THE BIRD IS THE WORD

Just what is it about birds? Is it their natural beauty and grace as they extend their wings to soar and glide against a backdrop of sky? Perhaps it is their measured lovely notes as they usher in dawn and bid adieu to dusk? Or maybe it is the way they, just through the process of sheer observation, bring the looker closer to the mysteries of the natural world? It could be, though, that in addition to all of these obvious attributes, I am, with all the predictable messy angst of humanhood, simply envious of birds. All birds, everywhere. Why? Well, for one thing, birds accept their particular beauty; their species driven proclivities; their daily routines and tasks, as predetermined…and not due to ignorant submission or lack of will or power, but because of an innate instinctual drive, which exists free (lucky birds!) from the morass of a mere human’s existential grapplings. Ever since Robert McCloskey’s Mallard family made their nest in the Boston Public Garden, and ever since Mrs. Mallard demonstrated the ease with which Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack, fell in an obedient line behind her as they waddled their way through the streets of Boston in search of peanuts, literally just days after they had shaken that off-white keratin covering from their moist wings, my fascination (and jealousy) was established. What, I wondered, did they know–what intuitive knowledge of ebb and flow and rhythm and rhyme and reason–had the birds been graciously granted, that evaded us humans?

By way of contrast, let us peek through the raised blinds of an average human family “nest” on a typical Saturday night (disclaimer: the scene described is fiction; any resemblance to the author’s own life–even if you were an actual witness to the events described–is purely coincidental):

Mom (returning to the nest to feed her young, after a restorative day away from said young, so that she could go winter waterfowl birding without someone needing her gosh darn attention each and every gosh darn minute of the gosh darn day):  “Hi…I am home!  Wow, it is really snowing out there.  Birding was great–just great; I can’t wait to show you the pictures I took of the Snow Geese.  Where is everyone?  Hello…is anyone here?”

Gaggle (well, three- of children):  “Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom…hi mom…you are back…how was birding?…the dog peed on the carpet…shhhhh, dad is sleeping….I forgot to tell you, I failed my science test, but it was so unfair….mom, mom. mom, mom…why can’t I play Mortal Combat on the X-Box?  Everyone else plays it, and it is fake blood; the blood is fake…I don’t feel well…uh oh, the dog is peeing on the carpet again; get the dog….”

Dad (from the sofa):  “ZZZZZZZ…….zzzzzzz…….ZZZ….zz…..ZZZZZZZZ……”

Mom (putting her bags down and grabbing some white towels and cleaning spray):  “Didn’t anyone remember to walk the dogs?  How long has your father been asleep?  What’s wrong?  You don’t look so well.”

Dad (disoriented, waking on the sofa, and soon disappearing into the bathroom):  “ZZZZZZZ…what, who, what. where…I’m up…I’m up…hey, mom’s home!  How was the bird thing? Kids were great…just great…wait, I need to go to the bathroom.  Did anyone save me a Ho Ho?”

Mom (on hands and knees cleaning up dog pee, before the puddle starts disappearing under the refrigerator):  “What’s a Ho Ho?  Really (to gaggle), you do not look so well…are you ok?”

Gaggle (cacophony of voices, all speaking at once):  “I think I am going to be sick…me too…the Ho Ho eating contest may not have been a great idea…cupcakes, with cream inside…dad bought us Ho Hos, because we had never had them…I didn’t eat them; too many artificial ingredients…yes you did…just one, because I wanted to remind myself how much I hate artificial ingredients…and he said if we let him nap, we could have a Ho Ho eating contest…which may not have been a great idea…”

Mom (finished cleaning up pee and standing up to efficiently take care of and organize gaggle):  “How many of these Ho Hos did you eat?”

Gaggle:  “Two boxes…I am going to be sick…like now…like right now…I need to get to the bathroom…right now…”

Mom (incredulous):  “Two boxes????  Of cupcakes….???  Are you kidding…???”

