Summer-Size Me

NOTE: The picture above is proof that exercise and dieting are a "waist" of time, so I've decided to throw in the towel and just enjoy myself. What's that? You'd rather I cover myself with the towel instead? Fair enough - come to think of it, it might come in handy to mop up all that barbecue sauce I plan on devouring. Thanks for the tip. Now on to the main course...

It’s a weird world we live in when we routinely devote eight months of every year to dieting and exercise in order to get our bodies back in shape for the summer - only to spend the much anticipated season eating all the foods that got us so fat in the first place.  Except for watermelon and corn on the cob (minus the butter), I can’t think of another summer food that isn’t fattening or unhealthy.  Ice cream?  Fried clams?  Burgers?  Hot dogs?  Ribs?  Macaroni salad?   All so good…yet oh so bad.  But can we enjoy summer without them?  Or, as Hamlet might say: To eat, or not to eat, --that is the question: -- Whether ‘tis nobler to diet and suffer for the slings and thongs of outrageous swimsuits.  Or to take arms against a sea of potato salads, and by consuming, enjoy them.

Only it’s not just a question of will power – I’m sure many of us could deprive ourselves of the good foods mentioned above, but who’d want to? What’s a picnic, parade, beach or ballpark without them? The truth is, much of what we love about summer comes from what (and where) we eat.  And thanks to  the warm weather and long days, we have plenty of time to do just that.  Which explains why I usually only have about  a week or two in early May when I can walk around without my shirt on with any degree of confidence - because by the end of Memorial Day weekend, it’s all over.  I’m back to jiggling like a Jell-O mold.  And after two months of hitting every picnic like Yogi Bear coming out of hibernation, I’ve packed back on all the weight I lost (and then some) so that come the aptly named Labor Day, I look like I’m about to give birth.

But who cares? We have a whole year (minus those months between Halloween and Christmas) to work it back off.  Sure, it’s a vicious (but delicious) cycle, but that’s why they invented t-shirts and tankinis, so I say celebrate now and slim down later.  Are you with me? Then step right up (and off that scale) and say, “Summer-size me!”  

Eat those ribs until you can no longer see your own. Dig in to those fried clams - and go for the whole bellies, strips are for skinny people. Double up your paper plate and be the first in line at the next picnic, bypassing anything that's served with a fork. The stuff that must be spooned is bound to be better. And wash it all down with a couple of salty margaritas or frosty beers - keeping in mind that calories that aren't chewed don't count. 

The point is, summer is short, so enjoy yourself. And remember, it’s better to eat good than to look good.  Plus, the more you eat, the better I’ll look in comparison.

Aiming for Center Mass

When you spend a lot of time alone, be it biking, hiking, or sitting on the toilet, you tend to think about stuff. What you would do if you suddenly lost your job. Or how you would respond to a terrorist attack. Or why did you have that second bowl of chili?

And most times, I imagine, we imagine ourselves doing all the right things in the face of these dangers and difficulties, calmly stopping, dropping, and rolling our way through the countless catastrophes we conjure up.

But what would we do if something really happened?

I had the chance to see for myself a few years ago, when I walked out of the woods to find someone aiming a gun right at my head.

Did I duck and cover? Turn tail and sprint a zig zag pattern through the trees? Dive behind a boulder and pull out my own weapon?

That would be No to the third power.

No, what I did, when suddenly faced with the very real danger of a loaded pistol pointing at my face, was to casually tap my friend on the shoulder and say, “Dude, I think that guy is pointing a gun at us.”

There was no adrenaline rush. My life did not flash before my eyes. I did not feel scared, worried, angry, or anxious. Mostly I was curious. Like why was this guy pointing a gun at me?

So I waved and gave a loud, “Hello?”

 Now, as a society, we like to make fun of the characters in horror movies who investigate the strange sounds coming from the basement and end up getting chain sawed in the chest – but I’m no longer so sure they’re behaving all that bizarrely.

Curiosity does more than kill cats and make life challenging for the Man in the Yellow Hat – it encourages us to open doors that may lead to great opportunities…or homicidal maniacs in hockey masks!

