Scuba Don't? Scuba Do!

I was just along for the ride. My idea of an aquatic adventure is staying up for the midnight chocolate bar on a cruise ship, and scuba diving has never made it to my bucket list. Not even close, along with sky diving and karaoke. 

I'd like to blame my change of heart on peer pressure, but most of the folks on the boat barely knew me, and could not have cared less whether I suited up or sat alone drinking tequila while they plunged in. Our guide, an ex military expat who had experienced less difficulty choosing to be a PADI instructor than deciding where to do it (location, location, location), prodded me gently, and by that I mean not at all. Occasionally during the pre-dive briefing I imagined he was looking directly at me -- especially when he was tossing in assurances about all the things beginners don't need to worry about -- but it could have been because my entire body was shaking so badly he was assessing the need for medical assistance. 

The good thing about bracing for a life or death situation -- like your lungs over inflating or your brain imploding from atmospheric pressure changes -- is you forget about the things that really freak you out, like slimy fish brushing against your legs or jelly fish tentacles dangling in front of your nose or the occasional misguided stingray who feels threatened by the unidentified flippered objects (UFO's) cruising through the neighborhood. The bad thing about bracing for a life or death situation is your mind is so preoccupied with imminent catastrophe you forget to pay attention when the guide is explaining how to prevent that from happening. Inflate, deflate. Top button, side button. Red gauge, black gauge. Inhale, exhale. Blah blah blah. 

Life is not a spectator sport, no matter how much your friends and loved ones encourage you to accept your limitations and sit this one out. I could almost hear my mother's sobs through her email: Please don't do it. Promise me. I promised. There was no chance I was going scuba diving when the thought of diving off the side of the pool makes me queasy. And don't bake in the sun either. It's bad for you. Well, so are french fries, and life's too short. But I get what it's like to be  a mom, so I promised and didn't mention my fingers were crossed. My friends laughed at the thought of me on the ocean floor without a good reason (like being on the Titanic). In fact, they laughed at the thought of anybody being on the ocean floor without a good reason. What are friends for, if not to validate your cowardice and your complete lack of a sense of adventure. 

I suppose I knew from the moment I agreed to go along for the ride that I would not just be going along for the ride. The prospect of watching everyone else emerge like conquering heroes from the deep, exhilarated and clearly on the verge of chatting incessantly about the indescribable thrill of it all, was too much to bear. Our ex military expat guide did not seem surprised when I grabbed the wet suit he had brought along for me "just in case" and squeezed myself into it. He also did not seem surprised that I had put it on backwards. 

For the life of me I cannot explain how I allowed myself to be shoved off the side of the boat backwards into the ocean only to endure some basic skills training that involved some maneuvering of equipment and coordination of mouth and nose breathing and swallowing of gallons of salt water. My ears were already in pain, and I was barely a foot beneath the surface. Somehow, though, I was deemed capable of progressing to an actual dive, and, for the life of me, I cannot explain how I once again tumbled backwards into the water, this time without a friendly shove, and descended slowly into a strange world where, theoretically, I could not breathe. As promised, our guide stayed close to me, checking on me and showing me some sights. He gently poked his finger underneath a diaphanous jelly fish, and I watched it fold into itself as it ascended and then open into what looked like a delicately painted umbrella as it floated downward.  More quickly than I would have believed possible, the guide let go of my hand. 

For the life of me I cannot explain how I felt in those next moments, gliding through the water as if I was born there, practically skimming the top of the reef, wondering why the exotic creatures weaving in and out of the intricate undersea housing development beneath me did not even seem to notice I was there. Or care. Maybe that's why I felt so at home. The water in this first spot was a little murky, the reef and the fish not quite as vibrant as the ones I've seen in pictures. But after forty-five minutes seemed to pass much too quickly and I popped to the surface, exhilarated and wishing I could chat about the thrill but rendered utterly speechless, I would have had no trouble explaining how much I looked forward to dive number two. 

