There is something to be said about modern day mothering.  I recently met an older mother who told me that she did not envy me nor this generation of mothers.  ”You are expected to have it all together – work full time, lead fabulous lives, be great wives, raise amazing kids, and love every minute of it.  How realistic is that?”

I nodded, taking in her perspective with relief.

“In my days, we had ‘mother’s little helpers.’  We didn’t have to pretend we LOVED it or that it was the most amazing thing that ever happened to us.  It was recognized as a job.  Some days are tedious.  And some days are just pretty boring, and that’s okay.  Some days are just days.”

Those days are the moments that will fade like forgotten dreams minutes after waking, only to have the feeling of deja vu the next time I walk into a grocery store cursing myself for going to the one with balloons at the registers.

I will seize a few good snapshots from today.  I will keep one of him signing “more” after I belted out “I Will Always Love You” Whitney Houston style (really???).  And I will bookmark him hooting like an owl in anticipation a page before we get to the winged creature in a bedtime story.  And as I lay me down to sleep, I smile at the reminder he gives me every night before doing the same when he points to a sign that hangs above his crib that reads, “Thank Heaven for Little Evan.”

“That’s right, buddy.  Thank Heaven for you,” I say giving him a kiss and a cuddle.

He points again, wanting me to repeat.  I say it again.  He smiles.

We go through this a few more times, sitting together cuddling in those last moments before I know I will be free at last, but also wanting to hold onto him just one minute longer.

I am learning to embrace my wabi-sabi-ness/ inner-Christopher Columbus.  This has not been an easy journey for me.   Perfectionism overtook me as a child.  My memories of art class are standing over the garbage can, wadding up paper after paper because nothing was coming out right.  “I’m no good at art!” I’d sulk.  There was no room for any wabi-sabi or unexpected creativity in that space.

My celebration of Columbus Day is a bit nontraditional.  It is a personal acceptance of failure knowing that it is making space for a new journey.  And similar to Columbus who was initially laughed at for heading west to reach the East, my first failure was also going for something different rather than playing it safe.

I was fifteen.  Mrs. Miller taught my Honor’s English class and I adored and respected her and was especially hungry for her praise.  We were only in October, but I was not making a strong academic impression those first few weeks of school.  I did not read The Scarlet Letter opting for the Cliff notes and completely mis-characterized Hester Pryne in an essay.   I had also failed Miller’s Crucible – reading Cliff Notes for the Cliff Notes on that one.  I was batting 0 for 2 and really needed to hit something out of the park.  When our class was assigned a project of our choice on Christopher Columbus, I was ready to let my English super-star shine.

“Let’s do it together,” I suggested to my friend Reg who also worshipped the ground Mrs. Miller walked on.  Unlike me, Reg had read The Crucible and corrected many of my mistakes one night after printing my paper on her word processor.

“What kind of project?” she asked.

“Something really creative and out there that no one else will think of.  Something like… a time machine!”

“What?”

“Like if Christopher Columbus had a time machine, what would he have left for us to discover in 1992?”

“What would we put in it?”

“We need to research things that were around 500 years ago.   What do you think?”

Reg agreed that our idea was original, and was equally ready to impress Mrs. Miller.

Our research took a backseat over the holiday weekend.  Similar to my excuse for reading the cliff notes, learning about Columbus’ era did not entice me.  My “research” consisted of everything that I found in the few pages circa 1492 that were known to World Book Encyclopedia.  Then I started my own archaeological dig between 5^th and 8^th periods in October 1992.

“Maps!”  I said tearing some from a geography book.  And they were looking for gold!  I ran around the school looking for anything gold and shiny, and finally settled on a friend’s earrings and make-up case.  And there were Indians – and what would Indians eat that’s in our cafeteria?  Oooohh!!! Corn!!!  I bought a few corn on the cobs from the lunch line and voila!!!

“What did you dig up?” I asked Reg over lunch as I threw the corn in a big garbage bag.

“What are you doing with that?” she asked.

“It’s part of the time capsule,” I said as I put the bag next to me and began to eat my own corn for lunch.

“And what are we going to do?  Just take things out of the bag and talk?”

“We’ll wing it!  It’s going to be great!”

I was so excited by my own 3-period scavenger hunt for Columbus’s time machine, that I neglected the finer details.  However, when Reg and I stood up in front of our class, it felt more like a second grade show and tell than a junior Honor’s English project.

Reg flushed with embarrassment and tried returning to her seat numerous times during our presentation of the time machine.  My own “we’re gonna bomb” antenna had not yet gone off.  Why is  she getting nervous?  We’re just beginning!