But that’s not my point. My real purpose is to discuss how non-aroused I was by the whole situation. And not that kind of arousal, you pervs, I mean the 'fight or flight' arousal that supposedly helps all living things survive.  Either I’m an evolutionary marvel, or I’m missing something, because I really don’t get riled up or excited. About anything.

I could give a bunch of examples - none as dramatic as the gun pointed at my head - but all would share a common trait: basically, I have no pulse. Don’t get me wrong. I do get sad. I have a tough time seeing others in pain. And there are times when I feel stressed. But I just don’t get excited.  I don't have high highs or low lows. I have…mediums?

I’m sure I’m missing out on some wonderful feelings, but frankly, I think the trade off is worth it. Think of me as an emotional Goldilocks. Not too hot, not too cold. Everything is just right (so long as you ignore the broken furniture and wasted porridge I leave in my wake!) You might disagree, claiming that breaking even is not a win and a tie is not a victory, and you would be right. But when you think about how much more time is spent practicing than playing the game, then I come out ahead, because on average, I will have more average days than you have good or bad ones.

But back to the day in question. What happened was my friend and I had come out of the woods and into a clearing, where there were several picnic tables, so we sat down for a rest. While we were talking, I noticed a white pick-up coming down the access road, and watched as a uniformed man got out and started pointing his pistol at me.

And while the daydream version of me would have flipped the table over and taken cover behind it, the real me simply waved and hollered “Hello?”

Even from 100 yards away, I could see the look of panic on his face as he quickly holstered his gun upon hearing me call out. We hopped off the table and walked over to him to see what was going on.

It turned out to be (name omitted to protect the not so innocent), a man we were quite familiar with, as he was the only full-time park ranger in the town of (name omitted to protect the not so innocent) for the past 20 years and he often “checked in” on us during our many teenage camping excursions (meaning many of you have by now figured out who he is, but fuck him, he almost shot me!) Anyway, Ranger Doe nervously explained that he was due for his weapon qualification, and that he was simply testing his sights. “I wasn’t really gonna shoot,” he stammered. “I was just aiming…” he trailed off, knowing that the only way to test one’s aim was to pull the trigger and see what you hit.

“And you decided to aim at me?” I asked incredulously.

“No, no! God no! I was pointing at that sign,” he said, indicating a small plaque on a post that identified Campsite 3, “I didn’t even see you there. Where did you come from anyway,” he asked, changing his tone to more of a challenge, looking for a way to blame us for the near tragedy.

“The woods,” I explained helpfully, happy to have the (picnic) tables turned after so many years.  “And there are quite a few other hikers out there, you really should be more careful,” I added, more out of revenge for all the beer he took from us, the garbage he made us pick up, and the fires he made us put out, than for the fact that he nearly shot me in the head!

“And you really want to wear bright clothes when hiking, especially during hunting season,” he advised, trying to save face while distancing himself from the thought that he nearly put a bullet through mine.

“We’ll keep that in mind,” I said, shaking his still shaking hand. “And good luck with your qualifications. Try not to shoot the instructor!”

He nodded his head in defeat and got back into his truck, giving a friendly beep as he drove off.

As we walked through the settling dust from his hasty retreat, I found myself hoping he really did pass his test. I knew that being a ranger was his life, and even though he nearly took mine, I wasn’t one to hold a grudge. Plus, like most things in my life, it was nothing to get excited about!

Turning the Other Cheek (a guest blog by Amy)

Hello friends and followers of Mike Wood,

After a few character crushing replies to this blog and sharing some message board mayhem, Mike had suggested to me that I may be blogworthy. As this is the only blog I frequent, he gave me a general idea of word count but beyond that was left to my own research. As a frantic femme I googled "How do you write a good blog" for instant gratification education. Over 286 million search replies resulted and since I don't have the time to study them all by my 48 hour deadline, I scanned for key phrases: Be yourself, be intimate, be personal, have a good foundation.

Behold, a foray into my intimate personal foundations.

