Blackcomb

The Boy wanted to go skiing, so Jack decided to take him to Whistler this weekend. Claire-Adele and I decided we didn't want to be left behind, so we joined their boys' weekend. When Claire-Adele was ten, she and I went to London for a week. It was a beautiful mother-daughter trip, and I should have let Jack and the Boy have this to themselves. But I didn't. When Claire-Adele goes to college in a year and a half, Jack and the Boy will have three years for father-son bonding. I don't feel so bad now. Besides, they ski a lot together during the winter.

Friday night, we crossed the border into Canada at Lynden with four pairs of skis on the roof. I was going to give it a go. We had a long, slow drive from Seattle to Whistler, arriving at 10:30 or so. My kids were so cranky and fussy you would have thought they were toddlers. Or teenagers.

The Boy was awake at 7:00. He is on a club soccer team, and skiing is his second sport. This past year, he has skied thirty days and counting. One of Jack's friends said you need thirty days in a season to dramatically improve. To contrast, I've skied four days so far this season. I've asked the Boy if he wants to join a ski team, but he says no. He prefers free-skiing and jumping in the terrain parks instead of racing, although he is pretty fast. Think of a football running back or any soccer player versus a track star. Speed is a key element for running backs and soccer players, but they do more stuff. The Boy likes the stuff. He can be grumpy and sour in the damp and dreary Seattle winter, and then a day of skiing lifts his mood.

He heard Jack and I talking and popped into our bedroom with a giant smile on his face, apparently having forgotten the snottiness between him and his sister last night. The lifts didn't open until 10, so we had three hours to kill before we left. The Boy was happy to run into the Village to get breakfast with his dad. In a normal world, the Boy would be in bed on the weekend and wouldn't talk until fed. Now he was chipper.

After we ate breakfast and got to the gondola, I was walking around looking a little lost when one of the Whistler guides approached me.

"Which green runs are open?" I asked.

The woman was shy of seventy years old and probably been skiing for sixty-five of her years.

"There aren't any beginner runs open," she said. "It's just the top of Blackcomb. Are you a beginner?" she asked, looking alarmed. Later I thought I should have told her I was a re-beginner, someone used to be decent and then needed to start over. Only the diehards come out for spring skiing after Whistler  Mountain is closed for the season. When we have skied here before, we shave spent most of our time on Whistler, riding the Peak-to-Peak to check out a few runs on Blackcomb and to admire the epic view.

I told her I am recovering from an ACL surgery and I've skied a few times already, but I needed to warm up. She looked relieved and told me where to go.

"There is a steep section at the top of the Excelerator Express lift, and then you take the Jersey Cream Express to the Expressway, and Easy Out runs," she said. "You can take Catskinner Chair back up and warm up on those. After that, Seventh Heaven is supposed to be good today. Lots of easy and wide blue runs," she said.

"Thanks, I said. "I've skied Seventh Heaven before I tore my ACL," I said. I have. Those are great runs, probably my favorites. That was back when I could ski all day for three or four days. I am not waxing nostalgic about my youth when I could do anything. It isn't fair to compare my current state to when I was twenty-three. I could ski for days back when I was in my mid-forties instead of my late forties.

"Good luck!" she said. I would need it.

Here I wish I had a brain-to-blog app to track all my thoughts as I went down the runs. I'll try to re-create the highlights here.

When I got to the top of the Execelator Express lift, I had to take a steep little hill down to the Jersey Cream Express lift. The kind Whistler Ambassador warned me about this. Everyone getting off the gondola was heading down this run. The steepness alone wasn't the issue. In addition to being crowded, the snow was concrete. I couldn't stick my pole into the snow it was that hard. This is a hazard of spring skiing. The snow melts in the afternoon and can be wonderfully soft, but then overnight temps dip below freezing and the next morning you have concrete.

I stood at the top of the lip and looked down. There was no way I could carve on this. I thought about downloading back down on the chairlift I just came up and then taking the gondola to the base. Jack paid for four lift tickets, but the exchange rate is 73 American cents for a Canadian dollar. In effect, my ski ticket is free and if we pretend we paid American dollars for Canadian lift tickets.

I decided to give it a shot. I watched other people ski to see if anyone found soft snow. I saw softer snow to the far right of the run. I moved to the left and skied across the width of the run so I wouldn't have to turn much.

A run that should have taken a minute took me ten. Then I wondered how I was going to get back down the mountain. What if there weren't any open green runs back to the gondola? What if they didn't download on the chairlifts?

