If I use a Fall Out Boy song as my entry title, does that make me young, hip and cool? You betcha, much in the same way that my using the phrase "you betcha" makes me young, hip and cool. As an aside, I just bought the Fall Out Boy cover of Michael Jackson's "Beat It," and I'm not sure how that affects my youngishness, hipsteration or coolocity.
In any event, here I am. A week removed from single parenting. As noted earlier, Cathleen went to western New York for her first "Slipping" reading. She took Max, they both had a great time, and she learned a lot about what and how to read "Slipping" passages to a young audience. Eliza and I spent some quality time together. The only crisis moment occurred on the first night at bedtime when I sat down to read to Eliza. Normally, I read to Max and Cathleen reads to Eliza (a system that grew out of the fact that I could read but not breastfeed), but now it was just me and E. It was only at that moment that she came to terms with the fact that mommy was not there, and she promptly burst into tears. She got over it, and by the next night bedtime was no problem. Of course, on the second night after the lights were out she tried pulling out all of the tricks to get me to come back into her bedroom. "Max hit me on the head." "Umm, Eliza, Max is not here. He's more than 300 miles away from here right now." She stares at me. "Max hit me on the head."
Cathleen and Max returned on Thursday, on Friday we baked hamantaschen, and on Saturday morning we packed up the car and drove up to Bloomfield for Easter weekend.
Claudia and Walter live on a few acres of mostly-wooded property, and I had long noticed the abundance of Sugar Maples around the area. Always one to think of gifts that give back to me, I came up with the idea of giving Waler a maple sugaring kit for Christmas. We enjoyed our first jar of homemade maple syrup last month. When we arrived at their house on Saturday, I could see that the gallon jugs that Walter had hooked up on the trees were filled with sap, and by midday we were collecting the sap from six trees and boiling it down over a fire on an outside grill that Walter had constructed for the task. We basically filled a tin lasagna pan with sap and stuck it over the fire; when it boiled down a couple of inches we'd add more sap. The trick was to keep the fire as hot as possible to keep the sap at a rolling boil. I split wood on Walter's wood splitter and fed and stoked the fire all afternoon. We boiled 8 1/2 gallons down to about one gallon or so. By then it had taken on a slightly amber color, sort of like a weak iced tea. When Walter collects enough of the ambered-sap, he then finishes the syrup-making process inside, in a pot on the stove where he can carefully monitor the process to prevent under- or overcooking (he purchased a hydrometer to aid in the process). We didn't get that far on Saturday, but that didn't matter. I still came home with a jar of homemade syrup from an earlier batch.
I ran 9 miles on Sunday at a nine-minute per mile pace...crazy fast for me, and I've begun entertaining the idea that I might be able to finish the Brooklyn Half-marathon in under two hours. Speaking of which, they moved the race date from April 26th to May 3rd, and now Mark and Elizabeth can't do it. So I'm flying solo, which increases the odds of me running faster, as I will focus on running and not socializing the entire time. I'll have to see over the next few weekends if I can keep up a nine-minute pace as I extend my distance to 10, 11, 12 miles, but I'm mildly optimistic.
After my run, Sam and I "hid" the Easter eggs around the yard while everyone else was at church, and then there was a huge luncheon (26 people, I think) and Easter egg hunt. I am always surprised to hear when kids believe in the Easter Bunny. It seems so absurd to me that I can't imagine how anyone would buy it, and so when I hear Miriam excitedly proclaiming that the Easter Bunny got her a particular book on Pets because he must have known how in to dogs she is these days, I assume that Miriam has an incredibly sophisticated and sardonic sense of irony. As it turns out, she doesn't. Last year Max figured out that Cathleen and I hid the eggs in our backyard and I was all Jewishly proud of him, but this year he was pulling Peep after Peep out of the eggs he had collected and he was wondering out loud why the Easter Bunny hadn't given him any jelly beans. Yeah, I wonder.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Five Years of Love and War
The war turned five today, just under two weeks before Max also hits that milestone. Five years of violence, death and hate, sharply contrasted with five years of unadulterated joy and love.
