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.

 

Summer 2015

It would be no stretch of anyone’s imagination, least of all mine, to regard the summer of 2015 as remarkable. We did everything. Literally. I’m not kidding when I say that there were planes, trains and automobiles involved. As well as oceans, both the Pacific and Atlantic, museums galore, plenty of sugar, ice cream, trips to McDonald's, not enough carousel rides, swimming pools big and small – lessons too, movies, hikes, crafts, injuries (a really ugly scrape to the knee), and some major milestones achieved.

My sprite of a human has a capacious personality; vibrant and intense, she knows what she wants when she wants it, and Lucy has been blessed with the ability to articulate such desires. While on one hand this is fabulous for communication, it can also be a distraction. I often have to remind myself that despite the fact that she can speak in sentences, she’s still not-quite two years old. She may be able to tell me about with whom she played or the dinosaur she colored purple at school that day, and repeat, from A to Z, all the rad American women in her book, but when she’s pissed or frustrated or tired, this 23 month-old is not above throwing a gargantuan tantrum.

And oh my, how those meltdowns have tested me. They have brought me to the brink, and have forced me to use every ounce of patience within my possession and then some. These moments are my kryptonite.

Because of all this – a little girl with advanced language skills, a robust personality, a strong sense of self and desire, I’m often hit with the commentary that sounds like, “You’re going to have a tough time with her when she gets older…” Why is the assumption that because, by all intents and purposes, my toddler is behaving like a toddler, that she’s going to be difficult? She’s (almost) TWO. Why wouldn’t I expect her tiny brain to go haywire when she can’t cope with big emotions? And why doesn’t anyone expect a “quiet” child to be problematic? I refuse to label my daughter. In fact, I try to see her big personality as one that will be the backbone she relies upon as she navigates the world successfully.

We hit some pretty major milestones in this young lady's life. She pooped on the potty, and we got rid of the binky. The first one is self-explanatory, so I’ll spare you the details. But the second was HUGE. It had been a while coming, and this binky business was starting to create issues. We’d relegated it to the crib for just sleep, but this wise child figured out that if she asked to go in the crib, she could enjoy some time with her most beloved possession. At first it was a non-issue, but recently the requests to go in the crib began to increase, and when it was inconvenient, major fits were thrown. The last straw was the day after our return from California. All she wanted to do was go in the crib and chew on the damn bink. I hit my breaking point. We made the decision then and there to take it away. Cold turkey. No lead up. No “binky fairies,” no party, zero fanfare.

That first nap without the use of the pacifier was the undiscovered tenth circle of hell. She pitched the Armageddon of tantrums. She banged her water bottle against the wall, then chucked it across the room. Then, she hurled every single stuffed animal and pillow out of her crib. She howled and wailed, begged and pleaded for her bink, non-stop, for forty minutes. FORTY MINUTES. And for forty minutes, I cried. I was wrecked. I had all the mama guilt in the world. I was certain she would hate me, that she’d forever hold this against me, that she would never ever say again, “I wuv you, mama.” I feared I’d screwed her up somehow. I was awash in doubt.  And then just like that, it was over.  At the forty-first minute, she quit. She lay herself down and she passed out cold, not moving a single muscle or appendage for an hour and a half.

She had exerted her will, did her best to compel me to change my stance – she had been a worthy opponent, but this was a battle I wasn’t going to lose. Nighttime was easier. She only cried for ten minutes. Since that Sunday, the bink has been gone, without much ado. And since that Sunday, she’s laughed with me, told me she “wuvs” me, and has in her own lovely way let me know that I’m still in her good graces.

That night, the first night of no pacifier, Big Red looked over at me and commented on how he was surprised how much this had all affected me. That I’m normally so strong in my convictions and so assured of myself, but that a thing as small as a pacifier had brought me to my knees.

It’s because of her, I told him. That instinct to want to protect and not bring harm or pain is overwhelming, and to know that I may have been the cause of her frustration and her discomfort, however small or large they were, was horrifying. Now that the fiasco is behind us, I’m beyond glad we did what we did when we did it. But damn, it wasn’t easy.

Currently, Lucy is nursing a cold, caught just in time for the start of the school year for me. Nights have been a little rough, but they seem to be getting better. I’ll go into her room if she’s having a coughing fit to try and help her out of it, give her some water, and hold her for a bit. She still fits against my body – I haven’t lost that yet. She’s bigger, she’s heavier, she’s more of her own person, but she still needs me. In the wee hours of the night, last night, I went into her room and lifted her out of the crib. I gave her something to drink and held her against me. We rocked in the chair for a bit and I rubbed her back until the coughing stopped and she settled. As I stood up to put her back to bed, through a tiny hoarse voice, in barely a whisper, she said, “no mama, in da rock’n chair pease.”

