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At the first glance it looked like an ordinary English assignment sitting on the Daredevil’s desk. Then I realized that this 13 year old boy who has been struggling with his parents’ divorce, has found a way to open his heart. This is his essay.
“My mom had now been married for 18 years. It seemed like everything was going fine, but my dad just had to spoil it. On September 24th 2005, a couple of weeks before my parents’ anniversary my dad was moved out of the house and into an apartment. They had decided to get a divorce. A few days earlier my mom found out that my dad had a secret admirer. It hit her when she was driving back from food shopping. She was in pain mentally and physically.
Every day my mom would get into arguments with my dad. My dad was though “shy” to admit he had pondered on another woman, and that was how it was until my mom moved him out of the house. My mom and dad were now officially “separated”.
My dream was broken. I always wanted to have the perfect life with two great parents standing there for me, when I got into trouble or when I aced a test. It seemed not from now on. Only one parent would be there for me mainly and the other only sometimes. I realized though my mom had made the right choice for her and us. Things would be much harder now and some days I would cry with tears dripping down enough to fill the Delaware canal. I was in total denial and shock for the next week.
My mom had been fighting for our custody and money. My mom had made the choice to follow my dad around the world wherever the business took him. She had been betrayed and back-stabbed. We were now alone and stranded on an island. Trying to find a way out of this mess, the only hope was to believe that everything would be all right. That is the only way to succeed. Everything started to get better. We were now breaking through!
Just a couple of days ago we got all the home equity. I felt better in my heart and really do believe and feel I’m a much better person. I have gone through a lot in my life, but this is one that would be the hardest for me to overcome, but I know I can do it. We know we had fallen for the magic trick, but we now know it was never real.”
It is such a wonderful feeling to walk into a fine dining restaurant with the boys, knowing that they will know how to enjoy the experience and not worry about their behavior. These are truly treasured moments where we talk and laugh and have fun as a family.
To celebrate Daredevil’s birthday, we went to Tequilas, one of my favorite Philadelphia restaurants. Please note that I was asked to omit Mr. from the name, on the request of Daredevil himself, who thought it was too starchy and not appropriate for someone under 18. Who am I not to respect those wishes?
Tequilas is a very welcoming Mexican restaurant with a warm atmosphere; flowers and copper tea lights at every table, large pewter mirrors hanging on the walls together with other interesting Mexican decorations.
Shortly after we were seated, we were addressed in rapidly spoken Spanish by one of the busboys. I am certain that my son’s Argentine Polo shirt I bought in Buenos Aires earlier this year contributed to this. I asked the birthday boy to deal with that one, as he is studying Spanish at school.
The waitress was very knowledgeable, friendly and helpful in describing the dishes and making suggestions to the boys making their choices easier.
Chef Carlos Molina prepares fragrant, colorful, beautifully presented dishes reminiscent of the restaurants I have eaten in San Angel suburb of Mexico City. The food was, as always, very authentic and thoroughly delicious. Langustines I indulged in were as good as in the best Portuguese restaurants in South Africa. Daredevil still raves about his chicken served in a beautiful cast iron pot.
We did have some fun when Mr. Responsible decided to test the heat of a chili pepper. One of those natural teenage boy passages, I guess. I have a sequence of photos showing his face from the moment when the idea occurred to him until he is glugging down the water in an attempt to drown the heat.
The most touching to me was how thankful the boys were for the experience, as they are all painfully aware of how drastically our circumstances have changed.
At home, we presented the birthday boy with a funky green cake in the shape of a frog I bought in Wholefoods, with 13 candles like hedgehog’s spikes protruding from it. After “Happy Birthday” song, making a wish and blowing the candles, at 9:36 p.m. London time, where he was born, Daredevil became a teenager.
Now I need to prepare for the big party on Sunday.
Mr. Daredevil is becoming a teenager today.
He has sneaked up on me 13 years ago as I was sipping my Chianti in beautiful Tuscany. I already had a boy whom I was still nursing and who was about to celebrate his first birthday, so another baby wasn’t in my plans for such a near future. We have been enjoying our vacation touring from Monte Carlo through the South of France down the West Coast of Italy, stopping at Le Cinque Terre and ending in Salvadonica, a beautiful farm in Tuscany, half way between Firenze and Sienna. And it was there, surrounded with olive groves and hills covered in grapevines that Mr. Daredevil came to be. One day I will take him back to the tranquil stone cascina in the Tuscan hills.
