#CityGirl

I was riding my bike home from work today along Elliott Bay when I saw two little rats out of the corner of my eye, nibbling on some grass along side the bike trail.

Geez those rats are brazen, eating out in the open in daylight, I thought.

When I got a better look, I realized they were baby bunnies.

Egads. I'm such as city girl that when I see a small rodent outside, I assume it is a rat.

#citygirl

Otherwise, the rest of the ride was nice.

This picture is from Friday, but this is the trail I bike home on.

Laundry

I don't do laundry
because I love doing laundry.

I do laundry
because I hate the pile of dirty clothes.

I don't fold the laundry
because I love folding it.

I fold laundry
because I hate the pile of unfolded clothes.

Someday, I will not care
one way or another.

I long for that day.

College, Part 34 and Room for Everyone

While Claire-Adele seems to be happy abut her college choice, her wounds from being rejected from fancy, east coast establishment schools still sting. I try to be empathetic, but I struggle. She is convinced that other kids--kids of color, low income students, immigrants, first generation college students--have an easier time getting into top colleges than she does. The way she rants about this makes her sounds like a Trump supporter and it makes me want to puke. How could I have raised someone so completely tone-deaf, self-absorbed and narrow-minded? What a princess.

I was talking to a friend who said that middle class white girls with college educated parents are in the most competitive deomgraphic to get into to college. Lots of people in this group apply, and a large number of them are qualified, hard working candidates. More so than white males. They compete with each other in their demographic. Is this fair? I don't know.

I struggle with this. Our society needs to open doors to kids who have less opportunities to succeed, hence the "Opportunity Gap." I have an old friend from my previous job, a woman of color. Louise Mae was hard working, smart, kind, and grew up in poverty. When I was in high school, I was given a car, clothes and the time to participate in a million activities by my parents. This friend had to take care of her mom and older siblings. She got a job, and went to college at night, a class at a time. Is she still a kind, smart, hardworking person? Yes. Did she get a pass to skip to the head of the line and get a solid professional job when she was 22 like my college education gave me? No. Was that fair? No. 

Policies that benefits society can hurt an individual. Middle class white kids like my daughter don't need to get a job to help their families pay rent. Claire-Adele works, and her paycheck goes in her savings account. She doesn't have to buy her own clothes or food. She lives in an all inclusive resort, fancy excurisions included. 

So why doesn't my daughter get this? I discussed it with my friend Carla today at lunch today. It is Claire-Adele's age, that her teenage brain can't understand trends greater than herself? In fairness, I know "Princess" is a phase, and I hope she grows out of it soon. Is is Claire-Adele's inner stubborness? Is is because she doesn't know any Louise Mae's in her day-to-day life? I didn't until I went to work. My friends who were kids of color in college grew up in middle class to wealthy families. No one I knew came from poverty.

"The problem isn't that more minority kids are getting into good schools," I told Carla. "The problem is that these other kids are putting too much emphasis on getting to into an elite college."

Or is it that Claire-Adele sees herself as female and see this group of half of humanity is getting beat down left and right? I can imagine Claire-Adele thinking, Yeah right girls and women have it easy.

A more qualified woman candidate for President lost to a psychologically unstable, inexperienced man who sexually harasses women. Harvey Weinstein and that gymnastics doctor sexually assaulted young women. Women took to the streets to march to say "This is enough." How does this make her or any woman not part of a protected class?

She would be right, and still... "Adding diversity is probably making all schools better," said Carla. "If a good student like Claire-Adele can't get into an elite college, it means she goes someplace else. And then that school now had stronger students."

By adding kids who previously would not have been candidates to good schools, we are increasing the size of the pipeline. At one point, the US had one college: Harvard. Now we have hundreds of universities. Are we better off now? Absolutely. The problem isn't that too many kids are applying, the problem is too few seats. We need to make sure there is room for everybody.

(And Carla, the accountant, reminded me this: "If she goes to a state school, you'll save $120K over four years.")