So I sat down, fighting my own internal battle – the one most mamas know – the face-off between wanting to want to hold onto her and desperately needing to go back to sleep, and rocked my almost two year-old a little longer. As I listened to her breathe, I tried to recall all the best of our summer. She’d run me ragged, but I’d do it all over again with a smile on my face. When our plane took off from California, climbing high into the early morning, still-dark sky, I thought it apropos that the final scene of summer would be the image of gold sequenced glittering lights of a city below. That was our summer – sparkling, expansive and forever etched into my memory.

My sweet Lucille won’t remember how she laughed at her Papa’s donkey noises, how she ran to her Nana’s arms for “huggies,” or how she rode her first ride at an amusement park with her Grandma. She won’t remember her terror during her first swimming lesson, or how she sat through half of a movie in a movie theater before asking to be “all done.” She won’t remember the carousel rides and how she never wanted to get off, how we hiked together, made crafts together, and ate too much ice cream. She won’t remember how gleefully happy she was to run around naked and splashing in her pool.

In one month, she turns two years old.

She won’t remember any part of this summer.

But I will. 

Spring 2015.

My bulb of a daughter has most definitely reached up through the earth this spring, and is stretching taller than ever these days. How could we have known what was being cultivated inside that little mind this past winter? So much learning, so much growing, so much personality - both the good and the challenging, have blossomed.

Those most notable development is the explosion of language. In a matter of months Lucy has gone from single words, to four and five-word sentences. We have launched passed the "say this" phase and have slammed into the she now repeats everything phase. Literally everything. Homegirl is a parrot which has proven to be more than a slight hurdle for her potty-mouthed parents. Earlier this season, Lucy became frustrated with Olive, and in perfect context said, "Olive no, dammit." Needless to say, Big Red and I have been working to curb our less-than acceptable trucker vernacular. The other side to this language development has meant better communication on all fronts. Lucy is able to describe and ask for what she wants, which in turn helps everyone. There are fewer frustrations for all parties involved now that we can understand each other.

We are cautiously approaching potty training these days. A potty was purchased some time ago, and while Lucy sits on it regularly, not pottying in the potty has happened. There was one instance before bath time that she did in fact pee in the potty, but it hasn't happened since. Neither Big Red nor I have any desire to fast-forward this big step, and we're letting Lucy lead the way. She does let us know, with more consistency, when she's pooped in her diaper, but it stops there. The whole process is a bit mystifying, and just like the rest of this parenting gig, we're learning as we go...figuratively, and literally.

Some other highlights this past season included:

• first official haircut
• first trip to the Natural History Museum
• managing the stairs, both up and down, on her own
• the pacifier now stays in the crib for sleep times only
• first trip to the Outer Banks, seeing the Atlantic Ocean
• our first family photos thanks to Jessica Ferringer 

Our first family photo shoot was a huge success. I was nervous about giving control to someone else, as I knew exactly what I wanted. Jessica Ferringer hit it out of the park. We met her at Phipps Conservatory, and in just 45 minutes, she managed to capture some sweet moments of our little family. As a photographer, it's difficult to hand over the reigns, but there was no way I was going to be able to do this on my own. Setting up the camera on a tripod with a timer? I considered it, oh yes I did, but also realized it would just lead to a lot of frustration. This experience of being in front of the lens also gave me a new appreciation for the families that I work with, especially the ones with toddlers who may or may not cooperate at a moment's notice.

One of the sweetest developments this past spring has been Lucy learning to say, "I love you." Talk about melt-worthy mushiness. Oh my heart. I'm not sure if she entirely comprehends the meaning of the words, but I'm certain she knows they carry some lovely weight. For a spell, she'd only say, "I love you Daddy," and while it was incredibly charming to hear this, I would be lying if I didn't admit I was wishing for that kind of affection. And then it happened. Unprovoked and so monumental for this mama that I noted the date: May 23, 2015. It happened. I wuv you, mama. I died. I was reborn. I was healed. I was an explosion of love and emotion. And I'll never get enough of hearing it.

And while I was swooning in my daughter's love, I was also getting a very real lesson about Lucy as her own person. 

We spent this past week in the Outer Banks. Our first true family vacation. We had all the gear and were ready to spend our days splashing in our private pool and putting our feet in the ocean - that was, I was ready. Lucy had other plans. Day one, I strapped her floaty on, and we slowly made our way into the pool, but once the water hit her chest, she adamantly said, "No want it." Not much changed in the following days. My girl was content to sit at the rim of the pool, and splash the water with her feet - but that was as far as she went. She preferred the make-shift beach Big Red created for her with buckets of sand at the pool's edge. I was sad and had to revise my visions of us splashing in the pool for hours on end. It was a good check yourself moment. She is so much of Big Red and me, but this kid is definitely her own person. Last week was not the week for pool time. I suspect someday down the line she'll learn to enjoy splashing in a pool, but this vacation was not it. I have always loved the water, gravitated to it like a fish. My daughter will take a different approach, a more cautious one, and I have had to learn, quickly, to respect her wishes. 

