It's a good thing he didn't marry me for my cooking...

I think some of us were just never meant to be housewives.

And by "housewife," right now I'm just talking about women who are pretty good at those housewife-like duties of cooking and cleaning...it doesn't matter if you're a stay-at-home or a working mom or a married woman with no kids or a single girl living it up in Manhattan (What? Carrie must've cleaned some time..!).

Oh, I know. Most of you are going: "But I don't like cooking and cleaning!" But c'mon...I know the truth.

Some of you do.

I know, because I have friends who are like that. I have one friend, in fact, who considers it a sacrifice to skip a night of cooking (on a weeknight, no less!) because she "enjoys food so much." I have another friend who would squeal inside her own head when she got a chance to peek at the top secret recipes of the restaurant where she used to work. (And I'm not even going to mention one of my blog-world idols, The Kitchen Witch, who somehow has managed to lure me in as a devout follower in spite of the fact that her blog revolves primarily around recipes, which I have, admittedly, never ever tried, even when I swore I would--and truly believed that for the length of time it took me to comment on her post). Yes, many of you out there...even those who dread the middle-of-the-week-mandatory-meal-making...actually like to cook.

That is--even for me--almost understandable. But then there are those freaks who like to clean. Or, at the very least, don't like the act of it, but love the results, and are actually competent at the process. (You know the former waitress friend? A spotless tub also has the power to inspire squeals.)

I, on the other hand, have come to terms with the fact that I. Am. Not. One. Of. These. Women.

I clean, because I have to (my former cleaning lady was mediocre, at best, and had a tendency to break things, but oh, how I miss her). And when I clean, I do so with a look of disdain and confusion all rolled into one. "Why is it, exactly, that the damned Mr. Clean eraser is really not that magical at all when I use it?" "Why is there something orange-y growing on top of my mildew-y shower tile and how the hell do I get into that corner to remove said orange-y and mildew-y matter?" And, I admit it...sometimes...no, not just sometimes...often, really often...while cleaning I also think...(ready?): "I'm just too good for this." Yes. It's true. I know. It doesn't make me sound very nice. But it's true. When the damn orange-y thing is flicking up at me while I scrub at it with the totally improperly-shaped shower brush, I think: "Certainly, I was born for better things...."

And when I'm done, do I enjoy the cleaning then? Well, mostly I enjoy that I don't have to feel guilty about not doing it for at least another 3-4 weeks (yes, I realize going 4 weeks probably explains the orange-y stuff).

So lately, I've been getting pretty sick and tired of eating the same cycle of almost-not-counting-as-cooking-because-all-we-did-was-cut-up-vegetables-and-crank-up-the-microwave-meals, so I decided to try a recipe I stumbled upon in a magazine (a fitness magazine, NOT a cooking magazine...I can assure you, I have never even peeked inside one of those). It contained a handful of ingredients, was healthy, and included lemon and capers...two flavors I've recently decided might rank right up there with chocolate and chicken wing sauce.

I came home today and pulled out all of my ingredients and proudly opened the package of thinly-sliced chicken breasts.

And that's when I had my first setback.

I forgot how completely repulsive I find raw animal product. It is always, without fail, when I am washing or cutting or seasoning a hunk of raw chicken that I decide, for the 800th time in my life, that I am going to become a vegetarian.

Once I got past that minor issue, I proceeded to bread and saute (Note: I have no idea if what I did, was in fact, saute. That's what it said to do. I put the chicken in the pan with the olive oil and cooked it.), until I had a decent looking piece of chicken, decorated lovingly with capers.

Success!

Or was it?

I stepped back, looking at the kitchen counter littered with tablespoons, teaspoons, flakes of Italian seasoning, lemon seeds, bowls, and, after wondering how I can manage to get this much stuff dirty when the recipe required a whopping 8 items total, realized I no longer had any desire to eat this meal.

The truth is, in spite of the fact that it did taste pretty damn good, I don't like any particular food enough to go through the hassle of making it. After all that, I was kinda missing my microwave meals, Kashi pizzas, and giant homemade salads made from mostly pre-washed, pre-cut veggies.

So that's who I am. In spite of coming from a mother whose main hobby/passion/badge of honor is her cooking (and spotless tubs), I just didn't inherit any of those genes. I'm just not good at it. And, to tell you the truth, I don't really care. But hey, if you ever need the number to a good take-out place, I'm your gal.

