IslandRoar

Stroke Away the Stress

Our backyard pool was open for business this weekend and I was able to get in some swimming time.

I have this swim harness rigged up. Bungee cords attach to the fence on both sides of the pool, and then to a belt I clip around my hips. This way I can swim and swim without reaching the wall.

The water and the air are still chilly this time of year, and also in the fall, so I have a full-length wet suit. I'd post a picture but it's way too embarrassing. My kids can't look at me without shaking their heads.

But I don't care.

Swimming is my therapy. Both physical and psychological. And it's way cheaper than a shrink, as well as being great for the thighs and butt. A real win-win.

With my ears submerged in this soundproof cocoon, my mind wanders aimlessly. Problems concerning the kids or work that may have been nagging at me seem to ease as I kick and pull. I'm able to solve plot points for my writing and come up with new ideas for blog posts.

In the colder weather I have a stationary reclining bike. But it's just not the same. I used to swim at a health club but I grew too lazy and pressed for time. And besides, the goggle marks that could still be seen around my eyes even hours later were much scarier than the wet suit could ever be.

But next month the new Y opens out here, a first for the Vineyard. They have a huge pool that claims not to have eye-irritating chemicals. So maybe I'll be able to swim next winter without deep goggle-etchings on my tender, over-forty-something skin?

That would be awesome.

Because when I emerge after a half hour or 45 minutes in the pool, I'm calmer, wiser, better able to handle whatever crap will shortly, inevitably, be thrown my way.

I guess, when I look at it that way, it's not just therapy for me. It's therapy for the whole family.

 

What's your go-to stress reliever? Or are you still attempting to find one?

 

On The Precipice

The 2009 holiday season was the first since my three kids were small that there was no holiday concert for me to attend.

First-Born Son was always in band, and he and Daughter #1 both took chorus all through high school. Daughter #2 wound up dropping chorus this year to accommodate other classes, other interests.

Thus no holiday concert, and no spring concert this month.

This is also the first year I have no one in dance class. Both of my daughters started dance in kindergarten. Daughter #1 went all the way through high school, but Daughter #2 was always on again/off again. And this year she's off.

So, no new dance shoes with their fresh leathery smell. No tap-tapping around the kitchen while the table's being cleared. No year-end dance recital next month.

It's kind of sad.

I felt the same way about basketball when First-Born Son was no longer on the Vineyard high school team. I missed everything about it. The smell of the gym. The squeak of their sneakers on the polished wooden floors as they ran up and down the court. The horn that blares out to end the half.

Of course, there is another side to all this nostalgia.

I don't have to fork out the cash for those very expensive dance or basketball shoes. I don't have to drive kids to and fro to endless practices and classes, go to parent's booster meetings, or write monthly tuition checks to dance schools.

I've enjoyed a good run at this parenting thing being a main focus in my life. But now I'm down to one kid living at home full time, and for only two more years at that.

I try and remember this when I sit shivering through her field hockey games or drive her to weekend play rehearsals.

Things that seemed destined to go on forever were, in fact, fleeting.

It's bittersweet. I need a moment or two to take it all in. Digest. Look back with longing.

Then ahead with anticipation.

 

Spin Cycle: Sports

A friend of mine recently told me that she thought figure skating was a sport, but she did not consider it a form of art.

I disagree. I think it's both.

But of course then I got to thinking. Is it even possible for something to fall under the categories of both art and sport?

When my kids were growing up I naturally steered them towards the arts, my own comfort zone. But I also had the rule that they had to participate in something physical each week as well: swimming, soccer, gymnastics, whatever.

I didn't have the energy or inclination to be a rabid sports mom, so I made yet another rule, that they were generally only allowed to sign up for one sport a season. There were three of them, after all.

Their genes, like mine, tend toward the artsy so this was never a problem. In fact, Daughter #1 didn't dig the sports scene at all. But her dance classes satisfied my physical activity rule, so all was well. 

Now, some would scoff that I'd consider dance an acceptable substitute for sports. But dancers are some of the most in-shape people I know. Who would argue with the fact that ballerinas are amazing athletes?

We don't, however, call ballet a sport. It's definitely an art.

Yet the question remains: ballet, figure skating, can something be both?

And what, really, is the definition of art? That which is created, original? Something that moves us or makes us feel in some way?

One definition I found says art is the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.

Well, that sure clears that up, huh?

Certainly no one would call it art if I was to lace up a pair of skates and hit the ice.

But I was incredibly moved by several of this year's Olympic ice skating performances. Poetry in motion.

I don't know if there's a right or a wrong answer to this question. Can a sport ever be an art? Or vice versa?

What do you think?

 

For more Spins on sports, head over to Sprite's Keeper. Sprint!

 

Mush!

I've already shared with you the joy of my winter wonderland getaway. But if you'll indulge me for one more post, it seemed to me that our night time dog-sledding adventure deserved something more.