One Last Run, and Snow > Rain

Yesterday was my fifth day of skiing in a row, and I was kind of tired of the whole thing. After the first three runs of the first day, I was skiing by myself as Jack and the kids decided they wanted bluer and blacker pastures. Skiing alone gets old, although I did get in the "Singles" lift line and bypassed the longer lines with people skiing with friends and family.

There are many reasons I love/hate skiing. First, it is depressing to suck at something I used to be decent at, avoiding runs that I used to easily do. The best part of Whistler is exploring different runs. It would take days to do all of the runs there. I stuck to the same two or three runs the entire five days.

I suppose this is part of aging and/or recovering from injury. Jack told me about some extreme athlete who was seriously injured when he was hit by a car. He started his training for the Boston Marathon while wearning a halo, a nasty brace that keeps the head, neck and spine aligned. (I'll spare you a direct link to the google search or the NYT article about the guy.) Part of me thinks the guy is nuts, but am I any different for wanting to ski again after I tore my ACL?

Back to the knee. Yesterday after lunch and before we drove back to Seattle, I was going to do one last run. One last run. I put on my right ski and then as I was about to snap into my left ski, my formerly injured knee gave me a ping of mild pain. I tried again. Ping.

What did that ping mean? Should I do one last run, or ride the gondola down? How does one know when it is time to call it a day and when there is still enough energy to do another run? On the previous run, I hit a mogul and fell over. When my legs are tired, my form reverts to my sloppy old ways. When I ski sloppy, I am more likely to fall. Did I want to end of a bad note, or a good one? You never know. I played it safe and I took the gondola down. I wasn't happy about it. Part of me wanted to ski some more, but the other part didn't want to get hurt.

I stopped for coffee while the rest of my family skied and then later met Jack and the kids at the car and we drove home. Sometimes I feel like that song from Sesame Street where they show a grid with four objects. Bob sings:

One of these things is not like the others

One of these things just doesn't belong

Can you tell me which thing is not like the others

By the time I finish my song?

I am green and they are black. It is miserable to listen to them talk about all of the fun they had while I was struggling. But what am I supposed to do, not let them ski? (And by the way -- what the hell Sesame Street? What a depressing song. How would you like to be the rotten tomato in a pile of fresh fruit?)

A few miles outside of Vancouver, B.C., it started to pour. It rained buckets all the way back to Seattle. During this awful car ride, I remembered why we started to ski. In the Pacific Northwest, it rains from November through May. Given the choice between rain and snow, I'll take snow.

This afternoon, Jack and I went to the grocery store. Walking around QFC, my legs felt strange. They missed my ski boots. They wanted to be back on the mountain.

More Skiing

Today was day four of skiing at Whistler, and I survived. A few observations in no particular order.

• My feet are cold. Tonight we watched a Big Air slope style competition while standing on the sidelines instead of in the plaza on a big screen. Standing on the sidelines means standing in the snow.

View of the plaza from the sidelines where people stand and their feet don't get as cold, but their view isn't as awesome.

A skier gets pulled up to the jump via snowmobile.

The landing for the Big Air competition

• Weather can change on a dime on a big mountain.

View from a run yesterday

View from the top of the run two runs later

View from the gondola as I downloaded yesterday

View without raindrops

Today, two inches of powder accumulated...during lunch.

• I wish Jack had taken more vacation when I wasn't working. Now that I am working and am not free to travel at will, his interest in traveling with the family has gone up. I am not complaining, just wish he would have thouht of this before I returned to the 9-to-5. My company has a reasonably generous vacation plan, so I am not complaining about that. I just wished he used more of his vacation time when I was around. As much as I like my job, breaks are necessary.
• If I lost some weight, I'd have less mass, and then I'd ski slower without having to work at skiing slower. I am the only person in the world who thinks skiing slower is better than skiing all out in a straight line.
• I feel like an old lady when I ski sometimes. Skiing is a time for weird thoughts. I realized that with this next birthday, I will be the same as my grandma when she became a grandmother. Oy.  Fucking. Vey. I could ask my dad to confirm, but I think I am right. Actually, I don't really want to know. And my mother was not an old grandma. She was a regular age grandma for the time.
• Just when I feel like a grandma and think I am too old for this shit, I go in the lodge and see a bunch of seventy year old men covered in snow who have just gotten off some gnarly run. (Note: I will not be seventy on my next birthday, in case that might be confusing.) How do I know they are doing gnarly runs if they are the in lodge with me? I don't see them on the green runs I am on. There are women that age out there skiing, but far fewer. Why? Are women that age too smart to ski?
• The Boy is sending it. His sports medicine physician night not be too happy, but whatev. He's happy.

