I began this project a few years ago during our 35th year of marriage. It was supposed to be a Valentine’s gift to my husband. The plan was one special remembrance for each year. I sailed through years 1 to 17. Whether years 18 on were more difficult to write about or whether recent years—parents’ deaths, new grandbabies, retirement, and a move—something interrupted my writing. I am attempting this project again. Now we’ve made it 37 years, but like ocean tides going in and out, we hit high seas around year 20.
On the cusp of year 2000, some highly educated people in our neighborhood were freaking out over the change to the new millennium. These were doctors, who said that technology would be thrown into a tizzy with the change from 1999 to 2000. That everything linked to your name, identification, including bank accounts would crash. Some of these families began to stockpile, as though planning for the end of the world, like a harbinger of the Apocalypse. Really. Our neighborhood Bible study consisted of an M.D., a Ph.D., and everyone else had a B.A. or B.S. (so educated beyond high school), primarily Protestant, some evangelical. I bristled at many discussions, biting my tongue as conservatives railed against those who weren’t like them. Oh. My. Word. It was a difficult time for me—trying to appease the lions. I questioned who these people are, as the women (mostly stay-at-home moms) questioned me for working. The men generally stayed silent on this topic.
L.D.—I don’t know how you do it. I’m so glad my husband makes enough so I can stay home. It must be really hard for you.
Me—
S.M.—Yeah, I can’t see working and turning my kids over to somebody else.
Me—Sigh.
Ironically, I ended up teaching their kids in my biology classes. Dale and I drifted apart from these people, perhaps subconsciously adhering to a moral or religious divide. Maybe it was our kids moving on to different schools, or our switching jobs, but we didn’t socialize with them as much, except for the occasional wave as we drove up the street.
Instead our lives became entrenched in kid activities. Daughter M. was a 15-year-old sophomore, Daughter A. 12, and Daughter S. 9. M. competed in volleyball, swimming, and water polo, and A. played volleyball and basketball, and S. pursued theatre and horseback riding, and everyone did 4H. Our new friends became parents of other teammates. Daughter M. qualified for Far Westerns and other big events, often held at a swim complex in the Bay Area. Weekends began at 5 am, a two-hour drive with a McDonald’s breakfast on the way. We loaded the car the night before with tent, sleeping bags, pillows, piles of towels (one per event, plus one per each warm-up), team parkas, hats, gloves, boots, nothing less even in summer. The difficulty was staying warm between events. During one swim meet in Walnut Creek, snow blanketed the hills and ice coated the deck. Hazard cones designated slippery spots, so swimmers accepted the challenge of a new sport—ice skating, while parents sat bundled in cars or by heaters under tarps.
To make a meet go faster, parents timed, judged, or scored, which meant donuts, lots and lots of them and all day long. Eating that Crispy Cream or maple bar with extra drizzle was optional, but few parents passed them up. Swimmers maintained their lean, sculpted physiques, while parents not so much. You could equate the better swimmers with their more portly parents, those who spent more time sitting at swim meets. Dale and I trained as stroke coaches for U.S. Swim, where we walked the pool deck (trying to get some exercise), watching each stroke and turn by poor, exhausted little kids. The occasional swimmer who couldn’t pass muster (per U.S. Swim rules) tormented me as I much as I did him or her with that white DQ (disqualification) slip or “traffic ticket” (my phrase in an effort to minimize the damage).
Volleyball tournaments were a welcome change from the freezing cold of winter swim meets and scorching heat of summer swim meets. These tournaments were played inside a gym, where parents didn’t need to time, judge, or score, and the action lasted an hour, sometimes longer if the games were close, making the drive reasonable; whereas, some swim events finished under a minute. Daughter M. swam a 50 free in 26 seconds—and we drove two hours for that event—and then two hours home. But, hey, these were our kids and we were doing the parent thing. Dale and I traded weekends with daughters, but I usually attended swim meets since swimming was in my veins and background, while Dale, a former volleyball coach, became the volleyball parent. Through it all, we accumulated points at Residence Inns or Best Westerns, hotels of choice for traveling athletes because breakfast was included—that yellow blob of scrambled egg, on demand waffles, some sort of sausage or micro waved bacon and coffee of the blandest kind in the world.
When our youngest Daughter S. chose to compete in gymnastics, we were prepared to work the sidelines, whether it was bringing food & drinks, scoring, timing, or judging. We knew the “drill”—early weekend hours and two-hour (minimum) drives with sleeping athletes. We knew the costs of sports. What a welcome surprise for us at the first gymnastics competition—parents were banished to the stands, not permitted anywhere near the floor. Wootwoot! I read many books during gymnastics tournaments; looking up in time to watch the floor exercise or vault or whatever S. was doing. I even came to recognize which level competed by the music, synthesized variations of “tinny” sounding themes. We came to enjoy, even relish, sports weekends, and then as all good things come to an end—our youngest daughter graduated, and so did we.
Love is Complicated 