There he is, Baron Davis, ball at his hip, making that turn, blowing past some defender and pimping some Power Ade from on high. "Oh, Mom. That billboard makes me sad," says my daughter from the backseat. "I know. Me, too."
Baron, how could you? I know we didn't have the money to keep you, but we are still hurt. You left us for ... the Clippers?!!! Sigh.
My daughter has become quite a basketball fan, discussing trade rumors with her dad. After a brief visit to the land of Barbies, she moved on to Groovy Girl kingdom for a while, with visits into American Girl territory; we were relieved that she made a complete detour around Hannah Montana town, and now she has ventured into the world of sports talk and the Golden State Warriors. She has not quite abandoned her Groovy and American Girl friends, but there has been a definite shift. So her dad has a new person with whom he can discuss all that important information he gets about the team: hot off the Warriors blog or some ESPN feed. He must be happy to be able to talk to her about these things, and have her actually know who he is talking about, rather than telling me some critical trade information and have me respond, "Who?"
Thank goodness her dad hasn't recruited her into doing research for his fantasy league draft. Well, at least, not yet.
As incongruous as it might seem, she is apparently not the only little Asian American girl who likes to talk basketball. She is attending a Japanese American cultural summer school, where during their breaks, it seems that basketball is a popular topic. "So, Mom? At school, today, Sachi asked everybody: 'Okay, so who's sad that Baron Davis is going to the Clippers?' and almost everybody raised their hands. But so, like, yeah, then, Sachi said, 'That's okay, though, because now, Monta Ellis has his chance to shine!!!" My daughter says this last part with gleefulness and joy, the smile taking over her whole face.
Since then, my daughter greets every confirmed trade or non-trade with: "Now Marco Belinelli has his chance to shine!" or "Now Azubuke has his chance to shine!" or "Now [fill in the blank] has his chance to shine!" It's really quite cute, and reminds me that sometimes we need to recognize the wisdom that might come from the mouth of a nine year old. There's certainly nothing wrong with being hopeful. If she can be hopeful about the Warriors, well, then, there are certainly lots of things I can be optimistic about, too.
Okay, Monta -- don't let my girl down. It's your chance to shine.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Summertime, and the living is easy ...
... or, at least, that's what the song in my head keeps saying. Ahh, yes, the lilting melody is stuck in my head, my daily soundtrack as I frantically rush out the door to drive my kids to summer day camps. Late again. The song is mocking me. Stuck in my head, telling me that everything will be easy -- because it's summertime.
I get the kids off to where they need to be, and make my way to the nearest coffee dealership. Nothing like some caffeine to relax me. Especially when it is laced with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Ahhhhhhh.
I take another drag off of my adult sippy cup, waiting for that mocha euphoria to wash over me again. Ahhhhhhh.
The mocha has a nice effect on my brain. It shuts out the seemingly endless list of things I should have done during the school year that I undoubtedly must have time to do now that it is summertime, and I have nothing else to do besides lounge around all day. Yeah, right. Summertime -- when the level of guilt grows exponentially, and the kids are around a lot and it would just be plain rude to ignore them (at least not for the whole entire time we are in the same breathing space).
I'll get to that list soon.
Right after I finish this mocha.
I get the kids off to where they need to be, and make my way to the nearest coffee dealership. Nothing like some caffeine to relax me. Especially when it is laced with chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Ahhhhhhh.
I take another drag off of my adult sippy cup, waiting for that mocha euphoria to wash over me again. Ahhhhhhh.
The mocha has a nice effect on my brain. It shuts out the seemingly endless list of things I should have done during the school year that I undoubtedly must have time to do now that it is summertime, and I have nothing else to do besides lounge around all day. Yeah, right. Summertime -- when the level of guilt grows exponentially, and the kids are around a lot and it would just be plain rude to ignore them (at least not for the whole entire time we are in the same breathing space).
I'll get to that list soon.