Not actually into them per say but rather to share a few anecdotes on this subject that is so close to us all. It's a universal topic, unless of course you are a nudist, a lifestyle I often fantasize about while I am enduring my weekend laundrythons. Since I live in the wildly undulating and extreme climates of New England, and since I do not have a personal Hollywood special effects team, my brood will continue clothed even through sweltering summer.

As I write, I am unpeeling my legs off my pleather couch, a purchase which seemed like such a good deal from Bob's Discount Damage Room midwinter. A few years back in such summer heat I recall doing the same to my desk chair as worked through the night. Hair piled on my head, fans in the windows, I was agonizingly uncomfortable and frantic to finish. By the time I finished my project I was disconnected from reality and wanted to reward myself for a job well done. So off I went to the all night gas station to meet up with my friends Ben & Jerry.

There I enter the beautiful oasis of corporate funded central air and gravitate knowingly to the corner fridge to study the selection. My eyes move across the colorful array of B & J with all their fun names and combinations. The choice I make, hmm Half Baked. Brownies and cookie dough and ice cream…what could be more indulgent and delicious. And I did deserve it. I had worked so hard. 

In my dreamlike state I take my careful selection to the counter and the apathetic attendant assists me. The bells on the door sound as a teenage guy enters the shop. I study him in the reflection of the window behind the counter. I applaud him for giving me personal space, further convincing myself he stands 4 ft behind me in awe of my radiant femininity. I collect my change, give my thanks, and ring the bell as I exit. I encounter a night much cooler than the one I left, motion in the previously still air. I plunk myself down into my seat with a swoosh, and skin touches upholstery. In a place unlike before. I grimace, then grope, and fully note, I am exposed. At some point in the day between my carefully selected white shorts and VPL (visible panty line) evading thong, my pants had ceased to be covering my assets. 

So the kind young man behind my behind, I will never know, I hope, but must apologize for whatever he witnessed. And it was at this moment in my life I embraced a truth.  "They" were right, be aware of what you wear down there, as you never know when you'll be in an accident, even if that accident is your inexpensive shorts giving in on you. Into the bin went that pants that I was in, and never again did I return to buy my outer or undergarments in a retail store bearing the title words "Bug" or "Barn" or any establishment located in a strip mall or under the same roof as you might also purchase motor oil or macaroni.  

As only Marilyn can only tell which way the wind will blow, you must be ready at any moment for your close up. I realize as most you should never shop at Wal-Mart, but I made exception to my clothes purchasing rule as there I have found some silly frillies there that make me smile. In my day to day I dress for desk, and recently wore a somewhat chic shift to work. I felt sophisticated until I realized my floral and peace sign patterned panties were no secret to anyone who might catch me in fluorescent light. Yesterday when I was reflecting on this topic (in a judgment compromising 105 humid day) I wore my "Have a nice day" rainbow bottoms under a knee length skirt. The power of intention won, and there was no updraft up my skirt. While I'm amenable to sharing a smile, I am happy to say I made it across Center Street & Main without any loft.

In my unfailing preparedness for the next occasion my pants split open. I have replaced late night excursions for ice cream for visits to the gym. I first stop in the ladies room to make sure that my clothing has not spontaneously gone threadbare before I employ any challenge that puts my derriere in the air. Last week, as I was holding 15 pound dumbbells and doing single leg dead lifts, I realized I wasn't wearing "gym friendly" underwear till too late. I was fighting some creep as some creep was spying on me. He was employing a lackadaisical effort at his leg presses as he continued to glance in my direction. Taking the opportunity to be enlightened, I told myself that the better for him physically if he found some motivation to work out, and the better for me to remain otherwise focused on my task or I would be tempted to go over and correct him on his form.

At the gym, this objectification by men is not the norm, and further my most cherished accessories while I am attaining my fitness bliss are my iPod and my pink weight lifting gloves, from which I extend pinky out guzzling water between reps. While an annoyance, your panty lines may not be a secret while exercising, and on a similar note I must applaud Victoria for providing us with some structural support. My wardrobe chagrin wins again when I accidentally wear one of their emphatic push up bras under an ace bandage type athletic one, a phenomenon I have coined "Victoria's Xanax", as the girls must contend with such anxiety and confusion.

