Off to the Races

My youngest son is obsessed with cars. Any and all kinds of cars, and he has a sophisticated knowledge of their test results, horsepower, engine and brake specs, and many other facts that seem to go through from my one ear to the other without lodging themselves anywhere. I'm not a good car talk companion, I'm not particularly interested in the details and I can't remember them when they are told to me over and over.

While he would really love it, he is not getting a car (or a motorcycle or a dirt bike) for his thirteenth birthday. So we did the next best thing we could think of. We took him to Laguna Seca to watch the American La Mans race. Not being race regulars, we just went with the goal of wandering around and watching the race from the different well-known view points. There were several classes of cars racing at the same time, which means there was a lot more passing than in most races. When there was the rare spin-out and a cloud of dust along the track, or a car went into the pits to change tires, the announcers really got amped up. For the most part, the cars roared around the track and I really had no idea how to keep track of what car was in what position for what class.

There were far more people working at the race in various capacities than there were spectators. There were ID checkers, parking lot attendants, bar tenders, race officials with the flags, vast amounts of pit crew and other kinds of crew who moved all the equipment around, medical and safety staff, announcers, TV crew, fried artichoke vendors, popcorn vendors, photographers, lots of people selling things from cars to car cleaning products to old car posters to fancy custom made earplugs. There were a few tall skinny girls in skintight "racing suits" posing for pictures, waiting for someone to buy them a drink, and I even saw one driver (there was no mistaking the suit nor the strut) walking around like a rooster. A diminutive rooster. This is such a foreign culture to me, there was so much to take in. The race itself was quite thrilling and deafeningly loud at close range near the fast straight of way and at the turns. I had no problem hearing everything quite well even with earplugs crammed in my ears as far as they would go.

The birthday boy with a car that is much easier to photograph than one going 173 miles an hour.

Laguna Seca is located in Monterey, California, and thus they offer Talbott chardonnay to sip on, in plastic glasses. The artichoke vendor ran out of artichokes. The food and drink choices were a disorienting mix of high end and county fair. The most popular snack seemed to be something touted as a French hot dog, which was about a quarter of a baguette hollowed out, with a long floppy hot dog jammed into it with at least a couple inches of the dog sticking out of the top. It was a phallic meal for an event screaming with testosterone. You would never see this in France. Even if I thought it would taste good, I'd be embarrassed to carry it around and eat it. Sadly I didn't get a photo of someone holding one of these.

Race spectators with a great view and a can of cheese whiz

Four amateur photographers taking the same shot through a rare window in the chain link fence surrounding the track

The spectators were overwhelmingly male. There was a high incidence of tattoos and a huge amount of very expensive photographic equipment. Lots of coolers filled with beer. Cheese Whiz on crackers. It was one of the only places I've been where the mens room had a line and the ladies room was nearly deserted. The two women in the restroom were in there preening, not peeing.

Race spectators

The sponsors of the race included Patron Tequila, Muscle Milk (contains no milk), and Tully's Coffee. I pondered this for a bit, as the spectator crowd did not appear to be the kind that would purchase any of these drinks. It was more of a beer can/7-11 coffee kind of crowd. And not one person seemed to be in need of a sports drink protein supplement. Then I realized that the names on the cars were not about the advertising, but about bragging rights. CEOs screaming "Mine is faster, louder, and more expensive than yours. My crew is bigger than yours. My track models are more sexy. My uniforms are more stylish and have more neon. My driver is more diminutive than yours."

We did have fun and my son enjoyed it immensely. When we left, he said, "I can't wait to feel the connection between the steering wheel and the asphalt." He has three years before he turns 16 and will feel that connection. Even if he turns out to be an excellent driver, I think we are safe: he's already too tall to fit in that Ferrari cockpit.

This was my favorite vehicle at the race, the Ferrari vespa. Cute and badass at the same time. Fast but not fast enough to catch on fire.

Some Days Are Just Bigger (And Thank A Teacher For That!)

Some days are just bigger than others. Yesterday was one of those, and it wasn't just because everyone in my family stayed up much later than usual. That made it longer, but it was a big day too.

It was a day where I witnessed one son's sustained hard work resulting in a significant personal record and a profound sense of satisfaction.

It was a day where I saw how generous one of my sons can be to a friend, literally lending the shoes off his feet to make a difference to someone just because he wanted him to succeed.

It was a day where I got to see another son's leadership in action and how he can make a difference for his teammates.

It was a day where extraordinary efforts were made toward an academic goal. Where I saw the lessons learned on the field applied to the classroom. Where hard work, a can-do attitude and a sense of pride and competition can bring about an all-out academic sprint. Where a passion for baseball and a challenge to do your best can meet in the classroom. It was an interesting, if very late, night.

Sure, it was an 18 hour day for some of us. But wow, what was done in those 18 hours has me in awe. And I owe so much of that to my sons' teachers.

