Turkey dinners evoke warm memories of chaotic, festive times with my family, everyone talking over each other in an effort to be heard, cheap wine making us all the more animated, the occasional dinner roll being thrown either to make a point, or out of sheer laziness.
I come from a big family; so when I think of these festive dinners, activity and hustle and bustle comes to mind, not bucolic dining rooms with classical music playing softly in the background amid discussions of politics and vacation plans. It’s more like feast or famine: eat quickly or else the gravy boat will be empty, there is no time for such engaging conversations.
But let’s talk turkey. No one – not even Jamie, Nigella or Martha – can make gravy like my mom. Try as I might, I cannot come close to the creamy, thick consistency that she delivers. Her stuffing – an innovative bread and potato blend, by the way – is the perfect compliment, not overpowering but tasty in its own right. And then my personal favorite: her cranberry sauce: just lumpy enough to taste the goodness of the berries, sweet enough to be delightful yet not taste like dessert, beautifully presented in her special round crystal bowl. Sigh. There is nothing like my mom’s turkey dinner.
Yet I am 6000 miles away, and now very sad (we Canadians are not celebrating Thanksgiving today, but are inundated with stories of our neighbors to the south, who are; so one can’t help but think about these things). It is understandable why thousands of Americans go to the magnanimous trouble to travel home for this holiday. If their mother’s can cook anything like mine, it is well worth the time and money. In case you haven’t heard, there’s no place like home.
My first marathon was no triumph, as you will glean from my last post, My First Marathon (warning: NOT a success story).
It left me with a bad taste in my mouth and an ache in my knee just thinking about it. So in the years immediately following it, I erased it from my memory, and kicked my running habit to the curb. We moved to London, England, smack dab in the middle of the city. Aside from a few magical predawn runs down Pall Mall, I found it generally too busy and smoggy to run, so I didn’t; I even had an opportunity to train with an amazingly multicultural, international running group, including some incredibly fit Kenyans, but I politely declined. A stupid mistake in retrospect, but at the time I had no interest. My running days were done, I thought.
Missing the sweet combination of ocean and mountains that we are spoiled by in Vancouver, we moved back and started a family. I was in various stage of pregnancy and post pregnancy for the next six years, so running took on new meaning: it was invaluable self time. I got to listen to music, think, and feel like the person I used to be before having tiny dependents affixed to my legs for the better part of most days (and nights). It was a welcome respite. I rekindled my romance with my former favorite pastime.
We took it slowly, flirting in the beginning with short, half hour runs, often with the baby jogger along as a third wheel. As our attraction mounted, we started dating Sunday mornings for longer runs. I found a 10 km training schedule in Impact magazine that coincided perfectly for the upcoming Vancouver Sun Run, and we were officially an item. I was back in love with running.
I was particularly pleased with a half marathon time I eventually posted, and the thought of training for another marathon crept into my mind. When I got home I immediately plugged my finishing time into one of those handy (yet for the most part useless) marathon calculators to see if I could possibly qualify for the Boston Marathon – if I was going to to do this again, I wanted to take it to the next level, and in my books running Boston was shooting for the stars. According to this very unscientific predictor, I would qualify easily. Ignoring the fact that I could not have run another step after that half, let alone another thirteen miles, I decided to give it a whirl.
I found a free training program online. It was boldly entitled “The Boston Qualifier Program”. That should work, I thought, and printed it off. It had one main problem: it wasn’t tailored for any particular age group, and used time instead of miles, so instead of calling for a six mile run, it said to run for an hour. But the qualifying time for a twenty year old man is drastically different from that of a fifty year old female, for instance, so the fact that we were all running the same amount of time for long runs puzzled me. However, it had promised success in the title, so I stuck with it.
I faithfully followed this program. Save for tweaking it in a few places to substitute spinning classes for those throw away runs – easy days to pad your mileage – I somewhat blindly did what it told me to do, hoping its creator knew what they were doing, and had not published it as a hoax.