A post just for me

Last year, I made a non-resolution to live lighter:

"I want the load of my anxieties, my stresses, my pessimism, my perfectionism, my temper, my essence to be lighter."

I thought, then, as I planned on trying to be less of who I was for the coming year, that I needed to change who I was, at least a little bit...be That Girl I wish I could be. But tonight, I was reminded, (by overhearing a rather innocuous dinner conversation between Hubby and my 5-year-old and watching a chic flick, mind you) of what I actually used to be like: a much sillier, goofier, less uptight version of who I have become...the Me who still paid bills on time, obsessed over details, worried about medical tests of any sort, but still had the lightness in her to do Kermit the Frog impersonations on a regular basis, laugh out loud all the time, and take herself--and the world--a tad less serious.

Where do I find that in-between? The balance between That Girl and This One...the one who became Mama and almost 40 and co-owner of a suburban home on a corner lot? Is there a balance? Can I be both? Or does one get lost within the other?

Christmas Gifts

My grandfather, who had a flair for the dramatic and a penchant for martyrdom, spent the last 15 years of his life wondering out loud if "this would be the last Christmas/birthday/Easter/random Sunday" he would live to see. I have this clear memory of him, sitting in the overstuffed chair in our living room, unwrapping his Christmas gifts (almost always beige socks and Old Spice shaving cream), sighing deeply and sucking his teeth about it. The rest of us would usually roll our eyes at each other and chuckle.

It seems, however, that the older I get, the more I am understanding my late grandfather. I wonder how many more Christmases I will have surrounded by Everyone. Every One. We have had the same little family of people doing the same little family traditions since I was a baby. With a few wonderful additions (the husbands, the children, the in-laws), it's been the same dysfunctional happy bunch for all 38 years of my life. Every Christmas Eve, we've dressed up and eaten Mami's pork. Every Christmas morning, we've gathered in her living room, each one of us taking turns opening gifts as the rest of us oooooh and ahhhhh and call out "Who's that from?" or "Wow, that's nice!"

Not one year...not even once...not because of work or illnesses or death or better plans have any of Us not been there.

* * *

Now, I can admit that I like the material part of Christmas. Always have. My parents were really good about getting me what I wanted (Baby Alive!), and now Hubby is so good at shopping for me that I'm seriously considering just giving him money and sending him off to shop for me all year long. So yes, I like the presents. They're fun.

But even when I was little, I understood that there was a real joy, a true gift, in being able to sit around the tree, my dad's Elvis Christmas album playing for the millionth time, laughing and eating and opening gifts with family. Now, having children of my own, seeing my parents aging more each day, understanding that life really does sometimes hand out senseless tragedies, I appreciate the normalcy, the simplicity, the predictability of having Everyone there.

.

.

I've always been big on Christmas. I loved the magic and the frivolity and the sparkle of it all. I was lucky to have grown up in a house where it was a month-long celebration of tinsel and merriment and yes, that Elvis album. But today, as I watched My Boys all building and assembling and playing, as I ate my mom's leftover pork from Christmas Eve, as I started (already) to store away some of the decorations, I realized I have an even stronger sense of immeasurable gratitude for the Christmases past...for the Gift of having Every One there, every year.

Merry Christmas, Grandpa...sorry 'bout the eye rolling.

Running Like a Mom: Party of One

I ran for two hours the other day.

It wasn't the amount of time that was the major accomplishment, however. It was the fact that I did it Alone. Up until that day, I had never run for an extended period of time by myself. And up until that day, I wasn't even sure I'd be able to do it.

I like to run. I do. But the whole doing-something-for-a-couple-of-hours-straight? Well, let's just say that my attention span isn't so great. I start counting down the minutes left. I start thinking about all the other things I could be doing. I start obsessing over how the inseam of my sock is rubbing my pinkie toe. I get bored. I get antsy. I get tired. I lose my mojo.
.

When I trained for my previous half-marathons, I always had Hubby as a running partner. We had just started dating when I started training for my first one, and back then, the idea of running for over an hour seemed, to me, like an absolutely impossible feat. So...there we were, two twenty-somethings with not much to do and lots of time on our hands...so he ran with me. Being a bit of an extreme athlete (mountain biking, off-road triathlons, 3-day-expedition races) a little half marathon training wasn't such a stretch for him, so he became my official Support Crew. He carried my water, paced my time, handed me jelly beans, cheered me along when I'd hit the wall...and on race day? He did all of that AND ran ahead every so often to take pictures of me. No joke. (A few times, he even ran off the race course and stood along the sidelines with the other spectators to literally cheer me on and make me laugh a bit.)