State School

Claire-Adele committed to the University of Maryland.

I should be thrilled, right? She's in the Honor's Program, she got in her major government and politics, and she will be in Washington, D.C. where there are hundreds of opportunities to get internships with the federal government. This will be awesome for her.

For me, this is a state school which is about $22K less than a private school, plus she got a nice scholarship, saving me close to $30K.

Claire-Adele joined the UMD freshmen Facebook page, and connected with several like minded students. Claire-Adele could have written this herself:

"I like hiking, reading, going to political protests and watching Parks and Rec on Netflix."

I was happy for her.

Then, she said, "I am going to need cut-off t-shirts to wear to tailgates."

Whaaa, I thought. She is on the waitlist for an all women's college in NYC where, if they did tailgate, they would not wear cut-off t-shirts.

I did not go to a state school. Neither did Jack. I know not all state schools are party schools and private schools van be rowdy. Animal House was based on Washington University in Saint Louis, blocks from where I used to live. Yet, I have an assumption--that might be right or wrong--that state schools party more than private ones. Jack checked out some videos on YouTube of UMD students. One girl was at what looked like a fraternity party where she smashed a beer on her head, it cracked open, and she drank it.

Oy. At that moment, I realized I know nothing about UMD. Sure, the college counselor said it would be a great fit for Eleanor. Sure, it has great programs in what she is interested in. Sure, it is considered a top twenty value in college education. (That is per Claire-Adele. I did not verify.) Sure, it is saving me $30K a year compared to a private school.

But is it a party school? Am I sending my daughter off to a drunken bachanal for the next four years? I hope to god not.

Then I wondered, could this be good for Claire-Adele? No, I do not want to see her hammered in a YouTube video slamming a beer. But maybe an environment that is somewhat festive could better than a school where everyone studies all of the time. Or better than a school where everyone studies all of the time and then power drinks on the weekends to escape the intense academic pressure.

So I googled "Top Party Schools" and found a few lists. According to the Princeton Review, UW (Wisconsin) Madison is the number one party school in the U.S.. That list wasn't complete enough, so I continued to Google and found another list from niche.com. UMD is listed at #41. University of Washington, in my backyard, is #84.

I relaxed. That isn't so bad, but I did figure out where all of my angst was coming from, in addition to one YouTube video. What college conference has the most party schools?

The Big Ten. Eight schools made the top 25, including UW Madison, Ohio State, Penn State, Indiana, Michigan, Michigan State, Iowa and U of Illinois if I remember correctly. MIT and Rice beat out my alma mater, which ranked so low, I can't even find it. (Okay, I did. #260.)

No wonder I was freaked out. I was born and raised in Big Ten country, home of some of the big party schools in the country. Then I read a little more. While my alma mater was ranked #260, its partying grade was A-. UMD was graded an A+ in partying. I suppose it is all the same, at some point. Unless I send Claire-Adele to a convent, partying will be part of the scene.

You Have Nothing to Prove, and Where Did I Go Right?

I need to remember this the next time I do anything. I have nothing to prove to anyone ever, including myself. Most especially myself.

You are welcome for this hard earned wisdom I learned today.

Yesterday was wet, so wet there was a rainbow.

