Hooray for Summer

Summer is officially here (though you'd never know it by the weather). The last of the homework has been turned in, the kids are out of school and our routine is out the window. Still, there are things that I am looking forward to over the next eleven weeks (and how is it that eleven weeks sounds both incredibly short and impossibly long?)

I'm looking forward to our upcoming visit with my-out-of state family and friends (though I am not looking forward to my husband's high school reunion: at his last reunion I compensated for the fact that I knew no one by taking advantage of the open bar. My only memory is of hoovering five or six mini crème brulees from the dessert table...10 years is just not enough time to erase that first impression).

I'm looking forward to taking my kids to the beach. They're finally at an age where they can swim and surf without my constant, hawk like gaze upon them. I might even bring a book with me (or maybe just a magazine. I wouldn't want to push my luck) I'm not looking forward to the inevitable sunburn my children will get despite the long shorts, surf shirts and gallons of sunscreen I pour on them. I'm also not looking forward to seventy pounds of beach sand in my van over the course of the summer, but hey, motherhood’s a sacrifice.

I'm especially looking forward to visiting my friends with the beach house. Friends who have beach houses are right up there with friends with pools. They can make or break your summer. Top of the list are friends with pools and a beach house.

I'm looking forward to our annual trip to Canobie Lake Park. This is a great place for our kids because it allows me to gauge just when they are ready for our first trip to Disney. If they can't go on the big roller coasters, then I can't bring myself to spend thousands of dollars for a week in the Magic Kingdom. Last summer my older son finally went on the corkscrew coaster with me, so we're making progress

I'm also looking forward to the water park at Canobie Lake, Castaway Island. It's comforting to know that no matter how hot the day; the frigid cold water that gushes from every direction will still shock you into a heart attack. And though I'm the first to admit that I'm out of shape, going to any water park makes me feel like a supermodel. No matter how I look, there will always be someone who looks worse, and that person is usually wearing a string bikini. I walk out of that place feeling like a goddess.

I'm looking forward to those evenings when I surprise my kids by taking them out to JC's or The Dairy Twist for an ice cream. As the sun sets and the moths begin beating themselves against the neon lights, we debate the merits of soft serve versus hard, jimmies versus chocolate dip. These are our biggest decisions of the day.

I'm looking forward to eating dinner out on our deck, listening to our neighbors play in their yards, the smell of their grills as they cook burgers. I'm looking forward to catching fireflies and watching for shooting stars during the Perseid meteor showers in August. I'm looking forward to drinking a Mike's Hard Lime in the evenings as my kids tell me about what they've been up to in camp that day.
I'm looking forward to meeting friends at the YMCA outdoor pool and having Papa Gino’s deliver right to my picnic table (I am not looking forward to that sudden whistle blow that means we have to evacuate the pool immediately...sometimes its because of thunder and other times its because of a foreign object floating in the water.)

And just when I think I cannot take another perfect summer day, I'll be looking forward to school starting again.

Dispatch from Camp Squanto

For 37 years, Hanover sixth graders have performed a rite of passage; spending a week at Camp Squanto in Plymouth. Throughout the week, the middle schoolers enjoy games, crafts, sports and other activities that their sixth grade teachers have spent months planning. But Camp Squanto is about more than just archery, boating and fishing. Hanover's children spend those five days on a voyage of self-discovery. For the child who has never slept away from home, it's learning to overcome homesickness. The child whose parent does everything for him learns to clean up after himself and others. A child who typically follows others may emerge as a leader. The lessons that are learned at Camp Squanto are all about team building, relying on yourself, and doing things outside of your comfort zone.

Longtime resident Brenda Maver missed this experience by a matter of weeks. Brenda and her family moved to Hanover the summer before she entered seventh grade. Some of the first friends she made in Hanover regaled her with stories of their Camp Squanto experience. Brenda can't help but wonder how her life would have been different had she had that experience herself.