After the war began in March 2003, a very pregnant Cathleen and I marched against it in Manhattan, and I coined my favorite rally chant: "the war is stupid, you dumbass motherfuckers" (sing it in a cadence, you'll get it). Just before Max's first birthday, we again marched in Manhattan, right outside our apartment, and I affixed a poster to Max's stroller that read, "War bad, pacifier good." Later that year, I again marched in Manhattan in protest of the Republican National Convention, but naptime I think precluded Max's attendance. We didn't march again until last year -- the almost inconceivable fourth anniversary of the war -- when Max and I traveled down to D.C. in a minivan with Joseph, Miriam, Claudia and Joseph's father David. Max and Miriam ran around on the lawn in front of the Capitol while the rally speakers denounced the impending "surge." This year Max is with Cathleen in Rochester (her first "Slipping" reading!), and I was trying to figure out a way to get back to D.C. while setting up childcare for Eliza, but when I realized that I stood a decent chance of getting arrested at the day of action and civil disobedience that United for Peace and Justice had been planning, I figured that I couldn't risk that with a two-year-old waiting for me in Brooklyn. I then thought I'd leave work early and take Eliza up to the march and vigil at Grand Army Plaza, but rainy weather interfered with those plans. And so here we are, five years into this debacle, and I'm alone with my rage tonight.
We try to teach Max about the inherent good in people, and the value of life, and across the globe we are locked into a war that has taken over half a million lives.
We work to instill in him an understanding of the importance of telling the truth, and we are mired in a war that was begat by one long lie after another.
"No hitting," we say. "If you are angry or frustrated, we talk it out in this family. It is OK to be angry, or to be frustrated because you can't have what you want. It is not OK to hurt someone else."
Every day I tell him I love him at least two or three times, and it is the last thing he hear's from me before he goes to bed at night.
I hope the war ends before he can even understand that it began.
After the war began in March 2003, a very pregnant Cathleen and I marched against it in Manhattan, and I coined my favorite rally chant: "the war is stupid, you dumbass motherfuckers" (sing it in a cadence, you'll get it). Just before Max's first birthday, we again marched in Manhattan, right outside our apartment, and I affixed a poster to Max's stroller that read, "War bad, pacifier good." Later that year, I again marched in Manhattan in protest of the Republican National Convention, but naptime I think precluded Max's attendance. We didn't march again until last year -- the almost inconceivable fourth anniversary of the war -- when Max and I traveled down to D.C. in a minivan with Joseph, Miriam, Claudia and Joseph's father David. Max and Miriam ran around on the lawn in front of the Capitol while the rally speakers denounced the impending "surge." This year Max is with Cathleen in Rochester (her first "Slipping" reading!), and I was trying to figure out a way to get back to D.C. while setting up childcare for Eliza, but when I realized that I stood a decent chance of getting arrested at the day of action and civil disobedience that United for Peace and Justice had been planning, I figured that I couldn't risk that with a two-year-old waiting for me in Brooklyn. I then thought I'd leave work early and take Eliza up to the march and vigil at Grand Army Plaza, but rainy weather interfered with those plans. And so here we are, five years into this debacle, and I'm alone with my rage tonight.
We try to teach Max about the inherent good in people, and the value of life, and across the globe we are locked into a war that has taken over half a million lives.
We work to instill in him an understanding of the importance of telling the truth, and we are mired in a war that was begat by one long lie after another.
"No hitting," we say. "If you are angry or frustrated, we talk it out in this family. It is OK to be angry, or to be frustrated because you can't have what you want. It is not OK to hurt someone else."
Every day I tell him I love him at least two or three times, and it is the last thing he hear's from me before he goes to bed at night.
I hope the war ends before he can even understand that it began.
Monday, March 17, 2008
When I was in law school
I never imagined that I'd have a client say to me, in reference to an ex-boyfriend from whom she believes she contracted HIV, "and so one time he cock spit in my mouth."
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Rick 1, Florida 1
In the new-millenia competition between Rick and Florida, the score is now tied. In 2004, I ventured down to said state to work as a lawyer on the Kerry team. Basically, the Kerry campaign was asking for lawyers to come down to monitor the elections to ensure that the democracy debacle of 2000 was not re-lived. As history sadly knows, Florida went red again, and I flew home on the day after the election with my head hung low. Florida 1, Rick 0.
Almost three and a half years later, I returned to the land of Ponce de Leon (one of my favorite explorers as a child, if indeed children are allowed to have favorite explorers), and this time I came home with my head held high. I had a great time -- heck, my entire family had a great time -- and so Florida and I are now even.