I got to the top and skied down Easy One. This is a family, beginner area. It, too, was concrete. My kids had gone ahead and already did a run in the time to took me to get to the top of the lift. Jack texted them, and they met us mid-run, and then skied off.

The last time I was at Whistler, I thought the Easy One run was the easiest, most boring run in the world. I understood why people wanted to ski more challenging stuff. Now, my legs were tired by the end of the run. There was one part where Jack told me I had to get my momentum up to make it up a small hill. I managed to do that, and that was the fastest I skied all day. My right leg was more tired than my left which was wearing the brace. I wondered if I should get a brace for my right leg, too. While the steepness wasn't any worse than what I had been skiing earlier this winter at Snoqualmie, the difference was the length of the run. This run was ten times longer--maybe more--than Little Thunder. I was tired, both mentally and physically. I had to concentrate the entire time. There wasn't free space in my brain where I could relax and be in the zone. My brain didn't trust my body to take the runs without intervention.

I took a break for an hour at the Rendezvous Cafe while Jack and the kids skied some more. At lunch, the Boy was dejected when I asked how it was.

"The terrain park had two parts," he said. "One was too easy and the other one I would have killed myself." I had seen the jumps in terrain park on the Catskinner lift. I saw people getting air for several seconds while they did backflips. It looked cool, but it also looked deadly if you didn't know what you were doing. I am glad the Boy didn't try them. "If you make a mistake waterskiing, you splash," said the Boy. "If you crash on these jumps, you will crack."

After lunch, I decided to ski back down while Jack and the kids skied the glaciers at the top of the mountain. It had snowed about two inches while I was taking a break. When I got back out, the skiing was remarkably better.  I took the Easy Way Down, which is a road run which felt about three miles long. My Toyota RAV4 could have done this run, no problem. The challenge with this run was the narrowness and the tiny signs orange signs the size of my glove along the boundary that said

WARNING. Out of Bounds Area. Not Patrolled.

with a drop off on the left side of the run. (I don't know exactly how small the signs were--I didn't want to get that close to the edge to see.)

Great, I thought. If I fall off the edge here, no one will ever find me. There probably isn't even a cell signal out here. A bear would probably find my remains in the spring. This horrible inner-dialogue haunted me on the way down. Once I got out of the road run section and back into the regular part, the fog came in. It was more like a cloud where you can't see anything. Finally, I got to Solar Coaster, which was going up, and Wizard Express, which was going down. My plan was to take a green run back to the top of the gondola and ride back down, but I couldn't see the run that would take me there.

Fuck it, I thought. We are skiing again tomorrow. I'll download to the bottom and walk back to the car.

I took a picture at the bottom at the end of the day. I didn't want to press my luck by taking a picture at the top. There is a mountain in the background, but it is covered in fog. Trust me.

As I was walking back to the car, I crossed a footbridge over a creek. I stopped to look at the water that was melting off the mountain. A majority of the water in the creek had once been snow. This water had been on a transformative journey. It melted and was filtered and then picked up minerals as it ran through the rocks in the mountain.

I remember what my dad said a year and four months ago when I tore my ACL. "It's going to be all uphill from here, but when you get to the top, you'll be in really great shape."

Sixteen months ago, I couldn't walk, and now I am skiing again. Sixteen months ago, I was coming off the loss from the School Board election and was unemployed. Now I am in training for a new job that I'll start in August. As I stood at the bottom of the mountain looking at the creek, I thought about what my dad said and all of my uphill climbing last year.

I made it to the top of the hill. And I am in great shape.

Training Days, the Bus and Kate Spade

Dear Readers,

Now that I am starting training for my job, my blog will likely be less attended to. My drafts might be rougher as I have other things to fill my days. I still plan to write, but probably less often.

Thanks for reading,
Lauren

+ + + + +

I had my first two days of job training this week. I started on my birthday. The training was good, and relatively easy. It was a course in Excel, which I have been using since 1990. The challenge for me was using the PC version of the software instead of the Mac version which still has pull-down menus. The PC version is all icons. My muscle memory was challenged a bit, but I survived. I also learned some new things, which was good.

The biggest part of the day was riding the bus downtown to "work." The first day, I felt like a visitor on the 74 Downtown, that I was going downtown for a meeting just for the day. The second day, I saw some people I knew who rode the bus the day before. There is a little "bus culture" where neighbors who ride the same route at the same time chat as they ride. Two women at my bus stop were talking before they got on the bus. Two other people who live in my neighbor compared notes on their kitchen remodels. When I rode the bus every day to work when I lived in Chicago, the morning routes were as quiet as a library and the evening routes had more discussion as co-workers might sit together and discuss the day.

