Orchids and the Empty Nest

This morning, Jack and the Boy went to hit the epic pow at Alpental where there is 34 inches of fresh snow at the top. I am not skiing after I pulled a muscle in my knee a few weeks ago. Claire-Adele is off at work.

Before they all left, Claire-Adele knocked on the shed door with a piece of paper in her hand, Jack trailing behind. (Jack was on call last night, so I slept in the shed instead being woken up every two hours by his phone. Insomnia is a bitch in my advancing age. I protect my sleep like a mother lion protects her cubs.)

"I got into Maryland," she said.

"The Honor's college and she was accepted into her major," Jack said. "You have to apply to major in Government and Politics, like you have to apply to study engineering at UW."

"Wow," I said. "Western is nice, but the opportunities for going to school in D.C. are..." I wanted to say "huge," but DJT ruined the word for me.

"Maybe she can get an internship with one of the Senators," said Jack.

"I'll need to increase my donation to Patty Murray," I said.

After Jack, the Boy and Claire-Adele left, I was watering my orchids. One of them was growing out of control, which is surprising since orchids are high maintenance, slow growth plants. This one had roots growing out from between the leaves. It had roots growing out the pot and down the side. Some of the roots stretched out and tried making a home in the pot of another orchid. Orchids thrive in small pots, but this one had had enough. Its roots were screaming to escape its cramped, plastic home.

I went in the yard to my massive stack of plastic plant pots that should be recycled but aren't. Marie Kondo would have a cow if she saw this mess on the side of my house. She is only liked 33 years old. Of course she doesn't have clutter-she hasn't been on the planet that long. I have t-shirts in my closet older than her. (Maybe not, but close enough.) Anyhow-I found an old orchid pot, brought it in and cleaned it up. I went in the basement and found some orchid bark that I bought before Marie Kondo was born, and repotted my plant into a bigger pot.

And then I started to cry. Claire-Adele is like my orchid, screaming to be on her own, needing a bigger pot.

Soon I will be a partial empty nester, left with an empty pot with no orchid.

But this won't be all bad. As Claire-Adele gains her freedom, I'll regain mine as well. In the past few weeks, I have been hanging out with some of my empty nester friends. One's daughter left for college last fall. Another has two of her three kids out of the house. These are the women who are free after work to go to movies on a weeknight or accompany me the Pacific Northwest Ballet's studio rehearsals at 4:30 p.m. on a Wednesday. Most of my mom friends can't.

Claire-Adele is now more willing to hang out with me, too. Less than twelve hours before she got her acceptance to UMD, we went to dinner downtown Friday after both of us finished work. Jack was working and the Boy was hanging out with friends. I was glad I took this chance to hang out with Claire-Adele. If we were just at home, she might have gone to her home by herself, or I would have spent time cooking dinner. At the restaurant, we had no choice but to talk. I figured I'd take advantage of these opportunities before she moves away forever, like I did from my parents. This summer, we will go to London for a week of mother-daughter bonding before she leaves. And then, I'll hang out with my new crew of other empty nesters.

Obama and Letterman; and Further Evidence

This weekend I watched the David Letterman interview with President Obama on Netflix.

It was relatively dull. My heart didn't start pounding and my adrenaline didn't start pumping. At no point during the show did I start swearing. I yawned a couple of times because I was watching at night while I was folding laundry before I went to bed.

Which was all good.

I'd prefer my world leaders to be dull, not dramatic. Charismatic is fine. Crazy is not. I want to be able to sleep knowing someone competent, capable and stable is in charge, someone who geeks out on policy, who thinks before they speak, where the goal isn’t entertainment but running the largest democracy in the world.

Which is so different than what we have today.

Last week, people were saying Donald Trump is a racist because he called African countries "shitholes."

We as a country need to get something straight: the idea that Trump is a hater is not new news. The "shithole" comments were merely further evidence the guy is a racist. Add this comment to the pile.

We need a broader term than racist to describe Trump. Sure, he hates black people, but he also hates Mexicans, women, people of different religions, immigrants not from Norway, and my favorite (not) -- people with disabilities.

The first time I thought Trump was indecent was when he mocked a disabled reporter early in his campaign for President--before the wall, before the "pussy grabbing," before there were "good people on both sides" of a protest over a Civil War monument coming down. I was on the Seattle Public School's Special Education Task Force for years. When I saw Trump bullying the reporter, I thought: How can this man possibly advocate or support policies that make the lives better for people with disabilities when he is treating them cruelly? If Trump were a private citizen making fun of disabled people, I'd think he was a boorish, obnoxious ass, at best. But he's not a private citizen. His job is to protect the rights of all Americans and ensure we have solid relationships with other countries so our country can thrive.

