The Gav Menagerie

My first 26.2: The Marine Corps Marathon

2011-11-19T14:13:00.003-05:00

On October 30, 2011, after training for most of the summer, I ran my first marathon: The Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. It's a little late, but here is my race recap.

The hotel bed was incredibly comfortable – much more comfortable than our bed at home – and yet, I could not sleep. I lay awake listening to the sounds of peaceful slumber around me: my husband and two daughters asleep and blissfully unaware of my insomnia.

The nerves rolled through me like a low voltage electric current. I closed my eyes and willed myself to sleep, sleep, please sleep. You need your energy. Because tomorrow you are running a marathon.

A marathon . . . me? Get. Out.

A part of me still refused to believe it.

But it was true. My running attire was folded neatly on top of my suitcase. My royal blue American Cancer Society Determination bag was packed with everything from Vaseline to band-aids to water bottles to a set of comfy clothes to throw on post-race. My runner’s belt was loaded up with Nuun, my long-distance drink of choice, pretzels, gels, Tums and, of course, my iPhone so that I could snap a photo or two along the way. I had trained for months. I was ready. So why won’t my body relax and accept the rest it needs?

I did manage to drift off, but it was restless, unsatisfying sleep. I was awake again before my 5:15 alarm went off and staggered to the hotel bathroom. Stripping down, I slathered most of my upper body and both feet with Vaseline, pulled on my clothes and tied back my hair.

My race number—31199—was secured to my blue Determination singlet with the only safety pin I brought, along with a small gold one from the complimentary hotel sewing kit. I figured I could grab a couple more at the American Cancer Society tent (I ran the race to raise money for them in memory of my Grandmother, who died of lung cancer when I was in high school).

I didn’t count on the fact that my brain would be so consumed by pre-race jitters that I’d lose my ability to remember basic information. More on this later.

I left the room at 5:40 am, kissing Mark good bye. It was 31 degrees outside, and I was dressed in my purchased-the-day-before-and-never-run-a-step-in running tights (because you know? Who expects it to freaking SNOW in October?!?), old sweatpants (to toss), long-sleeved running shirt under my royal blue American Cancer Society singlet, lightweight Saucony running jacket and blue fleece (also purchased from Target the day before – planning to toss that away). I also had gloves and a baseball hat.

I followed the ACS team to the Union Station metro and boarded a train. It seemed everyone had a buddy to talk with but me, and I was feeling a little sorry for myself, sitting on the Metro eating a Cliff bar all by myself. But upon exiting the train at Rosslyn, I started chatting with a couple of other runners and that made me feel better.

At the ACS tent, the ground was a muddy, mushy, soaking, sloppy mess from the snow, rain and sleet the day before. Some runners tied plastic bags around their sneakers to keep their feet dry. I opted to just stick to the perimeter of the tent as much as possible where the ground was still sort of solid.

I drank some chocolate milk and ate a banana at the ACS tent. I tried eating a bagel, but simply couldn’t get it down. My stomach didn’t feel full, but I kept chewing the bagel – it was like glue—and when I tried to swallow it, I gagged. I ended up spitting most of it out, but I didn’t want to toss it. I was terrified that I hadn’t eaten enough. I usually have oatmeal or a bowl of cereal before a run. I was afraid of bonking later in the race.

I must have looked like someone about to face the firing squad, because one of the ACS mentors came over and sat next to me, took my hand and gave me a pep talk.

“Waiting to start is the worst part,” she said.

At that, I gave her the stinkeye, because if waiting to start is the worst part, what was all that stupid training for? If all I had to do was wait to start, I could have spent a lot more time this summer sitting my ass on the couch.

She must have read my mind, because she laughed and added, “OK, maybe not the WORST part.” At that we both laughed and I felt a little better. I don’t remember her name, but she helped me feel so much better, so thank you unknown ACS mentor.

We took our team picture and then walked down to the start. It was about 7:30 and the pastor was doing the invocation. Then there was a 21-gun salute and flyover the starting line, which was just awesome! Very inspiring.

I was trying to hook up with my friend Betsy, but our timing was off and in a crowd of 20,000, it’s just not easy to find someone, so I took a spot near the 4:30 time banner (which I knew was NOT going to happen but I thought it was as good a place as any). I shed my sweatpants and waited.

The wheelchair race went off at 7:50 am and 10 minutes later the gun for the runners. I crossed the start at about 8:10. Within 3 miles, I tossed the fleece away and about a mile later I tied my running jacket around my waist. I was regretting the running tights and wishing I’d worn my shorts. Yeah, I would have frozen my tookus off for a few minutes, but I could already tell the tights were going to be too warm for the day.

Around mile 5, the small gold safety pin snapped and flew off. Now, I had only one safety pin holding my bib to my shirt. I moved it to the middle of the bib, but it was windy and the bib (and timing chip!) kept flopping around and bending. I was terrified of losing it. “No effing way am I going to run this thing without being timed. I worked too hard to fall off the map,” I thought.

I ran along wishing I had a safety pin, which is ridiculous, because safety pins do not appear out of nowhere. Safety pins must be purchased in stores or taken from large bowls at THE TENTS BACK AT THE STARTING LINE, YOU MORON. So quit your stupid wishing because a safety pin is not just going to . . .

. . . and then I looked down and RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME was a big ‘ole safety pin!! Not some wimpy one either – a great big silver one with an extra strong clasp.

It’s corny, but I know my grandmother (whose name was on the back of my singlet) sent me that pin. She always was looking out for us grandkids like that. Thanks, Grandma. You’re the best!

During training, the emails from coaches always pointed out the hills in the first 8 miles and I was stressed, but I live and trained in a very hilly area and found them generally no big deal. There was one at mile 7 that was long and steep. I ran about half of it, then thought, “Hello?? 19 miles to go. Save your energy!” so I walked the second half.

The downhill around mile 8-8.5 into Georgetown was a bit steep and again, I wisely held back. Lots of people were flying by me on that hill . . . I’ll get back to them later.

Around this time, I also started feeling both hungry and nauseous, which seems to be sort of humanly impossible like being both short and tall. I ate my mini pretzels and felt a bit better. A few miles later, I took a mini-bagel from a spectator and took the teeniest bites of it. Like before, I kept gagging on it, but I knew I had to get as much down as possible because my stomach was growling. I was swallowing these teeny bites whole—like pills—just to get something into my stomach.

I also took two orange slices from a volunteer and they tasted SO good. The sugar/fluid really helped.

To settle my stomach, I also periodically sucked on Tums.

I kept going, one foot in front of the other – trying to stay positive. Instead of focusing on “17 miles to go,” I’d think, “9 miles down!” and that worked really well for me.

Around mile 11, I had to pee and I simply couldn’t wait, so I ran over to a block of port-o-potties on the side. There were only about 6 people in line, but they were the freaking slowest six people EVER! To this day, I have no idea WTF they were doing in there. Hair? Makeup? I half expected to get to the damn potty and find a masseuse or manicurist in there. It was unreal. I waited at that port-o-potty for over THIRTEEN minutes. Seriously! I was ridiculously pissed off.

When I entered the port-o-potty line, I was running on pace with the 5:30 group. When I left the port-o-potty, EVERYONE was walking. EVERYONE.

I could not believe it. “Where did all the runners go?” I wondered. And then, “Oh.My. God. I’m at the end of the line. I’m last.” (Which was totally not true, but my mind was sure of it).

Completely panicked, I started running as fast as I thought was sensible and kept that up for the next few miles.

But around mile 14, guess what? The stomach issues got A LOT worse. A lot. As in, like it or not, you need to stop and use the potty again. Which? Crap. (Almost) literally.

This time, we were in a park of sorts and I saw a real ladies room with REAL toilets. And—thank you Lord—there were only a couple of women in line. I ran up to the circular restroom and as I got closer saw that the line curved with the building – around the side I couldn’t see upon approach. The short line was in fact about 12 deep.

Sigh.

TWELVE MINUTES LATER (ugh), I emerged and started running full on again.

Around mile 15, the hot spot/never-fully-healed blister/callus thing on my right foot started to really throb, so I stopped at a medical tent and slathered it with Vaseline. I was so stressed – I still had a LONG way to go and things were most definitely not going all that smoothly.

After the blister triage, I went back out running as fast as I could manage. Then, my right knee started aching. Nothing awful, but it was definitely unhappy. I was seriously stressed because I had to reach mile 20 (beat the bridge!) by 1:15 or I’d be out of the race. I had no idea what time it was and with all the time lost so far, wasn’t about to stop and pull out my phone to look. So, like Forrest Gump, I just kept running.

I had just passed mile 17 when I heard “KIMBERLY!” I turned and saw Peanut and Loaf running toward me and Mark right behind them. I ran a few steps back, gave them all the BIGGEST hugs and kisses. I was elated!! Thank you, Mark, for waiting over an hour to see me for all of 10 seconds!! You’re the best. That lift was enough to make me forget all my blister and knee woes for the rest of the race.

Well, that and the advice I got from my friend (and very experienced marathoner), Connie, to take two extra-strength Execedrins with caffeine at mile 18. I had them ready to go and popped those bad boys right after running by the mile 18 marker. Ah! Excellent tip.

Around this time, I started passing people who had flown by me on the downhill at mile 8something back in Georgetown. I think sometimes there is something to be said for slow and steady.

Before I knew it, I was at mile 20, where there was a HUGE pep rally for everyone who “Beat the Bridge!” WHOOO HOOOO!!

I ran onto the 14th Street Bridge with my arms in the air and so happy I could have cried, because now I knew without a doubt that I would finish. Nothing could stop me.

The night before, I had dinner with a friend and her husband who has done a few marathons and he told me that after mile 20, your glycogen is used up and that’s when people start hitting the dreaded “wall.” When that happens, your legs turn to lead. Every step is Herculean effort and you start hating life pretty badly.

He wisely told me, “The thing to remember is: you’re not going to die.” (Which, OK, that’s good – death wasn’t really one of my goals for this thing). Further, he advised me to push even harder and run through it.

So with that story in my mind, at mile 20, I pushed. And guess what? I felt pretty good! The people left at this point were the walking wounded, I think. It seemed like everyone was walking – some with heads hung very low. I ran by some guy lamenting to his buddy, “This just wasn’t our day.”

But I? Kept running. I ran and ran and people on the sidelines called my name over and over and each time they did I felt even stronger.

I can’t believe this, but the miles were going by fairly easily – 21, 22, 23, 24 . . . at 25, I will admit, my legs were starting to feel pretty exhausted. Despite that, with only 1.2 to go, I was 100% determined not to walk. Running by all the walkers, who let’s face it –were still about to finish a marathon and that’s awesome—but running by them gave me confidence and strength.

I passed mile 26 and then I could HEAR the finish line. The crowds on the sidelines were several people deep and they were roaring! There was some kind of music playing. There were marines lined up on the sides clapping.

At about 26.1, I hit the final hill going up to the Iowa Jima memorial. It was short but steep, and tons of people were walking up it, but I refused. I ran across the finish line, tears streaming down my face, arms in the air, and smiling!

I still cannot believe it! I RAN A MARATHON! It was incredible. When that marine shook my hand, said thank you and put that medal around my neck, I was in complete awe.

This will go down as one of my favorite days ever (right behind my wedding day and the days my children were born). It was absolutely incredible.

All through my training – the long runs in the heat, humidity, tropical storms, thunderstorms, the hours and hours spent away from my family on nights and weekends—through it all, I kept saying this marathon would be a “one and done” experience for me. Now? I don’t know. I can’t honestly say NO right now. Ask me again in the spring. ☺

The one where the impossible becomes possible

2011-11-03T14:33:00.004-04:00

I am a runner.

It’s taken me a long time to embrace that statement because I wasn’t running more than 2-3 miles at a time. Then, last fall, I did a 10K and last winter started training for a half marathon. Still, I wasn’t a “real” runner because I wasn’t fast.

But I don’t think I can deny that statement anymore.

Last Sunday, I completed the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, D.C. – training for a 26.2 mile race, and then actually running it, pretty much officializes (yes, I know that's not a word) you as a runner. There is no more denying it.

I am proud of myself. I’m not saying that to brag, but simply because it’s the truth. Less than six months ago, when completed my half marathon, I told myself I could never, ever, EVER run a full one. Never. No way. Cannot do. Don’t even try it, sister!

And then one night I found myself registering to run the Marine Corps Marathon for the American Cancer Society and mapping out a training plan that had runs of increasing distances (15, 16, 18, 20 miles) and thinking, “Oh my God! What have I done?!?”

But each training run was completed – not always easily and not always quickly – but I did each and every one.

Over the past few weeks and months, I cannot tell you how many people have said to me, “I could never do a marathon.”

Which is funny, because that’s exactly what I said to myself and others only a few short months ago. And today I write to you as a marathoner.

Don’t ever sell yourself short. Don’t ever tell yourself you can’t. Don’t ever give up on something you believe in.

Because whether your goal is to run a marathon or start a business or learn to hang glide, you can do it. And you should. Life it too short to spend it in regret.

Never say never

2011-05-04T15:45:00.005-04:00

Just a bit under three years ago, preparing for my first triathlon, I started running. I did Couch to 5K because that's what all my runner friends said I should do.

I did my first 5K in March 2009, two months before my first tri. When I crossed the line that day in March, it was as "just" a practice for my bigger goal of swim-bike-run. I was satisfied to have done it, but thought that was the end of my 5K days.

Turns out, I was wrong.

Fitness events have become a bit of a sickness to me. First a 5K, then a tri. Then a couple more tris. Maybe a few more 5Ks - each time trying to run just a little faster than the last time (and not always succeeding).

Last fall, on a whim, I signed up for a 10K. I didn't think I'd ever be able to run 6.2 miles. That was an impossible goal - a goal for much better runners - much more fit people - than myself. But I finished that race (no speed records, but I finished). As I ran across the line - exhausted - I distinctly remember thinking, "This is less than half way in a half marathon. No WAY will I ever be able to do that. This is it for me. My max distance."

Then the sickness took over and sometime last winter I found myself entering my credit card and hitting "submit" on registration for the Long Branch Half Marathon on May 1. I immediately had buyer's regret.

"What the hell was I THINKING? I remember asking myself. "I must have rocks in my head. No, not rocks. BOULDERS."

So I started training in January in the bitter cold and ran throughout the spring through knee problems and foot problems and colds. The early runs were hard. I hadn't run all fall or winter and could barely do 3 miles. But slowly, I started building and eventually was up to 6, 7, even 8.7 miles. Still . . .a half marathon (13.1 miles) is nearly four additional miles on top of that. Eeek, I thought.

Last Sunday, I completed the race. Again, no land-speed records, but I did it. My goal was to finish in two-and-a-half hours or less. I did not hit that goal - finishing instead in exactly 2:37. However, I had to stop three separate times in the first four miles to deal with "hot spots" on my feet - blisters in the making - each time pulling off one or both shoes and either bandaging or "lubing" the spots with Body Glide.

I felt *great* from miles five to eight - it was nearly effortless. Passing the halfway mark was pure ELATION! It was fantastic.

I had planned all along to walk through the water stops, so I did, but other than that (and the stops to do triage on my feet) I didn't walk at all. I ran the whole thing. 13.1 miles! I never in a million years would have thought it possible, but it was. I did it, and it was even (a bit) easier than I thought it would be. So I'm pleased. Really pleased.

When I ran across the finish line, I thought, "This is only HALFWAY in a marathon. If I were doing a marathon I'd have to run this entire course again. And that is IMPOSSIBLE."

Less than a week later, quads still a little sore, blisters not quite healed, I find myself seriously contemplating signing up for the Marine Corps Marathon in October. Because, as I've learned, nothing is impossible with hard work and determination.

Me, just after finishing the Long Branch Half Marathon on May 1, 2011

A day away

2011-03-08T16:25:00.005-05:00

In just over one month, Loaf will be 6.

A few months after that, Peanut turns 8.

Six? Eight?

These ages, especially 8, are starting to resemble big-kid ages. Granted, it was a different world, but at 8 or 9, I was walking home – a full half mile – from the bus stop by myself. I wore a house key around my neck and unlocked the front door by myself and entered a home that would be empty for another two hours.

A very different world, indeed, but still . . . I did that when I was just a year or so older than Peanut.

My daughters are growing up at a remarkable rate. Their ages seem impossible because they were born, like, yesterday and there is just NO WAY they can be (almost) 6 and 8.

Yet they are.

The princess dresses go largely unworn these days, replaced by Harry Potter capes and magic wands. Picture books sit collecting dust in favor of chapter books.

* * *
Recently, a friend sent me a scanned picture of our preschool class – a group of four-year-olds dressed in their Sunday finest captured in black-and-white. I e-mailed it to my mom.

“I remember like yesterday,” she wrote back.

Yesterday.

I wonder if a mother’s yesterday ever gets any farther away. Not the actual yesterday – the one where you got up, made breakfast, went to work, etc., but the yesterday that exists forever in your mind recalling the day when you rocked a tiny child to sleep, stroking her hair and murmuring lullabies in her ear. The day you put your child in her best dress and sent her to school for a class picture.

I hope not, because facing these big-kid ages, followed by the tough middle and high school years, then college and finally, adulthood, seems a lot more palatable knowing I can always close my eyes and bring back the past – recalling those precious baby coos, feeling that soft hair under my fingertips and taking in that sweet baby smell.

Like yesterday.

Happy birthday, Dr. Seuss!

2011-03-03T13:06:00.004-05:00

In honor of Dr. Seuss's birthday, which was yesterday:

Dear Dr. Seuss:

We love your books. We think your cool.
So we wore red, white and black to school:

Our teacher said to bring a book -
Something to pass to friends and look

The Foot Book was Peanut's choice
While Loaf chose Horton, which she thinks is nice.

For dinner, we wanted to celebrate
So Mom set down upon our plate
Green Eggs and Ham! Wow, so fun!
We ate every single one!

Thank you Dr. Seuss for your
Fantastic talent and so much more!

File under: Glad I did it, but will never do it again

2010-11-24T21:53:00.006-05:00

I have always loved the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Growing up, I watched it every Thanksgiving morning, eagerly waiting the arrival of Santa at the end. My favorite part though was always the giant character balloons. How cool, I'd think, to see those in person.

Tonight we did! We bundled up and headed into NYC to see the balloons get inflated up on the streets of the Upper West Side. This event has evidently become as popular as the parade itself because it was packed. Police and others force everyone to walk in one direction - block to block - to see the balloons. I suppose it does help keep the crowd under control, but it has a definite cattle call feeling to it. And some people are just, well, rude. Some guy with a kid on his shoulders knocked Sophie over, looked at her and kept right on going. I mean really, a simple, "ooops, sorry," is totally necessary in that situation.

Regardless, the girls were SO excited:

We saw several balloons including . . .

Shrek:

Kool-Aid:

As well as Sponge Bob, Hello Kitty, Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Spiderman. We also skipped a whole block where a few favorites (Scooby-Doo most namely) were undoubtedly housed, but the masses, the stress of trying to hang on to your kid as other people constantly pushed between you, the slow-as-molasses crawl in one direction through the streets and two tired, hungry girls, forced us to abort the mission.

All in all? I'm glad we did it, mostly because it means we NEVER HAVE TO DO IT AGAIN!!

Here is the aftermath:

And . . .

Tomorrow we'll all be eating turkey and mashed potatoes and pie . . . but for some reason, I can't stop thinking about frog legs. Hmmmm . . .

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!!

What's in a signature?

2010-11-16T20:46:00.003-05:00

Tonight, the girls' school hosted The Signature Project. It's really hard to explain, but I'll try.

This guy - artist, photographer, musician - Patrick Dunning created a huge, colorful mural of the sun, moon, a bird, the earth, etc. You can see it on his website.

He then scanned the image and programmed a computer to break it down into a code - each number representing a color in the mural. He then blew it up in size and broke it into 171 cube-shaped pieces. Each section is then layered with a grid composed of thousands of rectangles. People use designated colors to sign their name in each rectangle. Like a pixelated image, when it's all put together, the color-coded signatures (over a million of them!) will reform the original painting. We added our name to it!

But, wait! There's more! Dunning then uses phosphorous paint to put other images over the signatures. In sunlight they're invisible, but under ultraviolet light they take shape. Amazing.

He presents the whole project using an interactive presentation with music, light and other sound effects. It's truly inspiring.

If you're looking for an interesting presentation to bring to your school - book The Signature Project. It's unlike anything I've ever seen before.

Four years ago

2010-11-15T21:05:00.003-05:00

The girls sitting in a pile of leaves in our yard in November 2006:

How time flies. Peanut was 3 and Loaf about 1.5. It doesn't seem possible that they were ever this little. And it doesn't seem possible that they can be as big, vocal, smart and funny as they are now. There are gifts every day. Find them. Grab them. Hold onto them tightly.

My first 10K in the bag!

2010-11-14T20:15:00.004-05:00

So. I did it!

My first 10K in the bag.

It was not easy, especially given that I did NO training and in fact, have lost significant fitness since I stopped working out regularly in mid-September.

It was a downhill start and they were warning people to take it slow so as not to run into people or fall and I can see why. I saw one young girl trip pretty badly (though she picked herself right up and kept going). I took it super easy at first knowing I needed to conserve my energy. I ran by the first mile marker at about 12-something and the second one at 24-something. I was not feeling great "running" at a 12-min/mile pace. Over the summer, I was doing more like 10-10:30 pace. But, my goal for the day was to finish and I didn't want to burn out.

I ran by the 3-mile marker at 36-something and felt really discouraged. Then something truly bizarre happened. At mile 4, I got a burst of energy. I ran by it at 48-something and picked up the pace. I had been eyeing a woman up ahead of me in a red shirt. She'd been up ahead of me - at about the same distance - for most of the race. Suddenly, she was much closer. I picked it up even more and started to really close the gap. Then I passed her, and several others. I ran by mile 5 at 57-something - less than 10 minutes after passing mile 4. I kept up at a good pace until about mile 5.5 and then I started really hurting - literally.

My feet were killing me. My arches and toes ached like someone had been beating them with a hammer. I tried to keep up the pace, but I just didn't have it in me. Also? The last of four hills lay in front of me. I walked half of it. But then saw the mile 6 marker up ahead and ran by and could see the finish line and that was great! My time was 1:12:41, which is NOT great, but given everything - I'm satisfied.

I went there today thinking I'd have to walk about half the race and in reality I only walked twice - both on hills (there were four hills over all). I also should note that I stopped (not slowed down, but STOPPED) at each water station. So really? This time is not bad at all and had not gotten mono and had I not had to work away the entire month of October, this probably *would* have been done at my normal 10 -10:30 pace.

I'm happy I went. It would have been super easy to have blown it off. It gives me some confidence back (which has been sorely missing lately) and it gives me a benchmark to improve upon.

All good stuff!

* * *
I do have to add that I've had a little bit of marathon fever lately. Sort of turning it around in my head wondering, "Hmmm? Could I? Should I?" When I ran across that finish line yesterday, one of my first thoughts was, "Holy crap, this isn't even 1/4 of a marathon. If this were a marathon, I'd have TWENTY more miles to run." Which is incredibly daunting. Of course, training helps. :-)

Run, Kimberly! Run!

2010-11-13T21:02:00.003-05:00

Back in early September, I signed up for my first 10K (6.2 mile) run. I was SO excited! I feel that's inching toward a respectable distance. I printed out training plans spanning about 8 weeks and got ready to roll.