I even looked (somewhat) like the other working women. Between my stop and the Starbucks at the University Bus tunnel, I spotted at least four Kate Spade bags. I had a Kate Spade bag, too! Mine was the color of a salmon, a peach and a construction cone whereas the other women's bags were more subdued maroons and grays, but still I matched! My other Kate Spade bag is bright blue, but hey. They might have bought their's full retail whereas I bought last year's less popular model at Nordstrom Rack for half price.

The training I had was "Mentor Led" training, which meant the training team gave me a curriculum and several resources to learn the material: videos, PDFs to read, and exercises. The instructor was available to answer questions. She welcomed interruptions. She was friendly and easy to get along with. During lunch, I stopped by the downtown Seattle Public Library and visited their gift shop, which sells books for $2 and all kinds of stationary, bookmarks and bags. The store is a gem and run by volunteers. ("Why are you buying books at a library when you can get them for free?" you might be thinking. I don't have an answer other than I like books and this is cheaper than my overdue fines at times.)

Before I began my training, I thought I would be leaving the world I know behind. In the weeks before my training, I had been cramming in as many social events as I possibly could, fearing I'd never see my friends ever again. I met everyone I knew for lunch, coffee and walks. I felt like getting a job would be like moving to Mars and I'd be alone like Mark Watney in The Martian.

Ha! Instead, I was going to the center of town with thousands of other people. Where did I get this idea that working would be lonely? When I worked in St. Louis, I was the only person on my team in that office. My colleagues were in Chicago, Los Angeles, Atlanta and New Jersey. I traveled a lot to meet them. We talked on the phone, but I had no one to eat lunch with, which was a drag after a year. Jack and I had just moved to St. Louis from Chicago, and I hadn't yet made any friends. In Chicago, I would occasionally meet friends for lunch and after work when I was wasn't eating with my co-workers. In St. Louis, I had no friends. Work wasn't lonely. St. Louis was, at least for the first year we lived there.

I realized work will add a new realm to my life, not take away what I already have. It will be different and an adjustment to be sure, but my life is changing anyway as my kids grow.

Time for me to grow, too.

My orange Kate Spade bag. It's not exactly subtle. I don't think anyone will ever purse snatch this baby.

My blue Kate Spade bag. This one isn't as attention getting as my orange one.

End of the Long "Vacation" & Independence Day

It was hardly a vacation, though it is coming to an end tomorrow as I start training for a new job after being a stay-at-home mom for a very, very long time. One nice thing about the Apprenti program is the gradual start. I have fourteen weeks of training before I start work on August 7. I'll be able to hit my stride before I get to the starting line.

I started thinking about all of the things I've done since I quit my job to be a full-time parent.

• I've birthed and raised two kids who still need a significant amount of raising.
• I've run two PTAs and started several other PTAs.
• I've done advocacy work in education.
• I ran for School Board.
• I've written three books which are languishing unpublished.
• I've recovered from my ACL repair.
• I've gone out to lunch and talked on the phone with friends.
• I taught myself how to quilt.
• I've probably read 250-500 books.
• I've driven 30,000 carpool miles.

In the past few weeks while I have been waiting for my training to start. I've been racing around, trying to get stuff done before I start, like making sure I go to lunch or for a walk with everyone I know. I feel like I am going to be leaving on a long trip and I need to say goodbye before I leave.

I was thinking of all of the things I wish I had done in my time off. I wish I had cooked more meals and expanded my cooking repertoire instead of going out to dinner so often. When I had time to cook, I didn't. I don't like to cook, so that explains some of it, but maybe if I had found some new recipes, I might have enjoyed it more. Tonight, I cooked Jamie Oliver's Chicken in Milk that I found in this weekend's New York Times. We'll see how it tastes.

I have a few frivolous projects I wished I've worked on, like rebuilding all of my son's Lego sets. I know that seems like a Sisyphean task, but it might have been cool. I wish I would have made more quilts. I wish I would have read more books.

So why am I going back to work when I could sit around all day and go to coffee with friends, walk Green Lake, write, cook and rebuild Lego sets? Pretty sweet life, eh?

Ironically, I am looking forward to the freedom and independence a job will bring. Being a stay-at-home mom means my family work and home are the same. There is no break, no vacation, no division. This winter before I could ski, I was sitting in the ski lodge and a family with three young kids joined me at my table. The mom was cheerful and perky, making faces with her kids in SnapChat. I was never so easy and free with my kids, and I wish I had been. This mom worked. She had a line and barrier between her and her kids. She seemed to cherish her kids just because they were there. I never missed my kids because they were always around. I never had a "vacation" from work because my work was my family and my family was always around. When we would take a real vacation, I was still working.