Right after I finish this mocha.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
The Lunch Shack
It’s the first Tuesday of the month, my day to work the lunch shack at my son’s school. As I run out the door, I leave my desk at home littered with papers from yet another school-related volunteer project -- which will be waiting for me when I get back from lunch -- so it is one of those days when volunteering feels like a full-time job. I am one of the many unpaid-yet-working moms who have the luxury of helping out at the schools. We know it is a privilege, but sometimes it still feels like work.
I decide to walk up to the school today -- trying to be greenish, if not totally green -- and realize my son must be in really good shape to do this everyday. He told me it takes five minutes to walk to school; it takes me seven. Which is still respectable, and I am not sweating so profusely that I cannot serve food. From the unshowered looks of the post-PE crowd, some of them are bound to be more unpleasant to be around than me.
I like lunch days. In addition to getting some exercise walking up to the school, I also get a glimpse into “campus life,” as well as a taste of campus food. And a free can of Diet Coke, which I look forward to every month. With the grades spanning from sixth to eighth, the ages of the students range from barely eleven to nearly fifteen. There’s a big difference between an eleven year old and a fifteen year old. It’s hard to believe that these kids are at most only two grades apart. One of the kids can barely see over the counter to order his food, and another literally hit his head on the giant metal roll-up blind --that was completely rolled up to the top. He must be over six feet tall. I hope he plays basketball.
For the most part, I can’t see much of what goes on out in the little lunch world, where groups of kids split off and wander about and seem to manage to regroup in comfortable clusters, just long enough to eat their lunch. Then, many of them return to the lunch shack, ready to buy a low-fat cookie or an all-fruit popsicle for dessert. Some kids come to the window three separate times. Some come up to the line even though they aren’t buying anything -- apparently just there to give a friend moral support as they say, “Can I have a cookie and a chocolate milk?” Other repeat customers seem to have kids trailing them at their elbows, pleading, “C’mon, just get me a cookie ... I’ll pay you back ... c’mon ...”
My son comes through the line on the opposite side of the lunch shack, so I have to be content with making eye contact with him and hearing him say, “Hi, Mom!” as he disappears into the crowd. The line is a fast-paced frenzy during the peak minutes, and I barely have a chance to say “hi” back to him. During the lull that follows, I gaze out into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The ebb and flow of the repeat customers continues, and I am forced to pay attention to selling food. Adding $1.75 and $2.50 together and then making change from a twenty without a calculator must be good exercise for my brain, I tell myself, otherwise, they would give us calculators, right?
After many more cookies, Propel Waters, fruit bars and chocolate milks fly over the counter, the bell rings, and lunch time is over. As I emerge from the lunch shack, I see my son among an amorphous group of similarly dressed boys, waiting to go into their classroom. I didn't realize they all dressed alike. They almost look like a little gang. Oblivious to my presence, my son is joking around with his homeys, and they all look content. He seems to have landed safely on this planet called middle school, and is navigating the landscape without incident. Mission accomplished.
Time for the mothership to get back home.
I decide to walk up to the school today -- trying to be greenish, if not totally green -- and realize my son must be in really good shape to do this everyday. He told me it takes five minutes to walk to school; it takes me seven. Which is still respectable, and I am not sweating so profusely that I cannot serve food. From the unshowered looks of the post-PE crowd, some of them are bound to be more unpleasant to be around than me.
I like lunch days. In addition to getting some exercise walking up to the school, I also get a glimpse into “campus life,” as well as a taste of campus food. And a free can of Diet Coke, which I look forward to every month. With the grades spanning from sixth to eighth, the ages of the students range from barely eleven to nearly fifteen. There’s a big difference between an eleven year old and a fifteen year old. It’s hard to believe that these kids are at most only two grades apart. One of the kids can barely see over the counter to order his food, and another literally hit his head on the giant metal roll-up blind --that was completely rolled up to the top. He must be over six feet tall. I hope he plays basketball.