On Monday morning I battled heavy winds and torrential rain that swept across the town to get to the Courthouse. Passing the neighbouring farm so reminiscent of Provence, I noticed that the geese were having a field day splashing in the pond twice its normal size. Walking to my attorney’s office, I had my umbrella turned inside out resigning myself to the ‘wet look’ in front of the judge. We entered the Courthouse, our high heels clicking in unison, wheeling my heavy file behind us. To my relief, we settled the tax and house issues in a conference room and only reported to the judge our decision.
It was a strange experience standing next to my Wasbund, attorney on each side, swearing on the Bible to speak the truth and nothing but the truth. I’ve seen it done in the movies many times. Except this was not a movie. This was my real life. I wondered if everyone had to swear on the Bible regardless of their religion or beliefs. How did they know that I wasn’t an atheist or a Buddhist? The Bible would mean diddly squat then.
Why does my mind keep wondering like this all the time? I need to concentrate on what the Wasbund’s lawyer is reciting to the judge. No, I’ll let my lawyer do that and I’ll keep pondering about how many couples like us has the man typing with a disinterested mask over his face seen in his lifetime. Back to reality where the lawyers are firing comments to each other over our heads. Judge gets pissed off and leaves, telling our attorneys to sort out the exact wording of a clause in question. He leaves us standing long after we have reached the agreement. I remind myself of our lawyers combined hourly rate. At least two out of four people are not wasting their time. The judge returns. Wasbund and I answer lots of questions with “I do your honor.” A very different kind of “I do” than the one we uttered 19 years ago.
We leave the courtroom. It’s still raining cats and dogs.
I missed my boys terribly, as they were with the English Wasbund eating roast beef. This was the first family oriented holiday that I had to spend without them and I would be lying if I were to say that it wasn’t soul crushing. All I could do was to send them funny interactive e-cards with bunnies spray painting Humpty Dumpty or singing the Easter blues.
Fortunately, although my very small family is in Croatia, I have spent Easter Sunday in a warm atmosphere surrounded with the people I care for. My friend’s family, large for my one or two child European family standards, have adopted me for every major holiday, and I have spent past Thanksgiving and Christmas Day with them. I met my friend, Ms C., at the ‘End of Season’ annual function at the outdoor tennis club we both belong to. We discovered that we were both in the throws of the divorce with three children and, despite her beating me in tennis, became friends.
I find her family to be very engaging and stimulating. Discussions rage over dinner table laden with ham, rack of lamb, asparagus and other culinary delights. At one moment we could be talking about movies we have seen, the next we could be voicing our opinions on Nancy Pelosi’s visit to Syria. The house was abuzz with children and their stories from college or from the many activities they do. The Golf Masters was permanently on in the family room for anyone who wanted to check on the latest development.
Sitting at the table, I suddenly became aware how we were a microcosm of the family structure in the U.S. today. There were two happily married couples, three divorced singletons and two widows.
According to the statistics, we live longer, especially women, who should expect to celebrate their 80th birthday if they are white and 76th if they are black. They continue to lead active lifestyles and travel, long after their husbands have passed away. The same statistics point at men’s life expectancy being 5 years less than that of the women. (Bring on the jokes!)
Divorce has become a common phenomenon, although there is nothing common in the way people act during this process or in the emotions arising from it. It is a well known fact that half of the marriages in the U.S. end up in divorce. This figure is even worse for the second marriage with 76% ending in divorce. For the brave enough to attempt it for the third time, 87% will be filing for the divorce. I sometimes feel that, as we approach the midlife number 40, life becomes a game of musical chairs. Lots of people are dancing to different tunes, but when the time comes to sit on a chair, there is always someone left standing. When the music starts and the next round begins, the person that was left standing has a chance to bump someone else off the chair, and so the game continues. The marriage counselors are desperately trying to piece together the flying debris from the broken chairs. The players having the most fun are the lawyers, competing in their own game of who can run to the bank the fastest with the largest bucket of money.
Have you ever played the game?
I had the most amazing time with the boys at the Ben Franklin Institute on Friday. We explored together the giant heart walking through all four of its chambers. Mr. Responsible, a med student hopeful, was mesmerized by the open heart surgery video shown on a screen embedded in the mannequin’s chest. His youngest brother, on the other hand, shivered at the mere thought of blood.
The electricity section was packed with many hands-on miniature experiments in physics, involving lots of cranking, to the boys’ amusement. They designed the most aerodynamic airplane wings and fast trains on computer screens. A group of kids, including my own, teamed together to build, what appeared to me, a domino chain long enough to be mentioned in a Guinness Book of Records. To the delight of the younger siblings, the whole structure was put in motion, and collapsed in an amazing chain reaction within seconds.