There are numerous leaders from both political parties who are not asses. There are many Republicans who are much better human beings than Trump. John Kaisch and Jeb Bush wrote an opinion piece in the New York Times decrying Trump's goal to deport 200,000 Salvadorians who came here in 2001 after an earthquake destroyed their country. The people he wants to deport have children who were born here and are citizens. Really?

And does "not being an asshole" have to be highest bar we set for our leaders? Can't we do better? I hope so. I'd really like to have a week where my friends, family, dog walker and co-workers don't start conversations with "Did you hear what Trump said?"

Doppelganger

The New York Times recently ran an article about the Google Arts & Culture app where people can take a selfie and then the app matches your face to art in museums across the world using some kind of visual recognition software.

I tried it myself. This photo was taken with Apple Photo Booth about two years ago.

Here is what it found.

This Japanese deity is Fudo Myoo. He "uses his sword to cut through ignorance and his lasso to reign in those who block the path to enlightenment." His left eye is closed because he is pissed.

“Bye! Love you! Have a good day!”

Every day since Claire-Adele started preschool when she was three, I’ve said these departing words to her:

Bye! Love you! Have a good day!

When the Boy started school, I’d say the same thing to him. Sometimes I'd say it twice, once to Claire-Adele and then two seconds later to the Boy in the same chirpy voice.

"Bye! Love you! Have a good day!" Then so they would each feel special and not left out, I'd say the exact same words again: "Bye! Love you! Have a good day!"

How many times have I said this to my kids over the years? Let's do the math:

180 days in a school year plus 30 days of summer camp = 210 days a year

Claire-Adele -- 14.5 years (starting with preschool)

The Boy -- 11.5 years

26 years x 210 days = 5,460

I've uttered that phrase a lot. It has become rote, a habit, a mantra.

After I walked Fox the other morning, I stopped at the coffee shop around the corner and got something for the kids to eat for breakfast. At 7:03 a.m., there was a line and I started talking to Julianna, the barista who has been there for a few years. She knows everyone in my family, including Fox.

After I paid for my coffee and food, I left the shop. As I was walking out the door, I said

"Bye Julianna! Love ya! Have a good day!"

Yeah. I was tired, but not so tired that I didn't think it was funny. I caught myself and apologized to Julianna. I wondered how many times I have said that to my neighbors, friends, random people but never noticed.

"Don't worry," said Julianna, "I catch myself saying the same thing all of the time to my customers."

Childcare "Professional"

After work, I was watering my orchids and the Boy told me about his day. He was home from school today for MLK Day. He did his Day of Service by helping watch our neighbor's four kids (ages 2 to 11) jump on our trampoline this morning. At the end of the day, he told me how he was better at with kids than he thought he was. He said the mom thought so, too.

"Maybe I could pay you to watch the kids for the rest of the day," the mom told the Boy.

"I am not a childcare professional," he said. "I am the next door childcare amateur."

I laughed at his story. "Claire-Adele is a childcare professional," the Boy told me. "She gets paid to watch kids." Claire-Adele has a job watching kids at a downtown health club.

"You are a childcare amateur," the Boy said to me. "You never got paid to watch kids." 

How depressing, I thought. My expression must have appeared on my face.

"But you are a really, really good amateur!" he said.

Oy. What makes a professional, just getting a paycheck? What about my years and years of unpaid, 24/7/365 experience? Doesn't that count because I wasn't paid? WTF? I've raised kids for seventeen years and I am a lower rank than my daughter who is seventeen? What gives? Or does "Mom" rank higher?

Addendum: I was talking to a friend of a friend at an event this evening who got divorced after 25 years. For most of her marriage up until it ended, she was a stay-at-home mom, full-time parent, primary parent, whatever. She gave up her career to raise her kids. The fact that she wasn't "working" during her marriage became a major issue in her divorce.

"Why is it someone can choose to be a nanny and that is a career, that they are professionals, but if a woman choose to raise her own kids, that isn't considered a job? What gives? Aren't both people doing essentially the same thing, except one is getting paid and the other isn't?"

I hadn't thought of that. Good point.

Darkness and the PNW

I would have titled this “Hello Darkness My Old Friend,” but darkness never has been my friend, really. The darkness I am referring to isn’t Satan, Voldemort, Darth Vader or Trump. It is the appalling lack of daylight and sunshine in the winter months in the Pacific Northwest.

I’ve lived in Seattle for more than thirteen years, so you’d think I’d be used to winter darkness. But during those thirteen years, I didn’t have a day job. I was home or out and about during the day. Now I walk the dog in the dark and ride the bus home on the dark. January is grimmer without Christmas lights up.

I don't think I am suffering from seasonal affective disorder, but I am finding the darkness to be oppressive. It’s not as if I live in Alaska or Norway, but this is worse that what I experienced in the Midwest. When we went to New Zealand a few years ago over the holidays, I felt little like I skipped winter.  That was the year of two summer solstices. We grilled chicken and lamb on the beach for Christmas.