For the most part, I can’t see much of what goes on out in the little lunch world, where groups of kids split off and wander about and seem to manage to regroup in comfortable clusters, just long enough to eat their lunch. Then, many of them return to the lunch shack, ready to buy a low-fat cookie or an all-fruit popsicle for dessert. Some kids come to the window three separate times. Some come up to the line even though they aren’t buying anything -- apparently just there to give a friend moral support as they say, “Can I have a cookie and a chocolate milk?” Other repeat customers seem to have kids trailing them at their elbows, pleading, “C’mon, just get me a cookie ... I’ll pay you back ... c’mon ...”
My son comes through the line on the opposite side of the lunch shack, so I have to be content with making eye contact with him and hearing him say, “Hi, Mom!” as he disappears into the crowd. The line is a fast-paced frenzy during the peak minutes, and I barely have a chance to say “hi” back to him. During the lull that follows, I gaze out into the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of him. The ebb and flow of the repeat customers continues, and I am forced to pay attention to selling food. Adding $1.75 and $2.50 together and then making change from a twenty without a calculator must be good exercise for my brain, I tell myself, otherwise, they would give us calculators, right?
After many more cookies, Propel Waters, fruit bars and chocolate milks fly over the counter, the bell rings, and lunch time is over. As I emerge from the lunch shack, I see my son among an amorphous group of similarly dressed boys, waiting to go into their classroom. I didn't realize they all dressed alike. They almost look like a little gang. Oblivious to my presence, my son is joking around with his homeys, and they all look content. He seems to have landed safely on this planet called middle school, and is navigating the landscape without incident. Mission accomplished.
Time for the mothership to get back home.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Wii? Wheee!!!
Last week, my husband stumbled upon SarcasticGamer.com's parody of the the Wii Fit balance board commercial, and we spent what seemed like hours watching it. The kids, me, my husband, watching it over and over again. It was a family activity. In the parody, the balance board is referred to as "a little white thing you stand on" that combines the "perfect balance of barely moving and doing mundane things" and will help you "[get] the family out of the backyard, and back in front of the television." It was pretty hilarious, and I went to sleep thinking that Nintendo's latest creation looked like a waste of money. Who would buy one of those?
The next day, when my husband came home from work, I heard Miles exclaim, "OMG, Dad -- I can't believe you bought a little white thing you stand on!!!" Underneath the sarcasm, my son's heart was utterly bursting with love for his father. No doubt about it, Daddy was The Man.
"I got the last one," grinned my husband, standing proudly with his catch.
"Oh, wow, that's great!" I said, smiling back while doing one of the most uncelebrated moves of wifedom -- suppressing-the-urge-to-roll-my-eyes. It takes great self-control, and adds to marital harmony. There are countless women who are experts at this move.
I decide to wait till I am home alone before trying out the Wii Fit. I am good at laughing at myself, by myself, so this seems perfect to me. First, I find out that I have to register myself so that I can track my progress. I try to do this, but discover that I don't have an avatar -- a "Mii" in Wii-speak. This means that I have never played any Wii games with my kids at home. It is confirmation of a sad fact in our household: Mommy is no fun. Daddy has a Mii. My son and daughter have several Miis. They've even made a Mii that looks like Charlie Brown. Even my kids' friends, Perry, Gabe and Wes, have Miis -- and they don't even live here! Sigh. I proceed to make a Mii. I am able to give Miiself freckles, but am stumped when it comes to hair color. Blackish brownish hair with platinum highlights is not an option. I must choose between black or platinum. Hmmm. I choose black.
Next, I have to enter my birthdate and height. Nobody told me that the Wii Fit would confront me with any moral dilemmas. Do I enter my height as what is on my drivers license, or my actual height? I stand a bit taller and round up to my drivers license height. Okay, that's done. I am waiting for the screen that asks me for my weight, pondering what to enter -- my drivers license weight, or my actual weight? Suddenly, the screen shows my Mii and my Body Mass Index (BMI). Wait. I am no doctor, but I know that you need to know somebody's weight before you can calculate BMI. How does the Wii know my weight? Egads, the little white thing I am standing on knows my weight! Since I haven't stepped on a scale in a while, my curiosity compels me to click on the "weight" button to see if I am closer to my fat-weight or my less-fat weight. Whoa. I apparently have a new fat-weight! Sigh (again). I click back to the BMI screen, and am comforted by the percentages that I do not really understand.