I am with my family on Spring Break in Whistler. This was not my first choice for vacation, but everyone else wanted to go here, especially the Boy. To me, a big ski vacation is like going to Disneyland--the only reason I would go is because my kids want to go. And my kids have never wanted to see Disneyland or Disney World, so I dodged those bullets. When he was younger, the Boy wanted to see Legoland, the masculine version of Disneyland -- all building materials and no tulle in sight. When Claire-Adele was ten, she wanted to go to London and I was totally hip to that.

I wouldn't be complaining about skiing if I wasn't such a laggard compared to my family. Eight years ago, I was the best skier in my family, as the kids didn't know how to ski and Jack was meh. Jack and I thought skiing would be a great way to get out of the house in the gray and gloomy winters in the Pacific Northwest. Little did I know then my kids would take to skiing like rats to a sewer. Where did I go right?

I am not complaining about going to Whistler for Spring Break. I am complaining about going to Whistler for Spring Break again. Seriously, I'd like to go someplace else for vacation. My friends on Facebook are in Mexico, Iceland, Hawaii, and Palm Springs. Claire-Adele's boyfriend went to Europe. I would like to be in any of those places. I have other friends who are in Ohio, Iowa and Boston for vacation. The midwest is looking good. The friend in Mexico is remarried and I am FB friends with his new wife, which is nice. I was so jealous of her pictures. What I am going to have to do to get a vacation in Mexico where I can sit on the beach and/or poolside while someone brings me cervezas? Get divorced, remarried, and find someone who wants to go to Mexico for vacation? That's a bit extreme, if you ask me.

Not exactly a bluebird day.

Instead of floating in the ocean in Maui, I am burning my thighs, hamstrings and glutes in very wintery weather. This morning, the snow at 6,000 was firm. Lower down in the middle of the afternoon, it was heavy and wet. Very heavy and very wet. And the runs here are long. Very long. Which means unless I stopped and rested, my legs got really tired. Pre-ACL tear, I loved it when my thighs burned when I skied. Post-ACL tear, I freak out when my legs burn.

A few runs after lunch, I left my family on Blackcomb and I went back to Whistler on the Peak-to-Peak. Whistler was blustery. Not regular blustery, but mountain blustery. I decided to try to the snow lower on the mountain, which was--as mentioned before--heavy and wet. The Eskimos must have a name for this shit, but likely not. Or they do now with the global warming. They probably call it something like snow that should melt if it weren't for the vast amount of it keeping it cold itself. My daughter called it mashed potato snow. This was more like mud snow, except it was fast. I hated this snow.

More than I hated this snow, I hated myself for thinking I could get down. At the mid-station, I could have ridden the gondola back down. There was even a nice sign "Tired? Cold? Ride the Gondola down!" Did I listen to the sign? No. I thought if I rested a bit my legs would feel better and I could make it down. So I rested. Nevermind my legs were pooped. Nevermind I asked some old timer on mono-ski what the snow was like, and he said "Just as bad as this here, except worse."

Did I listen to my legs, the sign at the gondola and an expert old guy skier?

No. I did not.

I can make it down, I told myself.

But you want to ski another day, I told myself back.

You did it yesterday and it was a piece of cake, I told myself again. And the snow doesn't look that bad. It could be fine.

Alright, I told myself. I can do this.

Are you sure? There is no shame in taking the gondola down, thought my sensible, sane, conservative self. You've already skied down 2,800 vertical feet. That's enough.

You can handle another 1,000 vertical feet, I told myself. Come on. What are you, some kind of a wuss? Besides, it will be fun.

Fun. Right. I wouldn't talk to my best friend like that, but I talk to myself like that. That is messed up. What is more messed up is that no one else was there pushing me to go down. As much as I'd like to, I cannot blame Jack, Claire-Adele, or the Boy. I brought this whole disaster on myself.

The snow was a mess. When I made it down the first turn, I seriously thought about marching back up. There was one steep spot that wasn't too steep except for the shit condition of the snow. I had to side step down. I had no pride. I was snowplowing part of it. Evan, my physical therapist, would tell me I was good at recruiting other muscles to do the work in my physical therapy, which is not a good thing for physical therapy when you are trying to re-activate your quadriceps. Recruiting other muscles was fantastic today when I was trying to get down the hill.

