The Big Secret Surprise

I love surprises. I love keeping secrets about surprises for other people, and I love to be surprised. I'm always disappointed when a surprise for me is spoiled.

For instance, when I got married, I told my husband to keep where we were going for the honeymoon a secret.

"Just take me to the airport blind-folded. Don't tell me a thing!"

But days before the trip, the travel agent called me to confirm our trip to Trinidad & Tobago. Sigh...

Or what about the time my husband (then boyfriend) tried to throw a surprise birthday party for me when we were in college. I decided at the last minute to throw my own party and called the DJ to see if he was free.

"Yeah, I already discussed it with Maurice last week. I planned to get there around 9:00 to set up," he said, without thinking that I may not have known about the party to begin with. Sigh...

Anyway. This is isn't about me, it's about the biggest surprise EVER for my kids. A secret surprise that almost killed several people in its enormity. A secret surprise that got out a little too soon.

When the world starting getting exciting about the World Cup soccer tournament taking place in South Africa, I remember talking with my husband and saying... "wouldn't it be cool to go there and take the kids?" A year later, my husband announces that he's in the pool to get tickets to a match in Johannesburg. Huh?

For months, he had secretly been working on flights and hotels and travel between South African cities for the kids and us. When he explained the whole thing, I thought to myself... what a fantastic secret surprise. I didn't tell anyone. I started strategizing with him on how to make the trip well worth the expense, time and energy. By April, everything was finalized and we told our parents and my brother. First mistake.

Despite our telling my mother this was a secret surprise for the kids, she announced the trip to her brother and his children who promptly sent me a Facebook post exclaiming... "World Cup?! When are you leaving?"

Since my older son and all of his friends are my Facebook "friends", I had to quickly delete the post, and send the first of several messages alerting the family that this was a secret surprise. Sigh...

Next, my brother, who has adult attention deficit and a very poor memory, asked the kids... "Are you excited about going to South Africa?" They stood there looking at him dumbfounded. My husband gave my brother the "shut up" face and the two of them made up some silly story to cover up my brother's faux pas.

My husband later reported that one of the kids asked my older son, "what's your uncle talkin' about? Are you guys going to the World Cup?"

My older son responded with a shrug and a, "I don't know what he's talking about." And they proceeded to play a game of soccer in the middle of the street.

As damage control, I waited until weeks later and, while we were watching an opening match on television, I nonchalantly said, "Hey, I talked to your uncle yesterday. Can you believe he thought we were going to the World Cup?!"

"Yeah! I know. He said something to me too!"

"Your uncle's crazy..."

Sigh...

As we got closer to the actual trip, it became important for me to share the secret with those I worked with and the babysitter and the neighbors. Imagine trying to get all of those people to keep such a huge secret from my kids when they see them every day. There were several close calls, and I grew at least 4 more gray hairs in the the 2 weeks before the trip.

Four days away and now I have to figure out how to pack for winter in Africa when it's 90 degrees in Atlanta. More importantly, I had to get the older child to actually try on jeans and sweatpants because he has outgrown all of his clothes and keeps getter taller every month. He hates trying on clothes. He hates shopping for clothes. His brother hates waiting for him to shop and try on clothes. Long story short - shopping was not fun. 2 more gray hairs. Secret still safe. (chalked it up to school shopping while winter clothes were on sale - yeah, I'm good)

Three days away - my family are at dinner with my girlfriend and her family. She gets excited and loudly exclaims to her aunt and uncles, "They're leaving for Africa on Wednesday!"

I punch her firmly in the arm, the table goes deathly silent, she drops her head, and my husband turns to stone. My older son narrows his eyes and surveys the scene. My younger son continues to play his DSi, completely oblivious to everything taking place. Sigh...

Deny, deny, deny. That's my husband and my motto for this whole fiasco of the secret surprise. We pretend like nothing happened at dinner and go about our business without comment.

The Monday night before the trip, I'm doing laundry and folding clothes when my older son nonchalantly asks me, "Why does everyone think we're going to South Africa?"

This time I literally sighed out loud and sofly said, "Oh, Maurice."

He knows how much I love secrets and surprises. He knew I was sad that the secret was out. He knows me so well, he didn't ask me anything else and completely changed the subject. I love that kid.

Last night, my mother - who is going on the trip with us - arrived from Miami with her car loaded down. And when my older son heard that my husband was picking up my father-in-law from the airport, the inquisition began. I received a sad phone call from my husband as he was driving home from the airport, "We have to tell them."

My husband checked to make sure the video camera was charged, then he nodded to me. We went into the kitchen, gathered our parents and the kids and made the formal announcement. My older son had the decency to look somewhat incredulous. However, our younger son really had no clue. He was truly surprised and the look on his face made it all worth it.

My older son began going through all of South Africa tourist books my father-in-law had brought with him and my younger son began interrogating me about flight time, accommodations, the language barrier, and his selective eating habits.