There had been a few improvements registered in the running world since I had turned my nose up at it. The proliferation of GPS watches was a big one: I had a much better handle on my pacing and mileage thanks to this Christmas present. Gels and power bars were very much on the scene, and helped to sustain me better on long runs, as did water enhanced with electrolytes. And it was much easier to find physiotherapists and chiropractors with running expertise who could treat injuries. A new day had dawned since my first marathon, thirteen years earlier.
With technology on my side and scientifically improved nutrition, and the “Boston Qualifier” program in my back pocket, I felt ready to do battle with the marathon again. The Victoria Marathon – flat and beautiful – would be my testing ground.
Tight IT bands had been causing me knee pain in the run up to the race. My main worry was this would pose a problem for me, as it usually did after mile sixteen. The night before the race, as I restlessly paged through old Runner’s World magazines, I came across an article about preparing for your marathon. The tip that most resonated with me was to decide beforehand what type of pain would stop you in your tracks, and what pain you would run through. I’d been told by more than one medical professional that my IT bands would not snap if I continued to run even though pain was present. I decided to ignore any pain my knee might throw at me, and only stop if I felt discomfort that was alarmingly different.
My other worry about the race was that it would rain, but race day dawned sunny and beautiful, and a temperate 12 degrees Celsius – ideal running conditions. I drank a glass of water – instead of the two liters I had consumed before my last marathon – and headed to the starting line.
Things went swimmingly and according to plan up until the halfway mark when my right knee started hurting, four miles too early by my calculation. I tried to shake it out mid stride, the people around me throwing me strange looks, but I ignored them because it seemed to relieve it. I tried to change my stride a little, putting my right foot down gingerly, or kicking up my back heel more than usual. Just when I thought it was subsiding it would seize up again, and I would go through the motions to try to loosen it.
Otherwise I felt great. I was inspired when the out and back course afforded a view of the leaders, and they effortlessly strode past us. I repeatedly saw some spectators that held up a sign reading “My Grandma thinks you’re hot!” which cracked me up every time. I was well under my projected time by mile sixteen, and thought if I could run four miles with the pain, I could probably finish, and plugged on. The knee pain slowed me down a tad, but I tried to focus on the beautiful scenery and my fellow runners. I stubbornly ignored the pain as it came and went, and by mile twenty I decided there was no stopping me.
The last three miles are always a question mark – most of us don’t run that far for our long runs, so you wonder how you will possibly get through them. I didn’t feel great – my legs were shouting “enough!” – but I was still determined to finish this and meet the qualifying standard for Boston. The miles ticked down, one by one, until finally there was only one to go. There weren’t many spectators at this point, many choosing instead to line up on the final stretch, but someone had stuck posters to telephone poles that read “You’ve made it this far – you can’t quit now!” Quite right.
I savored the final stretch. People were cheering so loudly they managed to drown out the searing pain in my knee, and although it may have looked like I was hobbling, in my mind’s eye I was flying. This was the more like the ending I had been hoping for, thirteen years ago.
Better late than never.
I have been a runner since Santa brought me my first pair of proper runners and track suit in grade two. In case you are wondering, Santa wasn’t trying to rid me of my baby fat, I had actually asked for them, at the very top of my list. My friends were all about dolls, I was all about two feet and a heartbeat.
From that first run (incidentally, down the street to A&W, where I rewarded myself with a baby rootbeer), I was addicted to endorphins as though they were crack cocaine. And luckily runners bear no track marks, just ugly feet; sandals can be a problem when your toenails are missing.
Running came easily to me, unlike math, and I continued to run throughout Junior High and High School – it was great for improving fitness for other sports, plus you could get about three days off school per track meet, if you signed up for the right events. It turned out I liked lazing around and sunning myself on the track as much as running on it; it was all good.
