I Did It

I did it.

I did the damn thing: got on a stage and competed as a bikini bodybuilder. To say this was no small feat is a monumental understatement, never mind the additional challenges presented in a global pandemic.

Those who know me are aware that I enjoy a good challenge, namely of the physical order. Athletics have always been a significant part of my life; being an athlete is single-handedly the reason I ended up in Pittsburgh. I was a gymnast, a swimmer for a brief stint, and a soccer player. I’ve run a marathon, been part of several marathon relay teams, run a half marathon, and completed a few sprint triathlons. There was a Tough Mudder a few years back that ended in a broken ankle, so technically I didn’t finish the full course, but I got through half before the horrific snap – but I digress. My point is, I’m always chasing something. Truth be told, I feel a little lost if I’m not preparing for some kind of a competition. It appears as though I’ve been hard-wired to be driven by physical goals. And because I’d run the gamut of all kinds of races by May of 2019, it came to no one’s surprise, least of all mine, that I’d go after the bodybuilding stage.  

Let me make a distinction here: my goal was always to step on stage to compete, but not necessarily as competitor. What I mean is, I’d never planned to make this my lifestyle – a highly unpopular reason to get on stage. My plan was to approach with a Rocky mindset: go the distance. Weight loss was not the goal, nor my greatest achievement – not even close. While I’m in awe of the physique I have built, the achievement I sought was the endurance. I didn’t need to beat Apollo, I just wanted to last until the final bell. There’s an entire sect of folks who say competing in a bodybuilding competition as a “bucket list” item is a horrible idea. They will cite the enormous leverage on the body required to reach this goal, and they’re not wrong – this is HARD AF. To get to, what is referred to as stage lean, requires significant sacrifice, not to mention potential severe tolls on the body – the physiological tax is considerable. At some point, you will be fighting against biological cues, as the body was not designed to function optimally below a certain body fat threshold. Towards the end, I felt hollowed out like a carved pumpkin for Halloween, and I was damn near tears on the daily. That being said, while it’s a gross generalization: there are risks to everything in life. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t take on certain endeavors, I just see it as a need for proper education, guidance, and mitigation when possible. It is precisely why most hire coaches, and I was fortunate enough to have two on my road to the stage. And this is probably another faux pas, but honestly, IDGAF – both of my coaches were integral.

Summer of 2017

Let’s take it back to the summer of 2017. Lucy and I’d spent a lovely day with some friends doing the touristy Ducky Boat and ridden the Monongahela Incline. At the top of Mt. Washington, a photograph was taken of me and my girl. When I looked at that picture, I was taken aback by what I saw in myself: a woman who’d been consumed with Motherhood for four and a half years, and who’d allowed her own health to fall to the bottom of the priorities list. I was 39 and the heaviest I’d ever been. It was then and there that I decided I would become “Fit by 40,” and find my mojo again. I was a former Division I athlete, dammit. I could and would build back the body of a healthy and strong woman that I knew existed inside of me. So that’s exactly what I did. I began running with friends at work in the mornings before school. I did Weight Watchers. My combined efforts helped me drop about 20 lbs., but then I stalled. In October of 2018, as I was recovering from the broken ankle, I hired, on the suggestion of my dear friend J, Adam. Adam took me on as a lifestyle client and helped me drop another 20 lbs. Seven months later, I’d bitten the apple. In May of 2019, I went from a lifestyle client to a competition client. Adam helped me build for a few months, and then we began prep in August of 2019. I chugged and persisted until March of 2020, dropping another almost 25 lbs, when the rug got pulled out from under me and the world succumbed to a pandemic. I was roughly two weeks out from the stage. And it all just vanished. Initially, we decided to hold steady and watch to see what shows would go on, but the constant cancellations and moving target end-date proved to be too difficult, so I made the decision to begin reversing (slowly raising calories, and lowering cardio), and shelve the stage for a year.

Perhaps it was the isolation of the pandemic, maybe it was burn out – there were so many variables, but in May of 2020, I made the decision to end my coaching with Adam, and move on to Mark. There were no hard feelings; I was sensing a complacency in myself, and needed a more militant kick in the ass, and a change in protocol scenery. Mark provided what I needed at that point in my journey and the road to the stage continued with a nine and a half month building phase. In January of 2020, once again, I began to prep.

The current narrative lends itself well to the platitude: things happen for a reason. This prep was different in so many ways. I wasn’t a newbie and knew what to expect. My adherence was damn near perfect, and even though I could choose the foods that fulfilled the macros prescribed to me, unlike my last prep, I made nutrient dense selections. Fitting in that gourmet cookie, or the pint of Enlightened ice cream, never factored into my train of thought. And honestly, I felt better, even into the gritty final weeks when cardio was high and food was low. I do believe there’s truth to quality, and that not all calories are equal in terms of biological benefits. That’s not to say that folks who fit in the treats aren’t successful, because there are plenty who do, and are just fine. For me, anecdotally, the whole foods route worked really well, and I was less susceptible to cravings of those highly palatable treats.

In the end, Adam brought me to the dance, and Mark helped me cross the finish line. For that, each deserves due recognition.

For all my history as an athlete, even at the highest levels of pressure and competition, nothing – and I mean nothing, compared to the intensity of preparing for the stage. The sheer mental and physical endurance required was astronomical. This was a relentless daily choice and dedication that I’d never executed and went far beyond the simple “no thank you” to an offered cupcake. Motivation waxed and waned; it was through absolute discipline, grit, and ganas that I hit the target. Planning, prepping, weighing out every morsel that I consumed, blocking out time for lifting and cardio, making sure I got my steps in each day – it was all-consuming.

But it was worth it, and I kept my head (mostly) along the way. There’s a dark side to this sport, one that comes with side effects not limited to, but including disordered eating and body dismorphia. Dieting down can also really mess up your relationship with food. Because I came to this sport a little later in life, I believe I was granted the advantage of having had many years to figure out who I was and recognize the depth of my personal capital. Here I was, willingly working towards getting on a stage in an itty-bitty, albeit beautifully bedazzled, bikini, and asking to be judged on my body. I knew before the show that no matter what happened, my worth did not rest in the critique of those subjective judges. Whether I placed or not, I firmly believed (cause believing is the important part), that I was a woman intact, whole and beautiful, strong and successful. The outcome of the show would not determine my mark on the world; I already had a life and existence that far-outweighed whatever medal or trophy (or apparantly swords, because as it turns out, I won 3 swords) with which I could ever walk away. The external validation, while nice (not going to say it isn’t), wasn’t necessary, because I’d already validated myself. There’s a shit-ton of self-work and self-love in those previous few sentences, a place to which I did not arrive easily. It took me years to get here, but I had help along the way, and one of my very first mentors was Laura Moses.

In high school, I played club soccer, and Laura was my coach. She was uncompromising in every sense, and she worked us doggedly. We had two-a-day practices in the summer under the hot sun, we ran miles upon miles on the strand at the beach, did sprints in the sand – and you know what? We were fit. We were a good little team, but even when our skills didn’t match up against another powerhouse club, we’d win simply because we could outrun them for the entire ninety minutes. I was always at the back of the pack when it came to fitness, the last one to cross the line, the goalkeeper bringing up the rear on miles long runs. I specifically remember one afternoon run at the beach. I was determined to keep up with the pack at any cost. I wanted so desperately to win some kind of accolade from Laura. So I did it. I kept up. And puked in the sand at the end of the run because I’d taxed my system so greatly. After discharging my lunch, I went up to Laura as the others were getting sips of water and asked her if she’d noticed that I’d kept up. She said, I did. Then turned away from me to call everyone into the sand for sprints. That gutted me – not even a simple “at a girl.” And it was then and there that I realized I could not rely on others to validate or praise my efforts. Laura helped me realized, I would have to do it myself.

