Pocket dial

I miss her face.

I knew I would. Even twenty years ago, when she was born, and none of us slept, and I went to work one day - got all the way up two flights of stairs - without noticing my footwear consisted of one open-toe mule and one closed-toed clog of very different colors. I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d had them on the wrong feet. However, I was grateful that their heights were identical, mostly because I could come up with an excuse even though I suspected a noticeable limp might not have awoken me from my zombie-like stupor.

It’s funny to look back and think those were the days.

But I knew there would be a day when seeing her off to school would be more than just standing at the end of a driveway waiting for a yellow bus. It would mean packing up the important parts of her life and moving them hours away from home.

I had no idea that I would get used to the silence. I didn’t think I could go without seeing her even for a moment.

It wasn’t so much proof of life, as much as it was feeling like we were still in the same place, even if I was just staring at a map.

So, with her permission, I made a pact. I did the same with her brother.

If they would allow me to access their location, I would promise not to intrude beyond the knowledge of their longitudes and latitudes. I would give them all the space they needed if I could just locate them on a map (in case of emergency).

They call it the stalker app.

I swear, I try not to intrude. I asked to be allowed to track their every move with no small amount of humility and the promise of parental silence.

I have kept my word. I don’t let my thoughts coagulate over data points. I don’t bring it up in casual conversation, say, that I know she went to the hockey arena three nights in a row … or that he went to Stewart’s after school.

Just seeing their photos bobbing along a Google map getting closer to home can make my heart flood.

  

And, I know, that having the power of real-time tracking without context can also lead to surprises, suspicions, and awkward questions.

This might have been possible when I called up my daughter and saw her bubble bouncing near the edge of the ocean at a beach not far from her school.

She had mentioned it, though. She had called me the day before, sighing deeply and releasing the tension that had been building as she readied for a midterm exam. 

“Now that it’s over, I think I’m going to take a “wellness day” tomorrow and go to the beach with some friends.”

For a moment, I thought maybe I could accidentally call her …

Make like my pocket had dialed … just so I could hear the sound of waves behind her happy voice. But I resist.

What happens in Find My Phone stays in Find My Phone.

Shit kicker

There might have been a path to redemption for placekicker Harrison Butker when he addressed the graduating class of Benedictine College in Kansas last week and told them to focus on their vocations whatever they may be. 

But he missed the mark with the words he selected specifically for the “ladies.”

The only ones applauding are rooting for chauvinism in an age when women are finally starting to see their representation reach some semblance of parity in the fields they pursue. 

There is no defending where his words trespassed after he singled out 51 percent of the graduates and told them they had been lied to … and explained with a back-handed compliment that all of their accomplishments up to this point would pale in comparison to what would come next: his advice that instead of seeking promotions and titles, they should “lean in” to their vocations as wives, mothers, and homemakers.

And as much as my flesh crawled as his words wormed their way through the commencement hall into the news cycle, I wished I could buck liberal leanings instilled in me by Catholic parents: God gave us life and the free will to live it.

And while I believe my father might have told this cad to kick rocks, it is painful to see so many young faces smile and fill the place with such raucous applause. Compelling Butker to pause his insult so that he might bask in its cacophony.

As the rebuke reverberated over the wider web of witnesses it showed the true weakness of a man who has not evolved.

Had I been a member of the commencement steering committee, I would have insisted they turn the vehicle around.

I find it odd that in his speech Butker cribbed from Sheryl Sandberg’s 2013 book, Lean In.” He probably thinks it a clever twist to use a feminist slogan to imbue his trad-wife anthem. 

Though I suppose it somewhat ironic that Sandberg faced a similar (if not more nuanced) backlash for telling women all they had to do was work harder to succeed in business.

Sandberg’s detractors were quick to point out that the system, which was designed for men, was not so ready to yield to women. Butker’s will be told they belittle mothers. 

To be sure, freely made choices are intrinsic to the joys we seek in life. That Butker should acknowledge his wife’s sacrifice for their family might have bordered on laudable had he also mentioned his mother’s contributions to humanity.

In addition to raising a “good Catholic boy,” Elizabeth Keller Butker is also a clinical medical physicist specializing in radiation oncology at Emory University in Atlanta.

Or better yet, maybe the folks at Benedictine should have invited her to be their speaker. 

 Is she not also doing the work God intended?

It is a shame and a missed opportunity that they didn't value their women graduates enough to be embarrassed by their choice of such an offish homily. They've diminished their worth and credibility by allowing any of their graduates to be denigrated.

 

Mothers' Day

 The first Saturday in May was … a lot. I’m not gonna lie as the kids say. 

Despite both of our children being licensed and capable drivers, my husband escorted our daughter back to college for the start of a new trimester, while I ferried our son to the various venues around the region where he would be tested and measured: one for higher than high school education, the other in feats of strength and speed in track and field. 

We had reversed the activities of the previous weekend when the girl had driven hours with me to a different city and the boy had driven his father to distraction. 