All of this makes me forget how much fun I have skiing. Skiing is like the little girl with little curl right in the middle of her forehead. When it is good, it is very, very good. But when it is bad, it horrid.

We only have three more days here before we head back to Seattle. Tomorrow, I will listen to my sensible self.

Views from Peak-to-Peak

The Baby Bucket

Today, Claire-Adele heard from a few colleges she applied to. Nixed at one, waited listed at another. She seemed to be in a reasonable mood, considering.

I bought her some flowers at the Market today before I heard any of the news. I made the decision to buy flowers last week, knowing this week was going to be crazy. We went out to dinner at Rositas to celebrate the near end of the college admissions process/rat race.

At the table next to us was a young couple with a baby in a baby carrier car seat bucket. The baby was covered up, so I didn't get a peek. While Claire-Adele and I waited for the check, Jack and the Boy went to Gregg's Greenlake to look at mountain bikes. (Gear heads...) The couple and their baby walked by.

For a few moments, I remembered bringing Claire-Adele to Zuzu's, a Mexican restaurant in Clayton, MO. It was the first time we went out with the new baby, which was scary and thrilling. People stopped and told us what a cute baby we had, and of course, I believed them. This was the cutest, best baby ever. The first time people come up and look at your baby is something remarkable. It is amazing that this little tiny creature exists.

And here I am, seventeen years later, my baby in the bucket is about to leave for college in few months.

Holy crap. I hope the next six months aren't like this. I hope I don't start weeping every time I see a wagon or a stroller because my kids is going off to college. Ugh. I am going to sound like a new mom who thinks they baby is pure angel and they are the first person to ever experience the miracle motherhood.

And yet, I think this is as big as becoming a mother, maybe even bigger. It is easy to bring a kid into the world, and much harder to get them to the proverbial finish line.

The Fish is Dying

Years and years ago, we acquired some fish--three little tetra types about an inch long--and kept them in a ten gallon tank in the kitchen. No one in my house can remember when we got them--we've had them that long. Our best guess is when the Boy was in third grade six years ago. We had them well before we got Fox when the Boy was in fifth grade.

The time marker for the fish was when the Boy was on a First Lego League (FLL) team and they had to create a team poster. Each boy listed their favorite movie, favorite book and pets. The Boy wrote "Three fish and two snails" when everyone else wrote about their cats and/or dogs. I felt sorry that he didn't have a real animal, one that required walks or could interact meaningfully with humans. Nope, we just had fish and snails.

It was better than nothing, I suppose.

Three weeks ago, one of the two remaining fish died. After I started working and became more busy, cleaning the fish tank became just another chore added to my long list of "To Do's" at home. Jack works all of the time, so stuff like cleaning the fish tank never makes his list. I consider myself lucky when he empties the dishwasher, makes dinner or takes out the compost, garbage and recycling.

Even though the fish tank had been neglected, the fish carried on like British subjects during WWII. They didn't seem to mind the algae covered walls after the snails died or the slowly dropping water level that would only get replenished when it was in danger of not reaching the filter intake tube. They didn't mind that the water was naturally de-chlorinated by leaving a bucket of water out over night instead of using the fancy fish tank chemical that adds vitamins and whatever to the water to keep the fish healthy.

I was getting kind of tired of taking care of these fish. It seemed kind of pointless. After the first fish died, I wondered why bother with one? I was kind of hoping the remaining one might have a quick demise.

It didn't make sense to have one fish the size of a quarter in a ten gallon tank. Like an elderly person losing their mobility, this fish needed a smaller domicile instead of the four bedroom, three bath house it was currently residing in. I found a smaller tank in basement from when the kids had water frog (life span: two months) and moved the last fish in there. Instead of sitting on the kids art table from when they were preschoolers, the fish bowl was now in the kitchen counter next to my tea kettle. 