Fast forward one decade and 2 kids later...if I want to train for any kind of event, it's gonna have to be on my own, because we just don't have that kind of time these days. When I tackled the idea of this race, one of the motivating factors for me was that I wanted to do something scary again, and as uncomfortable and downright painful as this training and the 13.1 race day miles is going to be, I wouldn't qualify it as scary. I've done this twice. I know I can complete the event. But what does scare the hell out of me is having to do this all on my own.

Today I went out for 2 hours and 10 minutes. I had to pack my own stuff, plan my own route, carry my own water. When I got tired and thought I was going to have to lie down, right there on the Hollywood Beach Boardwalk, it was only my own voice telling me I could do this, telling me to keep going, reminding me that during long runs it's gonna hurt but I will finish.

I realize that for many people out there, doing something like running by yourself (especially if it's something you've done for a long time) is not such a major personal accomplishment. But you have to understand, I crossed my first busy street when I was 21. Yes. You read that right. 21 years old. I was on vacation in New York and my ex-boyfriend wanted to take a picture of me in front of a restaurant. I looked for traffic, ran across, and smiled "Cheeeeese!". It dawned on me immediately that I had never actually walked around amidst traffic before. (I know...WTF?!?) I've mentioned before that I was brought up extremely sheltered. Pair that with a childhood and adolescence in a city where no one walks anywhere, and you have yourself an adult who had never had to cross a street alone before.

So now you have this 38-year-old mommy of two who finds it incredibly monumental that in a couple of months she will be waking up at 3:00 a.m., lacing up her sneakers, pinning on her race number, figuring out exactly where the hell one carries a disposable camera and some jelly beans for 13 miles, and getting on a Disney bus that will take her to the start of a long distance event...all by herself. This time around, it will be Just Me. I am the only one pushing Me to train, to run, to go. I am relying only on Myself. That's a pretty cool thing.

Where, oh where, did my little blog go?

I was never a daily "post-er."
But I would get in here...two, three times a week. My mind was often on my blog: What will I write next? Oooh, that will be a good one! I've got to get that one done tonight.
Lately, I have nearly abandoned it.
It's not that I don't have material. It's not that I don't want to write.
In fact, I post almost everyday...in my own head.
I "write" posts in the shower, on my runs, on my drive to work, while I'm loading the dishwasher. They are usually incredibly spot-on, full of insight, poignancy, wit, and honesty.
But...they rarely make it online anymore. They only exist in my head.
Here's the thing: when I can finally get to that post, that idea that has been born inside my head, that fleeting moment of inspiration is gone. Poof. It went down the tub with the boys' bath water, or it fell out of my head as I stretched post-run, or, more often than not, it just doesn't seem that important later on.
The truth is that most nights, there's a full-out fight: at 9:00, after I've been up since 5:00 a.m., after I've spent the day teaching 53 fourth-graders, after I've helped Ben with his Letter Of The Week Homework, after I've packed my gym bag for the next day, and searched for "just one more" thing in the latest I Spy book, it comes down to..."Do I blog or do I sleep?" And, as evidenced by my recent absence, sleep usually wins.
It's just easier to snuggle under the covers (especially on these frigid South Florida nights of 50 degree weather...what can I say?...I'm a true beach bum) with a book and dim lighting...or curl up on the sofa as Hubby watches the Heat game and rubs my feet...or literally just crash and be sound asleep by 9:01.
Perhaps this is all proof that I never really was meant to be a "real writer." I mean, a writer should have the constant need to write, right? A writer must actually write...Monday through Friday...a real job. It seems that as my blog now nears its 2nd anniversary, the drive in me is slightly lessened: "It's okay...I'll write that one tomorrow." But lately, it turns into tomorrow, and my bed or my sofa beckons yet again.
Sweet dreams.

A Routine Life: Six Word Friday

Routine. For me, it brings on

.

Dread and Calm. Resentment and Certainty.

Routine allows for Life to be

Still. Easy. Expected. Smooth. Contained. Controlled.