It was only natural, once I graduated from university, moved across the country, got a real job in the real world, and got married, that I would finally train for a marathon, that pinnacle of achievement for anyone who refused to use the term “jog” and who knew the difference between a kilometer and a mile. Aside from coming out of nowhere to win the Boston Marathon (or taking the subway in the middle of it and then pretending to win it), how else is the casual runner to experience moments of glory? And who doesn’t need those?
I bought a book and joined a running group in one foul swoop. I was going to do this right, and give my marathon experience its proper due, although if anyone could run a marathon surely that person was me (hello! I’ve only been running, like, my entire life!).
I took my training seriously, read the book cover to cover, and didn’t miss one Sunday morning long run, even making it to most speed workouts and interval training on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I ate well, hydrated myself, got plenty of rest, and listened to my body when it complained. When race day rolled around I was as prepared as I could possibly be, nothing could stop me from a successful race. I had this in the bag. I pictured myself sprinting effortlessly down the stretch, arms raised in my personal victory, enjoying my moment in the sun.
In actuality, the scene resembled a horror film much more than the romantic comedy I had envisioned.
For starters, it poured rain the entire race, and although it was May it could easily have passed for February. It was miserable, and my first (of many) mistakes was thinking that Mother Nature would actually listen to the optimistic sun dance I was conducting in my head. She didn’t, I underdressed, and there is nothing like being cold and wet for four hours, I learned that day.
The next mistake was reading that book, which told me to wake up at least a couple of hours before the race in order to hydrate. The year was 1997, and that was the popular belief at the time. Between the hours of 4:30 and 6:30 that morning I drank two liters of water. Dehydration was the dragon you had to slay, we thought; none of us (in our running group, anyway) had heard of hyponatremia, where your sodium levels get dangerously low should you ingest too much water.
Taking in calories through gels or bars was also news to us. I was starving at the halfway mark and curiously took a gel someone offered me and choked it down. In the last few miles I started taking everything any sticky fingered child was offering: a banana rolled in dirt, oranges with pebbles, anything that could possibly sustain me was game. (A shout out to every sticky fingered child who braved the route that day – I would not have finished but for them.)
My dreams of glory were replaced by the reality of me, water logged and freezing cold, stumbling towards the finish line which, despite it being less than a mile from where I lived, I could not recognize. It was not pretty, and resembled the agony of defeat much more than anything else. It was not a success; it was traumatizing.
So much for my cocksure attitude. To make matters worse, I could not step off a curb without an incredible amount of pain for the next month, and all of my toenails eventually fell off from that rainy day, providing me with an unwelcome reminder of the incredible pain I went through in those last few miles every time I glanced at my toes.
I hung up my hat, threw my medal in a box, and decided marathons were not for me.
But the postscript to this story, and the story I prefer to relate when I speak of this experience (which as you might guess is rarely) is this one:
My running partner for this marathon had never run a mile in her life before our first six mile training run. Not one mile. I was incredulous. She, too, followed our program religiously, determined to achieve this goal. And she unapologetically kicked my ass quite handily come race day. She was adamant that it was all in the mind, and if you put your mind to it, you could do anything you wanted.
I did get back on the horse eventually, and started running again. It was, after all, in my blood. I ran another marathon and had a finish much like the one I had envisioned that first time, but it took me thirteen years to work up my courage to do it.
In the interim, I thought a lot about the success my partner had that day because she never wavered from the idea that she could do it, and wondered how it was that my mind had come up so short. She was also underdressed, over-hydrated and hungry, yet had a fantastic run, said she felt like she was running on air. I mulled it over and over, berating myself for not performing that day.
I wish someone had counselled me a long time ago that every day is different – both in life and in marathons – and one bad experience does not an ex-runner make. But I now know a runner cannot plan their race, and on every starting line to expect the unexpected. And if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.
We want to bring some unique travel experiences to our childrens lives, expose them to new languages and countries rich in history, show them there is more to the world than our small enclave, preferably while eating good food and watching people who are much more fashionable than us.