Here's my write-up on the trip. It is not a short write-up (or, having not yet written it, I anticipate it to be not a short write-up). But I'm writing it more for me than for you, unless you want to pretend that I am writing for you, in which case, eat your heart out.
Thursday.
Cathleen and I arise at 5:30 am and after having packed the car, we confirm with Sophie that she can actually move our car in accordance with alternate-side parking rules if we leave it there, so I unpack it and we call a car service. Wake the kids, pack them into the car service and off we go to the airport. We do alright getting through check-in and security with two kids. At boarding time, as we descend through the tunnel towards the airplane, Max grips my hand and says, "I'm afraid." I tell him, as I've told him innumerable times before, "you are with Mommy and Daddy, and as long as you are with one of us, we will protect you and keep you safe." I, of course, have not flown on an airplane in over two years, and I too am experiencing some pre-flight anxiety and so, like the time Max and I were both having heart attacks on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island, I am really just talking to calm me down in the hopes that he gains some derivative calm. It seems to work. We have three seats in a row on the plane, and one in the row behind. I sit in the one. While Cathleen has to entertain two kids, I get to finish the Times crossword. Parenting, sometimes, is about sacrifices. Max does great on the flight and Eliza, never one to be happy in her carseat, does generally well in her carseat on the plane. Some folks in neighboring seats might beg to differ (her occasional screams, arguably, could be construed as "not cute and charming"), but it could have been much worse for them.
We get to the car rental place and though we've reserved a compact car, they upgrade us to a mini-van. Suddenly, we're hanging out in an incredibly spacious Kia Sedona. It becomes obvious to me why people like mini-vans: they're enormous. Max insisted that he and Eliza sit in the back, and it was almost like Cathleen and I could pretend they weren't even there. Within minutes we have covered the available seat and floor-space with garbage, proving once again that no matter the size of available space, you can cover it with kids. I set up my GPS (finally able to use it in unknown territory) and off we go to South Hutchinson Island (in Fort Pierce). We quickly realize that it is lunchtime, and if we wait until we arrive at the hotel, we'll all be starving. So we have the GPS direct us to the nearest McDonalds...and it takes us to the Burger King across the divided highway. WTF? It might as well have driven us into Lake Okeechobee. These tasteless potato stalks are what passes for french fries in the world of the creepy looking Burger King? C'mon.
After Eliza naps for a whopping 20 minutes, we finally arrive at our hotel -- the Dockside Inn. It is a series of I think four buildings of rooms situated on an inlet of sorts (South Hutchinson Island is a barrier reef island, and the hotel sits on the interior waterway). The water is about 30 yards from our hotel room, with various docks situated about, and pelicans hanging out on the docks. It is a big fishermen's place, and so most of our fellow hotel residents are retirees or salty dog fishermen (aye, matey). Our room is a one bedroom with efficiency; in the front is a small living area with kitchen (and sofabed), and through a door is a bedroom and bathroom. A decent-sized place, but Max spent the entire time questioning why the hotel room was so small. Because Mommy's book isn't a bestseller yet.
The kids run around outside the room - Eliza became obsessed with running up and down a wooden ramp, almost as if she normally spends her time in an overcrowded, rampless urban environment. We walked around the docks and down a little sandy beach nearby, and then we got ready for dinner. By then, the skies had clouded up and rain was a coming. We dined at Chuck's, a local seafood joint where the outside tables are inside a large tent. Eliza is totally hyped-up on sleep deprivation, and she spends most of the meal jumping up and down in a small puddle of water next to our table, as I chow down on fish n' chips and Cathleen eats some yummy muscles. After we've put the kids to bed, Cathleen and I watch some bad television.
Friday.
We arise too early, Cathleen goes for a run, and we eventually pack ourselves into the minivan and head over to an orange grove called Al's, which purports to have a restaurant on-site. The restaurant turns out to be a roadside shack that serves Mexicanized breakfast fare and freshly-squeezed orange juice. Is there anything in this world that is better than freshly squeezed orange juice? Let me tell you something -- there are exactly two ingestibles in the world that I ever get cravings for: Watermelon Jellie-bellies, and freshly squeezed orange juice. I, therefore, am enjoying every drop. The grove is not a pick-your-own place, so we head into the store/packing plant, we sample all of the citrus fruits that they're selling there, and we buy a half gallon of juice and a sampler bag of citrus. The oranges, honey tangerines, grapefruits are as sweet and juicy as you can get. This was a brilliant move.
