I don't want to be Joel Berry's Mother

I don’t want to be Joel Berry’s mother. Or Justin Jackson’s. Nor, for that matter, do I want to be the mother of De’Aaron Fox or Malik Monk. And it has nothing to do with their personalities, their prowess or the schools they chose to attend.

Today, I’m perfectly content to be the mother of three  kids who once had big athletic dreams and are now all watching North Carolina and Kentucky battle into the Final Four from the comfort of their wide flung couches.

In my tenure as a sports mom, I watched thousands of games over the course of nearly twenty years. I stood in muddy fields for soccer games, bundled under blankets for football scrimmages, shivered through ice hockey games, baked on metal bleachers at baseball games, prayed for strength through softball dramas, cringed my way through wrestling meets, traveled far and wide for basketball games and endured countless hours in loud high school gyms at cheerleading competitions. 

All three of my kids followed their athletic passions to college. The daughter was on the competitive cheerleading team at UNC. The middle kid was on the football team at Rowan University and the young ‘un, a baseball player at Rutgers.  And all three of them retired, finding other passions to fuel their fire and fill their lives.

It took me a long, long time to get over it. My entire parenting career was based on schlepping from one sporting event to another. I maintained a color-coded excel sheet to keep my kids’ practices, games and schedules straight. I drove. I flew. I even rode a bus through the night with a bunch of hyped up cheerleaders to Myrtle Beach. I was team mom, team administrator, team peace keeper. Teaneck High School presented me with the Ironwoman Award when my youngest graduated for never missing a single game.

But, that’s not to say I actually LIKED it.

Sure, I loved dreaming big. I loved the whole team mentality. I loved watching my kids succeed. But, boy did I hate when they didn’t. 

I was my kids’ biggest fan. I never, ever, not once made a negative comment about a dropped stunt, an intercepted pass, a batting slump. I was the one who pumped them up with meaningless motivations of,  “Oh, Sweetie, Sweetie, Pooh, Pooh . It wasn’t your fault. It was the wind. The cold. The sun. The moon. The competition. You’ll get ‘em next time.”

But, inside I died a thousand deaths.

Because there’s nothing worse than watching your child blow a game. Except maybe taking him to the hospital for a jammed finger the night before his debut as a varsity pitcher. Or hearing the news that the persistent shoulder pain was indeed a torn labrum. That needed surgery. At the tender age of 15.

When my kids stopped playing sports I felt lost. I didn’t know what I’d do with my time. Or with all the equipment in my basement. I really didn't know how to parent a former athlete. But, I learned, just as they did, that there are a whole lot of ways to express yourself, to succeed, and to feel fulfilled. Sometimes it's just hard to see it from the locker room. 

And so, I find myself watching dozens and dozens of college basketball games, reveling in this phenomenon called March Madness. And even if my beloved Tar Heels succumb to the mighty Wildcats later today, I'll still say, "It's OK, Sweetie, Sweetie, Pooh Pooh. You’ll get ‘em next time.”

But still, my heart will break for the mothers of the defeated and pound with pride for those whose baby boys make it to the Final Four.

Go Heels!

When I Die and they Lay Me to Rest

 

“Planning my funeral,” my friend Patty (aka Penny) texted the other night. “I’m making a CD even though I’m sure there won’t be any CDs by the time I go. Keep this list for when I croak.”

Among the perfectly appropriate songs she chose were The Long and Winding Road, Stayin’ Alive, and Still Haven’t Found what I’m Looking For. She suggested a photo montage to go along with the soundtrack.

What precipitated her playlist, I’m not sure. Perhaps it was our Caribbean cruise that is rapidly approaching and the improbable possibility of a Titanic ending. But more likely it just had to do an irreverently realistic outlook on life.

It’s easy to be flip when there’s no reason to believe that death is imminent. Patty and I both have older siblings and mothers who are hale and hearty. We’re not yet the oldest living generation and that makes us feel somewhat safe. But, we’ve also experienced the painfully premature deaths of close friends and have had enough hospital stays of our own to know that we, too, could be but a breath away from the grave.