Then, on September 17, I was diagnosed with Epstein Barr Virus and spent two weeks in bed resting - the only cure. I returned to work on October 4 and immediately jumped into a project that had me working more than 10 hours a day until October 27. And I was still technically recovering - spending weekends curled up in bed desperately trying to "catch up" on rest. My training plan sat forgotten below an ever-growing pile of school papers, notices and get-well cards.

The race is tomorrow. I've run exactly 4 times since October 4 - no more than 3 miles at a time. It would be easy to skip tomorrow's race claiming I'm unprepared. But I paid for it and it's going to be a beautiful day. So I will go. I will do my best. If I run the whole thing - great. If walk part of it - fine. Like a lot of things in life, showing up is half the battle, so tomorrow I'll show up and give it my best.

And one thing I can say for sure: my next 10K will undoubtedly be better. Wish me luck!

Who ya gonna call?

2010-11-12T17:24:00.003-05:00

So I realized with something like horror that Thanksgiving is less than two weeks away.

This seems impossible to me, because my brain cannot believe it's even November yet since New Year's Day was just, like, last week, and there is NO WAY it can possibly be almost Thanksgiving. But alas, it is.

We are (probably) hosting again. Which means, it is time for an epic home disaster to strike.

This year, instead of plumbing, we're going for a leaking roof requiring the removal of the entire kitchen ceiling (due to mold). At least it's not on Thanksgiving day itself. ::sigh::

I'm also grateful that it's a small crowd (just the four of us, plus three others). We'll manage, but man, the timing is truly fantastic on this.

Though I have to say, this whole ordeal proved that my husband would make a pretty cute Ghostbuster.

For my dad, my veteran. For all veterans.

2010-11-11T10:15:00.006-05:00

I'm sad today.

I always called my father on Veteran's Day to say hi and tell him I was thinking of him.

Today there is no one to call.

The last few months have been a bit like a roller coaster ride. Waiting for his death to come (since we knew it was) was like that initial slow ride up to the top when you know that any second the bottom is going to drop out and you're going to start free-falling. Then of course, the week or two following his death: Lurching down, down, down . . . .

Since then, there have been ups and down - not as dramatic as the initial one, but enough sometimes to take my breath away.

Lately, it's been more steady and calm. Sometimes, I think the ride is ending, but then I realize it probably never does. Every now and then out of the blue, I drop again. It is shocking and cruel, but I've realized this is life after the death of a parent. You never quite get used to it.

Since I have no one to call in person, I will simply wish all the Veteran's out there - past and present - my gratitude. You have given so much.

We are thankful.

Oh, the drama!

2010-11-10T17:10:00.004-05:00

Loaf has her first loose tooth.

Last night, she was complaining of tooth pain on the bottom and when I checked, sure enough, one of her bottom center teeth has a slight wiggle to it.

She is SO excited. She has seen her sister lose six and reap the riches of the Tooth Fairy, so she’s dying to have her turn.

In addition to the excitement, the tooth has brought about a significant amount of drama. This morning while eating, she kept complaining of how much her loose tooth hurt.

"Oh my tooth, my tooth! It hurts sooooo much. I can’t eat my breakfast on this side so I have to keep my head titled in this direction,” she whimpered while tilting her head to the right.

What was she eating, you ask?

Well that is an excellent question. I’m sure you’re thinking it was an apple or piece of toast or some other hard, crispy food that requires the use of incisors.

NOPE!

It was a bowl of soggy corn flakes.

Not. Kidding.

My daughters are sweet and caring and tons of fun, but they are sometimes full of The Drama.

Fortunately, there is an end in sight. I figure she’ll lose that tooth in about . . . oh? 8 to 12 weeks?

Until then, I have a feeling there will be lots of head tilting and complaining about hard food and special requests for ice packs to soothe her aching, rootless tooth as it slowly releases itself from her gums. It's enough to make me want to lie on the floor and scream. I can't imagine where they get this from.

:::whistles and looks up at the ceiling:::

Skin deep

2010-11-09T20:45:00.007-05:00

“What’s that for?” asks Loaf repeatedly as she watches me go through my morning routine – applying one cream to my under-eye area, a different one to my face and neck, adding sunscreen, slathering body lotion from the neck down, swishing mineral makeup over my face and finishing with eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss.

I am aware, as I apply a minimum of a half-dozen products, that I am shaping her thoughts about feminine beauty and acceptance. Thus, I try to screen my answers – making them less about beauty and vanity and more about feeling good in general. As I dab the thick wrinkle cream around my eyes, I say casually, “Oh, it just helps my skin feel better.” I know it’s a lie and I hate lying.

I secretly hope that she isn’t actually paying as much attention as she appears to be. I hope that she isn’t filing it away and possibly drawing upon it down the road as she stands in a drugstore wondering what lotions and potions she “needs” to feel pretty or accepted or youthful.

It is the same with exercise.

”Why do you exercise so much, Mommy?” asked Peanut a few months back.

I told her a partial truth: that I want to be healthy and strong, but I skipped right over my motivation to keep my weight down. Soon enough, she will hear about the “importance” of being skinny from her peers or the press; she does not need me to plant the seed.

I catch myself far too often telling them how pretty they are, how nice their hair or eyes are. How cute they look in their clothes. Even though I know confidence is built on many levels, I inwardly cringe a little and try to balance these comments by telling them (when warranted) that they are hard working, caring, strong, fast and smart. I don't think it's a bad thing to compliment your daughter on her looks, but I think you have to be careful not to make it *just* about appearance.

This is especially tricky with girls. You don't need me to spout about the pressure they're under to be thin. To be beautiful. To attract a partner. To have dewey skin and voluminous, shiny hair and plump lips and big breasts. I worry about it to the point where I don't keep Glamour or Cosmo or celebrity magazines like Us in the house. I don't want them to think those pictures are what women are supposed to look like.

I wish I were one of those women who can walk around confidently with no makeup and hair in a simple ponytail, but it’s not me; it never has been. I don’t know where I got it from, because my mom is a makeup minimalist. She is blessed with good genes and good sense, things I hope are passed to my girls.

Either way, I hope they know they are worthy of being loved and accepted for ALL their amazing characteristics. And I hope they'll find comfort in their own skin - with or without a little makeup.

Little house in New Jersey

2010-11-08T20:16:00.005-05:00

Mark and I sometimes joke that our girls are growing up more like girls in the 1950s than the 2000s. We've been a (mostly) TV-free house since 2008. They aren't allowed a lot of computer time, read a ton of books and play outside a lot. Of course, we're only joking since there is still a long list of modern conveniences from which they benefit.

However, yesterday, we went to our next-door neighbor's house and made apple cider. Outside. With an old press that you have to crank manually.

It was awesome!

The cider was fresh and sweet and the kids loved turning the crank and watching the apples get squished into cider.

In fairness, the grinder - which turns the whole apples into a sort of pulp - was electric. Regardless, the kids had a great time tossing apples into it and watching them get turned into mush.

Loaf tosses one in. Looks like she's going to be a little short.

Peanut's turn and she sinks it!

Loading up the press with mushed up apples for another batch

So here's what I learned:
- It takes one bushel of apples (about 42 pounds) to make 2.5-3 gallons of cider.
- Like pie, the best cider is made from a variety of sweet and tart apples.
- Making cider is a messy, sticky job.
- An electric apple grinder will shoot chunks of apple an impressive distance.
- Hot apple cider with rum is yummy (OK, I already knew that one, but it's even better with fresh cider).
- Making apple cider in your neighbor's backyard will make you feel like Laura Ingalls, even if the driveway is full of SUVs and shiny German sedans.

How to carry a cat

2010-11-07T19:59:00.000-05:00

My afternoon date

2010-11-06T21:59:00.004-04:00

Today I had a date with Peanut. Nothing fancy: just a trip to Target. And while taking both of them shopping is usually a fine experience, when it's just one of them, the fun factor rises exponentially.

With Loaf at a birthday party, Peanut and I browsed the aisles of Target together killing time. We leisurely strolled through the Christmas section oooing and ahhing over the sparkly ornaments. We perused the toy section - checking out the Barbie aisle (I can't help it; I'm still a sucker for Barbie). We tried on sunglasses and cheap, costume jewelry and hats and giggled our way through the store.

Mark and I often talk about having one-on-one "dates" with the girls (he takes one, I take the other and then a couple weeks later we switch), but life gets going and it rarely happens. Today was a treat - a joy - and a reminder of just how important that one-on-one time is for us all. Hopefully, we'll find a way to make it happen again soon.

Halloween Haiku Friday

2010-11-05T16:56:00.004-04:00

Since I completely neglected to share any of our Halloween pictures, I thought I'd take advantage of Haiku Friday today to post just a few. For your reading (and viewing) pleasure:

Spooky pumpkins glow
Rotten mess by Halloween
Carved way too early

Mommy looks so sweet
Kids away - Mom raids candy
Bad witchy Mommy!

Kids go marching by
Bats, butterflies, witches, ghouls
School parade is fun

An unbalanced diet

2010-11-04T13:24:00.005-04:00

Peanut has always been a good eater. Ever since she was a baby, she was open to trying everything and enjoys a variety of foods - including fruits and vegetables, Indian and Thai food, sushi and spicy stuff.

Loaf on the other hand? Oy.

Loaf eats about a dozen foods, most of which fall into the category of "grains." Her favorite foods include:
1. Cheerios
2. Corn flakes
3. Crackers
4. Pizza, without the cheese
5. Pasta, without sauce
6. Macaroni and cheese
7. Bread
8. Pancakes
9. Wheatabix
10. Rice
11. Vegetarian pepperoni (which, I think technically counts as a "grain" since it's made from soy. And no, it's not as dreadful tasting as it sounds).
12. Ham <---Which of these things is not like the others?

She will, fortunately, eat peas, beans, olives and most fruits, so we tend to keep those things on hand for variety. However, her "will eat" list keeps narrowing. On Monday, I packed her a lunch of vegetarian pepperoni, crackers and applesauce. The applesauce, which she was eating by the tub in September, came back unopened.

"I don't like applesauce, Mom."

Huh? Since when?!?

I know technically I'm not supposed to worry about this, but it's driving me crazy! I mean what kid doesn't like grilled cheese? Or chicken? Or peanut butter? Or corn? Seriously, people? Can I get a ruling here? Is she exceptionally picky, or does this sound like normal 5-year-old stuff to you?

Baby got back

2010-11-03T20:43:00.005-04:00

I recently snapped this picture in the men's section of a major sporting goods chain:

Now, I know booties are all the rage right now, but seriously. Seriously?!?

Women's mannequins are so thin the sales people have to use safety pins to keep size zero clothing from falling off them and in the men's department we have this? Who allows this stuff? Why don't we just give him a beer gut for good measure.

::sigh::

One foot in front of the other

2010-11-02T20:29:00.003-04:00

I spent half of September in bed. Feeling achy and run down, I went to the doctor in early September thinking I had Lyme disease.

I didn't, which was good.

However, I had Epstein Barr Virus, commonly called "mono," which was bad. EBV can cause permanent liver or spleen damage if ignored. In some cases, it can even bring on hepatitis. The only cure is rest, so my doctor sent me to bed for two straight weeks.

Laying around in bed all day doing little to nothing is a fantasy I've indulged in every now and then, but the reality was not what I'd expected. I still had work to do. Sitting in bed with my laptop balanced on my legs all day long gave me neck and back pains. My bottom went numb and my shoulders had pins and needles on and off all day long.

Plus, it happened to be two of the most beautiful weeks of the fall - sunny and clear, with temps neither too hot or cold. Watching those gorgeous days tick by from inside was a bummer.

It also put a big crimp in my exercise and training. I had signed up - literally days before being diagnosed - for a 10K run on November 14, my first run of that distance. I was SO excited. I had my 10K training plan taped up at work and in my desk drawer at home. I was pumped.

But two weeks of bed rest was followed immediately by a demanding project where I worked long, long hours - sometimes until midnight and often on weekends. Exercise, even if I was ready to go back, was out of the question.

Despite that, a note came home from Peanut's class announcing a "mini-marathon" on November 2. Fourth and 3rd graders would run a mile, while 2nd and 1st graders would run a half mile. "Volunteer," said the note, "to walk or run." Of course, I signed up to run.

Peanut was nervous. "What if I don't finish, Mom?" she asked anxiously.

"You will," I assured her. "Just take it one step at a time."

I ran my first half mile today in six weeks with my seven-year-old daughter by my side grinning from ear to ear. She effortlessly ran the entire half mile. Surprisingly, it was tough for me - six weeks of no exercise has taken its toll and it's going to be a long, slow road back. For motivation, I'll keep that visual of Peanut's huge smile, hair flowing out behind her, small legs pumping back and forth as I go. One step at a time.

What I thought about on the ride home today

2010-11-01T22:08:00.004-04:00

I hate my commute.

There. I said it.

I know I don't have the hardest, or most grueling, or longest, or most traffic-congested commute in the greater NYC area. But still, it is 50 minutes of highway. Highway that separates me from my family after a long day. There is nothing as depressing to me as walking out the door at 6 p.m. knowing I will not see my family for at least 50 minutes. Knowing by the time I get home, Peanut will be exhausted - winding down her day and that I have less than an hour with her until she collapses into bed. Loaf is not far behind her.

Tonight, I hit traffic and my commute was extended an additional 25 minutes. Lucky me.

I didn't mind my commute so much when I worked part-time and only had to make it two days a week. But five days a week? It's exhausting. It's depressing. It makes me really, really angry.

Tonight on my extra-long ride home, unable to find anything decent on the radio, my mind jumped from one thing to the next. And at some point, it landed on my blog. My poor, sad, neglected blog.

I thought about how I used to have such a zest for posting. I loved my little creative outlet; my readers, my comments. I loved reading other people's blogs - and commenting on them - as well. What the heck happened?

I know the answer . . . full-time work, too little time, too much stress and . . . a draining commute.

But tonight sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic, I realized that today is November 1. The first official day of National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo, for those in the know). And sitting there in that traffic, I decided to give it a go.

They say it takes 21 days to establish a new habit. I have 30. Let's see how it goes? If nothing else, I have my commute each day to try to think about something to post. Wheeee!

My little fashionistas

2010-09-28T21:47:00.006-04:00

I am a mom who firmly believes in the phrase, "choose your battles."

There is a lot of power in that phrase. Choosing your battles gives you a certain amount of freedom. Once you decide which battles you're going to fight, you can relax a bit. You no longer have to worry about certain things.

Choosing your battles is also a source of empowerment for your children. They suddenly have a safe place to assert their individualism and independence. It can be a win-win for all involved.

One battle I have chosen not to fight is the clothing battle. Well, at least so far. At this stage, it's an easy one to let go, because I still control the clothing purchases. I don't have to worry about midriff-baring tops or other inappropriate-for-their-age items because I won't buy them.

But until the day they buy their own clothing, unless an outfit is grossly inappropriate for the weather or the occasion, I don't fight it. Peanut has been picking out her own school clothes every day since she was about 3. Same with Loaf. Of course, this means, once in a while they walk out of the house looking like this:

But really? What's the harm? And you have to admit, this photo is going to look great in her rehearsal-dinner slide show someday. ::Insert evil laugh.::

Allowing them to dress themselves also frees me from the task of having to pick out their outfits each day. After breakfast, I send them off to their rooms with an order to get dressed and I have to say, they generally do a pretty good job.

This morning's outfits were especially impressive. They were cute, sure, but what I found so cool is how each is developing her own style. Peanut is more . . . proper. At 7, she is already a lady. If she were alive in the mid-1960s, I can see her paling around with Jackie Kennedy wearing white gloves and a pillbox hat. If her style continues, she'll be wearing a vintage Chanel suit to her high school graduation.

On the other hand, Loaf is my little free spirt. She's a bit more rambunctious and bohemian. In the '60s, she'd contrast her sister's classic style with a peasant dress and love beads.

I love the way they express themselves so clearly and, so far, with no regard to pressure from their peers. They don't care that most of the girls in their class go to school in jeans and t-shirts. This is who they are, and they're proud of that. I hope the conformity battle is one they continue to fight.

IT'S SO FLUFFY!

2010-09-15T09:56:00.005-04:00

One of our favorite summer movies has been Despicable Me (and for the record, the only movies I actually see in the theater these days are kids' movies. Inception? Did not see. The American? Did not see. Eat, Pray, Love? Nope, not that either. I have, however, seen How to Train Your Dragon, Toy Story 3, and Despicable Me.

But I digress . . .

One of our favorite scenes from Despicable Me features a little girl clutching a stuffed unicorn, newly-won at an amusement park (in a highly unusual way) and screaming, "It's so fluffy!!"

We have our own version of fluff these days and like that little girl, we can hardly contain our enthusiasm.

Meet Lola:

She is about 8-weeks-old and full of personality. She is slowly winning over her cat housemates Ben and Molly. The two-legged housemates were won over from the moment we met her.

What I did on my summer vacation

2010-08-22T21:51:00.003-04:00

I just had an AWESOME week off. I needed this week. My one and only goal was to spend as much quality time with the girls as possible. All I can say is mission accomplished!

We started the week with Peanut's SEVENTH birthday. Seven. Whoa. I just can't believe it. She is growing up so fast. Even though she has a summer birthday - perfect for an outdoor pool or swimming party - Peanut wanted . . . wait for it . . . an ice skating party. Fortunately, the local ice rink is open all year round and guess what? Ice skating parties are DIRT CHEAP in the summer.

So ice skating it was - she and 15 of her closest friends. They had a great time and despite several of the girls being first-time skaters, they all gave it a try and by the end of the session, a goodly number were moving around the rink on their own. Peanut was in her glory, which made it even better.

Mid-week, we headed (as the locals say) "down the shore." On the way, Loaf had to pee (revealing this news less than 60 seconds after passing one of the only rest areas on the Garden State Parkway). I feel it's not officially a vacation until someone has to pee on the side of the road, so over we pulled and dropped trough right there on the grass along the express lanes of the GSP. Fist pump!

Once at the beach, we had an absolutely amazing time.

We dug in the sand, we splashed in the waves, we chased seagulls, ate ice cream and strolled the boardwalk. It really doesn't get any better as far as I'm concerned and there is nothing - NOTHING - as sweet as the sound of your own children squealing and laughing as they frolic in the waves. I wish I could have two straight weeks of it. Just fantastic!

She was completely fearless. She would have dove in and started bobbing beyond the breakers had I let her.

It's not a beach day without ice cream!

My beach babies

This was definitely my favorite part of the week. I wrapped those girls around me like a giant beach towel and soaked up every giggle. I doted on them - ice cream before dinner? Sure! I ran with them in the waves and laid on a beach blanket with their salty heads against me, not even minding the sand they trekked with them. This was my summer redemption - my chance to make up for all the moments I've missed over the last few weeks when I've been locked away at the office. I loved it.

On Friday, we took an entirely different trip and spent the day in New York, picnicking in Central Park and visiting the Museum of Natural History where, on our third trip, we FINALLY got to see the famous blue whale suspended from the ceiling (the previous two trips, the room was closed). The girls love the park and could spend all day climbing all over the giant rocks in the park.

We spent the weekend close to home, but stayed busy riding bikes and going to the movies to see Despicable Me, which gets six thumbs (Peanut's, Loaf's and mine) up. And we filled in the rest of our time reading stories, playing Uno, swimming at friend's pond, catching butterflies and just being silly and relaxed.

So not the most exciting vacation in the history of the world, but it was EXACTLY what the doctor ordered. I'm already experiencing serious PVD (post-vacation depression). ::sigh

Back to reality . . .

Tri number six in the bag

2010-08-22T21:16:00.005-04:00

Last Sunday, I completed the Revolutionary Sprint Triathlon. Mucky water, crazy hills on the bike course, uneven, rocky trail run . . . but five minutes from my house. So how can I resist?

I actually slept really well for the night before a race. I went to bed early and woke to the alarm at 5:50. I washed, drank some water, ate a banana and walked out the door around 6:15.

When I arrived, transition was still fairly empty, except for my bike rack, which was completely full. Figures. I squeezed in and started setting up.

My stomach was a little off, but I managed to eat most of a bagel with peanut butter and drank quite a bit of water. Two women from town were doing the race as well, so I found them and we chatted for a while.

Transition closed at 7:30 a.m. so I left and slipped into the water for a warm up. This is, as you may recall, a nasty, mucky swim. Last year, I swam through a piece of floating seaweed as big as my freakin’ car. It was a little less mucky this year thankfully, but still kind of gross.

Pretty soon, it was time to start. My friend T. was in the same wave, so I wished her luck and off we went.

Swim

The swim was a quarter mile “M” shaped course. It was relatively uneventful. T. and I finished at almost the exact same time – she ran out of the water right in front of me. Mark says I was in the first half of my wave.

That said, my swim time was quite a bit slower this year. All week I’ve been trying to figure out why, because I’m definitely a better swimmer than last year. Two factors could have been at work:
1. It was a bigger wave this year, and a couple of times I got stuck behind slower swimmers and could not get around them, whereas last year I felt like I just cruised right through the pack.
2. The swim time didn’t end on the beach like last year. Instead, the sensor was back at the entrance to transition, so the run back up the beach and up a hill was counted in the swim time.

Whatever the reason, it was slower and I’m cranky about that.

Last year’s swim time: 10:36
This year: 13:19
I know. WTF?

T1
This was pretty straightforward. I did make a point to drink a big sip of water since I have trouble drinking on the bike, but overall, an OK T1.

Last year’s T1: 4:32
This year: 2:00

Bike
Oh boy.

This is not a long course—only 10 miles—but it is super hilly. You climb a long hill straight out of transition, and another super steep one less than a mile later. Then there are no less than 8 other climbs. I kid you not.

My goal this year, was to keep it over 10mph and finish in less than an hour, which I know to a true cyclist sounds like a wimpy goal, but that’s what I wanted. And . . .

Last year’s bike: 1:02:50
This year: 56:35

So I’m still slow. Quite slow. But significantly faster than last year. Next year’s goal is to do it sub-50. Fingers crossed!

T2
Nothing eventful here. Changed shoes, drank water, popped on my hat and ran out.

Last year’s T2: 2:02
This year: 1:56

Run

The run is a 5K on a trail. The trail is uneven, narrow and loaded with tree roots and rocks. Last year, I took a nasty fall, scraping a good amount of skin off my arm and knee. So this year, I gave myself permission to WALK the worst parts of the trail.

I know, I know. But seriously people, I was on vacation last week. I just wasn’t looking to spend it with a twisted ankle or with my arm all bandaged up. It’s just not worth it to me, especially after passing several runners coming out of the woods with bloody knees.

So I walked the really treacherous sections and ran when I felt it was safe. My run time isn’t great, but even given the walking, I still beat last year’s time.

Last year’s run: 34:59
This year: 33:58

My neighbor (who finished this race 30 minutes faster than me without doing any special tri training whatsoever <--not fair!) suggested getting a pair of shoes specifically designed for trail running, which seems like a good idea. My thick-soled stability shoes are especially hazardous on uneven terrain, so I’ll look into those for next year.

Overall time
Last year: 1:54:59
This year: 1:47:38

So better, definitely better, especially given how undertrained I am at the moment. I imagine if I’d been training this year the way I was last year, I’d have made an even bigger dent in that time.