Exhausted from virtual soccer, surfing, and car racing, we headed to the Imax Theater. Reclining in our chairs, we watched a spectacular show about mummies on a giant all surround screen. It was fascinating to see the interconnectedness of the world that existed thousands of years ago with our own. Scientists used a modern mummy, a body donated to science and mummified twenty years ago, to find out from which tissue to take the elusive DNA sample from the ancient mummies. This information would then point to the illnesses that plagued the ancient Egyptians, some of which, like malaria, are still killing millions of people today. Comparing the malarial strains from the ancient times to those of today, could potentially lead to the cure.
By the end of the day, we were tired, thirsty and had a crank in the neck, but we also had a great time.
Mr. Daredevil descended the stairs this morning exuding an ‘aura’ of haughtiness. Do not be deceived here – he is an excellent actor. During breakfast he announced to his 8 year old brother how he cannot quite decide whether to be Hermes or Apollo. I blame Greek Mythology curriculum for that one, although I admit part of the guilt for reading them books on the subject from an early age.
“Who’s Apollo?” was a natural question posed by his younger brother.
“A Sun god,” replied Mr. Daredevil trying hard to act like one.
“Well, then make another sun appear,” demanded Mr. Thinker.
” I am turning into the god of war, Ares,” warned Mr. Daredevil, over his breakfast sausages.
” Good, then stop the war in Iraq,” concluded Mr. Thinker.
When an 8 year old can see more clearly than the current Government, that is a scary thought.
I entered Thai Thanee restaurant and was immediately greeted by a courteous owner in her colorful sarong. It was 9 p.m. and there were still a couple of tables occupied with people finishing their desserts. Everyone else, presumably, must have gone home by then. Although I have lived in this area for six years, I forget that most people go out for dinner at six, so that by nine the chef is ready to pack up and go. It is a shame that my stomach stubbornly refuses to adjust to this schedule. I have no doubt that kids coming to my house for a sleepover have reported back home of the weird times they were served meals.
On my recent trip to Buenos Aires, which my stomach greatly approved of, I would leisurely stroll into a restaurant at around ten at night making sure not to be among the first arrivals. Restaurants rarely open before eight, as at four they are still clearing up the lunch tables. Food takes time, and it is expected that the meal would last for hours. Chef may take it as a personal insult if the delicacies he took time and trouble to make, are gulped down in minutes. Most restaurants do not close before two in the morning.
The Thai chef was kind enough to accommodate my ‘late’ arrival. He cooked up a storm, and both chicken satay with the creamy peanut sauce and crispy duck on top of the spicy, but not too hot, red curry were delicious. Desserts in places like this tend to boil down to fried bananas or mango/coconut ice cream. I enquired if the ice cream was home made. I have developed the habit of asking about the origin of desserts, even before I got a hot tip from The Waiter. There are two types of places I never ask. One is the brick oven pizza type of a restaurant I frequent with my boys, as the answer is staring me in the face. The other is a Michelin many stars, Zagat top rated, Bonn Appetite write up, big name chef restaurant. There I simply expect the desserts, which cost a small fortune, to be home made. If they are not up to standard, I never go back.
The ice cream in question was not home made. The chef, an overweight Thai man, and his kitchen help, a tiny elderly Thai lady, were free to leave. I made sure to personally thank them for staying late and complimented them on the food they prepared.
Seeing me drinking gallons of green tea with my food, the ’sarong’ lady revealed to me that she was in her fifties. I looked closely at her face and I can honestly say that if women in their fifties had this woman’s complexion with not a wrinkle in sight, plastic surgeons would be out of business. Leaning closer, she told me that her secret was keeping constantly hydrated by drinking lots of green tea and water. I am certain this practice helps, but strongly suspect that her lucky gene pool and the diet of steamed rice and fish have something to do with it as well.
Farewell till tomorrow, as I need to boil a kettle, and make myself a steaming hot cup of green tea.
A soccer coach writes, “It was extremely exciting to see the boys play a very nice game and come out on top! What was very good to see was not just that they won, but that they played very well for their first 8 vs. 8 match. I am very proud of their game. I am also very proud of our sideline behavior. If you looked across the field, you could see the ugly side of soccer parents. This doesn’t cloud the fact that our boys played well as a team and we even saw some good passing.”
My 8 year old comments on the same match, “We creamed them 4:1, and I scored one goal!”