Yet, I merely giggled, as I often do when I receive a text from my witty friend. I went about my merry way, not giving it another thought. Until this afternoon when I was well into my second hour of shoveling a foot, that felt like three, of wet, heavy snow while windswept sleet beat down upon my back, soaking through to my bones and leaving icicles dangling from my hair. My spouse was working from home and deeply involved in an intense interview with someone about something sinister and it didn't appear as though he’d be finished any time soon. So, I bit the bullet and headed out into the tundra.

As happens more and more frequently, and sooner than later, I got to wondering how old I have to be to be too old to shovel the driveways, sidewalks, front paths and porches of elderly neighbors. My spouse does the big job for the rich neighbor with the long driveway who rewards us with expired yogurts and dusty bottles of kosher wine. I do the neighbor who rewards us by waving as he pulls away in his cleaned-off silver Toyota. We meet in the middle to shovel out our house and cars when the rest of the neighborhood is done.

As I was silently cursing my kindness and bewailing my arthritic joints, I got to thinking that this could be it. They warn us all the time and I simply laugh it off. But, it could really happen. I could have a heart attack, fall to the ground and be covered with snow long before anyone would come looking for me.  

I didn’t have a heart attack and I didn’t die. Instead, I came inside, wet, tired and frigid, poured an ice-cold Diet Coke and sat down at the kitchen table to thaw. I started perusing our dying local paper, one of four that land on our doorstep every morning. And as I came to the Obituaries, a section I usually flip right past, I found myself reading the highlights of the lives of the deceased. There were plenty of folks who had lived to a ripe old age, some who weren’t so ripe and others that were just too darn young to die. But, it got me to thinking, once again, of my own demise and the obituary that would follow. 

I realized, somewhat sadly, that I probably don’t have enough time left to do anything remarkable. Nor have I had any major accomplishments worth mentioning. Sure, I’ve had a good life, raised three pleasant children and had more fun than any one person deserves. But, will that be my headline? Good Time Girl Gone?

I grappled with that for a bit and came to terms with a short but sweet obituary. But the one thing I insist upon is that it includes what I died of or from or because of. There’s nothing sadder, less fulfilling and just plain wrong than reading about someone like poor Ruby Haskins and having no idea why or how she departed this life.

Unless I die from an overdose of m&m’s which might be slightly embarrassing, I expect my loved ones to let the world know what finally got me in the end.

I then came full circle and started thinking about the long list of songs that have held my heart at different stages in my life. One day, I too will make my Casket CD. But, if I happen to expire before I get around to it, John Prine’s Please Don’t Bury Me is the one that will make me smile all the way up to heaven.

Woke up this morning, put on my slippers
Walked in the kitchen, and died.
And oh, what a feeling!
When my soul went through the ceiling,
And on up into heaven, I did ride.

When I got there, they did say,
"Bets, it happened this away
You slipped upon the floor and hit your head.”

And all the angels say, just before you passed away
That these were the very last words that you said:

"Please don't bury me, down in that cold, cold ground.
No, I’d rather have 'em cut me up and pass me all around.

Throw my brain in a hurricane, and the blind can have my eyes.
And the deaf can take both of my ears if they don't mind the size.

Give my stomach to Milwaukee if they run out of beer
Put my socks in a cedar box, just to get 'em out of here.

Venus De Milo can have my arms
Look out! I've got your nose
Sell my heart to the junk man, and give my love to Rose.

Give my feet to the footloose, careless, fancy free
And give my knees to the needy, don't pull that stuff on me.
Hand me down my walking cane, it's a sin to tell a lie.
Send my mouth way down south, and kiss my ass goodbye.

But for now, I'm going to get packing for that Caribbean cruise.
And Patty and I will spend a week in the sun concentrating on simply Stayin' Alive.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

“I don’t know, Mom, I think the Mardi Gras magic’s got me,” the daughter said in a phone call between parades the other day. “I’m not sure I can leave.”

We’ve been through this before.  A few weeks prior to leaving for the University of North Carolina, where the daughter was absolutely, positively sure she was going to go from the very first moment she stepped onto the cobblestoned campus, she had second thoughts.

“Maybe I should go to Villanova. It’s closer to home, plus Nana and all your sisters live in Pennsylvania…”

“Stop second guessing yourself,” I said. “Just follow your heart.”

And she did, never looking back until last year’s NCAA championship basketball game when Nova beat her beloved alma mater in a buzzer beater.