Mrs. Miller’s jaw dropped as she looked around the classroom.  I heard a mumbling of Are they kidding? but I just kept going; holding up my ears of corn and the gold make-up case while I improvised, “So gold is what Columbus originally thought he would find in China, only he discovered America instead!  No gold here… yet, but Columbus put gold in our time capsule because it was so important to him.  He wanted to be RICH!  And corn…” I looked over at Reg who was supposed to be presenting our only food that I could find in the cafeteria which was around in 1492. “Corn was eaten by Columbus for the first time when he came to America and he met Indians.  He brought back 7 Indians with him to Queen Isabella as proof of his voyage to the new land.  The Indians therefore introduced Columbus to a whole new food…. Corn.”

The end of our presentation went just like that.  There was no grand finale, I was just holding up the 2 cobs of corn.  Reg had already taken her seat next to her boyfriend and was burrowing her head, as if she could hide away in his jacket for the rest of the period.  At that moment, I knew the time machine had flopped.  I could sense the flop coming throughout the unveiling, but my confidence falsely plodded along, hoping to have some saving grace with the… CORN!  Seriously – what was I thinking????

I looked at Mrs. Miller’s face.  She was probably wondering how I made it into her Honor’s English class let alone into the 11^th grade with the educational smarts I had presented so far.  I was really going to have to wow her now with my junior research paper.  Maybe write a book proposal?  It seemed that there was no recuperating after the Columbus Day massacre.

On the 500^th anniversary of Columbus failing, and discovering America by chance, I also learned a lesson in exposing myself and falling on my face anyway.

Recently, I had a Columbus Day time-capsule déjà vu.  I was a newcomer to an existing writing group that my writing teacher had invited me to join.  The first time I met with the new group, there were 3 women.  The following week, I was sitting across the table from no women and 3 men.

The piece I had written was about my experience in the show and tell room.  I should clarify (if you didn’t/don’t read the post)- this was a room of women walking around who had mastectomies, and were showing the goods and telling about the experience to others considering surgery.  I didn’t predominantly have women in mind as my audience, I ONLY had women in mind – since they were the actual spectators.  If you were to ask me to read this piece to my father and father-in-law, I would tell you that I’d rather present 10 Columbus Day time capsules.

I began to read: “I had gone as a curious visitor the first year, only to return this previous year as one of the exhibitors.”   Ooohhh!  I really don’t want to read anymore.  I was having flashbacks of myself holding up the corn and Mrs. Miller’s face as I read, “For example, never in my life would I think that I’d be standing in front of  a group of women touching my own breasts and saying, “I have some sensation.  I definitely feel hot and cold (pause while I’m trying to rediscover how much sensation I have), but there’s definitely some.”

My biggest surprise came at the end of my piece.  There were no gaping mouths.  There was no, “Is she kidding?”  There was some genuine feedback.  “I think this story needs to be told.  Do you know how many women are affected by breast cancer?”

“Maybe the first line would work better starting here…”

“I loved the line where you…”

“I can’t wait to come to the book signing!” : )

So here’s what I learned: sometimes exposing ourselves can be really scary.  It brings me back to
Columbus Day 1992 and falling on my face really hard.  But I picked myself up and did end up being an excellent student in the class.  (I read every book after, never relying on Cliff notes again and did a phenomenal junior year research project on Spike Lee).  Going for something different risks that it might not work.  But not going for anything would still have me wadding up papers in the trash, not wanting to share my imperfections with the world.

Here’s to more wabi-sabi tomorrow.

I have stressed over my size 12 Nanette for awhile.  After a late night run to Lord & Taylor for a sundress this summer, I left with four dresses: two were sun, two were not.  My size 12 Nanette was not a sundress, but she was beautiful, just a bit too big.  Okay, she was as loose as a floozy,with my full bra visible at certain angles.  But I loved her regardless.

I had become one of the crazed women that my friend Colleen, the Lord & Taylor General Manager, would tell stories about.  Like an addict running into the dressing room while the lights went out for “just one more!” I noticed the sales ladies getting slightly stern with us late night shopaholics.  “The store is closing.  I’m locking my register.  I’m going to have to ask you to leave the dressing room.”

But they didn’t get my plight. I have limited time in the evenings to do the frivolous activities (trying on clothes, staring at myself in mirrors contemplating the size of various body parts) that I previously spent hours on many many moons ago.   Didn’t they understand that I have a baby in bed and a husband who gets home at the mercy of public transportation?  Maybe they did.  My armful of frocks and pleading eyes met a sympathetic sales lady’s and with the unlocking of her register, we were in business.

“I’ll just take them all,” I said.  I planned on returning some of them after doing a fashion show for 2 best fashion friend critics. They could help me edit these choices.

And I really did need to edit.  If there ever was a time that I should not be putting anything on a credit card, it is now.  My credit card has an insanely high interest rate to deter me from swiping it.  But I succumbed to Nanette’s beauty.