Mr. Daredevil, my 7th grader who tends to wear t-shirts inscribed with ‘I do all my own stunts’ had a school dance. After carefully selecting his ‘cool’ gear, he let me chauffeur him to the school. The cars were lining up and dropping off their tween and teen cargo like limos in front of the hot New York clubs.
Although the dance was fun, I have to report that things didn’t go quite as planned. Around Valentine’s Day, Mr. Daredevil started showing some interest in Little Miss M. who sits next to him in the Spanish class. They talk a lot and have become quite good friends. Little Miss M.’s parents are divorced, so she could certainly feel the pain of what Mr. Daredevil is going through.
A few days before the dance, Little Miss M.’s best friend approached Mr. Daredevil to check if he intends to dance with her friend. In the best Sean Connery tradition, from watching every single James Bond movie ever made, he kept his response short, “Sure”.
The big day has arrived, and it seems that the confident and sure dude was a little less confident and sure. I only gather this from the fact that a group of Little Miss M.’s friends had decided to take things into their hands, and literally deliver the boy in front of Little Miss M. who then shied away. Can you blame her?
The second time when Mr. Daredevil gained the courage to ask her for a dance, he apparently faced an outright rejection. This sounded a little odd to me, so I tried to get the whole picture. He did ask, oh definitely he did, but there was a person right in front of him and the music was really loud as he uttered the words. I don’t think that I would be far off the mark to suggest that the girl did not hear him.
I remember when I was my son’s age, and fairly smitten by a cute guy in my class with a really beautiful name, Leonardo. It somehow never occurred to me that he may be all that into me. Nothing unusual, you may say. Except, at every school dance we ended up dancing at least one slow dance together. At birthday parties we played ‘Spin the Bottle’ game, which I understand is a much more innocent and subdued version of the American one and doesn’t involve any groping. We simply sat in the circle, spun the bottle, and each person would take turns asking one and only one personal question from the kid the bottle was pointing to. I always remember Leonardo’s eagerness to ask me if I fancied anyone. When I replied yes to his question, poor guy in his love agony whispered in his buddy’s ear (which I overheard and dutifully wrote in my diary), “Ask her, just ask her, if that person is at the moment in this very room.” Which his friend did, and to which I gave an honest and truthful reply.
By the 8th grade we figured things out a bit better, and during one of our slow dances we kissed for the very first time.
Warning before you proceed: Mediterranean mothers are in close competition with the Jewish ones and breed perfect sons they enjoy bragging about!
My oldest offspring, Mr. Responsible, is a good tennis player. Being a tennis devotee myself, I have nurtured his love for this lifelong sport from an early age. What is so special about tennis is that not only it provides an incredible workout, but is an amazing social platform. Anywhere in the world, there will be a tennis club with fun people ready to embrace the newcomer.
Yesterday, Mr. Responsible was playing the third singles on his High School team. The school is a small affluent suburban public school with a very private feel about it. I positioned myself on a wall, warm from the March sun, ready to enjoy the testosterone drenched show down.
The boys lined up, two teams facing each other. The team captains were introduced by the coaches. The captains then proceeded to announce the line up. After their position on the team and names were called, the two boys playing each other shook hands and greeted the coaches. I found the ceremony a display of sportsmanship.
A father in a power suit, in the middle of the conference call, sadly reminded me of the absence of my Wasbund from the boys’ events. Never present at any concerts, games, matches… Now that he has settled in a new life with his ‘partner’, as he calls her during the legal proceedings, he doesn’t even telephone the boys.
Mr. Responsible was on fire. His lefty serves were working well. Almost every lob was slammed away. As the score was working in his favor, he became more confident and took charge of the net. A stream of beautifully angled volleys followed. He ‘bageled’ the kid.
Off the court he remarked, “I have played a lot of matches, but I have never heard anyone swear like this. Every word was either shit or F this. Funny, considering that all the boys on their team pray before the play.”
“Well, son, the divine intervention obviously doesn’t always work,” I replied.
The team won as well, and this is the announcement prepared by the coach and going over the loudspeakers today, “In boys’ tennis action yesterday, we aced the Catholic school 7-0 in an unprecedented shut-out! Not one of our players dropped even a set. The outstanding player of the day was 3rd singles, phenomenal freshman Mr. Responsible with a perfect 6-0, 6-0 score. The outstanding point of the day that featured amazing gets goes to the 4th doubles freshmen team. And finally the intimidator of the day goes to a Senior who can argue that he is right until the sun goes down. Great job guys!”
This was the third school played this Spring. So far, the team has won two and lost one event, mirroring my son’s match performance.
Keep practicing guys!