After graduating, she landed a job with Teach for America, where she was contracted to work in an underserved school district for two years. When asked to rank her choices of cities for placement, one of them was Washington, DC. After all, she had majored in Peace, War and Defense; was young and liberal; and had, as a young girl, arbitrarily decided that she would grow up, get married and raise her spirited children in the DC suburb of Bethesda, Maryland. She also put down New Orleans because, really, what 22 year-old wouldn’t want to live in a city with music on every corner and no open container laws?

And then, shortly before her Teach for America stint in New Orleans was to begin, she questioned herself yet again.

“I don’t know, Mom, maybe I should work in Durham. Louisiana is just so far away. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave North Carolina.”

But she did. And ended up extending her stay by a year, living and loving New Orleans like any food, fun and music-loving 22, 23 or 24 year-old would.

And now, at the tender age of 25, she’s at those old familiar crossroads once again. She hears the nation’s capital calling but isn’t sure if that politically-charged city can compete with the bohemian bravado of the Big Easy.

After finishing up at West Virginia University, I was determined to find my fame and fortune far away from home. I decided to move to Houston, Texas, having heard that there were all kinds of opportunities for recent college graduates. I wrote to the Chamber of Commerce, read the Fodor’s Travel Guide and sent my severely-suffering resume to every company listed in AdWeek’s directory of up-and-coming Houston ad agencies. I would start as a copywriter and work my way up to Creative Director, and beyond. Nothing would stop my dreams.

Except for a summer in Flagstaff, Arizona. My friend, Ann, and I explored the great wild west on my dear, deceased grandmother’s dime. When I returned home to Pennsylvania that fall, I decided that maybe I'd wait another year before moving to Houston.

Meanwhile, my sister, Emily, had moved to Richmond, living amongst fellow William & Mary graduates. She convinced me to try my luck in Virginia, a mere car ride away. And so I did.

I didn’t last long.

I moved back home, got a job at TV Guide magazine where I worked in a dead-end job for 9 years and lived with my parents until I was 26 years-old.

When I got married at 31, my spouse was working at The Record, a then respectable newspaper in North Jersey. I had a great four-day work schedule, good friends and three sisters, including Emily, who by then had also returned, all living within five miles of one another. And so, I suggested to my ever-loving spouse-to-be that I should continue living in Pennsylvania and just spend long weekends together in New Jersey.

Needless to say, that’s no way to start a marriage, and so I packed up and moved.  But, it was only 100 miles away from home. I could drive down for dinner. For Christmas. For birthday parties.

Teaneck, New Jersey is now my home as much as Glenside, Pennsylvania ever was. I have built a life here with my family and friends and even if they were all swept away in a tornado, I'm sure I'd stay put. 

But, that doesn’t mean I don’t still think about Houston.

I’ve never been to Houston. I no longer have any desire to go to Houston. But, it always comes to mind when I get a “Should I stay or should I go?” phone call.

I can't promise my adult children a perfect life. I can't turn my dreams into theirs. And I certainly can't tell them what to do. Like most parents, all I really want is for my kids to be happy, to be able to support themselves, to feel fulfilled in what they do, to fall in love and to have children, if for no other reason than to witness their comeuppance.

As for me, I never rose through the ranks of the advertising world. I never got beyond that copywriter position. Instead I raised children. And, while I have absolutely no regrets, I can't help but think of Houston. 

And so, when my kids come calling for advice, I always tell them the same thing in different words.

Go as far as you have to, for as long as you want to. Just don't ever be afraid to go to the Houston of your heart.

When You're Born with a Disability Called MOM

On this day, twenty-five years ago, my perfect pregnancy came to a screeching halt as my first born was sliced out of my stomach after a failed attempt at a natural birth. There had been no piñata filled with colored confetti to reveal the sex of the baby. No pink or blue cake hidden beneath a neutral shade of frosting. No helium balloons to let the world know if we were having a boy or a girl.

I snuck only the stealthiest of peeks at the sonogram, asking the technician to reveal no more than the number of arms, legs and heads on the embryo. I was absolutely convinced that my first baby was going to be a boy. So sure that I packed a baseball outfit as a coming home outfit.

So much for a mother’s intuition.

Molly came wailing into the world and right into her father’s welcoming arms.  I, on the other hand, was much more concerned with making phone calls and retelling labor stories than bonding with my baby.