 Each leg of our respective journeys required at least three hours of “hurry up” and three hours of “wait” time. 

That’s eleventy-billion hours for those of us in our middle-ages. 

Not to brag, (totally bragging) I feel quite certain I am more suited than my husband to navigate the arduousness of this journey. Not only do I have the remnants of my younger, “carpool mom” stamina, but I have also been cross-training for various fun runs since 2014. I am literally “happy” to spend an hour or three running in circles around my former alma mater while "et filius" is inside taking his SAT.

*Note to those who might be willing to join me on the first Saturday in June when your kid might return to my alma mater to try for a better set of grades. We could form our own kind of running club dedicated to taking the last laps for dropoff and pickup

I’ve already done the legwork. I know the track is locked so we’ll have to run the grounds. I have Garminic proof that an entire lap of the school and its parking lots will get us a mile, which will quickly add up as we wait for our test-taking kids to resurface. 

No pressure. 

I only compete against my husband, who will call in intervals, wanting the play-by-play from the “match,” he is missing and to tell me how traffic is moving at the pace of snails.

He may complain about the monotony of the interstate, but he will soon gloat that he has won the lottery of city driving by finding a legal parking spot centrally located and within walking distance of the girl’s dorm and their dinner reservation. 

When we arrive at the meet, I find a parking spot and the boy starts his warmup. He has shooed away the butterflies from his test-nervous stomach and welcomed them into the belly reserved for field events and concessions stand snacks. He then shoos me away for being a gadfly, flitting around in a frenzy offering water and sunscreen. 

To smooth over the rough edge of his teen admonition, he spreads a layer of concern, asking me to stand out of sight distance for my protection. Throwing sports can be a dangerous lot.

He finds it hard to throw if he sees me in the line of trajectory. 

Oddly, I find myself unable to watch. 

I see him enter the circle and take a stance away from the direction of the throw. I look at the ground as he swings counterclockwise and back three times before releasing the discus into the air. 

I look up as it flies out straight across

the field. 

His smile as he lopes out to retrieve it tells me he is happy no matter what the line official reads off the now-taught measuring tape. 

“83’.1 - and a new PR” 

He resists pumping his fist in the air but the smile stretches further across his face. 

Challenges accepted

 The weekend plans had been in the works for months. Six of my running friends and I had signed up for a spring half marathon featuring two challenging loops of NYC’s Central Park. 

It was an anticipated outing that had everything: a stellar event in the Big Apple, local accommodations, and ample time to masquerade as a "Lady Who Lunches."

It was not without its challenges.

I’m not going to lie. At first, this outing felt like a whim. It began as a text message excitedly posted to a group chat about the potential of a women-only racing weekend right when the trees’ most colorful fineries would be on showy display. Not only did the original poster offer up free accommodations at other people’s houses, proffering not only the hope of such generosity but also the cross-fingered belief that free, on-street parking would materialize with the same miraculousness, none of us thought there was anything wrong. 

So before anyone could say “WAIT! Shouldn’t we ask the homeowners before we volunteer their abodes?” all seven of us had circled the date on our calendars, paid our registration fees, and counted ourselves in.”

It had other challenges, too. And not the hidden downsides of such a beautiful race setting, like climbing hills and fighting pollen, and feeling queasy from fresh mounds of literal horseshit wafting over the other scents in the air, that of vanilla bakeries and ebbing cherry blossoms.

The biggest challenge for me was that I hadn’t consulted the calendar. 

Turns out the kid who made me a mom was coming home from college that weekend and she would only be around for a few days before she had to turn right back around to begin her summer classes.

I didn’t want to bail on the race - but I wanted to bail on the race.

So I asked my friends if I could invite my daughter to tag along for the weekend -- that is -- if I was able to convince the second-year co-ed to drop any plans for lounging around the house, catching up on sleep so she could hang with a gaggle of middle-aged women trying to outrun offers from the AARP.

Turns out a free trip to NYC is very attractive to a girl of her age, and hanging out with mature-minded women who enjoy sightseeing and restaurants and quietly noting celebrity sightings was a pleasurable alternative to doing her own laundry in my absence at home.

Any misgivings I might have had about foisting my newly adult daughter on my more mature friends melted away the moment I noticed she felt more comfortable with them socially than I ever did with her friends. 

As we toured the city, we touched on everything there is to delight and vex a person in conversation, creating hundreds if not thousands of chances to excite or enrage based on a generational divide. As we ran in circles, and she circled the runners waiting for us to finish, we realized we had some of the same thoughts, some of them ginning up outrage:

"Why were there so many men running a women’s only race?  Why did the announcers only seem to acknowledge the males of the species for cheering on their mothers and sisters and wives? Did they not see any of the women out there supporting other women?"

“I want to ask that man with the medal around his neck why he ran this race,” she asked without a hint of malice. “But I’m just going to assume he ran it in honor or someone he loved who couldn’t.”