A tiny rant

Yesterday I read a post by a blogger who laments the fact that all the kids her children know are white and Mormon in Salt Lake City.  It's such a bubble we live in here, don't you know.  The blogger is white and liberal and fond of taking people to task for their white privilege.

OK.  I'm not sure everybody who lives on the east bench of Salt Lake is a Mormon, although I could be wrong.  What do I know?  But yes.  If you live on the east bench in Salt Lake, you're bound to know primarily white people.

That's why if you want some diversity, it's an excellent idea to drive west of Third West every now and then and spend some time watching your boys play baseball in Glendale and football in Rose Park.  That's why it's an excellent idea to send your kids to the neighborhood schools like Bryant and West where Pacific Islanders and Hispanics make up the majority of the student populations.

Gah.  I so resent lazy caricatures of this city.

Surprises and the first day of school

Here's the first surprise:  you are a parent forever.

Here's the second surprise:  you are a frontline parent for just a very short period of your life.

I thought about this as I watched kids and their parents show up for the first day of school at Wasatch Elementary.  Those proud parents were taking pictures of those clean, shiny kids like crazy, and I asked myself if I miss those moments.

No, not really.  I had five kids, so I got my fill of Big Moments that way.  But now from this vantage point (old person),  I realize that even though I did have five kids, those years came and went like a short summer season.  When you're in the middle of it all, you feel like it will last forever.  But it doesn't.

Which is why you need to define yourself as a Whole Person--and not simply as a Parent.  This is a PSA for young mothers and fathers:  Embrace this time of your life fully.  But nurture those other parts of yourself, as well, so they will be green and growing and ready to go when the time comes.

Food issues

Every ten years or so I have a major depressive episode which = no fun at all.

The upside is that I do lose weight and since the last bad time (two summers ago) I have kept the weight off.  WITHOUT EVEN TRYING.

 But suddenly I find myself wanting to devour everything in sight.  Not only that but I am actually HUNGRY.  Starving.  I'm just this walking bottomless pit of a woman who's trying to eat tomatoes and cottage cheese but who wants to knock over a donut shop instead.  Many donut shops, in fact.

I really want to be all, hey!  I'm cool with eating every donut that currently exists in Salt Lake County.  What does it matter?  I can love me and this body no matter what.

But actually I just feel super anxious.  I'm sixty and I can still feel this way?   No fair!

Coach Mac

I was parking downtown to meet up with a former student and forever friend (she's lives in England now!) for breakfast, when I noticed a man getting out of the car right in front of me.  He seemed familiar--his stance reminded me of my uncles.  And suddenly I realized it was Ron McBride, my dad's old rival and cherished friend.

I called out to him.

He paused--and when he realized it was me, he gave me a big old Dad Hug.  We looked at each other and our eyes filled with tears.  We talked, of course, but really.  Nothing needed to be said.

His hug was a gift.  Thank you, Universe.  Thank you Coach Mac.

Something I just figured out

I've sometimes wondered why I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop.  Which I am.  Like, when Jennifer Napier-Pearce called me into her office last winter, I assumed she was going to fire me.  I put on my best, stoic "I-assume-you're-going-to-fire-me" face, made a plan to eat myself into a coma afterward, and then carry on the way one does after a) being fired and b) eating too much.

Turns out she wanted me to be an advice columnist.

This morning as I was walking my damn dog Tinkerbell around Liberty Park, I had an ah-ha moment.  The reason I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop?  It's because I had a father who on more than one occasion cheerfully said, "There are only two types of coaches in America:  the ones that have been fired.  And the ones who are about to be fired."

There it is.  The answer.

I haven't been writing because I've been afraid I would linger too much on my dad's death and what things look like from here now.  I've been afraid it would look like a play for sympathy or something. But.  Whatever.  I want to write about where I am these days--just like I've done for the past thirty years.  So I hope you'll indulge me.