Working towards a goal like this can be intensely isolating as the sport, by nature, is solitary. There  were definitely days when I felt the loneliness, but mostly I felt support by an entire squadron of friends and family. I cannot say enough about my friends, especially the ones I work with. I have raved about my colleagues, ad nauseum, and I will continue to do so. They buoyed me, daily. Checked in with me, asked thoughtful questions, responded to my posts with infinite encouragement, left flowers on my desk with thoughtful notes – honestly, I could go on and on. Friends outside of work sent texts and applause, regularly. J, my back-pocket-therapist talked me down off of several ledges, listened to my fears and frustrations, and always set me straight with just the right amount of care and tough love. J opened this door for me two years ago, helped me see what was possible, and for that I’m ever grateful. My parents were cheering me on from the get-go, and really, since Day 1. For anything I’ve ever attempted, even if they secretly harbored concern, they have always been ferociously supportive.

 

And then there’s Jesse and Lucy. My ride or die crew. The ones who endured along with me, who never complained when I was too exhausted to figure out dinner beyond “briner” or a frozen pizza or takeout. Who never made me feel bad when it got to the point that I was eating my extra lean ground turkey and 
they were enjoying heaping servings of spaghetti, or giant bowls of ice cream. My husband who understood I needed to retire to bed between 8 and 8:30 in order to be up at “four ass early.” My daughter who had to go for walks with me more times than I can count because I couldn’t leave her home alone, and I needed to hit my 10k steps. While I was doing the work in isolation at the gym, they were absolutely affected by the time I spent away from them – and they were just as much a part of this whole endeavor. I know my daughter watched it all, took it all in. I can only hope she saw a mama determined, and a woman who prioritized her own goals, not allowing the responsibilities and obligations of life to overrule her ambitions.

So what’s next?

Truth is, I'm not sure. Initially I had intended to do one more show at the end of July, but in the last couple of days, it has become clear to me that I got what I needed. I met my goal, I feel incredibly satisfied, and there is zero compulsion driving any need to do this all over again. And the best part? I am completely at peace with this decision. Zero regrets. For the immediate future, my focus will be lifestyle related: I’d like to figure out a balance of being physically active, but without an extreme carrot. Maybe hike more. Throw the bikes on the hitch and rack, and ride more. I want to sleep in and sip coffee on Saturday and Sunday mornings. I do have a photo shoot scheduled for later this month, as I'd like to immortalize this physique I worked so hard to build, but other than that I’m going to take my time to properly reverse, bringing my body back to a healthy and sustainable weight, and enjoy an indefinite respite from the all-encompassing mind absorption that is prep.

I have learned so much through this process, but the two biggest takeaways are that I am stronger than I thought, both mentally and physically. This was supposed to have been accomplished a year ago, but because of the pandemic, it stretched another year. There were so many days I just did not want to do it - but I refused to throw in the towel. I couldn't have come all this way to not see it through. Two years I labored at this, and for two years I proved to no one but myself that I could do really hard shit. The second takeaway, and probably the most profound, is that I am loved. The outpouring of support, the gifts, the recognition and acknowledgement from family and friends has been beyond anything I ever expected. That will stay with me long after the lines of my physique have faded.

Not too bad for this almost 43 year-old, if I do say so myself.

 

Forty.

Today I am forty years old.

Forty.

One of my favorite authors, Joan Didion, explained her personal purpose for penning words: “I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear.”

Most of my friends know me as a gregarious, bawdy, ridiculously unfiltered figure. Rules, in my world, exist on a sliding scale. I prefer to ask for forgiveness.  I am the thrill-seeker, the comedian, the one who says all the things. Recently a colleague joked that no one would ever be able to “one up Marshall” because I don’t subscribe to a definable line in the sand. I own, entirely, my enjoyment of pushing boundaries and buttons, walking the tight-rope between what is acceptable and what is inappropriate. For better or worse, I’m that friend and colleague and I’d like to think everyone needs someone like this in their lives, if not for simply to add some color – but that may just be me rationalizing my, sometimes, less-than choice antics.

Friendships are very important to me; I rely on them heavily. For those whom I count as the inner circle, I am ferociously loyal and protective. If ever a moment has occurred where I feel I’ve made a misstep, I am wrecked. Not just sad or apologetic but riddled with anxiety until the air has been cleared of any transgressions. Beyond this, the friendships that I hold close are immensely fundamental to my life. I just got back from having spent three nights in New York with my local tribe and it was nothing short of fabulous. These women and their friendships are infinitely validating and what sustain me. They are the constant when other parts of my life have gone, or go, haywire. 

At my core, I am hard-wired to be an athlete. Over the years, athletics have manifest in various iterations. At six, I began gymnastics. I was certain I was going to be the very next Mary Lou Retton, and cartwheels I turned, relentlessly on our front lawn. There was a brief stint on a swim team – breast stroke and freestyle were my jam. At thirteen I donned my first pair of soccer cleats, and I was hooked, riding the sport all the way into college on a partial scholarship to a Division I team.

I started on the field as a defender, made my way up to an offensive half-back, and just as my skills were becoming laser sharp, I tore my ACL. After recovering from surgery, I was put into the goal as a way to preserve my knee and as it turned out, the position came naturally to me. The acrobatic skills I’d acquired as a gymnast, served me well. And I was a bit of a kamikaze.

My senior year of high school, I blew out my knee, again, busted my ass to come back from that, and then months before graduating, I tore my shoulder on a dive. Because of the shoulder injury that required surgical intervention, I had to red-shirt my freshman year of college. By the time I made it back onto the field, my sophomore year, I was running on steam. In one of the hardest decisions of my life, at the end of my sophomore year of college, I chose to relinquish the scholarship, and turned in my jersey.

Never have I ever won an MVP award. Never. But – I’ve won, more times than I can count, “Most Inspirational.” In high school I became comfortable in my role as the underdog, always climbing my way back from some injury, some surgery – in fact, I got really good at it. No bigger was there a challenge than rehabbing reconstructed knees and shoulders. I love physical challenges, and it’s precisely why in the years that followed soccer retirement that I ran a marathon and competed in sprint triathlons. It’s why, today, I’m running consistently again, and lifting weights. I completed a half marathon in May, with, as it turned out, undiagnosed pneumonia. I thought I had a bad cold. My bad. It’s tempting to do another half, but I haven’t committed to it just yet; to keep things interesting, in September, I will be participating in a Tough Mudder. You know – for fun.

It is clear to me now, more than ever, that I have enjoyed the struggle – the climb. Making progress, and showing measurable advancements is incredibly motivating. I’ve never been a first-place finisher, and frankly, I’m not interested in winning races, but instead completion and working towards personal bests. I have nothing to prove to anyone but myself. If a mile takes me twelve minutes one day, and nine the next, so be it. At this point in my life, sustainability is the brass ring. Setting an example for my daughter as a woman who takes care of her body, who runs and lifts because it makes her feel good – that’s where I win.

