam wasn't allowed to sit with us in the back seat.

This made him irate. "Why?" he wailed to our parents, who had him between them in the bench seat in the front. (This was in the early 80s, before people cared if their seat-belt-less children were launched through the windshield in the event of a crash.)

"Why do I have sit up here with you when Josh and Wendy get to be in the back seat having fun?"

"Because you always end up fighting with anyone you're sitting with," she replied.

When we were living in Israel, we were in the US during the summer of 1982 on home leave. I was 12, Josh was 10, and Sam was 5. We were heading to Cape Cod to spend time at the beach with family friends. To keep the peace, Josh and I were in the back, Sam was in the front. 

After we had a pit stop at a McDonald's, we took a stash of napkins and those big fat straws that McDonald's carries - perfect for launching spitballs. Soon they were flying around the car. Josh and I were laughing our asses off. My parents chucked. Sam complained because we were having fun in the back seat and he wasn't. 

After we tired of that, we had the bright idea to make ourselves sneeze by sticking the ends of our shoelaces in our nostrils. 

"Ah-CHOO!"

"God bless you!" my mother would exclaim.

"Ah-CHOO! Ah-CHOO!!" 

"Gesundheit! Bless you!"

Tittering from the back seat.

This went on for a while.

"Ah-CHOO!"

"Oh my goodness! Barry, I think the kids are sick! Should we take them to see a doctor?"

At this point we started laughing until we were crying. When she turned around to look, we showed her what we were doing. She rolled her eyes but seemed amused. Sam fumed that he wasn't in on the action.

My kids found this story to be delightful.

So when I saw the spitball on the mirror (and discovered more on the windshield and the dash), I cracked up.

Beforehand, the kids had apparently been talking to my mom and asking her how she thought I would react. 

"Kids, your mom is the best, and she has a great sense of humor. She'll think it's hysterical."

And she was right. 

Here comes the sun

The philosophy of Colfax Avenue

When the COVID craziness started over a year ago, it felt weird and somewhat scary and a little bit like an adventure. We'll create an in-home movie theater, complete with tickets and concessions! We'll bake things! We'll do zoom calls all the time! Whee!

And temporary. When the closures started, it was communicated that we would reopen in two or three weeks. We just needed some time to "flatten the curve."

In hindsight, it sounds adorable. 

Some people said that we would be living in lock-down for at least a year or more, which struck me as horrifying. I felt like I couldn't live like that for a year or more. I would rather die.

Which is obviously ridiculous. It was a year or more. And I didn't die.

But the novelty definitely wore off. I got tired of baking. I got tired of doing mountains of dishes all the fucking time. I discovered that doing a Passover seder via Zoom was the most depressing thing ever.

I worked from home and the kids did school from home and we muddled along as best we could. Much of it sucked, but knowing how hard the pandemic hit so many people, I'm very fortunate. None of my close friends or loved ones died. I suffered no financial hardship (except the lightening of my wallet because I staved off boredom by shopping online like my life depended on it). 

Some of it didn't suck. I had an amazing ski season, which went a long way toward keeping me feeling happy. Being active and outside feeds my soul. 

Towards the end it felt like such a slog.  

But now it's summer. We're vaccinated. We're ready to go.

My kids have been out of school for two weeks. Two weeks of not having to fight with them to get up in the morning. Two weeks of not saying to Zeke (who continued to do school remotely because he couldn't be bothered to get up, and I let him because notwithstanding all of his school-related fuckery, he made the honor roll), "let's have one day when I don't get a 3:30 p.m. tardy call, OK? Just one?" 

The end of the school year also lightened my load considerably, both in terms of stress and actual work. Much of what I do involves student-specific and school administration issues. When school isn't in session, the phone calls and emails drop off immediately and significantly. 

The weather is beautiful. I've been doing some mountain biking and hiking. Restaurants are open. We take the SUP to the reservoir. We see friends and are out and about.

In a week, I'm going to Iceland with a man-friend (I don't date boys). After going in 2015 (when it was winter and freezing), I've wanted to go in the summer. We'll be there for the summer solstice, which is celebrated with a big party in Iceland. We're doing a road trip around the entire island - it looks fabulous and I can't wait. 

Next month is the annual trip to the Outer Banks. While I'm there, I'll do a little jaunt to Richmond for a girls' weekend with my UVA buddies.

And tomorrow, the kids and I head to New Hampshire for the high school graduation party for one of Josh's kids. The whole mishpachah will be there. It will be the first time since Thanksgiving of 2019 that we will all be together. The thought of it makes me choke up with happiness. I love them and have missed them so much.

Y'all know how much I love reunions and family gatherings.  

The feeling I have reminds me of when Jason and I did our road trip across the country when we moved to Hawaii. We spent a number of days driving through the desert in New Mexico, Arizona, Utah, and Nevada, before descending from the Sierra Nevadas down into Sacramento. We had spent so much time in dry air looking out at brown desert landscapes that when we got to California. all of the warm air and green grass and flowers and trees were startling. Especially because I don't like deserts - give me humid air and lush vegetation any day.

We have wandered in the COVID desert for far more than 40 days and 40 nights. Science is now delivering us to the promised land.

(How's that for a tortured metaphor?)

 It feels amazing.

Love and bribery

 An article in today's New York Times talked about how the pandemic has made mothers feel like failures. We lose our tempers and yell. We have run out of the ideas and the interest in making being at home "fun." We increasingly feel like, as parents, we are not doing right by our kids. 

I know these feelings all too well, especially when it comes to Zeke. Josie has always been the resilient one. She rolls with the punches, she deals with the adversity. Now that she's back in school a couple of days a week, she is making friends and feeling connected to her world. 

Zeke, on the other hand, struggles. He suffers. His energy and motivation are low. He seems depressed. 