My girl is growing some wings. She's asserting her independence - No hand, mama. I steps myself. It is both terrifying and amazing. Just as Lucy learns more and more, so do we. We are her safety net - but sometimes she falls and "bonks." I get it. It's all part of this parenting business, this letting go business. 

But don't be fooled - when this independent, self-assured little girl asks mama for "rock a baby" and "more shunshine, mama," I oblige. I pull my daughter into my lap, and in the quiet of her room, she leans her head against my chest, and we rock, and I sing to her, over and over again, "you are my sunshine, my only sunshine." It is in these moments that I realize, she's still so very much a seedling. My sweet Lucille still needs sunshine to grow, and I've got it for her.

All the shunshine in the world, my darling. 

Martha.

I knew it was coming, but it still caught me off guard.

As children that grew up just miles from the Pacific, we learned quickly to brace our bodies against the crash of an oncoming wave. Standing at the shoreline, where land meets water, we'd watch for the tell-tale swell, the ballooning, the slow rise as the sea began to inhale its own force. We learned to turn our backs, and bend our knees, seconds before the curling snarl of wave slammed into our bodies. Many times, we were brought to our knees, clawing our way back to the sun through the grit of sand and salt.

Once again, the wave crashed. The caller ID showed Mom's cell phone, and even before answering, I spoke to no one in particular, the message about to be delivered. She was gone.

Her heart finally gave in under the strain of a liver that had quit, of the sepsis that had taken over, and the water that filled her body.

My cousin, Martha, died today. She was 44.

I held my daughter a little longer this evening, a feral response, an overwhelming need to be certain I could feel the weight of her body against mine. The idea that a mama had to say goodbye to their child, even though that child was a grown woman, elicited an intense visceral reaction. I needed to smell my daughter's freshly bathed body, her damp hair against my cheek. It wasn't a choice.

It is the law of this universe that parents outlive their children, and when that law collapses, we are left in hollow mortal spaces, vulnerable, terrified, and questioning.

Martha was a woman who, stubborn as bull, ultimately made her own choices. Whether they were good or bad is irrelevant; they all converged into the life she lead. All she ever wanted to was to be beautiful, to love and be loved, but sometimes in that desperation, for what many of us, really, are all after, she drove some folks away. Some even with whom she shared the same bloodlines. For the last few years of her life, she was living in Florida, thousands of miles from family and the place from where she began. Perhaps it was a chance to escape the past, to start with a clean slate, to be her own woman on her own terms.

I don't know if she was every truly happy, and that's the saddest part. I hope she had moments of happiness where she was able to free herself from the internal dialogue that often drove her to great lengths to try to escape the body she lived in. Sometimes though, those that make the loudest noises, are the ones who hide the biggest kinds of sadness. Her heart was strong, quite possibly stronger than her mind ever was. The intangible heart, the one from which she loved, came from a genuine place of goodness. Her physical heart, the actual muscle, despite the litany of mounting medical issues, beat longer than anyone expected. Even after life-saving measures were removed on Sunday, her heart beat inside of her for five more days. I know that she believed in a heaven, and I hope for her that such a place of beauty and redemption exists. A place where she can be free of the earthly trappings that never quite lived up to her dreams.

I'm going to make a choice to remember my cousin, laughing and smiling. If I close my eyes, and listen closely, I can hear the sound of her voice. The lilt in her laughter. I found a picture in a box of many others; my mother is ripe with pregnancy, and I am nearly three years old. My grandmother and grandfather are still alive, and everyone is together.

Martha is the little girl in the back row.

While there are so many more pictures of my cousin, I like this one the best. I'd like to think that my cousin, smiling and looking up at our grandfather, Mipa, was happy then. The kind of happy I see in my daughter's smile when she's clapping and laughing after dancing to the tunes on the stereo. The simple happiness that exists before life brings down its gavel and strips us of our ignorance. That easy happy that's genuine and effortless.

The kind of happy we all deserve.

Time.

The other day, I reposted a link to Frank Bruni’s, Op/Ed piece in the New York Times, “Read, Kids, Read.” Bruni cites a study that recently revealed “fewer than 20 percent of 17-year-olds now read for pleasure almost every day. Back in 1984, 31 percent did.” What an incredibly disheartening statistic. Aside from the nearly irrefutable fact that reading is linked with higher intelligence, this speaks to our culture of instant gratification found through digital technology. Those few who are actually reading are slowing down their pace of life. Sitting with a novel, albeit in the hard copy or tablet format (I still very much prefer the hard copy; the act of turning the page, and yes, I’ll admit it – smelling the book), takes time.