When I began college, I thought I wanted to be a pediatrician. Several bombed math and science classes later, I realized that while I loved the idea of working with kids, I did not love the science behind medicine. There was a brief period where I reasoned that teaching elementary school would fit me best. Laughable, I know. Late in my sophomore year, I heard author John Edgar Wideman, speak. During the Q&A at the end, he said something that would change my life forever – he said, “If you want to do something easy, eat bananas. If you want to be a hero, teach high school.” Done. I declared myself a writing major with the intent to teach high school English. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past fourteen years. Beyond teaching English though, I do plenty of the less academic: I’m in charge of our social committee, so when babies are born, vows are made, or someone must bury a loved one, it’s me who makes sure that gets recognized. I’m also in charge of putting on prom. It’s not a role for which I win Staff Member of the Month, but every single year, I put together a beautiful party for my seniors and juniors. It’s a gorgeous evening, and it happens because of me. But the best and most rewarding facet to my career is getting to know my students – their lives, and who they are beyond the essays they write for me. There’s payoff in these efforts, because long after they’ve graduated, a handful stay in touch. Some have even thanked me. I keep those letters they’ve written close at hand; they are treasures.

Motherhood: I have waxed poetic, pondered, scrutinized, and emoted all over the page with regards to being Lucy’s mama. As she grows, I grow too. It has become clear there is no finish line, and the ravines are oftentimes steep and dark. The mama I aim to be to this stardust little girl, is a mama who recognizes her missteps, can reflect on them, and do better next time. I want to be the mama to give her space to climb the tallest trees and allow her to fall – to not catch her (even when my hands compulsively want to reach out), so that she learns the value in overcoming the break. But make no mistake, I want to arm her. My history is inscribed with #metoo. The stories, yes plural— I don’t tell often, not out of shame, but more so because they don’t arise in typical pedestrian conversation. The gritty details are unnecessary, but these experiences most certainly inform how I parent my daughter and the conversations we have about consent. Much as I want to shield her from the ugliness lurking beyond the walls of our home, I know I cannot. What I can do is make sure she knows that no one, man or woman, will trespass the geography of her body without her explicit consent. She will also know what it means to be groomed, and when she’s more emotionally capably of understanding, I will tell her of the red flags I missed, and I will watch for those with her, always an ally. The horrifying reality is even in doing so, I know I still won’t be able to stop all the monsters. I can only hope that if the ugliness should reveal itself to her, she has the wherewithal to recognize the situation and save herself. It’s a lot to ask, I know.

She has been the mirror into which I see myself, every flaw and virtue. The brilliant in her, is a piece of the best in me. The dark in her, are the shadows in me. Love is too precise a word when it comes to my daughter. We are messy, a calamity, unbridled laughter and tears. We are both I’m sorry and I’m scared. We are try harder and I love you most. Together we are Wonder Women. I repeat to myself, constantly, that she does not belong to me. She belongs only to herself. She will have her own ideas, opinions and desires. I cannot get in her way. What I wish to foster within her, for as long as I have any kind of influence, is a stockpile of grit, empathy, and confidence. The rest is up to her. And if she talks about smashing the patriarchy in first grade, well then, we’ve added a cherry on top – nolite te bastardes carborundorum, my darling.

Big Red. I don’t speak of him often in this space because he largely likes to remain anonymous, and while our story together belongs to me, so too does it belong to him. What I can say about the past eighteen years with this man is that it’s been about learning, evolving, and adventure. Like every other couple on the face of the planet, we experience a range in delights and misfortunes. He pisses me off. I piss him off. He rolls his eyes at my political statement t-shirts in which I express my love and support for those on the fringes and he braces himself when I propose crazy ideas. He thinks I’m bananas for waking up at “four ass early” to go running and can’t for the life of him understand why I’d lay down $100 to run a muddy obstacle course with my friends. He doesn’t stop me from talking to our daughter of the importance of busting through the glass ceiling or ranting about the social constructs of bras. It’s cool. We’re two wildly different people. Listen, he may not bring me random gifts, or may falter with words of affirmation (my love language), but for eighteen years, even in our darkest hours, he’s never gotten in the way of me being me. He’s never once tried to change who I am. Never. He loves me in his own way, no flash, no pretense - and that’s not for nothing.

I have never jumped out of an airplane.

I have four tattoos (and an upcoming appointment for another, maybe two).

I have never been asked out on a date. Yes, really.

I love photography.

I want to be loved.

I want to be wanted.

I have a terrible temper, but a long fuse.

I have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

I love sushi and ice cream. Not together.

I do not embarrass easily.

My emotional side overrules my logical side, often.

I have no regrets, just lessons learned.

That has to be enough.

I am enough.

I am a walking dichotomy, more resolved than ever to be a strong and confident woman, feminist, mother, partner, and friend.  Forty years has amounted to a series of moments that, collectively, create my wondrous life. Magic, really. I don’t know what it all means, so I’m just going to keep on, keep’n on. One foot in front of the other, face to the sun, learning, and living my best life.

I listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am.

2015

The profound, Day #1 of the new year, proclamation.

Nope.

No new diet. I ate leftover Chinese take-out for breakfast AND lunch. And I’ll eat it again for dinner.

Not going to find that here. Far too many times I’ve made some pretty bold statements about new leaves I’m turning over, sins I’m giving up, and how many pounds I intend to lose. Sure, I can make a list of resolutions if forced to do so, but if Motherhood has taught me anything it all, then I know to keep my mouth shut…for the most party anyhow.

The best teacher: my kid.

Before I had my kid, I had all kinds of notions of the things I would or wouldn't do as a mom; how quickly many of those notions flew out the window when the day-to-day reality of this squirming, mewing newborn – now turned babbling, spunky toddler – arrived on the scene. 2014 has been the single most humbling year of my life. Harder than any rehab after knee reconstruction, harder than getting up at 4 am in the bitter cold to train before heading to class, harder than moves across the country, harder than my first year of teaching. It’s been HARD.

But – I’ve been a keen student and have grown marginally wiser to this new normal. I’m still learning, though. Learning to let go, mostly. To let go of what other mothers are doing and to not compare myself to them; we’ve each got our own gig going, and what we do is the best for our own kids. To let go of the dog-hair tumbleweeds that taunt me in the corners of the stairs, to let go of the dishes that haven’t been scrubbed, to let go of the office that sorely needs to be reorganized. I’m not a “let go” kind of woman by nature. In fact, I’m quite the opposite. I’m the get shit done, every square inch of my home is organized, kind of woman – at least I was. I’ve had to clear out the clutter in my psyche and make room a whole other human being, one that needs me much more than the dishes, the dog hair, or the messy closet.

I’m just going to continue on this journey with Lucille and Big Red. I will do my best to take care of myself a little better, and to continue learning to let go of the small things. Okay, so I lied. That previous statement sure did sound like a resolution, but I’m alright with what I’ve put out into the universe.

Happy 2015.

Fall 2014

Once again we have found ourselves in coats and scarves, the traces of autumnal colors all but gone. We crossed the threshold of one year as parents, and I personally gave myself a pat on the back for surviving. Not that we're out of the woods; we're still very much deep in the trees, often in the dark, guessing at which direction we should head.