In other words, we want to go to Europe.
Up until now, I have felt they were too young to travel long distances. I thought they would get more out of a camping trip an hour from our house then dragging them to another continent. But now they are eleven, nine and six; the older two in particular eager for new adventures. Our youngest will go along with whatever her sisters want, so she is a moot point.
If we are schlepping them so far, it stands to reason we want to be there for a while, preferably a month. The accommodation price tag alone of housing a family of five would quickly bankrupt us. So yesterday, I joined HomeExchange.com.
Friends of ours have used this successfully to travel to France and Australia, meeting great families in the process. We thought we would throw our ring into the hat, and see if we can pull out a rabbit. Or a castle.
The other day, as sunlight filtered in through our windows – a rare sight in November – I was inspired to photograph our digs. I ran around, stashing piles of crap in drawers, stuffing clothing underneath beds, and turning lights on even though it was daytime, and cursed myself once again for not taking a photography course.
I miraculously found my USB cord and loaded them onto my computer. This must be a sign that good things, and surely castles, are coming my way. Next, I cleverly searched the internet for a coupon for HomeExchange.com; and the first one I found actually worked. A definite sign. Call me Princess. Am I actually becoming internet savvy or have they just dumbed it down?
I filled out the required information about our home, trying hard to not sound like a used car salesman, yet clever enough for our listing to scream “castles only need apply!” in a very discreet way, of course. I finished the writing part, but then had to search their directory to figure out how to load photos. It was the first Frequently Asked Question, so again I patted my internet-savvy self on the back, since I clearly was not the first person to inquire about this.
There were four places to list where you would like to travel, so along with France and Italy for this summer, I also added Maui and Naramata, for March break and August, respectively. You can’t win if you don’t play. How cool would it be if we could get a sweet place in Hawaii or the Okanagan on a lark?
Presto. After two hours of work, and a grand total of $85 (the cost for a yearly membership, after my crafty coupon) chez nous is open for business. Fingers crossed that this experience doesn’t resemble National Lampoon’s European Vacation.
Halloween is not in the can for a week, and the Christmas crap starts.
Before I have even taken the skeletons and cobwebs (this, in itself, is alarming: Halloween decorations??) to storage and put away the multiples of costumes, the kids have their Christmas lists finished and are asking about their dresses.
Dresses? For one day?
As I’m questioning the necessity of whether they each need a dress they will never wear (Doesn’t last year’s fit? How about something a little nicer than normal that you will actually wear again throughout the year?), I catch a glimpse of my oldest daughter’s list.
The first item is a laptop computer. And then the cheeky bugger has listed several other items beneath it, since you can’t simply get one gift for Christmas.
Hardly an original thought, but once more, with feeling: have we lost our marbles when it comes to consumerism at Christmas?
I said as much to her. “But I need it for school! We don’t have enough laptops to go around,” she wailed.
She is eleven. Whatever happened to the blackboard? And slates?
I try not to point my finger solely at her – it is the age in which we live. Also to blame is her peer group, who seem to up the ante on every birthday and occasion. You can’t blame her for trying. But it seems to get worse every year, the wish list loftier and longer, the price tags higher, the gadgets fancier.
We’ve traded in American Girls (who knew you could spend that much dough on a doll?) for electronics. A couple of years ago it was the iPod, then the Nintendo DS, then the iTouch. (The requests for the cell phone have been ignored although her voice gets louder, and I am sad to report she is in the minority of her group of friends who must resort to land lines for calling home – “use your friends cellphone,” I tell her cheerfully.)
When I was her age I was lucky to get a Barbie. The world, and not just my daughter, has gone mad. And you either must buck up in order to make their wishes come true, or buck the trend; in which case your name, come Christmas day, will be the Grinch. Or Scrooge. Pick your poison.