Dad (from behind locked bathroom door):  “We had a great day…a really great day!  Did you notice that it’s snowing outside?  I’ll be right out…did you kids save me a Ho Ho?  Tell mom about the Ho Hos….”

Gaggle (opening mouth to answer question put forth by incredulous mom, but, instead, well….):   “sorry…the bathroom door was locked…I couldn’t hold it in….ewwwww….I am so glad I don’t eat artificial ingredients…..I feel so much better now….me too…mom, let me help you clean it up….that’s disgusting….mom, mom, are you ok?”

Dad (finally emerging from the bathroom):  “Did you see the bird?…what a great day, really…what’s that smell…WTF did I just step in….?????”

And so, as I again ponder the enviable ordered existence of birds, recalling–for example–how a colony of western Acorn Woodpeckers works as a single industrious unit to store thousands of acorns in carefully drilled oak tree holes, and how both males and females join together to seamlessly raise several young in a single communal nest, I am again  in awe of the innate understanding of complex social structures these birds demonstrate.  It is most certain that the Acorn Woodpeckers’ instinctual communal living model is free from that dreaded mandate of group habitation, the House Meeting, that I was forced to endure during my tenure as a commune-style living participant in my carefree Berkeley, California college days. The endless, and generally unsatisfying clash of agendas realized as the various house members tried to figure out whose turn it was to wash the dishes; whose job it was that week to empty the garbage bins;  who had allowed the Deadheads to set up camp in our living room, so they could drop–over consecutive days–the last 30 tabs of their acid before heading back East; and who, selfishly and without thought to the feelings and needs of the rest of the house members, replaced the communal pan of premium hash brownies with regular old Duncan Hines.  How trivial these concerns seem (other than the hash brownie conundrum) when juxtaposed with the larger goal of species survival, that is paramount to our avian friends.

Finally, speaking of survival, I would like to extend a world of thanks to the gods for my own personal stash of Goose Island, with which I (pretty much) nightly use to soften the hard edges of my own family nest:

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And thank you to the glorious birds everywhere, flying somewhere, so that we as terrestrial beings may see them….and in our minds follow them….and dream:

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(and, yes, these are my actual photos from my non-fictional waterfowl trip:)

HOLIDAY HEARTACHES: A (brief) HISTORY…part 1(of 2)

The HOLIDAYS–a time of gratuitous cheer, coerced altruism, and copious amounts of good old-fashioned self-loathing and regret–are without a doubt (but not it seems beyond a reasonable doubt) the greatest, most cherished, time of the year! So, in the spirit of fully, if not somewhat dubiously, embracing the holiday spirit, I have decided to relive (I will be pathetic, so you don’t have to–my gift to you, dear reader:) my worst romantic (read: sexual–because, come on, that’s what it’s in fact really about, am I right?) break-ups EVER!  The post is written in two parts, so that you will be compelled to continue reading my blog…or I will kill myself–just kidding–that’s just a bit of whimsical holiday humor…

Number 5:  Prison Break (up):  There is something just so unfair, so completely counter to the average person’s sense of compassion, almost amoral even, about turning the everyday experience of being arrested in a country run by an inhumane dictator and held for four days under the blaring light of a single bare bulb in a tiny cell with a non-working and completely exposed toilet with the other eleven members of your human rights delegation arrested for accidentally stepping foot (a tiny toe, actually) into rebel territory in the highlands of a certain Central American country before being unceremoniously forced to sign a non-mistreatment statement and hastily deported, into a barely digestible memory of deception.  I mean, really, a PETA activist????  You weren’t even a vegetarian!  The next time you take Ecstasy while your incarcerated lover is trying her best to NOT go to the bathroom for four full days and three (bladder) full sleepless nights, try to use that insuppressible burst of libido to, say, declare your undying lust to a horny local congressional representative who might have some sway over the notoriously nefarious police in said puppet run country in which he or she is—by extension, at least–at least one part puppeteer.  You know, just something to think about…