Have you seen Balto, the animated film depicting the real life sled dog that delivered anti-diphtheria serum over the frozen tundra in hurricane winds at temps of fifty below,helping save the lives of children in Nome, Alaska in 1925? There's even a statue of him in Central Park.

Maybe it was Balto I had in mind when I made our dog-sledding reservations. Starlight, adventure, and speed, followed by a crescendo of inspirational music and a poignant, happy ending.

Alas, I had not factored in the wind-chill factor or the frostbite warning. Not to mention the odor of dog poop.

Did you know that when you are lying in a dog sled at ground level your nose is just about even with the butts of the eight adorable husky dogs on your sled team. Dogs who apparently wait until the sleds are in motion to relieve themselves.

Daughter #1 and I shared a sled, her lying in front. The parts of me she covered would be my last remaining body parts with any sensation.

"Umm-bye!" our musher called. The dogs made a half hearted attempt at moving our sled. Then stopped. "Go dogs, go," she yelled, as they stalled several times on the trail like a car out of gas.

She sounded like an inexperienced parent entreating their toddler to stop dawdling. Say it like you mean it, I silently begged.

The sled carrying First-Born Son and Daughter #2 raced by us. "Umm-bye!" their musher called out in an authoritative voice. Now that's what I'm talking about!

We rounded a curve in the trail and the sled stuck in the snow, dangling precariously at an odd angle. "Do you need us to get out?" we asked, clutching the sides.

"Oh, no." The musher ran forward to move the dogs and pry us loose.

Not a foot above our faces, pine branches laden heavily with snow swayed in the wind. I pulled my hood further down over my head and held my arm over Daughter #1's face, much like I had many times over the years when she was in the front seat of the car with me and I'd stepped on the brake.

But, no matter. The sled loosening jostled the tree and a miniature avalanche landed on us both.

"I'm so cold and tired," Daughter #1 whispered. "I just want to shut my eyes."

"Me too," I replied, "but don't fall asleep."

I didn't have to add, Because we might never wake up; the words hung in the air along with our frozen breath.

We laughed about it later. The inexperienced musher. Our frost-bitten digits. Our big, arctic adventure.

I'm glad we did it. The woods are beautiful at that time of night. Completely still and white. Huge evergreens shimmering with snow, lighting up the trail. Glorious.

No doubt infinitely more so than in the lush green of summer or the fiery blaze of autumn, the only two ways, incidentally, I plan on viewing them in the future for any extended period of time outdoors.

And if there are any dogs around, you can bet I'll make damned sure I'm several feet above the level of their butts.

 

Winter Wonderland?

I have determined that I'm not a cold weather vacation sort of gal.

It's something I've always suspected but I can now say, unequivocally, that it's a fact.

Last week we ventured into the mountainous New Hampshire wilderness for a family vacation. The fact that my kids now have three different winter breaks propelled me into scheduling a mini-vacation at a time convenient for all.

Reckless fool that I am, it didn't seem worth it booking a flight to some place warm for a mere four days. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight.

Instead, I chose an historic resort in New Hampshire. The place was beautiful. The skiing was right down the road, in addition to tubing, zip-lining, horse-drawn sleigh rides, and dog-sledding (yes, dog-sledding!).

These all seemed like fun-filled and perfectly reasonable activities at the time. And they were, they really were.

Except.

The east coast had that post-Christmas cold snap. Temps shot down to single digits, negative five with the wind chill during the day. It never stopped snowing, heavy at times, but, up until the morning of our departure, there was an endless cascade of flakes. Beautiful to look at. At least for the first day. Or two.

Remember when your kids were little and you spent all that time bundling them up to play in the snow? Extra socks and mittens. Hats and snow pants. Boots and scarves. And then of course, they'd have to pee, a truly monumental endeavor at that point.

Well, that's how I felt the whole time I was there. Bundle up to brave the great outdoors, peel off the layers once back inside. Bundle up. Peel off. A never-ending array of damp clothing and snow streaked floors.

Static electricity on the clothes, in the hair. Dry skin. Hat head. Numb faces and runny, red noses.

Don't get me wrong; we had fun. Tubing was fun. And zip-lining over a ski slope. I've always enjoyed speed.

And there was laughter, at times hysterical. Especially on our horse-drawn sleigh ride in blizzard-like conditions, an experience none of us will soon forget, including Dave, our driver, or Glenn, his trusty draft horse.

"I'm cold, Mommy. I'm cold." This, from my 22 year-old son, curled in the fetal position on his bed after skiing.

Shut up and grow a pair, I wanted to snap at him. Except that I was too busy counting my own frozen digits.

Okay, we admit it. We're wimps.

We tried our best. We persevered. We can check one off the bucket-list.

"The next time we take a sleigh ride, it won't be in a blizzard," First-Born Son informed me.