I'm working on my mindfulness and have to acknowledge that late night mishap for being a healthy moment in my healthy life. A misfortunate wardrobe malfunction can be a source for joy, and as the Buddha would say, "Your body is precious. It is our vehicle for awakening. Treat it with care."

ON the Beaten Path!

Now that summer is here, being a teacher, you’d think I’d have lots of free time, but in reality, I have no time. Without a schedule to stick to, hours (and days) just seem to disappear. So it came as quite a shock when someone pointed out that I was two weeks behind on my blog. Of course the most shocking part was that someone would actually notice my absence, but it was also rather concerning that I could lose track of so much time.

Not that I haven’t been busy. I run a movie making camp, which takes up a lot of my time. And with my son no longer in day care, keeping up with him keeps me quite occupied. But there is still no excuse for not finding half an hour to come up with a blog post. Perhaps the biggest problem is nothing really exciting has happened recently.  Sure, my book made a run at the Top 100 last week, and both the Michael Franti concert and Pickin’ & Fiddlin’ Festival were fun, but nothing blog worthy. You know, like Jell-O or the blemish on my big toe!

My big story so far, as far as you people go (since you seem to revel in my misfortune) would be the trouble I had blazing a bike trail. You see, my town is in the process of building a beautiful recreation path, which just so happens to connect several of my favorite off-road mountain bike trails. Except in one spot. And I thought it would be cool to make my own.

Well, we all know what happened to Thought* and so far, I’ve done major bodily harm THREE times in the exact same spot (well, spot on the trail, not my body!) The first, and most painful, came when I was building an “up and over” that would let me ride over a very large tree that had fallen. The tree had taken out several others in the area, so there were plenty of logs lying around to make ramps on both sides, and in less then fifteen minutes, I was done with the first side. But when I tried to test it out, I was nearly decapitated by a large dead branch that was hanging above the log.  Since it was four feet over my head, it wasn’t noticeable from the ground. But standing and peddling to get over the log brought me face to face with it. So I dismounted and rather than let my hard work go to waste, decided I would climb the tree, walk out onto the dead branch and bounce on it until it broke.

Now, I’m not a complete idiot – there was another, more solid branch about waist high above the dead one, so I placed most of my weight on that branch and figured I could hold on to it when the one below me broke. Three bounces later, I heard a loud snap, and suddenly I was falling.

I slammed onto the branch pretty much on my armpits, and frantically flailed my logs trying to wrap them around the tree koala-style, so as to not fall the ten feet into poison ivy and prickers. Somehow I managed to hang on and shimmy down the tree,  and with my underarms scraped and burning, continued on my ride.

I got home to find HUGE bruises on the underside of both arms, and lots of scrapes that made deodorant application rather painful for the next few days.And I couldn’t really turn my neck to the right all that well. But other than that, I was fine, and two days later I was ready to go back and finish the job.

Back at the tree, I needed to build the off ramp, and saw some nice dead logs on the other side (including the one I had “liberated”) which I put to immediate use.  I did my best to stay clear of the plentiful poison ivy, and quickly had my ramp built. This time when I tested it out, I nearly went over the handle bars, as the down ramp ended too abruptly. I needed one more log to lengthen the angle. So I got off the bike and tried to lift a log that I had earlier deemed too heavy.

It was fairly rotted, but wet, so when I went to pick it up, it broke about a quarter of the way down – which was perfect, since it was the exact length I needed. Problem is, some bees had already claimed the log as their own, and I was soon swarmed by the angry hive I have disturbed. Five painful stings later, I was back on my bike, continuing my ride while nursing my wounds and cursing my luck. And bees in general.

The next day, I went back, hit the log at full speed, went up and over perfectly, pedaled past the still swarming bees, splashed across a river, and was back on the main trail. Huzzah. Success. I had did it. I patted myself on the back for my perseverance and pedaled on. I returned home sweaty and happy. And itchy. Apparently I was not careful enough around the poison ivy and ended up with it all over my arms and legs.