And now, 31 years later, Brenda finally made it to Camp Squanto. Mother to 12-year-old Mitchell, Brenda, along with several other parents, volunteered to put family and work aside for a week to assist the teachers with this year's trip to Camp Squanto. Brenda and I talked about her week over coffee and it was clear from the beginning of our conversation that the event had a profound impact on her. As the mother of a fifth-grader, I was eager to learn what my child had in store for next year.

Brenda explained that long before the bus leaves for camp, the sixth graders have chosen a tent mate, someone who is their buddy for the week. These tent mates then chose other kids to be part of their campsite groups, approximately 35-40 kids per site. This way the children are able to surround themselves with other kids that make them feel comfortable. The campers are not limited to choosing friends within their homeroom or academic team. However, when it comes time for activities, the groups are then broken down into other groups that have been predetermined by their teachers. This way the kids are with their friends yet also making new friends throughout the week.

A typical day at Squanto can begin as early as 5:30 a.m. should a camper decide to try fishing. Breakfast is at 8 with morning activities following from 9-12. These might include crafts, archery, rock climbing, boating, or a number of other activities that have been developed by their teachers. Lunch follows at noon, with a 45 minute "siesta" afterwards. Kids participate in a series of structured activities such as yoga, self-defense, and swimming throughout the afternoon, returning to their campsite before dinner. Evening events include Beach parties, "Squantonian Idol" and games like Bingo and Capture the Flag.

One of the things that impressed Brenda the most was the tireless devotion of the teachers who work non-stop to make the Camp Squanto experience a memorable one for their students. It's not uncommon for a teacher to work 18 or more hours over the course of a day. The teacher who's there to supervise fishing at 5:30 a.m. might very well be the same teacher that comforted a homesick child just a few hours earlier. The sixth grade teachers spend months planning all aspects of the week. Having them in the role of camp counselor allows the children to be supervised by someone who has nurtured them for nine months throughout the school year, rather than by an unfamiliar camp employee.

The most amazing aspect of the week for Brenda was watching the children reach inside and achieve things they would have not thought themselves capable. Her voice broke with emotion when she spoke of kids in her group who started the trip scared and very tentative and by week's end were voted Campers of the Week for their homeroom. While some may question the lack of academic component, she feels that the lessons of inner growth and teamwork are invaluable. "The kid who returns on Friday and rates the experience a 6 will then rate it an 8 by Monday morning", Brenda says, 'and by the time that child is 18 years old, he'll rate it a 10."

Brenda wonders whether she would have been a stronger, more independent person earlier in her life had she gone to Squanto as a sixth grader. Calling one of her childhood friends from Hanover she was asked, "Did all your dreams come true?" Brenda admits that the experience is changing the way she parents her children, making her less likely to do something for them in an effort to save time and letting them have greater responsibility.

For the 225 kids who went to Camp Squanto this year, it was the experience of a lifetime. And for Brenda Maver, it was the chance to finally fulfill a dream.

No Money to Burn

I fell into conversation with some friends at the Memorial Day parade recently. We made a special point of attending this year since my youngest son was marching with his Cub Scout pack. What our parade lacks in duration (don't blink!) it makes up for in community spirit. As my friends and I chatted, I commented on the number of people who had turned out for the parade and lamented the fact that this year's annual bonfire was cancelled due to budget concerns.

This was clearly the first time my friend had heard the news. As her eyes went wide and her jaw dropped, she said "What do you mean there's no bonfire this year?" As the sad news sank in, I empathized with her and reflected on just how different my emotions were from the first time I witnessed the bonfire.

Here's a bit of personal history. I hail from New Jersey, a place where the Fourth of July is celebrated with two events: The parade (which goes on for hours complete with blaring fire trucks from several surrounding towns) and our annual fireworks. Each year my parents would pack us into the car with blankets and snacks and drive to the local fairgrounds. After what seemed like an eternity of waiting (and listening to us kids whine, "When will it start? How much longer?"), the fireworks would commence with breathtaking intensity, followed by the requisite "ooohs" and "ahh's". When the last rocket was fired at the end of the grand finale and the cannon-like echoes faded away, we would all head home with the feeling that the Fourth of July had been properly commemorated. In central NY, my husband’s town celebrated in a similar manner, though on a smaller scale.

