Love in the Time of Cupcakes

The last of the "tennis ball" cupcakes set sail this morning, a small but telling harbinger of the fact that I'm going to be facing an empty nest in the fall. Twenty seven years of "hands on" mothering symbolically reduced to two dozen clumps of devil's food cake in little foil baskets. They swooshed out the door with my youngest son, for what would turn out to be his last tennis meet of high school. He graduates in another couple of weeks, heading for college in the fall and instantly turning any use of the words "high school" into the past tense.

I've been making cupcakes decorated like tennis balls--light yellow frosting with the slightest tinge of green, arced with curves and swoops of white icing--for fourteen years now, ever since my oldest daughter signed up for high school freshman girls tennis before the school year even started. Call me OCD, I don't mind! I consider it a badge of honor.

There are fundamental differences between "girls tennis" and "boys tennis" and only some of them have to do with testosterone levels. Girls tennis season starts in late summer and continues barely to early fall, guaranteeing splendid and warm afternoons and entire weekend days watching budding young ladies flit around on the court in bouncing pony tails and miniskirts, suntanned legs flying. Girls tennis, from my experience on the sidelines, has involved matching hair doo-dads with color coordinated ribbons, team posters, lots of conversation, and a great appreciation for cute snacks. Hence the tennis ball cupcakes, a big hit for both my daughters and their teams for a bunch of years.

Boys tennis, on the other hand, starts just on the cusp of very early spring, when winter hangs on for dear life. And here in the upper Midwest, winter's claws are deep. More than one tennis season for my sons has started its first practice as snow flakes were falling. The weather leans more toward rain, and cold, and wind, and if there's coffee involved for blanket-wrapped spectators under grey, stormy skies, it's been hot, not iced. Very few boys sported pony tails, and nobody wore matching barettes. The guys still appreciated the cupcakes...but I don't know that they even noticed the decorative flair right before they inhaled them.

And still, despite the fact that for years my cupcakes have been nearly vaporized in haste (and without a single squeal of how "cute" they were) by their entirely masculine patrons, I clung to tradition. At least once a season I needed to send those sweet, fluffy treats along to a meet, even if, as the years went by and my job schedule got less flexible, another tennis mom would actually have to deliver them for me. Call me crazy, it's been done before.

While the tennis ball cupcakes stretch back fourteen years, the cupcake thing has actually been a fixture for something more like twenty four. Long ago enough that my oldest daughter would have needed to bring a birthday treat for kindergarten. Or preschool. So through the next two and a half decades, the miniature confections were a constant and a comfort amid the multi-tasking, crisis-response mentality that goes into raising four kids with a minimum number of trips to the emergency room. There were cupcakes with sprinkles for birthdays, cupcakes with candy dots for art shows, cupcakes decorated like little ghosts and jack-o-lanterns for Halloween.
This last tradition--the Halloween cupcakes--nearly drove me into the ground once. I had three kids in the same grade school at the same time. The youngest wanted Halloween cupcakes for his second grade class party. I signed on for two dozen, half of them orange and half of them white, with little ghost outlines and pumpkin smiles drawn on with melted chocolate, eyes made from chocolate chips. Then the fifth grader chimed in. I signed on for another two dozen. And then as I started the baking, when I thought of my daughter's class in eighth grade going without my cupcakes on this festive day, I threw caution to the wind. Halfway through decorating seventy two little ghosts and jack-o-lanterns with dribbley chocolate I rethought my enthusiasm...but it was too late to turn back.

I was planning to dress up for the second graders' party, and I tweaked my daughter with the thought of showing up in costume to deliver the goods. She's got a dark, sultry beauty to her, and she warned me off. "Mom, don't you dare!!" she said ominously, her eyes flashing like the fiery gypsy in Carmen. I filed that thought in the "hmmm..." pile. Made some soothing mention about bringing a change of clothes.

The next day I dutifully and precariously loaded six dozen cupcakes into the minivan, and set off for school. Fifth grade cupcakes were dropped off and put out of mind. The second grade Halloween party was so cute it could make your back fillings hurt. I think that was the one where I'd made my son a little royal blue cape with fake ermine collar, for his part as the "king" in a teeny tiny little play.

