Citifield Lost & Found

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I took three 12-year old boys to Citifield on Sunday to watch the boys/men of September. The wonderful thing about baseball is that I will never be asked to perform.

The Mets willl never be missing a player and call over the PA system, “Will Mary Beth Coudal please come onto the field and help us out? We’re missing a player.”

It won’t happen. As if it could possibly – not likely – but possibly happen at a Broadway show, a national political rally, or a mega-church Sunday morning service. The times I’ve been in attendance at those events, I do sit and relax and enjoy the show. But there’s always a part of me that wonders, “Oh, maybe I should get up there and help them out. Maybe this team needs me. Maybe I’ll be asked to help out.”

That never happens at a sporting event. Unless we’re talking badmitton. But then no one ever talks badmitton. (And I have heard athletes can be in their 40s and be Olympic champions in archery. But then again, no one ever talks archery. Sadly.) But I digress. I was talking baseball.

Here’s the thing about going to Citifield. The boys just wander around the fabulous new Mets stadium. They hardly watch the game. They look at tee shirts in the shop. They go to the batting cage or dunk tank. They visit Shake Shack. Alone, I read the NYTimes Sunday Style Section, catch a few rays, people watch.

On our way out of the stadium on Sunday, Joey swung his navy sweatshirt over his shoulders. It was still hot and sunny. The Mets had won. Not that it matters. We almost made it to the subway stairwell when Joey realized he was missing his wallet. It must’ve fallen out when he swung his Yankees sweatshirt. I don’t know why Hayden’s buddy, Joey loves to wear Yankees attire to Mets games. But twelve-year olds are like that.

So we went back to the stairwell.

“Yes,” said the older gent in the green polo Staff shirt. “Someone found a wallet. It’s probably on its way to the lost and found now. Go to the Jackie Robinson Pavilion, sit there, and wait.” ‘

Under the huge black and white photo murals of Jackie Robinson you can ponder the courage of the man who broke the race barrier. Joey informs me that every team has retired Robinson’s number to honor him. (You can learn a lot at a game.)

When we ask the pimply kid at the Lost & Found desk about the wallet, he informs us that none have been turned in. But the gent had told us to wait. So we sat in the air conditioned tiny room on cushy black chairs and waited.

Joey wondered if maybe the money and the Metrocard would be taken. “The person will probably just leave me my library card.”

“How much money was in it?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

And guess what? A few minutes later the wallet was turned in, complete with Metrocard, fifteen dollars, and even the New York City public library card.

You gotta love it. Maybe the Mets aren’t in contention for the World Series. Maybe I won’t ever play professional sports. But basic human kindness wins big time. Taking a few 12-year olds to a baseball game on a waning day of summer is bound to teach you that.

# 7 Embrace Uncertainty

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In less than three weeks, I will go to Switzerland and France for a week and a half. I feel a sense of hope mixed with worry. I don’t know how well my husband can care for the kids without me.

I also feel guilty. Yes, as a mom of three school-age children, what gives me the right to such happiness? such liberty? Once we’re parents, we’re are no longer free. We must be responsible-type people. We must not traipse around Europe with a backpack (I do intend to take a backpack and a fanny pack!) I feel guilty I will miss the girls’ 10th birthday.

But for survival reasons, I MUST take this journey. In order to fulfill my proposed sabbatical, I must go. To jumpstart my lagging spirit, I must go. To gain the language fluency I dream about, I must go.

Yet, yet, yet. I still feel worried and compelled to downplay my excitement. I wonder why. I wonder if there is some soap scum residual ring of dread around my psychic bathtub. If in my childhood, I was told not to look forward with hope. I must scrub that psychic tub.

Here are some reasons NOT to worry. Chris has said he’s adequate to the task. I have a cadre of friends, neighbors, babysitters, family who can help.

I must embrace my uncertainty. I must embody those stupid cliches – like, Jump and the net will appear.

It’s human nature to want to know if the house will increase in value before you buy it. Or to want to know if the kid’s soccer team will at least have one victory before you sign them up.

I have tons of swagger and humor, yet also carry oodles of self-doubt.

Yet, yet, yet. I am going to embrace my liminal state. I do not know the outcome; I am fearful. I am going to take Goethe’s advice to the young poet and (paraphrasing here) “Love the questions themselves, like books written in a very foreign tongue. You are not given the answers because you are not yet ready to live them. But you must live the question now. And that is the point. To live the questions now and someday you will find you are living in the answers.”

Live the uncertainty. Embrace the unknown.

Too Much Hot Cocoa

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My husband started cleaning the kitchen cabinets yesterday. Oh, I should be happy. See, we were plagued by these little nasty spice bugs.

But he is unable to complete a task (either due to his Parkinson’s Disease or his maleness) so he left the entire contents of the kitchen cabinet spread out on the kitchen table. “Okay,” I thought, “no problem, I’ll put things back or throw them out.”

And then, I noticed something about the contents on the table. We have a heck of a lot of hot cocoa. We have it from William Sonoma and from Swiss Miss. We have the fancy chocolate sprinkles from Neuhaus.