“Why doesn’t everyone have a C-section?” I asked my caesarian-experienced sister on the phone that night. “I’ll admit the labor leading up to it wasn’t pretty, but I’m definitely scheduling C-sections for the rest of my kids. I have absolutely no pain right now!”

“Just wait,” she said so softly I almost didn’t hear her.

And she was right. No one gets through this mothering thing without pain.

As a matter of fact, I had so much pain that I tried to shirk my duties the next afternoon, requesting the baby stay in the nursery so I could sleep. My spouse had just left under the guise of readying the apartment for our homecoming. More likely he was sneaking a couple hours of work in.

“So, you ready for your baby bath lesson?” a middle-aged nurse asked, bouncing into the room.

I was lying prone on the bed, head elevated, pillow hugged to my belly, dreading the impending agony of my next trip to the toilet.

I looked at her blankly.

She raised her eyebrows.

“No. That’s OK,” I said, blinking back tears that had inexplicably found their way into my happiness.

“Oh, my God!” she gushed. “Did your baby die?”

“No!” I exclaimed.

“Is she sick?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, OK. I get it,” she said matter-of-factly, picking an m&m wrapper off the floor.

“How ‘bout this. All you have to do is get your sorry soul out of bed. I’ll open the window and you can jump. It’s clear you’re unloved,” she said, pointing to the dozens of floral arrangements scattered about the room. “So, if life’s that bad, I’ll be glad to help you out.”

So much for wallowing in self-pity.

Because I refused to breastfeed, I got Molly on a schedule pretty quickly. And because I’m who I am, I kept meticulous records of each and every feeding. Dr. Spock said bottle fed babies should eat once every four hours. And so she did. If she cried after three hours, too bad. If she kept crying, sometimes I’d feed her 15 minutes early, but I’d also lie in my notebook so no one would ever know I cheated. After three weeks, she slept from 11 to 7 every night.

And just like that, my sleep deprivation days were over.

I went back to work three months later. I hired Teresa from the corner grocery store to take care of Molly. She was only 18 years-old, but I surmised from just one meeting that she was better with babies than I’d ever be.

I was right.

Our first nighttime babysitter was Kara. She was eleven years-old. I used to babysit for days on end when I was eleven, (for 50 cents an hour, I might add), so figured she’d be just fine. To this day, every time I see Kara she reminds me of what I said when we left that night for the movies.

“If she cries too much, just put her in the closet and close the door.”

Luckily, Kara knew I was kidding. Kind of.

Our friend, Janet, gave Molly an old-fashioned wooden sled for her first Christmas. One snowy evening I wrapped her up in a snowsuit so puffy that her arms and legs could not bend. My spouse plopped her on the sled and gave me the reins. I pulled her along at a clipped pace, trying to raise my heart rate and burn some calories.

“Stop!” the spouse screamed after I took the corner a little too close.

I looked back and there was Molly, face down, arms splayed, in a snow drift.

I laughed. And laughed. My spouse scowled and scowled. Molly cried. And cried.

Molly swears she remembers that sleigh ride.

But that doesn’t worry me, because over the past twenty-five years laughing at my kids’ misfortunes is far from the worst thing I’ve done.

Some people, like my friend Claire, are innate nurturers. They’re made to be mothers and perform their duties with precision; washing towels daily, cooking meals nightly, tending to wounds stoically and carpooling happily. Others of us struggle with the role. It doesn’t come naturally so we have to rely on those little voices in our heads reminding us to be more empathetic, more flexible, more giving. More motherly.

Every step of the way I’ve worried if I’ve destroyed self-esteem, damaged psyche, spoiled dreams. If I’ve been supportive enough, strict enough, kind enough. And through it all, I’ve never, ever underestimated the power a parent has. Which has scared me to death every day of my mothering life.

To celebrate this 25^th anniversary, I spent some time flipping through photos from different stages of my daughter’s life. I laughed. I cringed. I cried. And I realized, looking at the compassionate, confident, adventurous young woman she’s become, that we did it.

We muddled our way through together.

And I have absolutely nothing to be afraid of anymore.

Happy Birthday, Molly!

How Old Would You Rather Be?

