In sickness, in health, in school

I'm fully prostrate on the couch in my serene front room. "Because it's your one nice room," the kids always answer when I ask why in here I don't want them acting as if they're on a playground. They're correct, relatively speaking. It is my nicest room, the cleanest and most adult beyond the kitchen.

Real art hangs on its walls. Books with grown-up fonts marking their spines remind me of all I've read and loved and been changed by over the years. Nicely framed photographs, a library case that we use for wedding china and stemware, and even an antique demilune table that I spent years searching for give this room a mature, somewhat elegant feel that's largely missing in the rest of our home.

Our other rooms are more practical and comfortable for a family with young sons, and, by and large, I love the commingling of New York Times sections with swim noodle light sabers, a glass vase of flowers sitting next to plastic Melissa & Doug placemats, a cat tower weighted down by cartons of Zoobs and MagnaTiles. It's a mess but a loving, lived-in one.

I can see all that from where I now lie, in a filtered-sun spot next to a snoring pug. I like the proximate remove; even though our house isn't large and the floorpan is contiguous (which means the boys can literally run circles around the house), I don't spend much time in here. My parents had a room like this, in the house in which I grew up. It had a formal couch, a piano and pale carpet. We never went in but I always loved it. It felt clean and quiet and just slightly distant.

I likely wouldn't be here right now if I weren't tuckered out by a great but wildly busy week and the cold I caught from Tom during it. I feel like such tired crap. Being sick is not a strength of mine, but I'm trying to go with it today because I do need some rest.

A most wonderful friend stayed with us Monday-Wednesday and she and I ignored reasonable bedtimes to take advantage of the fleeting time together. Then the book events on Wednesday, a play date yesterday and then, last night, Back to School Night for Jack, my fourth grader.

It's almost worth being under the weather today to get to bask in quiet gratitude about the school J and O attend. I could not feel luckier, and I mean that. 

Jack's teachers are, again, remarkable, representing Quaker- and best, most current educational- values at their very best: "Whether it's math, baseball or something within themselves, we want the kids to know that all of us are always working on something." 

To make the myriad challenges of growth normative is such an incredible gift for a child. Wouldn't it have been amazing to hear, for all us who never did or did too late, "everyone is always working on something" before we started intensely comparing ourselves to others? Before any deleterious senses of self -I'm not as smart, not as athletic, not as capable- became too entrenched? 

The teachers also said what a gift it was to teach at a Quaker school because when an educational institution's goal is to value the unique inner light in each child, it allows them to meet the children where they are as individuals, honor what about each makes him/her special, and assess growth based solely on that child's starting point. 

Math is taught not only via paper-based algorithm work but also through literature and manipulatives. Reading is honed by all reading the same books and discussing them in groups and through drawing and journaling but also by allowing each child to choose the works that immediately excite them as well as requiring kids to read a book of their choice in several different genres.

There is art and science and laughter and play. There is regular P.E. and recess and both Spanish and Mandarin and both chorus and music. There are planners and lessons on time management and community involvement and service work. There is time for creativity and dreaming. There is a profound respect for childhood that pervades the campus and the curriculum, and I am inordinately grateful. 

It rarely hurts to ask

Y'all may have heard me opine that it never hurts to ask. I mean it, the older I get the more I believe that little can be lost (and actually, much can be gained) by simply asking, politely and earnestly, that about which you wonder. Also, gratitude. Giving thanks goes a long way.

A minute example are the espresso cups and saucers I once admired at my family's favorite Italian restaurant in Houston (growing up in Lake Charles, we had to head to Houston for most ethnic food and foreign film experiences) and shyly asked our lovely waiter, an older, silver-haired man who had the most gracious and charming disposition, if I might be able to purchase a set.

He wrapped them up lovingly, and I still have them all twenty years later. Six porcelain cups painted with scenes from six magical Italian cities, and sturdy saucers to seat them atop.

I have a water carafe from a restaurant in an Italian hill town for exactly the same reason, although the charming waiter there was much younger.

Back in January, I read a Modern Love essay in Sunday's New York Times that really struck me. I loved the way it was crafted, and elements of it resonated deeply with slivers of my own life as they were then. 

