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I go for a run. Or so I thought.

Posted on September 12, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

We had so many things going on that day, but I figured I’d squeeze in a couple of miles just to kick the day off right. When my husband gave the official eye roll of agreement, I grabbed my Ziploc bag with a cinnamon mint and my cell and was off and running.

phone in bag

Trot, trot, trot. I was cruising along, minding my own mind, trying to decide whether I should wear my navy and cream maxi dress or capris with this cutesy new top my mom just bought me – yes, deep thoughts, people – when my Runkeeper app announced in that warm, automated bank teller voice, “Five minutes, .5 miles with an average pace of 10 minutes 2 seconds per mile.”*

I wasn’t really paying attention because a 10 minute mile for today’s run was perfect. Until I turned the corner and almost collided with a woman I sort of know from either baseball or elementary school or possibly from the neighborhood. She could be a friend of a friend. I don’t know, but I knew her and she knew me and we said hello as she passed me by.

I followed her butt from a car length or so behind and started racing her in my head. I sped up a little, then worried that we’d have this awkward moment where we were running side by side. I’ll just cross the street if that happens, I told myself. I wouldn’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable.

Congratulating myself on this brilliant idea, I realized that in the minutes that had passed I was no closer to catching her than I was before. Hmm. Might have to speed up a bit more. Now I’m panting, still waiting for that moment where – oh, ha ha, here we are together – but I had made zero progress.

WTF?! I did a self-confidence check. I’m in decent shape. I’m pretty competitive. I’m not a speed demon, but I’m no slack. She didn’t even look like she was running hard, while I imagine a photo of me would reveal someone who looked like they needed medical attention.

At that moment, Runkeeper announced, “15 minutes, 1.75 miles, with an average pace of 9 minutes 17 seconds per mile.*” Well, that’s certainly faster. Yet, I’m still at least a car length – if not two – behind her.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, she trips.

I watched her fall to the ground and do a kind of half roll. My mouth dropped open, and I am definitely not thinking that this is the moment I catch up to her. I am going to make sure she is okay. I get a little closer and yell, “Are you okay?” but before I reach her, she is back up and on the move again, brushing herself off as she goes.

She doesn’t even turn around, but gives me a little half wave in acknowledgment. Within two minutes, we are back at our regular spots, her striding ahead, me lagging behind.

I’m pissed – no biggie, just a pelvic wall thing from the babies – and I’m frustrated. All my dormant competitive instincts now come alive. Oh yeah, let’s take it up a notch.

I do gain a little ground, but quickly realize as I huff and puff that I am not going to blow this house down. Besides, I wonder, what would I do if I actually caught her? I could probably only match her pace for about a minute, before giving some ridiculous little wave of triumph and slowly falling back to my rightful place behind her.

No. I was humiliated enough. I slowed and followed her swaying short shorts until I hit my block and turned.  She, of course, continued on, forever in front of me, just out of reach.

When I got home, Runkeeper clocked my fastest mile at 8:27. Not bad. I probably should run with her more often.

photo (1)

*Numbers are approximately accurate, just in case you’re checking my math. 😉

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Clue: Don’t play Board games with my husband

Posted on January 4, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

It was close to bed time, when my seven year-old produced the board game Clue with wide eyes and wider expectations. “Can we play?” He asked, his green, green eyes earnestly pleading.

I considered saying no. We were finally back to school, but our routine was still on vacation. We were going to sleep too late, and I was dragging my youngest and my oldest out of bed in the morning. I checked the clock and sighed. It was after 8 pm and teeth still needed to be brushed. Plus, getting them all settled in bed could easily take 45 minutes.

“One game.” I warned. How could I say no to his happy, little face? Especially since, that face was the one that lashed out the most and could be the hardest to reach. I love his happy. His happy is gorgeous.

He and my oldest set the board up and handed out the cards. My husband also decided to play and teamed up with my five year-old, immediately initiating a lot of dramatic high fives as to the ‘awesomeness’ of their ‘team’. It had been a while since I had played a board game with my husband, but it only took the first high five before it all came flooding back. My husband was a competitive ass.

I recalled card games years before which had him casting sneaky, sideway glances at our friends or throwing his winning cards before them with a triumphant and challenging, “Aha!” As a team, I’ll admit to being caught up in his win at all costs attitude. We were unbeatable at Pictionary and Trivia Pursuit. After a bit, the game phase faded with our crew, or more likely, we stopped being invited.