But along with routine, comes the

Boredom. Restlessness. Tedium. Complacency. Stagnancy. Depression.

Routine has become almost a requirement.

Without it, the day to day

Becomes unmanageable. I lose my grip.

And so, Life becomes a series

Of rushed timelines, deadlines, and bedtimes.

Within these tight constraints of Life

I've realized the necessity, the power

Of veering away. Defying the restrictions.

A spontaneous night with wine, conversation

Becomes almost like a rebellion against

What Life has required of Us.

An occasional alarm clock ignored becomes

A snub at responsibility and reality.

The routine, I've realized, is only

Effective when I'm willing to bend.

Break away, every now and then,

And remember what my Life is

And who I am without routine.

What does the word "routine" evoke in you? Join Six Word Fridays at Making Things Up!

Disney Princess Half-Marathon: Coming Full Circle

I started running to get away from an unhappy life. It was my escape--literally--out of "that house" and gave me an excuse to be by myself, to do something for me. I had never been athletic. I was one of those kids who got straight A's in every subject but begged the PE coach to "give me a D and just let me sit out." It wasn't that I couldn't do the things they wanted me to do; it was the discomfort I felt being watched while I had to do them. (I will not even get into the horror I felt whenever I'd come out to phys ed and see the Shuttle Run set up.)

But running was easy...not so much physically, since I literally couldn't go longer than 2 minutes at first without feeling like I was going to die...but emotionally. All I needed was a pair of sneakers and my headphones, and to just go: put one foot in front of the other. The results came quick and were easy to measure: At first, I just went around the block, running the corners and walking the straight-aways. Within a few days, I could run the straights and just walk the corners. Before I knew it, I was running 10 minutes straight. And then...my first 5k. Up until that moment, when I crossed my first-ever finish line, I had never ever been so proud of myself. A year or so later, I started toying with the idea of a half marathon. When I mentioned it to my nears and dears at the time, most of them scoffed, pointed, and ridiculed outright. "13 miles? You? There's no way."

Another year (and one divorce later), I crossed the finish line at the 2001 Walt Disney Half-Marathon.

Although there was no longer a need to escape my life, I kept running...although my distances rarely went over 3 miles.

Then in 2004, after nearly 2 years of trying to get pregnant and 13 weeks of a joyous pregnancy, Hubby and I had a miscarriage.

Devastation.

After a few weeks, I knew I wasn't getting "passed" it. Rock bottom was starting to feel pretty damn close, and I realized that if I didn't "do" something, I was going to drown.

So out of nowhere, I decided to go back for another Disney Half with the goal of improving my previous finishing time. Over the next 4 months I focused completely on this race, my training, and my fitness. It gave me something to do. It gave me an outlet for my stress, my thoughts, my emptiness.

At the expo held the day prior to the race, one of the vendor booths was set up for little kids to make signs to hold up during the race. I stood by and watched little girls and boys making banners with puffy paint and sticky letters and markers: "Go Mommy!" "You can do it, Daddy!" "We love you!" Surprisingly, I didn't break down then. I turned to Hubby and said, "One day, I'm gonna come back to do this race, and my kids are going to make signs for me."

The next day, I ran a good race and did beat my previous time, in spite of having a very upset stomach and a lot of nausea the whole way. When we ran through the Magic Kingdom and passed the Dumbo ride, the tears finally came. I mourned, right there on mile 9, for the loss of this little spirit, this baby that wasn't to be, this dream that had been shattered.

I came home and found out a week later that I was pregnant. Ben Kincaid was born on September 16, 2005.

A couple of years after having him, we decided to try again, hesitant and fearful that we'd have to go through another difficult time.

We got pregnant with Aidan Kai on the first try. He was born August 8, 2008.

* * *

Now, I'm going back.

I registered for the Walt Disney Princess Half Marathon, February 2011. A decade after my first big race, and 7 years after crying at mile 9, I will be running for my kids and for myself. We'll go back to the expo and watch Ben and Aidan make "Go Mama!" signs. And when I cross that finish line, this time by myself, I'll run into the arms of My 3 Men: the one who has run along beside me literally and figuratively, and the 2 little ones who came to join us, the ones who made me Mama.