By the time we arrived at the next spot, where the crystal blue water was so clear you could see forty-five feet to the bottom, I was feeling confident. I rolled in backwards as if it were a normal thing to do, floated over to our buoy, and reminded myself not to rush. I descended more quickly this time but still carefully, stopping frequently to alleviate the pressure in my ears so nothing would impede my progress. Once again, I was near the bottom, feeling strangely at home in a world where I was a complete stranger. I was closer than I ever thought I would be to a stingray, then a barracuda, then a slithering eel. That's the stuff you can see in pictures though, the stuff I thought I could easily live without seeing in person, in a wetsuit, forty-five feet below civilization as I know it. But what you cannot see in pictures is the feeling that you are floating in space, the steady and unfamiliar sounds of a vast unknown, the calm of breathing in and breathing out slowly through your mouth, oblivious to what lies around the next corner. Time stands still, real life is suspended. Wet yoga. 

One of my new scuba buddies asked me if I was going to get certified now. I don't know about that, but I cannot imagine never visiting that place and again feeling that indescribable feeling. So, to the naysayers -- myself included --  I admit that, before this trip is over, I will suit up one more time and dive in, eyes wide open, backwards. 

Cowbells and Whistles

Five days have passed and I am slowly recovering from the punishing physical effects of the Chicago Marathon.

At mile twelve I felt just as exhilarated as I had at mile three. By mile twenty-six, had it not been for the pressure of the cheering crowd, I might have thrown in the towel. My young friend and I had pushed through, gotten as close to the finish line as security would allow. It was grueling, but we had somehow managed to wedge ourselves into the front row, and we couldn't move, even if we wanted to. We were in it for the long haul.

Watching my daughters run their first -- and, they both claim, last -- marathon was exhausting. Exhausting and priceless. Personal space be damned, we were so close to our fellow spectators, as one woman put it, she thinks she might have had sex with at least one stranger. I told her I hoped she enjoyed it, although I certainly hoped it had not been with me. The physical intimacy drew us close emotionally. We traded runners' names, adjusted our positions based upon projected finish times, and promised to cheer loudly for each other's loved ones. We guarded our positions jealously, glaring at anyone who dared to encroach, elbowing latecomers who attempted to seep through the cracks. Bonding made the wait so much less excruciating.

At mile three, my daughters seemed to be floating on air, waving when they heard us, mugging for our cell phone cameras. At mile twelve, they looked just as strong, just as happy. Well, almost, anyway. We felt pretty good too, having just replenished our depleted reserves with a greasy breakfast sandwich and more coffee. We felt a twinge of guilt, snarfing down food even though our path from mile three to mile twelve, as the crow flies, was no more than a few blocks. It could have been worse, though. Some cops had directed us to "the best—you guessed it -- donut shop in the world," but we thought that would be unseemly. Well, it would be unseemly and the line was way too long.

When I began running over thirty years ago (yipes), I was sure I would one day run a marathon. Some combination of joint pain, muscle aches, and a pitifully short attention span has proved me wrong. I have yet to run that marathon, and it seems highly improbable that I ever will. Accompanying my daughters as they picked up their registration packets, I contented myself with the vicarious thrill of their excitement, feeling a bit mopey about not joining them. I chastised myself, as I trudged through the maze of the registration site, soaked from overdressing and an ill timed hot flash, for settling for a cowbell while others collected numbered race bibs with computer chips. I am not good at vicarious.

I am, however, good at being thrilled. In fact, I am really good. When I watched my daughters run by, close enough to be hand in hand, from start to finish, there was nothing vicarious about my joy and pride. They were doing it, they had done it; my children had accomplished something that to me, and many others, seems unattainable. Yahoo! Yay for them! So incredibly cool!

It's a feeling I have experienced often as I have watched my three children grow and navigate the world in ways I never would have dreamed possible. The thrill of being in the stands, doing little more than shrieking encouragement and shaking a cowbell, has been anything but vicarious. The journey – whether I go the long way or cut through as the crow flies – remains exhausting but priceless.

After a few days of walking backwards down stairs, both daughters have recovered from the punishing physical effects of twenty-six miles of pounding. I am still a bit achy; these days, it takes me a long time to bounce back. Blissfully, though, the exhilaration lingers.

Deja Vu All Over Again

Same old same old. Well, I'm the same, but older, and the kids are different, but the same.

Seven years after my oldest child was a college freshman, I again find myself visiting campus, meeting a new crop of eighteen year olds. Each one reminds me of someone I had met years ago -- the kid everyone on the floor loves, the one everyone loves to hate, the few you just know you'll see in cap and gown less than four years from now and feel as if you've known them forever and wonder why time goes so fast.