We then head back to the island and over to the beach. The sun is shining, but it is wicked, wicked windy. Max plays in the sand (he LOVES to play in the sand) and a very tired Eliza tries to bury her head into whatever parent is holding her. Cathleen and I take turns swimming in the fairly warm, but fairly violent windswept water. Eliza falls asleep in Cathleen's arms, so we all head over to a bench to eat PB&J sandwiches and to watch these crazy guys who are kite surfing on the other side of the inlet. This is some crazy shit, as they are literally doing 30-foot jumps in the air. It was quite a show.
We head back to the hotel, eat some more food, the kids run around, and then we get ready for a dip in the heated pool. Max is reluctant to get into the water until he sees Eliza jump into Cathleen's arms, and so he agrees to jump into mine. Over the next 30 minutes he makes great progress in terms of his comfort in the water -- it was a very rewarding experience. After swimming we get dressed and then head down to the little beach where the kids play in the sand.
At around 4 pm, Mark, Elizabeth and Zachary arrive! The kids run around like mad while the adults drink Florida Gin & Tonics (I added a wedge of fresh orange with the wedge of lime). Max and Zach were pretending that Eliza was a monster, a game that had the potential to be exclusionary and cruel, were it not for the fact that tough little Eliza took immense pleasure in roaring out loud and setting them off running from her.
We head into downtown Ft. Pierce for a street fair, assuming that there will be something that our vegetarian (but seafood-eating) friends can consume, but we are wrong! It is too late to sit down at a restaurant so we head back to the hotel, feed the kids our leftovers from Chuck's and eventually put them to bed, at which time Elizabeth and I went out obtain dinner for the adults. We wound up at Mangrove Mattie's, a severe step down from Mangrove Mama's (a spot in the Keys that still ranks among my top five favorite eating places I've ever been to), where we ordered a couple of fried seafood platters, and where Elizabeth regaled me with a story about floss (moral: buy the cheap stuff). She's one hell of a date.
Saturday.
Mark and I go off on a five-mile run together where we plot fantasy league draft strategy and discuss insurance policies. Oh my god, are we incredibly dull together. After everyone has breakfasted, we drive over to a playground and hang out there for a while, and then we pack into the minivan and head down to Port St. Lucie. It is time for Spring Training. Mark and I both sport shit-eating grins as we walk towards Tradition Field and although I can't quite explain why, I am just feeling giddy. Our seats are in the top row of the stadium behind the first base line near home plate, but we are as close to the field as we ever get at Shea. It is still wickedly windy and so we are forced to wear sweaters. Although the game starts at Eliza's nap time, she is way too stimulated to sleep and doesn't nod off until we are on our way back to the hotel. Only three or four Mets regulars are in the lineup, and their pitcher is Mike Pelfrey who is fighting to perhaps steal the last spot in the team's starting rotation, but he gets smacked around by the Florida Marlins and the Mets lose badly. With two kids at the game, it is almost impossible to really experience the baseball, but I'm just enjoying the atmosphere of the stadium, the crack of the bat, the aura of the game. After the seventh inning stretch, by which time it is almost impossible to recognize anyone who is left playing in the game, we decide to head out. We pass the players parking lot and spy Jose Reyes on the other side of the fence; I get a nice photo of his white Mercedes coupe.
Back at the hotel, some guy is feeding shrimp to the pelicans, and so we head over to watch. In an effort to get good photographs, I wind up standing in what turns out to be the landing zone for the pelicans. These are large birds, folks, with beaks that look like gigantic rotisserie skewers. I am shitting my pants, but I get some good photos. That's called professionalism.
We dine at a Greek restaurant in Fort Pierce, and twice during our meal Greek music starts blaring from the speakers in the restaurant and a belly dancer appears. The boys hardly notice her, even when she is gyrating next to them at our table, but Eliza is transfixed, partly out of fascination and partly out of substantial fear. When the dancer appears a second time, Eliza insists that I hold her, and she alternates saying "I scared" and "I wan dancer." So true, so true. During the meal we have a phone conversation with Miriam (at Max's behest, because he misses her) and learn that she has lost her first tooth that day!
Sunday.
Cathleen, and then Mark and Elizabeth go off for runs. After breakfast, we head over to North Hutchinson Island, to a nature preserve where we go on a two-mile round-trip hike among mangrove trees. The kids do a lot of running, and we get to see some extraordinary foliage, as well a scenic view atop a wooden tower.
