Gone Girl Interrupted

Yesterday, my teenage daughter participated in a big biannual equestrian competition. She and a teammate rode a 6-mile marked course through woods and fields, through water, over fences, logs, and embankments. The goal was to get as close as possible to an optimum ride time — which is paced by an expert rider earlier that day and not revealed until the awards banquet that evening. In theory, if you are riding efficiently, but safely, you should be close to the target time. (Another horse mother once called it a "crap shoot," and there's an element of truth there too.) At any rate, it's called a "Hunter Pace" and takes place in a truly bucolic setting about an hour north of Boston.

The first time she rode in this event, my husband and I had no idea what we were in for. At a three-phase show, you can watch your rider do dressage and jump in a stadium. Then they go off on a cross-country course, but only for five or seven minutes. In a Hunter Pace, you're lucky if you see the first and last two jumps. The rest of the course — an hour or more — you're stuck waiting around. After we figured it all out that first year, we had just one question ...

"Where are the Bloody Marys?"

Over the (many) years since, we've focused on the art of tailgating. It all began with a Mexican serape, the Boston Globe and some muffins. Then we graduated to those folding chairs that soccer moms use. Then a folding table. Eventually, my husband found an oriental rug at an odd lots warehouse store. Add some champagne and orange juice, ripe strawberries, bagels, spreads and smoked salmon, and ... voila! We were transported to an earlier, horsier, classier time. 

"Carson, please pass the cream cheese and lox."

This year, we invited two couples to join us, as well as the other parents from our daughter's stable. The day was foggy at first but it soon burned off and we were left with bright sun and clear skies. From our vantage point, near a flowering tree in front of the first set of jumps, we watched my daughter and her partner, and then dozens of other teams head off. Meanwhile, our new puppy played with another family's Jack Russel and sneaked bites of ... well... pretty much anything he could get his paws on. It was an idyllic day. 

Until I lost my iPhone.

First of all, for the record, I rarely lose anything, much less an expensive smartphone. I will confess that there had been much bubbly enjoyed and that once it was time to pack up, everyone had already had a bit too much fun and sun. It was a little chaotic. Also, the terrain was not exactly on my side in terms of being able to find said missing phone. There were acres of tall grass and dandelions. Horses, trailers and cars coming and going. Plus the restroom facilities consisted of a single port-a-potty. I don't think my phone was in my pocket when I used it, but ...

I don't want to think about it.

At any rate, I was well-fed, a little sunburned and without a phone. We went back to our picnic area — twice — but no luck. I tried the "Find my iPhone" app on my iPod when I got home. No luck. At the awards banquet (btw, my daughter came in third, mentions the proud mama), we left our number with the event coordinator, just in case. But, it was becoming pretty damn clear.

The iPhone was gone, girl.

This morning, I took a two-hour break from work and drove to the nearest Apple Store at a mall three towns over. Fortunately, I qualified for an upgrade. Unfortunately, I didn't have my old phone to trade in. The difference was $189 out of pocket. (Wait, isn't "out of pocket" how I got into this mess in the first place?)

I told myself what I always tell my daughter. "It's a thing, not a person. It's just money, not life or death." Still, $189 is $189.

I'm trying not to think about it.

The remarkable thing, the truly amazing thing, is that it really was just about money. Thanks to the "cloud" (and my fairly anal retentive backup routine — I never lost a phone before, but I've lived through some fairly horrific computer crashes), virtually all my data, apps, contacts, photos and music are back. I lost some money (did I mention it was $189?) and some time, but otherwise, my life and my phone will go on exactly as before. Exactly.

We warn our teenagers to be careful. That everything online is permanent.

For the first time, I can say that I'm glad it is.
 
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book  Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com. 

Good Seat? Good Head!

My teenage daughter started riding horses before she was six years old. (In one of those parenting moments of truth, the ones where you set a questionable example, we actually lied about her age — slightly — to get her lessons going a couple of weeks before her birthday. In our defense, she had already been begging for them for nearly three years.) From virtually day one, we heard "She has a good seat."

According to equiculture.com, a rider with a "good seat' (they prefer the term "independent seat"):

• Has body parts that can function independently. Legs can apply rider signals without causing any loss of balance.

• Does not rely on the reins for balance and does not grip with the legs to stay on the horse.

• Can absorb the movement of the horse correctly and therefore doesn't bounce.

• Has correct hip-to-ankle alignment and can easily go from sitting to standing (or vice versa) in the stirrups.

• Can quietly and effectively influence the movements of the horse and stay in balance with the horse.

My daughter inherited many wonderful traits from me. But, her "good seat" ain't one of them. (Basically, they lost me at "stay on the horse.")

I can Google and joke as much as I want, but I'm very proud of my daughter — seat and all. At horse shows, it isn't unusual for a judge or a coach or an experienced rider to come up and compliment her. I may not always understand exactly what is being praised, but I'm still known to swell with maternal pride.

This week, she showed us that she can keep her seat while riding and keep her head in a crisis.

We drive down to New York every New Year's for a second Christmas with my city family and New Year's Eve. (No, if you're about to ask, we do NOT go down to Times Square. No, no, no.) My sister and brother are performing artists and they typically line up something unusual and urbane and utterly fab-u-lous for us.

But, with all this Big Apple fun to look forward to, we more or less dread the drive itself. Fairly long and monotonous on a good day, the ride can be a nightmare during the holidays. Various work schedules kept us from leaving until the morning of the 30th. And, unless we wanted to hit the road before 6:00 am, we had to wait until after Boston rush hour.

