Breakfast at Wimbledon

Having lived in England for a couple of years, I have to cop to being a bit of an Anglophile. I drink tea instead of coffee, get a kick out of all that pomp and circumstance surrounding the Royal Family, and make a mean scone, complete with clotted cream and strawberry jam. When I get the opportunity to celebrate my affinity for all things British, like Kate and Williams' little shindig a while back, I jump right on it. I may not be there to get caught up in all the pageantry but I still like to find a way to reconnect with my "second home" from this side of the pond any chance I get. Needless to say, that includes the annual Wimbledon fortnight.

Luckily for me, I have a son who likes tennis almost as much as I do. I wish I could say that I play as well as he does (just wait, he'll have arthritic knees someday, too) but the joy I get from our shared passion almost makes up for the fact that I will never, ever beat him. He usually doesn't have the patience (or time) to watch a televised match with me but yesterday, when I asked him if he wanted to watch the Men's Final between Djokovic and Murray, he actually said yes.

When he arrived around 9:30 a.m., the DVR already had an hour and a half head start. Learning that I was out of both o.j. and bacon, he bolted back to his car to head to the nearest grocery store. By the time he got back, the poached eggs were almost done and I was working on the French Toast. A few minutes later, we were sitting in front of the TV with our calorie-laden breakfasts watching Novak and Andy duke it out.

After the first set was over, I mentioned that, while I had forgotten to thaw out the amazing frozen chocolate croissants from Trader Joe's that he loves, I did have a can of Pillsbury Grand biscuits in the fridge. (For those not in the know, these things make phenomenal donuts. Just punch out a hole with a vanilla bottle lid, drop them into a shallow pan of hot oil, and dredge in powdered sugar or cinnamon or dip in chocolate frosting - beats any store bought donut around.)

While my son continued watching the match, I fried up the dough. Within minutes, I had a plateful of warm, crusty, gooey donuts that would lead to me adding another half hour to my exercise schedule. (Side note: I've been on a real health kick for the last month. I've been exercising every day, eating more greenery than your average rabbit, and cutting down on sweets.) But watching my son devour his favorite childhood treat while we watched Andy Murray become the first British male to win Wimbledon in seventy-seven years put a big smile on my face.

Some things are worth a few extra calories.

One Little Yellow Ball

The older I get the more I realize how life's small moments keep us going. Last week, when I wrote my last blog, I was completely derailed by my son abruptly moving out of the house. At the time, it seemed like the end of the world. In a way, I guess it was. It was the end of the world as I knew it; the world of two parents and two offspring sharing a house. Although this blog clearly states that my goal is to get my children out of my house, this was all too sudden; too tense; too sad.

Today, I played tennis. I smacked the hell out of that fuzzy sphere and you know what? I feel better. For the first time in weeks I played halfway decent tennis. That alone made me feel good. Once you've passed the half-century mark, any day you come off the court without injuring something is a good day. When you win the match on top of it, actually contributing some rocking shots against opponents ten to fifteen years younger than you are, other problems fade away. At least for a few minutes. I got a great workout and had a lot of laughs. There's not much in life that's better than that.

But the best part of this story is the half hour before my match. My son, who also works at the tennis club, decided to rent a court with a ball machine. After playing for a half hour, he invited me to join him. We hit with the machine until the last ball was hurled at us and then stood on opposite sides of the net. We traded ground strokes, volleys and overheads. We teased each other about missed shots. We laughed. The tension of last week was nowhere to be found. He may not live here anymore but for thirty minutes on the court, I got my boy back.