Reading for pleasure is not something I’ve been able to figure out how to incorporate back into my life post the birth of my daughter. I have cued up on a list the next several books I’d like to read and have promised myself that I will pick them up this summer. I used to read before going to bed, but I go to bed so early now that if I read before bed, I’d be getting into bed at 8 o’clock, thus leaving little time for catching up with my husband after the baby goes to bed. An excuse? Perhaps, but perception is reality and that is my current reality.

There is a larger issue at hand, though. Time. The pace of it all. How we’re always looking to get things done more efficiently so that we have more time. And yet despite all the gadgets, aps, and time savers available, there doesn’t seem to be any time gained. I’m guilty of it. Just this morning I was trolling Pinterest for “quick and healthy recipes.” The irony is, last night after watching an episode of Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown, where he travels to France, my husband and I were talking about the culture of food in France as compared to here in the states. We’re all about the hurry-up, the fast-food, the “quick and easy.” I remarked to Big Red that we need more of that in our lives where the ingredients and the cooking of those ingredients becomes part of the leisure and enjoyment. That dinner is more than just a wolf-down in front of the television, but a reason to stop and relax. How we are to accomplish this with a seven month old escapes me.

From time to time I get these romantic notions that I will only buy the freshest ingredients from our local farmers' markets, maybe even join a CSA, cook it all from scratch, and we’ll sit down to each meal prepared with a glass of wine. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it? I have yet to transform this vision from black and white to Technicolor.

Here’s what I don’t want, and forgive me if I digress. I don’t want my daughter learning that the end goal is to hurry-up and finish whatever it is we’re doing, whether it’s cooking, eating, or yes, even cleaning. Nor do I want her learning to turn to the television to fill in the blank spaces. As of today, I’m hosting an internal battlefield as to whether or not the TV is in fact abominable, and if I should fight to change the current. It’s how I grew up and I’d like to believe I turned out alright. As I’ve said before, monkey see, monkey do – so if I’m not willing to change my own television watching habits, how could I ever expect her to learn otherwise? Some days I want to get rid of the bright shiny box, and other days I’m like, “Nah, it’s not so bad – I really love watching Real Housewives of ______.” As my students would say, this is “the struggle.” I’m riding the “struggle bus,” when it comes to television.

Lucille deserves the bucolic childhood that every kid should have; playing in the park, rolling down the hill in the backyard, riding her bicycle, painting, running through the sprinklers, drawing, fishing, and reading at her leisure with a flashlight inside the fort she built out of couch cushions and bed sheets – a modern day Laura Ingalls.

Maybe it’s more about balance and less about definitely exclude this or must include that. Not every dinner in our household will be a pastoral farm-to-table, but maybe we can work those in a couple times a week…at some point...someday down the line. So she may watch cartoons on Saturday mornings; I have fond memories of watching such with my younger brother, and we often were playing while watching The Smurfs. We’d dump the bin of Legos out on the floor and create mansions while He-Man battled villains or Jem made sure those pesky Misfits didn’t thwart her latest Holograms concert. I used my imagination. I did. And so will she.

This issue of time will never leave, and is something I’ll have to reckon with. My daughter is seven months old already. It’s such a tired cliché, but it really is all happening so quickly, and I find myself in isolated cyclones of panic knowing that I’m never going to get this moment back. It is terrifying.  Yesterday, I only saw her for a few minutes in the morning. Professional duties occupied my afternoon and evening, thwarting my time with her before she went to bed for the night. This morning, when I fed her at 5 am, I found myself running my cheek along her downy head of hair, inhaling that magical sweet scent. My free hand gently playing with hers as she grasped my fingers in a milk-drunk trance. I found rapture in the weight of her body against mine. In the cloaked darkness of her room, the morning chorus of birds beginning their hymns just outside her window, I savored every moment. Time, for once, was not my nemesis.

“Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore…”

Bye Bye 2011

As I write this, there are exactly 15.5 hours left in 2011.

Excuse me, but where the hell did this past year go? I don't know if I'm falling into that getting older speed warp trap where time seems to accelerate with years lived on the planet, but that's sure what it feels like. I swear it was just 2010 and Big Red and I were getting ready to usher in 2011. We'd had great hopes for 2011, and while we made it through with our health, a home, food in our bellies (albeit too much food in our bellies) and gainful employment, there were some hiccups. I'm not one to dwell, so I'm not going to go into a long diatribe about what we'd wished happened and didn't. That serves no purpose. Eyes to the sky child, not the ground!!

Seriously though, I think I just got used to writing out 2011 and now I'm going to have to switch it up again. I have humble hopes for this coming year. No grandeur. Yeah I've got the standard get healthy goal, and I've also got watch less television, my own personal addictive crack. But I'm also perusing and planning on challenging my own beliefs in terms of lifestyle. My last entry was about working towards wanting less stuff. And that's something I still want to go after. It is because of this that I feel a reunion with an old PITT teammate yesterday was incredibly serendipitous.