“So I cannot keep all 4,” I explained after the fashion show as they ogled the Nanette.

“Keep them all,” my sister in law urged.

“Here’s the thing: financially, I shouldn’t.”

Nanette they agreed was not going anywhere.

In my closet she stayed, until the credit card bill came.  It happened to come right at the same time as a big vet bill for a pseudo tick (or one of Journey’s warts that I attempted to pull off).  It also came right before my son’s 1st birthday, and planning a lengthy trip to California.  All of a sudden, I was feeling slightly self-absorbed with my slightly too big Nanette taking up budgetary spending that needed some reallocation.

“I’m running to Lord and Taylor to pay my bill,” I told Mike as he walked in the door after getting off the bus.  De ja vu. “I’m returning these two also.”  (One being the Nanette and the other a Trina T – she was super cute, but my critics rationalized there were others like her already in my closet, so she was the first on the chopping block).

I intended to return, pay my bill, and walk away from the register.  And I did return, pay my bill and walk away from the register – right into the 40% sale rack of dresses with a new Nanette catching my eye.  Jeez!  Size 4!  I’m only going to carry her around to find the bigger sizes.   No such luck.  She was it.  And as I stood in line for the dressing room, again a bit on the later side – I saw that my Nanette 12 and Trina were right there waiting for me too.  It wouldn’t hurt to try them on just once more – right?? 

Seduced again, Nanette 12 and Nanette 4 and Trina T begged to be taken home.  And my credit card?  Well, let’s just say that I hit the sale jackpot tonight with even greater mark downs making it seem like I got Nanette 4 for free.

So here’s the virtual fashion show and my new ladies in the closet: )  Nanette 4 is already the front runner (see the double coverage below) despite constant comments from Mike about his dislike of patterned dresses.  If only he were dressing me in What Not to Wear…

I came home for lunch to make a few phone calls, write a few pages, and have a few extra minutes of solitude while my little guy was at Grandma Cella’s.  As I chatted away on the phone, I became distracted by a cheeping in the background.  Those birds sound awfully close.  Back to my conversation.  I blabbered away to a colleague about nothing of significant importance.  And then the flapping started.  Holy shit!  GOD!!!  I’ve already learned this lesson!  was the first thing that came to mind.  There can NOT be a bird in my house!  Only seven years ago when I lived in a loft apartment, I was lying in bed one morning when a bird flew out of my heater and swooped under my bed skirt flying like a bat out of hell.  I screamed and raced down the stairs with my dog Journey and hid in the one closed off room, the bathroom, until my mom came over to rescue us by opening up a window.

So when I heard a bird chirping, I dialed her once more.

“I’m not going to do this for you again!  Can’t you go upstairs and open the window?” was the first thing she said.  “I have your son here who really needs a nap today.  Did YOU leave a window open?”

My mom would be a great at-fault judge.  Regardless of the whodunnit, she does have a point.  I’m not a little girl anymore. I want my little boy to know his mom can handle a bird flying into the house, the way I know my mom can handle anything that crosses her path.

So I opened the door that leads to our upstairs.  (Today, I am sooooooo grateful that our house is 1940s funky where we have a door that goes upstairs as unaesthetically appealing as it normally appears to me.)  As I look up the stairs, a bird is perched on the landing staring me down.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!” I scream slamming the door.

I call Mike.  “There is a BIRD upstairs!”

“What do you want me to do?  Come home from work?”

“YES!”

“Seriously?  It’s a bird!  I can’t leave now.”

“I’m sure the bird is going to want to leave now that it’s pouring outside.”

“Just open the window.”

At that moment, my friend Jill and her baby miraculously show up on our porch.  “You’re home?” she asks.  “I was just going to hang out on your porch and wait the storm out.”

“You are here!  Thank God!  You can help me!  There’s a bird upstairs!” I say running out to usher her inside.

I’m sure that this is what my friend Jill had in mind when she was thinking of safety and running for cover with her almost 9-month old baby girl.  “You can put Lena in the exersaucer,” I say offering a place for her baby, a basket for her head, and a broom for the bird.

Jill is so brave.  She takes my household items, not quite sure what they are meant for, and starts walking up the steps.  “I’ll just stay and hold the door, so the bird doesn’t fly down here and get in the house.”  I say.  C-O-W-A-R-

“Oh my God!  There are BIRDS up here!” Jill yells (softer) than I do coming down the stairs again as I open and slam the door behind her.

“Birds?????  Like a family?  How many?”

“Three?  Four maybe?  More than two though.”

“Are you serious?  Is there a nest up there?”