The pandemic lifestyle is so hard on kids. They feel isolated and bored and hopeless.

Yesterday he spent the bulk of his day in his room, either doing school remotely or playing videogames with his friends. I tried to encourage him to get outside and get some sun and exercise, but he wouldn't go. 

"Why don't you go for a bike ride? You can go ride around the lake at City Park, or head down to Teller and see if anyone wants to play football or something."

"No, I don't want to."

"What about the trampoline?"

"It makes my Osgood-Schlatter hurt." 

"Come on, honey. You need to get out and do something. It's not good to sit in your room all day."

He put his head down and shrugged.

Last night I went out for dinner with a friend of mine. I was out for about two hours. When I came home at around 9:15, Zeke was asleep in bed.

He slept for 11 hours but still woke up tired and sluggish. 

We had another argument about him needing to get up, about needing to do something other than sit around. I felt myself losing my temper. He accused me of yelling. 

"Just leave me alone! Why are you always bothering me??"

"I have to. It's my job. I'm worried about you," I said.

"Why?"

"Because the way you're living is so unhealthy. You lie in your bed much of the day. You don't take good care of yourself. You have no energy."

He put his head down and shrugged. He knew I was right. 

"Lying around because you're tired only makes you more tired. I know it sounds counter-intuitive, but it's true. You have a beautiful, strong body. You're athletic. You're coordinated. But if you don't get more exercise, you're going to lose your muscle tone. Your heart and lungs won't be as strong. You won't feel good. And if you got more exercise you would have more energy."

He shrugged again. 

A little while later I poked my head into his room. He was on a break from school and was texting with one of his friends.

"Mom, can I get a gaming PC?"

"I don't know. They're really expensive."

"I need a decent computer for school anyway."

This is true.

"You can take it out of my allowance."

I looked at him with skepticism. "That's a lot of damned allowance."

"I know."

"I'll think about it. Do some research and see if you can find any good deals."

He kept asking me about it. He found a really good one that was on sale. He does need a computer, both for school and otherwise. 

I sat down, made a list, and handed it to him.

"Ok," I told him. "You can get it. And I'll take money out of your allowance. But you will also pay in labor."

"Ok," he said.

"You're pretty half-assed about chores. That will not be acceptable. You will make your bed, put away your clothes, clean up your messes, get up without a fuss, do your homework every day. All of the things on this list."

"Ok."

"You will also do laundry a couple of times a week and be responsible for dinner one night a week."

"Ok."

"And you will exercise at least 5 days a week. It can be whatever you want but you have to do something. Go for a bike ride. Go for a walk. Come skiing with me. Do a ride on the Peloton, even if it's just 15 or 20 minutes. Just do something."

"Ok."

"And you will always be nice to your mother."

"I will." And he gave me a hug.

A little while later I was working downstairs and he came down and asked to use the Peloton. So I set him up and adjusted the seat and started a 15 minute ride for him. I didn't tell him that often the shorter rides are super-intense. 

He did the ride. "I want to do one of those every day," he said. "And lift weights."

"No problem," I said. 

Later I heard the shower running, which made me happy because smelly teenagers always need a shower. Then I heard activity in his room.

"Mom, can I use the vacuum?"

"How much laundry detergent should I use?"

"Where are the garbage bags?"

He had energy. He moved with purpose. He seemed motivated.

I know it's only one day. But it's a day I'm not feeling like a failure, so I'll take it.

Shana Tova! Tits Up!

 My fingers have gotten sloppy at typing on my phone. I used to be much better at it, but lately I'm constantly missing letters or hitting the wrong ones. I rely excessively on autocorrect, often with hilarious or telling results.

Around the first of the year I typed "happy new year" numerous times, as I'm sure we all did. Sending well wishes, hoping that the shit show of 2020 would give way to happier, calmer times. Unfortunately, insurrection proved that to be a short-lived pipe dream, but hope springs eternal, right?

Anyway, happy new year on my phone,

One time it came out as Happy Jew Year, which I guess works. 

Not long after that, it was "happy new teat," which made me laugh really hard. The word "teat" is never not funny.

That made me think of the scenes in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, when Suzy and Midge take a breath and say "tits up!" whenever Midge is getting ready to go out on stage. She squares her shoulders and marches out to face the audience. 

I feel like that's a solid approach for life. 

I know it's a ridiculous statement of the obvious, but the past year was brutal. And the past few months were particularly brutal. I mean, things have been shitty for everyone. I'm not unique. But I can only write about what I know.

We careened through the spring and summer, trying to figure out life in a pandemic, not seeing friends or family. The kids and I went to the Outer Banks in July, and to my parents' house in Virginia for Thanksgiving - both times after everyone tested negative for coronavirus AND going through the airport in essentially a hazmat suit. 

But it wasn't the same, especially Thanksgiving. No hockey game, no Turkey Trot, no Day After Thanksgiving Pie celebration. 

Zeke in particular was miserable. I mean, he's 13, with everything that entails. Meaning when he's not utterly charming and being super sweet to me, he's a complete asshole. 

At one point, I called my mom for advice. 

"I don't know how to deal with this."

"Yeah, it sucks."

"What did you do with Sam when he was this age?"

"I didn't talk to him for two years."

She's a wise woman.

School has been a disaster. Both kids hate the remote-online format, especially Josie. She's in her first year of middle school at an all-girls charter school. A big part of their philosophy is athleticism and movement, and how that complements a rigorous academic program. But she has never set foot in the building. She hasn't truly interacted with any of her classmates. They do PE online, which is stupid. She is so, so unhappy.

Zeke is inconsistent about logging in to his classes. I get calls all the time from teachers letting me know he needs to do a test or get caught up on an assignment. He's so damned smart that he'll say, "oh, ok," log in, take the test, and get a 90% without even studying. But his grades suck because he spends a lot of time doing fuck-all.

