Race Day

Race day

I know. I haven't written in ages. No excuses. I just haven't written. Let's move on. Because today is RACE DAY!

For those of you who have not had a race day, I want to explain my process to you. Because race day is like the first day of school. Increased by 1,000. The night before race day, I am silent. Don't talk to me because I am busy processing every iota of what will be tomorrow. I am laying out my swimsuit, sports bra, bike shorts, shirt, and socks. I'm making my overnight oats, while muttering to myself "don't forget your earbuds, water bottle, goggles, swim cap, money, change of clothes, wait, did I make a water bottle? WHERE ARE MY EARBUDS?!?!" I'm walking myself through the race, wondering where I should put my stuff so I am out of the way but not too out of the way. I have a bath to calm down, but it's not as comfortable as I would like in our 1970's small tub. I try to read, but my thoughts drift to my transition plan (exiting the pool and heading for the bike, as well as getting off my bike and starting to swim). I go sleep, and usually, thankfully, sleep deeply until 5:55 a.m. I set my alarm for 6:45 a.m., stupidly thinking that I can sleep that long. Yeah right. The first twitch and I am up, itching to move and get going, like a child on Christmas morning. I try not to rush, since the race isn't for hours. But there's nothing left to do, for I have prepped the night before. Read the news? Good luck. My eyes reread the same words over and over. I move slowly, sip my tea, eat my oats. And I check the clock. Five minutes have passed.

Fuck.

I got to the bathroom, the first of many nervous pees. I pee all the time on race morning. There, I said it. ALL THE TIME. It's a bit ridiculous. I pack up my stuff. Double check my list. Earbuds. Check. Water bottle. Check. Wallet. Check. Flip flops. Check. Goggles. Check. Shoes pre-tied so I can slide them on during transition. Nope. Do it now. Put everything in the car. Load up my bike. Double check my stuff. Get in the car and go, because I'd rather be early to the race than kill time at home. 

Itchy. Pacing. Nervous.

When I drive to a race, two things happen. 

One - I listen to electronic dance music or rap so loud I cannot hear myself think. The whole way. I do this on purpose. Because of the second thing that always happens on race day. 

Two - I cry on race day. Every time. My emotions are running on overdrive, close to the surface, and I always cry driving to the race. Sometimes about something specific, sometimes just because. 

I get to the race and I'm early. Always. Like somehow I think the drive will take me three times as long, but it never does. And I get there and I wait. And I wait. And I wait. The nerves get better and then worse and then better. And then it's time to line up! I make nervous conversation with the people behind me in line, attempting to sound more experienced than I feel. My stomach bounces and my hands open, close, open, as I desperately just want this thing to start. 

As whistle goes and I quickly to the front of the line as more people get in the water and begin to swim, one by one. They all seem so much faster than me. Some people pass others, some people almost crash into one another and then, all of a sudden, it's my turn. Wait. I'm not ready. Oh wait. Yes I am. NO, WAIT! 

"3, 2, 1, go!" 

And I'm off.

The race itself is a blur. Mouthfuls of water when I need mouthfuls of air. A slow sticky transition. Dead legs. A burst of energy. 

And it's over.

That's it.

I wander around the finish area, looking for my family. Sometime races I find them, some races they can't make it.

I slowly start to ease back in the world of the non-racers. I drink my water, eat my orange and pull on my warm pants and flip flops.

It's over. 

I post pictures, give race recaps, perhaps finish a blog post ;) 

But, in the end, it's over.

~ H

Those old ladies were right

The Babe starts Kindergarten next week. KINDERGARTEN! I started this blog when she was 6 weeks old and I thought I might be going insane so I decided to capture my 3 a.m. musings here. And now she is four and a half and heading to school next week.

And the old ladies were right.