Jill suggests I climb a ladder from the outside to open the windows.  I’m not sure which idea frightens me more: climbing a ladder outdoors, or climbing my bird-infested stairs inside.  I immediately see a small opening between the pane and screen near my husband’s office window.  Of course it’s HIS window with his SERIUS satellite radio that he always tinkers with to hear Howard Stern.  I hate Howard Stern.  It’s all Howard Stern’s fault that I have a family of birds upstairs.  (Notice the at-fault gene kicking in!)

And that’s when I notice true fear.  A sparrow is stuck in my writing room’s window.  She is flapping away like a crazy little thing, and I know that if she doesn’t get out, she will die.  The only thing worse than a bird in the house would be removing a dead bird in my favorite room of the house that I know I could have saved if I was brave enough to open the window.

“I’m going up,” I tell Jill gaining courage from the scared sparrow.

Jill and I go together, with Lena happily bouncing away in the exersaucer.  She is such a good baby.  I am so grateful for her delight and ability to enterain herself for over an hour while I monopolized her mama.

The scene upstairs was like a bird olympics.  Jill and I ducked in different corners jumping for birds with baskets and guiding them out the windows.  The poor scared birds’ fears were so much bigger than my own.  (Not saying that I still wasn’t scared, since I screamed every time a bird flew towards me, but they were petrified).  When each of the birds finally flew out the window we cheered.  Free at last, free at last!

“Thank you for reminding me to be brave today,” I said to Jill as the rain let up, and she left the comforts of the great indoors to go back to her nature walk.

The birds gave me a few gifts too.  And next time there might be one that flies into an open window, I hope that I do have 2 treasures from my cousins (both Elizabeths) on hand:

The first would be the how-to book What to do if a Bird Flies into the House? written by my cousin Elizabeth Nix.  (The book was upstairs on my bookshelf with the birds during the crisis).  I thought it was so cool how I googled: what to do if a bird flies into the house? while all of this was going on and my cousin’s book was THE first link to pop up.  (In true Maher fashion with a whole clan of humorous relatives one-upping each others with great stories, I might have to re-write the book: What to do if BIRDS fly into the house? – but this might only be found funny – or not – by family members who read this).

And the second thing I decided to do was to re-hang a bird mobile Evan received as a gift from my incredibly talented cousin Elizabeth Maher.  The new mobile placement (near our funky door) might give any other visiting birds a little feeling of calm so we can all approach the experience like old pros next time there is a chance encounter.

A few weeks ago, I was pretty confident in the return of my running abilities and chose to run 1/2 of a 1/2 marathon with my brother Greg.  “I’ll run you in,” I told him planning on pacing him from mile 6.5 to the finish line so he could hit his sub 2-hour half-marathon training goal.  Although this was a very normal thing for the old-Ellen to say, the new-not-really-improved-running-in-2-years-with-13-extra-pounds-of-mommy-meat-on-newly-conceived-child-bearing-hips-Ellen, it may have been a little bit off the mark.  Offering to pace him for the half marathon is like Brett Favre offering to come in mid-season to help Mark Sanchez get to the playoffs.  (I’m terrible with sports analogies, so apologize if I’ve butchered this before Mike has edited.  I normally just spout out one-liners in sports conversation that Mike feeds me like, “Don’t put him in Canton just yet!”)  But you get my point? 

Instead of the time at the end of my race (never looked), here are some things that came up during that time:

BRRRR!!!!  It was FREEZING!  I did not dress warmly enough and although my dad offered me his gloves, I was more focused on the inability to skip through all of the songs I don’t like on my iPod with gloved fingers, (which is about 70% since Mike has it monopolized with the Smiths, the Cure, & Depeche Mode.)   

Here’s Greg coming in at the half way mark.  He looks warm, strong, and is running with a great pace.  He definitely does not look like a “Boy with a thorn in his side!” (Unwanted Depeche Mode wailing in my ear).

Ready, set….

And we’re off! 

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Good.   You?” he says.

“Ugh!  The wind is awful!”  We have yet to hit the first half-mile.  “Why did I bring my phone?  This is heavy!”

“Maybe you can give it to Mike or Libby at mile 10 if they are watching us there,” Greg says planting the seed of a potential rescue.  Actually the seed has already been planted, which is why I have my iPhone with me.

Then silence.  The battery in my iPod dies.  I wasted its juice listening to songs to get my fists and feet pumping on the car ride down.  Instead, I listen to the chatter that clogs my brain.  “There is comfort in the discomfort,” becomes my mantra.  I fall a stride behind Greg.  After the next tenth of a mile and about 10 more strides behind, Greg turns back to see how I’m doing.  I give him a thumbs up sign and motion for him to go ahead.