But that is the best I can do at the moment, and I’m satisfied.

Now, to try to find a September race in order to meet my goal of four tris in 2010.

She swims, she rides, she runs . . . SheRox!

2010-08-10T21:15:00.008-04:00

On July 25, nearly three weeks ago, I did my fifth triathlon—SheRox New England.

I was really excited to do this race for a few reasons:
1. It was all women, and I love the dynamic of an all-women race (and the Revolutionary Tri is co-ed race this year –BOO!)
2. I was doing the race with Beckie and Julie, two of my good friends (and sorority sisters) from college.
3. SheROX has a reputation for putting on a great race.

While SheROX does have a race in New Jersey, it is an ocean swim, and despite doing well in last year’s Mainiac, I still have fears about ocean swimming (especially given that NJ shore has more robust breakers than the spot in Maine where we swam last year).

So, New England it was!

The race was Sunday, but you had to pick up your race packet (chip, numbers, swim cap) on Saturday, so I left Saturday morning to make the three-and-a-half hour drive to Webster, Mass.

I met Beckie and Julie and three of Beckie’s friends from New Hampshire. We drove the bike and run courses and then had dinner in a local restaurant. We then drove about 15-minutes to the B&B in Connecticut (just a lovely little place) and checked in. We all retired early, but none of us slept. I was super nervous about the swim start. This was a BIG race - over 2,000 women, and my wave had over 80 women in it. I had visions of getting run over and pushed underwater at the swim start. I literally don't think I slept more than an hour or two - and not all at once - all night long. Ugh!

I was wide awake at 4:38 a.m. when the alarm went off. We quickly dressed and left for the race site. We were among the first to arrive and secured a good spot on the outermost bike rack. I had the nice volunteers pump up my tires, got body marked and set up my transition area.

Transition area at the race site. HUGE.

I was trying desperately to eat something, but could barely choke down a single Cliff bar. I knew that was not a great thing, but my stomach was rolling and food was making it worse.

Around 6:30 a.m. we went down to the water and I slipped in for a warm up swim. I have found these to be invaluable in calming my nerves. I was amazed to find the water was crystal clear. I could see the every rock and plant on the bottom perfectly – it was the most beautiful open water swim I’ve ever experienced.

Start and swim

At 7 p.m. on the nose, the first wave went off – the pros/elites. Man, they are amazing to watch! The first woman out finished the swim in under 8 minutes. Awesome.

I was in wave 4 (waves went off 3 minutes apart) so I hugged Beckie and headed to the water’s edge. The women in my wave were standing at the water’s edge in five, long rows – by far the biggest start I’ve ever taken part in. I got in the second row way to the right hoping to stay out of the way of the type-As, while at the same time avoid getting bottle necked behind the newbies and slower swimmers. I think it was a successful strategy.

The gun went off and so did I – no hesitation. I railed forward and dived in. This was by far my best open water swim to date. I felt completely at ease, I sighted really well, I immediately went into a strong crawl with bilateral breathing and kept it up for the whole swim.

The course was supposed to be a half mile, but I don’t think it was actually that long because my time was 14:02 (in the pool my best half mile time has been about 17 minutes). But anyway, I’ll take it!

I can't say it, but I can swim it! Longest place name in the U.S. Also known as "Lake Webster"

T1

After the swim, it was a loooong way back to transition and my bike was on the farthest rack. I jogged back pulling my wetsuit, goggles and cap off as I went. By the time I got back, I just stepped out of the suit and yanked it off my legs.

Slipped on my bike shoes and helmet, slogged a bit of water and off I went. Not a bad T1, but could be a bit better. Time: 3:24

Bike

I quickly realized that I had not done a good job rinsing my feet. I had little pebbles in my bike shoes rubbing the tops of my toes – owie. I wiggled them to get the stones off with only moderate success.

The bike course was 12 miles, with one good, mile-long climb about 3.5 miles in. I’m glad I’ve been working on hills so much. I still slowed WAY down on the hill, but I got all the way up (parts were pretty steep) passing tons of women walking their bikes up it. Felt great.

The rest of the course was rolling hills to flat and I pushed really hard on the bike, working aggressively to keep my speed over 16 mph. I was relatively successful and finished the course in 51:15 (ave. speed 14.0). Had it not been for the hill, this would have been my best bike yet.

T2
OK, here is where I made a very freshman mistake.

I dismounted, ran over to my row and . . . stuff? Stuff? WHERE IS MY EFFING STUFF?

I could not find my spot on the rack, and hence, my running shoes. I ran up and down the rack several times before FINALLY spotting my towel. URGH!

Hence, my T2 was 2:19. This was my lowest place/rank in the whole race. Just UGH!

Once I found my stuff, it was very straightforward – changed shoes, slugged water, ran out.

Run
The run was tough. Really tough. I felt nauseous and lightheaded. My legs were wobbly. I was dehydrated, undernourished and hot. I felt like I was barely moving. I wanted to stop and walk SO BADLY.

However, I was determined to run it all, even if it was slow. The course was 2.9 miles and I was really hoping for a sub 30-minute time. I came in at 30:12. GRRRRR! I missed it by 12 freakin’ seconds. My pace was pretty average for me – 10:25 – but I’m just pissed at myself for not pushing just a BIT harder.

Plus, right at the end, Beckie caught up and passed me. I was happy to finish, and really happy to finish with her, but still totally irritated at myself for not being able (or willing? I often wonder how much of this stuff really is mental and if digging deeper and pushing harder is more about brain vs. brawn) to get moving faster. Anyway, it is what it is and I’m mostly over it. Mostly. But not totally.

Total time: 1:41:12

Wrap up
I was super happy to finish and it was fun to stand on the other side and cheer for the rest of our group as each woman crossed the line. I really liked this race overall and would definitely do it again next year.

Next up: the Revolutionary Tri in New Jersey on Sunday! Stay tuned . . .

Julie, me and Beckie pre-race

My poor, neglected blog

2010-08-06T16:56:00.002-04:00

So here's the deal.

Ten days after my dad passed away my work life got turned upside down. I was "asked" to come on board full time. Anyone who has been reading my blog for a while, or should I say, used to read it when I was posting more than once every quarter, knows how much I loved the part-time work arrangement I shared with Mark.

I refuse to go into any more details about it, other than to say, alas, I guess it just is no longer meant to be.

Unfortunately, working full time, out of the house, five days a week, with a 50-60 minute commute each way, has taken its toll on just about every facet of my life. My triathlon training is in the dumps. I'm struggling to get in 3 or 4 quick workouts a week, sometimes leaving the house at 5:15 a.m. to swim or running in the dusky early mornings at 5:30 a.m. before I'm even fully awake. Not fun.

I feel like I rarely see my kids Monday through Friday. My time with them is limited to about 30 minutes in the morning (if I don't go to the gym) and about 90 minutes in the evening.

Blogging has taken the biggest hit as you can obviously tell. And it's not just a lack of time. It's a lack of creativity/desire/get-up-and-go. I'm mentally spent after 8+ hours in the office and the last thing I want to look at is a computer. So, it's gotten cut out altogether.

I know BlogHer is happening in New York City - 45 minutes away from me this weekend. It eats me up not to be there, but then I think: for what? I have no readers and don't even know if I'll be blogging at all in a year.

I've decided the best strategy is not to stress about it. I will post when I can, and more importantly, when I want to. If I have readers who are willing to bear with me and check in every so often? Great. And if not, then this goes back to what I originally intended: a place to share pictures and stories about my life with distant friends and family members.

In the meantime, I hope everyone at BlogHer has fun. And maybe, just maybe, this ship will right itself and I'll feel confident enough to join you all in the future.

And the 2010 tri season is off . . .

2010-05-25T16:41:00.006-04:00

If you use your phone as an alarm clock, it stands to reason that sooner or later you will be woken up in the middle of the night by someone calling you. If you are me, that will inevitably happen the night before a triathlon. At 1:50 a.m. And you will not be able to get back to sleep.

That is what happened to me Sunday morning. I went to bed early and was sound asleep. Suddenly, or so it seemed, the “alarm” went off. I sprang out of bed and raced to the other side of the room (nearest outlet) to turn it off.

I remember being in a fog and thinking, “wow this came fast,” and “boy the room is awfully dark.”

I looked at the phone – still half asleep – and saw the “answer” and “decline” buttons. I pushed the decline button since it’s red, the same color as the “dismiss” button on the alarm app. But, then the alarm app came back on and I saw that it was only 1:50.

It took me a minute to put it altogether. The call was from Florida – a number not in my directory.

I crawled back into bed, hopeful I'd get back to sleep. Then, weirdly, not 10 minutes later, I heard a little “ting ting” letting me know I'd receieved a text. I wondered if it was related to the call.

It wasn’t. It was from some moron on Long Island, again, someone I don’t know.

The pre-tri sleep gods were clearly out to make me insane.

Now I was wide awake and I did little more than doze for a few minutes here and there until finally dragging myself out of bed at 5:30 when the real alarm did go off.

I ate, dressed, grabbed my bag, kissed my kids and husband and got in the car. I was tired, but felt pretty good otherwise. After all, I know the JerseyMan course from last year. So I felt pretty relaxed.

It was drizzling on and off, but nothing too bad. I arrived, parked, picked up my packet, got body marked and made my way to transition. I was early enough to get an end spot, gaining a little more room for my stuff.

About 15 minutes after arriving, the skies opened up. It was pouring. The spot under my bike filled up like a lake. My towel was soaked. My shoes and socks were in plastic bags, but everything else was drenched.

Terrific.

Eventually it let up and by the time they called us down to the beach for the warm-up swim and pre-race meeting, it was only lightly raining. I slipped into the water (70 degrees) for a warm up. And? Immediatley felt panicky. Oy. Will I ever feel comfortable in open water? Ever?!?

I stood in chest deep water and took several deep breaths, then started swimming again, and it was better. The announcer called us out of the water and the first two waves took off. Soon, it was my turn. I stood off to the right and off we went.

I surged forward with the crowd and started swimming when the water was about up to my waist. Again? Panic. Just for a few strokes, but still? What is my hang up here? I’ve done this now quite a bit. Grrrr!

But soon, I started feeling pretty good. I was actually bilateral breathing, the way I do in the pool and sighting pretty well. I swam around a bunch of women and rounded both buoys easily. Soon enough I felt my fingers scrape sand so I stood up and ran out of the water.

Last year’s time: 25:43.
This year: 22:24.

And what’s more, this year, the timer didn’t click you out of the swim until you ran back to the entry to transition area, so my actual swim time is probably about a minute less than this. Not bad!

Transition was easy. I slipped off the wetsuit easily and got ready for the bike. I sipped a bit of water, grabbed the bike and ran out.

Last year’s T1: 4:56
This year: 2:40 (which is probably actually 3:40 due to the above, but still--faster than last year!)

The bike (20 miles) was tough. It’s a hilly course and I couldn’t seem to get into a rhythm. Anyone I overtook in the swim passed me here. I was so frustrated. While I do OK on flat roads, I slow down drastically on hills. On an up note, the rain held off, the 20 miles passed without any drama and before I knew it, I was turning back into the park.

Last year’s bike: 1:46:48 (keep in mind, I was nauseous and crampy for the last 10 miles)
This year: 1:36:14.

So? Eh. Better, sure, but not great. At least I know what I have to practice.

This was the first time I had to change into running shoes at T2, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. Despite that, I was still faster than last year. Go figure?

Last year’s T2: 2:14
This year: 1:58

I was dreading the run. I knew I didn’t do enough bike-run bricks in training and I was expecting it to be really hard.

I decided at the last minute on Saturday night, to wear my dad’s old baseball hat for the run. So I pulled it on and every time my legs felt tired, every time I felt a cramp, every time I thought about stopping to walk, I thought of my dad and how he couldn’t take a single step for 40 years and how this run was for him. And I kept running.

Even if I was only running 12-minute miles, I was determined to run every step of the 3.1 miles. About a half way through, my legs loosened up and I picked up the pace a bit. It felt, quite honestly, great. One of the best runs I’ve had. Before I knew it, I was turning toward the finish line. I could hear the announcer. I thought of my dad and nearly burst into tears, but I held it in and ran faster.

Crossing the finish was an amazing feeling. I was so happy!

Last year’s run: 41:48
This year: 32:02 (yay!)

For this race, I had one goal. Improve on my time from last year. And I did that in every aspect of the race.

Last year’s time: 3:01
This year: 2:35

This is a tough course – the swim and bike are on the long side for a sprint-distance race, and the bike is pretty hilly, so it feels good to tackle it so early in the season. I’m really looking forward to the next one, which will be SheRox New England in July (unless I register for a local one sooner).

For Michael Gorman

The V-Word

2010-05-16T08:16:00.004-04:00

Driving home in the car yesterday with our new dog (because when life gives you chaos, why not ramp it up even more?), the girls and I were having a discussion about spaying and neutering animals: what it is, why it's important, etc.

Peanut observed that spaying involves cutting into the female cat's stomach, thus making the cat's stomach sensitive to the touch for many years afterward. I piped in with, "That's right. You know, when you were born, they had to cut into my stomach to get you out and the scar is still sensitive all these years later."

Lately, Loaf has taken to tormenting Peanut whenever possible. I always knew this day would come: revenge for all the taunting she took as a baby, I suppose. So she looks squarely at Peanut and in her most accusatory tone says, "That was for you, Peanut. I came out the right way."

ME: Loaf, do you know what 'the right way' is? How were you born?

LOAF: Through your vagina.

PEANUT: (joyfully) That's right, Loaf. You came out of Mommy's biscuit.

ME: (to myself) WHAT?!?!?
TO PEANUT: Where did you hear that term?

PEANUT: (giggling) I don't know.

LOAF: (Insert name of sweet little girl with outstanding parents) told us!

ME: (to myself) WHAT?!?!?

PEANUT: No! She didn't tell me. Maybe she told Loaf but (insert name of other sweet little girl who also has outstanding parents) told me!

ME: (to myself) Oy.
OK, listen girls. Whoever is using terms like that, well, it doesn't sound very smart. The correct word is vagina. And if we're being really correct, the word is vulva, because that includes all your girl parts down there. Do you understand?

BOTH: (reluctantly, complete with verbal eyerolls) Yessss.

Several seconds of radio silence.

LOAF: (accusingly) Peanut, I was born out of Mommy's volcano. You weren't.

PEANUT: It's not her volcano, it's her vulvana.

ME: (to myself) GAH! Maybe whoever came up with "biscuit" was on to something.

* * *
Dog pictures coming soon. He is a black lab, very sweet but completely insane. We have adopted "Marley's" second cousin evidently.

The Artiste

2010-05-03T11:57:00.003-04:00

Loaf just finished an art class at her preschool. The session, which was about eight weeks long, focused on Monet, Picasso and Warhol, among others. My little artiste painted some lovely works of art in different styles, though she refused to paint a Warhol-like painting of shoes and instead painted a blue-jay telling the instructor, "There aren't any mistakes in art."

Heh. You have to sort of love that.

Her works - displayed for the art show:

Here she is talking about her favorite painting - the one on the lower right. It is a Picasso-esque flower, but to give it some extra zip she threw Kevin from "Up" in there too. Do you see her?

And since she painted a blue-jay, she insisted that her blue-jay, Bluey, come to the art show. So I sat there balancing Bluey on my lap the whole time and when it was her turn to talk she waved and said not "Hi Mom and Dad" but, "Hi Bluey." I'm cool with this, but if her college graduation cap says, "Thanks Bluey," we're going to have to have a talk.

So there she is. My little artist. The next unit is sculpture and I can't wait to see what she comes up with.

* * *
I also wanted to thank all of you who wrote me notes here and on Facebook, as well as via e-mail and snail mail, offering your condolences and support. I'm still very up and down, but knowing so many people are out there sending good thoughts and prayers has meant the world to me. I'm truly awed and humbled by the kindness from so many I know, as well as so many I've never even met. My world is a better place with all of you in it and I thank you.

Raw

2010-04-13T21:13:00.003-04:00

Three weeks (and a day).

For three weeks (and a day) I have been struggling with grief. Grief that still feels like a throbbing, open wound. Grief that stalks me.

I try to push it down and bury it, but it finds me. It sneaks up on me at unexpected moments, like the middle of spin class or during a phone call or right after a shower.

It follows me to work and rides with me in the car. It swooshes about my head while I swim. It wakes me in the middle of the night like the poke of cold fingers on my back.

He is gone. Remember? Did you do enough? Did you say it all? Did you?

I don’t think I did.

And that is what haunts me.

I have become adept at choking back tears, but sometimes they race out of control, like last night. Last night, I wept uncontrollably, face pressed against my husband’s chest, hands like claws clutching his shirt, eyes shut so tight in the dark in that when I finally opened them I was surprised to see moonlight streaming through the cracks between the curtains, lighting the contents of my bedroom in gentle contrast to my shaking sobs.

I thought it would get easier, and in some ways it has.

But in most it has not.

The world goes on.

Work makes demands. Huge ones.

Children need tending. Lots.

There is housework. And cooking.

Errands. Luncheons. Volunteer work.

Commitments of all kinds.

It all spins around me. Engulfing me.

I show up. I participate. I push through it because I have to. Because it is what's expected.

But under it all, I am turned inside out. Partly numb.

And partly raw.

Easter eggggstravaganza!

2010-04-07T17:17:00.001-04:00

We started the day at my mom’s house in Massachusetts where the Easter Bunny hid a goodly number of eggs. In fact, I would not be surprised if my mom finds one or two others sometime in the next few days.

Here is Peanut with her basket:

And a picture of the two of them together. Yes, incredible as it is, they are actually this chummy most of the time. Though there was a momentary scrap over an orange and yellow spotted egg that nearly drew blood.

And here they are just before we left for Mark’s mom’s house near Poughkeepsie, NY. How about the gloves? Don’t you love them? Target. $1, baby!

At my mother-in-law’s, we had another egg hunt. Here’s Peanut, who appears to be 6 going on 12 in this photo. Kill. Me. Now.

And Loaf, munching on candy. All day, she kept telling me that her shoes hurt her feet, to which I replied, “Sorry sweets. Get used to suffering for fashion.”

So that was our Easter in a nutshell. Or an eggshell, if you prefer. Hope you all had a great day!

Wow!

2010-04-05T21:15:00.003-04:00

Remember a couple of weeks ago when I mentioned being nominated for a Just Post Best of 2009 award?

Well . . . I won!

So. Excited.

And honored. Truly. All of the posts were fantastic - I had a hard time voting in a few of the categories.

Thanks to Alejna and Holly for creating Just Posts, highlighting so much great writing, and for working so hard to put together the awards. And heartfelt thanks to anyone who voted for me.

It's great to win, but even cooler that I discovered a whole new group of bloggers to follow. Congrats to everyone who was nominated and to the winners! You all deserve a round of applause!

Eulogy

2010-03-29T20:28:00.003-04:00

One week ago today, my father died. Ever since I've been sitting at this computer watching my cursor flash on off on off off on off, unable to commit anything meaningful about his death to this blog.

My feelings about my father resemble a game of pick-up sticks: there are jaggedy, pointy things buried at the bottom of the pile and as soon as you disturb one, several others come unloose as well.

My father was a brave man. He was paralyzed in Vietnam at the age of 21 when a bullet tore through his left shoulder and exited via his spine. He spoke many times about the men he served with - men of grit and valor who sacrificed for their country and each other.

In the early years of my life, he was often depressed and bitter. I don't blame him for this. I cannot even begin to imagine how he felt losing use of his legs - and with that, the ability to dance, walk, run, jump and make love - at such a young age. He comforted himself with substances both legal and illegal. His choices weren't always the best, and they sometimes got him into trouble.

Worse than any of that, it was sometimes difficult to connect with a man whose body had been so unfairly broken – whose emotions and spirit had been turned inside out. Our relationship was complicated and not always easy.

But he was my father and I loved him. He was a man who chased me and a friend around the house in his wheelchair howling like a wolf. He taught me how to take pictures and develop them in the darkroom he had in his home. He visited Ireland and sent me postcards every other day detailing his adventures. He took me to see The Rolling Stones. Twice. He paid for my college education because he knew it was my ticket to a better life and I have always been so very grateful for that.

I know he loved me and I know he knows I loved him, but that does not make up for years of other things never said. Missed opportunities. Chances not taken. I am full of grief and regret this week, and probably will be for a long time.

On Friday, we held his funeral; a mass and burial with full military honors - taps, color guard, a 21-gun salute and a flag folding ceremony. I spoke at the mass, delivering a short eulogy at the end. It was a send off that I hope made him proud. I will leave you with those words:

* * *

I am a writer. I write to process, to record and to destress. My father was a writer too. I like to think that my love of writing is a gift from him, one of many he gave me throughout my life.

My father was a war veteran. A hero. He was a philosopher and an historian. He loved politics. He was an avid reader and a painter. He always had a good story to tell. He was a genealogist who researched our family tree back hundreds of years.

He also loved astronomy. With his telescope, he could identify all of the planets. When I was a young girl, he would wake me in the middle of the night sometimes so that he share an eclipse or meteor shower with me. I remember standing on the back step of our house in Clarksburg in my pajamas looking up at the sky with him one night as a comet blazed overhead.

“See Kim, see?” he said. “Isn’t that beautiful? You won’t see that again in your lifetime.”

I saw.

And even back then – at only about 7 years old - I knew why that moment was so spectacularly awesome in so many ways.

Thank you, Dad, for many, many things. You will be missed; you will be remembered. Because for the rest of my life, I will look up into the night sky and imagine you out there somewhere – chasing that comet.

Michael Gorman
1947 - 2010

A girl's best friend, at any age

2010-03-17T10:09:00.005-04:00

Yesterday, I met with Peanut's teacher to talk about her progress in school.

It was an overwhelmingly positive meeting. Peanut's teacher describes her as bright, happy and polite. She says she's already reading beyond what's expected of her for kindergarten and that she is doing well in all her activities. One thing she needs to work on is her handwriting, which has always been her weakest link. Those fine motor skills are slow coming to her.

Another is focus. She tends to get a little day-dreamy sometimes and needs a regular tap on the shoulder to stay on task. But otherwise, she's doing just great, which is a relief because we struggled with the decision of when to send her to kindergarten. We were afraid she'd be bored if we kept her out an extra year, but in hindsight, we definitely made the right choice.

I'm amazed by what they teach in kindergarten now. I remember kindergarten being about social skills, shapes, colors, number and letter recognition and not much else. Now they learn to read and write, start building the foundation for things like algebra, use the computer, learn Spanish and talk about Monet's impressionism.

They write every day - short stories and sentences. We're told spelling doesn't matter so much as sounding out the words and including consonants and vowels. Outside of her classroom, there was a bulletin board covered with the children's work. They were asked to write about what they'd do with $100. The kids wrote everything from "give it to poor people," to "buy Legos."

The apple did not fall far from the tree apparently, because Peanut has decided she will spend her $100 on something near and dear to my own heart:

Maybe by the time she gets to first grade, she'll realize she needs a few more zeros on that bill. I'm not about to break it to her.

It's an honor just to be nominated . . .

2010-03-15T21:42:00.004-04:00

OK, admit it. Haven't you always wanted to be able to say that? To be chosen among your peers as one of the best and say, "it's really great just to be here among these talented people"?

Today, I can say it.