Number 4:  Camper Van Jam:  You know the perhaps overused and slightly cliched saying that life is like the Camper Van Beethoven song, Take the Skinheads Bowling?  Well, that saying just hit the nail on the head in terms of my break up with, well, let’s just call him THE ONE (or ONE, for short).  I met ONE about two days after I was released from prison–enough time for me to become less sleep deprived and more accepting of the, um, asshole who cheated on me (while I was in prison, that’s right, prison), but not enough time to lose my new super svelte look obtained from my 96 hours of enforced starvation–at an alternative (read: Socialist) book store in San Francisco.  I was speaking to a small group about my harrowing experience, which was most certainly part of a larger conspiracy propagated by the powers that be, to, you know, keep women thin–among other things, and…there he was…the coolest guy I had ever seen. He literally and figuratively (that’s right, both) took my breath away! I mean with his thick leather jacket, tight blue jeans, motorcycle helmet in hand, goatee on chin–he was the epitome of metrosexual, and that term hadn’t even been coined yet.  My friend, breathless herself, remarked, “he’s so cool, it’s like he isn’t even there.”  Right on, sister…So, realizing that this was most likely IT, that I would soon be zipping up and down the hills of San Fran on the back of his like-a-Harley-yet-a bit-smaller bike, Dramamine patch glued to my arm, I decided to make it my new religion (in addition, of course, to my strict adherence to the practice of cultural Judaism) to not screw this up (as I had with Number 5, by being unavailable because I was in a Central American jail cell, that’s right, asshole,  jail cell).  I knew from watching lots and lots– hundreds, actually–of after-school specials as a latch-key kid that the surefire way to get his attention was by completely and relentlessly ignoring him–and I took to that plan like–not to yet again speak in cliches–a skinhead takes to a bowling alley.  AND I could tell he was equally smitten because he completely and relentlessly ignored me as well!  Game on….

Truth be told, I am really just not sure how or why the whole thing ended so abruptly and with such finality.  Perhaps the reality of finally finding THE ONE on this crazy mixed up planet of ours (or, you know, in a sparsely populated progressive (read: Socialist) book store) was just too much for us…the obstacles just too great…the challenges, inherent in not knowing where each other lived or worked or hung out, were just things that we–in the end and at the end of the day (that’s right, both) proved too much to surmount.  But, I still dream of him and what might of been, and in these dreams I want to sleep next to plastic, I want to lick his knees.  I can only hope that ONE is having similar dreams about me, that of all the women he relentlessly and completely ignored, I am the one he thinks about every day when he gets up to pray to Jah

So, there you have it, my heart decimated on the page, the titillating first part of a tale that no one really ever wants to tell…

HAPPY HOLIDAYS:  may they be free of heartache, filled with eggnog, and sexually satisfying (or, you know, emotionally satisfying, if you are into that sort of thing)…

BIRTHDAY BURN (BABY, BURN)

Another birthday…yet another year…and as I get older, I become more and more thankful for the one thing I can, without fail, count on, day in and day out, through thick and thin, good times and bad…I, of course, am talking about Facebook, without which I would surely not have the courage–the unwavering conviction–to get up each and every day and face the aging world with the grace and humility that comes with believing…truly believing…that I am more loved and “liked” than I actually, in reality, most likely am.  Perhaps it is with this indomitable sense of self, renewed daily–or hourly–or, sometimes quarter hourly even–through a surreptitious yet almost constant connection to social media that I embark with ease of mind and lightness of step on that end of summer pre-first-day of school scramble, that ritual rite of passage, familiar to suburban moms everywhere:  packing for the week-long trip (no pun intended) deep into the dust of the Nevada desert to attend Burning Man.

Yes, I know I am far from alone.  This convenient way to (ditch my family for a week) embrace my own life, nourish my own heart, understand the self I am, am becoming, will become, was once, then wasn’t, will be again (or something like that; it’s a bit confusing, actually) so that I may return to those who need and depend on me as the very best (albeit unwashed and apparently quite high alkaline sandy) version of myself: recharged, relaxed, and renewed.  If truth be told, I am going more for them than I am for me.  Did I already mention that I will be traveling solo?

