Passing the Torch

Raf, Lola & Nina at Zuma

Raf & Lola check the waves

It can't be easy for my husband to accept that he's the father of three girls and married to a rather frilly woman.  Raised by a macho Israeli dad in a sports-obsessed family with a strong older sister and two younger brothers, he must have imagined that he'd raise a basketball team of boys rather than a parade of pink princesses.  There's only so much apologizing I can do; after all, it takes two sets of genes to create a child.  And we've long since determined that we're done having babies - there comes a time when you need to be grateful for the children you've been blessed to welcome into the world, and to set your intentions on raising them rather than having more kids.  Contrary to what our extended relatives may like to say when we see them once a year, we're not holding out for a son.


Still, I'm sure he feels a pang to teach a son how to be a man.  How to pee on the side of a road.  How to kick ass in a worthy fight. How to play basketball. He's never said as much, but I see how he studies my relationship with the girls, the way we bond over clothes or make-up or teen heartthrobs. It's different.  I'm sure he sometimes feels like a lone wolf in a sea of pink frippery.


But an interesting thing has happened.  Our youngest daughter, now 6 and three-quarters, asked him to teach her how to surf.  Over the past few months, he's taught her how to balance on a board in the swimming pool, bought her a wetsuit and a boogie board, hoping that she'll learn the basics before she's actually on a wave.  Today, he took us all to the beach so that the girls could jump on their boogie boards.  She took a few tumbles in the whitewash, coming up with sand in her hair and her nose, but she refused to get out.  Instead, she went back out in the waves, again and again.  She inspired her older sister, too, and we had a hard time getting them to leave the beach after a few hours.


"She's a natural," he told me, but his smile and the way he can't form the words to tell me how proud he is, is louder than words. 

The Mightier Have Fallen, Too

This is me a few weeks ago.  I was showing my kids how to sand surf at Zuma.  And I was pretty good at it, too.  This was on a small, not-so-steep, rather smooth slope.  I'm goofy-footed (right foot forward) on a surfboard and this is how I tend to look on ocean waves (hopefully with a better expression on my face).


Yesterday, I attempted the same thing, only I was on the other side of the sand berm, facing a steeper, choppier (i.e., not smooth) slope.  I positioned myself regular-footed (left foot forward) and held onto the lead of the boogey board and pointed myself downward.


Only I didn't bend my knees and get low.  And I didn't prevent the board from getting wedged in the sand.  And I let my back leg (the right one, which I should have had in front anyway) pop off the board and get stuck at an impossible angle uphill... while I was still going downhill.  


I heard a weird pop/click in my right knee and stayed there in the sand for a few moments.  Raf laughed, then didn't.  I laughed, then didn't.  "Oh shit," I thought.  "Really?  After a lifetime of no broken bones..."

But then I stood up and it felt okay.  Not great.  A little swollen.  A slight limp.  But okay.  Nothing a little ibuprofen and rest and ice can't solve.  This morning, it's more painful, but I'm hopeful that I'll be back in yoga and at Bar Method later this week, trying to stave off holiday poundage.


Here's the lesson, though: I've been battling with my age lately.  I've talked shit about my body and my "ailing" health for comedic effect.  But I realize that I've taken pretty gosh darn good care of myself, ingesting fish oil and flax seed daily, eating cleaner, walking every morning (except this one) with the dog for a half-hour or more, staying flexible.  And so this little "injury" is no big deal.  It could have been really bad, but it's not.  


So, again, I'm grateful. It could have happened on a not-so-busy week -- I'm trying to figure out how to get big boxes to UPS and how to manage the 5th grade gingerbread party without putting weight on my right leg -- but I'm lucky. 


Another lesson: leave the sand surfing to the kids!