Upon moving to Hanover, my husband and I were surprised to learn that the town didn't celebrate July 4th with fireworks. Driving through town that first year, I noticed a sign that said "Bonfire Saturday" but didn't think much of it. It wasn't until our second or third year as residents that we finally decide to investigate.

Sitting on a blanket with our young son in tow, we watched as the fire department began to light the enormous pile of pallets. We both thought it odd that such a large fire should be lit so close to a school. As the flames grew to a roaring pyre, and the baking heat reached all the way to our blanket, my husband and I looked at each other and it was clear that we both had the same thought: "What the hell?"

Instead of the majesty of fireworks we felt like we were dropped into some pagan ritual straight out of a Shirley Jackson story (and if you've never read her short story "The Lottery" you owe it to yourself to check it out.) Kids were running around in the firelight, adults were laughing and joking. I could only imagine what passing airplanes must have thought. When we'd had our fill of the heat and smoke, we packed up our child and our blanket and headed home. "That was weird," I commented to my husband, who agreed.

And yet, we returned to the bonfire the next year, this time with a group of friends and their children. Somehow it seemed less bizarre when shared with others. It's been ten years now since we moved to Hanover, and for most of those years, we've faithfully attended the bonfire. And while it still strikes me as an unusual way to celebrate the beginning of summer, I realized that the bonfire is less about pyromania and more about spending time together as a community.

When I discovered that the bonfire had been cancelled this year due to budget cuts, I was surprised by the intensity of my disappointment. Was there a way to find funding for the event? Perhaps a corporate sponsor? How about the Taco Bell Bonfire? (It’s muy caliente!) Or maybe I could do a little digging and find a government grant? I'm sure someone would like to perform a sociological study on community gatherings and the impact of fireworks versus fiery pallets. No?

Sigh. Perhaps the economy will improve next year and our town will be back to its old torchy ways. In the meantime, we'll just have to resign ourselves to the fact that until things get better, we just don't have money to burn.

My First Tae Kwon Do Tournament

I never thought I would get such pleasure out of watching two grown men kick the living stuffing out of each other. Okay, perhaps I should clarify that statement, lest you think I've suddenly become interested in cage fighting.

My sons have been students at Hanover's Xcel Taekwondo for a few years now. My younger son became interested when he attended "buddy day" at the school, or dojang, with a friend. The owner "Mrs. T" (Kyria Gallagher Takahashi, a nice Irish girl) had an impressive list of medals, awards and accolades, but what impressed me most was the way she handled her class of Little Dragons (kids 6 and under). Trying to corral a group of pre-schoolers is like serving soup with a slotted spoon: it can get very messy. Yet at each class Mrs. T had her students in organized lines, eyes focused on her, following instructions. She’s like a friendly, lovable drill sergeant. My son quickly learned to answer with a loud "Yes Ma'am." My son also learned from "Mr. T" (no gold chains or Mohawk here...and yet I pity the fool who messes with Fabio Takahashi). In addition to learning blocks and kicks, each month the class would focus on words such as self-control, respect and discipline. I quickly realized my son was learning more than just roundhouse kicks and how to count to ten in Korean.

Several months later, my older son, who was adamantly against learning martial arts, decided to give it a try. Too old for the Little Dragons, he joined the class for ages 7 and up. It was immediately apparent that his class was different. He learned a variety of kicks, blocks, self-defense moves and "forms", a series of choreographed moves that made me realize just how ridiculous that old "wax on, wax off" scene in "The Karate Kid” really was. But what threw me was when he would don protective gear to spar with the other students. He looked a bit like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, but without the nasty attitude.