In the last month or so, and then again tonight (over a bottle of birthday champagne and a few shots of tequila, but well before the post-Poptarts-and-Lucky Charms-snifter of scotch), I find myself marveling at the vast and varied array of reactions and responses that just the mention of Burning Man inspires. Indulge me, dear reader, on this anniversary of my birth, as I share just a few:

Husband: “Are you going to walk around naked at Burning Man? I mean it’s OK if you do; I want you to enjoy yourself and really let loose, so that this experience is absolutely everything that you want it to be. Of course, most people your age won’t be walking around naked…for obvious reasons…um, very obvious reasons…but this is your time to shine…so whatever you decide, I accept and support you.”

Nephew:  “Aunt Leanne is a hippie FREAK.  Oh, sorry, Aunt Leanne.”

Friend:  “So, I looked up Burning Man…I mean are you going to stay in a hotel and drive to that place in the desert every morning?  I mean…have you looked up any Burning Man lodging reviews on Travelocity?”

Another Friend:  “I will be burning right there with you, baby…right there on the beach…by the ocean…my own private Burning Man…”

College Friend:  “too commercialized for me…the end of August, I will be attempting to track down the mostly isolated Sentinelese tribe, who live their righteous unadulterated lives on an Island, between India and Thailand. I plan to learn their hunting and gathering ways, man, and leave this commercialized plugged-in life behind…I mean why watch it if you can live it…you know what I am saying? If I don’t come back, just know that my animal spirit has found its true home, and imagine me as I imagine myself, collecting coconuts and having sex…lots and lots of sex…with the island natives…”

Husband: “You are not really going to walk around naked at Burning Man, are you? I mean, if you do, that is fine…more than fine…it is so totally up to you. The important thing is that you get out of this experience what you need to get out of it…if you can do that fully clothed, well…great! If you need to remove, say, an article of clothing or two, I applaud your boldness…I mean, when in Rome…though the Romans were generally modest in public…I am sure your c-section scar is barely even noticeable at this point, and even if it is noticeable–let’s say very noticeable, for argument’s sake…who cares, right?  You just go girl….”

Husband: “Bring sunscreen. A LOT of sunscreen. I just read a startling statistic concerning skin rarely exposed to the sun, upon first and even minimal exposure…I don’t want to scare you or anything, I just thought I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the, well, frightening fact that I just read…regarding rarely exposed skin…to the sun…especially, it seems, the desert sun…”

Husband: “I will know if you get naked…don’t ask me how–I will just know…”

Billy Bragg:  (who probably summarized the year best:)

“Whoops, there goes another year                                                                               Whoops, there goes another pint of beer”

PUGS JUST WANT TO READ BOOKS…ALL SUMMER LONG…ON A SUNNY AFTERNOON…AND THROUGHOUT UH OH THOSE SUMMER NIGHTS

Pugs by any other name are still, well, pugs..Spoiler Alert:  this post will be about as original as the parental relief felt on the last of school and/or the visceral parental panic experienced after that first schedule-free day of summer…BUT the pictures are cute, and the title is oh so musical, so work with me here, as I have backpacks to empty, boys to feed, books to read, and my pugs-with-books-and-pithy-captions pictures to reblog from Bookporn, where I posted them first.  Enjoy, and happy summer (with–hopefully–lots and lots of books:)

pugpowerandglory

“Hope was an instinct only the reasoning human mind could kill. An animal never knew despair.”                                                                                                                                              —-Graham Greene, The Power and the Glory

 

pug updikeUpdike gets me every time…                                                                                                —–John Updike, The Maple Stories

 

dogandboy

A dog and his BOY…                                                                                                         —-Roald Dahl, Boy

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 Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage…best summer read EVER!