This is what I am looking forward to--freedom and independence from my family. Here I am trying to raising independent and responsible people, and yet I am not independent. I was talking to my friend Sangita, and she said her kids basically have her as a servant who makes them food, drives them places, and makes sure all of their clothes are clean. Those are reasonable expectations for parents of toddlers and young children, but when should kids start to carry their own water? Next year, both of my able-bodied kids will be in high school. They and my husband can take care of themselves without me tailing behind making sure everything gets done.

I am not going to romanticize working and being a parent because I know it will be hard. I know starting a new job will be hard, for them and for me, but I am looking at this as my Independence Day. And theirs, too.

Things Fall Apart

As you may know, I start training for my new job this week. My friend Carla asked how I am going to manage the house and family while I work. 

"My sister-in-law has a schedule of who makes dinner every night for her family," Carla said. "Maybe you should try that."

"I could try that," I said. I thought about it for a few days. I thought about me standing in front of my family with a sign up chart, giving them a lecture on how now that I am going to work things are going to change and I how I used to do all of these invisible, unseen things that made our lives work and now the magic from behind the stage is going to be gone and everyone is going to need to help.

Then I imagined the eye rolls, the "I don't know how to make dinner" and "I'll make ramen when it's my day" and "I won't eat dinner" and so forth.

Screw it. I am going to let things fall apart.

"Where is my track uniform?" I imagine Claire Adele asking next week.

"Did you wash it?" I'll ask as I dash off to hop on the bus to go to class.

"What's for dinner?" Jack will ask.

"You tell me," I'll say.

"Where's my lunch?" the Boy will ask.

"Where is it?" I'll ask back.

It is not like my kids are toddlers. If we were living one hundred years ago, the girl would be off at work as a seamstress and the Boy would be up every morning at dawn taking care of the cows. Running the family farm or whatever would be the family business, so working and being a mom would be interchangeable. Feeding the Boy would be feeding the unpaid help. The girl would be of earning money to help the family. 

That is not how my kids were raised or how our family operates. We are all in for a change, and change that I am not going to manage. I'll take care of myself getting to and from work and what I need to do there. The other three people in my family can help figure out how we can take care of each other without me being in the center. 

Looking for a Job and the Seven Stages of Grief

I accepted an apprenticeship with the Apprenti program last week. Yay! I have been quiet about it because I have fourteen weeks of training to successfully complete before I start the job and get paid. I am sure I will do fine with the training, but I am a little nervous, just because it is new. I am taking a massive leap of faith that this will all work out, as are the people who hired me. I am grateful for this program and am looking forward to the change. After a week of looking at colleges for Claire-Adele, I am also looking forward to the money. I made a spreadsheet to analyze our cashflow for the next nine years with kids in college, and it looks way better with me getting a paycheck. Like "I can sleep at night" kind of better. I am still hoping for scholarships, merit aid or one of my kids choosing an affordable state school, but in all cases me getting a salary helps significantly.

This is the end of the long journey of trying to figure out what to do next as my job as "stay-at-home-mom" reaches its "Sell By" date. Along the way, I have met dozens of women wondering what they are going to do next. This past winter at a ski lodge, I ran into a friend who is a stay-at-home mom who is looking for a job. She saw that I was part of a "Get a Job" group and she asked me about my job search. Marianna was an engineer who later got an MBA.

"The group was fine, but looking for a job is horrible," I said. "It is impossible to get past any HR screening without having worked recently. There are a dozen people out there who are working today doing the job that the HR people are looking for. Why should HR bring in someone like me?"

"But you are brilliant, Lauren!" Marianna said. "You have a great education, and you worked in consulting! Who wouldn't hire you?"

"I don't take it personally," I said, "It isn't so much about me as it is where I fit into the system. I've also tried networking and using my connections. I am overqualified for about 60% of the jobs out there, and underqualified for 60%, which means unless some laws of physics change, I am not getting a job. They don't know what to do with my volunteer experience. Sure, I believe anything is possible, but I also don't believe in unicorns." [This is the short version. I ranted for an hour like a bullet train.]

Marianna didn't look at me like I was a Debbie Downer who wasn't optimistic enough. She looked at me as if I were speaking an unspeakable truth, and said, "That's what I thought."

"But I did find this technology apprenticeship program, and I am applying for it. I know I need new skills. This program will give me specific skills for a specific job," I said. "I think this is the only reasonable way for me to re-enter the professional workforce."