We started playing, asking our questions, searching for clues to uncover the murderer. Me to my oldest, “I think it’s Green, in the living room with a dagger. Can you confirm anything?” As he nods and slides a card my way, my husband’s voice penetrates with loud, boisterous glee. “Ah, I see! Yes!! Now I’ve got it! Hoo Hoo Hoo. I’ve so got this!”

The boys and I roll our eyes and continue, but with each turn, my husband interrupts with hoots and commentary. “Oh, I get it! Do you guys get it! See what I’m doing here?! I can show you how it’s done.” And then there’s the crazy laughter, “HAHAHAHA! I’m going to win!”

His aggressiveness is a little scary, and my youngest decides to switch to my team. We all try to ignore him. It’s his first time playing, after all. He doesn’t even know how to play. When we remind him of a rule, he says things like, “What? That’s ridiculous. I don’t think that’s correct.”

Still we forge onward, getting deeper into the game, crossing more and more would be murderers off our list. Miss Scarlett is no.  Colonel Mustard is a no. My husband’s bragging and obnoxious behavior reaching new heights with every turn, until finally, he screams, “I’ve got it!”

We were all closing in, but I thought I needed another turn or two to be certain. I figured he was taking a risky leap of testosterone faith. “It is Mrs. White, in the garage with the wrench.” He smugly turns over the hidden cards. And, he is…right! Damn it. He is right.

I am so annoyed. I hear his insane, booming voice, “You want to know how I knew? First off, I was so bluffing with the wrench! You got to know how to play if you want to play with the master! Bet you’re sorry you switched teams now, buddy! HAHAHAHA!”

My boys are yelling at him in frustration. “Daddy! You just guessed you didn’t know…”

But he is in his glory, reveling in his win.

As his laughter penetrates my ears, I consider my husband as the next victim of the game. It would be Ice Scream mama, in the kitchen with a spoon. I don’t think he’ll be allowed to play again anytime soon.

Great game!! Play at your own risk.

Playing Clue  just might be dangerous for my husband.

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You can’t win them all. Deal with it.

Posted on November 18, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama


I am a mom of three sporty boys and my husband is a dedicated coach. We spend every weekend and countless days of the week at the fields, playing one sport or another. Football, baseball, basketball, soccer… we play them all.

Often, my boys are good, sometimes even great, and I watch from the sidelines glowing from the inside out. There are also the strike-outs and errors that make me cringe and cover my eyes. Some days my kids have it. Some days they don’t. Some games the teams are on fire. Some games they crash and burn.

Yet, at the end of each season, win or lose, they all get a trophy.

I don’t understand this at all. I know it’s important to support and encourage them, blah blah, but since when did a trophy for participation become encouragement?

When I was younger we played sports because we loved to. We didn’t need a trophy as an incentive, nor were they handing them out like candy, and guess what? That was okay.  What’s wrong with “Great season, guys. Next time, we’ll get em!”

What’s wrong with only rewarding the real winners?? This ‘everyone wins’ mentality is just ridiculous. Everyone doesn’t win. Welcome to life.    

Losing is not a bad thing. Without losing, there’s no motivation to be better. The only way to achieve success is through failure, yet we are so afraid of this important life lesson. As cliché as it sounds, losing builds character.  And character, if you ask me, is something our young folk seem to be lacking.

Maybe it’s because I grew up in the seventies, that I feel this way. Growing up, I was pretty independent. Generally, I had to be home by dark and not get into any trouble. That’s it. Can you imagine that today? Today, we are the over-protectors, over-schedulers and over-achievers. We watch their every move, give them the best of everything and try to take care of their every need.

We’re making it too easy for our kids. We shield and protect them from all of life’s struggles, so much so that we are rewarding them for nothing. Today, it seems, just showing up is an accomplishment. What will they ever strive for, if they have been handed everything on a silver platter with a shiny trophy on top?

And what about the real winners? Anyone ever consider them? You should see them on the field, jumping up and down, shouting with joy. It’s an incomparable feeling to know you accomplished something.

I remember clearly the expression on my son’s face and that of his teammates when their team came in first place in their league.  Elation. Pride. I could cry now remembering those moments. It’s so satisfying and beautiful to see. They won. They were special. They put in a greater effort.