As I lay practically comatose on my daughter's dorm bed, my body contorted unnaturally around the various items of her daily life that seem to occupy permanent spots on top of her rumpled comforter, I gave up on trying to hoist myself up to greet the seemingly endless stream of visitors. At one point, alone in the room, I was momentarily embarrassed when a boy pushed the door open without knocking. Unnecessarily, no doubt, I peered up at him and explained I was not one of the girls who lived there. When he introduced himself, I apologized for not getting up to shake his hand. He didn't seem at all offended. I suppose you can't expect social grace when you're the one who didn't knock.

The quad outside the dorm was swarming with baby faced boys (I wasn't fooled by the facial hair) playing volleyball and football or just simply on the move, filled with energy and burgers and hot dogs and clearly unaware of the paunches in their future. Unaware that one day the hair on their backs will be thicker than the hair on their heads. They don't know yet about nose hair clippers; they are light years away from proctology jokes.

I had convinced myself I was down in New Orleans a mere four weeks after school had started because my daughter was homesick. Apparently she thinks I was down in New Orleans because I was, well, "child sick." It's not that she wasn't glad to see me -- I did, after all, come armed with a credit card and a dozen Chicago bagels. Not New York bagels, but still a treat in the culinary wasteland of jambalaya and po boys. She's been away before, for even longer than four weeks, but freshman year in college is different. A more official sort of parting, the kind from which there can be no real return. And, as she pointed out, it had been just the two of us for five years. You get kind of attached.

I've been down this road before. Twice. It's the same but different. Six and seven years ago there were still birds left in my nest. There was always somebody else around and I thought it was good to give the college kids their space, to really let them leave. Not that they ever really did, completely. Six and seven years ago it was Facebook that kept the kids tied to their old friends from home and maybe slower to connect with the new friends down the hall. Now it's instagrams and snap chats and selfies. The phones have gotten smaller and now they're getting bigger again, but there's no stopping the trend toward staying in touch, always being somewhere outside the moment and place you're in. Maybe it's like love though; maybe there's enough connectedness to go around.

After dinner with my daughter and her roommate last night, I headed back to my hotel, sad to leave them but happy to wind down the day, alone. They headed back to the dorm, excited to get ready for a frat party. The night was young, and they would be spending it surrounded by friends they've just met and, at the same time, constantly in touch with friends they've recently left behind. Two girls boarded my street car, and they seemed disappointed that there weren't two seats together. Diagonally across the aisle from each other, both tapped away at their cell phones the entire time. When we pulled up to their stop, though, they took off, still tapping away but giggling together about something. Maybe it is possible to be two places at once.

It's Sunday morning, and it will be hours before I meet my daughter for breakfast. For me, it's the same routine, different Starbucks.  I can barely remember the Starbucks on M Street in D.C., and am already feeling quite at home at the one on Magazine Street. The people are different but the same. Students, young families, twenty-somethings just back from a run. I'm the same but older.

I am looking forward to spending another day with my daughter, but content with my time alone. Well, alone except for the occasional text with folks far away. Same old, same new.

Namaste. Damnit.

As I teetered my way clumsily across a narrow concrete curb the other day, avoiding the relative safety of the broad sidewalk (and risking ridicule), I thought this was how a twelve year old boy must feel (minus the risk of ridicule) on a quiet summer afternoon, skipping stones by a lake. Alone but not lonely, joyful but not overly so. Teetering across a narrow concrete curb -- my version of a happy dance.

There has been a noticeable change in my gait since a relatively new friend set me straight a few weeks ago. "Aha!" We had been practicing amateur psychology on each other for several hours, and were heading back to our cars. I felt like I do when I emerge from an afternoon movie, blinking and confused by the harsh assault of daylight. As we prepared to disappear back into the solitude of our own heads for the rest of the day, our conversation moved to lighter topics -- the indignity of lactose intolerance, the joys of going gluten free -- the innocuous yet inescapable minutiae of life in the third millennium.

