Taking a risk

Sometimes in life you have to take chances to be happy. You have to work at creating the life you envision. And most of the time, the decisions that get you there and the steps you have to take--big or little--can be scary.


We had been behaving responsibly for a while now: no lavish trips, no more high-end martini bars, cheap take-out had become an occasional treat, and random no-reason shopping trips were a thing of the past. We'd willingly and solemnly swapped our kick-up-our-heels, paint-the-town-red, live-for-today, spontaneous life of the Olden Days for the cliche we shockingly and embarrasingly realized we (gasp!) wanted: corner lot life with the big mortgage and two shaggy-haired boys.

It's what we wanted.

But despite what we used to think when we were in our early twenties, you can't have it All. So something had to go. Hence, we became responsible.

Budget-conscious.
Focused.
Grown-up.

And bored out of our minds.

Enter: The A-Team (R)Van.

Yep, we got an RV.
And yep, we gave it a name.
And yep, we named it after a bad 80's TV show.
And yep, it worked: we aren't bored anymore.


Hubby had grown up taking RV trips, and it was his dream to have one of his own. Although I loved camping and the outdoors in general, I never took him very seriously. I knew nothing about RVs. It seemed overwhelming and impractical and unnecessary. And certainly, financially irresponsible. How much did those things cost, anyways?

But Hubby kept at it. He scoured the internet for used RV deals, sure that "one day" he'd find the perfect, can't-beat-it deal. He shared blogs about families with young boys who were traveling the country each summer. He pointed out that with both of us not working every summer, we had the perfect set up to use an RV; with that much vacation time, we could take a few days to drive here or there and save tons on airfare. And with all of his biking races (especially now that the boys were racing in the kids' division too), we wouldn't have to drive hours before sunrise to get to a state race and then drive hours back when it was over. We could finally be one of those families we saw at these events: making it a weekend, camping out, turning it into an easy, fun activity instead of a chore to get there and back.

The more I started looking into it with him, the more it became my dream, too.

And this past December, two days after Christmas, we gave each other a special gift: a 20-year-old, Class C, 28 foot mobile home that sleeps at least 6 comfortably. (And the very next day, we went to the mall and returned all of the other "real" gifts we had opened on the 25th--more a symbolic gesture than one that actually made a financial difference.) It was an RV we had seen at a dealer, and we had liked it so much that it had become "The Measuring Stick" we used to compare all the other ones we went to see. After a few months of serious looking (and Hubby's aforementioned 2 years worth of casual scouring), I made the suggestion to go back and see it again and put in a low-ball offer. After some semi-serious haggling and a check-up by our mechanic, the dealer agreed to our offer and we brought home the latest addition to our family (affectionately called The A-Team around these parts).

Although it was in great working condition, it did, admittedly, look like the set of a bad 70's porn movie (or so I've been told, of course). After gutting and completely remodeling two houses with our sweat and muscle (really just Hubby's muscle and both of our sweat), we weren't afraid of tackling such a little space. So we gave it a major scrub-down, painted, tore out, replaced, and added our own special touches...

A few bumper stickers to give it some personality...

And, finally, never underestimate the power of a vintage hula girl...

We've gone out in it already 4 times: one time locally to try everything out (I will spare you the details of the first time poor Hubby tried to work the sewer system or, as I like to call it, the Poop Tube), once for a biking event, once just the four of us in the middle of nowhere, biking and hiking and barbecuing, and once with ALL of the grandparents AND the kids. Each time, I've been sad when it's time to pack it up and go home (yes, even the time with the grandparents). This coming Saturday we leave for our first "real" trip: 8 days all over Florida, exploring the old town of St. Augustine, 2 Florida beach campgrounds, Florida Caverns State Park, and possibly an elephant sanctuary and/or the famous little dolphin from the movie "Dolphin Tale." I have never felt as disconnected from the real world, stress, and the relentless noise in my own head as when I've been camping with the RV. Hubby says I'm a different person; he suggested making a tiny model of it and making me carry it around in my pocket. (I know, he's super funny, right?)

And yet, we almost didn't do this.

The night before we went to pay for it and bring it home, we almost chickened out. We had capped our adventurous tendencies so tightly, we almost forgot how to take a risk. It was like if we had been the responsible parents in the corner lot house for so long, we had forgotten how to be ourselves. It was when we realized that, that we knew we had to do this. Even if it didn't work out. Even if, in 6 months, we had to sell the thing. We needed this. We needed to remember what it felt like: to take a leap of faith, to look for adventure again, to be who we used to be, who we wanted to be again, now that things had "settled."

And so, we're not bored anymore. For now, anyways. I'm sure that in a few years, we'll find another adventure to jump into...now that we've remembered what it feels like to be excited again.

Maybe I should take up scrapbooking...

Disclaimer: I may not be as witty, clever, and overly wordy as I usually am, since I am currently typing with only 9 fingers. No, I did not lose one. Thankfully. But my left thumb has been temporarily imprisoned in a wrist brace. It seems there is a possibility I might have yet another fracture.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned a mountain biking accident during which I fell on my left elbow...hard...twice. It turned out that I had, in fact, fractured it, but because I waited too long to see a doctor, all I could do was physical therapy. Today, I went out by myself, for the first time ever and fell...again, hard...on the same side. As of a few weeks ago, I started riding "clipped in", which basically means that my shoes are clipped into my pedals. I have to twist my ankle out slightly in order to disattach myself from my bike. I have fallen four times since I have been riding clipped in, and all four times I was unable to get my left foot out in time. This means that when my bike stops and I start to fall, I do so with full force, bike and all, down on rocky, rooty terrain. Today, as I started to fall, my instinct was to put my hand out in an attempt to protect my now nearly healed elbow. It worked. Sort of. My elbow? Good to go. My wrist? Not so good.