After the hike, the women head back to the hotel, and the boys head back to Tradition Field for Day 2 of baseball. At the game, I meet up with my home-town friend, Rich Handler. Hey Rich, you've made it into the blog. Rich and I spent a lot of time together in high school on the debate team, but we haven't seen each other in around 15 or 16 years. I was a bit anxious at the idea of seeing him -- what would we say to each other? But the moment he and his wife and son arrived, I was really excited. He may be a big-wig Florida nephrologist these days, but at heart he was the same Rich, and it was fantastic catching up. There are more regulars in this game, and the Mets shut-out the Astros, 3-0
After the seventh-inning stretch, I turned to talk to Mark about our departure plans just as the pep squad on the field began shooting t-shirts into the stands. Suddenly I hear the folks around me shouting and WACK, I am knocked in the hip by a t-shirt, which bounces off of me and into the hands of some guy two rows away. What kind of asshole gets hit near the buttocks by a promotional t-shirt?
By the eighth inning, Max has quietly gorged himself on pizza, a hot dog, hot cocoa, some french fries and ice cream. Although he resisted sharing in my Taco-in-a-helmet (hey, it was called Taco-in-a-helmet -- how could I resist?), he finally tells me that his tummy hurts. It is time to go. He then chastises me for taking him to Spring Training two days in a row. This trip is a learning experience on many levels.
Driving home, we meet up with the ladies at the Manatee Center in Fort Pierce, where Elizabeth had spent the latter part of the afternoon hanging with some local manatees. By the time we arrive, the manatees are less interested in surfacing for the benefit of watchful humans, and so we are only able to catch passing glimpses of these marvelous creatures.
We head back to the hotel, and down to the little beach where the kids play in the sand while we drink Lone Shark beers. We order in food from a recommended restaurant (Blue Water Grill?) and the food is amazing -- finally some delicious seafood. The adults stay up late talking (though not too late because we are all just wiped) and then we bid adieu; they are leaving an hour before us tomorrow morning.
Sunday.
Get up, pack. Max is unhappy about the encroaching end of the vacation. We head off to West Palm Beach, return the minivan, get to the airport. It appears that our flight might be delayed three hours, but then suddenly it isn't. We figure that Eliza will nap on the flight but, guess what, she doesn't. No, she falls asleep in the sling as Cathleen carries her from the plane to the baggage claim area at LaGuardia. Max has another good flight -- he tells me that he used to think flying would be scary, but that it wasn't scary at all. Once on the ground, however, he is a bit anxious about the baggage claim, and when his booster seat emerges from behind the rubber curtain and onto the conveyor belt, he is so purely overjoyed that he starts jumping up and down with unabashed glee. I have had a great vacation, but that was one of my favorite moments.
Almost three and a half years later, I returned to the land of Ponce de Leon (one of my favorite explorers as a child, if indeed children are allowed to have favorite explorers), and this time I came home with my head held high. I had a great time -- heck, my entire family had a great time -- and so Florida and I are now even.
Here's my write-up on the trip. It is not a short write-up (or, having not yet written it, I anticipate it to be not a short write-up). But I'm writing it more for me than for you, unless you want to pretend that I am writing for you, in which case, eat your heart out.
Thursday.
Cathleen and I arise at 5:30 am and after having packed the car, we confirm with Sophie that she can actually move our car in accordance with alternate-side parking rules if we leave it there, so I unpack it and we call a car service. Wake the kids, pack them into the car service and off we go to the airport. We do alright getting through check-in and security with two kids. At boarding time, as we descend through the tunnel towards the airplane, Max grips my hand and says, "I'm afraid." I tell him, as I've told him innumerable times before, "you are with Mommy and Daddy, and as long as you are with one of us, we will protect you and keep you safe." I, of course, have not flown on an airplane in over two years, and I too am experiencing some pre-flight anxiety and so, like the time Max and I were both having heart attacks on the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island, I am really just talking to calm me down in the hopes that he gains some derivative calm. It seems to work. We have three seats in a row on the plane, and one in the row behind. I sit in the one. While Cathleen has to entertain two kids, I get to finish the Times crossword. Parenting, sometimes, is about sacrifices. Max does great on the flight and Eliza, never one to be happy in her carseat, does generally well in her carseat on the plane. Some folks in neighboring seats might beg to differ (her occasional screams, arguably, could be construed as "not cute and charming"), but it could have been much worse for them.