There's no place like home

Usually messy, toys strewn like landmines

Disorganized closets, laundry baskets, dirty dishes

Still, my soft place to land
My sofa...head in Hubby's lap

Their rooms...bedtime rituals, whispered goodnights
Our bed...snuggling undercovers, peaceful bliss

What is HOME to you? Join Six Word Fridays at Making Things Up.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop

I can have anxiety.

It's not there, all the time. It used to be much worse. You might have even referred to me, once upon a time, as a bit of a hypochondriac (I hate that word). Every symptom paralyzed me with fear and every non-symptom prompted me to imagine one. After years of learning that most of the time, it was "nothing," or, in the rare cases when it was "something," I was able to deal with it and move on, the anxieties eased. Somewhere along the line, over the last few years, I stopped being so afraid.

But recently, I've noticed it lurking...the old familiar fear, seeping back into me, stalking. It's subtle, and definitely more manageable than it used to be. But I sense it.

Thankfully, I've grown enough (and spent a few good years in therapy) to recognize it now, even before it takes hold of me. And so I've spent some time contemplating: why? Why now? Why, after all this time, are some of my old ways coming back, messing with my head, my days, my life? And then, it hit me: It's all good.

Life, I mean.

It's good.

Things are calm. Happy. Easier.

I've been pretty busy the last few years...having babies, buying houses, becoming a real grown-up (albeit begrudgingly at times). Life's been frenetic: sleep-training, potty-training, weight-training...and then, trying to keep my job, my marriage, my social life, and my sense of self all in working order. But lately, things seem to have settled. Hubby and I don't have to fight for quiet time (as much). We aren't waking up in the middle of the night (as much). We're planning exciting adventures again. I find that we are no longer "in survival mode"...we have made it through the infant years, we have settled in, gotten comfortable with parenting, found our groove, and have continued on with our plans for This Grand Life. And so...

There it is.

The anxiety.

The fear: When will the other shoe drop?

It can't be this good. I can't be this lucky. It can't be this easy.

* * *

It reminds me of one of my favorite scenes from the Sex and the City movie (yes, I am going to refer to SATC in the middle of a pretty serious blog post...and to those of you who know me: Why are you surprised?) when Charlotte admits to Carrie that she's scared because she has everything she has ever wanted:

Carrie: What makes you think that something bad is gonna happen?
Charlotte: Because! Nobody gets everything they want! Look at you, look at Miranda. You're good people and you two both got shafted. I'm so happy and...something bad is going to happen.

That is exactly how I feel. I have everything I could possibly want: a husband I am so in love with I can hardly believe he's mine; two healthy, smart, sweet little boys who grin and squeal "Mama" when I walk in the door; a home I never thought I could buy; amazing family; and my list can go on and on. Nothing "bad" is happening. Every one is "good." I am blissfully happy.

And terrified it's too good to be true.

The worst part of it is that the older I get, the more I know of people and their stories...their sadnesses, their losses...and like Charlotte thought: Why not me? Why not us?

It's a terrible way to think. I hate it. I detest it. It is not even easy to write about, to put "out there," because then I almost feel like perhaps I'm making it more real, more me. And I absolutely do not want That to be a part of Me ever again. I refuse.

The crazy thing, the contradiction, is that I don't actually believe in any of this. I believe in surrendering to the universe. I believe in God. I believe in karma. Energy. Trusting. Letting go. I believe in optimism, the strength of spirit. All of it. But sometimes, it's hard for me to apply, to live. And I well know that living in fear, in worry, only has a negative power on my psyche, my day to day, and my health. I get frustrated when loved ones (who I've obviously been influenced by) expect the worst. I want to hit them over the head, yell and scream: Expect the best! Only the best! Let go! Trust! Believe! And most of all, Live! Live life and drink it in...all its joys and blessings and good. Perhaps, it is myself I am really trying to remind.

Living in the In Betweens

Life

is full

if you're lucky

of celebrations

.

momentous occasions

.

they mark our lives

our days

.

they give us

something

to cling to

when Life

gets

in

the

way

when it sucks our energy

and drains our passion

.

but

in between

those moments

in between

the celebrations

IS

Life

.

it is in

the in betweens

where we miss out

.

where Life really happens

.

the real cause

for celebrating

.

the nothings and the everythings

of our everydays

.

hiding

in the in betweens

is

a Monday night

with

wine

and

the good stereo

and a candle

or two

and a rekindling

of

You

Him

Us

Life

.

There.

.

there it is

.

in the in between