I decided to take pictures to capture the oppressiveness of the darkness--sunrise with Fox, city lights on the way home from work. Maybe the darknesses isn't as bad as I thought. Still, I'm glad the days are getting longer.

Knee Update in Poetry

Today is a day
For sensible shoes.

Exercise v. the Stock Market, or The Boy v. Me

Today, Jack and the Boy went skiing. Last week, the Boy broke one his skis trying to nail a 3, but he tail dragged the landing and the ski cracked.* This week, the Boy got new skis. I heard the dudes at the ski shop gave the Boy fist bumps for breaking a ski. "You are doing it right!" they said. I knew the Boy was going to try the gnarly stuff today, so I let Jack and the Boy have their male bonding experience. Claire-Adele is going to the Winter Ball tonight, so I stayed home and to make sure all of that went according to plan.  She has it all organized, but Jack didn't know if he'd be back in time to drive Claire-Adele and her boyfriend to the dance. Which meant I went to the YMCA and then went to lunch with a friend.

New skis

At the YMCA, I ran on the treadmill. I had been running for 17:28 minutes listening to Alicia Keys when--wham--my left knee decided to stop working.

Fuck. This is the same knee I with the ACL, MCL and meniscus I tore two years ago.

I think I over-extended my knee and pulled whatever muscle that is. I had to turn the treadmill off and hobble to the front desk and asked if someone could help me get to my car. I could walk (kind of), but my leg was really stiff. I parked two blocks away as there was no parking in the YMCA parking lot because

a) It was Saturday morning, a popular time to exercise,
b) It is January, a popular time to exercise, and
c) It was raining and the even though we Seattlites are a hardy breed, sometimes it is nicer to exercise indoors when the weather outside sucks.

One of the guys who finished working out himself let me grab his arm and walked me back to my car. We chatted while his wife took their screaming toddlers to the Farmers' Market. He only gets half-points for his Boy Scout badge for helping an old lady cross the street as his good deed got him out of a dreadful chore. Nevertheless, his help was invaluable. The biggest thing he did was talk to me to distract me from my achiness.

"Exercise is supposed to be good for you in the long-term," he said. "But somethings things don't work out in the short term."

Exercise > Sitting on the couch

"Just like the stock market," I said. "It goes up for time but every now and then it takes a nose dive."

Stock Market Long-Term Gains > Money in a Mattress

Yep. In another nose dive. At least now I have a better sense of how to treat it. Compared to two years ago, I figured out much faster what I could and couldn't do when I walked, like bend my knee. I know ibuprofen is my friend. I know how to test if moving makes my leg better or worse. And most importantly, I know that almost no one tears their ACL while running on a treadmill.

Still, it makes me wonder if I would have been better off skiing with Jack and the Boy today. I'll never know, but I could guess.

The Boy does this and bounces back. I am borderline immobile from the treadmill. Perhaps the most important part of this isn't whether I ski or not, but rather my age and general fitness.

Fourteen year old boy > Forty-something mom

* Translation -- He did a jump, tried to do a 360 degree spin, landed on the back of his ski and it cracked.

The Earache

Yesterday, the Boy woke up at 6:00 with an earache. Jack got up and attended to the suffering, looking in the ear to see what might be the problem. Impacted earwax was the diagnosis so Jack tried to flush the ear with water then dissolve the wax with mineral oil. The Boy felt better — hooray! I was glad that Jack was a pediatrician and could take care of the Boy.

When the Boy was out of earshot (not that he could have heard with all the earwax*), Jack said he’s seen patients in PICU with brain infections that started as an ear infection. There a millions of ear infections a year, and he tells me about two (0.008% for let’s say King County in a year) who were gravely impacted. After that bit of gloom and doom, I was not glad to be married to a critical care physician. 

Okay, as I am writing I am freaking out about the dangers of  ear infections. See what I mean? I live with this shit every day, and now I’ve shared it with you. You are welcome.

* This might explain why the Boy has been taking loudly and not hearing what we telling him, more so than a typical teenager.

A Very Short Poem

There should be a different word
For shadows created
By the moon

My New Favorite Bike Ride

When I first moved to Seattle, I was stunned at how beautiful the view was on the 520 bridge across Lake Washington. A few weeks ago, a new bike and pedestrian lane along 520 just opened and it is amazing. Riding a bike is better than driving because there is more time to take in the scenery and there is less need to make sure I don't get in a crash. There are also little coves where people can rest and enjoy the water, mountains and cloud scapes.

Riding on the bridge reminds me of biking in the Midwest--whether along Lake Michigan or riding through corn fields--where there is stiff headwind riding in one direction and glorious tailwind in the other. When I was heading east, I put my bike in the granny gear and pedaled along getting steadily passed by packs of men in matching lyrca outfits all with the body fat percentage of a cricket. On the way back home heading west, the tailwind was my friend.