Alejna at Collecting Tolkens nominated my post about deceptive food labeling as one of the best Just Posts of 2009.

!!!!

I'm truly amazed and honored to be included. Truly. I've already read through a few of the other nominated posts and they're so, so great. Alejna has organized the posts by category to showcase several talented bloggers writing about a variety of important social issues. Please go read them and vote.

Maybe, just maybe, you can even throw a vote my way. :-)

Give a little, gain a lot

2010-03-15T21:09:00.000-04:00

Today I was a chaperone on my daughter’s class trip. We went to a local community theater to see “Click, Clack, Moo.” I was a bit concerned, even skeptical, of how a 10-page children’s story could be transformed into a 60-minute play, but it was actually quite cute. There were songs and dancing and a lesson at the end about compromising with others.

Compromise is a funny thing. Of course, we all do it and it’s an important skill, but in obviously there are times when we’d rather not. And I know there are some things on which I don’t want my daughters compromising – their dreams, their goals, the person they choose to marry.

I sat on the bus ride back from the theater with Peanut nuzzled against me. She was so excited to have me there as a chaperone – so proud to have her friends see me there with her – present. A mom who is present.

I know the day will come when she won’t want me around her friends. She’ll roll those big gray eyes and ask me to drop her off at the corner and, whatever you do, don’t kiss me, Mom. I remember being that way with my own mother. I’m sure it wasn’t easy on her.

But today, she was sweet and snuggly and so very much mine. When the day comes that she doesn’t want me anymore, I’ll oblige, I suppose. I’ll wait in the shadows, guiding when needed, loving always. But giving her the space she needs to grow. To develop. To dream. To live.

Because that’s what parents do.

We compromise.

In the meadow we will build a snow princess

2010-02-28T21:06:00.004-05:00

. . . because with two little girls, that's the way we roll.

Yes, she does have a name. She is Princess Frostqueen, if you must know. Because while cute, we are not the most creative thinkers on the block.

The snow in this part of NJ wasn't that bad. When it was all said and done sometime on Friday, we probably had about ten inches.

Honestly, while a pain in the arse, it was soooo pretty:

View of the house from the backyard

The pond from a distance

Shrubbery at the edge of the woods

Making a snow angel and looking up at the sky

Pretty, right? But I have to say, I'm really glad that tomorrow is March 1. I'm ready for spring. No more feeling like a popsicle for me! Brrrr!

Snowsteria

2010-02-25T20:34:00.007-05:00

My adopted home state of New Jersey carries a lot of baggage around with it: polluted, corrupted, rude, crowded, loud, expensive.

You cannot step outside the boundaries of this state without someone making a "Joisey" joke. And the entertainment industry has not helped (The Sopranos, Real Housewives of New Jersey, or Jersey-FREAKIN'-Shore, anyone??)

Two years ago, we attended a party with a bunch of Mark's high school friends and one of them launched into a story about the time some "big Jersey girl" sucker-punched her in a New York City bar. (How, exactly, she knew this girl was from New Jersey and not, say, Brooklyn or Staten Island or upstate New York was not clear. Perhaps while the woman was punching her, Mark's friend looked up and said, "Oh hey! Nice to meet you. Where are you from?" Or perhaps after being pummeled the two shared a beer and exchanged business cards. Since it was not explained, I can really only guess.)

Regardless, I would have to add that one more NJ stereotype is "tough." We are, I'm sure you've heard, a mean state. A bit violent. The Sopranos and Jersey Shore confirm this, so of course it must be true.

So why oh why do a few falling snow flakes turn this state into a quivering, frightened, scaredy-cat? I wish *that* had been an episode of The Sopranos. Can you see it? Tony steps outside the Bing ready to *&# % someone up, but when he gets outside - GASP! - it's snowing. Instead, he runs home screaming - stopping only once at the A&P to load up on TP and the ingredients for chicken parm.

I mean, really - it's just SNOW, for Pete's sake. And last time I checked, it was February. Which is - wait for it - WINTER. Apparently, someone forgot to tell New Jersey that in winter, snow is a regular, even expected occurrence. Sure, it's annoying and yes, it can make driving a pain in the arse. But seriously, the PANIC it produces is really confuzzling.

Last night, I went to the gym and then the grocery store because we were out of cat food. The people there loading up on milk, bread, eggs and TP was just plain amusing. It's as if they are afraid they're going to get stranded in their homes for weeks. (For the record, I know this is not a phenomena unique to NJ, but in all my years growing up, I can't remember a single time my mother made an emergency run to the grocery store before a snow storm).

For a little context, I grew up in the mountains of Western Massachusetts. We got snowstorms on a regular basis. I can remember it snowing on Halloween. We had one huge storm that "cancelled" Thanksgiving. It was not unusual to have to wear snow boots to church on Easter Sunday.

And school cancelled? Ha! Only if it was a true blizzard, meaning, snow of at least a foot.

Today's "epic, monster storm" (coined a "snow hurricane" and "February Fury" by the local news) dumped *maybe* three inches in my yard. Of course, school was cancelled.

I don't necessarily blame the schools. I know things are different now. I know everyone is afraid of getting sued. I also know the meteorologists cannot seem to predict a snowfall accurately to save their lives.

But seriously, NJ? Can we try to be a little tougher in the future? A little more Tony Soprano and a little less Olive Oil?

After all, you have a reputation to live up to.

* * *
Editor's note: I've since learned that other parts of NJ did in fact get more than 10 inches of snow today, but I will only full retract this post if any of you are stuck in your homes until at least next Thursday eating only milk and eggs and printing out pages of my blog to use for TP. Otherwise, this is my story and I'm sticking to it! :-)

Wordless Wednesday: 'Nuff said

2010-02-03T13:33:00.001-05:00

Click here to see more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Sparkles

2010-02-01T15:27:00.002-05:00

On a snowy Saturday in December, just a week before Christmas, Peanut got her ears pierced.

The reactions of others were interesting. I got everything from, "why did you wait so long?" to, "I can't believe you let her do that," as if she were sporting a new tattoo or a nose ring.

I have found that most mothers think the "right" age for ear piercing is whatever age they were allowed to get theirs pierced. For me, that age was about 7. Peanut is six and a half, proving my point exactly. That said, I don't really feel like there is a "right" age. All I wanted was for her to ask to have them pierced. They are her ears and I felt she should have a choice in the matter.

By 13, the age most moms seem to think is closer to "right," I already had two earrings in each lobe. I get my laid-back attitude about ear piercing from my own mom, apparently.

The six-week mark for the piercing passed on Saturday, which meant she was finally allowed to take out her starter earrings and put on 'real' earrings. At Christmas, she amassed quite an impressive collection of teeny post earrings and she has been patiently waiting to try them on. I think on Saturday, we tried on almost every pair on her little earring tree.

Her favorite pair is tiny pair of round earrings - like little disco balls - with multi-colored crystals all over them.

She was beaming.

Though for anyone who still thinks six (and a half) is too young, take heart. My little needle-phobic Loaf took one look at the piercing process and proclaimed that she is not getting her ears pierced until she is in high school.

Which is equally OK with me.

Connected

2010-01-26T20:50:00.002-05:00

It is early. I open one eye and squint at the clock.

6:38 a.m.

Loaf is nestled in the bed next to me breathing deeply.

For anyone keeping track, she is still not sleeping in her own bed.

This is just as much our fault as hers. We are too tired, some may even say lazy, to change the situation, so we live with it.

In the words of a parenting expert whose workshop I attended last fall, “Why make a bad situation worse?”

I close my eyes and try to grab just a few more minutes of sleep, but I already know it is a lost cause. My mind is racing with to-dos and plans. Still, I lie there. Enjoying the dark and the silence broken only by my sleeping daughter’s rhythmic breathing.

Minutes pass and Loaf begins to stir. She stretches and sighs. She turns over, then over again. She places her hand on my forearm and I turn toward her, placing my hand over hers.

I slowly open my eyes. We are face-to-face, inches apart. She is looking directly at me. I lift my hand in the air and she places hers against mine – palm to palm.

Bits of daylight are just beginning to stream through cracks in the curtains giving the room only the slightest hint of definition. Our hands look like silhouettes – black cut outs from a preschool art class – pressed against each other.

I fold my fingers on top of hers, then straighten them again. She moves her hand slightly so our fingers are staggered, then curls them around my hand, before returning to the flat palm-on-palm position.

We don’t speak.
We don’t even look at each other.
But we are undoubtedly, totally, connected.

Hello blogosphere. I'm back. I hope.

2010-01-26T20:42:00.004-05:00

Want to guess what one of my New Year's goals was? To resume regular blogging.

Hmmm. Well, it is January 26 and this is my first post of 2010. I'd hardly call that regular.

However, not a day goes by that I don't think about this blog. It nags me silently when I'm driving or working or brushing my teeth.

Update me.

Update me.

Update me.

And yet, the ideas just won't come.

I also think often about the bloggers whose work I have not read in WEEKS. I wonder what is new with their lives, their families. I crave their words, but have been too afraid to check in. Like the phone call you don't return right away. A few days and it's awkward. A few months and you just plain look like a jackass.

But I know, deep down, that I want to come back. Writing is in my soul. I just need to sit down and start typing.

So here I am, starting again. I hope you've all been well.

Merry and bright

2009-12-29T21:36:00.001-05:00

We are standing in a rest area on the southbound side of the New York State Thruway somewhere in the Catskill Region. It is Sunday – the last official day of “Christmas” week, a.k.a. the first official day of “New Year’s” week, depending on how you choose to look at it, and it seems everyone has someplace to get to today.

The rest stop is jammed with weary looking travelers – strung out from several days of holiday merriment. Late nights. Perhaps tense moments between visitors and hosts. Too much of everything: sugar, food, alcohol.

And as I know, the drone of highway driving is not helping. Everyone looks like they’ve been through some type of trauma and the line for Starbucks – where my husband is standing – is long and slow-moving.

The restrooms are in the back, there is a small news/convenience store on the right and a string of fast food chains on the left. The coffee line cuts right down the middle.

Most of the people in the rest stop are dressed in dark, winter colors – blacks, grays and navys.

My daughters are the exception to the rule. They are clad head to toe in bright pink and lavender. Peanut’s outfit includes a fuchsia top, a bright pink tulle skirt with silver sparkles, hot pink tights, hot pink leg warmers with silver thread running through them and brand-new pink ballet flats with glitter all over them.

Loaf is dressed in a lavender top and matching – extremely puffy – tulle fairy skirt, hot pink tights with light pink hearts all over them and light pink Mary Jane’s that also sparkle.

I find myself wishing my camera was not packed away in the car under 200 pounds of Christmas gifts.

In the middle of this sea of dreary, they spin like two music box ballerinas. They hop and whirl, burning off energy they’ve accumulated sitting in the car for the last 75 minutes.

They look like two peonies in June, or maybe bookmarked characters from Pinkalicious and Fancy Nancy.

They are, quite frankly, a sight, and my fellow travelers cannot help but notice them.

Some smile. Some point and giggle. Some just watch – blankly – in a sort-of drugged, seven-mile stare, and I’m not sure if they even see them.

My daughters don’t care. They are wearing their new fancy Christmas clothes and regardless of the fact that they stand in a crowded, weary, only moderately clean rest stop in a rural section of New York State – they are filled with joy and life.

I’m happy to see that the holiday spirit has not left them yet, and I hope it hasn’t gone for you either.

Hope you had a wonderful holiday season!

Holidazed

2009-12-14T20:40:00.003-05:00

So I looked at the calendar today and do you know what it said?

Somehow, it is December 14.

I am not at all sure how that happened because, like, yesterday, it was Thanksgiving. And the day before that it was Halloween. And just a couple of weeks before that we were swimming and picnicking and chasing fireflies under warm July skies.

I’ve had a crazy roller coaster year at work. All summer I felt like I was falling in and endless trough there – faster and faster toward some unknown oblivion ¬– and then somehow, finally, things are back on track. I’m drowning in work lately, which is a good thing in nearly every way except that elements of my personal life are unraveling like a cheap Christmas sweater.

Somehow, I’ve managed to get a fair amount of holiday preparations done, but when I still think of all I have left to do – baking and wrapping and a trip to see Santa live and in-person – I feel a little woozy.

Mark and the girls––my God--they are my salvation. For every second they might make me crazy there are 1,000 more when they pull me back from the brink. I am truly blessed.

Today, I had to drive out to Pennsylvania for a meeting over two hours away. Sitting in the car in some seriously snarly traffic on the way back, I could feel the stress level rising. So. Much. To. Do. I don’t have time to sit in traffic. I don’t have these minutes to spare.

But sitting there, I found my mind wandering back to them. Mark’s sweet boyishness, Peanut’s beautiful bright eyes, Loaf’s million-watt smile. I thought of them at home – imagined what they might be doing without me. And before I knew it, I was home.

I tiptoed up the hall and slowly opened Peanut’s door. She was still awake—barely. Loaf on the other hand was jovial – bouncing on her bed and delaying putting on her jammies.

Cries of “Mommy!” Small arms thrown around my neck. Smootchy kisses on my cheeks. School recaps and sweet smiles.

Another day over.

So much to do.

And so much to look forward to.

A Thanksgiving Story . . . more than a week later

2009-12-04T17:06:00.003-05:00

By now, the Thanksgiving leftovers are long gone and everyone has moved on to Christmas.

But wait! WAIT! I never shared my Thanksgiving story. I never told you all how Thanksgiving morning - four hours before 11 people were supposed to show up and expect a turkey and all the trimmings on a lace tablecloth with damask napkins and four kinds of homemade pie - the pluming in our house IMPLODED.

Seriously.

I walked up the hall at 8 a.m. and there was Mark, standing over a toilet with water filled Right. Up. To. The. Brim.

So I did what any hostess would do under the circumstances. I left the house to run a Turkey Trot 5K while he tried to snake out the clog.

(And I need to mention here that my mother-in-law arrived Wednesday night to get dinner going in the morning so that I could run in said Turkey Trot. She rocks).

But I digress.

So I go off to trot with the turkeys and give the home situation very little thought. After all, I have two young children who use 17 times the toilet paper necessary every time they sit their dainty butts on the loo. I assumed (and you know what happens when you assume) that the problem would be rectified toot sweet.

Except, it wasn't.

When I arrived home 90 minutes later, the first thing I saw was Loaf, fully dressed. The second thing I saw was the back of the van wide open and loaded with suitcases. Oh. Crap. (Not literally, but close enough).

Mark met me at the door and explained that every drain in the house had stopped working. Nothing was going down anywhere. And to make things even more fun, water was pouring out of the ceiling in the garage.

Awesome.

Fortunately, my brother- and sister-in-law stepped up to the plate and Saved Thanksgiving! Unfortunately, they live an hour away.

Have you ever moved an entire Thanksgiving feast an hour away on Thanksgiving day? Well let me tell you, it is quite the feat.

My mother-in-law had already taken the bird and left because getting that sucker in the oven was of primo importance. None of us really wanted to eat dinner at 9 p.m. In the meantime, Mark and I packed up the rest of the food: trays of sweet potatoes, pies, potatoes for mashing, a huge salad, a vat of salad dressing, as well as all the condiments, sauces, spices, beverages and trimmings we'd need for the meal.

And in what can only be called a Thanksgiving miracle, we managed to remember everything but a few pears I was going to slice and toss into the salad (it didn't need them anyway).

We then drove both cars (so Mark could come back at the crack of dawn to meet the plumber on Friday) to the relative's house.

Thanksgiving was a resounding success and the next day we found out that the problem was just a tree root that had grown into one of the main pipes. (Nice timing tree. Really. Thanks a lot).

But all in all, it could have been SO MUCH worse. We may not have found a backup host so quickly. It could have happened AFTER the guests arrived. It could have been thousands of dollars in repairs. So overall, I ended up being pretty thankful anyway.

OK. Phew. Got that one in. On to Christmas . . . .

Everybody wants to be a cat? Not in our house

2009-11-23T12:51:00.004-05:00

Meet Ben.

Ben is Peanut’s cat.

She loves him. A lot. Probably more than she loves me.

She talks to him like he is a baby and wraps him up in a blanket.

He is fairly tolerant of this.

He sleeps in her room, curled up next to her.

She loves this.

Ben had a collar. A black, reflective one. With an ID tag on it.

On one of Ben’s recent adventures, he lost his collar, and along with it, his ID tag.

This made Peanut very, VERY unhappy.

She was convinced he was going to get lost, like, IMMEDIATELY.

So we went to PetCo so she could pick out a new collar and ID tag for Ben.

Peanut is very girly.

VERY.

Ben is now sporting a bright pink sparkly collar. But that is not the worst of it.

Oh no.

His ID tag is a black heart, rimmed with hot pink. One side features his name, address, phone number. The other side? Reads “DIVA.”

Poor emasculated Ben.

(And he thought getting neutered would be the worst of it.)

Women's work

2009-11-12T20:57:00.005-05:00

My daughters were deep in the midst of an imaginative role playing game.

They have dozens upon which they draw for daily entertainment:
- Molly and Sally go the store
- Snow White and Baby Horse at school
- Rudolph and Clarice at the North Pole

Loaf is often delegated the boy’s role, if there is one, or the role of lesser importance. In a recent game based on Little House on the Prairie, Peanut was Laura and Loaf was assigned the role of Jack . . . the Ingalls' family dog.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Yet.

But I digress.

There they were, playing some game. They were chattering back and forth. I was off to the side, folding laundry and sort of half listening, but mostly lost in my own thoughts. When suddenly, Peanut, who was wearing a bandana tied around her head like an old-fashioned kerchief and a pint-sized apron tied around her dress said, “I will go pick the berries because that’s women’s work.”

I froze mid fold and stared at her.

What?!?

Over the past several months, Mark has been reading chapter books to her – the entire Great Brain series, as well as the aforementioned Little House on the Prairie books.

While I am thrilled that she enjoys this time with her father and is completely enraptured by these big books with few pictures, these are tales written in an entirely different time – a time when men’s and women’s roles were clearly defined, rigid and limited.

It is good to learn about these times – the historical lessons are important – but I’m less than thrilled that the concept of “women’s work,” has been introduced into my six-year-old daughter’s lexicon.

And who’s to say it even came from these books? It could just have easily been slipped into one of the old Disney princess films, or another source I’m not even aware of.

“Peanut,” I asked her delicately, trying to keep my tone casual, “where did you hear that phrase? Women’s work?”

She looked at me with a skeptical grin. Maybe my tone wasn’t as casual as I’d hoped. “No where,” she said. “I made it up.”

“I’m not mad,” I quickly clarified. “I just want to know where you heard it.”

“No where. It’s from inside my head.”

Which I know is totally not true. But I decided not to press.

Instead I launched into an explanation of how roles have changed. How “women’s work” is a very old-fashioned term. How women can do any type of work—and for that matter so can men. I finish my diatribe using our own family as an example.

“Dad does the dishes. I take out the trash. We both take care of you and your sister.”

“Uh, OK, Mom,” she said, turning to resume her game. I can practically hear the eyeroll.

A few minutes later, I am back to folding laundry (and no, the irony of what I am doing as I deliver my little speech about today's changing gender roles is not lost on me) and they are once again playing.

“You pick the berries,” Peanut declares to Loaf. “I am going to sweep the floor.”

And then I walked up the hall, found a good solid wall and proceeded to bang my head against it for 10 or 15 minutes.

And the laundry? I left the rest of it for Mark to fold.

Let them watch their father finish it up while I’m in the office today. I think it might be good for them.

Helllooooo, Lover.

2009-11-11T11:20:00.003-05:00

I am a bargain shopper.

I loooove finding a hidden gem – some retail item that has been deep discounted. It is a thrill¬—my reward, my due—for suffering the mall, or worse, the disorganized big box store.

Lately, I have been getting my thrills in thrift stores. They appeal not only to my love of bargain hunting, but also to my desire to live a green lifestyle: reduce, reuse, recycle and all that good stuff.

About a year ago, a coworker discovered a thrift store about 10 minutes from our office. It benefits the Lupus Foundation, and while 85% of the stuff there is of no interest to me, every now and then I find something truly spectacular.

Like a caramel colored Ralph Lauren belted suede coat for $9. Or a black Tahari suit jacket for $12.

But in truth I am Carrie Bradshaw at heart. I loves me some fine shoes. Unlike Carrie, I don’t have the budget to stock up on Jimmy’s or Manolo’s. Once in a while I’ll stroll through Nordstrom or Neimans and fondle the fine Italian leather in the designer shoe section, wishing and hoping, but never buying.

There is a thrift store about 15 minutes from my house that I haven’t – until recently – spent much time in.

But last week, I went there looking for a pair of dress pants and I came home with two pairs of practically brand new Ann Taylor suit pants for a grand total of $7. Yesterday, I had nothing much to do after I dropped Loaf off at school, so I went back.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular – just killing time. I browsed around the clothing, but didn’t really find anything. Then I went downstairs and picked up two paperback books—The Shack and A Tree Grows in Brooklyn for 25 cents each.

I was standing in line waiting to check out, when I noticed a wall of designer shoes near the registers. And on top of that wall was a pair of black pumps.

Killer black pumps.

To some, they are just shoes. But to my inner Carrie Bradshaw, they are sex and classic elegance stacked on a three-and-a-half-inch glossy black leather heel. They are feminine and powerful and hot.

I sauntered over and lifted them from that shelf, feeling their weight in my hands – a weight that only the finest made shoes have.

They were by Dolce & Gabbana.

And they were my size.

I slipped them on and strolled slowly in front of the registers.

”Those are gorgeous,” said a woman standing by the register. “You have to get them.”

I pulled them off and turned them over, expecting to find a price tag of at least $50.

Instead? $25!

SCORE!

My inner Carrie is extremely pleased.

Happy Halloween!

2009-10-31T21:58:00.001-04:00

Hope you all had a fun, safe and chocolate-filled day!

Wordless Wednesday: Getting ready for Halloween

2009-10-28T09:38:00.003-04:00

Click here for more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Well hello, blog

2009-10-28T09:26:00.002-04:00

Nice to see you? How've you been?

Anything new? (Ha! Obviously not).

Sorry for not stopping by sooner. It's been a little crazy around here, and on top of that, I've just not been in a very writer-y kind of mood lately. Hope you understand.

I do - finally - have a couple of posts brewing in my head, so I'll be back very soon.

Looking forward to catching up some more.

Kimberly

Third tri's a charm

2009-09-28T17:38:00.007-04:00

On Saturday, I completed my third sprint triathlon, but this time with a few twists:
- I was joined by two friends
- It was the Mainiac Tri all the way up in Maine
- The swim was in a 62-degree OCEAN

Now, before I go any further, I need to explain to what the ocean means to me. Its vastness and unpredictability, its swift currents and crashing waves, its odd and menacing marine life, represents a cornucopia of phobias.

It the mother of all phobias, because it is so many things wrapped into one: open water, drowning, sharks and jellyfish. Undertows, riptides that pull you out to sea and waves that knock you off your feet and crash over you with terrible force.

I have not been in the ocean past my upper thighs since I was about 10-years-old, flanked by my mom on one side and my step-father on the other, both gripping my hands and lifting me up and over each swell. Back then, the ocean was fun, but sometime after that, the joy of the ocean left and in seeped fear. It has never left.