 

A long, long time ago, when I was approaching a monumental birthday, I had a conversation with my dear friend, Kit, who I’ve known since I was five years-old. Kit has always been older and wiser than I, and so I’ve always taken her words to heart. While lamenting what I then thought was old age, she countered with, “How old would you rather be? What age was better than the age you are now?”

Oh, that’s easy, I thought. 

Four months old. What could be better than life at four months old?  Not that I remember, but I suspect I just kind of floundered about waiting to get taken care of. I gooed and I gaaed and got to drink all of my calories. I could sleep all day. I could sleep all night. And if I didn’t, it didn’t matter because the next day I could. But then I dug out some photos of life as a wee one and saw that, though I looked happy as a clam in my pram, I was actually prisoner to a cumbersome cast. From birth until nine months old, my legs were splayed and my privates exposed, though my mother claims these particular photos were taken between (cloth) diaper changes. I was born with a dislocated hip and this was what was done back then to assure I’d be able to run and jump and play. And I did, eventually. But, I’m thinking, maybe four months wasn’t all that great after all.

So, then five years old. What a perfect age! I was cute and feisty and had a royal blue dress that I remember to this day. I had two older sisters and a younger one, too. We had a Dalmatian named Pongo. And we had just moved to Woods Road. Having worn out our welcome at the grandparent’s while the new house was under construction, we moved in before the kitchen was finished. We had all kind of fun meeting the multitudes of kids in the neighborhood (including the aforementioned Kit) and spent our days dodging Mr. Nicodemus as he hammered and sawed our house into a home. But what I remember most was the stairs. They didn’t yet have backs on them and walking up to my bedroom, I could see all the way down to the basement. I was paralyzed with the unreasonable fear that I’d fall through, dropping one of my precious china dogs that I carried with me at all times. I simply couldn't shake that terror and had many a nightmare and took many a teasing from my older siblings over my baby-baby-bushwack behavior. Maybe there’s a better age than five after all.

Seventeen. Oh, to be a high school senior again! I was socially satisfied, having successfully crossed all cliques, befriending the smart, the dumb, the jocks and the stoners. I was anxiously anticipating my new life at Wake Forest University where I would be a Creative Writing major, meet the man of my dreams, marry shortly after graduation and live a Please Don’t Eat the Daisies kind of life. What a wonderful time I thought I had had. Until I re-read my diary that began, “Let me describe myself. I’m fat and have red hair and freckles.” Two out of three were true. Every day in that diary held a new best friend horror story. Every week, a new unrequited love. Every page was filled with bubbling angst and plummeting self-esteem. Which hit rock bottom when I didn’t get into Wake Forest. Nah, don't think I'd want to live through that again.

How about twenty-seven? I was gainfully employed at TV Guide magazine where I had worked with fun people who became lifelong friends. I lived with my sister, Nancy, at Sherry Lake Apartments where we ate frozen dinners, destroyed silverware in the garbage disposal and threw keg parties on weekends. I traveled far and wide. To Moscow and Hong Kong. Manila and Paris. I had the kind of fun you can only have when you're young and free and fearless. But, as my friends succumbed one-by-one to the institution of marriage, I was absolutely convinced that I would never, ever be loved. And never, ever have kids of my own. And that hurt my heart and scared the bejesus out of me every single day.

Then, thirty-four. Nothing in the whole wide world can compare to becoming a mother for the first time. My baby daughter lived in the corner of the dining room in our one bedroom apartment in an antique cradle with homemade bumper pads my sister sewed herself. Oh, the attention! The gifts! The flowers! The absolute joy of having a newborn baby. The surprising simplicity of feedings and changings and burpings. That is, until the spouse went back to work and I was left, home alone with an infant, scared to death I would do something wrong. A feeling that never left me until the very last one left the house.

Which brings me up to where I am now.

I've just passed another birthday. Not a monumental one, but close enough. And as I thought about my conversation with Kit, I realized that, as usual, she was right. While I can unequivocally say I have loved every minute of my life, I also know that my mind is really, really good at rewriting history. But I also know that as we age it's perfectly normal to bewail our lost bodies and mourn our thwarted dreams. And so I will. Time and time again.

But, as I'm doing so, I'll do it knowing, for sure, that there's no other age I'd rather be than that which I am at this very moment. 

After all, I'm finally old enough and wise enough to know I don't have much choice in the matter.

