Parenting Athletes: How I Do It
Posted on March 2, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
loving fiercely | teaching audaciously | thinking deeply
Posted on March 2, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
Posted on February 10, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
Some days I wish for that machine from ‘Back To The Future’ – the one where I could climb in and time travel backwards. In the movie, Marty McFly found himself thirty years back in 1955, smack in the middle of his parent’s romance.
Mainly, I’d travel back to beautiful places I’ve been in my life. I’d love the convenience of pushing a button and finding myself in a new location. If I felt like great adventures, I’d go to Nicaragua. For youthful abandon, I’d wake up in a hostel in Amsterdam. Missing my childhood pen pal? I’d go back to Yorkshire, England. Nostalgia for family who have passed on would send me back to Sherman Oaks, California. A yearning for academic stimulation would find me in Berkeley.
Today I want to jump in with Marty and travel back to the place where generations of my family have landed before me. I want to walk on the soft white sand towards the lone Cyprus. I want to climb over to Bird Rock and peek into the Whaler’s Cabin at Point Lobos. I want to climb Hawk Tower and stare into the Pacific, imagining Jeffer’s view from the early 1900s. I want to watch my babies bury themselves in the sand of the Bird Sanctuary Beach and giggle as they wiggle their toes free.
Then tomorrow I’ll be back in 2012, immersed in life as I know it today. I’ll be driving from mountain to mountain, cheering my children as they catapult down the ski run. I’ll be packing lunches and loading skis, grading papers and doing laundry, unloading groceries and washing dishes.
But just for today, could you open the door and let me have a moment just for me?
Posted on January 23, 2012 by Jennifer Wolfe
|Tina Maze via Official Facebook Fan Page|
As for my daughter? Well, when she waits in line to cross the wand and start her run, I’ll remind her that ladies NEVER show their undies to anyone. It’s not their business.
Posted on December 22, 2011 by Jennifer Wolfe
Her face is turned toward the window, nestled on a deep feather pillow. Long dark lashes flutter as I kiss her cheek, brushing back soft strands of hair from her forehead. It is dark out, yet she will rise and greet another day.
His face is face up, eyes closed, arms thrown back over his head in the same position as when he slept as an infant. I reach down to kiss the sweet spot between his jaw and neck, and he groans and pulls the covers tighter. It is dark out, yet he will rise and greet another day.
Sleepily she pads downstairs, honey colored hair still in a messy braid. Too early to eat, she sips cold orange juice as she pulls on long underwear and ski socks. It is dark out, yet she will go and meet another day.
Groggily he pulls on his fuzzy black and white skull patterned bathrobe and gulps down fresh water. He trods down the stairs, too full of chatter for such an early start. It is dark out, yet he will go and meet another day.
She dresses quickly yet deliberately. No worries about appearances, she thinks only of the snow that awaits her. It is cold out, yet she will be brave and face another day.
He pulls on his layers, sweet grapefruit juice dribbling down his chin. Thinking only of the countdown to Christmas, he hugs me in anticipation. It is cold out, yet he will be brave and face another day.
Methodically she unscrews her ski helmet face bar in the dark lodge, preparing for the morning workout ahead of her. Layer upon layer upon layer she bundles up and heads towards the lift, tousled braid whipping in the wind. It is dawn out, and she gets to have another day.
Slowly he prepares for the snow, insisting on doing it alone. His fuzzy brown head disappears beneath a royal blue helmet and goggles, contrasting the lime green and black of his jacket. We kiss goodbye, my assurance I will be waiting for him when he returns. It is dawn out, and he gets to have another day.
Yet as I sit by the window watching the sun crest the snow-covered hills, I cry for the mother and child who are apart, who will never feel their arms around each other again, and who cannot brush away each other’s tears.
It is bright out, and I get to have another day.