"What next time?" I stared at him. "I don't know about you, but I'm good. For life."

And while nothing beats sipping a hot-toddy by the warmth of a roaring fire as the winds howl at the windows, I think I prefer a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella in it, while lounging poolside or on some warm, white sand.

Promise me you'll remind me of this next winter, okay?

 

Real Housewives of the Vineyard?

 

Don't Judge A Book

A small group of field hockey moms were huddled on the chilly metal bleachers recently, watching the season home-opener.

Now, I don't know these women well. But our daughters have been together in school since they were little. Over the years we've commiserated on soccer fields and in school auditoriums, about everything from teachers and sleepovers to adolescent attitude.

Last season our girls were the new freshmen on the field hockey team. We sat through games, perplexed at the ref's never-ending whistle-blowing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. A couple of us, myself included, even played the game (briefly) back in the day, and we still couldn't figure out half the calls.

Our banter became sort of a joke. And this year we fell right back into it, trading horror stories about our daughters' belligerence, joking about the game as we tried to figure out the ref's calls, and loudly cheering the Vineyard team.

At first we didn't pay any attention to the lineup of four moms a few rows down from us. We could tell by their cheering that they were from the off-island team.  After a while though, I started to notice them sneaking glances back at us and then looking at one another meaningfully as we giggled.

At one point they turned around and set us straight regarding the foul we were wondering about out loud. We thanked them politely.

Okay, I admit it, we were being silly. But we weren't hurting anybody; we weren't being "mean girls." It was simple fun, damn it.

The women stood to go shortly before the game ended (2-0 Vineyard, BTW). We assumed they had a boat to catch to get off-island and home at a reasonable hour.

"Did you see the way they checked us out?" one of the Vineyard moms remarked when they'd left. "Talk about judgmental."

"Oh my gosh." It suddenly dawned on me. "They think we're The Real Housewives of Martha's Vineyard!"

We all laughed when I said it, but we shared the distinct impression it was probably true.

They had some preconceived notion about what women that live in a place like Martha's Vineyard must be like. And based on our shallow bleacher-behavior they'd no doubt decided we fit the bill.

If only they knew...

But they didn't, and that's really the point, isn't it?

I would've liked to tell them I'm originally from New Jersey and see what they'd think then. I have it on good authority from friends who follow the show, that those are the women they'd really need to watch out for.

Go Vineyard.

Spin Cycle: Birthdays and Anniversaries

I did not have birthday parties when I was a kid. My mother always said that, since my birthday was in August, it was pointless to have a party because everybody was "on vacation." I didn't question this until I got a little older and noticed that we were the only family on my block who ever vacationed in August. Oh well.

The only exceptions to this were: when I was nine, and got to bring three friends to see 101 Dalmatians, then sit on the curb and eat ice cream at Dairy Queen; and when I turned 13 and had three friends sleep over. We went rollerskating and then played Strip Poker in my living room where our sleeping bags were laid out.

And, if I recall correctly, my sister spied on us and threatened to tell my parents about the Strip Poker, and I had to promise her my first-born child, or punch her really hard, or something like that, to keep her quiet. It's all a little fuzzy.

But I was never bitter about the lack of birthday parties. I mean, it wasn't like I didn't have food or a roof over my head, right? And, although there were no parties, there were presents, so I wasn't about to complain.

But deep down I secretly longed for a surprise party. It just seems like people really have to love you an awful lot to go to all that trouble. I'd given a few surprise parties in my life, but I'd never been lucky enough to be on the receiving end.

Until three years ago, on my 45th birthday. I thought I was going out to have lobster ravioli at my favorite island restaurant with my kids. My daughters and I had just gotten home from the Fair, and my son greeted us in the driveway.

"Come quick," he said. "There are baby ducks in the pool. They're so cute. Hurry!"

I know; you can't believe I fell for the old "baby ducks in the pool" routine. But when we lived in New Jersey, each summer this mama duck laid her eggs in the bushes at our swim club. Then she'd parade her little tribe up to the pool and they'd take their first swim in the lap lane. My kids thought this was the cutest thing. We looked forward to it every year.

So you see why I fell for it. I followed my son around to the backyard, where my pool is surrounded by a tall, ugly, gray wooden fence. And when I barreled through the gate, everyone shocked the hell out of me, yelling "Surprise!"

My wonderful friend and neighbor Karen, who knew of my secret longing for just such a party, had planned the whole thing. There was food and Mai Tai's and a cake.

And yes, I am happy and relieved to say there were presents. Because even though I know you're not supposed to care about the gifts, I am just shallow enough and immature enough, that I still do. They don't have to be big or expensive or fancy. They just have to Be.

It was the best birthday. Ever. Although I have to admit, I was a little bummed there weren't any baby ducks.


Now go read some more Spins on Birthdays or Anniversaries at Sprite's Keeper. If you're lucky, maybe one of them has some baby ducks.