THE SIXTIES (family style)…CNN SERIES(ly)

60candyphotoTHE SIXTIES…Bob Dylan certainly captured the anarchic mood of that tumultuous era rather well:

Come gather ’round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin’
Then you better start swimmin’
Or you’ll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin’.

I for one was so enamored with the radical promise of that decade, having–you know– been born smack in the middle of that explosive experimental time.  Of course my birth and first seventeen years of life took place a wee bit outside society’s fraying and expansive center (like in the epitome of suburbia), but my parents were known to indulge in the occasional joint, so I figured I was entitled to consider myself part of the radical hood.  In fact, Lauren–salacious protagonist of Broken Hallelujah: notes from a marriage and something of my own personal alter ego–details her own brush with the frenzied forces of student driven political and social change, in BH’s chapter, Vanity.  Her “sixties” actually took place in the eighties, but hey, it was in Berkeley, California after all, so, well…anyway…

Fast forward to last Thursday night, May 29, 2014, when CNN premiered its original series, The Sixties.  What an opportunity, I had mused excitedly to myself, to share the cultural and political significance of such an important decade with my three history savvy and book smart sons.  The bonding we would do…the discussions we would have…I was almost giddy with the possibilities!  To make the occasion even more special, even more relevant to that which truly inspires them, I stocked up on nostalgic candy of that very era…Candy Buttons, Fizzies, Bit-O-Honey, and Mallo Cups were all honest to goodness relics of that bygone time, and by goodness my boys were going to indulge while we, as a family, witnessed history (that had been filmed, edited, and padded with lots and lots of commercials) in the making!  I provide for you here, dear reader, a window into the living room of a family–any family, really–experiencing that cherished modern ritual so accurately dubbed “family time”:

Oldest Son–14 (OS):  “Why do you and dad get the comfortable chairs?”

Middle Son–12 (MS):  “I have my computer, in case we need to look anything up…”

Youngest Son-10 (YS):  “Do the Mallo Cups have gelatin in them?  You know I don’t eat gelatin.”

OS:  “You are such a freak–why don’t you eat gelatin?”

YS:  “Because I am a vegetarian, and YOU are a freak.”

OS:  “Well, they do have gelatin.  I am positive, so I will eat yours.”

YS (reading the ingredient list on the Mallo Cup package): “I don’t see gelatin…”

MS (opening his laptop):  “I have my computer, so I can look it up…”

Me:  “Boys, boys…you are missing the show…look, they are showing some of the television programs which your father and I watched when we were your age.”

OS (as if just remembering his parents were in the room):  “Why do you and dad get the comfortable chairs?  It is so not fair.”

MS: “Nope, no gelatin, so you can eat the Mallo Cups.  Does anyone want to trade my blue Candy Dots for yellow ones?  I don’t like the blue ones.”

Me:  “Boys…you are not even watching…look there’s Tiny Tim being interviewed on The Tonight Show!”

YS (tentatively nibbling at the corner of a Mallo Cup):  “Are you ABSOLUTELY SURE they don’t have gelatin???”

OS (exasperated):  “You are a freak.  If you don’t want it, don’t eat it.”

MS:  “Who played Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol?”

Me (not quite understanding):  “The movie of the Charles Dickens’ novel?”

MS:  “Yes.”

Me:  “You know it’s not the same Tiny Tim, right….why are you asking?”

MS:  “Oh, I know.  It’s just that we are learning about Charles Dickens in my English class, and I was kind of curious.”

Me:  “Come on, guys…I am trying to watch…”

MS:  “Good thing I have my computer; I can just look it up!”

OS:  “Who cares who played Tiny Tim…you are such a freak!”

Me:  “Shhhhh….”

OS (rolling his eyes):  “Well, perhaps if I were sitting in a comfortable chair, I could sit quietly and watch.”

YS (excitedly pointing to a commercial for the newly released movie, Jersey Boys):  “Oh, I so want to see that movie!”

