Creative Solutions
The nice thing about agreeing to operate with grace and friendship when it comes to your ex-husband is that you get an extra driver out of the deal, along with greater flexibility. All three of us (Chris, Bob, and I) operate as a team. And even though we only have two children among us, we use the divide and conquer method to handle schedules, errands, oboe lessons, dance class, and theater rehearsals. We also use the divide and conquer method when it comes to events that only two of the three of us really want to attend.
Saturday the 5th was a beautiful day. Blue skies, puffy clouds scattered around like throw pillows, and temperatures that didn’t get above 85 degrees. It would be the perfect night for a stock car race. So Chris kept the kids, and Bob and I drove to Manassas, Virginia, to watch my brother race.
My younger b
rother Paul races in the Mini Modified division at Old Dominion Speedway. This is his fifth year of racing. In the beginning, I went to the races all the time. I’d even pack a cooler and bring food for Paul, Dad, Peter (my other younger brother), and any other friends of Paul’s who had come to work with the team. This practice quickly became cost prohibitive. I would hop around the garage area looking for ways I could help, wishing I knew more so that I could do more. I would take tire pressures or wipe the car clean prior to the race. My favorite thing to do was to scrub tires after a race. While the car sat in line to get weighed by track officials, I’d wear heavy gloves, and with the tires still extremely hot, I’d scrub the balls of rubber, rocks, and as much dirt as I could off the tires. As the tires cool, it becomes very hard to get them clean. (Side note: If my high school had taught science through stock cars, I think I might have enjoyed it more.) I remember the fun I had when someone taught me how to use the air gun to tighten the lug nuts on the wheels. Nice big sound. I loved it.
And where do you think this appreciation for racing came from? Surprisingly, not from my family. I was into racing before they were. Definitely not Chris. It came from Bob. When we were married (9 years total), Bob and I went to stock car races, Indy car races, and watched Formula One nearly every race of the season. And while going to the track with Bob was a grueling experience (he doesn’t seem to need to eat or drink a lot when he’s in camel mode—I, on the other hand, need to do both), I learned a lot and experienced a side of racing only possible in person. Bob is a storyteller in his own right, and he explained a painstaking amount of detail and the nuances of the sport. I paid attention. Only after I learned about racing's intricacy did I really appreciate it.
On a purely sensory level, there’s a lot to love about the track. There’s the smell of racing fuel, which tells you that you aren’t at home in front of the TV. That smell alone sets off the anticipation of a great day. There’s the deep rumble of engines revving, practicing, racing, sometimes blowing up. There are teams devoting countless hours to setting their cars up, only to find adjustments are still needed because of weather, track conditions, or other factors such as slow speeds or worse, crashes in practice. And then there’s grilled sausage and peppers and onions. Something in air makes it taste better at the track than anywhere else. When I was pregnant with Kelsey, I still went to the races, and wondered how good the fumes were for the baby, but she seems normal, so I guess it all turned out OK.
It’s not just a man’s world at the track. There are lots of women. Some as
arm candy, some as team members, some as real fans. I like that. I’m not out of place. I’m accepted.
But guess who is not a race fan? Chris. And to be perfectly honest I wish that he were. C’est la vie. My brothers and dad all love it, so Chris is literally the odd man out on the rare occasions my larger family sees each other. In spite of racing not being his thing, Chris has gone to the track with me before. I love him for doing that. I hopped around the car, and he sat in the race trailer and happily read the newspaper. It was a riot to see him encamped in there like a gentleman scholar who has somehow found himself at a loud dirty event.
Chris’s passion is baseball. And his history with the sport runs deep into his childhood. Baseball was a means for Chris and his father to bond with each other. And even now, when we see his dad, it won’t take long for the conversation to turn to sports. Chris wrote a gorgeous essay when we were in graduate school about baseball and what it meant to his family. How going to games provided a vehicle for conversation, a point of connection. As a kid, family vacations were often to various baseball stadiums around the country. He has great memories of these trips. And while I’m not a fan of baseball myself, it’s hard to argue with more than 140 years of history. (I could possibly be a fan if the gods of baseball would speed up the game a little. It all seems very inefficient to me.) Today Chris participates in a fantasy league that requires live, in-person drafts a few times a year. And he absorbs and retains the stats and rosters as if they were oxygen.
So now it's the end of the raci
ng season. My brother has won six times so far this year, and I haven’t seen any of his wins. The track is an hour and a half away. Normally, I wouldn’t want to sacrifice that kind of time on the weekend with my family. But I really wanted to support my little brother. The natural choice for a race buddy? Bob, of course. And the crazy nice thing is that our arrangement worked for everyone.
Chris and I and the kids were at a kiddie birthday party last Saturday, and Bob came and picked me up there. Chris stayed until the end of the party with the kids and then brought them home and made them Car Hoppin’ Chicken Strips, a recipe out of one of Morgan’s cookbooks that they all love. And they watched a few episodes of Alf on DVD. (Embarrassing, but true. Alf-viewing is frequently reserved for times Mom is out of the house.) Bob and I left at 2:30 and got home at 11:30 Saturday night. And it was a great time. Bob drove, which was nice for me. The race was fantastic. Paul finished second, but just seeing him on the track was exciting.The nice thing about agreeing to operate with grace and friendship when it comes to your ex-husband is that you get an extra driver out of the deal, along with greater flexibility. All three of us (Chris, Bob, and I) operate as a team. And even though we only have two children among us, we use the divide and conquer method to handle schedules, errands, oboe lessons, dance class, and theater rehearsals. We also use the divide and conquer method when it comes to events that only two of the three of us really want to attend.