You know those old ladies. The ones who come up to you in the grocery store or at the mall and smile at your baby and say, "cherish them because it goes so fast". Those ladies who you silently flip the invisible bird to as they walk away because they don't know. They don't know how it took everything for you to leave the house and go to grocery store. That you were halfway out the door when the first diaper explosion happened, and then halfway in the car when the crying started and your boobs began to leak and you had to feed, and another diaper explosion and you would have never left the house except that there was no milk for the coffee and you had used the last of the vanilla ice cream as creamer yesterday. They don't know, or else if they did, they wouldn't tell you to cherish it. They would know that you are just wishing he would sleep through the night, that she would walk already, that he would go potty by himself, that she would get her own damn glass of water. Cherish these moments of insanity? Yeah right lady.

Except they were right.

Because now she can get her own glass of water, go to the potty alone, pick out her own pyjamas and grab a snack from the fridge and she does it all in the silly little ways that I don't want her to stop. But I'm scared they will stop. I'm scared that she will go to school and I will lose her and who she is now. I will lose her silly sweet self to her peers and to her teacher and her librarian and I'm devastated that I wished it all away.

Because you can't know until you're here. Just like you couldn't know about having a baby until you had one. And now you know what those old ladies meant but it's too damned late. And I'm grasping at straws having dance parties in the living room and reading all the stories, but it's like waking up Saturday morning and mourning the loss of the weekend before it's even over. But you can see the end, you can feel it, creeping up the back of your throat when you give her a hug goodnight and a kiss.

Tell me your silly stories and yes, I want to go to the library with you. I will do anything to keep you this young right now. To freeze this moment and truly appreciate it. To really see you and not want you to be older, faster, more verbal, less clingy. To just be with you. Before you enter this new world and you perhaps become someone else, someone I don't recognize as well.

I want to stop time. So I can cherish you, because it really does go too damned fast.

 










~ H

Tonight they broke me

Tonight my kids broke me. And it took me awhile to put myself back together. It was a normal chaotic Friday night, nothing unusual other than the heat. We have central air (yes, I am an asshole but in my defence, it came with the house) so the heat generally doesn't bother us too much.

After spending the day at work, all I want to do is see my kids. For 10 minutes. And then I want to go back to work because no tiny humans yell at me there. And then I shake my head and engage and read them a story and laugh with them and remember that I want to be with my kids. For another 10 minutes. And then I want to hide in my room because they're yelling at me AS I AM GETTING READY TO TAKE THEM SWIMMING. A TREAT. FOR THEM.

So I tell them to fuck off.

Not really. Just in my head. Loudly. Emphasis on the "fah" and the "k".

And then we are swimming and laughing and playing with the garden hose in the yard and I think "this is what it's all about". But it has to end soon, because bedtime is nearing and I'm tired from a long week. So we head inside and then the real yelling begins. And the stories and snacks get revoked. And the yelling turns into screaming. And the jammies can't be decided on. And the screaming now includes tears.

So I break. I cannot function anymore. I go in my room. I close the door behind me. I lay face down on the bed. And I just stay there. Broken. Done.

And then I take a deep breathe. And another. And I put myself back together. And I go out there.

And tell them to fuck off. (Just kidding this time)

I give one a kiss, put her pyjamas on, make a bottle, and lay her down. Then I go to the other one, put on her now clean bedding, put her pyjamas on, take her to the bathroom, comb her hair, and send her to bed. I head back to the first one, tuck her in, sing her songs, and give her a kiss. Tell them both I love them. And close their doors.

And then I lay outside, on my deck, in the heat, with a drink, and a sigh. And I watch the sun set.

Because "the world breaks everyone and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." - Ernest Hemingway

Tonight they broke me

Tonight my kids broke me. And it took me awhile to put myself back together. It was a normal chaotic Friday night, nothing unusual other than the heat. We have central air (yes, I am an asshole but it came with the house) so the heat generally doesn't bother us too much.

After spending the day at work, all I want to do is see my kids. For 10 minutes. And then I want to go back to work because no tiny humans yell at me there. And then I shake my head and engage and read a story and laugh and remember that I want to be with my kids. For another 10 minutes. And then I want to hide in my room because they're yelling at me AS I AM GETTING READY TO TAKE THEM SWIMMING. A TREAT. FOR THEM.