Now that I know my weight, I am more motivated to get fit with the Wii Fit. I am instructed to choose an on-screen trainer. My choices: (a) depressing-to-look-at skinny female trainer with unattainably perfect body, or (b) muscular yet eunuch-like male trainer. I choose the male trainer. He speaks in a reassuring and encouraging voice. I think we'll get along just fine.
I begin my Wii Fit workout with Hula Hoops. There is happy music, and Mii-Miles and Mii-Wes are part of the picture, cheering me on. I am good at this. Childhood memories of playing in our backyard with a real shoop-shoop-hula hoop are translating into muscle memory, turning me into a Wii Fit Hula Hoop star! I am determined to keep doing this until I have dethroned Mii-Miles from first place. This takes a little while, but I am sure that I must have burned off several thousand calories in the process. After I claim the crown, I move on to something else. Yoga, apparently, is not my forte in Wii Fit land. Neither is the step class. And the skiing and jogging games look like they will give me motion sickness. An axe-throwing game would be really good, but I don't see one here. I go back to the Hula Hoops. Superstar! I have found my happy place in Wii Fit land.
I return to the Wii Fit the next day to see my progress. Sadly, I have made none. My weight has gone up. Apparently, I did not do enough Hula Hooping the day before to counteract the chocolate croissant, bacon, eggs, and hash browns I just ate for breakfast. I try to do a little Hula Hooping, but my kids seem annoyed at my trash-talking while I am monopolizing the Wii Fit. Okay, I wasn't actually trash-talking, but they could sense that my presence had changed when I was Hula Hooping. I was exuding royalty, swinging my hips around and around so that my Mii could retain her Hula Hooping crown, and it was clearly too much for the kids to handle. Mommy was having too much fun. Time to step off the little white thing.
The following morning, my husband is decked out in his running gear. "Who wants to go running?" he asks, in the general direction of me and my son. I peer up at him, still in my pajama-like clothing, not wanting to go anywhere yet. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, I hear my son saying the words that I had formed in my brain: "No, thanks, Dad. I don't need to go jogging outside -- we've got Wii Fit!"
The next day, when my husband came home from work, I heard Miles exclaim, "OMG, Dad -- I can't believe you bought a little white thing you stand on!!!" Underneath the sarcasm, my son's heart was utterly bursting with love for his father. No doubt about it, Daddy was The Man.
"I got the last one," grinned my husband, standing proudly with his catch.
"Oh, wow, that's great!" I said, smiling back while doing one of the most uncelebrated moves of wifedom -- suppressing-the-urge-to-roll-my-eyes. It takes great self-control, and adds to marital harmony. There are countless women who are experts at this move.
I decide to wait till I am home alone before trying out the Wii Fit. I am good at laughing at myself, by myself, so this seems perfect to me. First, I find out that I have to register myself so that I can track my progress. I try to do this, but discover that I don't have an avatar -- a "Mii" in Wii-speak. This means that I have never played any Wii games with my kids at home. It is confirmation of a sad fact in our household: Mommy is no fun. Daddy has a Mii. My son and daughter have several Miis. They've even made a Mii that looks like Charlie Brown. Even my kids' friends, Perry, Gabe and Wes, have Miis -- and they don't even live here! Sigh. I proceed to make a Mii. I am able to give Miiself freckles, but am stumped when it comes to hair color. Blackish brownish hair with platinum highlights is not an option. I must choose between black or platinum. Hmmm. I choose black.