And then the lunch bell rang. I grabbed the last two dozen cupcakes from the van and walked them down the length of the school to my daughter's eighth grade classroom. As I stood in the doorway, her back was to me. A friend she was chatting with looked up, and announced slyly, "Sarah, your mom is here." Slowly she turned... and there I stood, a shallow cardboard box filled with treats utterly overshadowed by my appearance in a Pocahontas style beige fringed tunic with red embroidered trim, black leggings, and a feather in my hair. I bit back a grin, but it was really hard.

My daughter flashed daggers at me with those dark brown eyes. If looks could have killed, I'd be writing this from the great beyond. But at the same time, despite her fourteen year old peer-reviewed fury, I could see the corners of her mouth start to turn up in a smile in spite of herself, at the sheer perversity of my guest appearance. I delivered the goods and quickly exited stage left, fighting back a laugh.

Eight years later we were chatting on the phone as I drove to drop off yet another batch of tennis ball cupcakes for her younger brother's meet the next day. I was going to have to miss this contest too, and so once again the cupcakes were going to stand in for me, making me feel like I was still sharing a part of the adventure. We shared a good laugh about the day I showed up looking like Pocahontas at her eighth grade classroom. At the age of twenty-two, you develop a lot more perspective and forgiveness for antics like that.

I bemoaned the fact that with her in college, I didn't have the opportunity to bring festive or seasonal or downright ridiculous treat to her classes anymore. "Mom, you can bring cupcakes to my class any time!" she assured me. "We'll eat 'em!" I could resist pushing the envelope. If it was around Halloween, could I wear the Pocahontas costume again? There was just an instant of hestitation, then..."okay!" I could just imagine her eyes rolling across the miles between us. Maturity comes in many forms, and learning to humor a mother during a fleeting moment of insanity is a remarkable milestone for a daughter of any age.

I never did drive eighty miles to a college classroom after that to bring a sugary treat to a bunch of accomplished and sophisticated college students. Life just got a little too busy, it seems, though in hindsight I wish I'd grabbed the opportunity. But I still remember laughing at the memory with her, and the beautiful thread of give-and-take the offer and acceptance held, binding us tightly and preciously with love and affection despite the distance.

They were just cupcakes. And then some.

Back in the saddle

The coastal breeze on Sea Island carried a bouquet of aromas. The tang of salt sea air from the Atlantic coast nearby, the lush marshes beside the causeway, palmettos, white gardenias in full bloom. But it was the familiar fragrance of horse hide and fly spray that hit me like a gentle glove across the cheek and made me smile and inhale deeply in recognition.

I was about to go horseback riding on the beach in coastal southern Georgia, and this was a very big deal for several reasons. Despite owning horses for close to thirty five years, I hadn't been on board more than twice in the last fourteen, ever since the riding accident.

I'm a very lucky person. I took a long fall off a tall horse in a jumping lesson when I was pushing my limits in more physical ways, and ended up in a body cast for three months with a fractured vertebra in the middle of my back. Every day, I remember how fortunate I am that I came out of the accident alive, and came out of the body cast hurting...but still walking. The accident was one of those transforming events that divides the world as you know it into "before" and "after." I got braver, I got more intuitive, I went to law school and tested my limits in ways I could never have imagined before. When you start law school with a severe tendency to hyperventilate when called on for public speaking, what are the odds you'll not faint from nervousness when you have to argue before the state supreme court? Pretty slim. If anyone had placed bets, they'd have a nice little nest egg now.

But the horseback riding, which had been part of my life since I was a pre-teen, fell to the side. At first it was a case of still recovering from the accident. I went for a whole year afterward, measuring just how much pain it would cost me to pick up a dirty sock, and keeping a running tally of the number of times I could reasonably bend over in a day before my back quit holding me up. And then I started law school. My theory at the time was that as my kids got older, they would need me less and I'd have more time to devote to school and other things. Any parent of high schoolers who participate in sports would have laughed his or her head off at my naivete. I found that as they got older, I only got busier...but by then it was too late to rethink the plan.

But free time was only part of the problem. As my body gradually regained some semblance of "normal," I found that by that point my horses had finally grown too old and decrepit with age to ride. One suffered from arthritis, the other from emphysema and the occasional case of "founder." They lived out the rest of their thirty-plus year lifespans as expensive and pampered lawn ornaments, their nearness a comfort and a thing of beauty but their "useful" lives done with as far as remotely earning their keep.