Getting them up in the morning to start class was a fight almost every day. Getting them to get their butts up to get any kind of exercise was a fight every day. Thank goodness for the trampoline. Getting them motivated to do just about anything was a fight every day. 

I was constantly worn out, constantly emotionally wrecked, constantly feeling like an utter failure as a mother. 

I decided to stop fighting. It was taking too much out of me. The solution was to embrace the suck, stop caring so much and to recognize that none of it matters that much in the long term. They're not in high school. Their grades right now won't matter when they're applying to colleges. This crazy year will, hopefully, be a blip. 

I told them, "I don't care if you get As. Just don't get Fs. Do enough to get by, and when you're back in school in person, we'll worry about getting back on track then. Log in, participate, do something. That's all I care about."

I would get emails from school to the effect of, "we're starting a new unit on geology! Make sure to check your student's grades!"

Nah. I don't care.

Because I almost always have the kids on New Year's Eve, it tends to be a low-key affair. Maybe we'll watch the Times Square ball drop on TV, and then call my family to celebrate a 10 PM East Coast New Year's.

This year I had two Zoom New Year's parties set up, one with my family, and one with my India girlies. I decided to put on a sparkly shirt and earrings, mix myself some champagne cocktails, and have some fun. 

Champagne cocktail
1 sugar cube
2-3 dashes Angostura bitters
1 ounce brandy
4-6 ounces champagne
garnish with orange slice and maraschino cherry

 The drinks and the company were delicious. It was the most festive New Year's Eve I've had in years. 

The orange abomination in the White House is on his way out. Our politics are fraught, but it's a start. My kids' schools have announced dates to start back in person. I have a hot date tomorrow. The pandemic is a nightmare, but there's a vaccine (which I'm getting this week). It feels like there's a tiny glimmer of light peeking out from the end of the tunnel. 

Deep breath. Sally forth. Tits up.

So when negativity surrounds, I know some day it'll all turn around.

The turnoff from the Halfmoon trail to Mt. Massive is written in tiny letters with a Sharpie. This cracked me up.

I suppose it was inevitable that eventually, we were going to start a Yahrtzeit hike and fail to reach the summit. And of course, it had to happen in 2020. Whoever had "Freak Snowstorm in Early September The Day After It Was 95 Degrees" on their 2020 bingo card, step forward and claim your prize. 

We decided that this year, we wanted to climb Mt. Massive, the second highest peak in Colorado. We chose a route that is shorter (about 8 miles round-trip, instead of another route that is 14) but very difficult - steep, with rapid elevation gain. I was nervous, as I always am. Nervous because I knew it was going to be a hard climb, and nervous because the weight of the day always starts creeping up on me a few days before I do it. 

I always think a lot about Emma this time of year - there's always the one-two punch of the anniversary of her death followed immediately by the anniversary of 9/11. Even though it has been six years, she is still fresh in my mind. Her energy, her smile, the way she made us laugh and the way she made us proud. The pain of losing her. 

And ever since I started taking additional names up the mountain with me to say a collective Kaddish for other people in addition to Emma, the responsibility of it weighs on me as well. The number of names increases every year. I think the first year I did it I had fewer than 20 on my list. Last year it was about 47. This year, incredibly enough, it was 90.

So all of this heaviness was sitting in my chest when I went to sleep on Friday night. But when I woke up on Saturday morning, I felt the familiar excitement. The feeling in my chest moved down to my belly and felt like butterflies rather than anxiety.

This is the norm.

The drive to the trailhead was insane. It's a dirt road for the last 7 miles or so, and the road was rough, rutted and rocky, in addition to being super narrow. There was almost no moon and no one else on the road, and it was so dark that we couldn't figure out where we were supposed to go. It was discombobulating because normally there are lots of other cars heading in the same direction, be we didn't see anyone else until we were almost at the trailhead.

We started to hike and immediately encountered snow. I don't know why this surprised us. A crazy snowstorm hit on Tuesday. Boulder, where Christin lives, got six inches. Christin and I are both smart, rational people who are not novice hikers. And yet for whatever reason, all week long heading into the climb we were all jacked up about the temperature and worrying about how cold it was going to be, but we didn't think about the snow or about the likelihood that a major snowstorm in Colorado was going to dump a bunch of snow on a mountain that tops out at 14,421 ft. 

So we were relatively bundled up in anticipation for cold - I wore fleece-lined hiking pants, a heavier jacket, and carried a cashmere turtleneck in my pack, just in case. I didn't need any of those things - the sun was out and the temperature was perfect. But the snow made the rocky path wet and icy and slippery, and as we ascended, the snow got deeper and the trail was increasingly hard to make out. 

Steep climb up snow-covered, slippery rocks

At one point, we passed a guy who was coming back down with his Siberian Husky. He was a young and fit and he looked like someone who hiked 14ers in his sleep. We asked him how he was doing and if he had made it to the summit, and he said that he turned around at 13,000 because the snow was too deep to find the trail and too deep for his dog. 

In a way, it took the pressure off. If this guy had to turn around, then there would certainly be no shame if we reached a certain point and decided that it wasn't safe or smart to continue. Christin and I decided that we would keep going as far as we could and call it a day if we needed to.

In the meantime, the hike itself was beautiful. The sun was shining and the mountains were glorious and the snow made everything that much more stunning. I ended up hiking most of the way in a t-shirt with my heavy coat tied around my waist. As we always do, Christin and I talked and talked about family and life and books and work and everything else. But the further we went, the more difficult the conditions became. I was using my hiking poles to climb and at one point put my pole down in the snow only to have it get caught between two rocks and snap when I took a step. Luckily, Christin had duct tape in her pack so I was able to tape it together and continue to use it. 