So, in summation, one stiff neck, two bruised and battered arms, three days of working, four itchy limbs and five bee stings later, I had my trail – and the start of my own Christmas carol. Was it worth it? Probably not. But I have plenty of summer days left to heal and enjoy the fruits of my labor. Plus I’ll never have to wonder about the path not taken.

Speaking of new paths, my friend Amy is looking to branch out a bit, so I offered her a Guest Blogger slot for Thursday, so be sure to check her out. Hopefully she will have better luck than me!

* "Thought though he had to fart, but he shit his pants instead!" - my mom

An Open Letter to Our Youth

June 21, 2011

To all soon to be middle- and high schoolers (or more likely your parents, who will hopefully encourage you to read this!),

Please pardon the interruption of your summer vacation. I know many of you recently “graduated” from elementary or middle school and were not expecting to do any reading for the next few months, but this will only take a few minutes.

As I’m sure you know, your life is about to change.  And since life is about change, that’s a good thing - but I want to encourage you let those changes happen naturally. You need to stop being in such a rush to grow up.  Right now many of you can’t wait to be 16 so you can drive. But the 16-year olds out there want to be 18 so they can buy lottery tickets and maybe vote. And the 18 year olds are impatiently waiting to be 21 so they can legally drink.  After that, the next age to look forward to is retirement, and by that point, you’ll be wishing you were young again. So, while you’re still young, why not be young?

I know it’s no longer cool to be a kid – and practically impossible to dress like one - but there is a way to do it without ruining your rep.  You see, the way I figure, it’s society putting all the pressure on you to mature early - to look and act grown up so you’ll watch their shows and buy their products – but, as a teenager, it’s your job, your duty, your sole purpose in life to reject and rebel against everything society has to offer, so be a rebel and refuse to grow up before your time! Don’t play society’s game, just play.  Be a kid.  Have fun.  Ride your bike, roll down hills, run the bases.  Don’t be afraid to act your age.

The problem is, many of you have no idea what acting your age means anymore.  12-year old rappers and singers are making music and videos about things I didn’t do until I was 18.  When I was 12, I think I was still playing “House” (and I’m not ashamed to admit it.) I was probably 15 when I first kissed a girl for longer than 2 seconds. But that was normal. I was a kid. And kids then didn’t care much about clothes, hair, fashion, or each other.  Make-up and making out were not options.  We didn’t have (or want) magazines like CosmoGirl or Teen People telling us how we should look, act, or feel.  We looked twelve.  We acted silly.  And we felt great.

Nowadays, most of you look 19, act like your on Spring Break, and feel miserable…and for what? So you can get a head start on forming reputations, addictions, and ulcers? Michael Jackson claims he missed his childhood, and look what happened to him.  Do you want to end up like…

Sorry, I’m starting to lecture, which was not my intent.  I just think it’s important for you to take it slow.  You all want to bite right through that Tootsie Pop (they still have those, right?) and get straight to the candy center.  Don’t.  Take it easy.  Enjoy what you have now and stop going just for the “good stuff” because in all honesty, the “good stuff” isn’t all that good until you’re ready for it. And what you’re skipping and speeding through might be even better. So slow down, stay young as long as you can and realize that not only do good things come to those who wait, but that the waiting itself can be pretty good too.

Think of it as baking cookies – there are some people who are so impatient they eat the dough raw (which, by the way, was not allowed when I was a kid – now they put it in ice cream.) Others shove the cookies into their mouths as soon as they come out of the oven…and get burned. But the smart ones wait.  They enjoy the anticipation, the aroma, the act itself.  They let the cookies cool down (but not too much) before taking a bite. And that’s when they taste their best. (And for all you giggling right now, this is not just about sex. I’m talking about any time you feel pressured or stressed into doing something before you’re ready.)  As for knowing when you are ready, here’s a simple test: If you have to lie to your parents about where you are going or what you are doing, then you’re not ready. It’s that simple.

