Middle Child Day

I read in the Bergen Record that today is officially Middle Child Day. How appropriate, I thought, as my own middle child, Eric, began yet another long car trip with his younger brother Scott. This time Eric is heading to Indiana University to begin a doctoral program in parks, recreation and tourism. Scott generously volunteered to help with the move. No room in the car for Mom this time, but I am reminiscing about our original cross country trip in 2010, the Summer of Eric, which became the impetus for this blog.

I've been calling this summer the Summer of Eric Part 2, also known as SOE2, since Eric arrived mid-June. Not every mother gets the quality (and quantity) time with an adult child, so I appreciate the gift this summer was to me. We did a lot of things, like fishing, going to the beach, visiting NYC and the Great Falls of Paterson, running with Cory Booker.

On the Norma-K

Hanging with Cory

Running with Cory

No keepers on the Norma K. Next year we're taking the Cock Robin day cruise.

The 12 fish in 30 minutes day!

But, just as memorable were the small things, our daily routine. We started breakfast on the deck or the porch at Brick with a selection of fruit--this from a picky eater who only ate a strawberry for the first time last year.

We each buried are noses in the newspaper--mine usually the old school actual paper version; his on the Kindle. Yes, I was told I eat too loudly-slurping my cereal and knocking the spoon against the bowl. Is someone a bit grumpy in the morning? We often had our respective work to do -my MBCN emails, webpage updates and September conference tasks; his review of potential IU courses and revision of his presentation for a November conference.


Lunch might involve catching up on a tv show-Dexter or reruns of Breaking Bad with no commentary allowed during the show. Theories on future episodes were discouraged-- "You're ruining it for me."

We even managed to get some things done off my to-do list---impossible tasks like throwing out old basement furniture and mysterious black bags. My hero! I still maintain, however, that I never threw out a paper grocery bag with plastic cups from various ball parks around the country. Even I would realize that this was a priceless collection. Maybe it will turn up by Thanksgiving?

Best of all, we had wonderful gatherings with family and friends--- 4th of July fireworks cruise, barbeques and a Yankee baseball game (although I didn't get to boo A-Rod.)

Good Luck Eric cake from Molloys

fireworks cruise on Norma-K

Father and son

The Fans

With the first born

At Jenk's Gate 5 Beach

I was up at 6 AM today to bid the boys farewell, so it's almost nap time here.

Thank you, Eric, for SOE2. Good luck in your foray into those flyover states. Promise you won't change from Green to Tea Party and......

  Happy Middle Child Day!

PS. Your Cory Booker bumper sticker is in the mail.:)

96 degree golf

Crazy, I know, but I played golf on Thursday in my regular 9 hole golf league. Given that most of the women complain about just about everything (It's too hot, too cold, too buggy, too slow, too windy),  I was surprised to see that seven of the sixteen members had shown up.

Most of the week I had spent cocooned in my air conditioned house with occasional forays to the garage to get into my air conditioned car. I might as well be living in Arizona.  When I walked down the driveway Thursday afternoon to pick up the mail, it didn't seem that bad--there was a breeze blowing the hot, humid air around and I was determined to get outside and enjoy the summer. The Paramus course had to look better than the British Open's burned out fairways with tall, yellow fescue, waving invitingly from the deep rough.

Even with benefit of a golf cart, layers of sunscreen and several bottles of water, I had to admit I was waivering by hole 5. I tried to stay in the shade, but the sun was intense, beating down on us, as we chased our putts down. I felt a shortness of breath, climbing back into the cart. Not even the fact that I parred the hole seemed to help and I thought about tossing in the (wet) golf towel and retreating to the clubhouse, which was an easy ride from the 6th hole.

Then we saw it. The 6th hole. A desert traveler's seductive mirage.  Four sprinklers gently undulated, creating double rainbows all the way down the fairway. It was beautiful, as though we had finally arrived in the colorized land of Oz, leaving behind dusty, dry, black and white Kansas.

"We're saved!" I yelled to my similarly fading teammates. After the tee shot, I drove straight towards the sprinklers, careening the cart in figure eights around the cool jets of water. I got out and walked slowly through the arching sprays, feeling like a kid again. My cautious and reluctant fellow players laughed at me "You're all wet."  "Come on," I urged them, "we'll be dry by the next hole."

From that moment on, the round changed. We were exuberant at cooling off and recapturing, if only for an instant, the simple thrill and careless abandon of youth, running through a sprinkler on a sultry afternoon with no worries or decisions beyond what ice cream we'd get from the Good Humor man, the summer stretching out before us with long, lazy days and endless possibility.

Ahh...isn't that what summer's all about?

The Tipping Point

Don't want to gross you out or make you paranoid about having an iced cold drink at my house, but we have a problem with the ice cube machine in the fridge. Lately it's been producing one brown streaked cube at the front of the maker. The rest of the ice cubes look fine, but every other day or so you have to break off the cloudy, brown stalactite and then rummage through the cube bin to make sure one didn't drop down to start a stalagmite. Gee- a bit of Howe Caverns or Oregon Caves in my own kitchen.


What causes this--rust? brown lichen? mold? oil seeping in from somewhere? Thousands of years of water flowing over limestone? (no, that would be the cave). Perhaps it's the arsenic that my water company reported has been found in one of their wells--not to worry, they've shut down that one well. Wouldn't want to get cancer or anything!


It doesn't really matter where the problem comes from. The point is it's a new daily task to be added to the list or get fixed or just tolerate. (Don't worry, I'm not even thinking of DIY fixes. Remember the sidewalk lights project? The score still stands at 3 lights working; 5 not.)


So far, I've opted just to tolerate it, but I know one morning I'll wake up and know that TODAY it must be dealt with. It's my own private tipping point (apologies to Malcolm Gladwell)


In my family, especially on my mother's side, the tipping point was set extravagantly high. Once my aunt ordered a welcome mat for the bungalow and it was shipped with their last name misspelled. Most people would have returned it immediately, but my aunt and uncle said it was still a good mat and maybe their name had too many "n's" in it anyway. They also labored with a hand cranking can opener that was painful to operate, as its dull blade gnawed around the top of the can. Buy a new one? Why be so wasteful?  


Is it so bad that I grew up in a house where the upstairs renovation was never completed and shiny, silver insulation without benefit of sheetrocking greeted you as you ascended the stairs? My father just never got around to it and we all got used to it.  As a bonus for our high tipping point, the next generation of grandchildren have fond memories of going to Grandma's and sleeping under the silver eaves.


I have a theory that people with high tipping points are happier. They don't obsess about details; they take life as it comes.  Not original, I know. In fact I think I used my Don't Sweat the Small Stuff coffee mug today. Hmm, nice rainy day to read or write and celebrate the first full day of summer...and, yeah, a short time out to spelunk into the freezer. Happy summer!