Miss Lucille continues to grow and thrive despite the endless stream of colds, coughs, and annoying germs from daycare. She loves her friends at "school," and she adores her teachers. We often get reports that our kid is the "life of the party," and is quite content to entertain. Big surprise. Not much is different at home, and my blue-eyed babe makes me smile and laugh on a daily basis. She is growing her personality more and more, and learning just as quickly.

To date, Lucy now says: mama, daddy, ball, apple, happy, car, go, yeah, bubbles, baby, doggie, ducky, birdie, book, woof, good girl, and nana. She understands a ton, and can point out or go and grab most of her toys when asked. Her current favorites are Piggy (a stuffed pig), Tiger (a stuffed tiger), and any of the cars Big Red gave to her from his matchbox collection. Lucy continues to enjoy books, and we've added Chicka Chicka Boom Boom to the rotation. For now the pacifier remains (say what you will), but we're down to just an am and pm bottle of milk. Lucy knows the signs for more, food, help (a modified version), and milk. She gets her teeth brushed every night, and continues to be a good sleeper - that is, when there's no illness thwarting her efforts.

In the month of December alone she added four teeth, for a total now of six, and there appears to be a few more on deck. Lucy quickly learned to climb into the Learning Tower Big Red made for her, and most evenings she keeps me company in the kitchen while I put dinner together. She is content to play with a bowl and spoon while mama cooks.

A few other notables this fall season:

• first trip to the pumpkin patch
• first trick or treating Halloween
• she's using a utensil to eat more often
• she can identify the eyes, nose, ear, mouth, and belly
• stacks rings on a stick
• working on throwing a ball
• getting better at walking faster and close to running
• she had her first unofficial haircut - I trimmed her bangs
• she rode her first pony

Personally, I'm still struggling to find a balance - Motherhood and Myself-hood. I joined a gym, and the goal is go twice a week. Out of two weeks, I made my goal once. Baby steps. Most evenings I'm exhausted by 8 pm, but Big Red and I have gone out a couple of times, and I went out with some girlfriends a week ago - no husbands, no kids, just the gals. We had a lovely time. Tonight as I sit here and write this, the monitor next to me, an ear keenly tuned to any chirps my kid makes, there are dishes in the sink, and plenty of tidying up to do. There just aren't enough hours in the day to get it all done. So I've decided I can cry about it (which sometimes happens), or I can pick and choose what I feel really needs attention, and then let the rest go. Letting go is difficult. VERY difficult, but so necessary at this stage in my life. As I've said before, perfection is unattainable and a dangerous bar to set.

Despite all the exhaustion of parenthood and life, my crowning achievements this season have been putting together Lucy's first birthday party, and finishing a project that had been in the works since she was born: I edited and put together all the live-action clips of my daughter's first year in a finished piece. It's 30 minutes long, would probably bore anyone who isn't blood related to this kid, but I LOVE IT.

Christmas is around the corner and I have a sneaking suspicion Santa will make a stop here for Lucy. She's too young get to get Christmas, but I still look forward to seeing her face light up each night when she flips the switch that turns on the Christmas tree.

I'm going to hit the "publish" button on this post, change into my comfy clothes, ignore the dishes in the sink, and head downstairs to relax. Because if I don't take the opportunity to relax tonight, then it won't really ever happen.

Month Eight.

Somehow, I knew this month was going to be a big one, maybe even a grand slam. It is almost incomprehensible how much Lucille has learned in the past four weeks. She has hit milestone after milestone, so much so that were I to elaborate in the narrative format, this entry would be to long:

• She can now hold a sippy cup and drink from it.
• She had her first ride, big girl style up front, in a shopping cart. And she loved it!
• She sat in a high-chair at a restaurant. Gone is the schlepping of the car seat.
• She now reaches for and attempts to hold her own bottle; those bottles are now 6.5 ounces.
• While in the sitting position, she can then move onto her belly, then up on her hands and knees and rock back and forth.
• She in incredibly intent on pulling up and standing.
• She fed herself food for the first time, and now continues to do so on a regular basis.
• She often grabs for the spoon and attempts to feed herself.
• She has figured out how to roll!!
• Should her pacifier fall out in the middle of the night, Big Red and I no longer have to replace it for her. She can reach around, find it, and put it back in her own mouth.
• She can now put herself to sleep, not only at night, but for her naps as well.
• She has dropped the five o' clock hour feeding and now sleeps through to the six o' clock hour, upon which she gets a bottle, and then goes back to sleep for a hour, sometimes an hour and a half.
• She had her first pool experience and splashed happily in the water.
• Is beginning to learn to wave, "bye-bye."
• Added scrambled eggs, toast w/butter, black beans, mango, quinoa, kale, blueberry, and cauliflower to the list of foods she eats.
• She now weighs roughly 20 lbs.
• And she responds to her name.

This was also the month we celebrated my first Mother’s Day. I had requested of Big Red a particular gift I’d seen mentioned among my Mommy Group friends, a Mother’s Journal. In lieu of cards, the idea behind the journal is to provide a space for your child to write letters to you each year. Since Lucy is obviously not old enough to write me a letter, Big Red penned one on her behalf, glued in a couple of pictures, and outlined her tiny little hand. It was perfect. Flowers arrived the day before Mother’s Day, and to my surprise, they were from my West Coast family! Breakfast that Sunday morning was eggs benedict, my absolute favorite. It was the Mother's Day it was supposed to be; sweet and intimate, not too much fuss. 

A friend of mine from graduate school sent me an email the other day and he’d asked, in the message, to update him on Lucy and my life. I told him that I really like my daughter, and I explained that sometimes when I tell folks that they’re response is, “You like her? You don’t love her?” Without question or hesitation, I love my daughter. In fact the word love often seems to pale in comparison to what I feel for this little girl. But you can love someone, and not necessarily like them. Not only do I love my daughter, but I like her too. She’s so much fun to be around these days. 

We hit a home run with this kid, I tell you, and it continues to be a privilege to see her personality flourish. Lucy is becoming this wonderfully funny and bright little being; her very own self apart from me and Big Red. It’s like magic. 

Then I think to myself, I made her. 

And then I’m overwhelmed with the gravity of it all. Those slippery ideas that you attempt to grapple with but end up shelving for another time because they’re just too big. Maybe that’s  the way it’s meant to be: stay present, dance in the feelings of the moment, and quit trying to understand the expanse of those emotions, because you just know.

Happy eight months, my sweet Lucille.

Lucy's Birth Story

You were born on a Wednesday when the colors of autumn had just begun to ink their marvelous stain on the trees. A middle of the week baby, brought into the world as the seasons changed, a Libra.

I got up to go to work that morning, feeling as I had been, ready and waiting for your arrival, but not sensing anything different. The lunch bell rang and I walked a couple blocks to a store to buy some lunch: a package of California rolls and a candy bar. On the walk both to and from the store, I did notice I was feeling more tightening of my belly, but I’d assumed it was another round of Braxton Hicks contractions – practice for the real deal.  Lunch was as lunch always was, sitting in the PD room with my colleagues, chatting about everything and nothing. When the bell rang to begin fourth period, I got up and immediately sensed something. I went to the restroom and saw I had flooded myself. I wasn't sure if I’d peed myself or if my water had broken and what I was looking at was amniotic fluid, so – I went about my business and started class.

And then things changed.