The teachers in my sons' lives have had more influence than they can know. This week is Teacher Appreciation Week. The teachers I've known for years, the teachers I have not met, the teachers who are coaches, and even the teachers my sons don't particularly like, I appreciate them all because they all have contributed something important to shaping the teenagers in my house.

Thank you to all the teachers who commit themselves to making a positive difference in a young person's life. In particular I'd like to thank my sons' teachers, for their encouragement, support, challenges, instructions, suggestions, inspiration, concern, perspective, friendship, leadership, and partnership.

I'm Back, Because Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

It's been almost a year since I took a break from my blog. I think it's time for me to come back.
Writing about raising teenagers is tricky. I have so many stories to share, but writing about teenagers in such a public way is much more difficult and more complicated than telling stories about when they were younger. I'm struggling with what I can share and where the limits are, both theirs and mine. For a while I just didn't want to share, but my muse has been hitting me over the head and I have to start writing again or I risk her leaving me.

My boys are now 16, almost 15 and almost 13. Soon we are officially an all-teenager house.

Evidence of the teenager infestation:
My youngest announced after dinner, "I think I'm going to listen to my favorite break-up song."

A favorite break-up song? Is he an expert in the genre? Really, what does he have to break up with, his outgrown shoes? Oh, he's had a girlfriend. But when she went from "friend since kindergarten" to "girlfriend," she stopped talking to him. So after a day or two of awkward silence, he said, "this is not going to work" and they broke up. Certainly not worthy of a ballad to memorialize the gut-wrenching end of a relationship.

Break-up songs, a voice subtly heading for a lower timber, a robust interest in food, and an intense desire for prescription sunglasses that allow him to see (and look cool) while playing baseball . . . all evidence of the youngest member of our gang joining the soup of male teenager hormones sloshing around our house.

Help me, I'm drowning in the soup! I am barely hanging on to my sanity, and I belch more than is prudent for a woman of my age, just to see one of my boys look up, smile, and say, "good one Mom."

Break-up songs on the playlist tonight.

Big Month for Middle!

Turning 14!

Last day of school. Little brother is very excited, can't you tell?

Posing by his favorite tree on campus

Proud parents and a graduate!

What a busy month! My middle son went on his final school trip to Washington DC, turned 14, played in a basketball tournament in Reno, a baseball tournament in Martinez, and graduated from middle school. He is looking forward to high school . . . after some summer fun!

A Dreamy Dozen

My youngest son just turned twelve.

For his birthday, he wanted either a bike with disc brakes and lock-out shocks (TOP of the line baby!) or a Temper-Pedic mattress.

Seriously? That is a strange birthday wish list. A kid can dream, and this one certainly does!

Since he was going to the last dance of the year on his birthday, I let him wear the shirt.

In the spirit of dreaming, for my birthday I want a laundress, an E-type Jag with unlimited maintenance included, an apartment in Paris and 50 million frequent flyer miles.

Banquet Fowl

Last night I accompanied my oldest son to his high school lacrosse team's end of season banquet. This was the third banquet I've attended this year. The first, for cross country, was an amazing feat of organization and mobilization. There were about 190 boys on the team, and I've never seen such a gigantic potluck, it was overwhelming. I helped work one of the tables of salads, and was amazed by the variety and sheer volume of food. Cross country runners eat very healthy, there were a lot of pasta and salads dishes and very little meat. Many of the items were made by people rather than store-bought, and the food was plentiful.

The next banquet, a much smaller affair, was just for the freshman soccer team. Also a potluck (all sports banquets, that I am aware of, are potlucks at this school), it was much different just because there were so few families. Still, there was plenty of variety and food. Some food was home-made, some store bought.

This last banquet, the call went out for entrees of chicken or lasagna, and bring enough to serve 25 boys. Wow, that is a lot of food! Having been to two different banquets, I thought this one should fall somewhere in the middle of those extremes. I didn't want to attempt to make lasagna for 25, and I didn't have time to pull that off anyway, so I decided on chicken. I cooked ten pounds of drumsticks after dinner the night before, seasoning them and basting them until my entire house smelled like a BBQ restaurant. I stacked them on a platter and tucked them into the refrigerator, knowing I could run home and grab them before the banquet. I was pretty happy with how delicious they were, easy to serve and eat, and was already planning on making this same thing for the next banquet, whatever that might be.

It honestly did not, for one second, occur to me to purchase prepared food to bring to this event. I don't know why, even though I had a busy day, ran a big meeting, had a work project and other kids to drive around.

I carried my rather heavy platter into the banquet, and was completely dismayed to see buckets of KFC and big trays of store-bought, room temperature lasagna. I set my platter down with some hesitation. Um, did I miss something? What kind of banquet was this?

At the end, the KFC was gone, and I had a lot of leftover chicken. Well, I learned a lesson. For the next chicken/lasagna banquet, I will do the buy out option and eat before I go. I would never buy that kind of food to take to a potluck. For goodness sakes I would never feed my family or friends that stuff, what makes it acceptable to serve it to high school athletes during a celebration gathering? I'd say it was clearly a fowl.