I got to know this fish a little better. I sat him (her?) several times a day when I'd make tea or chop vegetables for dinner. I wondered if this fish had any idea of who I was. My dog recognizes me and the rest of my family, plus our dog walker. Did the fish know I was the one who cleaned its tank and fed it? Or, did the fish think I was a god, a mysterious force of the universe who makes things happen, for good or bad? Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

I was making scones for the kids this week for breakfast, and I saw the little fish belly up. I kind of freaked out and banged on the bowl. The fish wasn't dead yet and began furiously swimming around and around. It seemed to be revived.

Whew, I thought. The fish isn't dead. And then I felt regret for wishing it would keel over. Little fish -- I hardly knew ye!

The next day, the Boy saw the fish resting in the bottom of the bowl, which is odd because fish don't really rest. He did the same thing I did--except way more gently. He softly shook the bowl and the little fish woke up and started swimming around again.

This morning, the fish is on the bottom of the bowl. When I shake the bowl, he stirs around for a few seconds--perhaps he fears being eaten by a larger fish--and then he sinks back to the bottom, and rests.

I read an article recently about a woman who bred dogs and kept a few on her farm. When one of her larger dogs was about to die, the pack circled around the ailing dog, protecting her from potential harm. Here, my little fish was going to die alone, not surrounded by the rest of his school.

Thursday night, I re-read In the Gloaming by Alice Elliott Dark, originally published in the New Yorker in 1993. It is a story about a mother reconnecting with her thirty-something year old son who is dying of AIDS. It is a beautiful and heartbreaking story that has had different meaning for me each time I read it, decades apart. When I read it in my twenties, I wasn't even as old as the son. Now, I identify with the mother and wife.

Yes, it is much easier to write about a dying fish instead of a dying child. Or dying parent. Or dying dog. 

So here I am sad about a little fish. "Sad" might be a bit much, but pondering. This week was rough. Jack wasn't home much, and both kids were using me as their emotional garbage can, dumping all of their frustrations and worries on me. They were not sharing their worries or talking about their frustrations. They were using me as their punching bag because they were worried and frustrated. A person can only take so much before they cry uncle. 

Right now, the idea of a no-maintenance little fish friend seems like a nice idea. Maybe I'll get a bright blue Betta to keep me company on the kitchen counter when this little fish finally dies.

See the Scar and a Job Offer

The other day, Jack had a young patient who was dying. (As he is a pediatrician, all of his patients are young.) While I can't talk about the kid as it would violate HIPPA (not that I would), I can talk about the dad since he was not the patient.

The man was a younger dad, and kind of rough. Some of the nurses were afraid of this guy. Jack was in the middle of rounds on the ICU floor, when this father caught Jack's attention when Jack entered his daughter's room.

"If you want to talk to me, sit your ass in the chair and look me in the eye," said the dad. The mom knew what was coming, and scurried out of the room.

Jack did as he was told. He sat in the chair and looked the dad in the eye.

"Five years ago," the father said, "I nearly died. I was riding in the backseat of a car, and when I woke up, I was in Harborview hooked up to a bunch of tubes. I was shot five times."

Jack listened.

"I was dead. The surgeons took out the bullets and put me back together," the dad said. The man opened his shirt and showed Jack a large scar that ran from his neck down past his belly.

"That's impressive," said Jack, a guy who has seen thousands of incisions in his life.

"I've seen death. I've seen other people die," the dad continued. "I am not afraid of it. Look me in the eye and tell me: Is my daughter going to die?"

Jack came home from work and told me the story.

"He wanted me to understand what he had experienced. He needed me to know what he had been through so he could trust me," Jack said. "He needed me to see the scar."

He also realized something else. "You need me to see your scar."

A few years ago, Jack had been guilty of some very bad husbanding. I understand that people screw up and make mistakes, but it is nearly impossible to heal when the person who has hurt you doesn't want to admit that they did. In addition to screwing up, Jack had been reluctant to embrace my suffering from his bad husbanding. I still need an apology, an apology that acknowledges the pain and anguish that he has caused me.