And yoga. My on again off again passion, the unlikely discipline that once kept me afloat, then made me feel trapped, and then, only recently, began to buoy me up again. I had confessed to my new friend that I felt a bit intimidated in that morning's class. It felt like extreme yoga, or, I suppose, yoga for extremists. I was surrounded by overachievers: a sinewy specimen to my left wearing paper thin tights that gave the illusion of being full leg tattoos, a fearless fireplug on my right who kept going upside down and toppling onto the wood floor with a reverberating thud. Forty minutes into the class, I was still struggling with the simplest poses, trying to convince myself that an inability to completely straighten my left knee did not make me a bad person. Oh, how I envied the overachievers, how I pined for the good old days of hyper extension.

Aha? I expected a bit more empathy from my new friend, who seemed well versed in the feelings of inferiority that plague us women as we forge deeper into middle age, the era of all sorts of pauses. "I am better than you are at yoga!" I could swear she had told me only moments earlier that she sucked at yoga. My inner goddess was withering; I wanted to punch this woman, wipe the serene smile off her face, reclaim some ground on the superiority scale.

She elaborated. "I suck and I don't care!" I felt ashamed, tempted to turn in my Lululemon professional discount card. She was right, more right than she could have been had she stood on one hand and folded both legs into a perfect lotus behind her ears while she sipped at a cup of green tea. She is better than I am at yoga, if there is such a thing as being better at yoga. All the lessons yoga had taught me, the words I have pretended to live by, that I have passed on to others, they were all coming back to bite me in my flexible ass. What happened to non-competitiveness and non-comparativeness and being present in the moment? My own moment, that is, not somebody else's.

Days have passed since that walk of shame with my friend, and I have tried to be present and non-judgmental and enjoy as many moments as possible without wanting anything more or less. I shrug the small stuff down my back with my shoulders, and I celebrate even the most minor victories.

This morning, in a hot and overstuffed holiday yoga class accommodating the dedicated yogis for what would have been three classes on a normal Monday, I teetered my way into a balancing pose, one that usually requires little effort. I was hesitant, trying not to fall. "Nice, Lisa," I heard the instructor say. She could not possibly have been talking to me, as shaky as I felt, but, then again, maybe she was. I sucked, but I just didn't care.

Green Waves

The other day, an oddly subdued and melancholy young woman I know explained she had just sent her only daughter off to kindergarten for the first time that morning. I shared with her the words of a very eloquent friend: friggin milestones test us! Or, as sometimes seems the case, milestones suck. 

With a wave of a chubby little hand, the newly independent five -year-old had given her unsuspecting mother a brief glimpse into the inevitable yet still unimaginable future. One day, if things go according to plan, that child will be able to stand on her own two feet for a lot longer than a few hours, sometimes even days or weeks. But for now, I thought the weepy mom's pity party seemed premature. She will still be enjoying milk and cookies with her daughter after school, will still tuck her in at night and touch her soft cheek and tell her how much she loves her, and, by mere virtue of her presence, she will still have the power to filter out all but the sweetest of dreams. Add to that her own wrinkle free face and still not saggy ass and her blissful unfamiliarity with waking up in the middle of the night soaked in a pool of her own sweat and I really couldn't see why she was so mopey. I'm ashamed to admit it but what I felt more than anything was envy and more than a healthy dose of pure loathing.

Last night, I parted ways with my youngest child on a steamy street corner in New Orleans. She and her roommate headed back to their dorm, I headed back to my hotel. We had spent the day unpacking and organizing and figuring out how to maximize every inch of space in her half of a very narrow room. As it turned out, for a change, I had miscalculated and she had been right. The clothing, the shoes, the toiletries, the boxes and bags of stuff I felt certain would never fit into the confines of her dorm room somehow fit with room to spare. Even the seven thick sweatshirts she will probably never remove from the drawer.

She knows she doesn't need the sweatshirts. Or the dozens of pairs of shoes. At least not in the traditional sense. But she is astute enough to know she does need those things if she is to turn this tiny half rectangle into "home." Living in a place for an extended period simply does not make it so. Only nine months ago, when we moved from a large suburban house to a small townhouse one suburb over, she wasted no time setting up her new room with her things, turning it into home. I did the same with the rest of the house. Nine months ago, though, the transition was smoother; our pillows moved, but the people -- and  the dog -- remained the same. For this move, she needed to bring in the big guns; not just the sweats and the shoes, but piles of photos documenting her journey so far. There is still some empty space on the walls, room for the photographic journey to continue.