Even though we were unable to keep the secret, our children are just as excited as they would have been if they hadn't found out until we arrived at the airport. This trip is an adventure and memory that will last all of our lifetimes. What we experience as individuals and a group will be shared with family, friends and those who don't even exist today.

My motto has always been to live without regrets and do everything I can while I'm able. This trip has meaning on so many levels, I cannot begin to put it into words. All I can say is I appreciate my husband and the spirit that allowed this to be, and I can't wait to blog about the experience...

Woman vs. Wasp

I know better than to think that 15 minutes is more than enough time to gather my notes, computer, fix myself up, check on the kids home from spring break, and drive to the studio for my private training client. I'm right.

3:40 pm
That's what the glowing red numbers indicate on the digital clock beside my bed. I had come home from work since the boys were home for spring break. They were doing their usual thing - picking on each other, screaming names at each other, throwing pillows and sharp objects across the landing and down the stairs at each other. Nothing special. So I had holed up in my bedroom, spread stacks of papers, receipts, invoices and contracts around me on the bed, and propped my cute little MacBook on the lap desk my mother gave me for Christmas.

(Note: I LOVE my lap desk. My mother loves holidays and preparing gifts - especially for holidays (see my blog "Vacation"). What makes her even more special is that she knows her targets well and always gives gifts her recipients will use and cherish. Hence my appreciation for the lap desk - she knows I love to sit in my bed and she knows I love to work on my laptop. Now I do it on my lap desk.)

As I finish paying the last invoice online and noting it in one of my many black cash books, I glance at the clock and see the time. 20 minutes before my next client.

3:45 pm
I file and repack all the stacks and zip my precious Apple notebook into my computer bag. I (reluctantly) climb down from the bed and go to inspect myself in the bathroom mirror. Everything looks good, so I smooth down my shirt, blot a little shine from my face with a hand towel, and exit my private sanctuary grabbing my computer bag as I go.

3:48 pm
"Mommmmm, my eyes are BURNING," my preteen says as he rubs his red, puffy, allergy eyes. Tears leak out of the corner of his left eye as he tries to see through his swollen lids.

Sigh... I run back to my bathroom, dig through my makeup case until I find the bottle of Allergy eyedrops. As I run back out and tilt his head back, my cell phone rings. I prop the phone between my shoulder and ear and start whisper/pointing directions to the preteen who really hates getting drops in his eyes.

Soccer coach wants him to play a tournament in Charlotte, NC next weekend. Can he make it? Hm, can he drive himself up there? Sigh... I'm holding my computer bag, two purses (one black, one brown - I have to match and I haven't had a chance to switch them yet), a cell phone to my ear, squeezing a bottle of eyedrops into a squirming preteen's eye and trying to think of my husband and my work/travel schedule for the next weekend. "Uh, can I check with my husband and get back to you by 5:00 today?"

3:55 pm
I put the bottle of drops on the table, ask the boys not to fight until I get back home (yeah, right), snatch my keys off the counter and run out the door. I have exactly 5 minutes to drive 6 miles through stop lights to my 4:00 client. I can do it!

3:58 pm
I am cruising through the 1st of 3 stop lights and talking to my husband on the cell about the soccer tournament when I notice a huge gold and black wasp as big as my pinky finger sitting calmly on my leg.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHGGGGGGRRRRRRHHHHHHHAAAA!"

I beat, slap and pound on my leg with the cell phone. The wasp and my cell phone go flying across the car. As the protective case around my cell phone smashes apart (thank goodness for those hard plastic cases), my mind registers that I am driving 45 mph down a two-lane street. I look up and notice I am careening into the other lane and swerve back into mine. Then I hear my husband's tiny voice somewhere in space - "Thea, Thea, Thea!"

I grope around on the floor of the passenger side with one eye on the wasp climbing the passenger-side door and the other on the street. I calmly smile into the phone, "Oh, hi Maurice. Sorry about that. A wasp was on my lap." Out of the corner of my eye, I see the wasp climbing to the level of the window. "Uh, I have to go now. I'll call you back, okay?" I drop the phone on the seat next to me and check the time on the dashboard.

4:01
Normally my being a minute or two late wouldn't be a problem. But our studio isn't open until 5:00pm in the evenings. That means my client will be waiting outside of a locked, dark studio in the heat and pollen. We don't treat our clients like that.

So... I start to calculate. I am now 2 miles from the studio and the wasp is resting peacefully on the ledge between the door handle and window of the passenger side. I figure I can make it. I keep driving and hoping...

4:02
The wasp gets caught in a breeze coming through the window and flies across the car toward me. I scream again - louder and longer than last time - and start flailing my arms around my head. Yes, I'm still driving - without hands. My good sense gets the best of me, and I grab the steering wheel with one hand and grab a bunch of my long dredlocks with the other. I start swinging my hair like a weapon, not knowing where the wasp is or caring - all I know is that I can hear it buzzing so it's too close to my head for comfort and it MUST GO.