"You need me to see your scar," Jack said. I was just about to give up, throw in the towel, call it a hopeless cause, when he comes through with this. Why did it take an interaction with one of his patient's parent for him to get the message I had been trying to deliver for the past few years? Will this insight stick? Will he remember and adhere to this when he finally does see my scar? Do I want to even bother after banging my head against the wall for the past few years? Can I trust that he will truly see and accept it?

Perhaps the timing of Jack's insight correlated with a conversation I had with my manager the day before, a conversation where we discussed my future role and position, and a forthcoming job offer. Perhaps as I grow more financially independent, inspiration was easier for Jack to find.

Out with the Old

The next two weeks are going to be rough as Claire-Adele waits to get her acceptance letters from colleges. Our Spring Break plans hinge on where she gets in, which is a drag since this is her last Spring Break before she leaves.

Last night instead of getting involved in her spinning about what to do over break, I re-arranged my book stacks (i.e., the stacks of books I have around the house that don't fit on our shelves). With Claire-Adele leaving in less than six months, I don't need these books anymore. This morning, I donated them to the Little Library in our neighborhood.

We bought these books when we moved to Seattle in 2004, and they were well used. Instead of getting a pass to the Seattle Children's Museum (which is cool if I remember correctly), I am now buying tickets to Bumbershoot for the Boy.

These new books have replaced those old ones:

I had to balance out the geriatric knee book with something more inspiring. The Pacific Crest Trail is a gorgeous coffee table book with cool photos of places I'd love to see. While I have no plans to do a Cheryl Strayed and hike the whole thing from Mexico to Canada (or wherever she stopped), I wouldn't mind hitting parts of it. I can't imagine the kids would think it would be a fun vacation, but I can make plans for when they are gone. My neighbors Jen and Dave are empty-nesters as of this year, and they are having a blast traveling all over place.

After I moved some books around, I went to brush my teeth before I walked the dog and take the books to the Little Library. I looked around the bathroom and found other debris that will likely be left behind when Claire-Adele leaves, including a drawer full of nail polish. The old eye shadow will need to be tossed, but maybe I can find a place to donate the nail polish. If the YMCA Homeless Teen Center doesn't want it, maybe I can offload it on some of the neighborhood girls.

It is hard to believe this phase of my life and Claire-Adele's is coming to an end. It is not like she's dying, but there will be an extra empty bedroom in my house by the end of the summer. When someone dies, the loved ones are left with all of the crap the person has accumulated over a lifetime. Except for what she decides to schlep to east, all of her shit will still be here: dozens and dozens of books, a closet full of games, craft kits that are mostly used up, and a baby grand piano in my living room that no one will play, except maybe the Boy who dinks around on it once in a while or his friends who play when they come to visit.

Some parents leave their children's rooms as museums, untouched after the kids leave. That's not going to happen here. The Boy, who has been sleeping in the coverted attic space, will move into Claire-Adele's room when she leaves.

"Oh that's mean!" you might be thinking to yourself. "Poor Claire-Adele getting booted out of her room when she goes to college."

Nope. The kid has a view of Lake Washington and Mt. Rainier from her bedroom. It is the nicest room in the whole house, and she has it all to herself. There is no way I am leaving the hottest piece of property in my house unused while she is gone. Instead, she was extremely lucky for the years she was here. When she visits, she can either sleep in the converted attic, or out in the shed.

He's Back

Five weeks after he broke his collarbone, the Boy was back on skis this weekend. The sports medicine doc--the same guy I saw when I tore my ACL--said the Boy could go on the greens and the groomers with his mom after six to eight weeks. No "sending it" until twelve weeks. Jack and I decided the Boy needed to get back on the mountain for his sanity and ours, collarbone be damned.

"The Boy doesn't fall when he skis," said Jack. "Well, he doesn't fall when he regular skis. That doesn't count jumps or rails."

"I am not worried about the Boy as much as I am worried about him getting plowed over by other people," said Dr. Kary. His own ten year old son got creamed by a guy the size of a linebacker the previous weekend while snowboarding.