The old me would not be okay with this.  I am competitive to the core with myself.  I’d be beating myself up for not living up to my word, staying the course, and possibly disappointing someone.  The new compassionate me is learning to enjoy the journey instead.  “This is just a training run!”  I say to myself.  “I’m not here to race.  I’m not here to win.  I’m here to put in some miles, and go  longer than I would have otherwise.”

My attitude shifts.  I reach for my iPhone and start taking pictures to capture some things I want to remember.  Here they are: 

• Lesson 1: Sometimes you don’t even realize that your running/being is motivation for someone else.  There is a woman wearing a pink shirt that reads: “Mom: Running for Me!” Amen sister!  Run for you!  I’m running for me!  I’m running for this sacred time!  For the me time!  For the get out of my head time, so that I can return home a better mom time!  I’m running to return to my body!  Running for life!  Although this woman will never know the impact she had on me during the race, she was just the woman I needed to see: a mom, kicking ass, with a smile on her face making great strides for herself. 
• Lesson 2: Allow for no escape routes.  (There is a metaphor here with sails and anchors that I will butcher more than my sports analogies above, but the idea is allowing for no turning back).  Shortly after the first mile, it became hard.  I wondered whether anyone in my family would be somewhere else along the course (besides the finish line).  I imagine myself saying, “That’s enough.  I’m done.  Too windy today!”  I have deja’vu of leaving NJ for San Diego over 10 years ago.  The first morning waking up across the country thinking, I’ve got to make this life work because it’s a long way back.   Same thing happens on a long run!
• Lesson 3: Set attainable goals.  In 2002, I ran the La Jolla 1/2 marathon with my buddy Lori.  It’s one of my favorite runs ever in terms of scenery, but also one of the toughest runs in terms of inclines.  The two of us made it through Torrey Pines by setting landmarks as our goals. “To the tree!” we’d run, and then walk, “to the bush!” then run, “to the rock!” (you get the point).  So this time I set my goals on the boardwalk from Sea Girt to Asbury Park:  “To 10th Avenue Freezeout!” I’d run, “up the Shark River bridge!” I’d walk… (yes, a very different beast here in Jersey).

• Lesson 4: Beauty cracks me open time and time again.  I cry during marathons.  Not because I’m in pain, but because I’m inspired.  I’m moved by people who take on their lives in extraordinary ways.  The year “Diddy ran the City”, I was at mile 24 in Central Park next to a bagpiper playing Chariots of Fire.  In this run, mile 12 was marked by a trumpeter (see man below leaning up against the silver Jetta) playing “When the Saints Come Marching In.”  Tears running down my cheeks, I gave him a big high-5, forgetting I was not even one of the official racers, just a girl out for a 6.5 mile run.

• Lesson 5: Always enjoy the journey, because the journey is all we have.  It’s not just about getting to our destination the fastest.  At one point it was like a lightbulb went off.  I am not competing!  Have fun now!  Why am I in such a hurry anyway?  (This sign was right before the last 300 meter sprint & loved finishing with this.)

And the end was near….

Greg's finish!

“GUYS!!!!!  It’s Journey’s birthday tooooooooo!” (I actually know I said this because I recently found a God-awful cassette tape from one of our parties that year.  Yes, this really dates our times that 15 years ago, before the age of iPads, and flip cameras – I would send audio cassette tapes (used for anatomy class lectures) to my roommate in Italy (snail mail!) just in case she was missing the Burg.  (Hah!)  If you ever think your voice sounds annoying recorded, try it after many many games of beer-pong.  Annoying is being kind.)  Journey came along to most house parties the year we resided with my 8 crazy girls in the Barn on O. So. High St.  There were 9 of us total, and when I tell people that Journey lived with 9 girls her first year, most peoples’ reaction is, “Nine girls????  How did that work?”

Well, it actually almost didn’t.  Our neighbor born and raised in the Burg called Harrisonburg’s finest too many times to count, that they eventually stopped coming.  Later, he tried to have us evicted for violating the “brothel code” of Harrisonburg – but the ladies of the Barn prevailed with the help of our smooth landlord (thank you Art!!!) and promise to keep one of us hidden at all times, (easy since that one was in Italy).  Journey did not only have 9 mommies, but also had 8 papas up the block in an equally scary structure called ”The Dupe” (aka duplex), in addition to a brother/cat –  Jed, and ferrit-friend Fee.  I told you we lived in a Barn!

 I don’t even know what Journey’s age is in dog years, but she is getting up there.  Recently she has begun to show her age, with the whiteness of her doggie hairs spreading, her stair climbing stopping, and her hearing going.     On Sunday, I walked Journey around the block following a day of relaxation from my 1/2 of the 1/2 marathon run (more tbposted), when Journey had an episode.  It all started out with Journey slinking down and stalking a small dog who was ahead of us, (this has been typical behavior for her from the past 12 years - upon becoming an Alpha Female in adulthood), but the next thing that happened was anything but normal.  She began to convulse.  I was thinking it might be a stroke or an epileptic seizure, never imagining this was what the end might look like.