I ran into Cande (and yes, she is as sweet and endearing as her name suggests) while at a roller derby a few months back. She came on the soccer team my sophomore year. I didn't hang out with her much, but that was pretty standard for me as most of my close friends were non-athletes, girls I'd met by chance in the dorms I'd been living in. Cande called me up the other day and suggested we meet and catch up. Yesterday we met for lunch at a fabulous little vegetarian/vegan cafe. I had the peanut noodles and they were super delicious. Cande and I sat and chatted about our lives for THREE hours. No joke. It was fabulous. I caught her up on my life with Big Red and all our cross-country moves, and she brought me up to speed on hers - traveling, a husband and four children.

What I found most intriguing was how she was living her life, a life sans a bunch of stuff. In her household, there is no television, there are no gaming systems. Her children don't use computers until they are about 12 - they learn to write their letters on old fashioned black boards and a piece of chalk. Fun time in the evening is a family meal, parents and four children sitting at the table discussing what the best parts of their days were. They revel in long walks, board games, riding bikes, and community. They welcome hand-me-down clothes and toys, and would rather spend their hard-earned money on vacations. There is an emphasis on quality and not quantity. They are not wasteful and they simply ask the question: Is this thing life-giving or does it detract?

I was captivated.

Cande made great arguments for many of their decisions and the choices she and her husband have made in raising their family, and I surmised that they were very firmly rooted in they spirituality. In fact that's how she and her husband met. What most resonated with me was Cande's attitude towards the integration of children into her life. Essentially she broke it down like this: There are two kinds of families. There are families who live for their children and in which all activities and choices revolve around those children, and then there are families who live their life and integrate their children. Parents continue to live as they've lived before and find way to work in their little ones. They don't stop traveling and they don't stop doing the things they love. Granted there are some concessions and logistical knots to work out, but for the most part the parents don't get off the gas just for the kids. This is the conscious effort Cande and her husband make - to live their lives and have their children tag along. And trust me when I say that living life in this manner does not mean loving children any less. It was very clear to me how much Cande adores her four children, and how well-adjusted and socialized they are - in fact I'd even wager to say her children are more aware of the world and people around them and probably have an appreciation for life that most adults lack.

Cande's family philosophy hit home and I thought Big Red would appreciate it given his trepidation about how life-changing starting a family will be. Definitely some food for thought.

Less IS more. That's the overarching goal and theme for 2012. Less absent-minded shoveling of food into pie hole, less TV, less excess, less stuff. I am cautiously optimistic about the next twelve months. While 2011 was not the best year in our personal history, I know Big Red is more than ready to put 2011 to rest, this past year has brought an awakening and awareness about personal happiness.

Big Red and I were able to spend Christmas this year in California with my family. We didn't do the crazy run around trying to see everyone. We saw a couple of friends but mostly spent time with my family. It was wonderful. At the risk of sounding cliche - isn't health, happiness, family and love what it all really comes down to?

This is my favorite picture from our trip.
Everyone is smiling and there's a genuine alegria, a joie de vivre, in this microsecond of life.

To family, to health and to personal happiness.
And love. Love in whatever form you find it.

Cheers.

jill of all trades

As posted yesterday, Mom began working on a blouse for me. She spent the whole day cutting, pinning, basting and sewing. When I was little I used to hate being fitted. I was terrified I was going to get poked with one of the needles. And yes, I got poked many times. I got poked a few times yesterday. Didn't like it one bit. But I suppose it is a small price to pay to have custom clothing made. What's even better is Mom said she could make me a few more blouses.  Not in the 48 hours she has left here with us, but when she gets back home. She'll borrow one of my older blouses (another she previously made) and use that as a guide. I put in my request for specific kinds of print (some kind of navy paisley, two black, and red with white polka dots). Mom is pretty confident she'll find what I want in downtown LA, where pretty much you can find anything. Literally anything.

Oh, and she also gave me a pedicure.

Among many other things, Mom can sew, knit, crochet, give pedicures, and cook like a banshee. Now if she only knew how to cut hair...

crafting with mom

Along with two cans of black beans (we can get that here, but she wasn't sure), a box of guava paste, and an old tarot card set I forgot I had, Mom brought her latest crafting adventure: a crochet project. Her cousin recently taught her how to maneuver the single hooked stick into perfectly knotted rows. 

She chose as soft yellow yarn and told me quite plainly that, "this blanket was for the first grandchild." Yup. Not just me with baby on the brain. I watched her hook the yarn and pull it back and forth, carefully taking more from the wound ball. She said she'd always wanted to learn how to crochet, as she had already learned to knit a long time ago. Knitting was something she used to do quite often and she claims there is a baby outfit that was mine, one she knitted herself.