All Three Boys (staring at the television in rapt attention for the duration of the ad):………. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

MS (turning back to his computer screen after the Jersey Boy ad is over):  “Terry Kilburn played Tiny Tim.  Blue Dots for yellow Dots…last chance…”

OS:  “We don’t want to trade Dots.  What a freak…”

Me:  “OK, boys, enough…please really focus on the second half…your father and I have been waiting to see this…”

MS:  “Look!  Dad’s asleep!”

YS (loudly–in his father’s direction):  “Dad!  You are supposed to be watching…”

Dad: “ZZZZZzzzzzzzzzz….”

OS (quite satisfied with himself):  “See…that’s what happens when you sit in a comfortable chair!”

YS:  “Do you mind if I go read in bed?  I am tired.  This was great–thanks, mom!!  Good night…”

MS:  “Wait, I’ll come with you.  After we brush our teeth, we can look up on my computer where Jersey Boys is playing.”

Me:  “Goodnight boys.  That was, um, fun…?”

OS:  “Yeah, I  am going to bed too…good night.  Next week I call sitting in a comfortable chair.”

Ah, Bob Dylan, perhaps your inimitable words ring as true today as they did back then, in THE SIXTIES, the only difference being in the way one defines unrest:

Come mothers and fathers
Throughout the land
And don’t criticize
What you can’t understand
Your sons and your daughters
Are beyond your command
Your old road is
Rapidly agin’
Please get out of the new one
If you can’t lend your hand
For the times they are a-changin’.

STANDARDIZED HELL BY ANY OTHER NAME IS SOL

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.

T.S. Elliot so eloquently wrote in The Waste Land, his words describing how the promise of April is subverted through acute and seemingly irreconcilable tensions, and one can’t help but wonder if the possibly prescient Thomas Stearns could have fathomed just how applicable his opening stanza would be to the April that we, heedless participants in our great and at times schizophrenic country’s system of education, must endure.  Welcome, my friends, young and old, elementary through senior high, to the month–rife with memory (or, more accurately, memorization) and desire (for it to end, to please just end)–of relentless standardized testing.

Don’t get me wrong, I most certainly am not suggesting that I am anything less than grateful to have such finely honed and reliable learning assessment tools right at arms’ reach.  I mean if it weren’t for the careful administration and scoring of yearly standardized achievement and aptitude tests, we–as a society, as a community, and, frankly, even as a family– would never be able to accurately separate the really stupid sub-par kids from the ones worthy of our time, attention, and focus.  In addition, the public, and even many private, schools would have no idea at what point in the year to stop channeling their efforts into the dissemination and memorization of information, and instead use the vast array of resources at their disposal to better diagnose the disruptive boys–I mean children–with ADHD.  But I digress…

Because I have such a vested interest in the outcome of such testing–being the ever loving and often cranky mother of three energetic boys–I knew that shock and more shock was the only appropriate response to my middle son’s–self-proclaimed math and science geek–perfect score of 600 on his writing SOL.  In fact my unwavering though to this point non-committal belief in the entire education system was seriously, and perhaps irrevocably, shaken.  The child couldn’t write…really…

“So,” I asked him, nonchalantly, not wanting to seem skeptical of that which had become a source of pride, and confusion, but mostly pride, for him, “what was the SOL writing prompt?”

“I had to describe a time I was responsible,” he responded, seriously.

“Oh, that’s a good prompt,” I encouraged, “what did you write about?”

“I wrote about how I have to take care of my little brother,” he responded, eager to recount the tale that had earned him such a coveted accolade.  “I described how, you know, when you are in the bathroom, I have to play with A, and how when you lock us out of the house and tell us to play outside, I entertain him even when he wants to go inside, and I included the time that we both came in covered in mud, and how you screamed at us because you had just cleaned the floor where we dropped our muddy clothes.  Oh yeah, I got a bit carried away and wrote about how I feed A lunch and dinner when you don’t feel like giving us food,”  he finished, proudly.