Up to this point my exposure to martial arts had been watching old episodes of "Kung Fu Theater" with my father (and if you've never seen a man with a genius IQ giggle over those badly dubbed films, you're missing out). My husband studied Karate before we met and while we were dating made the ill-fated suggestion that we try Ninjitsu. After realizing I was too creaky to do a forward roll, I gave up Ninjitsu and returned to step aerobics (I may not be stealthy but I can sure keep a beat.) In Taekwondo, sparring is all about the kicks.

Watching my sons spar is both a thrilling and terrifying experience. At the end of the hour they are completely sweaty, so it’s a great workout. However, watching them get nailed in the chest by other students can be a little unnerving. Still, their balance has improved, their confidence has increased and their participation in class and on the school's demonstration team have helped them forge new friendships.

This past weekend, the school sponsored a tournament at the South Shore Vo-Tech. Several of Xcel’s students have participated in tournaments around the country, bringing home gold, silver and bronze medals. When my younger son, now old enough to spar, asked to participate, I agreed.

When we arrived I was floored by the number of competitors, which included a busload of students from Quebec. The Vo-Tech gymnasium had been transformed into a real tournament arena with four separate “rings" allowing for simultaneous competition. The excitement from the competitors and the parents was infectious. I had to remind myself to stay with my son whenever a part of me wanted to wander off and watch something else. Nervously I watched my son do his forms (which yielded a bronze medal) and spar with a member of the French Canadian team (silver medal this time) And while many students left once their event was over, I insisted we stick around to watch some of the adult black belts spar.

Watching my sons spar in class was nothing like watching these guys go at it. Yes they wear pads, and yes there is a referee, but other than that it was like someone had spliced together scenes from "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", "Gladiator" and "Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo" (okay, I didn't see that last one...) Some competitors were aggressive and impulsive while others were introspective and strategic. In addition to a flurry of well-placed (and sometimes missed) kicks there were moves designed to fake out the opponent or throw him off balance. There were kicks to the head (the head!) Watching these black belts spar was like watching poetry; granted it was sweaty, violent poetry, but poetry nonetheless. Had I not promised my son a trip to Friendly's, I would have gladly stayed till the last second of the final match.

I hope my kids make it to black belt. I hope they continue to benefit from the confidence and discipline and sportsmanship they learn as part of their training. And I hope that if they do reach the level of black belt, they won’t mind if I shut my eyes when they step into that sparring ring.

Zen and the art of holding a baby...

There is Zen to be found in the act of holding a baby. My children are eight and eleven, and I am just learning this lesson now.

Last week I received a call from a woman at church asking if I could make a meal for a young couple in our congregation who had just had a baby. Apparently the baby had been born prematurely, was very colicky and was crying almost non-stop when awake (uh-oh). Which was pretty much all the time since the baby also wasn’t sleeping (yikes). The woman explained that she was trying the “young moms” on her list (apparently none of the young moms picked up the phone because she got me). She thought that in addition to the meal, I might be able to provide a little wisdom, companionship and solidarity for the new mother.

The next day, armed with a positive attitude and homemade macaroni and cheese, I drove to the young couple’s house and pulled into the driveway. Before I could even shut off the engine, the front door swung open. And that’s when I saw more than just a tired young woman in sweatpants and a ponytail holding a crying baby. I saw my past.

For the next hour I got to know the young mother (I’ll call her Dee) and her new son. After five weeks in the hospital, the baby came home and Dee and her husband became fully immersed in the all-consuming haze of new parenthood. Many of the challenges Dee faced were the same I had faced eleven years ago: A baby with feeding issues; a husband who worked long hours; no immediate family in the area; a neighborhood made up of older couples with grown children. As we discussed the similarities of our situations, I was transported back in time. Here was another mother who fiercely loved her newborn son, yet felt unprepared and overwhelmed by the sudden changes in her life. I sat and listened and empathized with Dee, and then did the one thing I could do to help: I held the baby.