As we ascended, the snow was 1-2 feet deep in spots and the hiking involved a lot of post-holing - essentially, taking a step and sinking down into the snow to create holes that look like what you would sink a post into if you were putting up a fence, or putting your hiking poles into the snow and have them unexpectedly sink down an extra couple of feet because you don't know where the ground is. We also spent time trying to walk in the tracks made by others. There were tracks in every direction, made by people who were guessing at where the trail was supposed to be and often getting it wrong. At one point Christin and I spent at least 20 minutes trying to figure out the proper way to get around a group of rocks, because the trail wasn't visible and there were multiple possible routes but none that were obvious. 

Those footwells are almost 2 feet deep in some places.

We passed another couple coming down who said that they made it to 12,700 and thought, "fuck it, this sucks." We decided that 12,700 would be our stopping point. We had been hiking for four hours and had only ascended 2000 vertical feet, with another 2000 to go (by contrast, in previous years we had never taken more than 3.5 hours to reach a summit). At that rate and under those conditions, it would have taken us another two to three hours (at least) to make it to the summit, only to have an extremely slippery, difficult descent that we would have to do when we were already worn out. 

 So we picked out a big flat boulder up ahead and decided that we would have lunch there, do our Yahrtzeit ritual, and then head back down. 

As ever, the yahrtzeit was very emotional for me. Reading the a names of 90 people whose loved ones mourn for them made me cry. The words of the Kaddish made me cry.

May there be abundant peace from heaven, and life, for us and for all Israel; to which we say, Amen.

He who creates peace in His celestial heights, may He create peace for us and for all Israel; to which we say, Amen.

The world is a terribly difficult place right now. The idea of abundant peace and life feels like a pipe dream. Christin and I lamented the state of the world and got choked up. Disease, climate change, social strife - it doesn't feel like there is much to be hopeful about. 

I guess that's the "may there be" part - the Kaddish is obviously aspirational. But those words, which are supposed to be uplifting, make my heart heavy these days.

We dried our eyes and ate our lunch and headed back down. It was sunny and warm and beautiful and our spirits lifted. Nothing makes me happier than exercising out in nature. 

But I think the day weighed on me more than I realized. The next night I was despondent about everything. It passed, but I don't think I realized how much the stress I am under - working full time from home while trying to navigate two children through remote learning, help them manage their own stress and sense of isolation, blah blah blah. Clearly I needed a good cry.

And clearly I still need a good hike - yesterday I texted Christin to say that I want to do one that I finish. We talked about maybe doing the Longs Peak trail to Chasm Lake again - the one that started it all - or maybe just try another fourteener in a few weeks. 

Another chance to push before the cold sets in, and to seek out abundant peace. 

Sing, sing a song, and make it simple to last your whole life long

 The adolescence is becoming conspicuous. 

I look at my children and they do not look like little kids anymore. Josie, who will be 11 in three weeks, keeps getting taller and her legs are now as long as mine, even though I'm still a few inches taller. I have a longer torso and shorter legs, and she has a shorter torso and longer legs. I have no doubt she will surpass me soon in all departments.

Zeke will be 13 next month. He is gaining height more slowly than Josie is, but he's suddenly ... thicker. Not fat. Just muscular and more substantial. He has his dad's physique, which is a good thing. Jason is incredibly strong and fit, and Zeke has inherited those same characteristics. 

Zeke is still a couple of inches taller than Josie, though it doesn't look like it in this picture.

It reminds me of when he was first born and the doctor was checking his reflexes and doing all the little tests that are done on newborn babies. One of them entails pushing on the bottom of the baby's foot to see if the baby pushes back. Zeke, who had strong, muscular little legs right out of the womb, pushed back so hard that the doctor's eyes widened and he started to laugh. 

"Ok, then!" He chuckled. 

They're funny and smart-ass-y and teenager-y. And they vacillate between muttering at me under their breath and snuggling up to me and asking for hugs and cuddles. 

I'm so annoying. SO ANNOYING, MOM! GOD!! COULD YOU STOP???

And then, Moooommmy! Guess what time it is??? It's huggy time!! I love you, Mommy!

It makes me laugh while also giving me whiplash. 

One vestige of young childhood that they have both abandoned is my singing. I sang them to sleep until they were about 8. They would ask for it every night and make requests. When they were sad, they would ask for a song to comfort them and make them feel better. Some of my fondest, sweetest memories are of rocking them in the rocker as babies, singing to them as I gently traced my fingers over their faces until they fell asleep.

But they don't ask for it anymore. Sometimes when Josie is having a hard day and is cuddled up to me, I'll ask her if she wants a song, but she says no. I understand, but it makes me wistful.

This past weekend the kids stayed with Jason while I got some alone time. I went out on Saturday night and then came home and went to sleep by about 11. 

My phone rang at 12:15 a.m. I knew it was Zeke because his ring-tone is Stewie from Family Guy saying, "Mom..Mom..Mom..Mommy...Mommy...Mama...Maaa." 

I answered the phone, only half awake.

"Zeke? Are you ok?"

He sounded whimper-y.

"What's wrong honey? Did something happen?"

"No, I'm ok. Mama, will you sing to me? Will you sing me to sleep?"

"Oh! Sure. Is there something you want to hear?"

"It doesn't matter. Anything."

So I started to sing Angel Band. But I still wasn't really awake so I kept messing up the tune and forgetting the lyrics. I would try to think hard but my brain wasn't working so I would stop and be quiet for a few seconds while I tried to remember what I was doing. Then I would try again, but I kept confusing it with a different song, so I was half singing Angel Band and half singing Patsy Cline's Walkin' After Midnight, but I still wasn't awake or thinking clearly so I would have to stop and try to find the song in my memory. If I had been more coherent, I would have laughed.

We both lay there listening to each other breathe. I would occasionally whisper, shhhh. 

Finally he whispered, Mama.

I'm here, I whispered back.