I have heard others speak of knitting and crocheting. I'm pretty sure Julia Roberts is a big knitter. Fine company to keep. Both seem like good skills to have. I decided I needed to start learning at least one. I picked knitting. Yesterday, a thunderously rainy day, we hit the mall and then of course, Jo-Ann Fabrics & Crafts. I picked up two knitting needles, a beginners guide and some yarn:

When we got home, Mom showed me how to get things going and I set out on my knitting adventure. There we sat, side-by-side on the couch, she with her crochet and me with my knitting. Thankfully when I screwed up (which was often) she was able to undo my mess. Forget fancy patterns at this point, I'm just trying to get the purl stitch down. Obviously I have a long way to go and I need to learn how to hold the needles more comfortably. After knitting for an hour or so, for some reason, the left side of my neck and shoulder were a little grumpy. I think at the rate I'm going, my own blanket will also be for my first grandchild!

While we were out and about, we also hit up the store - as window shoppers, mind you - White House Black Market. Oh what pretty pretty frocks that store has. Unfortunately none are priced for a teacher's salary. Boo. There was one $88 blouse that caught my eye immediately:

The mannequin in the store wore the blouse paired with a sharp pair of dark denim jeans that were cut like trousers. Yes, please! I called Mom over to check it out and she quickly started going over the garment checking the seams and the darting. Did I fail to mention that Mom is a self-taught seamstress? Oh yeah. Check out the adorable dress she made for Daisy:

Like I was saying, Mom rocks. Well, I wasn't saying that exactly, but essentially I was. Mom did her seamstress once over and said, "I can make you that."  So while we were at Jo-Ann's we looked for some fabric that was similar to the chain print of the store-bought blouse. No such thing. Figures. She thought we'd find something but I warned her that Jo-Ann's round here was a FAR CRY from the garment district in Los Angeles. Instead we found a gorgeous paisley print:

And that's what Mom is doing as I write this. In fact she just stopped me to measure something on my arm. She'll whip this up by the time she leaves early Tuesday morning. No doubt. You just wait and see...

Fallingwater & Ohiopyle

It was another beautiful day in the neighborhood! Today's outing: Fallingwater and Ohiopyle. In order to get out of the house a little earlier, we skipped walking Olive - I know, cue guilt trip - and left at 10 am. The turnpike was clear and we quickly made our way to Frank Lloyd Wright's spectacular creation known as Fallingwater. Instead of getting gouged and paying for the full tour, we opted instead for two grounds passes. At only $8 a piece, and with access to the entire external portion of the property, including one of the terraces, we felt it was a better deal.

Then it was on to Ohiopyle for some lunch, walking, more picture taking, and time spent cooling off in the water.

Cheers.

busy.

Mom is in town.

On tap: boat ride on the rivers, shopping trip to IKEA, showing Mom where I work, going to Ohiopyle for a picnic and hike, movie on the Southside, and Mom as acting assistant in photo shoot with Daisy and T.

Busy having fun.
Be back in a week.

With pictures. Of course.

Tangents, Movie Quotes & Insight

In my last post, I said I was going to wait to see lil' miss Daisy Grace until my mom arrived. Well, I cheated. Sorry, Mom. T said she wouldn't mind the company in the morning, and I was all-about hanging out with a newborn and my friend. So that's what I did this rainy Tuesday morning. Unfortunately T lives sorta out in the cut. Not really, but kinda really. I guess it depends on your perspective. Big Red and I don't live in the city, the city proper that is, but query his family and they'll say we live in the city. I think we live in the suburbs. If we live in the suburbs, then T definitely lives in the cut (Oops on the tangent. WARNING: more ahead.)  Anyhow, I arrived at their charming abode around 9 and stayed until just after 12. Stinking dentist appointment was in the way of a leisurely day spent with two awesome chicks. Although, I'm sure at some point T would have wanted quiet time by herself with the little miss.

Daisy was the picture of perfection, making darling little newborn grunts and coos. T hit the baby jackpot as Daisy only cried when she was hungry. And pretty much, don't we all do about the same thing? I know Big Red turns into a BIG dragon if he doesn't eat. I get a wee bit cranky myself, more light-headed than anything else.You can hardly blame the gal for being a tad fussy.

We had a nice time, chatting about the little miss and life after a baby. T's totally rocking it. She's still the same woman, just with a baby on her lap and bottles in the sink. Okay, and a pack 'n play in the corner of the living room. I drilled her with questions and she was gracious enough to answer them all. I should have apologized in advance for the inquisition, but I didn't, so I'm apologizing now: Dear T, I'm sorry for the billion questions. Big Red calls it being nosy, I call it being inquisitive. I like to know about stuff, a lot of stuff, especially baby stuff. Consider yourself the lead now that you've got one, and me the understudy - hoping to get one. Mea culpa. Your friend. Ilene.