It completely minimizes the winning team’s efforts to be handed the same trophy as everyone else. We have become so politically correct that we are afraid of hurting anyone’s feelings. We need to stop over-estimating the fragility of our children’s psyches. Our kids won’t break. Let’s give them something to strive for, something that acknowledges that winning is special, and makes the losing teams want it – something symbolic… maybe a trophy??

Ultimately, sports is about having fun and gaining confidence. They kids learn to play as team, good or bad, they’re in it together. They build friendships and grow skills that will apply throughout their lives.  They will lose, and when they do, we should teach them to brush themselves off and get back in there.  And when they get back in there, they’ll be better for it.

Just because they don’t deserve a trophy doesn’t mean that we don’t support their efforts. I’m there win or lose. We play ball on the lawn. I watch their games. I cheer for their wins. I cry for their disappointments. I don’t see a trophy as support. I see it as an insult, both to the losers and the winners.

You win some. You lose some. That’s the way it is.

Winning is far from everything, but it is definitely something. If one of my boys gets a trophy, I want it to mean he actually won.

 

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My Mom and Me… We’re a match.

Posted on November 12, 2012 by Ice Scream Mama

Hurricane Sandy, day seven, still without power. We spent the first three nights braving it out in the cold and dark, then the second three nights at my in-laws in Brooklyn. Yesterday, we packed the car and the kids, the cat and the lizard and headed to my mom and step-father’s house.

The kids stretched out like lazy cats with all the new space. We played cards and chess and they ran in circles, up and down the stairs. They had baths in their giant whirlpool tub and we had to fish them out using chocolate marshmallows as bait. Shiny and towel fresh, we plopped them on the couch for a movie.

In the morning, we woke up and my mom had set us up with a tennis court. Disaster? What disaster? Why don’t I come here more often?

It had been quite a few years since my mom and I found ourselves in this position. Back when I was young, we used to randomly play, but I was always so incessantly aggravated by her competitiveness, that I could never play well. Every point she’d get, she’d call out the score, which unnerved my every nerve. Plus, she was hot and sexy and I always had a few pounds to lose, which made watching her bounce across the court in her little short shorts extra annoying.

Back then, I was so wrapped up in killing her that I tried to kill every point, and ultimately killed my game. We were two opposing forces posturing for power. I was 20 years younger, but she had, and still has, a fortitude and vitality that you simply don’t find in average people. She’s a spit fire. A fire cracker. A hundred pounds of boogie-oogie-oogie. You’d think she was made of Red Bull instead of whipped cream, sun flower seeds and garden burgers. In an average day she might play tennis, go to the gym, take a long walk and dance the night away. Did I mention, she runs her own business as well?

The only time I see her sleep is when she comes to babysit and by some unknown circumstance actually sits down. One minute, she’ll be crawling the floors with the kids on her back, running up and down stairs to get them snacks, begging them to dance and play with her; but when they’ve finally tired of her and turned to their iTouches or SpongeBob, she might discover the couch under her taut behind. Almost immediately, she nods out.

So here we are again, across the court from each other, a mother and a daughter preparing to face off. It should be no contest, she’s a league winning player, while I’m scrappy, inconsistent and haven’t played in years, but… I’m younger and faster. She hates that. It makes me smile with affection. My mother is like no other.

I suggest just volleying back and forth for practice and exercise, but my mom just can’t. She needs to keep score. So we play. I know her game – she’s very consistent and is great at returning shots, but doesn’t have real power. I have always been a reasonably strong player; my inconsistency and emotions, being my greatest obstacle.

I don’t know if it’s because I’m older, or because our relationship is wonderful and no longer filled with angst, but I’m calm and controlled. I play easily, not great, but with few mistakes, and soon am winning five games to love.

I see the panic and frustration across the court. She’s stomping a bit and Oy Veying here and there. If there were a can, she’d kick it. She can’t help herself. Losing is not something she does with grace. But she sure is cute.

We get down to the final point and I’m torn. Knowing her battle, a big part of me wanted her to win. But I wanted it too. I no longer take her win-at-all-costs personality personally. I’m secretly cheering her on. I think about throwing the game. Just one game, so she could have a little something to hold on to.

I toss the ball, ace out that last point and smile happily. Turns out, I’m just like my mom. Lucky me.

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