Marianna decided to skip the few years of soul searching and apply to the apprenticeship program. I was happy to save her an extended period of grief. She applied to the program and was entered into the pool of apprentices for companies to hire. When she was offered her first interview with a hiring company, her husband balked, in a loveable, romantic way.

"You are so brilliant, Marianna! You have a great education and great work experience! Who wouldn't hire you?" he said. "You could make more money and not have to start at the bottom!"

I had heard this same speech from Jack before. Five years ago, I was offered a job making less money than when I was twenty-eight but more money than I will be making in the apprentice program.

"You shouldn't get dressed and out of bed for so little money," said Jack five years ago. "You are awesome and could make so much more! At a better job!"

I sighed. It was great he had so much confidence in me, and yet at the same time, he completely failed to be supportive. In the end, the job didn't work out because the owner of the company decided the position would require more traveling than I was available to do.

Marianna decided to look for a higher paying job before she accepts the apprenticeship. She kept her spot open, but will first look for something else. She might have better luck than me. She got her degree in Seattle, and she has work experience here. My degrees and paid work experience were all in Chicago, so my network isn't as robust as some people's.

I told Jack the story of Marianna and her husband. He said they need to go through the "Seven Stages of a Middle Aged Woman Returning to the Workforce Job Search Grief."

1. Disbelief: They can't believe that a woman with a professional degree who stayed home with her kids for years can't walk right back into the workforce where she left off. 
2. Denial: Of course she has a great degree and experience...from ten (or more) years ago. Why doesn't it count?
3. Anger: This sucks. She has a fancy degree and great experience and is treated like chopped liver. "Why did I decide to stay at home with the kids? I never would have if I knew how hard it would be to get a job."
4. Bargaining: "I'll take any kind of job. I'll do anything. Or maybe I'll write a novel..."
5. Guilt: "Ugh. I should have kept a foot in the workplace. I should have gotten a part-time job along the way. Maybe I should have chosen a job that I could have done while I was a mom instead of consulting where I had to travel so much."
6. Depression: "I will never get a job. I need to write a novel so I have something to do. I am underqualified. I don't know why anyone would hire me. I don't know what I would do anyway. I'd be scared to start a new job."
7. Acceptance and Hope: Finally, a job appears. It is not the high-powered job that everyone imagined at the start, but it has a lot of advantages and opportunity. "I'll learn some new skills and meet some new people. I have nothing to lose. And, Yay! I get to go back to work!"

It's a Miracle? Part 2

I talked to my dad yesterday. My mom is off of hospice.

Less than a year ago, my father decided to put my mom on DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) and sign her up for hospice. I flew out to Ohio to visit her shortly thereafter, thinking it might be the last time I see my mother alive. She was refusing to eat, a major signal for imminent death. I was about two and a half months out from my knee surgery and hobbled through the airport to get to Ohio to see her.

Now she is off of hospice. She is feeding herself at every meal, using a spoon and holding a bowl. She is still eating soft foods, so she doesn't choke, but this is a major improvement over being spoonfed for the past year. She is gaining a little bit of weight instead of losing it. She is up to 100 pounds from ninety-eight. She is still thin, but that was what she weighed in her thirties. I am not sure how much her communication has improved. I'll have to check with my dad on that.

I remember talking with my physical therapist, Evan, when my mom went on hospice. His mother is a hospice physician.

"Sometimes people get better on hospice," he said. "You'd be surprised."

My mother's father was put on hospice for prostate cancer when he was in his nineties. He got better and was taken off hospice. He died about a year later.

My dad and I talked about the possibility of her having a stroke a year ago.

"I think it is possible, but I don't remember any sudden or dramatic changes," he said. "It might have been a series of smaller strokes that accumulated and slowed her down."

I wonder what would have happened if my mother didn't have Alzheimer's. Part of the issue of diagnosing a stroke is that her cognitive abilities weren't up to asking her questions about the state of her health. Would she have been able to explain what happened if she didn't have Alzheimer's? Could she have been able to sit through an MRI to figure out what happened?

It is interesting that she somehow managed to get better on her own. The "miracle" continues.

Reveal Year

Before our vacation last week, I was walking my dog, and I ran into a neighbor. We chatted about our Spring Break plans. I told her we were going to the East Coast to look at colleges for Clair Adele.

"I have friends with college freshmen," she said. "Two are doing well, and one isn't. It is the reveal year."