T fed me a brownie and some coffee (probably not the best idea pre-teeth cleaning), and I even left with a few parting gifts: two bambino books (one about getting knocked up, the other about what to do AFTER you've gotten knocked up), and one leftover ClearblueEasy pregnancy test. I won't be needing the pee stick for another year or so, and I did check the expiration date. I should (hope?) be covered.

While I was holding Daisy, my eyes fell upon tarot cards on T's bookshelf. I asked her for a reading. She handed me the deck and allowed me to shuffle and cut the cards. She laid them out and flipped each, one at a time, and we discussed the findings. Now I don't know how you feel about readings and psychics and such, but I find it all fascinating. I wouldn't bet my life on a reading, but I do think they can provide insight if you're in the right frame of mind. Essentially my reading revealed to us that the thing I want is peace and harmony. Peace of mind, peaceful life, a harmonious family that Big Red and I can build together. I need to relax about starting a family and worrying about whether or not it will all fall into place when I want it. I need to simply trust in our love and our life together and allow that to guide us into our harmonious "fall into place" space.

After returning home with super sparkling clean teeth, I opened up the "getting knocked up" read. Much of the information was stuff I'd already heard or read about. Hey, I like to do my homework - don't judge. It's probably still good to have on hand as a reference should I feel the need to go to it. Now the tricky part: let Big Red see my new acquisitions, or not? Kind of a toughie. I'm going to gamble and let him see the loot. What's the sense in hiding these things? He knows BABY is on the radar, and he also knows it's not happening tomorrow (huge EXHALE on his part). What's the harm? I'll let you know how it goes...besides, if the poo hits the fan, I can blame it on T. Ha!

The letting go business, is another story. It will be a challenge as I am such a planner. When I think about having a family I think about what the optimal time would be to do this, given that I'm a teacher, and thus when I'd need/want to get pregnant. While I don't believe it's a crime to plan ahead, I'm well-aware of the trap that planning creates: a fixed now or never mentality. And if it doesn't happen, then stress can ensue thereby creating further obstacles for getting pregnant. So here's my newest goal: learn to let go...ahem, not totally though. I'm not a, "fly by the seat of my pants kind of gal, you know moment to moment..." That's Vivian, not me. And Big Red is definitely not Edward. Although I wouldn't mind the stretch limo and the bouquet of roses, just without having to be a hooker. I mean, what would my principal say? What I can do is my very best to prepare myself for this adventure. Focus on what I can control because "Control is an illusion...Nobody knows what's going to happen next..." I can make healthy choices, exercise, love Big Red, love Olive, and love the home and life we've created.

And until I've got my own, and so long as T allows it, I'll get my baby fix through the little miss:

Movie Quotes:
#1: Pretty Woman
#2: Days of Thunder

Questions.

HBO is running a documentary called, "There's Something Wrong with Aunt Diane." The piece documents the story of the 2009 Taconic State Parkway accident in which Diane Schuler, 36, drove the wrong way on the parkway and ended up killing herself, her daughter, three nieces, and the three men in the SUV that she hit, head-on.

In the documentary, Schuler's husband, Daninel, and his sister-in-law are determined to find out what really happened to Diane. When the autopsy revealed through a toxicology report that she had what essentially amounts to 10 drinks inside her system, and high levels of THC (marijuana use), Daniel didn't want to believe that those indicators were the cause of the crash. He maintains that his wife would have never driven a minivan full of children under the influence of any kind of drug or alcohol. Daniel and his sister-in-law enlist the help of private parties to rerun the toxicology report which only reveal the same findings. No one wants to believe that Diane got in the car drunk and high. They don't find the answers they're looking for, and they probably never will. Big Red caught the end of the film with me, and we ended up talking about death, unanswered questions, and our shared belief that visiting the headstone of a loved one at a cemetery is useless.

In the summer of 2003, Big Red's younger brother, Mike, died in a car accident. We were living in California at the time, and I was the one home to get the phone call. I was also the one who had to tell Big Red that his brother was gone. In the days that followed, a blur of phone calls arranging plane tickets and buckets of tears, there seemed to be a number of lingering questions, specifically: how did this happen? As far as we know, Mike had been at a party the night before and got up early that Saturday morning to go home. The last thing he said to anyone was, "I got to go where I got to be." He got into his maroon Chevy Blazer and drove the winding roads he had driven for the past decade. Roads he knew like the back of his hand. So when he came to a bend, one that would lead him right and underneath railroad tracks, the underpass as familiar to him as any other bend, we were all left wondering why he never made the turn. Why did his car go straight into the cement wall?