The answer, of course, is to educate your children about those who have so little at this time of year; let’s help them instead. We gather necessities and tiny treasures and put them together for families in need in our community. We deliver bags of food to the Food Bank. We talk about all the people all over the world who are simply trying to survive each day, let alone play with a new toy. We do all this until the cows come home. And yet when tucking them in at night, it’s back to their list.
This is where the tough parenting comes in. I love my children to the ends of the earth, but it’s my job to teach them that their happiness can’t be bought. I want them to be joyously happy on Christmas Day, but not because I’ve forked out January’s grocery money on their gift. I want them to have great friends and feel secure but not because they received what the rest of their friends got during the holiday. I want them to be thoughtful, loving, caring, empathetic citizens, not greedy, selfish drama queens.
It’s so much easier to say yes than no, but what is that teaching them? I always did have a soft spot for the Grinch.
I’ve been a devotee of yoga for seven years now. It’s a required pastime for West Coasters, a stamp you need on your passport should you decide to live here. You need to know the difference between Ashtanga and Hatha, know whether you like Bikram’s or not, and have a favorite studio, as baseline requirements.
But there are drawbacks. It can be expensive – $2o a class equals my entire coffee budget for the week; time consuming – getting to my favorite studio is a 30 minute journey, making an hour long class takes a minimum of two hours, and I worry about the strain on the environment since I need to drive there.
Once there, it is a crap shoot whether I have a plum spot by a window, or am wedged into a corner next to smelly guy who clearly does not believe in deodorant, or bathing, making the entire experience unpleasant no matter how fantastic the instructor.
Yet the benefits are huge – unless I happened to be wedged in the corner next to smelly guy, I inevitably float out of class, my whole being feeling relaxed yet stronger then when I entered the room, my mind quieted (I don’t reach a meditative state necessarily, but as close as I can come, definitely a stiller state). My posture has improved immeasurably, now when I am mad or stressed I feel my shoulders creep up next to my ears, so I breathe and bring them down – tiny yoga postures used in everyday life. Opening my hips has drastically reduced my running injuries. Even the mantras take their toll eventually, although that took a long time for me: take the best pose you can for this day, recognizing that each day is different.
Hands down, I would prefer to do a yoga class than receive a massage, so that’s saying something.
But pressed for time and money, as we all are, it’s hard to justify doing as much yoga as I would like. So I’ve taken to unfurling my mat at home and doing free yoga podcasts on iTunes. I get the benefits of a fantastic class in a fraction of the time and at a greatly reduced cost (free is the right price for me).
I’ve found an instructor I love – Elsie Escobar – she is quirky yet incredibly knowledgeable. I tend to gravitate towards people who don’t take themselves too seriously, and Elsie is exactly that. She often has a great life message in the beginning, but if I’m really in a hurry I fast forward to the beginning of the practice. And (sorry Yogi’s, you may not want to read my next sentence) if in a really big rush, I don’t do savasana. There is nothing worse than lying in savasana and making lists of all the things you could be doing if you could just get off this mat.
There are hundreds of podcasts listed, so you can easily do a different one each time, although I certainly have my favorites that I return to on a regular basis.
And best of all: no smelly guy to worry about. Long live yoga podcasts.
I am rocking this homemaker thing.
In the past week, I have purged our playroom, organized my youngest child‘s room down to the Barbie shoes, delivered a truckload of toys to the Salvation Army, got my oldest child to her three orthodontist appointments AND finally took her to the doctor to discuss her shinsplints, mailed back my mother’s spare key that I accidentally took, remembered to wish my brother a happy birthday (at 9pm the night of his birthday, but still), charged my way through my book in time for book club, paid the MasterCard bill, and remembered to pick up all my children from every sundry activity and birthday party that rules their world.
Today alone, I managed to make their lunches, get them to school in proper rain gear, indoor shoes safely ensconced in their bags, had a workout, talked a friend through a crisis, joined Twitter, dealt with our broken window blinds, made healthy muffins, picked children and their play dates up from school in timely fashion, and have dinner marinating.