So I tell them to fuck off.

Not really. Just in my head. Loudly. Emphasis on the "fah" and the "k".

And then we are swimming and laughing and playing with the garden hose in the yard and I think "this is what it's all about". But it has to end soon, because bedtime is nearing and I'm tired from a long week. So we head inside and then the real yelling begins. And the stories and snacks get revoked. And the yelling turns into screaming. And the jammies can't be decided on. And the screaming now includes tears.

So I break. I cannot function anymore. I go in my room. I close the door behind me. I lay face down on the bed. And I just stay there. Broken. Done.

And then I take a deep breathe. And another. And I put myself back together. And I go out there.

And tell them to fuck off. (Just kidding this time)

I give one a kiss, put her pyjamas on, make a bottle, and lay her down. Then I go to the other one, put on her now clean bedding, put her pyjamas on, take her to the bathroom, comb her hair, and send her to bed. I head back to the first one, tuck her in, sing her songs, and give her a kiss. Tell them both I love them. And close their doors.

And then I lay outside, on my deck, in the heat, with a drink, and a sigh. And I watch the sun set.

Because "the world breaks everyone and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." - Ernest Hemingway

Birthday cake blues

So I am sitting in my car right now, feeling like a failure. A slightly poorer failure, because I just paid $31.99 for an ice cream cake for Baby Macaroni's 2nd birthday. (And yes, after her birthday I will drop the Baby and just call her Macaroni for the purposes of this blog.)

I have spent all weekend agonizing over whether or not to make her a birthday cake. I have spent more time thinking about that than anything else. Should I make the cake? Do I have time to make the cake? Can I make a Sesame Street themed birthday cake? Is there time to get to Scoop & Save before my husband has to leave for softball? Should I bail on my running group to watch a tutorial on icing? What if I make an ice cream cake, like the one I saw on Facebook? If the cake isn't Sesame Street themed, is the party still a Sesame Street party. If? What? Why? How.

Seriously.

My husband so kindly reminded me of the horror that was our kitchen last year with t-minus 1 hour until her first birthday party. The icing I made the night before was still rock hard from the fridge, then the piping bag broke, then I started yelling. Pretty sure I cried. Really sure I said never again, and that next year I would buy a cake.

And here we are.

But everyone around me, related to me, friends on Facebook, strangers on Pinterest, seem to be making their kids cakes. So if they can do it, I should be able to right? I can bake. I love to bake. Tonight The Babe and I made the cupcakes for the daycare birthday party, which in case you are taking notes, comes before the family birthday dinner and way before the family birthday party. Thank goodness we're not at friend birthday party age yet, because you might have to pull me out of a dark corner somewhere.

I never thought I would be the type of person who measures her parenting against other people's. I pride myself on doing what is right for us, and who gives a rats ass what everyone else is doing. When everyone else was buying dolls for their kids, we bought The Babe a toy workbench. But I made the cupcakes at that party. Why is this cake tearing me up? What about that tradition has got me so mixed up inside?

I'd love to make this a longer post, but truth be told I'm in the thick of it right now. And my husband's Blizzard is beginning to melt :p

~ H

Daycare is not raising my kids

I recently had a conversation with someone about the work decision mothers face when maternity leave is coming to a close. The phrase "but do you really want someone else raising your kids" was casually thrown out in reference to making the choice whether or not to send children to daycare. I quickly retorted that daycare is not raising my children; that I am raising my children.

But it stuck with me. For a long time. A really long time.

Because what that statement, that very commonly used statement implies, is that by sending my children to daycare, I am not raising them. And that my friends, is bullshit.

Daycare is an amazing place and this post is not intended to diminish the roles those kind, strong, smart women play in my village. Because that's what this is - a village. Daycare is one part of my village which is made up of grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, parents of friends, and neighbours. These are all the people who are helping me to raise our children.

Can we just stop? Stop saying that sending children to daycare is having someone else raise them. I am waking up with my kids in the middle of the night when someone throws up. My husband is calming nightmares, braiding hair and matching cardigans to dresses like nobody's business. We are doing crafts with them on the weekend, talking about days over dinner, and wiping snotty noses all the damned time.