How to Kill a Family Vacation

 

“Hey family!” the daughter’s group text began. “You have 4 months to each save $1,000 for a family trip to Iceland! Woohoo!”

“Sounds great,” I responded, just because it’s rude not to.

“I’m serious. We leave June 1.”

And that was the end of that.

Like my friend Jean, I really, truly believe in the Family Vacation concept. There's nothing like transporting a family of five across state lines, through the friendly skies or over distant seas, all for the purpose of reconnecting, relaxing and recharging. With the very same kids who weren't able to exist in the same room together for more than three minutes. Sometimes. two. Any longer than that, the jabbing, jostling and blood-curdling screams kicked in.

But, we did it anyway.

First, we did the shore thing. For several years in a row, we rented a house in Avalon, New Jersey for a week. We packed the old minivan, which was rather new then, with playpens and high chairs, baby bottles and bouncy chairs, bicycles and beach umbrellas and drove the 2 ½ hours to the beach, a not-so-happy place for me. I detest sand as much as my spouse adores it, so it being relatively early in our marriage, we compromised. I did the nap and dinner duties and he dealt with the sunscreen and screamers.

Later, we did the lake thing. We rented a townhouse, with a really cool sleeping loft, on the Canadian side of Lake Memphremagog. We spent the week riding bicycles, eating croissants, going to an Expos game and reveling in a walk-in closet bigger than my bathroom at home.

And, finally, we did the mountain thing. We rented places in the Green Mountains of Vermont, the White Mountains of New Hampshire and the Catskill Mountains of New York. We hiked and biked and swam in cold, clear lakes. We went to Ben and Jerry's, the Trapp Family Lodge and a state fair at which we watched pig races, ate funnel cake and speculated on how our kids would do as 4-H members.

When you're not a rich family, have three strong-willed offspring, one easy-going spouse, and one mother like me, renting houses can suck the life out of any vacation. Yet, I loved our family vacations, despite the weeks-long prep lists, the days-long packing, the hours-long car rides and the filled-to-the-gills minivan with overflow in the rooftop carrier.

And there's a good chance we'd still be doing it today if it weren't for our vacation back in 2006.

We had just moved into our new house and had a false sense of financial security. Money was moving between mortgages and we somehow got a free month of living, or so we allowed ourselves to believe. We’ve long since learned that they get you on the backend, and the front end and on every end in between. And so, I won the “This might be our last chance!” argument and we went on a family vacation to Jamaica.

But, this wasn’t just any little romp in the woods of a family vacation. This was a fly-to-Montego-Bay, all-inclusive, no-cooking, plenty-of-drinking, hanging-by-the-pool, spring-break, resort kind of family vacation.

And, the cherry on top was not in the umbrella-drink, though there were plenty of those, but in the friends we recruited for the fun.

We somehow convinced four other families that for them as well, it may be their last chance to take the ultimate family vacation. And so we went, five families, with a total of twelve kids ranging in age from 6 to 14.

The kids ran loose. The parents got loose. We played games on the beach. Cards on the deck. And had family dinner every night under the Jamaican skies. We respected the sun. We drank somewhat responsibly. The 14 year-old girls were unexpectedly civil.  The boys expectedly independent. And we only lost the six year-old once.

 Ya think for a minute my kids would ever want to go away with "just us" again?

And so the era of the Voreacos family vacation came to a screeching halt.

Along came the bills and baseball. Cheerleading and football. College visits and summer camps. Summer jobs and summer courses. Tryouts and tuition. Graduations and gravitations, to cities far and wide.

And while that fun-filled, multi-family vacation is now nothing but a fond memory, there's always hope that we'll do it again. The Santostefanos always ask if we want to vacation with them in Cape May and the Hargraves truly believe that one year we’ll give in and join them in the Caribbean. But, instead, I end up on a cruise with my girlfriend. My spouse goes on a mission trip to some unairconditioned world. The daughter goes trekking through Thailand. The boys go mountain climbing in Colorado...

I think about Jamaica a lot, not just for the fun-in-the-sun, but for the seize-the-day, spend-the-money, just-do-it-ness of it all.

Because sometimes, you've just gotta throw it all to the waves and jump in.

Speaking of which, anyone interested in a trip to Iceland in June?