I signed up for this tri under the promise that the waters of Biddeford Pool in Maine were fairly smooth and calm, but even so, the thought of swimming in the open ocean filled me with anxiety. For weeks, I dreamed of being swept out to sea and lost forever. I dreamed of swimming so dreadfully off course that I could no longer see land. I dreamed of waves of water pounding down on me, choking and suffocating me until I woke in my bed gripped in fear and unable to get back to sleep for hours.

So the most eventful part of this tri - for me - was the anxiety that I felt from the moment I woke up in my bed at 2:30 a.m. on Saturday until I rose from that water having completed the swim sometime after 11 a.m.

When I arrived on site with my friends Beckie and Michelle that morning, I could hear the breakers, but could not see them. My body seized and I felt instantly nauseous. Now, in reality, they were fairly mild, but still . . . breakers. There were not supposed to be breakers. The website said "calm and flat" waters. Breakers are neither calm nor flat.

I visited the water's edge several times before the race (we arrived onsite around 8:15, which was just Too. Much. Time. To. Think. And look).

The tide was going out and we were assured the waves would flatten out by the time the race started, but the buoys weren't up and it was hard to picture how far OUT we'd have to swim. How far in those waves? With a current or against it?

I stressed for hours, stomach tumbling, unable to eat. But oddly, when I slipped on my wetsuit, I felt a bit calmer. The buoys went up and most of the swim was parallel to the beach, which made me feel better for some reason. The waves did flatten out and watching each wave take off was a thrill. Beckie went in wave 3 and Michelle and I were in wave 4.

We hugged Beckie and off she went. Just minutes later it was our turn. I hugged Michelle and wished her luck and someone yelled, "GO!" and I went.

The water was freezing, but I was so focused on just getting past the (admittedly very small breakers) I didn't even notice at first. I waded out, walking as far as I could and bobbing over the swells the way I did when I was 10.

When the water was around my ribcage, I started swimming a slow easy breaststroke, just trying to acclimate to the temp. I hyperventilated a bit from the cold, but only for a minute or two. Just before the first buoy, I started freestyle swimming - the correct way. Face in water, though I did breathe every two strokes for most of the course instead of my usual three. I sighted the way I'm supposed to. The portion parallel to the beach seemed long, and I kept getting logjammed behind groups of slower swimmers, but I did pass quite a few people and soon enough I was rounding the final buoy and heading back to the beach. I kept thinking the incoming waves would work in my favor and push me toward shore faster, but if they did I didn't notice.

However, suddenly, I could see the ocean floor (OCEAN FLOOR!) and the next time I looked ahead people were standing up, so I put in two more good strokes and stood myself and ran out of the ocean (OCEAN!), cold and very winded, but also ELATED to have done something that scared me so much!

That's me in the front. You can't see my face, but I must have an ear-to-ear smile because I am just so happy in this picture.

Swim time: 11:37

NOTE: This is actually quite a bit slower than my 9:36 time from the quarter mile swim in August, but I'll take it. I swam in the OCEAN! That is bragging rights enough for me for now.

I had a really long T1. My feet were covered in sand ankle to toe and I struggled to pull my long-sleeved tech shirt on over my soaked arms and hands. This is definitely an area I need to improve.

T1: 4:32

The 14.85 bike was fairly uneventful. It was an almost entirely flat course, which is good and bad (good, because hills suck, but bad because you have to pedal constantly). I was passed a few times, but also passed several people, including a couple from the previous wave.

Start of the bike leg.

Two things of note:
1. The scenery was amazing. I found myself wishing it wasn't a race so I could stop and enjoy it more.
2. This was my fastest race pace to date - I averaged 14.07 mph - which I know isn't fast, but I am happy to see my speed improving.

Bike: 1:03:20

This was a decent T2, but there's still lots of room to improve here. I basically ran in, racked the bike, dropped my helmet, hydrated, pulled off the tech shirt, grabbed an energy gel and ran out.

T2: 1:21

The first mile of the run was sheer torture. My legs were wobbly, my sore knee was acting up and there was a hill. Plus, there was a slew of runners on the other side of the road returning from the run and I found that pretty demoralizing. When I hit the first mile marker, I felt like I'd been running for-EVER and literally shouted out, "Are you freakin' kidding me?!"

Yet, I kept running. This is the first run leg that I actually RAN the whole time. I passed three people of the male persuasion, which made me happy because all the men took off two waves ahead of me.

Again, the course was beautiful. Parts of it ran right along the ocean and that was a nice diversion. Finally, I reached a volunteer who said there was a half mile left, so I tried to pick it up a little, though admittedly, I was drained. Regardless, I set a PR (personal record) for this run, and for that, I am extremely proud and happy.

Run: 32:20

So that is that - the last tri of the season for me (though I have to admit, today I found myself looking to see if there are any tris or duathlons (run-bike-run) in NJ in October, and there are, but really, I think I'm done for this season). I feel like that was a good race to end on - I conquered a fear, set a couple of PRs on pace and got to do it with two friends.

And I have a whole set of new training goals. Only seven months until next season!

Summer's last hurrah

2009-09-22T18:37:00.004-04:00

June 2009

Peanut: Mom, remember last summer when we went to the beach, how fun that was?

Me: I do. It was very fun.

Peanut: Can we do that again this summer?

Me: Absolutely. We'll go again this summer. I promise.

September 2009

My words to my daughter have been weighing heavily on me these last few weeks because as summer '09 drew to a close, I still had not fulfilled them.

June was more or less a washout, with rain every weekend.

July had a few good weekends, but we were only free one of them. I recall that weekend in mid-July, sitting around the breakfast table on a Saturday debating whether or not to jump in the car for a quick day trip to the beach. I ultimately decided against it, opting to take them to a local outdoor swimming hole instead.

August was also chock full - a wedding, a triathlon, a road trip to Indiana and then Peanut's birthday party - and as the month drew to a close I found myself deeply regretting my promise, thankful that she did not bring it up, hopeful that she had forgotten.

September arrived and unlike previous years, it seemed the weather instantly cooled. Nothing awful, but there was a definite chill in the air, requiring a sweater during the day and an extra blanket on the bed at night.

But this past weekend was gorgeous - the kind of September weather that makes living in the Northeast so amazing. The skies were a cloudless, bright blue and the air was mild with temps in the 70s.

"This is it," I thought. "Our last chance to hit the shore."

So Sunday around 10 a.m. we piled in the car and drove just over an hour to Sandy Hook - the Jersey Shore's most northern beach. We spread out on a blanket and munched on barbecue chicken wraps, grapes and cookies. We dug in the sand. We collected shells and we even splashed (a bit) in the waves.

It was breezy, but beautiful. And I felt at ease having finally fulfilled my promise. Just. Under. The. Wire.

Happy fall '09 everyone!

You're my home*

2009-09-19T11:05:00.006-04:00

When you look into my eyes
and you see the crazy gypsy in my soul
it always comes as a surprise
when I feel my withered roots begin to grow.

Well I never had a place
that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
cuz you're my home.

When you touch my weary head
and you tell me everything will be all right.
You say, "Use my body for your bed
and my love will keep you warm throughout the night."

Well I'll never be a stranger
and I'll never be alone
wherever we're together
that's my home.

Home could be the Pennsylvania turnpike.
Indiana's early morning dew.
High up in the hills of California.
Home is just another word for you.

Well I never had a place that I could call my very own
but that's all right my love
cuz you're my home.

If I travel all my life
and I never get stop and settle down.
Long as I have you by my side
there's a roof above and good walls all around.
You're my castle, you're my cabin
and my instant pleasure dome.
I need you in my house
cuz you're my home.

Happy 10th Anniversary to my most awesome husband!

I am awed by the love we have - love that has carried us through two decades, two homes and two children. Love that is not always easy, but is always true and always present. Love that still takes my breath away, sometimes at the most unexpected moments. Love that seems as fresh and alive as it did on day one. Love that will be with us for many more years to come.

*And thanks to Billy Joel, for writing one of the most beautiful love songs ever.

A friendly reminder of why it's not nice to label people

2009-09-17T21:44:00.009-04:00

Just over 20 years ago, (<--I know) I pledged a sorority.

Over the years, I have periodically found myself having to defend that decision to people who think sororities are outdated, or elitist, or petty, or conformist. I have heard all the labels associated with “sorority girls:” Stupid. Slutty. Snobby. Superficial.

I even once had someone snidely ask me if I could not make "my own" friends and thus had to buy them.

The stereotypes are astounding and, quite frankly, an outrage. What’s more, they often come from the same people who are horrified by the use of racial or ethnic slurs. Why they feel these types of prejudices are acceptable, when others clearly aren’t, is beyond me. As we all know, stereotypes are dangerous - and based on ignorance.

So for all of those ready to level any of the above stereotypes at me, or my sisters, consider this your education.

“Diverse” is the only generalization I can truly direct at my sisters. Some of us were brainy, others struggled in school. Some of us had steady boyfriends all through college, others played the field, others barely dated at all. Some of us played sports, others couldn’t catch a ball to save our lives. Some of us partied, others hardly ever went out past midnight. We were white, black, Indian and Hispanic.

This past weekend, some recent alumni and the current sisters planned a huge reunion during our college’s annual Homecoming.

Dozens of alumni sisters attended, spanning more than 20 years of graduating classes. The college said we were the largest group to pre-register for any event at any Homecoming weekend ever. Wow.

Catching up with my sisters – many of whom I have not seen in 10, even 15 years, was a thrill. We laughed, we reminisced, we ate, we drank, we stayed up late and we reveled in each other’s company.

What’s more, the shared experience of the sorority resulted in instant bonding with the current sisters and younger alumni. I not only caught up with old friends, I made a host of new ones as well.

One of Saturday’s receptions featured a 25-minute slide show of photos through the years. I didn’t even know some of the women in the pictures, but I could not take my eyes off it. They remain the incredible group I became a part of so many years ago. Steeped in tradition, fiercely close, I have no doubt they’ll be back in 20 years – rejoicing in each other.

Sunday came too fast and I drove away from them all with a heavy heart.

Through the years, we have been there for each other through weddings and divorces. Babies and struggles with infertility. Birthday celebrations and serious illnesses.

To boil this amazing experience that I have had down to one nasty little phrase is beyond rude. So stop it, please.

Doing so insults my friends. My confidants. My partners-in-crime. My shoulders to lean on.

My sisters.

Firsts

2009-09-16T10:12:00.004-04:00

The school year has begun! Peanut started last Tuesday and Loaf went this past Monday. I'm finally sitting down and catching my breath, so here are a few pictures.

First, Peanut went of to kindergarten (!). She was extremely excited and got on the bus without any hesitation. Here are a few pictures from her big day:

At the bus stop

Getting on the bus

::sniff

Then Loaf started preschool in the "Fours" class, meaning she'll go five mornings a week! Where is the time going?!?

Outside before heading off to school

In her classroom on the first day

It's crazy to me that the summer is over and the year nearly is too. Didn't we just celebrate Christmas? And Easter? Wasn't that, like, last week?

New York City: October 2001

2009-09-11T08:29:00.003-04:00

This was originally written on October 24, 2001, weeks after the September 11 attacks and long before I even knew what a blog was.

On the evening of October 23, I paid my first visit to New York City since the September 11 attacks. I was meeting a former colleague for dinner, and my plan was to drive to Weehawken and take the Port Imperial ferry to midtown.

When the attacks first happened, I had a strong aversion to looking at the skyline even from a distance and I certainly did not want to go down to the waterfront for a closer look. But as the weeks passed, I began to feel a stronger need to see it and come to terms in my own way with what happened.

As you may know, Mark and I lived in Weehawken for three-and-a-half years. We now live in Morris County, about 30 miles west of The City.

Weehawken is a small but densely populated town located on the Hudson River directly across from New York City. It is famous for two things: It is the site where Aaron Burr fatally wounded Alexander Hamilton in an 1804 duel and it has the most spectacular panoramic view of the New York City skyline imaginable.

Weehawken begins at the banks of the Hudson River then quickly gives way to the Palisades, towering vertical rock cliffs rising dramatically over the river. Understandably, it is on these cliffs where most of the people of Weehawken choose to live. Even though Boulevard East, the road that snakes along the top of the Palisades, is clogged with traffic from dawn to dusk, people who live there have enormous picture windows that frame views of the some of New York’s most famous buildings. From the top of the Palisades, the city spreads out before you as far north as the George Washington Bridge and as far south as the Verrazano Bridge. The height of the cliffs affords you a bird’s eye view of the city, allowing you to practically look the Empire State Building in the eye.

I looked at that view nearly every day for more than three years and I never tired of it, which is why I felt a strong need to go back there to take my first close look at the skyline.

I drove as far south as possible on Boulevard East, parked and walked across the street to Hamilton Park, which overlooks New York. Even as I walked toward the edge of the park, I couldn’t look to my right toward where the World Trade Center used to stand, anchoring New York’s southern tip to the harbor.

Finally, I stopped and stood at the iron railing erected at the edge of the cliff and slowly turned to look south. The feelings of complete sadness that I felt on the morning of September 11 came rushing back like a flood.

From that vantage point, it’s obviously not what you can see. It’s what you can’t.

We all know the Towers are gone, but their absence is incredibly hard to grasp, especially for people so familiar with how they used to stand to the south like two proud sentries keeping watch on New York Harbor.

Instead, there is void so huge it feels like it can never be filled.

About a half dozen others stood farther down the path – a group of teenage boys, a young couple rocking in an embrace, a lone man in a business suit – all with eyes locked toward the south. We are all trying to comprehend.

Along the iron rail were dozens of signs, photographs and handwritten notes.

“Angela, we miss you.”

“Thank you for giving up your lives to keep us safe.”

“We love you all.”

“United We Stand.”

A colorful and splotchy mosaic of wax – the remnants of probably 100 candles – coats the ground near the Alexander Hamilton memorial, along with several American flags, numerous long-dead bouquets and black and purple ribbons tied to the railing. Poems and prayers are tacked up on the wall and someone has left behind their dusk mask, used while they were working near Ground Zero in the days following the attack.

I stared for a long time trying to force my mind to accept the new skyline and everything that it symbolizes, but it’s just too big and too awful.

After some unknown amount of time, I turned to leave. One of the teenage boys asked me if I was OK and I smiled and said yes, but my answer felt forced and false.

I returned to my car and drove down to the ferry terminal. The ride across the Hudson offered a different perspective. The view of the city changes with each foot that the ferry chugs across the river. Buildings once hidden behind others become visible. New angles reveal new sights. And still, from every angle there is that void staring back at you.

Once disembarked into the streets of Manhattan itself, the city seems almost normal. Crowds of people were rushing to get home. Streets were crammed with yellow taxis.

But there are differences. Those people rushing home aren’t just looking at the ground or in their “locked on target” tunnel vision. They make eye contact with strangers; some even smile in a desperate attempt to make contact. Both on the way in and the way home, people struck up conversations with me on the ferry, something that has never happened to me before. And most of those yellow taxis have American flags streaming from their antennas, regardless of the ethnicity of the driver behind the wheel.

And then there is the security. Of the four revolving doors in the 50-story building where I once worked, only one set can be used. People who work in the building must show a photo ID and scan an ID card in order to be able to take an elevator to their floor. Visitors must stand to the side with security officers until the person who they are visiting comes down to the lobby to retrieve them. As you can imagine, this creates a large bottle neck getting into the building.

And yet people wait patiently in that line without complaint. It is a small hardship to bear in exchange for peace of mind at work.

Dinner was nice. My friend told me her “September 11” story and I told her mine. We all have one now – where we were and what we were doing when we first heard about the attacks. She told me about the numerous bomb scares, evacuations and false alarms that have taken place in her building. Employees in the building have also worried about anthrax, since NBC is housed in the same complex.

She lowers her voice as she tells me she’s thinking of leaving her job in the city. “It’s just too much stress to deal with everyday,” she says. At the same time, she thanks me again and again for coming into the city to see her.

The night was warm and pleasant and as I made my way out of the city, I decided to sit outside on the upper deck of the ferry. The view of Ground Zero was more unsettling in the dark. Instead of just a gaping cavity, there was a bright white light emanating from the hole, put there to enable hundreds of workers to continue clearing debris throughout the night.

Lost in my own thoughts, I barely noticed the woman sitting next to me talking loudly on her cell phone. She was reassuring someone that she was on the ferry and would be home soon. When she hung up, she looked at me and said it was her seven-year-old son, who refused to go to bed anymore until she was home safely. She smiled and tried to make light of it, but her eyes drifted toward the illuminating lights at Ground Zero.

“It’s almost beautiful, that light,” she said dreamily. “It’s got a nice glow.”

I disembarked the ferry the made my way to the car, pausing one last time to turn toward the south and take one more look at the skyline before driving west toward my home. It’s nearly silent there on the New Jersey waterfront, but New York City is bustling as people do their best to go on with their everyday lives.

And so I turn, get in the car and go on with mine.

Sentimental value

2009-09-04T21:38:00.005-04:00

My daughter lost her second tooth today.

Last night while brushing her teeth, it hung at an odd angle - askew from the rest of her teeth - and I knew it would not be long. I told her, "You will lose that tooth before you go to school on Tuesday."

It fell out of her mouth - literally, with no effort from her - before breakfast this morning. She wrapped it carefully in a bright pink drawstring pouch and put it under her pillow, anxious for tonight's visit from The Tooth Fairy.

Tonight, I slipped my hand under her pillow, thankful that she sleeps like a log, and exchanged the tooth for a crisp dollar bill and a note reading, "Nice tooth! Keep brushing! Love, The Tooth Fairy." Then I retreated into the kitchen, tiny tooth in hand.

What now? I pondered.

I know from talking to my friends that there are some moms who are not so sentimental about these matters and who would have tossed the tooth into the garbage without another thought. But for better or worse, I have a hard time releasing "things" that mean something to me, or did at some point in my life. Just last night I poured through my attic in search of old college relics in preparation for an upcoming reunion and was shocked to find what I'd saved from elementary school, high school and college.

So I stood there in my kitchen rolling the small tooth in my palm, thinking.

Not so many years ago, she fought for that tooth. Always a slow teether, I recalled the weeks and weeks of drooling and chewing. The many nights of restless sleep. The cold washcloths and Ambesol given to her to bring relief until it finally broke the surface.

We stared in wonder and awe when this tooth - the bottom center, one of her two first - made its appearance. It transferred her smile from a gummy one to a toothed one. We marveled at this. Beamed about it. We ran our fingers over it's pearly top and cooed, "Such a big girl, you are."

It marked a new phase for her: More solid foods. Crawling. A sliver of independence.

When she lost her first tooth, I dropped it into a small plastic bag and placed it carefully in the back of my top drawer. It was, after all, her first lost tooth. A big one. No question there.

But does every tooth need to be saved? There is something a bit strange and perhaps even morbid, even for a sentimental sap like me, to keep a bag of teeth in my drawer for the next 18 years. I mean, to what end? To give them to her someday? I can just picture the look on her face.

"Um, gee, thanks? Mom?" followed by her promptly tossing them into the trash herself as soon as I'm out of sight.

Yet, I recall the day I found some of my own baby teeth wrapped in tissue in the back of my mom's jewelry box. I don't know how old I was, but when I found them I recall taking them out and rolling them between my fingers, fascinated by how small they were compared to my adult teeth.

I remember the mix of feelings. Horror: Oh. My. God. She saved . . . my teeth!? And love: But she saved them. Because they are mine. Because she is my mother and I'm her daughter and she wanted to hold onto them. Because she wanted to stay connected to them somehow. Because she loves me.

Even then, I was a sap.

Now, once again, this tooth and the change it brings to her smile marks a new phase: Kindergarten.

On Tuesday, she will get on a bus at the end of our driveway - alone - and go away from us to a new school with many corridors and big kids. It is a momentous step toward independence.

So with that in mind, I walked down the hall to my bedroom, and plunked this tooth, this symbol of babyhood, into the bag next to its twin. I do not know at what point I will stop saving them.

But not tonight.

Out of curiosity, what do YOU do with your children's lost teeth?

Taste the rainbow

2009-09-01T21:23:00.005-04:00

We had Peanut's sixth birthday party on Friday. Ten little girls in princess outfits.

Last year, I made an elaborate castle cake. It took two days.

When Peanut told me she wanted a princess tea party again, I cringed.

Fine, but let's talk about different cake ideas, I told her.

Some friends of mine had recently posted photos of something called a Rainbow Cake on Facebook, and it sounded relatively easy, and given I can barely find time to clip my own fingernails, easy it was!

1. Make your cake batter.

I like Arrowhead Mills Organic because there's no trans fat in it.

(Believe it or not, both Betty Crocker and Duncan Hines mixes contain partially hydrogenated oils. Why these things need to be in a dry cake mix, I have no idea, but they are and they're HORRIBLE for you. It's worth it to pay the extra for organic, or if you're even more ambitious, make your mix from scratch).

I used two boxes of cake mix for this cake.

2. Divide the batter, a cup at a time, into however many colors you want your "rainbow" cake to be. I used six. Put a little extra in the first and last colors - maybe a quarter cup or so.

Then use food coloring to dye each bowl a different color.

3. Scoop the batter, a cup at a time, into the pans.

OK, here's the slightly tricky part. Use a one-cup measuring cup and scoop out a goodly amount from the first bowl. Pour it directly in the center of your cake pan. Because this is the first color and has to "spread" the most, add about a quarter cup more.

Rinse the measuring cup and do the same thing for each color, pouring each new color on top of the previous ones in concentric circles like this:

4. Bake per directions.

The two layers, about to go into the oven.

As you can see, I did the second layer in reverse order (purple on the outside and red in the center, but that's up to you).

(Mark called it a "Willy Wonka Cake." I think he's not far off.)

5. Let cake cool.

Finished cakes. I had a teeny bit of extra batter, so I did two cupcakes too.

6. Frost or decorate.

I used light blue icing (like the sky), colored sugar in rings and mini (all natural) marshmallows for clouds. The little birds are candle holders Mark had when he was a babe. Cute, aren't they?

7. Enjoy!

Birthday girl blowing out the candles:

Inside of the cake once sliced. Groovy, dude!

And staring as "The Joker" . . . .

2009-08-26T08:40:00.002-04:00

. . . in the next Batman film. My daughter:

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From 6 pounds to 6 years in about 66 seconds

2009-08-17T21:55:00.004-04:00

My daughter turns 6 today. Despite me strictly forbidding her to do so, she growing up.

Fast.

* * *

It was only yesterday or so it seems, that you were born. A small, red wrinkled thing that cried a lot and never wanted to be put down.

The weeks after we first brought you home were difficult. I had read numerous baby-care books cover-to-cover but none had prepared me for the physical, mental and emotional toil known as motherhood.

The moment I laid eyes on you, I was completely in love. It was so overwhelming and unexpected. I never dreamed such a thing could be possible. Though I had loved, intensely, for many years, I had no idea my heart was capable of even more. So much more. Limitless, boundless love. Love that I know I would lay down my life to protect without a second thought.

August 17, 2003

I remember in the beginning counting your age first in days, then weeks, then eventually months. Even after your first birthday, you were “15-months-old” or “21-months-old.”

October 2004

Years didn’t really seem to matter. Years were a far-off milestone. Distant. Too far away to worry about.

Until you were two.

And then you started to do all kinds of amazing things: go down the slide all alone and go to school and get dressed by yourself.

February 2006

Years, oddly, seemed to pass even more rapidly than months. Suddenly, you were three.