Ironically, he was perfectly behaved during my visit. As he finished his bottle and burped for me, Dee sat and ate her lunch with two hands (two hands!) As the baby drifted off to sleep in my arms, she tentatively asked if she could wash some bottles and do a few other chores around the house. Shooing her off, I sat and contemplated the snoozing bundle in my arms. As I listened to his soft breathing and watched his lips involuntarily twitch into a smile, I did something I’ve rarely done in the past: focus on just holding a baby and nothing else.

When my older son was born, rather than enjoying the peace of those moments I would worry about the challenges I might face when he woke up. Would he be happy? Hungry? Would he fuss and cry? Would I be able to comfort him? Would I lose my mind? And what about all the things that needed to get done around the house: The laundry, the bottles, and the clutter. When my second son was born, though I tried to savor those moments, I couldn’t help but wonder what the three-year-old was up to in the next room.

Eleven years later, here was my chance to clear my mind and focus all my thoughts and attention on the sleeping child in my arms. To enjoy the warmth and softness of his Carters-clad body; to listen to his rhythmic breathing; to enjoy the sweet scent of his head. I wasn’t multi-tasking or reading or watching television at the same time, I was just immersed in the moment. By the time Dee returned, my pulse rate had slowed and my mind was clear. I felt as refreshed as if I had taken a yoga class (without all the stretching and sweating). Dee thanked me, but honestly, I should have been thanking her.

Driving home, I felt nostalgia for the long-gone infancy of my own children: Would I have enjoyed those quiet moments more if I knew then what I know now? Or was I only capable of relaxing with a baby that wasn’t my own? As I pulled into my own driveway, I decided that the past is the past and that I really do enjoy my children more as they get older.

But if I need another Zen baby moment, I know who to call.

Notes on "The Prom"

Last week a friend invited me over to bear witness to an important rite of passage in her teenage daughter's life. Before you get uncomfortable, I'm referring, of course, to the prom. Last Friday, amid 90-degree heat, I drove to my friend's house and watched an exceptionally pretty girl transform herself into a goddess worthy of any red carpet occasion. All the months of listening to my friend's struggles to find the right dress, the right shoes, the right handbag had finally paid off. And while I enjoyed getting a glimpse of her daughter's magical evening, I couldn't help but be a little sad myself. Not so much because I'm the mother of two boys. Although let's face it, how much fun is it to stuff your sullen teenage boy into a tuxedo and push him out the door? But seriously, the reason I felt a bit melancholy was due to the tragic secret I keep hidden from my own past.

I did not go to my prom.

Now some of you reading this might just think "big deal, so what?" while others are physically recoiling in horror. I'll give you all a moment to collect yourselves.

Yes, sad to say, I did not attend my prom. And while I could make up all kinds of excuses ("I broke my leg", "my family was in Paris that week", etc) the pure and simple truth was that no one asked me.

Ouch. 28 years later and that still stings. But before the notes of Janis Ian's pathetic girl anthem "At Seventeen" start creeping in, let me clarify a few things. I enjoyed high school. I look back on it as one of the best times of my life. I had a lot of different friends: some jocks, some brains, some "burnouts", some in "the clique". And while I didn't fit into any one group, I socialized with people from all groups. So overall, I have very fond memories of high school. And yet I still brace myself whenever someone talks about their prom, knowing they will ask me about mine. Do I stay mum or disclose the sad truth?

Many of you have seen the movie "Pretty in Pink" with Molly Ringwald (Several of you who can recite its dialogue line by line…you know who you are.) At one point in the movie Annie Potts, who plays the older, wiser co-worker, talks about a friend who skipped her prom. She says, "Once in a while she gets a terrible feeling, like something is missing. She checks her purse and her keys, she counts her kids, she goes crazy. And then she realizes that... nothing is missing. She decided it was side effects from skipping the prom." Every time I see that scene I think, "My God, that's me."

And while we're on the subject, when did "The Prom" become just "Prom"? Was there some official decision to drop the article "the" and just go with "Prom"? The scene where Molly Ringwald confronts Andrew McCarthy screaming "What about prom Blaine, what about prom?" still gets under my skin. But I digress.