Saturday the 5th was a beautiful day. Blue skies, puffy clouds scattered around like throw pillows, and temperatures that didn’t get above 85 degrees. It would be the perfect night for a stock car race. So Chris kept the kids, and Bob and I drove to Manassas, Virginia, to watch my brother race.
My younger b
rother Paul races in the Mini Modified division at Old Dominion Speedway. This is his fifth year of racing. In the beginning, I went to the races all the time. I’d even pack a cooler and bring food for Paul, Dad, Peter (my other younger brother), and any other friends of Paul’s who had come to work with the team. This practice quickly became cost prohibitive. I would hop around the garage area looking for ways I could help, wishing I knew more so that I could do more. I would take tire pressures or wipe the car clean prior to the race. My favorite thing to do was to scrub tires after a race. While the car sat in line to get weighed by track officials, I’d wear heavy gloves, and with the tires still extremely hot, I’d scrub the balls of rubber, rocks, and as much dirt as I could off the tires. As the tires cool, it becomes very hard to get them clean. (Side note: If my high school had taught science through stock cars, I think I might have enjoyed it more.) I remember the fun I had when someone taught me how to use the air gun to tighten the lug nuts on the wheels. Nice big sound. I loved it.And where do you think this appreciation for racing came from? Surprisingly, not from my family. I was into racing before they were. Definitely not Chris. It came from Bob. When we were married (9 years total), Bob and I went to stock car races, Indy car races, and watched Formula One nearly every race of the season. And while going to the track with Bob was a grueling experience (he doesn’t seem to need to eat or drink a lot when he’s in camel mode—I, on the other hand, need to do both), I learned a lot and experienced a side of racing only possible in person. Bob is a storyteller in his own right, and he explained a painstaking amount of detail and the nuances of the sport. I paid attention. Only after I learned about racing's intricacy did I really appreciate it.
On a purely sensory level, there’s a lot to love about the track. There’s the smell of racing fuel, which tells you that you aren’t at home in front of the TV. That smell alone sets off the anticipation of a great day. There’s the deep rumble of engines revving, practicing, racing, sometimes blowing up. There are teams devoting countless hours to setting their cars up, only to find adjustments are still needed because of weather, track conditions, or other factors such as slow speeds or worse, crashes in practice. And then there’s grilled sausage and peppers and onions. Something in air makes it taste better at the track than anywhere else. When I was pregnant with Kelsey, I still went to the races, and wondered how good the fumes were for the baby, but she seems normal, so I guess it all turned out OK.
It’s not just a man’s world at the track. There are lots of women. Some as
arm candy, some as team members, some as real fans. I like that. I’m not out of place. I’m accepted.But guess who is not a race fan? Chris. And to be perfectly honest I wish that he were. C’est la vie. My brothers and dad all love it, so Chris is literally the odd man out on the rare occasions my larger family sees each other. In spite of racing not being his thing, Chris has gone to the track with me before. I love him for doing that. I hopped around the car, and he sat in the race trailer and happily read the newspaper. It was a riot to see him encamped in there like a gentleman scholar who has somehow found himself at a loud dirty event.
Chris’s passion is baseball. And his history with the sport runs deep into his childhood. Baseball was a means for Chris and his father to bond with each other. And even now, when we see his dad, it won’t take long for the conversation to turn to sports. Chris wrote a gorgeous essay when we were in graduate school about baseball and what it meant to his family. How going to games provided a vehicle for conversation, a point of connection. As a kid, family vacations were often to various baseball stadiums around the country. He has great memories of these trips. And while I’m not a fan of baseball myself, it’s hard to argue with more than 140 years of history. (I could possibly be a fan if the gods of baseball would speed up the game a little. It all seems very inefficient to me.) Today Chris participates in a fantasy league that requires live, in-person drafts a few times a year. And he absorbs and retains the stats and rosters as if they were oxygen.
So now it's the end of the raci
ng season. My brother has won six times so far this year, and I haven’t seen any of his wins. The track is an hour and a half away. Normally, I wouldn’t want to sacrifice that kind of time on the weekend with my family. But I really wanted to support my little brother. The natural choice for a race buddy? Bob, of course. And the crazy nice thing is that our arrangement worked for everyone.On the way home, Bob and I got to talk about our daughter Morgan. We talked about her oboe lessons, school, community theater, whether she should have voice lessons, how she’s adjusting to middle school, how much worse the homework can get. There are three of us raising Morgan. But Bob and I rarely get the chance to talk without the kids around.
What I haven’t mentioned yet is that I’m not the only one going to sporting events with Bob. Last month he and Chris went to Camden Yards to see the O’s battle the A’s. Bob has been wanting to see the game when the A’s were in town. He’d mentioned it for months, and really, he wanted us all to go. But it’s not inexpensive to take the family to the ball park, so I suggested that Chris and Bob go together. It would save a few dollars, I wouldn’t be wandering the stadium with my four-year-old when she got bored, and Chris and Bob could have a completely different level of conversation about the game since Bob is a huge baseball fan, too. It worked perfectly. And after the kids were in bed, I got to sit on the couch in a quiet living room and watch part of a movie only I would be interested in. Bliss. Bob and Chris have been to the movies together before. Why not a baseball game?
The point of all of this is that Chris and I operate in freedom, and I'm so grateful we do. Bob is truly part of our family, not a fifth-person add-on. I think when that is your perspective, it is perfectly normal to go to a race or a baseball game with that person. And operating that way spared Chris a night at the track and me an evening at Camden Yards. Everyone wins. It is a precious and unusual place to be when you can look at your husband whom you adore, your ex-husband who is your friend, and say everyone wins.
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