"We're leaving at 10:00," I decreed to my daughter.

"Can I ride first?" she asked.

"If you're all packed and back here, showered and in the car by 10:00."

Off she went. I was on a call with an important new business prospect when the text came in.

we went on a trail and S______ fell off i just called ambulance

Okay, you try to sell your ad agency services with that in front of you! Two seconds later ...

so won't be home by 10 sorry

At this point, our estimated time of departure is rather far from my mind. Fortunately, my husband was working from home, so I opened his office door, tossed him my cell and pantomimed "Call her!" I wrapped up quickly.

About two hours later (and about an hour late), she showed up. It turns out that as they neared the end of the trail ride, she and her horse took off cantering toward the stable. (Remember, she has a "good seat.") The other girl's horse got excited and did two "power bucks," the first of which left the girl hanging onto the horse's neck. The second unseated her.

Our daughter acted fast. She circled back and told the girl (who, at this point was lying on the ground, hysterical) to stay where she fell. She called the stable to warn them that the other horse was returning without a rider. She immediately called 911 for an ambulance. Meanwhile, the barn manager called the girl's parents (who, thankfully, live close by) and their trainer. By the time the ambulance arrived (just five minutes later), everyone was on the scene.

"Why didn't you call the ambulance first?" we later asked.

"Because the stable needed to catch the horse and make the other calls."

"How did you know to tell S______ not to try and sit up."

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone knows that."

We were a little over an hour late leaving for New York. My daughter's young friend has four broken ribs and "a tear." My daughter has a good seat.

And a good head on her shoulders.

If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.  

A Spirited Love Affair

Some people spend their entire life looking for their true love. My daughter found it when she was four. That was the year all the girls in Miss Amy's preschool class discovered Spirit, an animated feature from DreamWorks.

Spirit tells the story of a mustang stallion, captured by soldiers, befriended by a Native American boy, and eventually reunited with his herd. The mustang is kind, honorable, brave and, when he sings, sounds remarkably like Bryan Adams. My daughter and her friends played Spirit at recess, put up Spirit posters, devoured easy-to-read Spirit chapter books, wore Spirit hair accessories, hosted Spirit birthday parties. And, they watched the movie over and over, and over and over, and over and over. To this day, if I happen to catch Spirit on TV while I'm changing the channel, I can recite every line of dialogue.

My daughter eventually stopped watching the movie multiple times a day, but her obsession with all things equine continued to grow. She yearned for riding lessons, but the stables near us wouldn't take her until she was six. On vacation in Mexico, where the rules were a bit more relaxed, she was able to ride with us through the Yucatan jungle, along a beach and out into the water. It was funny to watch her confidently keep her seat while countless adults slipped off their horses into the water. She was already fearless. Much more so, I confess, than her loving mother. (Note to self: never agree to ride the horse they call "Conan." What were you thinking?)

Her next opportunity to ride was down in New York City, where her grandmother booked a lesson at the famed Claremont Stables on the upper westside. She was a few weeks shy of her sixth birthday, but what doting grandmama would let that get in the way? A little white lie makes for a happy little granddaughter. At just under 40 pounds, she rode an enormous palomino mare.

Weekly lessons started in earnest the following September. At first, she was too short to reach the horses' backs so sullen teenage girls had to help us tack up. She walked on a lead line around and around the ring. She took it seriously. She took direction. She got back up when she fell off.

We moved to another stable the next year, a posh hunt club with very strong traditions and very strict rules. As you would expect from the rather lock-jawed environment, they believed in riding outside in all weather. "Builds character, you know." My daughter learned to walk and to trot. She no longer needed the lead line. And, she won her first blue ribbon.

Two years later, we changed stables yet again. She's moved on to cantering and jumping, riding cross-country and competing in regional events, often bringing home ribbons. She has 2-3 lessons per week, works all day at the stable every Saturday, and she'll attend a competitive riding camp in Vermont this summer.

Some other mothers complain to me that their daughters haven't found "a passion" yet. This is most definitely not my problem. All other extracurricular interests — gymnastics, dance, piano, archery, swimming, creative writing — have fallen by the wayside. She eats, sleeps, breathes, lives, dreams horses. All horses, all the time.

In some ways, this obsession makes life easier. Looking to reward her for a high honors report card? Book an extra cross-country lesson. Advising friends or relatives about appropriate birthday presents? Just point them to the Dover Saddlery website. Need to threaten her with a punishment worse than death itself? The simple warning, "You're about to lose a lesson" puts the fear of God into her young equestrienne heart.

I'm no horsewoman. I'm terribly allergic and up until recently more than a little afraid of them. My daughter astounds me. She is naturally comfortable in the saddle but works her tail off to perfect new skills and technique. She outrides girls who are bigger and older. In her class, she is the girl that the coach puts on any horses that are acting up so she can "school them."

Riding is not an inexpensive hobby. On top of the lessons and event entry fees, there are helmets, jodhpurs, boots and show jackets. Assuming she stays with it (and who wouldn't assume so; she's been riding more than half her life), we will eventually have to lease or buy a horse. So much for any thoughts I might have had about early retirement.

But, there are many upsides as well. I've already talked about how hard she works, how determined she is to improve. And, if that isn't enough, there's always my husband's perspective. You can visit a stable any time, any day and you will virtually never never never see a boy.

"Better the stall than the mall." Indeed.