I'm going to go to sleep now...

OK, honey. Good night.

G'night, mama. I love you.

I love you too, baby.

And then I fell back to sleep with my heart full.

Report from the front lines: Remote Learning, Day 1

 5:00 a.m. - I am up before my alarm, which is unusual and surprising. I like my sleep, plus I was up last night later than normal. Met a friend out for a couple of hours last night and then one of my car's tires blew on the way home, so it was 11:30 p.m. by the time I got the tire changed and made it home. Thank goodness for kind men who jump at the chance to change a tire for a damsel in distress. I know how to change a tire, but it was nice to have someone do it for me. Chivalry is not dead.

6:00 - I get up and get ready for the day. Task number one is making sure Josie has what she needs to start school. I get on her computer and open up the tabs she'll use - google classroom, zoom chats, the email with her schedule, etc. She should do this herself but she's so freaked about the remote learning that I set it up for her so it's one less thing for her to cry about.

7:30 - Zeke needs to start school at 8:10. He's totally self sufficient - I make sure he finds the emails from his teachers with the relevant zoom links, but beyond that he's good to go. I go downstairs to make him some breakfast and coffee. I promptly break the French press when I open the cupboard above it and a plastic water bottle falls out on top of it. I go to the coffee shop across the street instead and while I wait in line, I order myself a new coffee maker from Amazon.

8:10 - he logs into his first class. All is well.

8:45 - I make sure Josie is ready to go. She has hot chocolate and I make her some eggs. Her first class is Movement starting at 9. I have a conference call for work at the same time so once I know she's all set I go downstairs and do my call. 

9:50 - Josie's movement class went well but now she has English and she's already starting to melt down. She can't hear someone on the Zoom chat. She can't figure out how to edit the document in Google Classroom. When I make suggestions she lashes out at me. She's crying and hiding under a blanket. She wants to quit and I won't let her, so I'm mean. She cries some more, I'm annoyed, and I leave for the tire place.

11:30 - Back at home, I try to work while keeping an ear out for needy children. Josie manages to get through her English class in one piece and has a break for an hour or so. Zeke is fine. I feed them lunch in between phone calls for work, one of which entails being yelled at by an irate lawyer. Fun times.

12:00 - I finish a conference call and get up to start my third load of laundry of the day.

1:30 - I check on Josie. She's doing social studies but they're taking a break. She is spending her break underneath her bed watching TikTok videos. I tell her that when it's time to start class again she needs to sit at her desk. She begrudgingly agrees. She asks if we can make cookies later. We absolutely can.

2:30 - I check on Josie. She's supposed to write a letter to her teacher about something. She can't figure out what it's supposed to be about and is frustrated and complaining. I manage to talk her off the ledge before the tears flow. Zeke is done for the day and had no trouble. He then proceeds to torment his sister until I can get him out of her room.

3:00 - Work continues for me, as it has all day. Conference calls, telephone calls, video meetings, emails, memos. This is a hard time for school districts. Teachers are stressed, administrators are stressed, parents are stressed. We're all doing the best we can but it never feels like enough. Someone's always pissed off or upset. I'm like a pinball, ricocheting from one task and one dispute to the next. I can't focus on or remember anything.

3:30 - Josie finally finishes. I give her a hug and tell her I'm proud of her for sticking with it. The first day is the hardest, I say. Tomorrow it won't be as bad, and soon you'll be more comfortable with everything. It'll be ok. She nods, hugs me back, and lies down to take a nap. 

4:45 - A friend of Zeke's is over and the kids are out back on the trampoline. I'm almost finished for the day, having worked my way through my to-do list. I'm suddenly starving and realize I've had nothing to eat all day - just coffee. 

5:00 - I eat a bowl of yogurt with a mango cut into it. I look around and realize I need to vacuum. I think about doing a workout but know that I'm going to need to eat more if I'm going to do it without passing out. I try to come up with something to make for dinner. I wonder if I can get away with going to bed at 8 p.m.

We survived.

Mean mommy

"Mom, me and Zeke are switching rooms."

I had just walked home from being out for a couple of hours to meet a friend for a drink. The margaritas were making my brain slightly fuzzy.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"Zeke is going to take my room and I'm going to take Zeke's room."

"Wait ... what? Why?"

Zeke saw me and yelled down from upstairs, "hey Mom! Do you have an allen wrench? I need it to take Josie's bed apart."

"What? I don't know. Maybe. I don't know where it would be."

"OK, I'll call dad."

Minutes later: "Dad's got one! I'm going to bike over there."

It was 9:30 at night.

"What? No! It's 9:30 at night, you don't have a light on your bike, and I don't want you riding up Josephine and York streets in the dark."

"But I need it to take Josie's bed apart!"

Josie has an IKEA bunk bed that I can take apart and put back together easily. I am the queen of assembling IKEA furniture - I find it very zen and satisfying. But the bed takes awhile, and if you're 12 years old and impatient and don't know what you're doing and don't have the directions (they were thrown away years ago), you'll make a big fat mess and end up crying. Crying 12-year-olds are annoying as fuck.

"It's 9:30 at night!! You're not taking Josie's bed apart! It's complicated and it takes a long time to do it right, and you'll mess it up and then I'll have to fix it, and I don't feel like it fixing it. I'm tired. It's bedtime. You have camp tomorrow. You need to get ready for bed."

"But we want to switch rooms," they whined.

"I don't care. You're not doing it tonight. You can do it tomorrow. And I'm not helping."

This went back and forth for a while, ending with Zeke saying, "god, mom, why are you so mean???"

I'm mean. I'm so, so mean.

I'm mean when I make them clean their messes up before I turn on the WiFi.

I'm mean when I make them go to bed before midnight.

I'm mean when I don't let them eat upstairs because it's gross and eventually I end up rummaging through the kitchen going, "where the hell are all my bowls???"