Next, I have to enter my birthdate and height. Nobody told me that the Wii Fit would confront me with any moral dilemmas. Do I enter my height as what is on my drivers license, or my actual height? I stand a bit taller and round up to my drivers license height. Okay, that's done. I am waiting for the screen that asks me for my weight, pondering what to enter -- my drivers license weight, or my actual weight? Suddenly, the screen shows my Mii and my Body Mass Index (BMI). Wait. I am no doctor, but I know that you need to know somebody's weight before you can calculate BMI. How does the Wii know my weight? Egads, the little white thing I am standing on knows my weight! Since I haven't stepped on a scale in a while, my curiosity compels me to click on the "weight" button to see if I am closer to my fat-weight or my less-fat weight. Whoa. I apparently have a new fat-weight! Sigh (again). I click back to the BMI screen, and am comforted by the percentages that I do not really understand.
Now that I know my weight, I am more motivated to get fit with the Wii Fit. I am instructed to choose an on-screen trainer. My choices: (a) depressing-to-look-at skinny female trainer with unattainably perfect body, or (b) muscular yet eunuch-like male trainer. I choose the male trainer. He speaks in a reassuring and encouraging voice. I think we'll get along just fine.
I begin my Wii Fit workout with Hula Hoops. There is happy music, and Mii-Miles and Mii-Wes are part of the picture, cheering me on. I am good at this. Childhood memories of playing in our backyard with a real shoop-shoop-hula hoop are translating into muscle memory, turning me into a Wii Fit Hula Hoop star! I am determined to keep doing this until I have dethroned Mii-Miles from first place. This takes a little while, but I am sure that I must have burned off several thousand calories in the process. After I claim the crown, I move on to something else. Yoga, apparently, is not my forte in Wii Fit land. Neither is the step class. And the skiing and jogging games look like they will give me motion sickness. An axe-throwing game would be really good, but I don't see one here. I go back to the Hula Hoops. Superstar! I have found my happy place in Wii Fit land.
I return to the Wii Fit the next day to see my progress. Sadly, I have made none. My weight has gone up. Apparently, I did not do enough Hula Hooping the day before to counteract the chocolate croissant, bacon, eggs, and hash browns I just ate for breakfast. I try to do a little Hula Hooping, but my kids seem annoyed at my trash-talking while I am monopolizing the Wii Fit. Okay, I wasn't actually trash-talking, but they could sense that my presence had changed when I was Hula Hooping. I was exuding royalty, swinging my hips around and around so that my Mii could retain her Hula Hooping crown, and it was clearly too much for the kids to handle. Mommy was having too much fun. Time to step off the little white thing.
The following morning, my husband is decked out in his running gear. "Who wants to go running?" he asks, in the general direction of me and my son. I peer up at him, still in my pajama-like clothing, not wanting to go anywhere yet. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, I hear my son saying the words that I had formed in my brain: "No, thanks, Dad. I don't need to go jogging outside -- we've got Wii Fit!"
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Camp, part 3
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"
My screams could be heard far and wide as I fell through the air, forty feet off the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... then falling, falling, falling up. Trying not to curse. Children are present, including my daughter. Fellow parents are below, alternately shouting approval and snickering with amusement as I fly by on the Giant Swing. I am petrified, but glad that I followed the advice given by my friends Andrea and Bernard, both of whom said I should go all the way to the top before my free fall, lest I regret my cowardice after the fact. Okay, they didn't use those words, but that's what they meant. This advice didn't mean too much coming from Andrea, since she's basically crazy, and proud of it. But Bernard? He seems sensible, and he has a fear of heights, like me. I decided to step way out of my comfort zone and go for it. From the top.
Getting to the top would involve the hoisting-me-up-by-pulley crew actually getting me to the top. I surveyed the crew of parents; they looked fit and eager to hoist me to my fate. The final variable (barring mechanical failure, which I was definitely trying not to think about at that moment) was the wuss-out factor. To make sure that did not come into play, I made one final request to a couple of the dads in the hoisting crew: "Even if I say 'stop' before I reach the top, just keep going."