We have it no longer. We had it. I threw it all out. All six kinds of hot cocoa and four kinds of chocolate sprinkle-stuff. It was just too much. And I’m afraid that my accruing so much hot cocoa might say something about me and my parenting style. I indulge my kids too much.

I mean, does everyone find a ton of hot cocoa when they clean out their kitchen cabinets?

I casually know an older woman whose husband had Parkinson’s Disease and she said her one failing as a parent – when her children were little and her husband was declining – was that she spoiled them. When they were adults, her children did not thank her for indulging them. In fact, they reprimanded her. They wanted boundaries and limits, she waffled and was permissive.

She probably gave them lots and lots of hot cocoa.

As a parent of kids whose dad is ill, I admit I feel sorry for my kids. I want them to be warm and not cold. Hot cocoa is delicious after a day of sledding. But I try too hard. I buy them too much. There have got to be ways of warming the soul and keeping the cabinet free from clutter – ways that might not include chocolate.

Sent a letter to the New York Times

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I rewrote my blog about health care coverage for caregivers and sent it to letters at the NYTimes. I doubt it will get published. It is too long and not specific enough to one of today’s articles.

I  just keep sending things out there. It’s all I can do. Send one thing a day. One day at a time.

Health Care for Caregivers

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Just checked out the www.1010challenge.org

Everyone has a health care story. This is the first one I read.

As a United Methodist Minister and Health care worker I affirm the church’s position and pledge my support on this issue. As a small membership pastor I do not have health insurance because the congregation I serve cannot afford the rates of the church sponsored plan. Since my health care job is on a “as needed” basis (prn) I do not qualify for health insurance. – Allen Noah Converse, TX

I do not know Allen Noah. But I believe he should have health care. I do not know a lot of people, but I believe we should all have health care. 

I have a place in my heart for people who care for other people – pastors, parents, caregivers, teachers, and doctors. I believe they especially need care. Just because someone does not have a traditional job that offers health care, that person should not be penalized or denied.

Is a small-town pastor less important than a big-time CEO? I don’t think so. As a follower of Jesus, I want to love, care for the least, the lost, the lonely. I want the above-mentioned pastor to have health care. I want the parent who opted out of the workforce to care for her infant to have health care.

I believe a country pastor or a stay-at-home parent is as valuable to our nation – even more so – than a corporate mogul who carries health insurance for his or her family.

I know several parents at my girls’ NYC public school, who have health care for their children, but not for themselves. They cannot afford it. They are parents who have jobs, but those jobs do not offer health care. And even if they did not have jobs, they should still have health care. I worry about them, I worry what would happen if they required major medical care.

God know, my family has needed major medical coverage over the last several years. My 12-year old has had three heart procedures. My husband had radiation for cancer and care for his Parkinson’s Disease. I have absolutely no doubt these procedures, treatments and doctors’ visits would have bankrupted us, had we no health insurance. Surely, we would be a million dollars in debt.

As we in the United States debate how to provide universal health care, I suggest we remember parents and pastors. Let’s not forget people who care for other people. Their work is priceless and too many of them are not insured.

The Most Wonderful Day of the Year

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The summer days dwindled. Like the entire Upper West Side cabal of parents, I spent Labor Day at Harry’s Shoes and Staples.

At Staples, I muttered, “Sorry” to at least half a dozen people after I rammed their heels with one of my two carts.

Let traditionalists bemoan the loss of family rituals, I hold fast to a favorite — back to school shopping. Nowadays, internet-savvy, organized parents may order their school supplies on-line. Not me. I prefer the real-life bashing of plastic shopping carts and grabs for that last protractor.

I feel my year starts anew at the beginning of every fresh school year. I make resolutions — blog everyday; get the kids involved in chores; allow no TV until homework’s done; lay out clothes the night before.

The back to school outfit matters. Hayden wore a mint green collared shirt and blue checked shorts. He fussed with his hair, nearly breaking into tears over an unruly collick. Charlotte had a puffy white polka-dotted top and cut-offs. Catherine a teal, hand-me-down blouse from Deirdre and long jean shorts.

These are my fifth graders and my seventh grader. Hayden is as tall as me; the girls a perfect height for slinging an arm over their shoulders and pulling them in tight.

I wanted to hold each child’s hand as I walked Hayden to the 7:38 am bus and the girls to school. But they saw their friends and jibber jabbered the whole way.

Quickly they let me grab their cheeks and smooch them goodbye. They only rolled their eyes for a moment. Then they turned and went towards school. Their light backpacks bouced on their backs, full of empty three-ring binders and unwritten-on spiral notebooks.

I hung back and marvelled.

Met the Publishers

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Of Adirondack Explorer. A lovely cocktail party Thursday night overlooking Lake Champlain from a white house perched on a hill.

Really charming magazine about hiking, nature, promotion of the Adirondacks. Yesterday, I leafed through the magazine from poolside at Camp Normandie. It looked like my Rattlesnake hike story would fit in. I doubt they pay much. But both Ben and I took photos from the top of the mountain. I’d like to rework my story over the next day or so, then send it in.