His was a head-on collision, and he wasn't wearing his seat belt. The so-called black box recovered from his car showed that brakes were applied and that he was going no faster than 38 mph. What we were later told was that had he been wearing his seat belt, or had he hit another car, he probably would have been banged up, but he certainly would have survived. Because he hit a cement wall, the entire force of the impact was absorbed by his body, specifically his sternum and thus, his heart. It was just too much. Mike was airlifted, but arrived dead at the hospital. He was just 25.

The documentary brought up our dormant questions over Mike's car accident. We both expressed being frustrated at not knowing what happened, and how much we wish we could know. See perhaps, from a birds-eye view what went down. We also both agreed that going to the cemetery wasn't something either of us cared to do, ever again. It was not comforting to see a headstone with Mike's name and dates. It wasn't him. People talk about going to "visit Mike" and that's something we both don't understand. Mike isn't at the cemetery. He's not even in the ground. His bones are there, but he isn't. All the qualities that made Mike who he was aren't in the block of marble or the grass beneath our feet. His spirit, his life - those are gone. While we would never fault those who take comfort in cemeteries, Big Red and I agreed that we'd much rather remember Mike through stories and pictures, not as bones in the ground.

Mike sneaks up on me in quiet moments. There are times when the thought of him will pop into my head and I'll wonder what if he was still around? What would our lives be like? Would he visit us at our house a lot? Would he have been out to visit us while we still lived in California? The questions come like a barrage that can't be stopped. Sometimes I'll try and fill in the blanks and imagine the answers. I smile at my forged scenarios, but mostly it makes me sad. Not sad in a hysterical kind of way, those days have passed. Just a simple sadness, a twinge of wishing that luck/fate had been on his side that day.

Mom Time.

Mom is coming for a visit later this summer!! We have been searching online for weeks now, putting in bids on priceline in hopes of finding a super rad ticket deal. Prices were looking good, but not good enough to click the purchase button. Yesterday I hit the jackpot. I decided to switch our tactics and tried Kayak. BINGO! Thank you Delta. Round trip airfare from her house to ours: $280, and that included all taxes and fees. I rang Mom up and told her what I had in front of me on the computer screen - she said GET IT!

So I got it. Which by the way, is how things work in our family. If something needs found online, typically I'm getting a phone call from California for some aid. I will say that my parents have gotten better, more independent and confident in their use of the World Wide Web. But airline tickets - I think I've purchased all of theirs.

Mom will be here for a lovely 10 days. I warned her: since she'd be visiting right up until it was time for me to return to work - not to expect a daily schedule chalk-full of sight-seeing and outings. I was more than happy to take her on a few excursions, but I was hoping she'd be just as happy hanging out. Mom was more than amenable to my proposed agenda. Selfish as it might be, I don't want to spend the last few hours of summer running around, my free time being zapped by a shopping trip. I wanted to savor it, enjoy it, and I couldn't think of a better person with which to spend it. Quietly and peacefully - not in the car on the highway.

She said all she wanted to was to be with me. Done.

I don't get to see Mom very often, just once or twice a year. 2011 proves to be a real treat. I saw her in April, she'll be here in a few short weeks, and Big Red and I have plans to be with my family out in California come XMAS. Three whole times in one year. Sweet deal if you ask me. You know, most days I don't miss my parents in a way that's longing or desperate. I don't need to see them all the time. In fact, we probably work better with a little space between us. Now, 2000+ miles is quite a bit of space. I wasn't necessarily looking for THAT MUCH space, but it's just the way life has worked out. We talk on the phone every couple of weeks, sometimes more often, sometimes not. We use Skype every now and again, and that's fun. I can only speak for myself when I say that I've grown, for the most part, accustomed to living far apart from my family. Most days we all just go about our business doing our own things. Occasionally I will feel the absence of my family; those moments can be difficult, but they are not impossible. I imagine that when Big Red and I have our first child, it will be then that the missing becomes more pronounced. Flagrant in your face, can't ignore it kind of missing. The casual drop in, when you actually want it, won't/can't happen. But isn't that usually the case? The day Big Red and I got married, I felt his brother's and grandmother's absence. Both passed years before we were married. Daily life is manageable. It's when life presents its biggest celebrations and milestones that we want to share with the ones we love most.

I'm sure my parents were not thrilled when Big Red and I told them we were planning on moving back East. I can imagine they were pissed, hurt and angry. Dad is much better about keeping his opinions to himself; Mom - not so much. She let us know she didn't like the fact that we were leaving. Mom questioned how we would remain a family, and how would her grandchildren know her? She did not want to be a stranger to her own kin. While we haven't crossed that bridge yet, I have confidence in modern technology and our ability to remain a tight unit despite the miles between our physical selves. I've tried to put myself in her shoes, tried to feel the hurt of letting a daughter go and live her own life.

The shoes just don't fit yet.
No doubt someday the tables will turn.
And I'll know.