Children, have no fear; Supermom is here.
I am giddy with power. Confounded by my usefulness. Loving my resourceful self. Where can I buy that snazzy red and blue suit? I’m ready to fly. It only took eleven years.
My recent domestic roll (as in, I’m on a roll) comes not a moment too soon. Domesticity, as I wrote about in an earlier post (Motherhood: my unlikely career) is not my natural calling. I prefer to get paid for my blood, sweat and tears, and the minutia of homemaking is not fulfilling.
I started this blog to talk about other things that weigh on me or interest me, like sex, drugs and rock and roll for instance. However in the process of homemaking it is essays on homemaking that I write in my mind. I figure I will get the motherhood topics off my chest, and then move on to bigger and better topics. Hang on, that sounds familiar – wasn’t that my life plan, for that matter?
Yet here I am, eleven years later, still stuck on the homemaker aspect, but with a subtle difference: by simply acknowledging my accidental role, I somehow own it. Call it the power of the pen, or whatever. But writing about it absolutely makes me feel better.
If you, too, find yourself curiously at home raising your children, and are wondering about your worth since you make substantially less than minimum wage, I recommend writing down every minuscule task, no matter how mundane, for an entire week. Keep in mind you will need either a very long piece of paper, or will have to use tape to piece together a list that will surely be taller than you are. Refer to this list, and be proud of your achievements, even if they are remarkably different from what you had imagined. I think this is what they call living in the moment.
I still feel like I’m going to rocket to stardom once discovered on Canadian Idol or So You Think You Can Dance, but until then I will continue on as CEO of our family.
It is November, not January, or September for other non-conformists, that marks the beginning of the year in my house.
November can be a tough month. Some grow mustaches for a great cause, and select lucky ones fly off to sunnier destinations, since it’s too early for skiers to ski, too rainy for bikers to bike. The rest of us grin and bear November and the rain it inevitably brings. Or go out and buy a sun lamp to lessen their Seasonal Affective Disorder.
I nominate November to become National House Purging month. A month to declutter, reorganize, become the minimalists we all want to be. (In an unbelievable quirk of fate, my friend has set the date for her clothing swap for Nov. 30 – in preparation I have already sorted out my closet: http://reganrants.wordpress.com/2010/11/11/fun-green-and-free-clothing-swaps/
By November, the craziness of September is out of the way – ironing out multiple routines for children, figuring out how to be in three places at once, dealing with new teachers and coaches and expectations of advancing education. October provides last glimpses of decent weather and a brief breather before the Halloween onslaught begins, the indecision about what to be and how to find it culminating, of course, in a sugar crazed fit of hysteria and exhaustion by 9 pm Halloween night.
We wake up with sugar hangovers, and welcome November.
The costumes are put away, the candy stash dwindles, and we settle in for a long winter season. Like clockwork, a desire to purge and organize my house overtakes me.
On Saturday, I innocently started organizing the Barbie bin, and before I knew it had two bags of trash (headless Barbie’s, dolls missing limbs, pieces to toys long since broken), one bag of recycling (workbooks completed, books missing key pages) and three bags for the Salvation Army (naked dolls with only slightly matted hair, toddler toys reluctantly outgrown.)
My children were a vital part of this process. At first they voiced their discontent with shrill screams and tears, but once they understood I was trying to create a better, organized (if not bucolic) setting for them to play in, they were a great help. I would ask them if they still played with an item, and if it was in good working order and they assured me it would be used, we found a bin or basket for it. If the toy in question was broken or of no value to them, they gamely put it in the proper pile to give away or recycle.
At the end of the day (literally – it took all day) they were so pleased that they had helped create this newly organized world, still slightly cluttered but yet new, fresh ground, ready for them to unleash their limitless imaginations.
Next step: their closets. Deep breath.