No Diving

Please forgive me if it seems as though I’m only half paying attention.  You’re right.

Make no mistake, the half that is here, listening, is as engaged as it can be, it’s just that the other half is dozing in a hammock somewhere, maybe by a beach under a palm tree or maybe leaning against a boulder at the top of a windswept mountain or maybe against a vanilla-scented tree trunk near a western river.

Please forgive me if it takes me a week or longer to answer your call or your email.  Truth be told, I’m not even checking to see who’s rung or written.

Understand that it’s not because I don’t care about what you have to say or that I’m not interested in what you are doing, it’s just that I am, these days, liable to be diverted and entwined by what is right in front of me:  book, child, conversation, meal, thought, view.

Please forgive me if the daily routine is off, if the things that need doing are left undone.

In my “real life” I am a creature of habit and ritual and repetition and control.  I have, much to many people’s frequent chagrin no doubt, a difficult time relaxing the reins.  I am an all or nothing kind of girl.  Apparently, the pendulum has swung.  I am not unaware of the dishes stacking up in the sink and laundry left untended to.   There is a part of me that savors the feeling of letting it go, not unlike that Sunday morning sleeping in feeling, knowing you should get up, but staying in bed just the same.

Please forgive me if my life seems devoid of depth or creativity or purpose.  On the surface, which is where I spend most of my time, I sleep, I eat, I swim, I read, I laugh with my friends, I shepherd my children.

Know that my time as shepherd is as sacred to me as anything on earth, and I am more at peace skimming along on the surface of this life right now than I have been in a long time.

Just You Listen Up

1) Regarding Rick Sanchez, you’re welcome.*  Next up, Joe Buck, whose coverage during the Eagles game yesterday made me fall so sound asleep that I didn’t wake up until the last minute of the 4th quarter.  Which may not have been a terrible thing, but still.

2) Sometimes I cook things.  This weekend it was chili.  I used this recipe from Cooking Light.  I was out of red wine (go figure) so I substituted half a beer.  Instead of a fresh jalapeno, I used some chipotle peppers in adobo sauce (much better), and sausage kind of gives me the heebie jeebies so I just used ground beef.  Oh yeah, I also chucked in a can of black beans because black beans make it pretty.  And corn, too.  It’s better day 2.

3)  My daughter’s ballet teacher  [mandatory disclosure clause:she runs a very tight ship and warns us all ahead of time that she doesn't put up with any BS or lateness or, I don't know, STRAY HAIRS FROM THE BALLET BUN and does, in fact, teach discipline and good behavior and listening and the value of hard work and dedication to a craft rather than princessy, diva-like behavior] made my daughter cry last week by singling her out and making her warm up on her own essentially in a corner – the corner of SHAME.  My daughter was late for ballet because she was having some kind of an issue about one thing or another and it was, admittedly, totally her fault.  Nevertheless, I had to actually call my husband to come and stand outside the ballet studio instead of me because I refused to leave her there (even though we aren’t allowed anywhere near the room where practice takes place, there is a tiny sliver of curtained window through which I could peek and therefore give my daughter a glimpse of 1/8″ of my eyeball to let her know that I had not abandoned her in hour of need) and moreso probably because I was afraid I was going to bust through the doors and wrestle an 80 year old woman with two artificial knees to the ground with two fistfuls of her hair in my hands shrieking, “Nobody puts baby in the corner!!” like a deranged banshee.   Although it took me about two hours to get my shit together after the whole episode, my daughter, after doing her stretches in isolation, rejoined the group, kicked some ballet butt, and emerged from class smiling and cheerful and fully resolved never to be late to class again.  If I hadn’t been in the room when they pulled her out of me, I might wonder whose kid she actually is.

4) My son asked me to get him the Bone books from Amazon.  So I did.  He knows that I “care” about reading.  And by “care” I mean “am fanatical and vaguely obsessive and am convinced that he’ll end up homeless in a sewer eating old shoe leather to stay alive if he doesn’t read prolifically.”  So, of course, he doesn’t.  GAH.  When he asks for a book, he gets a book.  In fact, when he asks for a book, he gets the whole collection.  And then I didn’t see him for a day and a half.  He’s read the Bone books.  “Now what?”  He asks.  Panic ensuing here.  Anyone?  He’s 8.  Reads like he’s 10 or 11.  Likes mythology, legos, and things that blow up.

5) I miss summer.  I miss my kids, I miss my husband, I miss not having to think, “I should be grading papers.”

6)  On the other hand:  apple cider donuts, Halloween, sweaters.

*he was fired from CNN over the weekend because he finally outed himself as not just a moron but a bigot.

Swim Club, Mid-July, Same as It Ever Was

You could slap a pair of headphones on me at any time in the future and in any place and I could identify the sound you played for me without a moment’s hesitation.

“It’s the pool,” I’d say, “Mid July.”

The same pool I’ve been going to since I was five.  Where I raced against much taller girls in swim meets. Where I played in the deep end until the skin on my fingertips puckered and peeled.  Where I practiced flips off the diving board.  Where I learned to do headstands.  Where I became a master of Marco Polo.  Where I worked for five summers.  Where, on the steps in front of the locker rooms at the ripe old age of 13, my now husband and then object of affection first asked me to marry him.

I’m listening to the same sounds now.  Truth be told, they are the same sounds but one town over.  I took a circuitous route around the country to get here, but I ended up only about three miles from where I started.  Maybe fewer.  I haven’t actually measured.   That geographical detail is immaterial, though.  I could still identify the sound.

What’s harder is splitting the one sound into its component parts.

Happy shrieks.

Babies slapping their chubby hands on the surface of the water.

Lifeguard whistles punctuating the day, followed by the low and almost reluctant admonition, “Walk.”

The background thrum, but louder louder then softer softer in ceaseless waves, of cicadas.

Swoosh, scream, sploosh of the slide.

The clang and reverb and hanging silence before the splash of the diving board.

In the distance, a rhythmic thwap and return of tennis balls.

The cadence of the lap swimmers as they carve through the water in tidy back and forth rows.

Teenage girls’ voices amplified to ensure that the boys hear their calculated phrasing.

Magazine pages turning.

Mom/babysitter and kid call and response “Come see!”  “In a second!”

Negotiations over complicated rules of made up games of pool tag.

Laughing laughing laughing.