We get to the car rental place and though we've reserved a compact car, they upgrade us to a mini-van. Suddenly, we're hanging out in an incredibly spacious Kia Sedona. It becomes obvious to me why people like mini-vans: they're enormous. Max insisted that he and Eliza sit in the back, and it was almost like Cathleen and I could pretend they weren't even there. Within minutes we have covered the available seat and floor-space with garbage, proving once again that no matter the size of available space, you can cover it with kids. I set up my GPS (finally able to use it in unknown territory) and off we go to South Hutchinson Island (in Fort Pierce). We quickly realize that it is lunchtime, and if we wait until we arrive at the hotel, we'll all be starving. So we have the GPS direct us to the nearest McDonalds...and it takes us to the Burger King across the divided highway. WTF? It might as well have driven us into Lake Okeechobee. These tasteless potato stalks are what passes for french fries in the world of the creepy looking Burger King? C'mon.
After Eliza naps for a whopping 20 minutes, we finally arrive at our hotel -- the Dockside Inn. It is a series of I think four buildings of rooms situated on an inlet of sorts (South Hutchinson Island is a barrier reef island, and the hotel sits on the interior waterway). The water is about 30 yards from our hotel room, with various docks situated about, and pelicans hanging out on the docks. It is a big fishermen's place, and so most of our fellow hotel residents are retirees or salty dog fishermen (aye, matey). Our room is a one bedroom with efficiency; in the front is a small living area with kitchen (and sofabed), and through a door is a bedroom and bathroom. A decent-sized place, but Max spent the entire time questioning why the hotel room was so small. Because Mommy's book isn't a bestseller yet.
The kids run around outside the room - Eliza became obsessed with running up and down a wooden ramp, almost as if she normally spends her time in an overcrowded, rampless urban environment. We walked around the docks and down a little sandy beach nearby, and then we got ready for dinner. By then, the skies had clouded up and rain was a coming. We dined at Chuck's, a local seafood joint where the outside tables are inside a large tent. Eliza is totally hyped-up on sleep deprivation, and she spends most of the meal jumping up and down in a small puddle of water next to our table, as I chow down on fish n' chips and Cathleen eats some yummy muscles. After we've put the kids to bed, Cathleen and I watch some bad television.
Friday.
We arise too early, Cathleen goes for a run, and we eventually pack ourselves into the minivan and head over to an orange grove called Al's, which purports to have a restaurant on-site. The restaurant turns out to be a roadside shack that serves Mexicanized breakfast fare and freshly-squeezed orange juice. Is there anything in this world that is better than freshly squeezed orange juice? Let me tell you something -- there are exactly two ingestibles in the world that I ever get cravings for: Watermelon Jellie-bellies, and freshly squeezed orange juice. I, therefore, am enjoying every drop. The grove is not a pick-your-own place, so we head into the store/packing plant, we sample all of the citrus fruits that they're selling there, and we buy a half gallon of juice and a sampler bag of citrus. The oranges, honey tangerines, grapefruits are as sweet and juicy as you can get. This was a brilliant move.
We then head back to the island and over to the beach. The sun is shining, but it is wicked, wicked windy. Max plays in the sand (he LOVES to play in the sand) and a very tired Eliza tries to bury her head into whatever parent is holding her. Cathleen and I take turns swimming in the fairly warm, but fairly violent windswept water. Eliza falls asleep in Cathleen's arms, so we all head over to a bench to eat PB&J sandwiches and to watch these crazy guys who are kite surfing on the other side of the inlet. This is some crazy shit, as they are literally doing 30-foot jumps in the air. It was quite a show.
We head back to the hotel, eat some more food, the kids run around, and then we get ready for a dip in the heated pool. Max is reluctant to get into the water until he sees Eliza jump into Cathleen's arms, and so he agrees to jump into mine. Over the next 30 minutes he makes great progress in terms of his comfort in the water -- it was a very rewarding experience. After swimming we get dressed and then head down to the little beach where the kids play in the sand.