Even if they pass on that story, maybe there’s another that would work!

Today’s a Day for Packing

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The kids and I have had an extended summer road trip — a few days in Long Beach Island, New Jersey; the kids at Quinipet camp on Shelter Island, Long Island; I went to Dillard University in New Orleans and then the New Age Spa in the Catskills; the kids and I to School of Christian Mission in Danbury, Conn; a week at Chautauqua Institute in Western New York with my sister and her kids; almost two weeks in and around family in Chicago; back to the Adirondacks in Westport, New York.

The kids and I have done extensive lugging. When they returned from Quinipet, I went to our apartment basement and emptied each suitcase, then when their laundry was clean, I refilled each suitcase. The next day we left again. They have been living out of those big, bright suitcases for two months now.

On this trip, we also invented the ONO bag, the “One Night Only” bag. (And whenever we mention ONO, we sing that song, “One Night Only”.) In the ONO bag, there’s a toothbrush, a bathing suit, PJs, and a clean change of clothes for the next day. This is the bag you take into a hotel after a day on the road, like at those hotel stops in Binghamton, New York; Toledo, Ohio; and Erie, Penn.

When the kids and I went to Italy almost three years ago, each child had their own backpack. We checked no bags on the flight. By the end of our ten days, Charlottte’s light blue sweat pants were streaked with mud. We so needed a hot laundry cycle and I had hoped for that when we finally visited my cousin in Ravenna. But the electrical wiring in her house probably couldn’t handle our filthy loads. Any way, I felt it was an imposition to ask. Note to self, pack dark pants next time instead of light.

It is necessary to unpack, do laundry, and pack when you travel. Sometimes when I return from work travel, I leave the rolling bag untouched for days – even, yes, weeks. Maybe I hate to say good bye to a trip.

After you pack, eventually, you have to unpack. I don’t mind the former, I don’t like the latter. Because that means the trip is over. The only consolation is that soon you can travel again. I hate to end a trip without having another coming up soon.

I will go to the Taize community in the South of France in October, the whole family will go to Akumal in Mexico for Christmas. These are good trips to anticipate.

Because the upcoming trips are international, I have to return to the one bag travel, just the necessities – dark pants, toothbrush, layers.

I have to enlist the children today. They have to help pack and unpack. They have to carry the load.

Summer is almost over.

I hate it, but we have to do it. We have to pack up and unpack this summer road trip before we can pack for the next.

#6

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Live every day as if it were your last.

This is the Carpe Diem step. Honestly, it sounds cliche, but sometimes cliches are true.

The point is to really live this day fully. Not to be petty. Not to hold a grudge. Not to nurse a wound. But to be open (and yes, okay, loving) to the people in your day. There are people, places, adventures right there in front of you.

Celebrate this one day only. And especially your relationships. Because happiness is found in relationships. Sure, it’s fine for religions to extol the benefits of the silent retreat, monastic life, 40 days and nights alone in the wilderness. And I’m sure there’s something to be said for that kind of withdrawal from humanity.

But I have to believe that real joy and meaning is found in hugs, laughter, friends, family. Just being in the presence of one another. Like E. M. Forster says in “Howard’s End,” “Connect! Only Connect!”

On August 16, Rev. Anna Carter-Florence spoke at Camp Dudley Chapel service. Her teenage son introduced her. He mentioned all of her credentials, like that she taught sermonology at a divinity school in Atlanta; she had been given awards, etc. Then he closed his introduction with, “The light of my life, my mother.”

That was living the day to the fullest. He could’ve been sarcastic and not exposed his feelings. But, instead, this teenage boy, in front of hundreds of other teenage boys, said “I love you.”

That was awesome.

I Write To Find My Way

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I write evey morning. I write every day. Occasionally I write at night when my husband or my kids really have me down and I need to vent.

I don’t ever need a topic. My life is my topic. But sometimes I challenge myself.

One morning I wrote in my journal, “No matter what is on the front page of the New York Times, I will write about it.” It was early January 2009, the day the GE stocks hit an all-time low. Turns out, my husband has a lot of GE stocks. That essay was easy, “Stocks Slide; I Shrug.” I wrote about how I could care less that my family stock portfolio tanked. I had it, I lost it, more coffee please.

Today I wanted to write this topic because of someone else’s blog, “Why I Write; A Reflection.” That seemed like a good topic. I copy other people’s good topics.

I’m also writing to complete my self-imposed 30 days/30 blogs challenge. I was going to write about sports, about my sudden interest in running, which I’ve taken up a week ago. Can I do it all? Write, run, parent, have a social life?

This worries me. That I will have to pass up social invitations, because I have to write (or run).

When I begin an esssay, I never know how it will end. I often can think of a good opening line. But I am always taken by surprise at my closing lines.

But here’s the real truth, I write because I believe something spiritual happens.

The surprise ending is often God peeking through the cracks. For work, I have written for years for a national church group. I try to be journalistic, objective, factual. Suddenly, I’m on sabbatical for a few months. Yet my writing is still to support my faith; my searching for God. My asking for guidance.

Through writing, I find it.