Every time I stood up from my desk, my body, well, leaked. At that point I was starting to believe that this wasn't pregnancy induced incontinence, but something more.  I excused myself from my students and went back to the restroom, and that’s when I confirmed my water broke. Instead of going back into my room, I walked downstairs to the office and let the secretary know that I’d need someone to cover my class as my water had just broken. She got very excited. I just stood there. Leaking.

I went back up to my room to collect my belongings, and within minutes the nurse and two teachers showed up. It didn't take long for my students to figure out what was going on. Their excitement was endearing. I went to the nurse’s office, called the Midwife and let her know what was going on. They suggested I go to Triage and get assessed since I wasn't, at the moment, having contractions. I called Big Red and let him know that my water had broken, and for him to make his way home and wait for my next call. There was no pain, no sense of urgency at that point, so I drove myself to the hosptial.

After being admitted into Triage, it was determined that my water had in fact broken and that I was 3-4 cm dilated. At that point it was around noon, and I called Big Red to tell him to bring the bag, this was the real deal.

Within an hour, we were shown to our Labor & Delivery room. We set up camp, and quickly thereafter the contractions showed up with a vengeance. There was no getting used to a gradual increase in pain as the pain went from virtually nothing at all to a screaming yawp of fire. I was dilating quickly, and the contractions were coming one on top of the other with little rest in between. Big Red would look at the monitor and tell me that the graph of the contractions was not the nice bell curve that we thought it would be, but rather sharp steep peaks. Out the door flew my birth plan, and intentions of a natural childbirth without the aid of anesthesia. I looked at Big Red, said our code word phrase: “Chocolate: I want an epidural.”

The resident anesthesiologist showed up within minutes, an angel in my book, and proceeded to administer the epidural. It took some time as the contractions did not allow much time in between to insert the needle into my back, but eventually he was able to get it in. And then the relief. Sweet, sweet relief from the intolerable pain – pain so venomous, I was certain that each time a contraction wrapped its gnarly arms around my pelvis, I left my body. And then I was relaxed. And we watched some TV, and we chatted. But it wasn’t long before I was beginning to feel an odd pressure in my bottom. We alerted the nurse and I asked to be checked. I was complete. 10 cm. The midwife assessed that I should “labor down;” resist the urge to push and allow my body to bring the baby down lower into the birth canal. That way, when I did begin to push, it wouldn’t take as long. I was game. That lasted maybe half an hour, because at some point, my body just started pushing against the pressure without my permission. It was show time.

Big Red held my right leg, and the nurse held my left. Pushing seemed to come easily enough for me and I was able to work with each contraction and bring the baby down further and further. The mirror above my head on the ceiling showed the entire scene, and when I did have my eyes open (for some reason it was more comfortable to push with them closed), I could see peeks of the baby’s head.

Lucille Katherine Marshall was born at 9:40 pm, on Wednesday, October 9, 2013. The entire labor and delivery process was roughly nine hours in length. Her APGAR scores were 9 and 9 (the first given at one minute and the second give at 5 minutes, each after birth respectively). Because it was determined earlier on that there was some meconium in the amniotic fluid, Big Red was not able to cut the cord and she was not placed directly on my chest after birth. That did not deter from anything. It was only a handful of minutes before the nurse brought my daughter over to me. She lay on my chest, her skin to my skin, a head full of dark hair, steel gray eyes, the longest feet and toes I’d ever seen. I marveled that this little creature was something that, minutes ago, was living inside of me.

Big Red made phone calls to our parents and announced her name. It had been a secret, her name. It was the last surprise we could hold onto, and we did, successfully, for the duration of my pregnancy. He was, so incredibly amazing during the entire process. He knew when to touch and comfort me, and when to leave me alone in my pain. He has, without skipping a single beat, slipped so eloquently into fatherhood, it is a travesty to think he once doubted his abilities. Big Red changed the first diaper, and he is so gentle with her, you'd think he was holding a gossamer winged butterfly. 

Everything about Lucy’s birth was amazing, surprising, life-changing, and humbling. I am forever a woman transformed. I do not have super powers, and I’m not in any way smarter than I was before my daughter’s birth. What I am is a woman who was lucky enough to bring a life into this world. I have been charged with the care of this sweet little girl; a responsibility so awesome, I cannot look directly into its depths.  Instead, I will allow the love – inexplicable, instantaneous love—springing up from a well somewhere hidden I did not know existed within me, to wrap its light around her life. 

Today, my daughter is a week old and I can hardly believe such a swath of time has already slipped between my grasp. Every snuggle, every kiss of her cherubic cheeks, every gurgle and squeak - I am savoring every moment I can. 

Earthquakes.

I grew up in Southern California, and as part of my upbringing, earthquakes, the talk of, the experience of, and preparing for them was quite normal. In school we'd have earthquake drills (get under your desk, cover your head, and put your ass towards the window), and in elementary school, every year we were asked to bring in an "earthquake kit." A giant ziplock baggie that contained shelf-stable food, juice/water and snacks. At home you were supposed to have an AM/FM radio that was battery operated or wind-up, flashlight/batteries, a store of food and water, blankets and a first aid kit. It was all par for the course.

Thankfully, while I have experienced my share of earthquakes, none was ever terribly horrible. I was never at the epicenter of such an episode and at the most got jolted, but was never in any real danger. I remember some earthquakes being large enough to wake me, but not worrisome enough to get out of bed. Some were big loud rumbles that shook the whole house then rocked you side-to-side while standing in a doorway, others were little tremors that made you stop, look around, register that something was happening, and then go about your business.

Big Red and I are, as you know by now, preparing for our own life earthquake - one that should be arriving in the next 3.5 weeks, give or take. Hopefully it's "take," cause I'm about done with this gestation business. And quit with your, Hmmm, it doesn't look as though you've dropped yet, and the, I don't think you want her to come any earlier than necessary, she's much easier to take care of while in there, or the, get your sleep now while you can! Once again, thanks for your ill-timed unsolicited remarks. I'd like to punch you all square in the teeth. As for the OVERLY USED "get sleep now" commentary, guess what - I can't get sleep now even if I wanted to. I'm uncomfortable. Sleeping through the night is a long gone affair. Frankly, I'll be more practiced at NOT getting sleep than if I could still sleep through the night, so shove it biotches. And shut up.

Anyhow, back to our life earthquake. When we get home, we are fully expecting things to be wonky and I'm definitely guessing neither one of us will want to get in the kitchen and cook. No way. So in order to prepare our own earthquake survival kit, and for all the million aftershocks, I've been on a cooking spree. The last couple of weeks I've been putting together and cooking freezer meals. Today was my last day of preparation and I feel good about what I've stocked, some of which I made double batches:

• Veggie Lasagna
• Stuffed Pepper Soup
• Turkey Burgers
• Chicken Enchiladas
• Black Bean & Corn Soup
• Million Dollar Spaghetti
• Beef & Broccoli

Not only did I include the meals above, but I also made two trays of ready to pop in the oven apple crisp. Meals are important, but so is appealing to the sweet tooth! I even went as far as typing up a list of all the stocked meals, how to defrost and cook/reheat and what we may need to add along with each. That has been printed and posted on the fridge so that when Big Red reaches in to grab something, it'll be clear what to do.

It'll be hard to stay away from those apple crisps, but I won't allow myself to give in on behalf of Future Mom Me, because I know when we're beat ass tired, and all we want to do is have a home cooked meal, I'll also be grateful there's a dessert as well.