Unfortunately, not much else in life is that simple.  Like those previously mentioned cookies and lollipops, life can sometimes be crummy and sucky - but usually it’s pretty sweet and good. So live for the good times and deal with the others. And while you’re at it, be careful. Be smart.  Be true to yourself.  Don’t do anything you don’t want to do - but if you do, that doesn’t mean you have to do it again!  Experimenting is part of life, but it doesn’t have to be your entire life. Nor should it cost you your life. You may want to be the popular kid featured in the yearbook, but you don’t want to be the kid they dedicate it to.

 MAJOR POINT ALERT: Keep in mind, reputations are easy to get but hard to get rid of.  One mistake or bad decision can affect the rest of your life, but it doesn’t have to.  A lot of kids will mess up once or twice and wrongly take the attitude that, “Well, since everyone already thinks I’m a (fill in the blank) slut, druggie, etc.  I guess I might as well be one.”  Don’t fall into that trap.  Mistakes will happen.  You are going to screw up.  You will get in trouble. But what you do is not as important as what you do afterward.   You need to accept responsibility, deal with the consequences, and move on.  I’ve known too many kids who’ve felt so trapped and helpless after getting in trouble that they just kept digging themselves deeper and deeper into holes that wound up being their graves. Nothing is ever that bad - I don’t care if you accidentally burn your parent’s house down with your sweet granny inside – no matter how horrible you feel, someday, somewhere down the road, you will feel better, so stick it out.

And if you stuck with me this far, thank you.  I will let you get back to your summer break.  I wish you all the best for the future, just be sure to take your time getting there. Don’t miss out on some of life’s greatest gifts by ignoring the present.

                                                                                    Best of luck,

                                                                                                            Mike Wood

PS – For a more in-depth look at growing up and coming of age, check out my book, Alchemy, available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and fine bookstores everywhere!

Coming Clean

Back when we were trying (and failing) to get pregnant - well, technically, my wife did most of the trying, I just went along for the ride – I secretly started to worry that maybe twenty years of nearly daily bike rides had taken their toll on my testes.  I had heard stories of avid cyclists who were basically sterilized by years of balancing (and bouncing) their boys on bicycle seats  - and was concerned that that might be our problem.

To be completely honest, I was more concerned with the possibility that I was the problem.  You see, since my wife already had a daughter from a previous marriage, I was fairly certain she was fully fertile. As for me…let’s just say I was an amateur in the world of procreation. And the idea that perhaps I was to blame really freaked me out.  It wasn’t so much the thought of not having a kid of my own that bothered me – I was perfectly happy and content with having a step-daughter to love and treat like my own – it was more that I was denying my wife something she really wanted for the both of us.

Being a typical guy, I was none too fond of doctors – and certainly not the ones who might call into question my manhood and virility – but I manned up and made an appointment with a urologist. Well, sort of manned up, as I didn’t tell my wife about it. She had her own list of reasons for why she wasn’t getting pregnant, and as far as I knew, I wasn’t one of them – and I wanted to keep it that way. So I went on my own, hoping to hear it wasn’t me, while privately plotting what I would do if it turned out I was the problem.

I’ll save the sample gathering story for another day, but let me just say that I have never felt so relieved as I did watching my active little swimmers under that microscope. The doctor assured me that my sperm count was high (“Higher than average?” I pushed, almost giddy with relief) and that I should have no problem holding up my end of the bargain.

I left the office with a zip in my step, happy to know our lack of conception wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized that if it wasn’t me, there was only one other person to “blame” and my thoughts immediately turned to my wife.

Now what? I wondered, as I made my way home. Since she didn’t even know I went, I could just keep the info to myself and wait and see what happened.  I knew she wanted another kid for “us”  - and would feel like she let me down if she were incapable of getting pregnant. But I also knew she wanted another kid much more than I did. And even though we had already both agreed that if a baby didn’t come “in the natural way,” then it just wasn’t meant to be, and we would accept that, I also knew  my wife would want to renege on that deal. And if I held her to it, she would eventually grow to resent me for it.