I wondered how long before Child Protective Services would come a knock, knock, knocking at our door.

“Um,” I began, trying to think of an appropriate response, “did you also mention how your parents disappear for weeks at a time, and how you have figured out how to drive the family car, so you can take your little brother to preschool?” I asked, hopefully getting my extremely literal middle son to see his story through my eyes.

“No one would believe that,” he laughed.  “And the essay was 468 words long; when I began to run out of space, I wrote really, really small, so I could fit it all in.”

I couldn’t help but think of how Hank, my college boyfriend and eponymous hero of a chapter in Broken Hallelujah:  notes from a marriage, once remarked that standardized tests merely measure the extent to which one could be controlled.  I had always enjoyed thinking that there was perhaps some truth to his theory, but now my son’s stellar performance in a subject that, shall we say, had never been a strong one disproved that appealing notion for me once and for all.  “Maybe,” my insightful sister had suggested, “they felt bad for him because of his, you know, the home life he presented, and the test scorers wanted to give him something, some shred of hope, that something good could come from his burden.”  Uh, yes, perhaps…

And, so, my test weary friends, we find ourselves once again, in the cruelest of all months, “like a patient etherized upon a table, ” but that is another T.S. Elliot poem entirely.

GO TO THE HOLE, Y’ALL

Winter basketball season has once again come to an uneventful end.  Without fanfare or regret, we bid adieu to another four months of family togetherness, a time of covertly disparaging our own children’s apparent lack of athletic giftedness, while overtly blaming their inadequacies on the poorly prepared coaches and obviously half-blind refs; and–like that storied Shakespearean favorite, Iago–we find ourselves embracing our own tendency towards schadenfreude, through the surreptitious whispering in one friend’s ear our keen–though somewhat reluctantly delivered–observations concerning the athletic “challenges” of another friend’s child…who just so happens not to be present.  Just as Lauren, thoughtfully philosophical and somewhat sex-crazed protagonist from Broken Hallelujah:  notes from a marriage, recognized the stages of one’s life which come around full circle, the basketball courts’ sidelines afford us the indulgence of nostalgia, so that we may once again revisit that inimitable middle school era when we first learned to simultaneously befriend and denigrate the popular crowd, while, at the same time, hiding our own budding eating disorder behind the pretense of adhering to a sophisticated yet little known health trend.

Of course, one can’t help but reflect upon the myriad of emotions, the inevitable highs and lows (if you will) inspired by an entire season in which one’s life is inundated with game play and team spirit.  Happiness (“Yes!  There is only one game I need to watch on Saturday”) can quickly shift, the very next week, to horror (“What??? four basketball games on Saturday???  Well, there goes my plan of eating through our 12 boxes of Thin Mints while binge watching House of Cards“).  And, then, invariably…confusion (“Why can’t they just make the league more competitive, so my kids can get cut before the season even begins?”).  I imagine the actual players experience their own unique–yet no less significant–range of emotions as well…

So why do we do it, you may ask; why do we commit ourselves and our progeny to the relentless pursuit of relentlessly Democratic equal-playing-time house league sports?  Well, I suppose the answer lies in all that our children reap from those sports-lesson seeds that are sown.  For example, I literally get teary eyed witnessing the way in which my eldest son, a young teen, becomes practically subsumed within the collective spirit of his basketball cohorts.  It is as if the coach, through his maniacal screaming, during each and every game, of:  “TAKE IT TO THE HOLE” and “GET THAT BALL TO THE HOLE,” is expressing his implicit understanding of just what it is that constitutes the actual driving force, the unequivocal motivation, for each of these young boys now, and–most likely– for the rest of their lives.

Although both parents and players have now been granted a much needed three week reprieve before the rigors of spring house league are thrust upon us, I for one find myself once again looking forward to the staunch directives delivered to that team that has in its own way become, in the season’s few short months, practically a family:  PENETRATE THE FRONT END, FOCUS ON YOUR BALL, and STUFF THAT HOLE…