In other recent news, last week we toured the hospital where I'll be delivering. We got to see the triage rooms (step 1: early labor), the labor/delivery rooms (step 2: active labor and delivery), and the post-natal rooms (step 3: recovery). The labor/delivery rooms were surprisingly spacious and we were both impressed. I will admit seeing those rooms did make me a little nervous; I had a moment of oh shit, this is really going to happen - we're going to be in one of these soon.  I'm glad we did the tour though, as now we know exactly where to go and what to expect. I think it would have been more unnerving to be in labor for the first time in my life and not have seen those surroundings before.

One thing I'm going to do my best with, given everything goes without any major hiccups, is labor at home for as long as I can. The Midwives have told us that a good rule of thumb as to when to come to the hospital (again, so long everything is fine and after speaking with them on the phone) is known as 4-1-1: contractions that are four minutes apart, lasting at least a minute and consistently happening for an hour. Our birth class instructor followed up with the same advice, and also made the point that home is where we are most comfortable, and statistics show that once you arrive at the hospital labor can slow down due to the unfamiliar environment.

Really though, we need some luck on our side. I'm determined, we've done our homework and learned relaxation/breathing techniques, I have a tremendous support system in Big Red, but the last component is luck. Let's hope this little gal brings us the luck we need for the delivery we're hoping for.

An Era On Pause

We rounded another bend in the road towards parenthood: we’ve started our birth class. 

The punch list is getting smaller and smaller with every passing week. Items are being checked off the list with efficiency; we’ve chosen a pediatrician whom we really dig, the hospital bag is just about packed, the bouncy seat was put together, her bed sheets have been laundered, and her “go home” outfit has been selected. I’m still planning on taking a one-night nursing class (on the calendar as "Boob 6:30 pm"), just to get some of the basics down.

School is back in session which means I’m back to work. And boy oh boy am I feeling a difference in my level of energy – I have none. By the end of the day I’m socked and my feet and ankles have all but disappeared into fleshy loaves of bread. Because reaching my toes is a bit of a grunt-inducing task, last night I asked Big Red to press on one of my feet so I could see what it would do. To my horror his thumb left a depression that took several seconds to recover and plump up again. It was like a Tempurpedic mattress! I also now have a small numb spot on my belly thanks to the last leg growth of the baby. Both of these symptoms aren't anything too terrible, and mostly just annoyances. The evenings are kind to my feet and by morning they've returned to a reasonable state (I can see definition in my ankles again). I’m sure it helps that Big Red is willing to give foot rubs, too.

For most of this journey I've had very little to complain about and much for which to be thankful. I’m lucky in that I've been around babies my whole life, even working in the infant room of a daycare center while in college. Wobbly heads, changing diapers, and the general handling of a baby is not something I ever worry about. In fact, I love babies and can’t wait to hold my own. Last night though, the instructor at our birth class said something that stuck with me in a way that it hadn't until just then. She was talking to us about early labor and the stages of the whole process, what to expect and all that jazz. She encouraged the class to, while in the segment of early labor, take time to be with our partners. Watch a movie, go for a walk, even to cuddle because once we leave the house, “You leave as a couple and return as a family.”

For thirteen years it has been just us. We've had each other all to ourselves. When she made that statement, even though logically I've know this is what will happen after I deliver, the tiniest hint of panic and sadness came over me. And not because I’ll have to take care of someone else, or the energy required to do so, but more so because the era of just us will now be put on pause for at least the next couple of decades. I thought about it again on the way to work and to my surprise I got a little teary-eyed. In that moment I wanted to turn the car around, drive home, and give Big Red a giant hug. This is the first time in all these long months I've felt emotional in a way that I could not control.

Thirteen years has been amazing – all the ups, downs, twists, and turns, and I’m so glad we took the path we did and have had those years to be just us before we become a family. I know my husband inside and out, and can predict with sniper accuracy how he will react in virtually any situation. And he can do the same for me. No doubt that will aid us in this next chapter. This also makes me more resolute to remember to work hard to create those moments of just us, when we can, even after the baby arrives.

Today happens to be Big Red’s birthday. We’re going to go out to dinner to celebrate. I still need to wrap his gifts, and thankfully I get home before he does. But when he does get home, I’ll give them to him, along with a great big giant hug. And the evening will be that much sweeter. 

Say My Name

Later this fall, Big Red and I will welcome our first child into our family. Olive will be a big sister. Things are going well and while I have not yet been able to feel anything, my belly has definitely begun to grow. I'm nearly 18 weeks along and have pretty much been wearing maternity pants for a month now. Truth is I may never return to "regular" pants because these genius elastic-waist bands are so freaking comfortable. It's like wearing sweatpants all day. Takes me back to my college years.

In just nine days I am scheduled to have the big anatomy scan, and yes we will be finding out if this little nugget is a boy or a girl. Oh yes. This mamma is a planner from cell to flesh and I don't think I could function if I had to wait until the birth. Everyone has an opinion about whether one should wait or not to find out the sex. Frankly, I could give a shit. Last time I checked, I was the one with the sore boobies and the growing tummy; sounds like the choice is ours despite the whole, "But don't you want to be surprised?" argument. Being told whether this is a girl or boy will garner the same surprise regardless of whether I'm lying on a bed with some blue-goo on my belly, comfortable and relaxed, or lying on a bed, having just pushed out a squirming screaming newborn. It's a surprise either way. Period. And because I'd like to have as much ready as I possibly can, I want to know. Now. In nine days. Case closed.

I have found that being pregnant opens the door for everyone and their mother to 1. touch your stomach, 2. tell you everything they know about parenting, 3. tell you their horror of a birth story, 4. ask you what you're going to name the kid. To which I will respond with the following: 1. a karate chop to your wandering touch or a reciprocal hand to your belly, 2. stop you and tell you I'm only having this child so someone will do the dishes for me, 3. proceed to interrupt your story and tell you about all my soccer injuries, 4. let you know I'm not revealing names.

Ahh, the name. Along the lines of opinions, so are the mired waters of the name discussion. The ritual and tradition of naming a child is as old as time, and is a very personal choice. I would NEVER make a rude comment to someone who has shared their choice of names. While I may not particularly like their choice, I'm going to damn well keep those thoughts to myself - as should everyone else. Nor should people proceed to tell a parent-to-be some wild story about an "Emma" they once knew and how she was a slutty whore. Because I know not everyone can hold their tongue, Big Red and I will not, I repeat NOT be sharing our name choices. We may leak to a few very close people, but that's pretty much it. Choosing a name for a child is a big responsibility, at least that's how we view it. Big Red has an aversion to the current more trendy names out there right now, and we both agree we like names that have been around for a while. This kid definitely will not have a Top 10 name, in fact they will probably not even have a Top 100 name. Last night we were perusing and using the US Social Security Administration website, plugging in possible choices to see where they ranked in popularity. It was both funny and a fun discussion. Turns out my name, Ilene, is a name that is not even in the top 1000 names for the past decade. Score me.

The very real responsibility of giving a name is undeniable  We want the name to be strong, time-tested, and to sound professional. We're not interested in unique spellings, or something easily butchered. Other parents may follow different guidelines, these are ours.

It's That Simple

He came home feeling down and out, saw me laying on the couch taking a nap. Disregarding his own state of mind, he offered to make dinner which would include homemade meatballs. I was to relax and stay put.

It is no wonder I have loved this man for 13 years.