July 2006

Then four.

September 2007

Now, six years later – you are so very, very different from that crying, red, wrinkled baby we brought home from the hospital. You are a girl who writes her name and reads. Who loves horses and dolls. Who plays nicely with your sister (most of the time). A girl who likes to help me weed the garden and can name most of the plants in it. A girl who knows what partially-hyrdogenated oil is and asks if something has trans fat in it before eating it.

You, my love, are a full-fledged big girl. You are:

A silly girl . . .

May 2008

A happy girl . . .

August 2009

A clever girl . . .

June 2009

A beauty . . .

August 2009

There are moments when I look at you and I still see the baby you were six years ago today. It is often a fleeting thing, like the flash of a firefly. Sometimes I’m not even sure I’ve seen it. Most times, I’ve probably only wished I did.

When I do, it is both a gift and a hardship: A gift to view such a clear path to the past. A hardship to know it is gone.

I need to remind myself that you still have a long way to go. Your small feet still slide and clunk around when you play dress up with my shoes. You still need to stand on a step stool to brush your teeth and you still have trouble buckling your own booster seat sometimes.

But soon, before I know it, six more years will have gone by and you’ll be 12, then 18, then 24. And while I have no doubt that each passing year will bring new joys and experiences to treasure, a piece of me will always long, always pine, always yearn for the baby you once were.

Just yesterday.

August 17, 2009

Happy birthday, baby girl!

The second tri around

2009-08-16T21:09:00.008-04:00

Today I finished my second triathlon and one thing I learned is that triathlons are a lot like having babies:
• With the first one, you plan and prepare and make lists and pack and repack all your carefully selected gear about 100 times waiting for the big day. With the second, you throw your stuff in a bag the night before and hope you didn’t forget anything.
• With the first one, you are a nervous wreck. You question every decision. You fret about every little detail. You worry obsessively about what to wear. With the second? You just show up and with a “whatever will be, will be attitude.”
• With the first one, you take a lot of pictures. With the second, you forget your camera so you snap a couple of gratuitous pictures at home when it’s over (see below).

But another thing, second tris are a LOT MORE FUN!

This one was nice because it was literally five minutes from our house. It was also all women, which was a very different experience.

We left here at about 6:36 a.m., and arrived at the park a few minutes later, parked, unloaded and walked about ½ mile down the hill (one I’d bike back up soon enough) to the transition area.

There were about 450 women in today’s race and it seemed like 447 of them were already there. It was PACKED.

Somehow, there was still space on the bar for my bike, so I racked it, did a bit of set up (literally less than five minutes – I think I set and reset my area 10 times for the first one) and then went down to the beach to get body marked, which I still think is the coolest thing ever.

Then I found the bathroom and went back up to transition to grab my stuff for the swim and I JUST made it. They were closing transition in two minutes. Can you imagine? No goggles, wetsuit or swim cap? I would have been screwed. Next time I won’t cut it so close.

I went down to the beach for the pre-race meeting where they reviewed the course and all the safety regulations. I also took the opportunity to slip into the water for a practice swim, which was a really good idea since it helped work out some of the jitters. Half the lake was still in the shade and the water was – I do not exaggerate – pitch black. It was a little freaky, so I’m glad I took that practice swim.

It was also VERY mucky. The bottom had about 5 inches of sludge on it and when I climbed out, I had tons of seaweed wrapped around me and sticking to my arms. Say it with me people: EWWW!

Swim

This was a very small lake – little more than a pond, really. The course was shaped like an “M” just to eek out a measly quarter mile.

A photo I took of the lake a couple of weeks ago on one of my training runs. It was especially muddy this day due to a huge thunderstorm the day before, but it was still pretty icky.

A few minutes later, the first wave took off. Wow, were they fast. The first woman was out of the water in just over 5 minutes. Impressive.

I was in wave 3 so 10 minutes later, I was off. I waded in toward the back of the pack and breaststroked for the first few strokes for better visibility of the women around me, but I switched to the crawl fairly quickly and – LO AND BEHOLD - I started passing people. I probably passed about 10 women on the first long side of the “M”. Around the first buoy, I passed a few more.

(I also have to say that at this point I swam through a GIGNORMOUS octopus of floating seaweed that tangled around my face and arms and legs as I passed through it. So. Gross.)

On the other side of the M, I started passing women from the previous wave! I was shocked.

Visibility when swimming toward the beach was really tough –the sun was shining directly at us and I couldn’t see that well, but could see the swim caps of other racers in front of me. Swimming back toward shore on the final leg, I thought I passed the last buoy and thought, “No, way, too soon,” but within two strokes my hand hit sand at the bottom. I WAS DONE!

I looked back and there were still an awful lot of light blue swim caps (my wave) in the water. I was so surprised!

SWIM TIME: 10:36

T1
I ran up the beach and then up a steep cement path to transition, pulled off the wetsuit, chugged some Gatorade, pulled on shoes and my helmet and left.

T1 TIME: 4:32

Bike

This was the part I was dreading. It was only 10 miles, half the distance of my first race, but I cannot emphasize enough how hilly this course was. I heard three tri veterans saying it was the most difficult sprint course they’d ever ridden.

Start of the hill coming out of transition. It keeps going, and gets steeper.

The same hill farther up. Still not the worst of it. And there are four other challenging hills after this one.

The course was two loops through a park, so you got to do some of the tougher hills not just once, but twice. YAY. (Not.) I was very glad to have had the advantage of practicing it a few times. It didn’t necessarily make it easier, but I knew what to expect. I knew where the hills were – and most importantly – how long they were. I also knew I COULD do them.

There were a lot of women walking their bikes up the hills, but I never got off the bike. I pedaled slow but steady. Even if I was only going three mph, I was determined to ride every hill. And I did!

I also rocked the downhills – leaving my fear behind and just letting loose. I passed so many people on the downs. The two loops went by quickly and before I knew it, I was making the turn back to transition.

BIKE TIME: 1:02:50

T2

Mark and the girls came running up and he asked me how I was feeling and I said, “I feel great!” And I did. My legs were a bit wobbly from the hills, but overall, I genuinely felt great. Another surprise.

I pulled off my bike gear and chugged some more Gatorade. Because it was going to be so hot, I had packed a Ziploc bag full of ice in a small cool pack and dumped a handful down the front and back of my shirt. AH! It definitely helped.

I turned and ran off.

T2 TIME: 2:02

Run

OK, so I’ve decided the run is my new nemesis. I’ve gotten passably OK at the swim; running is where I’m still challenged.

And the run course was also not easy. It was a wooded trail run. It was in the shade, which was a blessing since the temps were near 90, but the trail was loaded – and I mean LOADED – with roots and rocks. There were large swaths of the run where I never felt my foot land squarely on solid ground.

I rolled my right ankle about 5 minutes into it and had to walk for a bit to shake it off. My arches, calves and ankles were killing me (as I sit here writing this several hours later – they still hurt. Aleve is my friend today.)

But I kept going, running as much and as fast I could on the terrain. The first half had a slight uphill grade. Nothing too bad, but it made navigation of the rocks and roots all the more challenging.

On the flip side, the second half had a nice downhill grade. Again, nothing too steep, but I had a really good groove going. I passed a ton of women –many walking, but some running too.

As I passed two women, one yelled out, “YOU GO GIRL, YOU ARE FLYING.”

I turned back – just slightly to yell back, “THANK YOU!” and taking my eye off the trail for just that fraction of a second was a big mistake because the next thing I knew, I was flying through the air. I landed on my stomach and skid across rough rocks and gravel for a few inches tearing a hole in the palm of my hand and scraping a goodly amount of skin off my elbow and knee.

This is what I get for being polite. Thank you, my ass. Next time: NO THANK YOUS!

The women behind me gasped and came running over, but I was already up. “I’m alright, I’m alright,” I assured and took off running again. The lens to my sunglasses popped out and I didn’t dare look at them to fix it, so I just carried them – frames in one hand, broken lens in the other.

I came out of the woods and there was a nice crowd of cheering people, but most of them just looked horrified by the blood dripping down my arm. I still had a lap around the lake. My arm and leg were aching, but I did my best and tried to give it a little more gusto.

I rounded the last turn – saw the finish and booked it – passing someone one final time in the ropes.

RUN TIME: 34:59

One of my boo-boos, as the girls call it

I feel pretty darn good about it. The bike could have been faster (I was passed so many, many times on the bike), but given the difficulty of the course, I am pleased overall.

Medal

I loved the all-women race too. The other competitors were friendly, helpful and encouraging. Not that these women weren’t competitive. There were some amazingly buff, lean-and-mean, giving it everything they had types. The winner finished in 1:11:02. It just had a different feel from the co-ed race I did in May.

So next up? The weekend of September 26, either here in NJ or up in Maine with a college friend. Looking forward to it already!

Peek . . .

2009-08-12T21:15:00.002-04:00

. . . a Boo!

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The one where my daughter fails to use her inside voice

2009-08-03T21:32:00.005-04:00

Scene: Target, Sunday afternoon.

We are there for two things:
1. To pick up a prescription and
2. To buy me a new bra

We have just visited the ladies room, because for some unknown reason the interior of Target seems to put my daughters' bladders into hyperdrive. I do not know why liquid passes through their body at a greater rate of speed in Target than anywhere else, but even the shortest of Target trips always require at least two potty stops, and one of them always comes when we are as far as humanly possible from the restrooms.

So I've learned--after nearly six years--to make a pit stop immediately upon entering the store.

We are just walking down the main aisle leading straight into the store from the main entrance when I say, quietly to Peanut, "I need to get a new bra."

And she says, at the absolute TOP of her lungs, "I'LL HELP YOU MOMMY! WHAT SIZE ARE YOUR BREASTS?"

I stop the cart and look up. Two teenage girls are standing at the side of the aisle. They are clearly horrified. Their mouths are hanging open and they are staring at me. Moments later, they turn and begin to laugh. Loudly.

On the other side of the aisle is a man in his 30s. Looking. Directly. At. My. Boobs.

Now I suppose, on some level, he really can't be blamed. We all know that men have a certain - um - fondness for them and we also know that their functions are not really so much ruled by the brain on their head as they are the head between their legs, but still. STILL. I mean the guy was practically drooling. A little dignity, please, because that, my friend, is not going to get you any where with any woman any time ever. PERIOD.

Peanut, by this time, has already reached the bra section and is riffling through an end-cap display of lacy black bras. "WHICH ONE, MOMMY? WHICH ONE? THESE SAY 'D'? IS THIS THE ONE?"

Drool-man looks like he is going to pass out any minute from all the excitement. I shoot him a dirty look, which finally seems to snap him back to the reality where I am a forty-year-old mother of two in Target on Sunday afternoon and not some stripper winding herself around a pole. He turns quickly and disappears into the ladies' clothing section (let's not even go there, OK?)

Peanut is standing in the aisle, holding a HUGE black lace bra up to chest and prancing.

"I LIKE THIS ONE!" she is shouting.

I can hear the teenage girls behind me howling with laughter. If nothing else, I feel assured that I have helped prevent two teen pregnancies with this trip. I'm a glass-half-full kinda girl, after all, and have to find the bright side somewhere in this.

I approach her. The bra she is holding up is a double D.

"Not this one," I tell her. "Smaller. B. We need one with a B on it. And not these - something a little less . . . fancy."

We search the aisles - her pulling every bright pink, loud patterned, adorned with 8-pounds of lace style she can find off the displays and me searching quietly for a basic, flesh toned, not overly padded, comfortable-looking bra. I finally find one, which I toss in the cart.

(And I need to say that at this point, though it's probably been no more than 10 minutes, Loaf announces that she needs to use the bathroom. Seriously?!? Is there some type of diuretic in the air in there?! So off we go - again - to the restrooms.)

We exit the restroom, hit the pharmacy, pick up the prescription and go to the other registers to pay for the bra, which I could have paid for in the pharmacy, but I completely forgot about.

I hand the clerk the bra and Peanut leans over the conveyor.

"IT'S A B," she states boldly. "I HELPED HER PICK IT OUT."

Standing behind me is another horrified teenage girl - eyes wide with shock, mouth hanging open and face flushing red. Score! One more teen pregnancy prevented.

Mission accomplished, in all ways, we leave the store.

Diagnosis

2009-08-02T17:25:00.002-04:00

I don't want to speak for all parents, so I'll just speak for myself: I spend a fair amount of time Monday-morning quarterbacking my parenting decisions and actions. There's a good deal of analyzing, replaying, retracing, judging and criticizing going on.

The care and nurturing of these tiny beings from infanthood to adulthood is a sticky process fraught with peril. One wrong move (so the adage goes) and our offspring will spend several decades and thousands of dollars propped up in some shrink's office telling him or her how all their woes are mom or dad's fault.

I'm not sure I actually buy in to that. I think every child is different. I know some adults who went through some pretty heavy shit growing up who are just fine (more or less) today. I also know a few who had more or less idyllic childhoods and are totally dysfunctional. So you never know.

But the part I am beating myself up the most about these days is in my role of protector.

They are still so young. And with youth comes a respectable level of fearlessness. I remember it myself. Jumping out of trees, riding bikes top-speed down steep hills (without a helmet, mind you), walking on a frozen pond with no thought whatsoever as to whether the ice was safe or not.

I like to think I do my best to protect them, knowing that they are not always going to do this themselves.

Protection extends beyond the extreme, of course. It's not just about jumping out of trees and steering clear of thin ice. It's also about the basics: Wash your hands before you eat. Don't tip back in your chair at the dinner table. After playing outside, let us check you for ticks.

We live in a rural area. Our yard is surrounded on two sides by woods. We have deer – lots of them – leaping through those woods, along with a host of other wildlife. I know probably a half dozen people here in town who have had Lyme disease, and probably a dozen more from the surrounding area.

When we moved here, we attended a seminar held at the local high school about Lyme disease. Finding the tick early is key, I learned. They need to be attached for at least 24 hours to transmit the disease, so one of the best ways to prevent it is to do regular and thorough checks after being outside.

I know the risks.

And yet, sometime in early June, after a day of playing outside, I stripped off Loaf's clothing, pulled a nightgown over her head and sent her to bed. The next day, I handed clean clothes to her and she dressed herself.

Later than night while preparing her for a bath, I noticed something on her back. A tiny black something. Not much bigger than a freckle. Unsure if it was dirt or lint, I gently brushed it with my finger tip, but it did not budge.

I looked closer.

Six tiny legs wiggled from the engorged body of a tick. A deer tick. A fully embedded one. The head was all the way in her back, meaning it had probably been there a while.

We gently removed it and I plopped it into a plastic bag telling myself it was wise to save it incase it needed to be tested later. (But it won't, right? A relatively small percentage of ticks carry Lyme, so the chances of this ONE being a carrier is small, right?)

A couple of days later we had dinner with our neighbors and he told the story of a recent tick buried in his side that he had tested and that came back positive for Lyme. I told him Loaf's story and he encouraged me to send it off to the lab for testing, just for peace of mind.

Twenty bucks and a few days later, we got the result: THIS TICK IS A POSITIVE CARRIER OF LYME DISEASE. CONSULT YOUR PHYSICIAN.

So we did, of course, but like many things, we were in a waiting game to see if she developed the rash, or other symptoms. And she was fine. Each day passed without any suspicious symptoms whatsoever.

Until this week when she woke up one morning complaining of leg pain. An examination and blood test confirmed it: Lyme disease.

The good news is, though she will be on antibiotics for most of August, she is expected to be 100%, totally fine. Her prognosis is good.

But my Monday-morning quarterbacking is still in diagnosis mode. And it says: Why didn’t you check her that night? How did you LET this happen?

And I suppose that’s a good thing. This way, hopefully, it won’t happen again.

A lesson in priorities

2009-07-29T20:34:00.004-04:00

My daughter won’t go to sleep. She tosses and turns. She sits up and reaches for a stuffed animal on the floor. She stretches her leg perpendicular to the bed and counts her toes. She sighs deeply.

This is all very annoying to me, because this is Loaf, my sleep-challenged child. She has asked me to sit here with her tonight until she drifts off, and while I don’t always indulge her, I want to just sit and read my book anyway, so I might as well sit in her room.

But still.

It’s after 9 p.m. and at some point I have to get up and start pulling together things for work tomorrow. I need her to go to sleep.

I am at the foot of her bed, propped up with my feet directed toward her pillows.

She flops over, sings the alphabet, then flops back to the other side.

She is looking at me. I pretend not to notice thinking, foolishly I know, that ignoring her will make her settle down.

She sits up, pitches forward and grabs my arm.

“I want to kiss you, Mom.”

I lean forward and she plants a soft kiss on my forehead. She is thrilled with herself. She hurls herself back onto her pillow.

“That was very nice, Loaf, but now its bedtime. Please go to sleep.”

“OK.”

I read less than two pages when she rolls onto her side, embraces my lower legs and kisses one of my shins.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Loaf. Now please go to bed.”

“OK.”

Instead of reading, I eyeball her over the top of my book. She is looking at the ceiling. She lifts her arm and makes delicate fluttery motions with her fingers, fascinated with the long shadows they make on the wall. She sees me watching her and smiles.

Not just any smile, but one of those ear-to-ear, filled-with-love, glowing from within smiles that makes my breath catch in my lungs.

I can’t help it. I smile back.

I sit forward and lean over her. She wraps her little arms tightly around my neck and I kiss her. She kisses back with a loud, wet smacking sound.

We repeat the kissing a couple more times. She smiles even more widely than before.

“OK, I’m ready to go to sleep now.” She lays back, closes her eyes and within minutes is sleeping.

I sat there, on her bed, for a while longer reading my book at times, but also just watching her – the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The rosebud mouth. The wild tangle of curls. A look of utter peace on her face.

These quiet moments are so rare.

I didn't get everything pulled together for work as I'd hoped and ended up running around pulling things together at the last minute. But I wouldn't trade that time in her room for anything. I believe I spent my time doing something much more worthwhile.

No pictures, please!

2009-07-22T17:47:00.003-04:00

Loaf often does not like her picture taken.

When the camera comes out, she has been known to hide, run, cover her face or turn her head away.

In most cases, I respect that and simply walk away. It's not worth it to me to torture her, and you don't end up getting a good picture in those situations any way.

Peanut, however, lives by her own rules. And one of those rules appears to be: Torture sister whenever possible:

When is zero not really zero? When it describes your food.

2009-07-15T21:44:00.013-04:00

I’m going to just say this: I’m a bit anal when it comes to my food.

I’m not perfect, but I make a real effort to eat healthy. My husband does too. We do it for ourselves but more importantly, we do it for our children.

Mark has a relatively blemish-free family medical history (you may recall that his grandfather lived to be 103.)

Mine however, reads like the warning label on a pack of cigarettes (unfiltered ones at that):
• Cancer
• Diabetes
• High blood pressure
• Heart attack

As a result of my wonderful genetics, I have high cholesterol.

How high is it?

High. 'Nuff said.

It is why I don’t’ “just “ exercise: I do triathlons. It is why I watch what I eat. It is why, most especially, I avoid trans fat like the plague.

You see, trans fat is the worst kind of fat to eat because it:
• Increases “bad” LDL cholesterol
• Decreases “good” HDL cholesterol
• Causes heart disease and stroke
• Contributes to diabetes and obesity

It negatively impacts your health even when eaten in small amounts. According to the Harvard School of Public Health, adding just 4 grams of trans fat to your diet each day—which represents just 2% of your daily calories in a 2,000-calorie diet—increases your risk of heart disease by 23%!

As a result, the American Heart Association recommends that the average person eat less than 2 grams of trans fat each day. However, it goes on to note that there is enough naturally occurring trans fat in some meat and dairy products that most people reach the maximum 2 grams without the additional consumption of the man-made trans fat found in many popular foods.

There’s no question about it: Trans fats are horrible for you. Even if your cholesterol is 78, like my husbands (OK, maybe it isn’t that low, but it is LOW), you still shouldn’t be eating them.

Avoiding trans fat should be easy, right? Just look at the handy-dandy nutrition panel on the packaging of any food product and find the row devoted to trans fats. If it reads “0g” then you’re good to go, right?

WRONG.

A few years ago the FDA, that ~~fantastic~~ government agency put in place to ~~cater to food industry lobbyists~~ protect consumers, established some guidelines for food companies to follow when listing the trans fat content of their food on the nutrition panel.

Are you ready for this?

So long as a food has less than 0.5 grams of trans fat per serving, it can list the trans fat content as ZERO on the nutrition panel.

Huh?

The problem with this is clear:

First, companies identify unreasonably small serving sizes for their products. The serving size for Fruit Loops is one cup, but the average bowl easily holds more than that.

Second, there are tons and tons of foods on the market with ‘trace amounts’ (under 0.5 grams per serving) of trans fats. Just look at these pictures. The nutrition panel on ALL of these foods claim zero trans fat, but they all have trans fat in them*:

So, let’s say you have a bowl of Fruit Loops for breakfast. At lunch, maybe you have a handful of Baked Doritos. Later in the day, you’re hungry, so you grab a Quaker granola bar. After dinner, you have a couple of Whole Wheat Fig Newtons (because hey! Whole wheat is healthy, right?) Later watching TV, you have a couple of crackers (Ritz, Saltines, or maybe even Wheatsworth) with a little Skippy peanut butter slathered on them.

Since all of those products have trans fat, you’ve just EASILY exceeded the 2 daily grams that the AHA recommends. In fact, you’ve probably consumed at least six, and maybe more, grams of trans fat.

And you didn’t even know it.

So how can you tell if a product has trans fat? You have to look beyond the nutrition panel and study the list of ingredients.

If anywhere in the ingredient list you see the words “partially hydrogenated,” “hydrogenated vegetable oil,” and/or “shortening,” then the product has trans fat.

The thing that particularly galls me about this is that many foods print “0g Trans Fat!” right on the front of their packaging in big, bold letters:

And we wonder why American's are 1. so confused about food and 2. so unhealthy.

These labels are there to deceive you by saying, “WOW! Aren’t we just the best? We are so healthy and responsible,” when in reality, they’ve probably tweaked their serving size just enough so it contains under 0.5 grams. It’s sneaky. And it sucks. And our government allows it, probably because enough food industry lobbyists greased the pockets of enough people in the FDA.

But you know who pays the ultimate price? People who eat this garbage, thinking they’re doing the right thing when in reality they are seriously damaging their health.

*This food is not from our pantry. Rather, Mark purchased it to use as a prop for a Toastmasters speech he recently delivered on this very topic. All of it was returned, unopened, to the supermarket following the speech.

Lazy, hazy days

2009-07-14T21:06:00.004-04:00

My favorite season is fall, but summer runs a close second. Summer arrives and seems to say, “Hey, pull up a chair. Put your feet up. Thirsty? Have some lemonade. Eat an ice cream cone. Take a swim. Chill.”

And now that we’re past June, which was the most dismal, dreary, rainy June I can ever remember, we’ve been doing just that.

Summer seems to have a more leisurely pace than other seasons, and I say that even though I know nearly every weekend between now and mid-September is booked with some event or another.

Aside from that, we’re soaking up the summer as much as possible. We sit by the pond and watch the frogs sun themselves. We eat our lunch on a blanket in the backyard. We swim. In a matter of days, we’ll be filling buckets with wild raspberries.