I climbed into a saddle only twice after that. Once was a trail ride a few years after the accident, with my eleven year old son and a group of other children who had taken some basic riding lessons through the local recreation department. This, I thought, would be easy. A nice, gentle, completely supervised reintroduction to a part of me that I truly missed. I confess I was scared to death the entire way, uneasy in the saddle, hestitant and unsure. The next time was a few years later, when I took one of my daughters out West for a trip before college. A trail ride through the woods near the Grand Canyon seemed like fun, we thought. Again, I remember an overlay of dread and not much else.

But here I was, staying down on St. Simons Island, Georgia, taking part in the "Scribbler's Retreat" writers conference, and visiting my favorite place on the planet with a whole new perspective. Recalling wonderful week-long spring vacations on St. Simons when the kids were all young enough to get the same Easter breaks, I had wondered, before I hooked up with the conference, whether I would ever have a reason to return to this serene place. And how it would feel to walk the beach solo, without a herd of four children to count heads on continually, like a mother duck checking her trailing brood.

I settled in just fine. Picked up a rental car for a day of "me" time before the conference started, sat on the beach beside a tidal pool and watched a Great White Egret move in stop-motion as he stalked his dinner, admired the last of the blooming azaleas in the area, climbed to the top of the lighthouse, shopped for souvenirs at a delightful stained glass shop, "Pane in the Glass," which had been completely off the register for me before despite driving past it dozens of times on earlier trips with the kids in tow. The same way someone leading a bull by the nose would be reluctant to take him into a china shop.

And in reclaiming myself on the island, I asked my island friend Jeanie to set me up with a horseback ride on the beach. No better place to confront the fears of the past, I thought.

And so here I stood, as the trail steeds rested in their shaded stalls, all freshly groomed and saddled and sprayed for the first ride of the day, steadily munching their hay and smelling like a familiar trip through most of my life. I was matched up with a well-mannered little chestnut mare named "Penny," and once we were properly cinched up and our stirrups adjusted for length, our little band of four riders and a guide set off at a leisurely walk to the shoreline.

I ached in various places for pretty much all of the two hour ride. Knees, ankles, thighs, hips--all were body parts that hadn't been shifted into this position on a regular basis since I'd started having kids. Twenty some years ago. But the rhythm felt good, and the morning sunlight on the ocean was beautiful, and for the first time since the accident I could say that I wasn't afraid.

The ride triggered a sea of memories for me. Weekend riding lessons with my aunt in grade school; Friday evenings spent cantering through the woods on the outskirts of Chicago with my friends in our high school riding club; lunging my buckskin in large circles with voice commands, a long-handled whip cracking the air gently behind his haunches for encouragement; Sunday mornings spent on trail rides when I was eighteen, worshipping at the altar of nature with just my favorite livery horse for company.

It was a delightful trip through banks of memories, and it's still far from over. And it all started with the smell of horsehide and fly spray...

Conquering the Lighthouse

My old friends (and even people who haven't known me all that long) know that when I say I'm afraid of heights, I'm not kidding. Even remotely. Two steps on a conventional ladder or step-ladder is as far as I go. My personal step ladder at home comes with two gigantic platforms...and a safety rail to hold on to. If I can't reach a burned-out lightbulb with that ladder, it'll keep until someone braver than I can do the task.

Which is why, when I recently returned to St. Simons Island in Georgia for a weekend at the Scribbler's Retreat Writer's Conference, I made a point to revisit old haunts...and confront old fears. I remembered visiting the historic lighthouse on the island when the kids were small. My ex-husband took the children up the spiral staircase to the top, while I stayed at the bottom, my stomach in queasy knots as I stole fleeting peeks at them waving cheerfully above me before looking away.

I'm proud to say that this time, I made it! White knuckles all the way, innards lurching dizzily and clutching the handrails like lifelines. But I've got the pictures to prove it!

Double Chocolate Lab

Bandit nearly bought the farm the other night, and it was his sweet tooth that would have done him in.