Pint-Sized Love.

It used to be that when Valentine's Day neared, I'd start dropping hints about what we should do, or what I should receive. The household in which I grew up, my parents celebrated all those holidays with cards and gifts and big to-dos. It was only natural that when I finally found my own permanent Valentine that I'd want to replicate what I saw growing up. Insert Big Red and some very different ideas about what Valentine's Day should or should not be.

Big Red is of the ilk that Valentine's Day is one big dumb commercialized scheme to get consumers to buy overpriced flowers and chocolates, to spend too much on a dinner, to loose one's wad o' cash on some jewelry, and to set girls up with very high expectations. Um, well - kinda. Over a decade ago when Big Red and I first got together, I tried to make a big deal about Valentine's Day. I essentially forced the gift exchange on him, expecting the dude to produce something shiny or pretty. It was never an organic procedure, in fact traditional gift-giving is NOT natural for Big Red. He's always struggled in that department and on occasion it has led to some heated discussions and even a few tears. Fast-forward ten years and change, and we've now settled upon a happy medium of a joint decision about whether or not we'll go out to dinner, more so because we love food, and less so because it's Valentine's Day. There aren't any forced cards or stressed-out gift searches. I've let that one go, cause that's what you do sometimes in a marriage. You decide what's really important and work on those pieces, and let the little nagging issues fall by the wayside.

Thursday, I got home and decided we should go out for some cheap delicious Mexican cuisine. When Big Red got home, I proposed the idea and he was, not surprisingly, enthusiastically on board. I said, "I'm going to take you out to dinner!" This is a running joke in our household because our money is not separated. We've shared every dollar from day one. He then responded with, "Alright, because I've got dessert covered."

What's that you say? Dessert?

Turns out Big Red, on his very own, without obnoxiously dropped hints from yours truly, stopped at the grocery store on his way home from work and bought me one of the greatest loves of my life: ice cream. And not only did he buy me ice cream, but he bought me my FAVORITE ice cream; a pint each of strawberry and creme brulee, made by the incomparable Haagen Dazs and Ben & Jerry's, respectively.

Jewelry is lovely, flowers are pretty, but for this gal, little else tops the luxury and extravagance of ice cream. Big Red knows his lady. Now that's love.

Lucky.

A new year. And of course the inevitable reflection of life and my existence within it. I said back in September that I was going to consider dismantling this blog. As of right now, I've decided against it. There is still a strong sense in keeping some of my life off the screen, but there is also a want and desire to write about it. The author in me, perhaps seeks to share, or at the very least engage in the act of writing. And "publishing" on this blog holds my writing accountable to me. For now, that's good enough to remove this blog from the chopping board.

Every new year's eve, I find myself saying, "this year will be better, I can feel it." I felt that on December 31, 2011, and I felt it again last night. 2012 held both sunshine and rain. Big Red took a giant courageous leap and made a career change and also got a brand spanking new car! I got healthy, lost a bunch of weight, and then began fostering a romantic vision of starting down the road to a family. It happened quickly for us, near the start of summer, and just as we were beginning to wrap our heads around the idea - after 11 weeks, it was gone. Just like that.

And then school started; my "kids" were now seniors, this would be our fourth year together! I had incredibly high hopes for the first semester. Alas, it fell hard, and has fallen quite flat. The class I was/am teaching has missed the mark. I know it and that has been rough. As for forging on towards a family when we were cleared for take-off once again, the family train became a mission. Too much of a mission. My personal life and professional life, both for which I had grand visions, became blurred and disappointing. I was trolling through a fog and it sucked.

This winter break was exactly what I needed, and somehow I've convinced myself to pull my ass out of the muck at work, just enough to get through the remainder of the semester, making the best of what pieces of the course I can salvage. I'm determined to end the semester on a positive note.

As for the personal, I am giving myself permission to step off the train and attempt to relax a bit. I don't want to hear, "just don't think about it," because that's virtually unattainable. In fact, it IS impossible. Trust me, I'll be thinking about it all plenty, but I'm working hard not to allow this vignette in my life to become all-consuming. I don't want to hear questions about how is it going. That's incredibly infuriating, regardless of the source: friend or family. I'm inquisitive myself, and love to know about the lives of others - I understand that. This journey in life is incredibly personal - more so than any other. I know people care, and I know they want to know - but tough titties. If I've got news I want to share, trust me, I'll share it. Moving on.

My eyes are not averted, just refocused on the other just as important pieces of my life: my husband, my Olive, my family, my friends, my health, my creativity, and my peace.

On the advice and encouragement of a friend, I'm going to my very first acupuncture appointment next weekend. Totally excited! Even Big Red was intrigued (I think I may have even detected a hint of some interest from him...). It's a new year and I can't think of a more appropriate time to have my chi or "life energy" realigned and balanced. I'm completely open to it.

My resolution intentions for 2013 are to remember (thanks Mia) that this is just how it is right now, live in the present without projecting, seek to find balance, and to enjoy.

This year will be better, I can feel it.

Friday the 13th

A lucky, lucky number in our lives. Five years ago we said, "I do." And I'd do it again without hesitation. Again, and again. For all his foibles and supremely annoying avoidance of doing the dishes - he's still The One.

How I love this man.

Leavin' on a jet plane...

Photo Credit: Wired Destinations

But not today.

Later this month Big Red and I get to go to California for a week, and then upon our return I'll unpack for a day, then get back on a plane to go visit my friend and her new son in North Carolina. Two wonderful trips to round out Summer 2012.

But, because there's always a but, I can't help but wistfully daydream of all the places I still want to see. Big places. Like destinations that require a valid passport. I haven't used my passport since 2006 when I surprised Big Red with a trip to Ireland for his 30th birthday. Yeah, I know, awesome gift, right? I took a second job working at Ann Taylor in the evenings and on weekends, saving my paychecks in a secret bank account. The trip took two years to save for, but when all was said and done, we had a fabulous vacation in Ireland that was paid for in full. 

And that's how I like to do things, or at least spend my money. I like to save up and then pull the trigger. I hate debt, which probably doesn't differentiate me from most, but I'm pretty vehement when it comes to paying things off. Except for my student loans; those bastards are permanent barnacles affixed to the underbelly of my life. And my income. Whatever. One day they won't be there. End of story.

Besides Ireland, I've been to Cuba, Mexico and all over the United States.  While I've seen a substantial portion of the US thanks to two cross country moves, there is still a healthy list of places I'd like to see:

• Portland, Oregon
• Seattle, Washington
• Sedona, Arizona
• Savannah, Georgia
• New Orleans, Louisiana
• Cape Cod, Massachusetts
• Vermont
• Maine
• Hawaii
• Alaska

Then there's the wish list with destinations outside of the US:

• France
• Germany
• Italy
• Spain
• South Africa
• Bora Bora

Impossible list? I don't think so. Plausible? Definitely. What's my biggest obstacle? 

Money. 

Photo Credit: Hotel Connoisseur

Stupid, stupid, money. The almighty dollar. Coinage. Dough. Funds. Funds. I need funding. Traveling doesn't fall out of thin air, not to these destinations. I don't play the lottery, and I'm pretty certain of what I'll be making as a public school teacher from here on out until retirement. I'm not going to be anywhere near skid row, but there aren't going to be Benjamins raining from accounts. Not even close. So I find myself returning to what makes me most comfortable: saving. Squirreling away money when I can find it.