Wuss-out insurance in place, I began my ascent. When I thought I could not possibly go any higher, I gesticulated wildly with my arms and yelled "Stop! Stop! Stop!" Surely, I was at the top, wasn't I? I wasn't. The crew kept hoisting. And, in a couple more heave-ho's, I was at the top. I closed my eyes, and let her rip, releasing the lever that would propel me through the air, hurtling like a giant boulder toward the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... and falling, falling, falling up. I opened my eyes to see the trees whizzing past me, sailing through the air like Cathy Rigby in Peter Pan -- minus the green costume and the smile.
Looking back at the weekend, I am shocked to find that the Camp Augusta experience seems to have agreed with me.* My journey to the Giant Swing has involved much self-evaluation and a fair amount of encouragement from other parents. I found inspiration in watching my daughter, cheering as she tackled the Giant Swing, traversed the High Ropes Course, and observing quietly as she navigated the sometimes treacherous obstacle course that is the fourth grade girl social universe. I tried out many new activities -- Silk Painting, Paper Marbling, Tie Dye, Rock Climbing, Archery, Riflery, Axe and Knife Throwing -- and found Axe Throwing to be very therapeutic.
Unfortunately, I will be returning to my home soon, where there will be no Giant Swing to challenge me, and no place to (safely) throw axes. But I will take with me the feeling of shedding my grown-up levels of fear and anxiety and venturing off to Never-Never Land, where I am flying through the air -- like my seemingly fearless nine year old daughter.
*Except for the dirt, bugs and lack of private bathrooms.
My screams could be heard far and wide as I fell through the air, forty feet off the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... then falling, falling, falling up. Trying not to curse. Children are present, including my daughter. Fellow parents are below, alternately shouting approval and snickering with amusement as I fly by on the Giant Swing. I am petrified, but glad that I followed the advice given by my friends Andrea and Bernard, both of whom said I should go all the way to the top before my free fall, lest I regret my cowardice after the fact. Okay, they didn't use those words, but that's what they meant. This advice didn't mean too much coming from Andrea, since she's basically crazy, and proud of it. But Bernard? He seems sensible, and he has a fear of heights, like me. I decided to step way out of my comfort zone and go for it. From the top.
Getting to the top would involve the hoisting-me-up-by-pulley crew actually getting me to the top. I surveyed the crew of parents; they looked fit and eager to hoist me to my fate. The final variable (barring mechanical failure, which I was definitely trying not to think about at that moment) was the wuss-out factor. To make sure that did not come into play, I made one final request to a couple of the dads in the hoisting crew: "Even if I say 'stop' before I reach the top, just keep going."
Wuss-out insurance in place, I began my ascent. When I thought I could not possibly go any higher, I gesticulated wildly with my arms and yelled "Stop! Stop! Stop!" Surely, I was at the top, wasn't I? I wasn't. The crew kept hoisting. And, in a couple more heave-ho's, I was at the top. I closed my eyes, and let her rip, releasing the lever that would propel me through the air, hurtling like a giant boulder toward the ground. Falling, falling, falling down ... and falling, falling, falling up. I opened my eyes to see the trees whizzing past me, sailing through the air like Cathy Rigby in Peter Pan -- minus the green costume and the smile.
Looking back at the weekend, I am shocked to find that the Camp Augusta experience seems to have agreed with me.* My journey to the Giant Swing has involved much self-evaluation and a fair amount of encouragement from other parents. I found inspiration in watching my daughter, cheering as she tackled the Giant Swing, traversed the High Ropes Course, and observing quietly as she navigated the sometimes treacherous obstacle course that is the fourth grade girl social universe. I tried out many new activities -- Silk Painting, Paper Marbling, Tie Dye, Rock Climbing, Archery, Riflery, Axe and Knife Throwing -- and found Axe Throwing to be very therapeutic.