I had a decision to make. Several actually. But they all hinged on this initial one. My future lay before me more clearly than the route I was driving on. Projecting down the road, I saw that our seemingly solid marriage would ultimately crumble, or at least shake itself into an empty shell, over this issue. I clearly saw the two ways for how it would all play out, and neither was a happy ending: I could try keeping it to myself, but knew it wouldn't be long before guilt set in. Or I could tell her, which I knew would start the snowball rolling down the slippery slope toward in vitro fertilization.

I had strong reservations about artificial insemination/IVF – nothing religious, mind you, as I had long ago stopped fearing the power God - but - I have always had a healthy respect for the power of Nature. Even as an 8-year old, hearing about the Titanic for the first time, I recognized that claiming the ship unsinkable was more to blame for the tragedy than the lack of lifeboats.  You just don’t mess with Nature. Nature always finds a way to win. And if Nature was making it impossible for us to have a baby, than so be it. I was fully convinced that any attempts by us to rectify our situation would end as tragically as the Titanic.

But if we didn’t try, our marriage would sink just as quickly. I knew every time we saw a baby, be it on TV or real life, there would be a pang of loss, regret, and, deep, deep, down, some bitter blame. If I held Sarah to our agreement, she would grow to resent me for it. Not that I thought she would be conscious of it, but I could foresee neverending arguments over trivial matters that were really about her wanting a baby and me not letting her.

I saw no other options. It was either accept Nature and be miserable, or use Science and be miserable, as I did not for a minute think IVF would work out - I was certain we would go through six failed attempts and end up back where we started, or have a baby with birth defects, or worse (Nature's way of saying, I told you so.) I never considered the third possibility that we could have a happy, healthy baby.

Resigned, I pulled into the driveway and told wife about my trip to the doctor and the "good" results I received. She was touched that I went and did such a thing, but other than that, things got very quiet for a couple weeks. She took to keeping a journal, while I just kept things to myself. I did not share my fears with her, as I didn't want to scare her into agreeing with me (even though I DID want her to agree with me) as I felt our only hope was if we both came to the same conclusion without any debating or discussion.

Over the next month or so, we nervously joked about the elephant in the room, but never really talked about it. Then one day Sarah handed me her journal, and while what was inside did not change my mind, it did change my heart. It made me realize that my fears about in vitro were really my own fears about being a father. The idea terrified me, and I was using my worries about IVF as an excuse not to take that scary journey. The thought of giving up my freedom, and free time, and nights sleep, as well as my money, my spare room, and my wife's undivided attention and affection were all causing me to question if having kids was really worth it. But reading Sarah's words made me realize that it might be.

So on Mother's Day, she came home to find a wooden statue of an elephant (pictured above) prominently displayed on our coffee table. We never talked about it, but she knew right away what it meant - and less than a year later, with only one try (and one egg - no way was I risking twins!) we had our boy. And now I know it was worth it.

I won't lie and say I don't miss certain aspects of my old, carefree life, but at the same time, having this little life to care for is far more rewarding than being free. So this Father's Day, I am grateful for my wife, who knew better than I.  I'm thankful for the doctors who helped bring Eli into our lives. And I'm hopeful that I can become half the father that my own father is to me. There are many downsides to being a dad, and even with my world (and living room) now turned upside down, there is nowhere else I'd rather be. And nothing else I'd rather be doing.

Well, most of the time!

Hot Fun in the Summertime

“End of the spring and here she comes back. Hi, hi, hi, hi there!

Them summer days, those summer days…

That's when I had most of my fun, back, high high, high, high there

Them summer days, those summer days…”

I'm glad blogs come with a “play” button, that way you can listen to the rest of “Hot Fun in the Summertime” by Sly and the Family Stone while you read this, and really get a feel for what I’m going to say in a way that the printed word alone can not convey. There is just something about summer…and no matter how I try, I know can’t quite explain what it is.  Maybe it’s the warm weather, or the long days, or the excitement of a sudden thunderstorm.  Or else it’s the smell of toasted marshmallows, or the feel of sand or grass between your toes, or the sound of a lawnmower. But whatever it is, it can be found in that song – and while you press “play” I’ll hit “rewind” and bring you back to them summer days, those summer days…

For me, summer will always be what it used to be: a kid’s paradise.  Long empty days waiting to be filled with imagination and ice cream.  Days spent stealing the wheels off my father’s lawnmower to build a go-cart.  Nights spent playing Kick the Can and catching fireflies in a jar. And hours (and dollars) spent chasing after the ice cream man. Now that I’m older, most of my summer is spent using the lawnmower for its intended purpose, the only cans I kick are the empties that fall out of the recycling bin, and my son is the one chasing those fireflies. But I’m still the first one out to meet the ice cream man! I guess summer-things never change.