Bandit is a chocolate lab, eleven and a half years old, with chronic liver problems, a golf-ball sized cyst on his shoulder that the vet doesn't want to remove because of his age and the bad liver...and that's just the tip of the iceberg. This dog of mine--my fourth since I was sixteen--was a stray pup at an animal shelter when the kids and I brought him home eleven years ago. I joke that he must have some beagle in his background because he "sings" on occasion. Most often in answer to the question "do you want to go out?" This absolutely mystifies my boyfriend, who can't get the same answer when he asks Bandit the same question.

He's lightening fast, and still as playful as a puppy on the days when age doesn't come knocking on the door, and he's had separation anxiety bad enough when he was still new to the family that we put him on Prozac. No kidding. We also tried aromatherapy. It didn't work either.

But what's really made things interesting in the past few years is his taste for eating stuff that he shouldn't. Post-winter yard-cleanup can be such an archelogical excursion. After the snow melts, there's plenty of evidence of misdeeds laying in the grass. A half box of Kleenex scarfed down in boredom, still brilliant white after its trip through the dog. Fourteen sticks of chewing gum stolen from my purse recently...including the silver foil wrappers. The list goes on.

Chocolate--generally acknowledged to be poison when it comes to other dogs--needs to be kept under lock and key. My sons and I could have skinned Bandit alive a couple of years ago when he found the chocolate we'd brought home from Germany in our suitcases...and ate it all, leaving colorful wrappers in foreign languages all over the living room. Just a couple of months ago he polished off a carton of Nestle Quik on the front stairs, leaving nothing but a large chocolate stain behind. Never an ill effect for the dog, though it tended to leave the humans in the room pretty steamed!

My kids and I have long ago learned to keep our bedroom doors closed behind us at all times because of other behavioral ...quirks. But the other night, my youngest son fell victim to juggling too many things at once--violin practice, then tennis practice, and a violin lesson after the tennis practice--and forgot to shut the door behind him before he left for the night at his dad's.

I got home from work and didn't notice. Drove into town for an hour's worth of errands, and came home to find the paper wrappers from two huge Cadbury chocolate bars my son had brought back with him from Scotland as presents for the family just the week before. The chocolate was nowhere in sight. Bandit lay on his bed in the kitchen, with a very guilty look on his face. "Bad doggie," I said, and went to town again to meet some friends for a wine-tasting. I didn't even bother to shake a finger at him. We've reached an understanding over the years. He's going to do something he shouldn't, and I'm not going to like it.

Two hours of delightful conversation and a lesson in how to mix peaches pureed in sugar syrup with Italian champagne for a "patio drink" later, I returned home at nine to find to dinner plate sized pools of regurgitated chocolate on the living room carpet (off-white of course) and a very sick doggie. I shooed him outside to keep being sick and miserable, then Googled chocolate+dog+poison. What I found scared me plenty.

We set off for the animal emergency room twenty five miles away, where Bandit was X-rayed, his stomach monitored, an IV line run to pump him with fluids and some charcoal somehow inserted down his gullet to absorb what chocolate it could. By the next day and $550 later on my credit card, I had a healthy dog again, along with the memory that I had run a quick cost calculation of what I could possibly afford to spend on an eleven year old dog with a bad liver (nothing, if you really must know!) and ultimately checked the "do not rescuscitate" box when asked what should be done if he went into cardiac arrest. I hope nobody tells him. I'm sure he wouldn't have checked the same box for me! But the last time I took a dog to an animal emergency room, I spent $3,700 dollars on last-ditch surgery...and he still died the next morning. It took me years to pay it off. I knew I couldn't afford to do it again.

Bandit's back to normal right now, which means chewing on sticks in the yard and following me around with a tennis ball in his jaws, hoping I'll throw it. The only lasting markers from our adventure are the dark circles under my eyes, the shaved patch on his foreleg from where the IV was inserted, and the chocolate stains on the carpet. I've shampooed them four times now and figure on leaving them for the carpet cleaners some time between now and Thanksgiving.

My son was suitibly apologetic and deeply chagrined over causing the whole incident by leaving his bedroom open and the chocolate available. He informed me that there were actually three Cadbury bars in his room. They're all missing now. One was probably wolfed down with the wrapper intact. I'll find the evidence some day when I'm out in the yard.

In the meantime, I figure all that guilt's gotta be worth some really good help with the yardwork this summer.