I'm mean when I'm on a video conference for work and Zeke starts bellowing at me about something and I'm like, "I'M WORKING!! BE QUIET! I'LL HELP YOU WHEN I'M DONE!!"

 I'm mean when I get irritated that it takes me half an hour to get them out of bed to go to camp.

Thank the little baby Jesus for camp.

Colorado is actually doing pretty well with COVID. Our numbers are declining. Our governor is making data-driven decisions and slowly opening things up while still maintaining certain restrictions and precautions. The one thing I vehemently disagreed with him on was his approach to summer camp.

My kids were registered for two weeks of overnight camp, which they love because it's fun, and while I love because they're gone and I can get some peace and quiet. The gov had delayed making an announcement until late May, but the word was positive. And my assumption was that as between overnight camps and day camps. day camps have exponentially more opportunities for transmission, whereas with overnight camp, you check in, you get your health screening, and then you're captive for 14 days.

But then the overnight camps closed and the day camps opened, so day camp it was.

It's hard for them. Nothing is back to normal - the neighborhood pool is closed, the rec center a few blocks away is closed, most of their friends aren't allowed to play with anyone else. They're restless and antsy and bored.

But it's hard for me too. Zeke has been living here full time, but Josie had continued to go back and forth between my house and her dad's house. And then about a month ago, she started staying at my house longer and longer.

"Don't you want to go see daddy?" I keep asking.

She shrugs and says, "sure, but not tonight."

I think a big part of it is that they like being together. They will fight and bicker, but they really do love each other and take care of each other.

But I need a break, so I told them that I need every other weekend to myself. Two days out of every fourteen. Zeke suggested that I got plenty of alone time when they're at camp - i.e., WHEN I'M WORKING. I expressed outrage at that suggestion. They were thinking I was mean but they were smart enough not to say it. So I'm getting my weekend in three days.

Last night their dad brought over the allen wrench and they got to work. Zeke tried to take Josie's bed apart and got a little turned around about exactly which pieces needed to come apart in order to move the bed, and which could stay intact, So of course I helped. We took the bed apart and moved it and put it back together. We figured out how to move Josie's enormous dresser (but not before they accused me of being mean when they insisted on trying to do it in a way that was never going to work and I said, "it's not going to work that way").

Zeke said, "isn't this fun, mom? We're bonding!"

I went back to my room and got into bed. The kids were excited about their new rooms.

Ten minutes later Josie poked her head around the door. "Can I sleep with you?"

She crawled in, threw an arm around me, and went to sleep.

Twenty-three

My dear Emma,

Happy birthday. You would have been twenty-three years old today.

I've been thinking about you so much lately.

I've been thinking about everything, actually. We're stuck at home in a global pandemic. There's a lot of time to think.

I think about how quickly life goes by.

When I turned twenty-three I was in my second year of law school. I knew nothing about anything. I didn't know what kind of law I wanted to practice.  I didn't know where I wanted to live. I didn't know what I wanted my life to look like. I was totally making shit up as I went along.

And now suddenly I'm 50. I barely know how I got here.

After your accident when you were twelve, you always seemed to have a greater sense of purpose than I've ever had in my life. You had almost died, and then you struggled to recover, and I think it gave you a focus on living deliberately that was mature beyond your years.

It's a focus that would have served you well right now. People are struggling with how to live - how safe is safe enough? How much risk is too much risk?

At a certain point we have to recognize that life is for the living and it's time to get on with it. You've gotta die of something. You knew that. And you were taken too soon anyway.

I was looking through old pictures and I found this one from Thanksgiving of 2008. Only one person is left - Leo is gone, you're gone, your mom is gone.

I want to get back to living. I don't want to stagnate in my house, afraid to live because I'm afraid to die. The truth is, I'm not afraid to die.

It's hard to imagine what you would have been doing now. Out of college, yes. Grad school? Traveling? Following some calling? Being a surf bum? A ski bum? A responsible working professional?

Like most twenty-three-year-olds, you probably would have been clueless and trying to figure out how to be a grown-up, not realizing at the time that most of us never really figure that out. But I feel like you would have had a better sense than most.

It would have been fun to get to know you as an adult.

I miss you and I love you. We all do, with all our hearts.

Wendy

Live your best life

If there is a casualty of this COVID-stay-at-home-so-you-don't-die dealio, it will be my sense of time. Lisa wrote about this, and I get the sense that most people are feeling this way, but it bears repeating. I have no idea what day it is. I have no idea how long this has been going on.

This is hard for me, because my brain generally sees things in calendar form. When I think about my schedule, I see the grid with dates and times and days of the week. I remember appointments and due dates and what day and time the flight leaves, and from which gate.

So to spend all of Wednesday thinking it was actually Tuesday - - well, it's very confusing. Every night feels like Friday night, for some reason. I find myself relating to the Dowager Countess's confusion about what a "weekend" is.

I have a theory. Not about what a weekend is - I actually do know the answer to that question. I have a theory about why our sense of time is so whack-a-doodle right now.

We're living in a fog of sameness. We stay in the same place and do the same things and see the same people. There aren't markers or boundaries or events that distinguish one day from the next. I felt the same way when I was on maternity leave.

I also think we're in a "one day at a time" mode, because if we start thinking that this one day is part of a stretch of 40 days or 60 days or 80 days that all look and feel like this one... I have a hard time with that thought.

So I just deal with today. Which, according to all of my zen yogi friends, is what I should be doing anyway. Be present.

Maybe present-ish. Present-adjacent. I might think a little about yesterday, or about tomorrow or the next day.

Anyway. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow ... I'm doing well, for the most part.

Today I went to Zeke's school to pick up a novel that he's going to be studying when school starts back up in a week.

Then I went to the grocery store. There are still no paper products to be had, but everything else is in stock. Except yeast, because apparently everyone has decided to spend the apocalypse baking.