Not long ago, I was walking with a friend and we talked about our lives prior to husbands and kids. She told me a little about her high school experience, and then surprised me by disclosing the fact that she didn't go to her prom. I held my breath when I asked why and when she said, "No on asked me" her status immediately jumped from close friend to soul sister: A kindred spirit.

The other night when I had had my fill of watching beautiful girls in gowns pose with handsome boys in tuxes, I went home and gave my husband the re-cap. When I asked about his prom, he replied, "I didn't go". My reaction was fairly apoplectic. We've been married for over 14 years, and he waited until now to share this little nugget? When I demanded to know why he never mentioned this before he said, "It really wasn't that important". He then confessed that not one but two girls had turned him down and that's when I realized that there are worst things than not being asked.

Here's hoping everyone who attended the prom had a wonderful time, and for those who didn't...fear not. You can still live fulfilling, productive, enriching lives. Take it from someone who knows.

Oh my gosh, where are my keys?

That's What Friends Are For

One night last week I settled in for an evening of fun and fashion. There's just something about a fashion show: the flurry of activity behind the scenes, the nervous models jockeying for position before being called to the runway. The roar of approval as each new ensemble is presented to an appreciative audience.

And while this may sound like an episode of "Project Runway", there was no backstabbing, no cries of "make it work", no Heidi Klum announcing, "You're out." The fashions were presented at The Lantana in Randolph and the models were all members of Friendship Club.

Before last week I knew very little about Friendship Club and Friendship Home. I'm embarrassed to admit this because Wilma Goodhue, a fellow member of the United Church of Christ in Norwell is one of the founders of Friendship Home, which is due to be built on our church's property. While I had heard Friendship Home mentioned in the past, I didn't fully understand what it was all about until I was invited to attend their "Fashion With Our Friends" fundraiser last week.

Reading up on Friendship Home online (gosh I love the internet) I discovered that it was founded in 1999 with a two-fold mission: Friendship Club provides adults with developmental disabilities the opportunity to share food, fun and friendship with each other, meeting twice a month at locations in Norwell, Duxbury and Quincy. Friendship Home will break ground this summer on the UCC Norwell property to provide a respite care and activity center where members can participate in day or evening activities, or stay for periods of up to two weeks, giving them a safe and stimulating environment, and providing needed respite for their caregivers.

I wish everyone reading this could have seen the Friendship Club members strutting their stuff on the runway at The Lantana. Commentator Beth Ann Strenge came out in a sparkly off-the-shoulder red gown and confided that one of the models told her she looked "...better than Charo." (Guess what? She did.) As each model came out dressed to the nines in spring outfits from Milton's, Lillian's Fashions and Dress Barn, Beth Ann would announce the model's name, place of work and their favorite hobbies and activities. I was pleased to recognize several familiar faces as they walked the runway (who knew I was surrounded by fashion models in my everyday life?) There was Michael Goodhue, who attends my church and works part time at Uno's in Hanover. And Matt Kardok, a staff member at the YMCA where I exercise. (An avid drummer, Matt jumped in and jammed with the musicians from the South Shore Conservatory of Music that evening).

While the audience was enthusiastic with its applause, it was clear that the members of Friendship Club drew their support and encouragement from each other. If one was too nervous to walk the runway alone, another would take their hand and walk with them. Men and women, in formal wear or casual, the common denominator was that everyone on stage was clearly enjoying themselves (personally, I would have either frozen like a deer in the headlights or tripped). The evening ended with everyone from Friendship Club taking the stage together and holding up hand printed signs that formed the words "Friendship Home" (all to the tune of Elton John's "That's What Friends Are For"... which caused my mascara to run...just a little...okay a lot.)

Ironically, the few hours I spent at The Lantana last week provided me with a respite from the cares and concerns of my every day life. While this was my first experience with Friendship Home, it will not be my last. If you'd like to join me, check out www.friendshiphome.net. You'll be glad you did