At around 4 pm, Mark, Elizabeth and Zachary arrive! The kids run around like mad while the adults drink Florida Gin & Tonics (I added a wedge of fresh orange with the wedge of lime). Max and Zach were pretending that Eliza was a monster, a game that had the potential to be exclusionary and cruel, were it not for the fact that tough little Eliza took immense pleasure in roaring out loud and setting them off running from her.
We head into downtown Ft. Pierce for a street fair, assuming that there will be something that our vegetarian (but seafood-eating) friends can consume, but we are wrong! It is too late to sit down at a restaurant so we head back to the hotel, feed the kids our leftovers from Chuck's and eventually put them to bed, at which time Elizabeth and I went out obtain dinner for the adults. We wound up at Mangrove Mattie's, a severe step down from Mangrove Mama's (a spot in the Keys that still ranks among my top five favorite eating places I've ever been to), where we ordered a couple of fried seafood platters, and where Elizabeth regaled me with a story about floss (moral: buy the cheap stuff). She's one hell of a date.
Saturday.
Mark and I go off on a five-mile run together where we plot fantasy league draft strategy and discuss insurance policies. Oh my god, are we incredibly dull together. After everyone has breakfasted, we drive over to a playground and hang out there for a while, and then we pack into the minivan and head down to Port St. Lucie. It is time for Spring Training. Mark and I both sport shit-eating grins as we walk towards Tradition Field and although I can't quite explain why, I am just feeling giddy. Our seats are in the top row of the stadium behind the first base line near home plate, but we are as close to the field as we ever get at Shea. It is still wickedly windy and so we are forced to wear sweaters. Although the game starts at Eliza's nap time, she is way too stimulated to sleep and doesn't nod off until we are on our way back to the hotel. Only three or four Mets regulars are in the lineup, and their pitcher is Mike Pelfrey who is fighting to perhaps steal the last spot in the team's starting rotation, but he gets smacked around by the Florida Marlins and the Mets lose badly. With two kids at the game, it is almost impossible to really experience the baseball, but I'm just enjoying the atmosphere of the stadium, the crack of the bat, the aura of the game. After the seventh inning stretch, by which time it is almost impossible to recognize anyone who is left playing in the game, we decide to head out. We pass the players parking lot and spy Jose Reyes on the other side of the fence; I get a nice photo of his white Mercedes coupe.
Back at the hotel, some guy is feeding shrimp to the pelicans, and so we head over to watch. In an effort to get good photographs, I wind up standing in what turns out to be the landing zone for the pelicans. These are large birds, folks, with beaks that look like gigantic rotisserie skewers. I am shitting my pants, but I get some good photos. That's called professionalism.
We dine at a Greek restaurant in Fort Pierce, and twice during our meal Greek music starts blaring from the speakers in the restaurant and a belly dancer appears. The boys hardly notice her, even when she is gyrating next to them at our table, but Eliza is transfixed, partly out of fascination and partly out of substantial fear. When the dancer appears a second time, Eliza insists that I hold her, and she alternates saying "I scared" and "I wan dancer." So true, so true. During the meal we have a phone conversation with Miriam (at Max's behest, because he misses her) and learn that she has lost her first tooth that day!
Sunday.
Cathleen, and then Mark and Elizabeth go off for runs. After breakfast, we head over to North Hutchinson Island, to a nature preserve where we go on a two-mile round-trip hike among mangrove trees. The kids do a lot of running, and we get to see some extraordinary foliage, as well a scenic view atop a wooden tower.
After the hike, the women head back to the hotel, and the boys head back to Tradition Field for Day 2 of baseball. At the game, I meet up with my home-town friend, Rich Handler. Hey Rich, you've made it into the blog. Rich and I spent a lot of time together in high school on the debate team, but we haven't seen each other in around 15 or 16 years. I was a bit anxious at the idea of seeing him -- what would we say to each other? But the moment he and his wife and son arrived, I was really excited. He may be a big-wig Florida nephrologist these days, but at heart he was the same Rich, and it was fantastic catching up. There are more regulars in this game, and the Mets shut-out the Astros, 3-0
After the seventh-inning stretch, I turned to talk to Mark about our departure plans just as the pep squad on the field began shooting t-shirts into the stands. Suddenly I hear the folks around me shouting and WACK, I am knocked in the hip by a t-shirt, which bounces off of me and into the hands of some guy two rows away. What kind of asshole gets hit near the buttocks by a promotional t-shirt?