I'm going to set a goal. Yes, it may seem like a long ways away, but I'm going to shoot for it. If I get to it sooner and it should work out, then bravo, if not - the end date is 2018. The year I turn 40. Either before or in the year 2018, I want to take a big trip either to Europe, a France/Italy combo, or a vacation to Bora Bora. It may be with Big Red, it may be with girlfriends. At this point, the details are irrelevant. All I know is I want to go.  So, with my budding photography business, I plan on socking away what I earn in hopes of funding a 40th birthday trip.

Who's coming?

Berkeley Springs, WV.

A weekend that begins with a mineral bath and includes homemade ice cream, a massage, horseback riding, naps, and delicious dinners, should be part of everyone's life. Big Red and I were lucky enough to have spent a wonderful, wonderful weekend in Berkeley Springs, WV. If you live near to this quaint little town, I highly recommend a visit.

We departed around lunch time on Friday, and returned around lunch today. The Country Inn was our home for two nights, and a lovely home it was. We had a suite in the historic portion of the inn that was reached only by traversing some good old fashioned creaky wood stairs decked with paintings and photographs of yore.

This trip was a mini getaway to celebrate 12 years together. Because of Big Red's travelling with his new job, which by the way - he's totally loving!, we can't really do any long vacations. Thus, we hope take a few short weekend trips, Berkeley Springs being the first of the season. We ate dinners at Tari's and the Ambrae House, enjoyed cones from the local ice cream shop, and clomp-clomped on horseback through Cacapon State park. We napped when we felt like it, and we indulged in wine and cheese late into the evenings back in our room.

Perhaps it was the warm mineral waters of Berkeley Springs we bathed in, with their holistic healing properties, that left us both feeling rested and refreshed with smiles on our faces. It couldn't have been a better weekend.

Cheers to 12.

An Athlete Always

Tomorrow I'll be part of my staff's team running the relay portion of our city's marathon. There are three others running the half, and one crazy-ass running the full 26.2 miles, which by the way, will be his second year in a row for doing so. He's my hero.  I did the full 26.2 in 1999. At the time I said I'd never ever do that again, but in the years since, I've flirted with the idea of the doing the full again. Not only is it a beast of a run, but the time required to train for it is pretty extensive. You don't just show up ready to run 26.2 miles without logging some serious wear on your sneakers.

I've completed two sprint triathlons, and this is my second year doing the relay. Big Red thinks I'm coconuts for participating in these events. He thinks it's inconceivable that someone would pay to participate in such a torturous event. But how do you approach a pedestrian perspective with your own that's chalk full of a history of athletics? I've been competing in some form of sport my entire life. For as long as I can remember, really. Gymnastics, swimming, soccer, triathlons, marathons. It's safe to say that I'm no longer a "competitive" athlete in the sense that I'm trying to win trophies and championships. No one is counting on me for anything. In my adult life, athletics has become more of an internal competition. Man vs. Man - Me vs. Me. Can I best my time from the last round? I enjoy pushing myself and challenging my body, and I will admit it's nice not having a coach screaming at me to do so. I like relying on my own intrinsic motivation. The pressure cooker of high-end competitive athletics is one I absolutely do no miss. Not for one second.

I just got finished making my mix for tomorrow's leg of the marathon: Black-Eyed Peas, Kanye West, Ke$ha,  Lady GaGa, Michael Jackson, P!nk, Pitbul, Tina Turner, Nelly, Rihanna, LMFAO, Whitney Houston, The Monkees, and Queen.  A motley crew of music, no?

4.7 miles. Wish me luck.

And Happy Cinco de Mayo.

ps: I think I may have broken my plateau - logged another 1.4 lbs lost. Score.

Pinterest. That's Why.

Pinterest. That's my newest online obsession and the reason for my fifteen day absence from this blog. Have you tried it yet - Pinterest? It's wonderful and addicting and wonderful. Did I say wonderful? Think cyberspace walk-in closet for all the things you like, want to try, wish you had, hope to make, long to someday complete. I've been quite partial to the collecting of recipes, one of which I'll be sharing with you in just a few short paragraphs.

Other than my blog negligence, life is lovely. Big Red is flourishing at his new job.  He just got back from several days at a race in Virginia. He reports having had a blast and learning plenty about the Formula 2000 racing gig. I baked two batches of man-sized oatmeal raisin cookies - one with dark chocolate chips and one with Reese's peanut butter chips. They went over very well and it felt good contributing somehow. I have no problems being marked as the cookie maker, and will happily send the hubs packing with fresh batches each time he travels. It's both comforting and warming to see Big Red so happy these days.

Olive has a new friend, Buddy the Beagle. Buddy lives next door and belongs to our awesome neighbors. Olive and Buddy play very well together and it's rather amusing. After a play date, Olive almost always comes in pooped and content. I like that she has another dog to play with as I think it's important to her quality of life. Sure, Big Red is an excellent playmate, and I do mean excellent (he gets down on the floor and basically wrestles with her), but no doubt Olive enjoys the company of another canine friend.

The goings on at work are copacetic. We have just 8 weeks (hallelujah!) left in the school year. It's hard to believe my students will be seniors next year - my beloved punks, the same ones I've been teaching for three years now. There has never been, and there will never be another group like the class of 2013. Through a series of circumstances and scheduling, they have been, almost exclusively, the only students I've taught for the past three years, and they will be my students again for their final year. Four years I've had the same students. Four years. Incredible.

Photo Credit: Lunch Box Bunch

Time for some grub. This recipe sniped from Pinterest lead me back to the blog, Lunch Box Bunch. The recipe calls for three parts: making the quinoa, prepping the stuff that gets tossed into the quinoa, and then making a slaw. When I made this earlier in the week, I made all of it. I wasn't too keen on the slaw, but the quinoa part was oh so yummo. I was pretty sad when it was all gone. If you click on the photo credit, it will take you to the website with the full recipe. What I'm including below will just be my adaptation and what I  enthusiastically recommend. And yes, it's vegan. BONUS!!

Curried Quinoa

Step 1: Make the Quinoa
1 1/2 tbsp Curry
2 tsp sea salt
2 1/3 cups dry, unrinsed quinoa
3 cups water
1/2 cup orange juice


Heat your quinoa ingredients on stove in a saucepan. Bring to a boil. Cover with lid and reduce to a simmer. Simmer for about 11 minutes. Turn off heat. Let sit, lid-on for about ten minutes. Lift lid and fluff with fork. 


Step 2: Make the "Toss-In" Portion

1 1/2 cups frozen peas (thawed or warmed)
1/2 cup salted cashews
1/2cup sweet onion, chopped
2 Tbsp rice vinegar
1/4 cup tahini (add less for fluffier quinoa)
2 Tbsp maple syrup (or agave - I used agave)
2 Tbsp nutritional yeast

Add the toss-in ingredients to the still-hot saucepan with the quinoa. The warm quinoa will gently heat and cook these ingredients. Yet the onions and cashews will still stay nicely al dente.

Grab a wrap or tortilla of choice, fill with magical qunioa mix, throw on some Frank's Red Hot (fabulous addition), and consume. I had some leftover after two glorious evenings of this wrap, and just took the quinoa in to work for lunch the next day - still delicious. You could omit the cashews if you're concerned about calories, but definitely add a nice crunch. Try this. You won't regret it.