I launched my podcast this week. It was a close one. We almost delayed. But then we decided that it was our deadline, what we had was good, we could tinker forever or we could put it out in the world and learn from our audience and our mistakes.
Thankfully, we’ve had a really great response so far. Lots of people saying nice things, sharing the podcast, telling their friends.
Valerie, my co-host, and I did a last minute recording session on Tuesday night and Ryan, our audio-editing genius, stayed up late or woke up early or something to get us what turned out to be the final cut. We went back and forth for a little bit on whether or not it really was the final cut, and then we just did it.
I published it as I sat in our relatively quiet apartment (maybe the kids were playing in their bedroom?). There were no fireworks, no handshakes or hugs or backslapping congratulations. It was just me waiting for someone to notice what I’d done. But that takes a while when you are waiting for feedback about a 40 minute podcast. People have to find time to listen. Then they have to actually listen.
After about 2 hours, I got tired of waiting and texted my sisters so they could reassure me that efforts had not fallen on deaf ears. And then the feedback started trickling in. They loved it. Other people loved it. Everyone is excited to hear more.
And suddenly, Valerie and I are realizing how much we still have to do. Newsletter and social media and outreach and responding to our new fans. (If that is actually what they are.)
We are thrilled and excited and relieved . . . and working hard to keep it up.
After Christmas and birthdays, the day we are invited to Tim’s lake house is one of the most anticipated day of the year. (Tim is one of my professors/mentors from grad school.) The night before we pray for good weather (we’ve almost been rained out twice) and the morning before we leave everyone is extremely compliant in following orders.
Our efforts are always worth it. We spend the day paddling around the lake in various conveyances, talking with Tim, hanging out in the backyard, eating food I didn’t make, and generally feeling . . . like we’re on vacation.
To describe the day as “perfect” would not be too much of a stretch. This may sound a little strange, but Tim is kind of the closest thing we have to “family” close by—someone who is a little wiser and more established, who has been in our lives since we moved to New York and has made the effort to keep in contact. Even if it is only for a day, it feels nice to be claimed.
The only downside: we always come home trying to figure out how we can make the lake house situation happen for us. It’s good to have goals.
Oh. And the spiders. There were spiders. Elsa was afraid. Oliver didn’t love them either. And Micah and I were a tad embarrassed at the level of sterile city-ness our children were exhibiting.
These kids. Suddenly they are climbers. They like to climb. They are shimmying up poles and trees. They are city kids, yes, but they seem to have overcome that particular handicap to become competent little monkeys.
And little athletes as well. Kicking balls and bump-set-spiking. It’s a beautiful thing.
I must admit that I’ve felt a little incompetent this summer. Like I’m not doing my job to make my kids’ summer awesome by taking them to museums and beaches and parks and campgrounds. But they are just fine. I don’t need to be the gatekeeper and facilitator of their childhood. They’re doing fine.
There were several really great moments on yesterday’s 9 mile bike ride, but I think my favorite was when I was telling Oliver, as we pedaled our way up a moderately steep hill, that this was the hardest part and if he reached the light, it would be much easier after that. He decided otherwise.
“Actually,” he said, putting on the gas, “it’s the easiest part!” and he cruised past me as quick as he could.
We were nearing the home stretch at that point and I was sure he’d be tired and ready to give up. But I was wrong.
Yesterday was the first day of Summer Streets in Manhattan, where Park Ave is closed to cars from 72nd down to the Brooklyn Bridge. We wanted to take advantage of the opportunity, so Micah rode the Firebolt (with the boys’ bikes strapped to it) up to the Park and 60th, and I took the kids and the other bike on the train to meet him. We planned to take our sweet time riding the course, stopping as often as the boys needed. Which turned out to be once.
So we rode down to the Brooklyn Bridge. And then we kept going. We thought Simon could probably make it to the other side. And we thought Oliver would probably have had enough before we got to the top. But we were wrong. They both killed it up the bridge and were game to keep on going. (It was nice to see that even though our little gang was a little slow, when other cyclists did pass, they were quick to give the boys encouragement.)
By the time we made it home, the boys seemed more excited than exhausted. Micah and I were probably a little too proud of their accomplishment, but then, we’d never really tested them before. We knew they could go around the park because they’ve been accompanying me while I run. (Elsa rides in the stroller.) But at 5 miles, that seemed pretty far for a 5 year old. (Simon’s been doing that distance for a year, so it’s less of a surprise for him.
It’s crazy to me that just a year ago Oliver was informing me, as he rode his bike to the park for the very first time, that a hard worker and tireless learner is actually called a rockstar. How far he’s come. And how far they went.