Last night, we ventured into the yard to marvel at and chase fireflies. The girls ran through the nearly dark yard, arms outstretched until they closed around a firefly. They’d cup the tiny insect in their hands and peek in, watching the neon flash-flash-flash for a few seconds until they had their fill, then they’d release it into the dark.

Sometimes the bug would slip through their fingers and escape before they could steal a peek at it.

My baby, Peanut, is on the cusp of turning six. She’s lost a tooth and is entering kindergarten in a matter of weeks.

Loaf is becoming more independent by the day. She pushes my hands away repeatedly, declaring, “I can do it myself.”

There are probably only a few summers left of backyard picnics, chalk drawings on the front walkway, bubble-blowing contests and chasing fireflies through the yard.

And after that? Who knows? They will have new activities and interests that don’t involve me.

So excuse me if my blog is a bit neglected these days. I’m running, hands outstretched to see what I can catch. And hoping to get my fill of it before it slips away.

A new day

2009-07-07T21:27:00.004-04:00

Today had some rough spots, or more accurately, one really big rough spot.

Peanut is in camp from 9 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. and while she LOVES it, it tires her out. Despite that, I promised Loaf we'd go to the playground this afternoon so around 4 p.m., I packed them up and off we went.

Big. Mistake. Kimberly.

Things got off on the wrong foot immediately when Peanut learned we were going to the "small" rather than the "big" park. She grumbled and complained, so I told her we'd go to the "big" park tomorrow, but that I'd already promised Loaf a visit to the "small" park today.

She whined all the way there - which was all of five minutes, but might as well have been five HOURS from my perspective. Whining is one of those things that drives me completely insane.

Things did not improve much when we got the park. She continued to whine. She refused to come to me. She stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest when I spoke to her. And worse of all, she was being mean to Loaf - chasing her and threatening to push her down. Now, I need to say, this is highly uncharacteristic of Peanut. She and Loaf usually play beautifully together, so I know she was acting out of pure exhaustion.

But regardless, we had to leave after only half an hour.

When we got home, I sent her straight to her room telling her to stay there until she was feeling more in control. She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling. I started dinner and about 20 minutes later, she peeked her head out of her room - smiling. My usual good-natured Peanut was back.

After dinner, we sat on her bed reading from a vintage Sesame Street book. She leaned against me, hand resting lightly on my arm. I kissed the top of her head and watched as her eyelids drooped, then finally closed for good.

I lay her back gently on her pillow and brushed the hair off of her forehead. Her cheeks were pink and there was just a hint of a smile on her lips. She looked like an angel.

"Good night," I cooed to her. "Tomorrow we start fresh."

She sighed deeply-peacefully-in her sleep, as if to agree.

Always a thriller

2009-07-07T13:43:00.004-04:00

Last week, hundreds of people gathered at Discovery Green in Houston to learn the dance moves to Thriller. I would have loved to have been there.

There is no debating that Michael Jackson was troubled. However, there's also no debate that he was insanely talented and that he will continue to inspire and motivate generations to come.

R.I.P., Michael.

Wordless Wednesday: Feeling the void

2009-07-01T11:30:00.003-04:00

One of our cats, Janey, was killed by a car yesterday. It hit hard for a number of reasons, but most of all because I never saw her go near the road. She usually just sat on the front step or in the garden, soaking up rays or rolling in the driveway.

We didn't have her very long - only 15 months - but she had become an important part of our family.

She was a sweet, gentle, calm cat. She liked to play with elastic hair bands, drink from the bathroom faucet and while she wasn't much of a lap cat, she was very social. She would follow you from rooom to room, run up to meowing when she saw you, and sit close by.

She will be missed.

Click here for more Wordless Wednesday posts.

Lost tooth lost then found

2009-06-29T21:36:00.003-04:00

Peanut lost her first tooth today.

::sniff::

Her loss of the tooth was followed by much drama when she actually did LOSE the tooth in the backseat of the van. I spent a good 30 minutes out there tonight carefully combing the floor mats with my fingertips thinking how ridiculously gross and weird it was to be looking for a TOOTH on the floor of the family car.

I found it under her booster seat and the Tooth Fairy is planning to swing by the homestead later tonight to make the drop.

Look how cute and proud she is:

Rub the bible and get three wishes

2009-06-28T19:27:00.004-04:00

Scene: Sitting on the couch last night.

Loaf: Do you believe in God?

Me: I do.

Loaf: Does he live in New Jersey?

Me: Um. No. Definitely not. He is in heaven.

Loaf: Is that in the sky?

Me: Yes.

Loaf: Can he see me?

Me: Yes, he can.

Loaf: Can he see my bones?

Me: Yes, he can see your bones.

Loaf: Can he see me if I hide under the chair?

Me: Yes, even then. He can see you anytime.

Loaf. Oh. ::pausing:: Can he see if I don't eat my dinner?

Me: ::trying not to laugh::Yes.

Loaf: Can he help me find my lost dinosaur?

Me: It doesn't really work like that. I'll help you find it.

Loaf: Is he magic?

Me: Well, not exactly. He can conduct miracles though. He is all powerful.

Loaf: ::pausing to consider this:: Kind of like the genie in Aladdin?

Oy. OK. I get it. Time to focus on some sort of serious religious education. Which is going to fall entirely on me.

Awesome.

Like I don't have enough to worry about.

Just call us Typhoid Mary (and Mark)

2009-06-26T14:38:00.007-04:00

This has been a bad week.

When Mark picked me up from the airport on Saturday night, he was sick. So sick, that on Friday he actually passed out at a friends’ house shortly before puking all over their bathroom.

Fortunately, they are very, VERY good friends and not only took care of Mark by driving him home, they also stayed and put the girls to bed so he could rest.

When he picked me up on Saturday, he was pale and weak. Mark never gets sick, so I knew it had to be bad.

By Sunday, he was feeling a bit better. We actually had pizza for dinner and then a little nookie, because after all, it had been a while. I missed him while I was in California. And he was feeling better, so I figured I was safe.

Big mistake! By Monday night, I was feeling queasy. I didn’t eat dinner. I went to bed with stomach cramps and chills. By Tuesday afternoon, I had a fever of nearly 103, chills, aches, a headache, nausea and I was unbelievably tired. I napped on an off all day.

Mark took care of the girls. He was still tired, but feeling better.

Until Wednesday when he came down with a fever. And chills. And aches.

Since then, we’ve spent the majority of our days in a prone position either on the couch or in bed. We’ve tagged teamed with childcare. Last night, his fever was 104. ← Not a typo.

Our house. Ugh. You probably don’t want to know. Half-filled glasses of water everywhere. Unmade beds. Toys that haven’t been picked up since Tuesday night. Dishes piled up by the sink. Blankets and sheets and pillows all over the living room. Floors unswept.

And of course, this has been one of the nicest, non-rainiest weeks we’ve had all summer. And we’ve been trapped indoors more or less the whole time.

My poor, poor kids.

They’ve played more computer games and watched more movies than, well, probably ever. They’ve been read to and played with less than ever before. They’ve had very little outside time – no bike riding or trips to the park.

On the very, very, very high upside, they also (so far) show no signs of getting sick themselves.

:::knocking furiously on the wooden table at which I’m sitting:::

Please send good thoughts that they stay well, because no child should have to feel as bad as we’ve felt this week. In fact, I can’t possibly see how they’d get through this without a visit to the ER. It’s been that bad.

Today, I’m feeling a bit better. Less achy and only a slight upset stomach. I’ve started reintroducing food (very bland food, but still, food -my first in days) with fair results.

Mark’s fever this morning was still over 103.

I don’t know if this is all related to the illness Mark came down with last Friday, or if I brought something more ominous home with me from the plane. Whatever it is, I’ll be glad when it’s out of our home for good. The first thing I'm going to do is take my kids to the park.

And if that goes well, I'm going out for a cheeseburger.

I left my blog in San Francisco

2009-06-22T19:34:00.003-04:00

Or something like that.

Last week, I went to visit my "little" (26-year-old) brother and his girlfriend in San Francisco. My mom and step-father were also there.

We had a great time and crammed so much into the trip.

Tuesday, after I landed, we had lunch in Sausalito, then went to Muir Woods and Muir Beach. At Muir Beach, we hiked way up onto the bluffs, which offered an incredible view of the coast:

Wednesday, we drove up to Truckee, CA, an old western, gold-rush town with lots of cute shops. Then we went sight-seeing around Lake Tahoe, which is one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen:

Thursday, we explored San Francisco. We went to Lombard Street ("America's Crookedest Street"):

We also went up to Telegraph Hill and then downtown to Market Street, where we grabbed a cable car ride across town. We also explored the shops in Haight-Ashbury.

Friday, we went to the Japanese Gardens in Golden Gate Park, saw a bit more of Haight-Ashbury, and went to Fisherman's Wharf, were we saw the famous sea lions of Pier 39:

Then we grabbed a ferry to Alcatraz:

Alcatraz also had some spectacular views of the city and bridges:

Saturday, I flew home to my husband and kids, who I missed terribly! Next time, they must come with me.

* * *

Oh, and I also celebrated a milestone birthday. On the 15th, I turned 30, 35, 40.

I know.

Mark threw me a surprise party on the 13th, which was a blast. A great group of friends and family came by to celebrate with me. I was so honored and excited and genuinely surprised because typically my husband, God bless him, can't plan more than four hours ahead. So kudos to him.

All in all, life's been busy, but good.

And now that my blog is back from San Francisco (or whatever), I be back making regular entries.

What's been new with you? Did I miss anything?

Terror at Target

2009-06-13T21:24:00.001-04:00

Wednesday afternoon, I took the girls to see Pixar’s Up and we all loved it. I highly recommend it.

Peanut wanted to bring Blanket to the movie.

I hemmed and hawed about it. Blanket has been with us since Peanut was an infant. We’ve had a long-standing policy that if Blanket comes with us on an errand, she (Blanket is definitely a she and Peanut is highly insulted if you suggest otherwise) must stay in the car.

But over the last few months, Blanket has been slowly fading in importance to Peanut. Many a night I find it crumpled in a corner of the living room hours after she’s gone to bed. Once it spent an entire weekend in the van. When I change Peanut’s sheets, I often find it shoved deep down in the bed, apparently no longer sought in the night for comfort.

So I decided to let her take it to the movie. Blanket’s sinking social status is just one more reminder to me that my sweet baby girl is slipping away from me – growing up more and more each day.

Throughout the film, I’d occasionally glance over to see Peanut holding Blanket up to her face and I’d smile, happy again to see Blanket loved and needed. When we left, I checked three times to make sure we had it. I checked again when we were in the van.

Then we went to Target.

We made our way slowly through the store, lingering in spots and hurrying in others. When I shopped, the girls poked around nearby.

We finished, paid, loaded up the car and drove home.

Well, almost home.

Target is about 25 minutes from my house and with just 8 minutes to go, Peanut spoke up from the back seat.

“Mom,” she said quietly. “I don’t have Blanket.”

It’s a good thing we were at a red light, because I turned my head practically all the way around. It was nearly a scene from The Exorcist.

“What?” I said. “You what?”

“I don’t have Blanket.”

I pulled the car over and did a thorough search and sure enough, Blanket was not there.

Baffled, I looked at Peanut. “Where is she? How could she be lost?”

Of course, I already knew the answer.

“I took her into Target,” Peanut said. “I stuffed her in my shirt and took her in and now she’s gone.”

I felt white hot anger flash before my eyes. She snuck her in. She knows she’s not supposed to do that.

Then Peanut started to sob. “Blanket,” she moaned. “Blanket.” Tears ran down her face and her shoulders shook with grief.

There was never any question that we were going to drive back to the store and search for her, but that sealed it.

But first, I called Mark.

“Look the store up on the web, please,” I said. “And call them. Tell them if anyone finds not to throw it out. I mean, it looks like a cleaning rag. It’s so old.”

Blanket was once white as new snow, her thick woven cotton gently ending on all four sides in a border of short fringe.

Now? She is sort of grayish and threadbare. The fringe is non-existent on one side and unraveling on the other.

In frank terms, Blanket looks pretty much like something you’d wipe a dirty table with.

I drove as quickly as possible back to the store. The traffic was thicker now and it seemed to take forever to get back to the store. And matters weren’t helped by Peanut, who sobbed violently all the way there.

Once parked, I raced inside, a girl in each hand, and stopped immediately at Guest Services.

“My daughter lost her blanket,” I sputtered. “Did anyone turn it in?”

The man and woman at Guest Services looked at me blankly. After several seconds a small, dim bulb seemed to go off in the man’s head.

“Ooooh. Yeah. Did your husband just call about this? If that was him, I told him we don’t have it.”

OK, first of all, how long ago could Mark have called? 10? 15? 20 minutes tops? And it took several seconds before BrillantGuy remembered the call?

And second, how many people lose blankets in Target on a daily basis? Chances are pretty good that the guy who JUST CALLED is probably related to the case at hand.

“I’m going to look through the store,” I said, “and I’m going to check back here before I leave. If anyone turns it in, just hold on to it. Don’t get rid of it.”

I felt this should have been obvious information, but given the less than auspicious start, figured it was prudent to emphasize it.

We then retraced our steps through the store, carefully looking in, over, under and around every single display. We looked in shopping carts that were left in aisles.

And through the store, I kept asking Peanut, “Do you remember having Blanket at this point.”

For about 1/3 of the store, she answered a confident, “yes,” but for the final 2/3 she was less certain – couldn’t remember – couldn’t say.

That helped, but still left a lot of store to search. When we reached the checkout area, we retraced again.

About halfway through the second search, Mark showed up. Thank GOD I have such an amazing husband. He’d found the manager, who refused to make a store-wide announcement.

He grabbed Peanut’s hand and went back to find the manager.

“I want him to explain to her why he can’t make an announcement,” he said. Meanwhile, Loaf and I continued searching.

I stopped every red-shirted employee I could find and explained the situation to them. A few were helpful but the majority were ridiculously unsympathetic.

Loaf and I went outside and I check the garbage cans. Then I checked the garbage cans at the front of the store near the checkouts. I checked the garbage cans in the ladies’ room.

Nothing. And still, no store announcement.

We retraced our steps AGAIN.

And then, from behind me, I heard Peanut’s laugh and I turned to see her up on Mark’s shoulder’s BLANKET IN HAND.

He’d found her in a waste basket under one of the price scanners. A waste basket used primarily by store employees.

Now, like I said earlier, Blanket is pretty worn, but if you took more than 2 seconds to look, it is still clearly a child’s blanket. Last summer, to prevent further unraveling, my mom sewed pink stitching through her in the shape of little connected hearts.

And someone put it in the trash.

I don’t know what I expected. I mean, someone throwing it out was my biggest fear – that’s the first thing I thought of. That’s why I asked Mark to call the store ASAP. But somehow, I guess, I hoped no one would actually do it. That someone would realize it was a child’s cherished possession and take one minute to turn it in.

Later, back at home, Peanut snuggled Blanket against her face.

“Mommy, Blanket does not think she looks like a cleaning rag,” she said defensively.

I heart sank.

“I don’t think that either, honey. I know Blanket is old, but I also know how much she’s been loved. But someone who doesn’t know how much she’s been loved might not see her that way. They might just see her as an old cloth.”

She considered that for a moment, then shook Blanket and raised her voice to mimic her talking.

“I don’t like that someone put me in the trash. Whoever did that was thoughtless.”

And that’s one statement I couldn’t really argue with.

Tiny dancer

2009-06-09T20:37:00.003-04:00

Sunday was the big day. Peanut's dance recital.

Despite concerns that she would do little more than stare at the ceiling, she did great. She knew all the steps and, most importantly, had the biggest, widest, most proud smile on her face the whole time she was on stage.

In my biased opinion, she was tutu cute (sorry, could not resist).

One more time, with feeling

2009-06-05T21:14:00.004-04:00

Peanut graduated from preschool today, this time for real.

Yes, I cried.

But I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she is ready for kindergarten. Pre-K was the best thing we could have done for her. She has truly blossomed this year under the direction of one of the most amazing teachers I’ve ever seen at work.

Does this look like the face of a kid who is ready for kindergarten?

Yes, I believe it does.

Over the hills and far away

2009-06-04T21:48:00.008-04:00

The plane rises off the runway and the ground rapidly falls away. I look out the window of the smallish, propeller plane bound for Buffalo and look down at urban New Jersey below me.

There’s the NJ Turnpike, and the “1 and 9.” I see the junkyards and the vast lots of now-empty shipping containers brought here from China.

Up, up we go until the cars below look like fleas racing on strands of black shoestring licorice.

My eyes move west – to the rural mountains that roll gently to the horizon. Somewhere out there is my home.

I think of my daughters, both so sad to see me leave – neither happy about the disruption in their weekly routine. I think of my husband and his soft kiss goodbye.

It is a short trip. I will be gone only about 56 hours.

Yet I already miss them.

I close my eyes and picture the girls. I see rosy cheeks and mile-long lashes. I think of their giggles and the silly jokes they tell that make no sense. I see them running toward me, arms outstretched, dresses bouncing around their knees, smiles across their faces.

I think of my husband’s thick hair and gray-blue eyes, his strong limbs and tender ways.

The plane has turned west – toward those mountains - and I sit forward in my seat, nose pressed against the plane’s tiny window trying to decipher any familiar landmark from the terrain below, but there is none.

Finally, I realize, we’ve been flying too long and are long past my hometown. I sit back and exhale.

Fifty-six hours. Or so.

I’m coming home. And I can’t wait.

I’m home now. I arrived Tuesday night to a cavalcade of hugs and kisses as if they were all trying to make up for all the missed ones while I was gone. I wrote this partly in the hotel but didn't get to finish it until just tonight. I've been busy catching up with my family, so forgive me for being offline these last few days.

Presenting: Girl with curls and a crown

2009-05-29T20:11:00.004-04:00

We went to a local children's museum yesterday and the girls got to sculpt faces with clay. Loaf refused to let me photograph hers, ripping off the clay parts before I could snap a photo, but Peanut was quite proud of her work:

I asked her what it's named and she said, "Girl with curls and a crown." Good name, don't you think?

Wordless Wednesday: Sister kisses

2009-05-27T10:34:00.002-04:00

That middle one is worth a 1,000 words, no?

Click here to see more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

Watermelon, watermelon

2009-05-26T12:07:00.002-04:00

So you know what we did this weekend? A whole lotta nothin'.

Aside from a bike ride, a trip to Target, a hike at a local nature preserve and a visit to the ice cream parlor, we passed the days in our own yard. I lounged around in a chair with my feet up reading a book while the girls splashed in their pool nearby. We ate lunch outside on a blanket every day and lounged around looking at the sky. We grilled and drank lemonade and ate watermelon.

Lots and lots of watermelon. Mmmmm.

How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?

Our annual opening of the pool

2009-05-23T18:31:00.003-04:00

I know.

Not what you expected.

But that's as good as it gets around here. Although, in actuality, it's really quite great.

Brrrr. That hose water is chilly.

But not too chilly to squirt your sister.

Squirting your sister is hee-larious.

Ready for a dip.

Dance (or don't). It's all the same to me.

2009-05-18T21:50:00.008-04:00

I am sitting on the floor of my daughter’s dance studio watching her and her classmates rehearse the number they will perform in their ballet recital in just over three weeks.

They dance to a French song. Don't ask me the name because I don’t know. But before me is a line of about a dozen little girls wearing black leotards and pink tights. With one hand on one hip, they lip-sync the lyrics while the other hand moves through the air in time to the music.

Correction: Make that one dozen minus one.

My daughter – Peanut – is staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes are huge and round and she has a slightly checked-out look. The girls on either side of her smile and sway to the music. She fiddles with the band of her dance skirt and stares off into space.

Then, the girl on the far right steps forward and does a short solo. She glides two or three steps to the right, then the left. Then she twirls and steps back in line.

The girl to her left follows suit. And so on, down the line.

Peanut continues to roam about in her own world, maintaining her deer-in-the-headlights stare. She appears to be focusing on some random point a few feet over my head.

When her turn comes, she stands there looking forward.

Oblivious.

The girl to her left nudges her.

“It’s your turn,” she says urgently. “Go! Go!”

It takes a moment for Peanut to realize what the girl is saying to her, but then the recognition comes. She smiles, takes her step forward and takes about 10 steps to the left – almost covering the entire length of the line. Then she goes all the way to the right. And then back pretty far to the left again.

Finally, she does her twirl and steps back in line.

After that, she is partly engaged in the song. She sort of mouths the words and sort of does the hand motions. But then the lead girl on the right turns and dances off. The girls after her follow to form a big circle on the stage.

Peanut? Just. Stands. There.

Again, the girl next to her prompts her to Go! Go!

So she goes.

In the wrong direction.

She walks right into the girl behind her, then corrects herself and races to close the huge gap that’s now in the circle.

The mother next to me leans in and says, “That was my daughter last year. Always out to lunch.”

I nod, trying to decide if that statement was supposed to make me feel better for Peanut, because honestly it didn’t.

The girls loop around and once again form a line.

The song finishes. They all curtsy. Peanut is beaming.

I sit with my back against the wall, mouth slightly agape, pondering what I just witnessed. The room explodes in applause from the mothers who have been invited here today to dance with their daughters.

I applaud too. Peanut races into my arms and I fold them around her and plant a huge kiss on her cheek.

“Did you like it, Mommy?” she asks.

I signed her up for dance class hoping she would have fun, spend some time with her friends and experience something different. I never had any aspirations of her being invited here. And even if she were, I wouldn’t want her to go. Ballet is a harsh world.

I peer into those big green eyes and see how happy she is.

“I loved it,” I say truthfully.

She may be a bit of a space cadet, but she’s my little space cadet.

And you know what’s cool about space cadets? They find ways to reach the stars.

Wordless Wednesday: Triathlon - the next generation

2009-05-13T08:05:00.001-04:00

Click here to see more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

What I learned in my first triathlon

2009-05-09T21:23:00.004-04:00

Today I finished my first triathlon. It was not easy. At times, it was downright difficult, but I did it. Scratch that one off the Bucket List. Here’s the short version of what happened:

- I had a lot of trouble on the swim and actually swam way off course three times, but finished it (and NOT LAST!)

- I was plagued with stomach cramps for half the bike and half the run, but pushed through it and finished the run really strong and felt fantastic about it.

Want to hear all the gory details or see some pictures? Just keep reading:

Pre-race
I woke up at 3 a.m. this morning and couldn’t get to sleep. I could actually feel the nerves and adrenaline buzzing through my body. I couldn’t stop thinking about the day ahead – what would it be like? Would I get hurt? How cold WOULD that water feel? (For the record, 62-degrees feels pretty cold at first, but you get used to it quickly.) Most of all, would I finish?

Around 6 a.m., my alarm went off and I went to the kitchen. I had carefully planned my breakfast: oatmeal, a bit of yogurt and lots of water. But I could barely finish the oatmeal. My stomach was in knots and I had no appetite. I did my best and got most of it down, but I couldn’t even fathom the idea of the yogurt so I skipped it.

I dressed, got the girls fed and dressed and then we all (my mom too) piled in the car and drove off. The ride was 40 minutes and my stomach was flopping with anxiety the whole time.

We arrived, used the port-a-johns and found the transition area.

I got body marked (Coolest.Thing. Ever. This made me feel totally badass.) and I set up my area. It was teeny. My stuff was squished in right against the women on either side of me.