Three kids, three sets of milestones, each one different from the others. But the last one always packs an extra punch. It conjures up memories of doing similar things at different times, always when I was younger. Having a baby at thirty-six was a lot different from having a baby at twenty-nine or thirty. Launching a child at fifty-four was a lot different from launching a child at forty-seven or forty-eight. And not just because I fell asleep on the trolley and missed my stop, not just because I fell flat on my face while trying to text my daughter and explain where I had ended up and why. I know from experience how quickly these four years will pass, and how few chances I have left to enjoy milk and cookies after school with my child. I know from experience that it doesn't matter so much where she goes to school or what classes she takes or even how much she studies. What matters is that she does it on her own terms, and stays safe and reasonably happy as she morphs into the adult she will become by the time she leaves this place. As inevitable and unimaginable as it seems.

I had painted my fingernails green for the move, in honor of the school colors. It seemed fitting that when I said goodbye I would be giving her a green wave, a nod to the school's sports teams. Yes, with a wave of my sea foam tipped hand, this disbelieving mother gave herself a brief glimpse into what is still, even the third time around, an unimaginable future.

The Deer Days of August

These days, I watch the progression of summer from the seat of my bike. It's been an unseasonable season, often fall-like, offering up no more than a handful of dog days so far. The calendar says it is August, yet I have barely broken a sweat. Still, Mother Nature perseveres, and the foliage on both sides of the bike path has grown as thick as it always does this time of year. The trees bend toward each other with the weight of summer leaves, forming an opaque canopy overhead.

Nature's sun screen, nature's umbrella, nature's blind spot. The weather outside may be frightful, or not, but the trees are thriving, right on schedule. The other day, with the lushness of summer growth blocking my view, I didn't see the tiny family of deer at the edge of the bike path until I was staring at point blank range right into the large watchful eyes of the doe. She stood perfectly still, her right foreleg slightly bent, her two babies like statues only inches behind her. Mother Nature's performance art. I tightened my fingers around my brakes and slowed my pedaling, poised to stop if a child lurched forward. The doe remained calm, but her eyes followed me as I passed. We were two moms, suspicious and protective, both seemingly in control.

We moms have a lot in common. We are tenacious, we stick to the schedule, we make sure our babies grow and thrive. I wonder whether the doe, or Mother Nature for that matter, doubt themselves the way we human moms tend to do. I met someone this week, a mom. A human one, my young neighbor's mom. She is visiting from out of town, helping one daughter move in with the other, spending her days caring for all the dogs and unpacking and breaking down empty boxes and organizing so the new living arrangement will be as perfect as it can be. She is about my age; we spoke across our backyard fences the other day, and all I saw, really, was a doe, doing what does do, without really thinking about it. She was taking care of business.

This morning, we spoke, face to face. We were both bleary eyed, wearing sweats, dragging garbage to the curb. Within minutes, we bonded, in a way that only women who have been daughters and sisters and wives and mothers can bond. We have both experienced great joy and suffered great loss. We are both, for a variety of reasons,

in a place now of change and uncertainty, and we are both trying to find our way. She is upset with herself in ways I have been upset, and I am scared in ways she has been scared. Her story is not mine to tell, and so I won't tell it, but we both saw our meeting as a gift. In some way or another, we each offered the other something that would carry us through, that helped answer some nagging question. She is leaving soon, as soon as her work here is done, but we have promised to keep in touch. I hope we do.

Before we spoke, this other mom struck me as so sure of herself, so completely in charge. Like Mother Nature, who keeps the leaves growing in spite of the cool and sometimes gray days. Like the mother deer, who silently watches out for her babies, wordlessly keeping them out of harm's way. Do they wonder, as we do, whether they are doing enough, whether they are doing it right? I don't know for sure, but I doubt it.

We human moms can learn a lot from those other moms. And, as luck and fate will have it, we can learn a lot from each other.

Falling in Like

Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away (and by that I mean not just suburbia, but the heart of Gentile suburbia), a friend offered up words of parenting wisdom I will never forget: "You don't have to like your children; all you have to do is love them."