My mind starts to work again and I see a driveway into a neighborhood. I slow down, pull in and stop right in the middle of the lane. Too bad if someone is trying to come home, I can't move right now. Shaking, I scan the car with laser-like vision and listen acutely for the buzzing I know so well. Nothing. Then I start itching. I feel like the wasp is climbing up my arms and down my back and across my neck. Ew.

4:03
I pull cautiously out into the street and finish the commute into the parking lot of my studio. I see my client peering through the front door window and I imagine her wondering if I've forgotten our appointment or whether she has the right time. I take a second to glance at myself in the rear-view mirror, tuck a stray loc, smooth down my eyebrows (they always stick up anyway), and pick up all three of my bags and parts of my cell phone.

4:05
"Hi Patti!" I say brightly, like nothing has happened. "Sorry I'm late - come on in and let's get to work."

How Far Will A Mom Go?

There are two kinds of moms in the world. Moms that were born to mother daughters and those that were meant to mother sons. I’ve always known I was the latter. I don’t mind dirt and bugs and wrestling in the house – I’d prefer those things weren’t in my house, but it doesn’t bother me when they appear. In fact, I enjoy kicking off my shoes and engaging in an impromptu foot race through the dirt or rolling down a hill into a pile of leaves. I prefer wearing sneakers to heels, and I refuse to wear hose.

One Saturday in March, I enjoyed a proud-mother-of-a-son moment at the GSA soccer field. As my older son fervently ran up and down the field, my 7-year old struggled to climb over the chain-link fence separating one field from another. Other boys climbed up and hopped over, but my little one kept falling back in frustration. After a few failed attempts, my husband said, “When you get to the top, grab the bar and push yourself up with straight arms. Then step on the bar with one foot and you can swing over to the other side.”

Miraculously, my son climbed to the top, pushed himself onto straight arms, stepped on the bar and jumped over onto the ground below. My heart swelled with pride as I shouted, “Good job, Man!” and turned back to the game.

The following Sunday, I drove my older son and his teammate to a game about an hour away. It was a cold and rainy day, so I sat in the car on the edge of the field and tooted my horn whenever they made a good play. At the end of the game, my son and his friend raced to the car, got in and we headed home. The next morning, he came to me and asked, “Have you seen my cleats, Mom?” Red flag alert. Warning, warning.

For any other child, this wouldn’t be a major problem. Cleats missing? Just buy new ones and keep it moving. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy for us. My son has to special order his cleats because his feet are extra wide and flat. Additionally, he has special orthotic inserts that were made for him by a therapist in Maryland.

Like any good mother, I asked the coach, emailed the other kids’ parents, and even the called the other team’s coach to see if anyone had picked them up. No luck. Unfortunately, no one had a telephone number to the soccer field either. So, I got in my car during a 2-hour break between appointments that Monday morning and drove 45 minutes to the field. When I got there, the field was closed and locked… by a 6-foot chain link fence. I parked my car, got out and stared at the fence. Could I squeeze through the small opening between the two fences that were chained together? I tried and the immediate answer was... no.

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the fence with both hands and poked the toe of my left sneaker into one of the links. I talked to myself all the way up the fence… “come on, you can do this. Pretend like you’re on the Amazing Race.” You know, stuff like that. When I got to the top bar, my husband’s voice came into my head like Obi Wan Kenobi from Star Wars. “When you get to the top, grab the bar and push yourself up with straight arms.” My arms were shaking from the climb, but I DID IT! I stepped on the top bar like he said, but there was NO WAY I was gonna jump down 6 feet – I’m not the Bionic Woman or the Six Million Dollar Man. So I gingerly stepped over onto a metal support bar and jumped 4 feet down instead.

It would have been great if the adventure ended there, but you know it didn’t. The field was more than a quarter mile away and my time was running out. I jogged across the parking lot and gingerly picked my way over the muddy field to the bench where the team had sat the day before. No cleats. Nothing. I sighed and turned around to go back, when it hit me. I would have to scale that fence again to get back to my car, and there was no support rail on the other side. I’m a praying woman, so prayer seemed appropriate at that moment.

Amazingly, as I jogged back, a truck came lumbering down the drive and parked behind my car. At first, I thought someone had seen me and reported me to the police and they were coming to drag me away for trespassing. But no, it was the Port-a-Potty clean-up man. He unlocked the chain and opened the fence, and I thought I heard angels singing and playing harps at that very moment. Not only did he let me out, but he also had a telephone number that went directly to the field director.

Some people might say this story is nothing more than luck, but I know a few things:

1. I have never scaled a fence in my life and I have never received instructions on how to do it. One week after I hear instructions on how to scale a fence, I had to do it.
2. I would have broken something I need to walk if I had jumped off that fence to the other side. The cleaning company came and unlocked the fence just as I prayed for assistance.
3. No one had a telephone number for the park and none was posted at the fields. The clean up man had a direct number to the Director of the field, and the Director was able to check the lost-and-found.

Call it what you want, but I didn’t miss the power of multiple coincidences. And, as always, I’m thankful for small blessings.