“Looks like she’s having a muscle spasm,” my neighbor said.  “Maybe she just got too excited.”

Journey lost her bladder in the middle of the street.  Excited and pooped she was.  She shook getting up, and curled over like she had done something naughty, but more scared than I have ever seen her.   I wasn’t sure if she could make it home, and knew she would feel no dignity if I picked her up; terrified from years of rock-a-bying her like the baby she is to me.  So I kissed her head, and sat with her for a bit, and started to cry in the street.

“Please not yet.” 

We made it onto the front porch, and I cried some more.  I wondered if she was trying to tell me that this was the end of her own journey; that her purpose for coming into this world had been fulfilled.  She had given me years of unconditional love and joy and taught me the beauty of becoming a mother long before I called myself one.  

I was tempted to ask everyone for prayers on Sunday night.  I almost called my next-door neighbor for their vet’s name who does house calls.  And then, with the comeback kid fashion of a dog who was hit by a truck when she was a puppy on one of her own journeys down Route 33, she had some kind of recovery.  As in, moments ago she jumped up onto the bed to cuddle with me just as I began pulling out old pictures from our youth, or both of our journeys into adulthood together.  So with this birthday, I’ll be blowing out her candles wishing for peace, continued health, and a little bit more time to celebrate our journey together~

The Barn Girls!

Not a fan of rock-a-bye, she tolerated it for her mama in puppyhood

Journey: "I know you clowns love to dress up every chance you get, but please, spare me in my party coat!"

Uncle Jaybird

Our first trip cross country – 8/99

She had her daddys heart at hello

Harrisonburg: The last day of my cross country adventure with my mom & Journey 1/2003

Girls Best Friend: I might have the same number of pictures of me and Journey that I do of me & Mike on our wedding day!

Never one to pose for pictures, I swear Journey knew it was a special day.

At my post-birth doctor’s visit the first question I asked was when I could start exercising.

“Funny, most women ask about sex,” my doctor remarked giving me a smile, just after warning me how fertile I was with the possibility of procreating Irish twins.  “But you are ready to get back in the saddle again, with both.“

I went to my first Bikram yoga class in two years that night.  After holding my own without the anticipated-Bikram-hangover headache, I committed to unlimited classes all winter.  How many times could I get in there?  Every day!  Let’s go!  Only problem was that I had this new little man waiting at home.  Ninety minutes of yoga never needed any discussion, compromises, or babysitting.  Now this was something that required more juggling than my yoga mat and car keys in one hand, and TV remote and glass of wine in another.  To Bikram or not to Bikram went out the door, and I took to my mat whenever I could get it.

Two months ago, my stylist-friend came over to assist me with a wardrobe makeover.  I showed her the 3 pairs of yoga pants I am living in.  “I actually like them,” she said telling me she was expecting worse from the way I have been describing myself over the phone.  “But where are your jeans?”

“I don’t fit into them anymore.”

I know that this might sound quite obvious, but it was such insight to me at the time: “You know, you can go out and buy a bigger size.  There are jeans that are going to fit you.” 

It took me 2 more months to get down to business, and admit that the passage of 60 days was not going to miraculously get me back to my size.  So yesterday I bought my first pair of jeans post-baby.  I found them randomly on the clearance sale rack at Old Navy for $11.99.  Not having the time to try them on, (again clothes shopping with a baby is a whole new beast) I thought that for $12, it made sense to buy them – anticipating that I’d be returning them after trying them on.  Since when does anyone strike gold on the first pair of jeans they try on? In over a year? Post-baby???? (And for 5% of what I bought my last pair for???  HELLO???) Odds are probably better at winning the mega-millions.  And to my beautiful shock, when I tried this pair of jeans on in front of the mirror last night, I actually thought I looked hot.  As in almost-skinny hot, (or probably better phrased: not too much junk in the trunk hot).

I wore them last night, and became excited at the prospect of getting dressed today in my new favorite only pair of jeans.  Wahoo!  My whole morning seemed to go a bit smoother, as if “Everything’s coming up roses!” was playing in the background.  I kissed my little love-bug goodbye when Grandma Cella came over to pick him up.  And with 30 minutes of free time,  I did what I imagine any other suburban mom might do with an empty house and some free time.  I cranked up the music, and danced around in front of my mirror shaking my new-found booty to “Hips Don’t Like.”