I was a young mother of only two back then, still living in the city; my friend was a seasoned mom, a veteran, with three kids, a large dog, and something called a mud room. I grew up in an apartment with barely enough room for two kids; if we wanted to run around, we took the stairs instead of the elevator. I had two gerbils, but no dog. My mom could occupy herself for hours picking up lint from the carpet; had there been something called a mud room, she would have burned it.

My friend in Gentile suburbia was my guru on child rearing in post Levittown America. She was older and wiser, the one from whom I often sought guidance, the one in whose presence I often felt grossly inadequate. She embraced chaos, seemed to know how to handle it on her own terms. She was a natural mother, as comfortable with the unpredictability of life with small children as I was uncomfortable on a quiet suburban street about to be festooned with Christmas lights. Still living in the city, with only two childbirths under my belt, I was a bumbling idiot.

In suburbia, as far as I could tell, everything was super sized. The houses, the families, the dogs. Lucas, the slobbery boxer (I think) who was the official greeter at my friend's suburban Shangri-La, could easily eat kibble off the top of my head when standing on his two hind legs. Since I generally did not arrive with kibble on my head, he was content to stand with his massive paws resting on my shoulders and lick my face. I grew up with gerbils. I was unaccustomed to such enthusiastic greetings, and I kind of liked the way Lucas made me feel so welcome. 

Lucas liked to make everyone feel welcome, though, including my two and a half year old daughter toddling behind me. Lucas didn't even need to rise up on his hind legs to eat kibble off her head, but Lucas, being a dog, was very much into equal opportunity unconditional affection. Lucas, being a dog, was also not incredibly bright. Which meant that when he rose up on his hind legs to his full height to greet my daughter he found no shoulders to grab onto. He did, however, find a small pair of shoulders to grab onto on his way down, which, much to both dog's and child's surprise, were unable to support the weight of a descending hundred forty pound canine.

The good news was that Lucas could improvise, and he adjusted fairly quickly to licking a face that happened to be staring up at him from the floor. He was unfazed by the screaming, and the salty tears added flavor. Better, as far as he was concerned, than most hostess gifts. The bad news was .... well, you can guess the bad news. So, to make a long story a little less long, my daughter continued to scream, even after Lucas was banished to the place called the mud room, even after my exasperated friend had tried, without success, to explain to my ill-behaved child that poor Lucas had meant well.

The mom part of my brain wanted to turn back time and erase all the pain and suffering that horrid creature had inflicted upon my child. The ever shrinking intelligent part of my brain wanted to politely grab my screaming daughter and my confused son (still hanging precariously from my left arm while I tried desperately to calm his sister with one hand) and leave the land of the giant families and houses and dogs and head back to the comfortably stifling confines of our place in the city. The overbearing pleaser part of my brain, though, chose to stay, to pretend not to notice the writhing and the screaming, to act as if I was as comfortable with the super sized unpredictability of suburbia as my friend was uncomfortable with my inadequacy as a parent.

My annoyed but unflappable friend seized upon the teachable moment, offering up that sage advice that I have always carried with me in the dark recesses of my brain, the part that reserves cold, hard truths for extreme emergencies. I suppose I have called upon those words on occasion, reassuring myself that I did not have to like my children, I only had to love them. And loving them, I have found over the course of over twenty-five years, is the easiest thing in the world to do. We are hard wired to do that, to love each of them with all our heart. Contrary to what children typically believe, that our capacity for love is finite, and our hearts are inevitably divided among them in unequal parts, we (and I think I speak for most of us parents here) love each of them with every cubic centimeter of our heart, totally and unconditionally. And liking them, I have found over the course of over twenty-five years, can be the hardest thing in the world to do sometimes, sometimes even for extended periods.

I was thinking, the other day, about what my wise friend said so long ago. I remember resigning myself, back on that day, to the fact that I was probably destined to dislike my daughter, this rude child who could not accept a dog's friendly hello with grace. Since that day, I have become angry with her and her siblings, even disliked them intensely. But despite those moments (even the lengthy ones), despite my friend's advice, I like them. A lot. They all piss me off from time to time, and will no doubt continue to do so as long as I am still breathing. But I like them all as much as I could like anyone, would choose each of them as a treasured friend if I could.

They are entitled to my love. My like, though, that is something they have earned.