Making Mud Cupcakes!

Mud Cupcakes in Bakery Box

Poor Granddad, the Victim

We’re each driven and drawn to people and things that can do the unthinkable. There’s Alain Robert, the French Spiderman dude who climbs buildings with his bare hands. His sole motivation? The thrill of calculated risk and “mastering my fear.” And how about the blind Kenyan runner Samuel Muchai who is racing toward the London Olympics who brushes off fear daily, ““While we train on the roads, we sometimes tumble into potholes and stones, but I believe such experiences only harden us.”  And then, an athlete that moves me to tears for her stunning composure is Abby Sunderland, who at 16 set out to sail around the world alone, only to hit hard waves in the Indian Ocean and capsize, while millions of people watched and waited. “I’m living proof that things don’t always work out the way you plan,” she said, “but you can only plan so far in an adventure.”

Ed set out to run across America on March 1. Sixteen days later, beaten down by weather and some freak-of-nature elephantiasis-looking thing in his leg, Ed had to stop running. Like I said, I don’t know Ed well, but I can tell you this: a little rain and ankle pain doesn’t keep Ed from running.  Boom! Just like that, a trip of a lifetime squelched.

Suddenly, Ed’s run across America — a feat that less than 300 people have ever done —  became Ed’s long motorhome drive back across the country with an ice pack on his ankle and a lot of extra Coast-to-Coast  t-shirts hanging around. And although he had raised $9000 for Freedom is Not Free, Ed became one of the extraordinary athletes whose body sidelined its owner’s drive.

I crafted an email to Ed over and over again. La Gringa and I bantered about a condolence gift — a case of wine? A hefty bottle of Maker’s Mark? We even looked for an “I’ll Be Back” t-shirt to give him. But, there is really nothing you can say to an extreme athlete whose been benched. High expectations have a long way down when they fall short.

What inspires me about extreme athletes like Ed is their ability to push the mind and body simultaneously; to conquer fear and tune-out negative doubt mongers. As an afraid person, I am drawn to people who are fearless. Fearless and reckless are very different things. Abby Sunderland was rescued, but not deflated. Her life’s goal: to take her Wild Eyes sailboat and head back out around the world, cold and alone into the waters that nearly drowned her.  Ed will head back out across the country again when he is healed. It’s an extraordinary quality I wish I had more of.

If Ed had made it this time, he’d have a lifetime of stories to tell. Instead, now, the stories are in front of him, not behind him. The glory is yet to be had, but there is something equally inspring about grace in defeat.

We leave with our backpacks and children in just over six weeks for a six-week stint in Europe. We have no business doing this. None. La Gringa’s got a new job she loves, I’ve got full-time work on the horizon and the kids are missing a lot of school for this little nutso plan that started as a year abroad concept that somehow, between life and work became a trip of a lifetime instead of an escape from life. Somehow a year abroad seems a lot more manageable to me than six weeks on-the-move.

The plan is to be plan-free. I’ve done enough homework and traveled enough to know the gist of what we want to do and where we want to go. This isn’t a sightseeing-type vacation. Instead, we will plan on heading from the UK through a few countries in western Europe and a quick stop in Slovakia before La Gringa leaves. I’ll hunker down in Spain or Italy for a couple weeks with the kids until heading to Ireland with Aunty T. to see her home town. By then, I’ll need a good night in an Irish pub, no doubt.

I haven’t been afraid of this adventure at any point until now. I’m worried a bit about the stability in the Middle East, despite the fact I was in some pretty hairy jams when I traveled in the mid-east in 2000. I’m a bit concerned about money — gas prices, cash flow and inter-country travel is starting to make me nervous. And the kids told me that they are worried about where we’ll be sleeping. I want them to feel free, not afraid.

This week I’ll work on some modifications to the trip — a few hotel reservations, some goal dates to hit and maybe some pre-purchases of train and air travel within Europe so that I can get the best deals possible.

The purpose of our trip is to feel life without any restraints. As we approach departure, I’m noticing that the concerns are creeping into all of our minds. It’ll be my job this week to try and alleviate some of those concerns.

I’m not planning on going into the Louvre, but maybe playing tag on the lawn outside of it. I’m planning on showing the kids the Coliseum in Rome, but know they will care more about throwing Lire in the Trevi Fountain. And that’s okay. In fact, that’s perfect. We’ll go to Monza race track near Milan because Thing 1 read a book that describes the grand prix racing there. It’s also in the great book The Art of Racing in the Rain.

Long before I had children, I had the notion that I’d raise my children as people of the world, not just of a small community, a city, a state or one single nation. I wanted my children to be multi-lingual, have an open mind about people in the world around them. I wanted children that would have empathy for the needs and beauty of places beyond themselves. It is my hope that we, as a family, will grow from our journey together.

You became a mother 40 years ago today on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. Your world at 20-something had moved into a new chapter, forever shifting your life’s focus to being a parent. I wonder how you felt that day. I wonder if you felt, as I did at the moment I became a parent, that you had just participated in a miracle, leaving you breathless and full of joy you’d never known — you had become a mother.

I gain my daily and my abstract inspiration from you, mom. Unlike me, you are Pollyanna, always finding the good in every situation. And as time passes, I have tried to learn a bit of that from you — call it a Pollyanna Placebo, if you will. Being a true woman comes naturally to you. I am reminded every day I see you, that being a woman means being as brilliant as your mind can take you, as kind as your heart can muster, and, as strong as your body will push you. Being a woman, I’ve learned from you, is never compromised by being a lady. Being a lady comes first. Mom, you are quite a lady.

Today, I am 40. Today, no different than yesterday or tomorrow, I will rely on you for guidance, and take only half of it. I will look for your nod of approval and then question it from every angle. Today like all days, I’ll not quite be complete without seeing you or speaking with you. Unless I don’t, and that’s okay by you too. Today you’ll make me beef stroganoff even though I doubt anyone in the free world eats beef stroganoff anymore, you’ll do it for me like you do every year on my birthday. And today, you’ll make me a lemon cake because I love lemon cake, even if you don’t. Because you’re a mom and I’m your kid and it’s my birthday.

I have a million birthday memories with you, mom. Most are happy, some hard, some just getting through the day. My first memory of my life is my birthday party in our backyard on Bundy. I was wearing yellow and you were wearing a white lacy shirt. You made my cake, of course, and brought it outside. It was a cold afternoon and my feet were tingling and wet from the cold bricks. There was a rectangular table and my friends and I wore party hats. I remember you bringing out my cake with candles on it. It had white frosting. I’ll never forget that first memory as long as I live: my beautiful mother and my beautiful life and my beautiful birthday cake in the backyard.

There are others too — I can remember a very rainy birthday party where you were sick, much like you are right now, and Aunt Maria was there. I remember feeling claustrophobic, playing Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey on the wall in grandma’s livingroom on Teakwood. On my Sweet 16, you took a chunky, friendless girl and made a magical day for me, despite my pathetic teenhood. I remember my 21st birthday in college with a massive box filled with 21 gifts from you, each with a clue written on it and hand-wrapped. The 21st gift was a string of pearls. I love my pearls, I’m wearing them today. On my 30th birthday you quietly told me to pick boys over girls, not for judgement sake, but because it would just be less messy. Pregnant on my 32nd birthday, you bought me a soft black dress for a small fortune in a maternity size extra large. You made me feel pretty — and surprised! — at that secret fete.

Today, Mom, I’m excited to be 40. I can’t wait to celebrate with you. It is February 24. It’s the day you became a mother.

I love you.

Samantha