We are raising our children.

The decision to return to work is not an easy one for many mothers. The schedule is daunting, dinnertime is horrific (for me at least), and when you're at work all you can think is,

"Are the kids okay?
I'm sure the kids are good.
I need to focus on work!
I missed my job.
Mmmmm hot coffee.
Oh god, is that daycare calling?
Did someone throw up?
I hope she didn't bite someone (again)."

And when you add into the mix that people are judging you, thinking you're not raising your kids? It can become too much. It makes you question yourself, it makes you wonder. It makes me wonder. But then I remind myself that this is just an outdated idea. And that I don't need to worry about my kids.

Because between midnight - 9 a.m. they have their dad.*
Because between 9 a.m. - 5 p.m. they have the staff at daycare.
Because between 5 p.m. and midnight they have me and their dad.
Because on many weekends they have their Papa & Memere.
Because some nights they have their Nana, their Gramma or their favourite babysitter.
*(Let's be honest, he's the one getting up in the night whenever they wake up)

And the kids are alright.

~ H

Car time is me time

I'm a driver. In life, some people are drivers and some people are passengers. And an unfortunate few take the bus. Kidding! But me, I'm a driver. I love to drive anywhere, anytime. Suggest a shopping trip down to Bellingham and I'll almost always offer to drive. I'll offer, somewhat because I get carsick, but mainly because when I'm behind the wheel I am at home.

In college I was on a work term with a magazine which required me to do interviews all around the region. I was constantly heading out in my teal green Chrysler Sundance and driving for hours while navigating Alberta range roads. I loved it; it never got old. I spent my college years driving back and forth from B.C. to Alberta on summer breaks, either for moves or for visits.  To me, my happy place is cruising down a highway with the windows down, sunglasses on and some great tunes playing loud on the stereo.

And then I had kids.

Sometimes when we get into the car, I forget I have kids. The sun is out and M.I.A. comes on my playlist; the windows go down, the sunglasses come on and I'm cruising on Highway 7. And then a little voice yells over the rush of the wind, "MOM THE WIND IS HURTING MY EYES! MOM MY HAIR IS IN MY MOUTH! MOM, WHY IS SHE SINGING ABOUT BANGING ON THE DASHBOARD? MOM! MOM! MOM!" And I think for a moment, "I don't care if your eyes hurt! MOMMY IS HAVING A MOMENT!"

But of course, I sigh and roll up the windows immediately. I change M.I.A. to RAFFI and remind myself that "bitch" probably isn't on the word learning list at daycare. Mind you, my music options didn't change for the first few years of having kids. I continued to listen to house music, rap and rock. And then The Babe started repeating "shut up and dance with me" and I thought to myself, perhaps 212 by Azealia Banks is not something I would like her to repeat in public. (Seriously that song has some nasty lyrics. Great beat. But nasty lyrics.)

As Slippery Fish replaces Bad Girls, I pass out more crackers. My car has become home to crackers in the door, gummies in the glove box, fruit in the console and is now a veritable crumb factory. For the first time since I bought my car, I just had it cleaned inside and I didn't even recognize it when I saw it afterwards. I strategically had it cleaned after driving the girls to a weekend at the grandparents' so that I could maximize on goldfish-free drives for the whole weekend.

Yes, the husband and I had a whole weekend to ourselves and it was glorious. We went to a late-night (read 9 p.m.) concert in the city, stayed in a hotel for the night, met up with friends for beers (read cider for me) and ate out. A lot. It was great to reconnect as a couple and to just be hands-free for a few days. This full-time work, two under 5, triathlon training schedule has got me beat. I'm actually supposed to be putting away a week's worth of laundry as I type this, but I needed to get a a new blog post out before 2017 rolled around. A weekend with the spouse is highly recommended if you can swing it. Some people said we looked like honeymooners with the holding hands by the end of the weekend.

And we spend most of the time driving around with the windows down, sunglasses on and the music on.

~ H