By the eighth inning, Max has quietly gorged himself on pizza, a hot dog, hot cocoa, some french fries and ice cream. Although he resisted sharing in my Taco-in-a-helmet (hey, it was called Taco-in-a-helmet -- how could I resist?), he finally tells me that his tummy hurts. It is time to go. He then chastises me for taking him to Spring Training two days in a row. This trip is a learning experience on many levels.
Driving home, we meet up with the ladies at the Manatee Center in Fort Pierce, where Elizabeth had spent the latter part of the afternoon hanging with some local manatees. By the time we arrive, the manatees are less interested in surfacing for the benefit of watchful humans, and so we are only able to catch passing glimpses of these marvelous creatures.
We head back to the hotel, and down to the little beach where the kids play in the sand while we drink Lone Shark beers. We order in food from a recommended restaurant (Blue Water Grill?) and the food is amazing -- finally some delicious seafood. The adults stay up late talking (though not too late because we are all just wiped) and then we bid adieu; they are leaving an hour before us tomorrow morning.
Sunday.
Get up, pack. Max is unhappy about the encroaching end of the vacation. We head off to West Palm Beach, return the minivan, get to the airport. It appears that our flight might be delayed three hours, but then suddenly it isn't. We figure that Eliza will nap on the flight but, guess what, she doesn't. No, she falls asleep in the sling as Cathleen carries her from the plane to the baggage claim area at LaGuardia. Max has another good flight -- he tells me that he used to think flying would be scary, but that it wasn't scary at all. Once on the ground, however, he is a bit anxious about the baggage claim, and when his booster seat emerges from behind the rubber curtain and onto the conveyor belt, he is so purely overjoyed that he starts jumping up and down with unabashed glee. I have had a great vacation, but that was one of my favorite moments.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Half, my goal
I just registered to run in the Brooklyn Half-Marathon (13.1 miles) on April 26th. The race begins in Coney Island (where you run on the actual Boardwalk) and finishes in nearby Prospect Park. I sort of did that run while training for the marathon in 2006 -- I had set out to run an 18-miler to and from Coney Island on a day when it was around 80 degrees outside, and I had been suffering from a vicious sinus infection. I was lightheaded at the start of the run, but felt well enough until I hit the 10-mile mark upon leaving Coney Island; I then struggled for five more miles before throwing in the towel because I was so gassed and lightheaded that I was seriously concerned that I might fall on my face. Was not a pleasant experience. Can't wait to re-visit most of that route.
It's funny, 13.1 miles is, by most standards, a fairly long distance to run. But having done the full 26.2 a couple of times, training for the Half-Marathon seems like a cakewalk. Hell, it's eight weeks away and I've barely been doing any training. Ha ha? Yesterday while in the shower I started doing the math to see if I could reasonably train over the next seven weeks to get my distance long enough to survive a 13.1 mile run. Beyond smaller runs (at least two each week), I'd need to do long runs of six this weekend, eight the next, then ten, then twelve, then even thirteen or fourteen. Oh my gosh, I could be in shape to run the race in some form in four weeks. It would be poor form, but I could do it. With another three weeks of training, I might actually not feel like total crap at the end of the race.
So I ran six miles this morning in the frigid, windy cold. Temperature was in the mid-20s but the windchill made it feel worse. The wind was really bad at times up in Prospect Park and I vowed to break off my friendship with Mark and Elizabeth, as it was those fools that wrangled me into running this race. Because, you know, I have no free will.
It's funny, 13.1 miles is, by most standards, a fairly long distance to run. But having done the full 26.2 a couple of times, training for the Half-Marathon seems like a cakewalk. Hell, it's eight weeks away and I've barely been doing any training. Ha ha? Yesterday while in the shower I started doing the math to see if I could reasonably train over the next seven weeks to get my distance long enough to survive a 13.1 mile run. Beyond smaller runs (at least two each week), I'd need to do long runs of six this weekend, eight the next, then ten, then twelve, then even thirteen or fourteen. Oh my gosh, I could be in shape to run the race in some form in four weeks. It would be poor form, but I could do it. With another three weeks of training, I might actually not feel like total crap at the end of the race.
So I ran six miles this morning in the frigid, windy cold. Temperature was in the mid-20s but the windchill made it feel worse. The wind was really bad at times up in Prospect Park and I vowed to break off my friendship with Mark and Elizabeth, as it was those fools that wrangled me into running this race. Because, you know, I have no free will.
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