I had never heard that expression, but it makes perfect sense. Freshman year of college can be a time where things that were previously hidden become apparent. I suppose the "reveal" could be positive or negative. My freshman year I learned that I actually could do laundry, much to my mother's surprise, even though one batch of clothes turned light purple. I was at Claire Adele's track meet, and I met a friend whose son started college last fall at a major state school, but not the major state school, which I just heard now had a 15% acceptance rate. (Egads.) This young man started working hard in college, and his revelation was "If I worked this hard in high school, I would have had a 4.0." The dad--a Princeton grad--grimaced as he told me this. While it was a pleasant surprise to both him and his son that the young man possessed serious motivation, the dad was clearly disappointed this didn't reveal itself when his kid was a high school freshman.

Most of the fail stories are kept well hidden to protect the privacy of the kid. A friend of mine's kid flunked out of very competitive school spring quarter his freshman year due to excessive video game playing and lack of attending classes. The university sent him home for a year where he attended a local college. The university took him back a year later, and he did fine.

When I was in college, I knew a genius who pissed his potential away on drugs, who in the end, did not do fine. I had a friend from high school who became so obsessed with doing well in school she stopped sleeping and showering. Knowing what I know now about mental illness, I wonder if she had mania.

I wonder the reveal year will show for my kids. I think about about how in college kids are more open to focus on what they love, not what they need to study. We visited colleges where kids are studying politics, economics, finance, the classics, world languages, international affairs, math and nanosciences. I went to a presentation where one of the tour guides was a math and drama major. When my kids find their interests, will they show more enthusiasm for their studies? The Boy is not a big fan of studying French, but he loves Rocket Club and could do that all day--and has. On rocket launch weekends, he is the last to leave except for the coach, even when his rocket has been out of commission. When will my kids find get their groove, or will they be the type of kids who get lost? I suspect they will find something they love, but we won't know until the time comes.

I can't decide if I am terrified about this or feeling free. This is like the final test for parenting: do the kids launch, or do they flail? Will they find growth and freedom from being unconstrained, or will they crash and burn? And if they do crash and burn, will they be able to pull themselves together again, and give it another shot?

New York City

I have a confession to make. I used to be afraid of New York City. For years, I avoided it.

I know there lots of people who are afraid of NYC, but most of them live in rural areas where the largest crowd they have ever seen has been at the State Fair. I lived in suburban Chicago until I was twelve when my family moved to Columbus, Ohio. I lived in Lincoln Park and worked in the Sears Tower in my twenties. Even after living in an urban area for a decade, I was still intimidated by the Big Apple. I was afraid I wouldn't know how to ride the subway. I was worried that I'd look like someone not from New York, that my clothes would scream "Tourist!" I was worried the people would be rude. I was afraid I'd get pickpocketed.

My family went to New York this week to visit colleges with Claire Adele. My well-traveled daughter loved Paris, London, San Francisco and Toyko. She hated Chicago because she thought it smelled like garbage. And yet, she had her heart set on going to college in New York City even though she had never been there. She thinks Chicago smells bad? She didn't know that the garbage in New York City is left in bags on the street to be picked up be sanitation workers in the middle of the night. In nicer neighborhoods, the garbage is neatly stacked up by the building superintendents and placed in color coordinating bags alongside the street. I should have taken a picture of the garbage on Park Avenue. It was double bagged with a clear bag on the outside. It was as if their garbage was designed by Paper Source or some upscale gift wrap and stationery store that I have never heard of.

We needed to make a trip to the City that Never Sleeps before we signed her up for four years and she would then discover that most of New York smells like garbage and urine, just like Chicago.

I had been dreading this trip. I was looking forward to the Washington, D.C. part, but not the NYC part. I was afraid of New York City not because of the smell, but because my uncle who lives in New Jersey made me terrified of it years ago. I was in New Jersey for work, and my aunt and uncle brought me into Manhattan for dinner.

"Don't make eye contact with anyone," he said. "Don't look at anyone." I didn't own a car at the time, and the only way I got around Chicago was via public transportation. I knew how to be aware of my surroundings, but I wasn't paranoid. I had encountered hundreds of people with mild to severe mental illness on busses and trains. We had a small coterie of homeless men who camped at the corner of Clark and Belden for years. Everyone in my neighborhood knew the "Spare Change" guy. Like the other vagabonds, Spare Change was harmless. The scary part of Chicago wasn't the occasional bipolar homeless guy, but the sociopath who raped and murdered a young woman in her apartment in my neighborhood. That was what scared the crap out of me.

(My roommate Kelli and I had a close encounter with a possible Jack the Ripper years ago. A guy with shaggy brown hair and a navy blazer pounded on our door telling us he needed to use our phone. When we looked through the peephole, he had his arms up on our door and his head down so we couldn't see his face. My spidey sense went into hyper-drive, and my heart was about to explode in terror.