Unfortunately, I will be returning to my home soon, where there will be no Giant Swing to challenge me, and no place to (safely) throw axes. But I will take with me the feeling of shedding my grown-up levels of fear and anxiety and venturing off to Never-Never Land, where I am flying through the air -- like my seemingly fearless nine year old daughter.
*Except for the dirt, bugs and lack of private bathrooms.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
Camp, part 2
Friday night, 11 pm: Trying to sleep. All I can hear is mosquitoes on motorcycles, circling my head as if it were Infineon Raceway. It's too hot. Wish it were colder. I turn the giant Coleman lamp on so I can face my tormentors. It's them, or me. Survival of the biggest. I take the flashlight and peer over my sleeping daughter, ready to kill any insect daring to land on her. All clear. Lights out.
Friday night, 11:05 pm: It's too hot. Can't hide from the bugs. Decided to read. Can't sleep. Bugs still buzzing. Might just be ringing in my ears, but I can't be sure. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:06 pm: Too hot. Don't like being this sweaty. Still need to pee.
Friday night, 11:21 pm: Just got back from the bathroom. It seemed so much closer in the daylight. Bugs seem to be less numerous. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:47 pm: Held out as long as possible. Just got back from the bathroom again. Why does it seem so far away? Bugs seem to be less numerous. Maybe I will get some sleep now. Lights out.
Saturday morning, 12:01 am: Lights on. Hot. Bugs. Need to pee. Trying to be strong. Reading will distract me from the need to pee. So glad I brought extra batteries for the lamp.
Saturday morning, 12:03 am: Really need to pee. Does camping shrink one's bladder? Am determined not to walk all the way over to the bathroom again. It's just too far. And there are bugs there. Maybe I will get some sleep now.
Saturday morning, 12:10 am: Why is the bathroom so far away? Why, oh, why? This will be my last trip.
Saturday morning, 1:07 am: Note to self -- need to Google "camping bladder" and see if it is a medical condition. Will volunteer to be a case study. Bugs not buzzing so much anymore. Not as hot. Trying not to think about the need to pee. Mind over bladder. Lights out.
Friday night, 11:05 pm: It's too hot. Can't hide from the bugs. Decided to read. Can't sleep. Bugs still buzzing. Might just be ringing in my ears, but I can't be sure. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:06 pm: Too hot. Don't like being this sweaty. Still need to pee.
Friday night, 11:21 pm: Just got back from the bathroom. It seemed so much closer in the daylight. Bugs seem to be less numerous. Really need to pee.
Friday night, 11:47 pm: Held out as long as possible. Just got back from the bathroom again. Why does it seem so far away? Bugs seem to be less numerous. Maybe I will get some sleep now. Lights out.
Saturday morning, 12:01 am: Lights on. Hot. Bugs. Need to pee. Trying to be strong. Reading will distract me from the need to pee. So glad I brought extra batteries for the lamp.
Saturday morning, 12:03 am: Really need to pee. Does camping shrink one's bladder? Am determined not to walk all the way over to the bathroom again. It's just too far. And there are bugs there. Maybe I will get some sleep now.
Saturday morning, 12:10 am: Why is the bathroom so far away? Why, oh, why? This will be my last trip.
Saturday morning, 1:07 am: Note to self -- need to Google "camping bladder" and see if it is a medical condition. Will volunteer to be a case study. Bugs not buzzing so much anymore. Not as hot. Trying not to think about the need to pee. Mind over bladder. Lights out.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Camp, part 1
As a Japanese American child growing up in Gardena, California, I did not know anybody who went to camp. At least not voluntarily. "Camp" was someplace where a handful of my uncles and aunts spent some time during WWII, and where a few of my cousins were born. It was located someplace out in the middle of nowhere, and you weren't allowed to take anything there that did not fit in your suitcase. During the '70s, when customers of a certain age group would come to my mother's yarn shop, there was always the question, "Were you in the camps?" followed by, "Really? Which one?" which was followed by either: (a) "Ara maaa! I know you! I'm ___! Do you remember me?" or (b) "Hmmm. Are you related to ___? Honto? (Really?) That's my uncle/aunt/cousin!" Some connection within a few degrees of separation was almost inevitable, and I could hear the camaraderie in people's voices as they reminisced about a time when they made the best of a terrible situation, adapting to their new homes behind barbed wire.