Friday afternoon, I got a text from the Boy.

The Boy: Let's just say I have to go skiing tomorrow.

Me: Can you find a friend to take you?

The Boy: (Crickets.)

Hmmm, I thought. When I got home, I asked if anyone could take him.

"Nah," he said. "I am going to stay on the blues and greens." Jack was worked this past weekend. "Can you take me?"

I agreed. Saturday morning, the Boy woke me up. He came into my bedroom and started clapping. (I'll have to remember this the next time I need to wake him.)

"Let's get moving," he said.

Dude, I thought. It's Saturday. Let me sleep. "You can pack up the skis and equipment," I said, rolling over and hugging my pillow. He went to the basement and gathered the gear while I ate breakfast and walked the dog.

As we were getting on to I-90 from 405--about twelve minutes from home because I was driving wicked fast--I asked if he had packed my boots.

"Fuck," he said.

"I can rent boots," I said.

"No, you'll be happier in your own boots. and you'll need to use shitty rental skis. We can go back and get them." So we did. I drove back to Seattle. The Boy got my boots and we drove off.

"I didn't want someone else's parents to be liable if I got hurt while skiing with their kid," he said. The other part was he didn't want to ski with his friends on his first turn back.

"Besides," he said. "I am going to teach you how to ski. You need to improve your form. This will be work. This will not be cruising down the mountain for fun. This will be your job."

Since my ACL injury, I have been stuck on the greens. Last year, I asked my physical therapist if I should take a ski lesson to get my groove back.

"You might," said Evan. "That might help." I stalled on the idea because I wasn't sure I wanted to be pushed. I was comfortable skiing on the greens. I wasn't sure I wanted to make it to the blues.

We got to Summit West, the beginner hill, a place where my son would typically not hang out with his friends except for the dudes who like Wildside and the mini-terrain park.

The Boy hit the top of Pacific Crest while I was putting on my knee brace. I thought he might not be serious about teaching me until I got a text from him asking where I was. By time I got to the green lift, he was there waiting for me. On the lift, he asked in a drill sergeant voice "Do you want to ski better than you did before?" I almost barked back, "Yes sir."

"Let's go," he said. When we got to the top of the lift, he gave me directions. "Go down, do a few turns, then stop."

I followed his instructions.

"Your form doesn't suck," he said. "Try it again." After two runs, he was still amazed. "Your form isn't shit. Let's go to Pacific Crest. You can do it. You need to build up speed so it is easier to turn."

When we got to Pacific Crest, we watched me on a steeper section. "You lift your uphill foot when you turn. Don't do that. Keep it down. Roll back and forth from your uphill and downhill ski when you turn, Keep your skis flat in the middle when you are going straight."

I did what he said, and followed him down the mountain. I watched his form and followed his tracks. I watched his posture, and when he bent his knees, and tried to copy him like I did took ballet lessons as a kid.

Don't think, I said to myself. Just let your body mimic what he is doing. I was easily skiing the steepest hill I have since I tore my ACL. Here I was thinking I needed to hire ski instructor, when I have a coach right here in my family, and he didn't charge me $150 to spend an afternoon on the hill with him.

Everything was fine until the middle of the afternoon. The Boy and I were on the lift with two other people. I was in the far right side of the chair and the Boy was next to me. As we got off the lift, the girl next to Peter crossed her skis with him, and then his skis crossed into my path. I was afraid to get off the chair, until it started to turn and go back down the hill when I jumped off. The chair stopped, and the Boy and I were down on the ground.

Fuck, I thought. I've known people who have gotten hurt getting plowed over by nubes getting the chair lift. "Are you okay?" I asked him.

"I'm fine," he said. I felt fine, too. We both survived the beginner crashing off the chair.

After that, the Boy wanted to go his own way. He wanted to hit the moguls and the black runs to shred the gnar. He left me for the afternoon. At the end of the day, he met at the bottom of Pacific Crest, and we did one last run together.

We both are back.

View from the lift.