"I don't think we let him in," Kelli said rather calmly as I was imagining the dangers lurking on the other side of the door.

"I don't think so either," I said as I calculated whether I should call the cops first or grab a knife for self-defense. We made it known that there were two of us there, and the guy left the building on his own after a minute when we didn't open the door.)

I digress.

New York smells horrible, but I loved it anyway. I am so shocked that it took me so long to want to visit it. It is just like Chicago, only bigger. The subway was fine--just like riding the El in Chicago. Everyone dresses however they want to dress, and no one seems to care or notice. The ninety-year-old woman at the MoMA guest desk was chatty and told us she loved Seattle. She told me I had a beautiful daughter and handsome son. We saw Come from Away again, and it was still brilliant. When we saw it a year and a half ago in Seattle, I told my son he was lucky to see a Broadway play before it got to Broadway. And now we saw it on Broadway.

I kind of hope my daughter goes to college here so I can visit at least once a year. I'll get tickets to shows, check out museums, and ride the subway.

9/11 Memorial

9/11 Memorial

Central Park -- Umpire Rock

View from the Empire State Building

Cannoli that came in a box with red and white twine

Home

Claire Adele is a junior in high school and this spring we are going on a trip "out East"--as we say here in Seattle--to visit colleges. Except for Hawaii, Alaska and the Olympic Peninsula, everything in the U.S. is east of Seattle.

Claire Adele wants to leave the state for college. This is fine. Her father and I both left our home states for college. College is a good time to explore another part of the country, even the world.

The Boy is not thrilled about this trip. This is going to be a big city, eastern seaboard trip, whereas the Boy would rather be skiing. I can't blame him. I was driving him to soccer practice today, and we talked about the trip. Was there anything special he wanted to see? His friends have traveled extensively. They might have given him some ideas on what to see and do. He shrugged and rattled off a few tourists spots.

"This is a big trip for Claire Adele," I said. "When you are going to college, we will take you around to visit places, too. We can go to Montana, Colorado and British Columbia."

"We can do a quick campus visit and then ski," he said. The Boy has a friend whose brother goes to the Montana State, which is fifteen minutes from a large skiing area. All year round, Ian is outside skiing, hiking, biking or climbing. Sounds good to me.

"We are going to help Claire Adele find her new home," I said.

He laughed. "'This looks like a lovely dumpster,'" he said in a falsetto.

I laughed, too. I laughed because if I didn't I would cry because my oldest daughter will be leaving our home in a year and a half. "We aren't going to find her a place to live, but help her look at cities where she might want to live." I remember growing up in Columbus, Ohio and lots kids when to Ohio State down the street. Other kids went to colleges in other parts of Ohio. Maybe they settled in Cincinnati or Cleveland instead of Columbus. When I graduated from college, I got a job and stayed in Chicago. It became my new home. I never lived in Columbus again.

"I am not sure Claire Adele will come back to Seattle," I said.

"Seattle it lit," said the Boy. "Who wouldn't want to live here?"

"Claire Adele," I said.

I haven't been looking forward to this trip. We were supposed to take this trip last year over Spring Break. Claire Adele wants to go to college in New York City, and I want her to visit it before she sets her heart on it. Can I see my daughter in the art and fashion capital of the US? Yes. If the Boy goes to Montana State, there is a high chance he would come back to live in Seattle. Not so much for Claire Adele. She would likely stay in New York or Washington, D.C.

She would be ready to leave for college tomorrow, but I am not ready to let her go just yet. I am worried that this year maybe the last year we live in the same town, part of the country or time zone. I am not ready to help her find her new home. I want to stay in this one.

Self-Conscious

This weekend was a rocket launch weekend. The Boy spent thirteen hours at Sixty Acres Park with his rocket club.  April 3 was the last day to submit scores to the Team America Rocketry Competition (TARC.) This winter and spring have been the rainiest ever in Seattle, so there had been only a few good weekends to launch. The rocket specs given by TARC this year were more complex than years past. Each rocket needs to have two stages, each with a different diameter and its own parachute. What this means to a non-rocketophile is that there are now more ways for things not to work. The TARC judge said he has seen more rocket catastrophes this year than ever before. (This is a guy who as a rocket taking a core sample of the earth as his home screen on his phone.) As Peter's rocket coach says, the kids always find the disasters more interesting than the successes. Two years ago, the Boy was at a Rocket Club recruiting event for incoming sixth graders, and he insisted the team show off a rocket that was blown to bits. It brought the most attention and probably earned them a few new members.