A few days later, still thinking of that piece, I googled the author (Ellen Urbani), found her website, emailed her a note of admiration and thanks and rather imagined that was that. 

Imagine my surprise when she wrote back and when our correspondence continued. Imagine my delight when I asked if, during her book tour swing through DC in the fall (her second book, Landfall, was just released a few weeks back!), she might want to teach a personal essay writing class. Imagine that this morning, when I opened my front door to Ellen and we hugged and she came in to teach class, that I was awfully glad I'd asked.

A few writer friends and I sat around my table and ate and laughed and learned from this loveliest of women who generously spent two hours of her busy day with us. And tonight, I heard her present her book, and we hugged again and snapped a pic, and as I drove home, I smiled up at the beautiful sliver moon and was reminded that the world is full of possibilities. Sometimes all you need do is ask.

Rogie (Federer), Nanny, and memories

Who watched that incredible, for-the-ages, heartbreaking U.S. Open men's tennis final last night? I am still making tears and associated sad faces. Roger Federer, my Rogie, is one of the greatest players of all time and also one of the classiest. I mean, did you hear his speech just prior to being given that lame-arse, second-place plate? 

People, the plates have got to be retired. No one spends six hours a day for 18 years sweating and becoming super-human to win a plate. Even if it's sterling silver and engraved. 

Back to Rogie. The wavy hair atop his head never succumbs to scalp sweat. He is always gracious and lovely. He and his wife have TWO sets of twins. The colored side vents in his tennis shirts always line up with the same-color stripes running up the sides of his shorts. That alone is worth something more than a plate.

I honestly think that nothing more needs to be said in support of Roger. Except that if ever you've wondered why I love Benedict, it's rather the same: both RF and BC are expert at their  skill, both are classy beyond compare, AND both can wear a suit like nobody's business. Who could want more? Or, what more could one want?

Last night's game was an epic one: two real champions duking it out with various crests and falls of greatness. When T and I had been dating for about two months, I got tickets to the U.S. Open final between Sampras and Agassi. Another historic showdown, not least because Petey retired shortly after. I wonder if Rogie will do the same soon.

I grew up watching and loving tennis. I was a terrible tennis player, but my parents, sister and I used to set up a large "nest" on our family room floor -blankets, pillows, etc- and watch as much of Wimbledon and the U.S. Open as possible. My Nanny loved the sport too, and until she was no longer able, she often joined our family view sessions. 

Once I moved away and when she was too old to travel, I'd call her at the start of a match; she and I always loved the same players. Stefan (now, fabulously, Roger's coach), Pete, Roger. 

"Nan, do you have the game on? Are you watching?"

"Oh yes, do you? Isn't X handsome?"

"He sure is, Nan. I love you. I'll call you after the game, OK?"

I really wanted to call Nanny last night, both before and after the game. It's in these little moments that I miss her so deeply.

Last week, somewhere, I saw a darling elderly woman wearing those elastic-waist, faux-denim pants that Nanny always wore. Where does one get those? Will I find out after I'm 70? I saw that woman and I gasped. I wanted to see if she, like Nanny, had on a camisole, under her button-up shirt. Did she use Aqua Net hairspray? Did she wear Sas shoes? I wanted to hug her, and maybe take her hand, to see if it was soft and cool and smooth like Nanny's, like I can't imagine mine ever being. 

I couldn't do any of those things, but last night, as I saw Jack get really excited about the thrilling match we were watching; as I saw something spark in him the way it must have once sparked in me; as T, who has the crappiest cold, gave in and wandered off to bed,

I thought, "My Nan is gone, but my Jack is here. And if I let him stay up late with me tonight, watching heroic sportsmanship and athletic ability play out in front of us, maybe he'll come to love this sport as I do. Maybe we'll watch Wimbledon and the U.S. Open together each year and perhaps, if we're lucky sometime, we'll go to either tourney in person, together, and see something that we'll never forget." 

Maybe one day, he'll call me or his child will call me, and say, 'Nan, do you have the game on?' And I'll have found those elasticized pants and the perfect recliner, and I'll be so happy my grandchild is calling, and I'll say, "Oh yes, do you? He is so handsome!"

Though I'm still heartbroken for Roger, I don't regret our late night one bit.