Waiting to get body marked.

They put your age on the back of your leg. For the race, your age is how old you'll be at the end of the year. So? Today, I unofficially turned 40.

Marked and ready to go

Around this time, I must have started feeling better, because I got hungry. I ate a Power Bar and had some more water then pulled on my wetsuit and headed down to the beach for the pre-race meeting.

At this point, we watched the first two waves for my race take off. It was so cool. Some of those men were so fast – they were out of the water before they even it got wet it seemed.

My mother-in-law arrived at this point and before I knew it, it was time for my wave to start. Hugs and kisses to all, and I walked down to get in line.

Look! It's Batgirl!

Hugs all around

Swim

The half-mile swim took place in a lake. It was a beach start. I was in the third and final wave, which included women and first-timers.

Waiting to start

A year ago, when I started this adventure, swimming was the part of the tri I feared the most. I could only dog paddle. But I took a stroke clinic, practiced like crazy, and have come to the point where I feel pretty confident and can easily swim a mile in the pool.

Did you get that? Because there is a very key, three-word phrase there: In. The. Pool.

Prior to today, I had never done an open water swim. And despite cautionary advice from two experienced triathletes that open water swimming was very different, I had no real idea what I was in for.

I will get back to that, but first let me describe the course. As I said, it was a half-mile. You swam straight out to one big floating cone, made a left, swam to the next big floating cone, made another left, then swam back to the beach. Think of it like three sides to a rectangle.

Standing on the beach waiting for the air horn, it looked far, but not that far. I kept trying to calculate how many lengths of pool each leg would be and decided it was probably something in the neighborhood of 14 or 15 for each of the long sides and maybe 8-11 for the short side. Piece of cake, I rationalized.

So the air horn blasted and the water became a churning mass of humans. Legs and arms flying everywhere. I waded out to about my waist and then dove in.

And she's off!

And guess what?

Open water swimming is on a WHOLE OTHER PLANE than pool swimming.

I couldn’t see anything but murky brown water in my field of vision. I couldn’t see the buoys or the big floating cones or even the other people around me. I got kicked in the arm by a foot I could not see at all.

I could feel the terror welling up inside me. I was taking a breath every second stroke instead of the every third or even fourth I do in the pool and it still wasn’t enough. I flipped over and back stroked, breathing furiously.

Do you see that head on the left sticking up? That head is mine. Does this look like good swim form? Because IT IS NOT!

I dog-paddled. I sidestroked. I tried to breaststroke, but it was like I forgot – completely – how to do it.

I thought I was not going to finish.

I thought I was going to have to be pulled out the water within the first five minutes.

I thought about all the hard work and training that went into this day.

Then, I thought about all the people I’d have to explain this failure to: my husband and the two amazing women who traveled extensive distances to cheer me on. My daughters. Other relatives who were pulling for me from afar. All the people who emailed me well wishes and wrote on my Facebook page over the last few days. The mothers and teachers at the girls’ school. My coworkers.

And my brain said: Unacceptable. You will finish this swim if you dog paddle the whole way.

So I kept going. But I was so focused on making forward motion, I forgot one very important thing: Forward motion is only good when you are going in the right direction.

At some point, after swimming a mix of strokes for a while, I looked up and could not see the big red cone anywhere. I looked around and there it was – way, way off to my left. I had been swimming at an angle away from the cone.

I will not even tell you the long litany of curse words that ran through my head at this point, but I turned and swam like mad for the cone and somehow I made it and rounded it.

Except? I did the same thing again – not quite as badly, but still – AGAIN - on the short side.

And, just because the third time’s a charm, I did it AGAIN on the return to the beach. Finally, I remembered how to breast stroke and I came straight up out of the water and bee-lined for the beach, never letting it leave my sight.

Obviously, I need to work on sighting and open water swimming.

But somehow I made it out of the water - and there were still at least a half dozen swimmers in the water. If I had managed to stay on the course, I probably would have come in more in the middle of the pack.

But I finished it and that’s what counts. I was never – NEVER – so happy to plant my feet on solid ground.

So happy to be done!

Swim time: 25:43. I probably could have shaved 4-5 minutes off that if I'd stayed on the course and done the crawl the whole way. At least I have a goal for next time.

T-1

I ran up the beach to the transition area pulling off my swim cap and goggles and unzipping my wetsuit on the way. My stomach was cramping a bit, which I blamed on nerves or maybe bad lake water.

I gulped some sports drink, washed and dried my feet, pulled on my socks and shoes, fastened my helmet, grabbed the bike and went. I also took a shot of GU, which made my already upset stomach clinch. I seriously thought I was going to puke, but didn’t. At the end of the transition area, I hopped on and pedaled off.

Bike

Here I go - off on the bike

The bike portion was a 19.5-mile loop of rolling countryside. The first 10 miles went fine. I was making decent time and even passed a few people, which is always a good confidence builder (in fairness, I was the passee much more often than the passer, but even 3-4 times was nice).

Sometime after mile 10, my stomach decided to stage a revolt. I started feeling really crampy and nauseous. I thought for sure I was going to have to stop to throw up. But it never got to that point, so I just kept pedaling, though admittedly the second half took longer than the first.

Then I saw the park entrance ahead, pedaled in, dismounted and got ready for the run.

Returning from the bike leg

Bike time: 1:40. Two words: Speed Drills

T-2
As soon as I hopped off the bike, my stomach seized. I felt awful. I racked the bike and sipped some water. At that point, I wasn’t sure what was the greater evil:
Option 1: Drink nothing and risk getting dehydrated or
Option 2: Drink something and risk making the stomach cramps worse.

Feeling really bad at this point.

I went with Option 3: Sip slowly and hope to find a middle ground.

After a moment, I slipped on my visor and turned to run off. Only which direction do I go? Fortunately, a whole lot of people yelled, “Left! Left!” So I turned and ran back toward the beach.

Run

I can typically run a 5K (3.1 miles) in about 33-35 minutes. I am no speed demon for sure. I don’t really like running and have bad knees, so I tend to be conservative.

Today, if I had knee pain, I didn’t even notice it because I was so focused on the stomach cramps, which were worsening. The first 2 miles of the run were HELL. I honestly thought I was going to either throw up violently or (worse) have diarrhea in my pants (I know, too much information, but one thing I learned: tri's aren't pretty).

Fortunately, I didn’t do either. At mile 2 there was a port-a-john.

I have never been so happy to see a port-a-john in all my life. Unfortunately, there were three runners already in line. But I felt my options were either wait or risk a seriously embarrassing incident, so I waited. I waited for close to five minutes.

When it was finally my turn, that port-a-john and I spent some quality time together. In fact, I’d like to write that port-a-john a thank you letter, because afterwards I felt MUCH BETTER. I was actually able to run at decent clip. When I saw the park entrance, I was elated.

When I saw the turn to the finish line, I literally shouted out, “THANK GOD!”

And when I saw the actual finish line looming ahead, I gave it everything I had. I sprinted the final 2/10ths of a mile.

The announcer calling out the name and hometown of each finisher (which was an AWESOME touch, by the way) even said, “Look at the pace on her!”

Giving it everything I have

God, that felt great. After the less than auspicious swim, bike and 2/3 of the run, I finally felt something resembling pride.

I came across the finish line with my arms in the air and a huge smile on my face and was instantly hugged and handed flowers by my two beautiful daughters, amazing husband (who has been so incredibly and fabulously supportive these last few months) and two gorgeous and inspiring women: my mom and mother-in-law.

At the finish. SO. FREAKING. HAPPY.

Run time: 40:48. OK. This is a totally sucky time, BUT, if I hadn't lost that five minutes waiting in line for the bathroom, I would not have been too far off my usual time. That makes me feel better about it.

My time was not good AT ALL. But I have to remember that I had one goal for this race: FINISH. And I did. And that alone is an accomplishment.

I also learned a lot, and have a new set of goals to work on for the next time (yes, there will be a next time!) and above all, I actually think I had fun. Go figure?

Tea for two (+2, +2, +2 . . .)

2009-05-07T19:51:00.006-04:00

Today was the annual Mother's Day Tea at the girls' preschool. The tea is only for the pre-K and 4s classes, so Loaf's class didn't participate, but it's just as well because it gives me a little quality one-on-one with Peanut, which I so rarely get.

The tea started with a couple of songs performed by all the kids. They were so cute!

Then the kids came over and joined the moms at the tables and waited on us hand and foot. It was adorable to have Peanut asking me, "Mommy, would you like another muffin," and "Mommy, can I get you something to drink." I loved it!

Unfortunately, the royal treatment was short-lived and within 10 minutes of arriving home we were back to regular roles, but it was nice while it lasted. And it also showed me she CAN be trained to do this stuff. Now to figure out a plan for making it a regular thing.

::laughs evilly::

Here we are at the tea:

But the highlight every year for me is this little "questionnaire" that the kids fill out about their moms. Let's begin with Peanut's:

"Mother's day is because of mothers."
I'm so relieved she got this one right! If she'd said you know, dogs or cupcakes or something, I'd have been seriously concerned.

"You are 39 years old."
Last year, she said I was 17. I liked that answer better.

"The best thing you cook is cake."
I don't really think this is funny, I just wanted to point out that it reads "cake" and not "coke." I don't need the DEA or Child Protective Services banging down my door in the middle of the night.

"You love to go to Target."
Ummm . . . OK, busted. I do spend a lot of time there. In comparison, the mother sitting next to me likes to go to Africa. I think we are living very different lives.

So now, let's look at Loaf's answers:

"Mother's Day is to hug and kiss."
Awwww. I know.

"You have stringy hair."
What this tells me? Is that it is time to make an appointment for a haircut.

"The best thing you cook is macaroni and cheese."
I am so glad that my "open box, pour macaroni into boiling water, dump powdered cheese on top" skills are up to par.

"Your favorite TV show is Black Beauty."
I think what she means is, "your favorite TV show to put on for me when you need an hour to get something done is 'Black Beauty.'"

Happy Mother's Day from me, a cake-baking, macaroni-and-cheese-making, stringy-haired, Target-going, brown-eyed, 39- (or maybe 5-) year-old mother. Hope you get the royal treatment too, even if only for a few minutes.

Admit it . . .

2009-05-04T21:25:00.003-04:00

. . . you know you've thought about it:

Someone sent this to me via email and I couldn't resist. I have to admit, it would make things easier.

Happy (end of) Monday!

Exploring the ruins

2009-04-30T20:50:00.002-04:00

They were young. Not like, 18 young, but definitely early 30s young.

“How have you been?” exclaimed Girl A, embracing Girl B as she emerged from the ladies room stall.

I was at an informal college reunion at a bar in New York City. I stood at the sink washing my hands and reapplying lipstick, watching them both out of the corner of my eye.

“I’m great! I’m married,” Girl B exclaimed, extending her left hand for inspection.

“Me too!” said Girl A, repeating the gesture.

“Do you have kids?” asked Girl A.

“Noooo!” affirmed Girl B with a tone that implied Girl A had just asked her if she had herpes or some other equally nasty venereal disease.

“Me neither,” said Girl A assuredly. “They’re just too much work.”

“Yes. And besides,” added Girl B, “they ruin your body.”

At the time, I gave little thought to the remark. In fact, I probably even glanced at their lithe frames accented by Scarlett O’Hara-sized waists and silently agreed. In fact, I could even empathize with them on a certain level. After all, I was one of them not all that long ago.

But since that night, I’ve turned the conversation over in my head and I realize now that it really irritates me.

These last few months and weeks I have put my body through the paces. I learned to swim and have spent hours and hours in the pool. I have run with blisters on my feet and aching knees. I have cycled up never ending hills and in freezing cold rain and wind.

Yes, my body has flaws. A thicker waist. Certain parts aren’t as perky as they once were. I have wrinkles and crinkles and creases where there once was smooth skin. But in 11 days, I will complete my first sprint triathlon.

My “ruined” body—probably stronger than it’s ever been—will be tested and pushed. And it will cross the finish line.

It is not the thinnest it’s ever been. It is not perfect (but was it ever? No.), but it grew two babies—gave life to two little miracles—and continues to perform in ways I didn’t think possible when I was in my early 30s.

If that is what ruined means, I'm OK with that.

Spring? Who needs it?

2009-04-27T12:20:00.003-04:00

Last week at this time, it was in the 50s and raining. This weekend it hit 90-degrees. Oh spring, thou art a fickle bitch.

The girls took full advantage of the heat and happily played in the sprinkler on Sunday afternoon.

No, we have not mowed our lawn yet.

Yes, on our block we are that house.

Was it hot where you are this weekend? What did you do to keep cool?

Wordless Wednesday: Four years ago

2009-04-22T15:01:00.003-04:00

Four years ago today, I looked like this:

I know.

But four years ago tomorrow, I had this:

Which was totally, completely, sincerely, 100% worth it.

Click here to see more great Wordless Wednesday posts.

A cautionary tale about the importance of paper

2009-04-21T21:19:00.004-04:00

Scene: The girls are painting with watercolors in the kitchen.

Loaf: I want to do another one.

Peanut: Me too!

Me: I’m sorry, but those were the last two sheets of paper. We'll have to get more at store. Finish up the ones you're doing, OK?

::Leaves room for a few minutes::

Five minutes later, I returned to find this:

Believe

2009-04-15T21:58:00.005-04:00

I don’t know where it came from but there it was – the small, red bud of a tulip popping up from a patch of pachysandra outside the kitchen.

I’ve never planted tulips and in all the years we’ve lived in this house, I’ve never seen one in the yard. I have to assume it’s always been there, but was probably eaten by deer or rabbit or some other critter every year past.

The girls noticed it immediately.

“Mommy! Look! Look!” Peanut exclaimed. “A tulip! Do you think Thumbelina is in there?”

I immediately opened my mouth to say no, of course not. But I caught myself and pulled the negativity back before it could spill out and spoil the spring morning.

“Maybe,” I said instead. “What do you think?”

“Oh yes! Yes! I’m sure of it,” she cried. “I just know it.”

“Thumbelina is in there, Mommy!” added Loaf definitively. “She is in dat tulip.”

I considered this as we drove off to school, not sure really what to think of it all.

Thumbelina? Tulips?

When I was pregnant, friends who were mothers tried to explain to me the unlimited love I would give and receive from my children. Sure, they talked about the frustrations, but also the joys – too many to count. Yes, they mentioned the horrible, gripping fear that would take over sometimes, but also the little moments that would be so full of love.

But no one really talked about the magic that would be reintroduced into my world. The typical stuff of course: A large man in a red suit who comes down the chimney to deliver gifts. Fairies. A giant rabbit delivering candy and hiding eggs. Leprechauns. Unicorns. Witches and wizards.

But there’s much more. Children find magic every single day.

A subway ride is captivating, bringing about sparkling eyes and lasting smiles.

Skyscrapers towering into the sky require stopping on the sidewalk and craning your neck waaaay back to try and see the top.

A drive over a bridge is an utterly fascinating experience.

Tadpoles in a pond are the most awesome things in the world.

A fistful of dandelions presented to you becomes a bouquet of the finest flowers.

A simple summer day becomes a grand vacation.

Tulips hold sleeping girls no bigger than my thumb.

They believe all of these things are equally wondrous. They see them all through a lens unjaded by time and adult cynicism. They are not yet world-weary. It is all new and enchanting.

They believe, simply, that the world is magic.

And when I am with them, so do I.

Eggs-ceptional!

2009-04-11T12:49:00.002-04:00

Time to color the eggs! The Gav girls had a great time coloring eggs this year as you can plainly see:

First egg to hit the dye:

Her hands are still blue (at least it's her favorite color):

Scene of the ~~mess~~ fun:

Finished product:

Why is it that the pretty pastel ones taste so much better than the plain white ones you eat the rest of the year?

Caution: Do not watch if you have a bad back

2009-04-10T20:21:00.003-04:00

You have to watch past the first 45 seconds or so. I promise it gets better!

Future vegetarians of America, meet your new leader. Maybe.

2009-04-07T20:40:00.002-04:00

Today, Loaf was tired. Both she and Peanut were still up when I rolled in from the gym at just before 9 p.m. – watching James and the Giant Peach with Mark.

By the time we read to them and tucked them in, it was close to 9:30. Peanut slept late to make up for it. Loaf did not.

All day she was a whiny, difficult kid. She dissolved into tears at the slightest upset. The teeniest bump or bang resulted in fits of drama worthy of an Academy Award.

By the time dinner came around, she was the walking dead. She peered at me from her perch at the kitchen table with a glazed-over look, hair disheveled, cheeks rosy with exhaustion.

As I stood at the counter carving a rotisserie chicken, she seemed to be looking right through me – the famous seven-mile stare kids get when they’re utterly spent.

Then, she spoke.

“What are you doing, Mommy?”

“I’m carving a chicken,” I told her. “I have to take the meat off the bones so we can eat it.”

::silence::

“Chickens are supposed to lay eggs, Mommy. They are not supposed to be food.”

Now it was my turn to be silent.

“Weeellll,” I explained, “some chickens are eaten. All the meat we eat used to be an animal. Most people eat animals, but you don’t have to. You can be a vegetarian like Aunt Justine if you want. Vegetarians do not eat meat.”

::silence::

“Poor chicken! I feel terrible for that chicken.”

I set the knife down.

“Loaf, do you not want to eat it? I will make you something else.”

Now, at this point, I need to explain something. Mark is not a vegetarian, but he only eats meat that meets strict criteria:
1. It must be organically raised, meaning no hormones, all vegetarian feed (no ground up animal parts in its food) and no antibiotics.
2. It must be certified humanely raised. Which is tougher to ascertain, but equally important to him. He is an animal lover, and is unwilling to eat factory-farmed animals that have lived miserable, dirty, sad, tortuous lives cooped up in small pens, unable to move, living in their own filth, only to be slaughtered in the end.

Happy chickens and cows, a friend used to say. Mark only eats happy chickens and cows.

And because most restaurant and supermarket meat is not from happy chickens or cows, for the most part, Mark only eats meat in our house. (I say for the most part because certain people like my mom, his mom and certain friends know about Mark’s food rules and have happy chickens and cows available to eat when we visit).

However, the girls still eat unhappy chickens and cows in restaurants and other places and we’ve been talking lately about how and when to align their eating with Mark’s. He feels strongly about this, and thinks the girls should follow his example.

I don’t disagree with this. I’m just not sure how to introduce it.

So my asking Loaf if she wanted something else was not about catering to the whim of a fussy preschooler. Rather, I was thinking that if Loaf had strong feelings about not eating meat, even at not quite 4, I would accommodate her.

Instead, she burst into tears.

“That was my favorite chicken!”

::sob sob::

“I am so sad!”

::sob sob::

“I’ll never see it again!”

::sob sob::

“It was such a good chicken! My favorite!”

::sob sob::

And then . . .

“YOU KILLED MY CHICKEN!”

Which, whoa. I may sometimes eat unhappy chickens, but I don’t kill them myself.

“Loaf, you didn’t even know this chicken,” I said to her (and yes, I realize that may be the most ridiculous statement ever spoken.) “This is a farm chicken. It came from a farm.”

::sob sob::

“I will miss that chicken. Poor little guy.”

There was no reasoning with her. So I stopped trying.

Instead, I boiled her a vegetarian hot dog and served it up with a side of salad.

Peanut and I ate our happy chicken while Loaf ate her veggie hot dog. When dinner was over, she burst into tears again.

“What animal is a veggie hot dog from?” she sobbed.

“It’s not from an animal. It’s from soy and vegetables.”

::silence::

“I will miss that hot dog! It was my favorite.”

At which point, I realized that Loaf’s animal activism had nothing to do with happy chickens or cows, but rather with an unhappy little girl who did not get nearly enough sleep last night.

So I brushed her teeth and sent her off to bed. We’ll see how she feels tomorrow, but I can guarantee you one thing: breakfast will consist of cereal and toast. I’m staying far, far away from the bacon and eggs for a while.

Surprise! She can be taught after all

2009-04-05T19:52:00.005-04:00

I’m 39 years old.

Not to paint myself as an alcoholic or anything, but I’ve done my fair share of drinking over the years, though not too often to excess. The first time I was ever hung over was the day in May of my senior year in high school when my mom drove me and my friend Kim out to central New York to tour Utica College.

The night before, there was an incident involving a party, me and a two-liter bottle of raspberry wine coolers. I woke up still drunk, which simply put, is a really terrible way to start the day. Things went down hill from there. Let me assure you – wine coolers are not nearly as sweet or as pretty coming back up as they are going down.

TRUST ME.

But, being all of 17 at the time, I somehow rallied and the trip went fine, the tour was fun and I actually ended up going to Utica College that fall.

Utica, while touted by all the officials as being a “dry campus,” was actually anything but – something I learned within hours of orientation when two fraternity brothers came roaming the halls trying to persuade all the freshman girls to come to a party in another dorm later that night.

My new friends and I went (of course), but I was too terrified on that first night to do much more than sip at my cup of skunky keg beer. My first real drunken college night didn’t come until over a month later – right before a fall break when my friends and I finally screwed up the courage to attend a “bar night” at a notorious dive called Spilka’s. We were assured that we’d all get in with even the most rudimentary fake IDs, and with fraternity brothers at the door, we did.

Fuzzy navels were two for a dollar and I drank my fill. The night ended with me and my friends taking rides in the giant dryers at the all-night laundromat next door, a 2 a.m. visit to “psycho Burger King,” and unprecendented intestinal distress. That was 22 years ago, and I have not touched anything with Peach Schnapps since.

Fortunately, those really bad nights – the ones that resulted in day-long hangovers, popping of fistfuls of aspirin or Tums and late afternoon “breakfasts” of greasy fast food – were far and few between, but there’ve been enough that I really just should know better.

I’m fairly petite and it never took much to push my body from “happily tipsy” to “oh-my-God-what-have-I-done?!” Now? It takes a whole lot less. And I know my new limit. I know it because I’ve flown right over it a few times in recent years.

There was my sister-in-law’s wedding in 2007 when I not only crossed the limit – I punted myself over it like the star kicker attempting to make the final winning field goal in the Superbowl. I spent the entire day after wishing for death. Instead I got to board a plane for a five-hour cross-country flight. Good times. Good times.

But still, I don’t learn.

Two Saturdays ago, we went to a bar in New York for a college reunion of sorts. It was four hours of open bar.

Four. Hours.

Open. Bar.

Someone also bought me a shot, which tasted like death in a glass. I still have no idea what was in it, but given the impact it had on me, I'm guessing grain alcohol.

I should know better by now, right?

I spent the better part of Sunday in the fourth level of hell. Stomach roiling, head pounding. I drank four gallons of water before 11 a.m. and still couldn't bring my dehydrated body to pee.

What was different this time, is that Monday I didn’t feel much better. Part of it was exhaustion (I slept a grand total of 3 hours Saturday night), but it was more than that. My stomach was still shaky. I felt nauseous most of the day.

I hate to say it, but I think I’m just getting way too old for those types of escapades. My body doesn’t bounce back the way it did when I was 17, or 21, or even 35 for that matter.

I’ve also noticed it takes less and less to send me over the edge.

So I’m off alcohol for a while. It’s not worth it to me anymore, especially because it has such a negative effect on my training.

Friday night, I met a group of high school friends for a “Class of 1987 Turns 40” party. And I had two beers.

Just two.

Seems you can teach an old girl new tricks after all.