The Boy is superstitious, and he refused to watch the ten launches for his team rocket this weekend. He is the captain of his team, too. He would help set-up the launch, and just as they were about to start the countdown, he would run behind a shed while another member of the team pushed the launch button. He would peek out for the landings so he would know where to find the rocket parts.

A few weeks ago, their rocket blew up on the launchpad twice due to a defective motor case. The team fixed the rocket each time and were able to launch again. The Boy watched and recorded each those on his phone. He would watch them in slow motion with the other kids on the team to figure out what happened.

Then he stopped watching, and his rocket never blew up again. I tried to tell him his eyes do not affect the laws of physics, but he didn't believe me. He was convinced if he watched, there would be a disaster.

Instead, he missed some of the most beautiful rocket launches I have seen. They were straight up, and the parachutes popped as the rocket was racing back to earth. One launch was so straight and fast, the rocket landed feet from the launchpad, something unheard of for a team of middle school rocketeers.

It was amazing. And he missed it.

Middle school is a time of painful self-awareness. I remember when I was in sixth grade I couldn't imagine how anyone could be a movie star because everyone would be watching them, which, as far as I was concerned at the time, would be the worst thing in the world.

If I were to wish anything for my son, it would be to let him see the awesomeness in himself, and not just the yucky parts. Sometimes it sucks to look in the mirror. We might only focus on the flaws: the muffin top, the wattle under the chin, the receding hairline. We can't see our still sparkling eyes and our smiles. The Boy is so worried about his rocket that he couldn't watch. Over the season, he probably watched half of the twenty launches, of which maybe three or four were miserable. By being afraid, self-conscious, he missed the beautiful half.

Explosive & Ping

I had what I thought was going to be my last physical therapy appointment on Friday. Alas, it was not. I have one more. At least. As one of my roommates from college used to say, "Heavy sigh."

Part of me wants to be done and say my knee is good enough. I can walk, run and bike. I can ski and Zumba. Shouldn't that be good enough?

At the beginning of this process, my physical therapist and surgeon asked me what my goals were for recovery. I listed a bunch of stuff, like walk my dog, ski and play tennis. All of that was fine. I didn't realize it at the time because I couldn't foresee what my knee would be like a year later, but my real goal was to be able to move without restriction, that I could do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I wanted a normal knee.

I went into see Evan last Friday, and I complained. In fairness, he asked me how it is going. I take this to mean "tell me what isn't good" versus "tell me it is all good." I do tell him the good news. I told him that I had been skiing and I am taking Zumba classes, which are two significant milestones. I also told him my knee isn't as jumpy and responsive as I want it to be.

"I feel like I wouldn't be able to play tennis yet," I said. "I feel like my knee is strong, but it is sluggish. I am not sure I could chase the ball and move quickly enough."

"You need to work on explosiveness," he said. I never thought explosiveness was a tangible thing. When I hear explosiveness in the context of athletics, I think of an adjective sportscasters picked up in a thesaurus to describe basketball stars. "Explosiveness" makes it sound like I want to be a future receive for the Seahawks or play tennis against Serena Williams. Which is cool. "Explosive" is a real thing which means the opposite of sluggish. I want to be explosive. It means agile and sprightly and spry, so I can bounce and dance a jig when I want to.

In prior weeks, I was focusing on building up the final bits of strength so both legs would be equally strong. I finally passed all three strength tests (barely on the one-hop test).

"You are fine on your percentages comparing left to right, but you don't look good when you jump on the left leg," Evan said. To a person who hasn't been to physical therapy as long as I have been going to Evan, this might sound like a huge insult. It is not, especially since I knew how awful I looked jumping on my left leg compared to the right. I would stick the landing on my right leg, but would often double jump on the left leg. Not only do I have a hard time sticking the landing, but I also looked like a windmill flapping my arms to keep my balance when I landed. If my legs were gymnasts competing against each other, my right leg would get a gold medal and my left leg would be in fifth place, which is remarkable since there are only two athletes in this competition.

Evan gave me some new hopping exercises to work on to help me stick my landings. This is all good, but I wonder how much is too much. Do I really need these extra exercises, or is this unnecessary polish?

I really need these exercises. It isn't a matter of having the perfect knee, it is more about having my left leg feel equal to my right. I think back to what Evan told me a few appointments ago: when your body doesn't have symmetry, it pings your brain that something is wrong. When I flail when I land my left leg, my brain doesn't need to give me a gentle ping. It screams at me at those times. Most often, it is a quiet "ping" letting me know that I am not in balance.

I want to be in balance. I want the pinging to stop. That's not polish--that is feeling back to normal.