God, it felt good to be enjoying my clothes again.  And not to be in the mirror doing what my husband calls is my notorious “fashion shows” – (namely, trying on every outfit I own because I can’t decide what to wear, because nothing fits me the way I like it).  That’s no fun.  But dancing around and admiring my hips – now that is WINNING!

I might even have to go back to Old Navy tomorrow.  Just to buy another pair of pants, and maybe even go wild and get a skirt in my new size. I may even leave the mirror and go ”Dancing in the Street” before you know it: )

Nine came and went without a marathon, but I did become obsessed with running in my summers at Breezy Point.  My tween summers were spent reading, writing, and running.  My dad joined me on one of those runs and gave me a little bit of runner’s etiquette I carry with me:  “Always smile and wave at the runners you pass by,” he said.  “Give them a little nod to encourage them on.”  So I would and I do, and there is a part of me that goes absolutely stir-crazy if I pass another runner who is so intent on their own pace that they can’t do the common courtesy nod back in my direction after learning this golden rule. 

I ran in the summers, and eventually when I reached highschool, I ran during the school year.  There is something about running which is different for me than other activities.  Despite having a dog named Journey, (who I didn’t name), I am very destination driven.  For most of my life, I felt like I was always waiting for something to happen;  always wanting to get on with it, or move to the next thing – never quite content with the present moment.  One might think that with running it’s important to be destination driven, but for me running has never been about the destination and always about the journey.  I recently realized that I have always meditated and prayed, it just never looked very conventional with me sitting Indian-style  or kneeling beside my bed.  It happened on the road in between rhythmic breaths.  I work out a lot of stuff on my runs.  Running has healed broken hearts.  Running has put it all in perspective.  Running has allowed me to feel good in my skin again on days when all I want is to crawl right out of it.  It is my therapy.

Although I enjoy the practice of running, I don’t particularly care for the races.  In highschool, I would make myself sick on race days wishing I could do 10 fartleks instead.  (Funny, I had not used that word in some time and always thought the term was “fart-lick” -until wikipedia confirmed the spelling: ).  But I still showed up at the meets, and I ran my heart out.

I begged to be a short-distance runner because they got all the glory with the easy-breezy workouts, but my body was not genetically made that way.  I am a distance runner all the way.  It wasn’t until my senior year that I discovered the cross country team, which was where my enjoyment of racing gradually evolved.  Thank goodness for that year where I became a serious runner, and enjoyed pacing and beating my own times  - and started an uncanny habit of calculating distances as good as most pedometers. 

So far in my life I have run 1 marathon, 3 half-marathons, and probably between 10 -20 5ks.  Granted, most of these races were done in my 20s, but as a woman in her mid-30s this doesn’t faze me in the least.  I know I have the power to always begin again.

I choose to race to take my running to another level.  Sometimes I need a little kick in the pants to start putting in some miles (like now), or consistency, or whatever.  But it’s never about the race.  It’s always about the commitment to just get out there and put one foot in front of the other. 

Just writing the past few paragraphs was a huge a-ha.  How amazing it would feel if I could approach writing the same way that I approached running!  Putting on my sneakers despite what I’m in the mood for, and just beginning before having a chance to think about it.  Starting in one direction, but often ending up on an entirely different loop depending on what I feel like exploring that day or how much time I have before I need to shower and move onto something else.  I run because ultimately it brings me joy, and I feel better when I’m running than when I’m not.

And that is what I’m choosing to do again.  Getting back out there.  Putting one foot in front of the other.  Which is why I find it so ironic that my dad laughed at me when I shared my plans to run a half-marathon on May 1st.

“Are you crazy?  You’re not going to have time to train for a half-marathon in a month!  You haven’t even been running?”

And with each objection, I could feel my conviction growing stronger inside.  I had been tossing around the idea of running a half-marathon for some time since my brother had approached me about wanting to run a half marathon as a fundraiser for our cousin’s school.

But there is a part of me that thinks this might just be a part of my dad’s parenting strategy with me (yes at 34!) to give me the kick in the pants that I don’t give myself.  An oxymoron to those around him, he loves sharing his techniques of reverse psychology – especially the story about how he was a puppet in my decision to go to JMU.  Everytime he opened his mouth about any of the other 30 colleges that we went to visit up and down the east coast, I normally went the other direction.  So when he pulled off of I-81 into the beautiful town of Harrisonburg in the Shenandoah Valley, he said nothing.

“What do you think Dad?” he will recall me saying, looking up at him as if to say This is the puppy I want!  Can we keep it?

Silence.  “It’s okay.”

He retells the story of watching my eyes start bugging out of their sockets as we went further around the campus, even on a dreary wet Septmember day.  “Dad, I think I’ve found the one.”

“You really think so?  Don’t get your hopes up.  You should probably apply to some other schools too.”

“Yeah, whatever.  I know I’m going here.”