Given my point of reference, I never felt like I was missing out on anything when I didn't go to a sleep-away summer camp. I knew about those camps from TV and movies, and they seemed to be only for white kids, anyway. Or, at least, that was the impression I got from watching Little Darlings, starring Kristy McNichols and Tatum O'Neal. What an eye-opener that movie was for me! Who knew that summer camp was so ... uh ... "educational"? I was fine being limited to my girl scout troop overnight camping trips, where we learned to pitch a pup tent and wash our dishes in a bleach solution. A couple nights around the campfire singing deeply religious songs about Gabriel-blowing-his-horn and how we should care-to-be-redeemed was really fun, even for a little Buddhist child like me who had no idea what I was singing about.
Fast forward to 2008. Since my girl scout camping days, I have only been camping one other time, in 2000. Or was it 2001? Apparently, I was so traumatized that my brain has blocked the date out of my memory. That trip made me realize that I am quite content to be: Not a Camper. However, due to the persuasive powers of other moms at the school, I found myself appointed as one of the organizers of my fourth grade daughter's school trip to Camp Augusta. And, due to unforeseen lacrosse playoffs, my husband and son are no longer going on the trip, much to the delight of my husband, Mr. Not a Camper. Leaving me and my daughter to venture off to camp. All alone.
As the camp date nears, my dread begins to grow. I keep having flashbacks of shivering in a sleeping bag back in 2000 -- or was it 2001? -- and getting dirt into every crevice. And I know that the number of wrinkles and folds of skin has only increased, which, of course, will mean more dirt. I try to stay positive (for my daughter, of course), but I find myself privately venting to my husband. "You know I'm Not a Camper! Woe is me," I say, looking as forlorn as possible. "Quit being such a wussy. Just suck it up already," says my husband.
I know he is right, and I will. For the sake of the children.
Given my point of reference, I never felt like I was missing out on anything when I didn't go to a sleep-away summer camp. I knew about those camps from TV and movies, and they seemed to be only for white kids, anyway. Or, at least, that was the impression I got from watching Little Darlings, starring Kristy McNichols and Tatum O'Neal. What an eye-opener that movie was for me! Who knew that summer camp was so ... uh ... "educational"? I was fine being limited to my girl scout troop overnight camping trips, where we learned to pitch a pup tent and wash our dishes in a bleach solution. A couple nights around the campfire singing deeply religious songs about Gabriel-blowing-his-horn and how we should care-to-be-redeemed was really fun, even for a little Buddhist child like me who had no idea what I was singing about.
Fast forward to 2008. Since my girl scout camping days, I have only been camping one other time, in 2000. Or was it 2001? Apparently, I was so traumatized that my brain has blocked the date out of my memory. That trip made me realize that I am quite content to be: Not a Camper. However, due to the persuasive powers of other moms at the school, I found myself appointed as one of the organizers of my fourth grade daughter's school trip to Camp Augusta. And, due to unforeseen lacrosse playoffs, my husband and son are no longer going on the trip, much to the delight of my husband, Mr. Not a Camper. Leaving me and my daughter to venture off to camp. All alone.
As the camp date nears, my dread begins to grow. I keep having flashbacks of shivering in a sleeping bag back in 2000 -- or was it 2001? -- and getting dirt into every crevice. And I know that the number of wrinkles and folds of skin has only increased, which, of course, will mean more dirt. I try to stay positive (for my daughter, of course), but I find myself privately venting to my husband. "You know I'm Not a Camper! Woe is me," I say, looking as forlorn as possible. "Quit being such a wussy. Just suck it up already," says my husband.
I know he is right, and I will. For the sake of the children.
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