I actually mocked a guy in front of me at the checkout at Target a few weeks ago because his cart was loaded up with paper towels and bags and bags of flour. I mean, I didn't mock him to his face. Just in my head, and maybe a little bit on Facebook.

Anyway. He sure showed me, huh?

What else?

My knee hurts.

I've been very good about exercising regularly. I alternate Peloton rides with runs. The other day I went for a run around City Park. The street leading there has old sidewalks made of slate or flagstone slabs, and over the years they have been pushed around by tree roots, leaving the slabs uneven. So I'm running along and listening to my music and admiring the blue sky and then suddenly I was on the ground.

I landed hard on my left knee. I ripped my brand new running tights. It hurt like a motherfucker.

I lay there for a couple of minutes as I took stock. Was anything broken? Was there structural damage or was it just a bad scrape? Could I keep going?

I kept going.

At one point I was waiting to cross the street and realized my knee felt a little sticky. I pulled up my tights and discovered that I had basically taken the top layer of skin off my kneecap and was bleeding.

Still, I kept going. I wanted to finish the run. My skin and my leggings are washable.

And bonus!! Now I have a matched set of busted up kneecaps!

A few months ago I slipped on ice and landed on my face and my right knee. My face healed quickly. My right kneecap is still a little bit tender - I must have bruised the bone pretty badly.

Do you know what a pain in the ass it is to not be able to put pressure on either of your knees?

But I'm fine. We're fine.

I ordered a trampoline for the kids - it'll arrive tomorrow.

We watch a lot of movies. We play a lot of videogames.

I ordered a bluetooth karaoke microphone, and it may be my favorite toy, ever. Josie sings Lizzo and Billie Eilish, Zeke sings Frank Sinatra, I sing the Dixie Chicks.

I bought Zeke a pumpkin pie at the grocery store this morning and encouraged him to eat it for breakfast.

For my morning coffee, I got out the Wedgwood that I inherited from my grandparents, because why the hell not?

We're going to be in this for a while, so we might as well make ourselves happy.

The play unfolds before my eyes, there stands the actor who is me

Because I do my assignments, I was determined to know the speech, off-book.

I practiced in front of Josie and Zeke, both of whom applauded me enthusiastically. They're so sweet and encouraging. It made me feel really good.

"Are you going to be in a play? Will you be famous? Can we come watch you?"

It's the famous part that they were most interested in.

I explained that it's just for practice, just for a class. Just for fun.

I wanted to have some fun.

I come from an actor-y family. My grandma Ruth was an actress and a radio DJ. Throughout my childhood, I watched my dad do community theater in Venezuela and Israel and India. I did school plays and community theater in middle and high school, and a little bit in college.

Chava in Fiddler on the Roof. Margot in Diary of Anne Frank. Puck in A Midsummer Night's Dream. Alice, one of the romantic leads, in You Can't Take It With You.

 Let me tell you, there are few things more mortifying than being an 13-year-old 8th grader in a high school production and having to kiss a 17-year-old senior on stage.

But I did it. I kissed Trevor, who seemed ancient to me and who towered over me by well over a foot. I persevered. The show must go on.

The acting class was a 6 week series. It provided me with something that wasn't work and wasn't child-rearing and wasn't for anybody else. It was just mine. It was creative. I was in a different environment and interacting with different people.

I did the speech. I received some constructive criticism, but felt like I did it well.

And then it was over. Now getting out into the world and interacting with new people is over, for the time being.

I went into self-quarantine this past Sunday - I was skiing up in Summit County on Saturday, and it turned out they had had a cluster of positive tests. Then that night the governor ordered the ski resorts closed. Now everything is closed.

It's hard.

I'm not fully an extrovert, but I'm not fully an introvert either. I like being alone, and being around lots of people can wear me out. Big crowds can make me anxious and exhausted. But I like having it at least be an option.

My kids and I are home, and we're all getting along. We're keeping the house clean and making time to get outside, although we had a snowstorm yesterday and it's still cold and wet, so our daily games of street hockey have been put on hold. I'm exercising every day. I've discovered that deep-cleaning the house every day relaxes me.

We have plenty of food and wifi and games to play. I work for a government agency that doesn't depend upon customers or profits to keep its doors open (though our doors aren't actually open right now), so I'm not worried about money.

I am maintaining connections with people via email and text and FaceTime. My mother and I have coffee together every morning. I chatted the other day with a sorority sister whom I haven't seen or spoken with in 30 years. The Denver ZTAs are having a virtual happy hour tonight.

But I'm scared. I miss my family. I worry about them. I worry about my children. I worry about myself, and how devastating it would be for my kids if something happened to me. I mean, I'm extremely strong and healthy, but strong and healthy people have been hit by this virus and are now dead.

I'm not particularly afraid of death - once you're dead, what's the difference? But I know what it would do to my family.

It's actually not like me to worry. I'm not a worrier. My mother taught me from an early age to not worry about what you can't control. You can only deal with what's in front of you. If something bad happens, you deal with it when it happens, but worrying about a thing before it's a thing isn't helpful. My natural inclination is to stay calm. Don't freak out. Be zen.

So it suprised me when I had a major panic/anxiety attack the other day, and she was the one who was able to talk me off the ledge. She's better at this than I am.

My dad offered to drive out here, but we told him it wasn't a good idea for many reasons. Not the least of which is that he's a terrible driver.

He laughed when I said that.

We take it day by day, and play our roles. We play all the roles. In my house right now, I am mother and teacher and playmate and friend and therapist, all at the same time, all rolled into one.

We go along and try to act as if it's all normal, so that we don't go crazy.

Pretending is the only way to get through it.

Truth hurts

It takes a lot to accept that a fundamental decision in your life was a bad one. It's hard to admit it, that your judgment was so off.