And the rest is history…

I almost wish I could turn up the volume on an imaginary hearing aid for Journey when baby Ev screeches (not to make her suffer), but because I think she might give it right back to him with a fierce bark.  I’m really embarassed to admit that I sort of tried that, and it is my first failed attempt as a parent at thinking something so off the wall might actually stop the whine from flowing. 

My parental behavior was even worse than some of the crazy antics I’ve witnessed.  In my pre-child speech therapy days, I would stare at parents in disbelief who would pretend to cry when their child smacked them.  Supernanny Jo would have a field day here!  I’d think.  Instead I’d try to restrain judgment and ask in my most neutral tone,  “How is that working for you?” stealing a Dr. Phil one-liner.

Their child laughs and does it again.  (Obviously not working too well).

So now I have some insight as to why parents choose to respond in some kooky kinds of ways.   And karma has come round again, the moment I stooped to the same level when I howled at my son like a coyote.  My howling did not phase him in the least bit, except that the whines got longer (and louder).  And his little cat claws start tearing at his eyes, because what he really is whining about is sleep.    

I am now about to admit 2 more crazy things that I do in addition to howling at my son like a coyote.  The first is that I toss him one of his burp rags.  He clutches it for dear life and then covers his face with it.  He is definititely his mama’s son – a blanky boy.  (I only hope that unlike yours truly, he loses his before he hits high school).

The second thing that I’m going to admit is that my least favorite thing to do as a parent is to cut his nails.  In the almost 5 months he’s been here, I’ve cut them probably less than 5 times (I’m counting both – fingers and toes here).   That’s not to say that they are not groomed.  Whenever my early visitors asked if there was anything I needed, I learned to be very direct in new parenthood.  “Food is always welcome,” I’d say.  “And if you are planning on stopping by, would you mind cutting Evan’s nails for me?” 

I got some looks, and I do appreciate all (which was most) responses that others were just as scared at cutting his nails as I was.  There really needs to be nail service for newborns.  Hear me out before thinking that I am advocating tips before they are tots.  I would never even attempt to clip my dog’s nails which is the reason I send her to a groomer.   But I’m not so lucky to have a groomer for my little tiger.   I have thought about this potential service each time I look down at his beautiful little fingers and try to eat his sweet smelling toes.  But as many times as I have thought the thought, I would never in my wildest dreams WANT to run this business.   I would rather run my own fingernails down a chalkboard than cut childrens’. 

I got a little too close to a cuticle the other day, just as he was going down for a nap.  “MAAAAAAA!” he cried a little, more like a meowing cat than one in heat.

I so hope that I’m not a “Ma”.  That just sounds soooooo whiny.  Other than Ma from Little House on the Prairie, any other reference I think of to Ma is with adult sons who sit on the couch and yell to their mother:  “Ma!  Where’s the remote?” or “Ma!!!!  Can you make me a sandwich too?  Make sure it’s on white bread!  Mayo on that too Ma!”  If Evan begins to call me Ma, I’m going to have to employ several speech therapy tricks to make sure that another syllable is strung along.

Except if that extra syllable is “me”.  I’m just as opposed to Mommy.  Equally whiny, but I don’t get an image of a failure-to-launch son.  Instead, I think of a 3-year old having a tantrum in Toys R Us.  “But Mommy!!!!!!  I want it!!!!!!!!” with fists pounding on the ground, and me standing there looking at this child wondering where he came from, and if it is possible to float him down some chocolate river with all of the other whiners at the Chocolate factory.

Mother is not even in the running.  It’s way too cold for me.  Probable intimacy issues for a son who is forced to say Mother.  Besides, from a logistical point, in my vocabulary “Mother” normally precedes a yelled expletive.  Normally when I drop something on my big toe (that is typically groomed well because I do go get pedicures, unless I’m home watching a 5-month old dreading giving him one).

Which leads me to the final two choices: Mom or Mama.  I’ve actually chosen one already, and it’s even surprising me.  I already refer to myself as “mama”.  Most “mamas” I think of also have a large and in charge reference, as in “Big Momma’s House”.  (Actually, at the rate I’m going in my Target yoga pants I’ve been wearing since Evan’s birth, with pairs in black, brown, and gray because of  hips that no longer resemble the ones that used to like wearing semi-skinny-slim fitting jeans, Big Mama might be totally appropriate now).  But other than the big mama thing, there is such an endearing sweet quality to the name.  Mama.

  Simply stated.  First words, (if I have anything to do with it – which as an SLP, I will have some advantage over “dada”).  Love.  Sweet.  Unless it’s yelled like a cat.  Or used in a phrase, or movie plot  – as in throwing mama from the train.  Oh for love of Mother, maybe I’ll just be “Gaga”~