And summers really are a time for change.  As kids we’d leave school in June and return in September entirely different people.  Somehow during those few months we became taller, wiser, more experienced. During the rest of the year, changes were gradual and harder to detect, but come summer, things would just pop! like buds on a tree.  And like the rings of a tree, each summer surrounded us, showing others how we had grown. And at the center of each ring was probably a picnic.

Picnics are summer’s equivalent of the growth chart. Each one brought new experiences and opportunities that let us know we were growing up. Our first few years were spent splashing around in the kiddie pool, surrounded by the old folks dipping their toes, while our swim-soaked diapers sagged down past our knees until someone finally decided to just take it off, leaving us giddily naked.  The next couple summers were spent whining and crying about how the big kids wouldn’t let us play with them…until, finally, we were the big kids, putting on skits and shows for the adults, while dutifully ignoring the little kids who wanted to play with us.  Several summers later, and we were behind the shed sharing sips off a stolen Schlitz or Schaefer (some uncle or other could always be counted on to show up with a six-pack of something cheap that no one would ever miss.) A year or two after that, and it’s back to being naked in the pool again, only now it’s called skinny-dipping.  The next picnic, we’re handed a beer, and we coolly try to play it off as no big deal, but it is, it is.  And the adults who used to shoo us away from the horseshoe pits so we wouldn’t get hurt are now picking us to be their partners.  A few more summers, and we began picking our partners, and bringing them to meet the family. And now people are coming to our picnics, and our parents are the old folks with their feet in the pool, stripping the soggy diapers off our kids.  And many picnics down the road, we’ll be there too, toes in the water, enjoying and remembering those summer days.

But let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. Those summer days are stretched out before us once again, and while it’s too late for Memorial Day, here are a few tips for throwing the perfect picnic.

First of all, invite everybody! And encourage them to bring stuff: friends, food, folding chairs.  For your part, all you really need are a couple pasta/potato salads and the requisite hamburgers and hotdogs.  And lots of beer of course. Don’t bother splurging on steaks or seafood, for if all your guests can rave about is the food, then they are not having a good time. Picnics are about simplicity, so basic burgers and dogs are fine, so long as the hot dogs are Hummel’s, in their natural casings – accept no substitutes!

As far as beverages, it’s best to just stick to beer and wine.  Blender drinks are fun, but a lot of work, and mixed drinks tend to get people “mixed up” way too quickly.  Since beer and wine are more filling, it’s easier for your guests to pace themselves.  And if you’re worried about underage kids drinking, get a keg instead of cans or bottles, as it is much harder to sneak beers off a keg unnoticed than it is to run off with a couple cans. (Sorry kids, but I’m playing for the other team now!)

And speaking of playing, you will need some activities.  The women can take care of themselves (and the kids) but the men need something to do, and that means horseshoes and bocce.  Horseshoes and bocce make great picnic “sports” for many reasons, with the number one reason being you can play them one handed, so you’ll always have a free hand for your beer.  Also, since the object of both games is to just “come close” almost anyone, at any age, can play…and succeed, so Grandpa can still put a beating on his grandson.  Plus, the games are slow paced, almost sedentary, giving the guys a chance to bond and talk – and yes, guys do talk. Sure most of it involves boasting and taunting, but every so often someone will share a story or memory about the family that a newer member of the group will be hearing for the first time, and years later they will share it with the next generation.  And that’s how you truly “come close” in horseshoes.

So pick a date, pick up the phone, and plan a picnic. Make it a yearly event, that way you’ll have something to talk about years from now when you’re dipping your feet in the kiddie pool, reminiscing about all your hot fun in the summertime.