You want to think that you chose well. Because if you're wrong, you were so, so wrong. You failed so utterly.

So you suffer through years of gas-lighting, being made to feel like you're crazy for being outraged that your children are suffering and so unhappy because he is incapable of taking their needs into account. You protect them as much as you can, to the point of calling DHS on one occasion when he gets a little too rough with the boy.

As he drags them from house to house and woman to woman, you are the rock. You maintain the stability they need - your house is the same, your temperament is the same, your rules are the same, your love is the same. You don't introduce them to any romantic interests.

In particular, the boy suffers. The first post-divorce wife is a fucking monster and awful to the children. When they break up, he's alone for a little while, but he is incapable of being alone, so he starts dating a new woman and marries her within about 8 or 9 months. She's a nice person, but she has 4 kids, meaning the children are moving into a household with 5 new people, only some of whom they like.

Imagine that for a minute. You're young and heading into puberty, with all of the craziness that entails. Over the past few years, your life with your father has been turbulent. It has been exhausting and occasionally traumatic. You're a bit of an introvert, like your mother. And now you have to move into a house with a new step-mother and four new step-brothers. The step-mother also has an after-school childcare business, so the house is constantly crowded and noisy. You alternate weeks between the chaos of the new situation and the quiet and calm of your mother's house.

The very thought of it makes your chest tighten with anxiety. Predictably, the boy doesn't deal with it well, and his behavior at his father's house shows it. He is miserable, and makes everyone else in the house miserable as well.

Rather than recognize the source of the boy's behavior and unhappiness, or to understand that the boy is 12 and prepubescent and thus essentially clinically insane, his father informs you that the boy is a cancer and an asshole and a cunt (sorry - his word, not mine), and that he is no longer welcome in his house.

So it is agreed that it's best for everyone if the boy comes to live with you, where he can have one place that's home with the one parent who feels like home. When things calm down, maybe he will spend occasional weekends with his father so that you can take a trip or get some downtime.

Also, the boy is unhappy at his middle school - it's just not a good fit. So you arrange for him to switch to a different school with a better system of instruction, a better curriculum, and better teachers. When he starts the new semester there, he is immediately ecstatic. He loves school, always wants to talk about what he's learning, wakes up every morning chirpy and with a spring in his step.

Things are sorted. You've got the carpool situation locked down.  You've got an upcoming business trip and some girls' weekends coming up, and it is agreed that the boy will stay with his father for a couple of nights.

Things have gone from anxious and tumultuous to organized and calm. The boy is happy, so you are happy.

On Friday night, you head off on your girls' ski weekend in the mountains feeling confident that the boy will be OK with his dad for a weekend. They're going skiing and all seems to be well. You're looking forward to connecting with friends and skiing a mountain that you don't know very well.

But then you are awakened at 6:15 yesterday morning by a phone call. It looks to be from the father's wife, but when you pick up, it is the boy. He is crying.

He was dawdling and difficult when told he needed to get up and get ready to leave. Traffic to the mountains on a Saturday morning is a nightmare, so if you want to minimize the agony, you need to leave by 6 at the latest, and preferably a little earlier. Missing that 15 minute window can literally add an hour to the trip, so time is of the essence.

With a carload of people up and ready to go, the boy petulantly said, "just leave without me." So they did. I kind of get that part of it. But they also take his phone. Just to be a dickish and punitive. Just to pile on.

Again, imagine that for a minute. A 12 year old boy is left alone in the house with both parents out of town. His means of communication is taken away. Word is not left with a neighbor or a friend that he's on his own, to keep an eye out just in case. If there's an emergency, no one can get in touch with him. If there is an emergency on his end, he's left to fend for himself.

He remembers that the Amazon Echo is hooked up to the step-mother's phone contacts, so that is how he manages to reach you.

You could try to get someone to go get him, but you can't call him to give him a head's up. Nonetheless, a friend generously agrees to go check on him and take him home, but when he knocks on the door nobody answers - the boy went back to sleep and didn't hear anything.

The boy needs you. There's nothing to do but go back to Denver.

On the way, you call and ask what happened.

"He was being a jerk and holding everybody up, so we left him."

"But why did you take his phone? Aren't you concerned about what could happen if there's an emergency and he can't call anyone and no one can call him?"

He laughs and says, "I guess not," which just about sends you into orbit.

You're quiet for a second and then ask, "don't you care about what happens to him? Don't you love him?"

"Not really," he responds.

"How can you say that about your son?" you ask.

"You don't know what he's like," he says.

So there it is. He's a father who isn't interested in being a father when things are difficult or inconvenient. His love, to the extent he is capable of it, is conditional. He seems unconcerned with his son's safety. He doesn't understand that being a good parent means gutting it out when adolescents act like normal adolescents - i.e., assholes.

You pick up the boy. You take all of his things and all of his clothes. The poster of the earth viewed from the surface of the moon - a gift that his grandfather bought him at the Air & Space Museum - is removed from the wall and brought home.

Everything has come very clearly into focus. Because you didn't want to accept that you failed, you have spent years trying and trying and trying again to repair the relationship, to keep lines of communication open, to get them into therapy to work out their differences. The parent-child relationship is so important. Boys need their fathers. Blah blah blah.

You have tried to talk yourself into believing that his horrible abusive childhood left him somewhat emotionally stunted and not good at resolving conflict, but that deep down, he's a good person. A good father. That your kids are OK with him.

But you realize that you are beating your head against the wall. You are the only one making the effort. You are Don Quixote, tilting at windmills.

The truth is, he's a terrible person and a terrible father. Your son is not OK with him. You did choose badly. You did fail.

That realization is heartbreaking, but also liberating. Your path forward is clear. You now know that there's no point in trying to force him to be someone he's not capable of being.

The boy has you, and that will be enough.