The pain this time was immediate and searing. I could barely ride my bike out of the trail. I went straight to my doctor, who did x-rays and sent me for an MRI "Stat." Although the x-rays did not show any fractures, he said there is a chance I might have one in the scaphoid bone, which, apparently, as would be the case with my luck, is one of the most worrisome if it does fracture. Yay. Lucky me. If it is fractured, I will have to be in a cast for "at least 6 weeks, possibly even up to the shoulder." Oh, so practical for a mom of 2 small children. Oh, so practical for a person as active as I am. Oh, so practical for a person who can barely stand a band-aid for longer than a minute.

There is a possibility, the doctor says, that it may be just a bad sprain. I will know on Thursday. That is in 2 whole days. In case you have not figured me out yet, I am not so good at waiting. I am really bad at not worrying. And I am even worse at not "horribilizing" to the worst possible case scenario. In fact, today while showering, I tried to plan out how in the world I will manage to shower for "at least 6 weeks" with a cast.

Why can't I assume that it is, in fact, just a sprain? Why can't I just not worry about the diagnosis until I actually get it? Why can't I stop replaying my ride over and over again and how I could have/should have avoided the fall? Because there is that pesky theme again... Surrendering. Letting go. Not worrying about everything. Accepting that I can not control things. Trying to be positive.

Damn it. How many lessons will the Universe throw at me?

And once I get my results...another "demon" to face: will I return to mountain biking? For those not familiar with it, it's a tough sport. I have been told, in fact, that "it's a guy's sport." It is rigorous, exhausting, dangerous, and exhilarating. (And for those of you who are thinking "There are no mountains in South Florida!"...that may be true, but the mountain biking here is so technical that they say that once you learn down here, you can ride anywhere.) I am a fairly clumsy individual. I became athletic late in life. I trip over my own two feet on a pretty regular basis. Maybe I have no business clipped into a mountain bike. Because another one of my "issues" I deal with on a regular basis? My biggest secret? I am not very brave. I pretend to be. I try to be. I've done some pretty courageous things in my lifetime. But the truth is, deep down, I'm a big chicken.

So what to do now? Wait. Try to surrender. Try to learn something from this life experience too. But...hey...the good news? Apparently, even with only 9 fingers, I can still be just as wordy as I usually am! Lucky you.

Not to toot my Mommy Horn, but...TOOT!

Hubby and I have a lot of in common. We both like to do a lot of the same stuff, but there are certain pursuits--which although shared--still "belong" more to one than the other. As much as I enjoy it, cycling is "his." It is part of who he is. It is what he does. So when Ben's 2nd Christmas rolled around and he was just over a year old and Daddy wanted to get him a "real bike" as his first bike, I was okay with that. I did not care that the kid could barely reach the pedals of his tricycle, or that the chosen bike cost more than most of my friends' adult bikes. And when Ben woke up on that Christmas morning and saw IT under the tree, a big bow on top...he did not seem to care that he could not really ride it yet, either. The look on his face was raw joy.

Fast forward to today...our baby Ben is no longer really a baby. And he can reach the pedals. And he can ride. And as of this week, he can ride with NO training wheels. It took this usually cautious, often slow-to-try-new-things little boy all of 10 minutes to figure this out...

By the third day, he had suffered two major spills ("I'm OK! I'm OK!") and was riding up and over homemade ramps (his idea). I asked Daddy, "So...is this your proudest Daddy Moment yet?" "It's up there," was his response. "It's up there."

Biking might be Daddy's thing (and I do love it), but I have a few "things" of my own. Reading is definitely one of them. I have been the quintessential bookworm since 2nd grade, when I met Ramona Quimby. We used to joke that since Ben was a toddler, his three favorite things all started with the letter of his name: balls, bikes, books. He was under a year old when he threw his first mini-tantrum because I would not read him another book. We have read to him every single day of his life since the day he came home from the hospital. So, like biking, he has always loved books. But this week he decided he wanted to make a bookmark "like Mommy's" and he wanted to read "a long book" so he could use his bookmark and he knew exactly which one he wanted to read: the chapter book about the bike race that had been sitting on his bookshelf, waiting for him to get a little bigger so he would be ready for it.

So I humored him the first night, thinking even if we did not really continue the book, at least he was beginning to understand the concept. But tonight, after his PJs were on and his teeth were brushed and he asked the infamous question I dread every other night: "Tonight, is it Daddy's turn to read books?", instead of trying to convince me to let Daddy have an extra turn, or whining about how he "waannnnttteed Daddyyyyy to read books toniiiiight..." he started jumping up and down, cheering, "And tonight we're gonna read more about the race across America!" And sure enough, after a short recap from the night before, we went on a few more chapters and talked about the story and the characters and slipped our homemade bookmark in the book and I had to promise that we'd keep reading tomorrow night.

I have no idea what he'll be when he grows up. I don't know if he will be like us or swing completely in the other direction. And we are very, very careful about letting our boys grow up to love and do what they want. Whether he contines to love the same things we do or not, we will be there...cheering him on, sharing in his joy and his pride in whatever it is he loves to do. But for right now, within this tiny sliver of our lives as parents, we have our little Dream Boy: cyclist by day, book geek by night. A 2-wheeler. A chapter book. All in the same week. We are a long time away from that baby boy in Christmas PJs who couldn't reach the pedals... our First Baby, our First Boy, our Ben...the one God made us wait for once upon a time...is growing up.

Parenthood: The Original Endurance Sport

My husband and I competed in a mini-adventure race this weekend. For those of you who don't know what adventure racing is, imagine an extreme off-road triathlon on an unmarked course. Adventure races run the gamut from 2-hour minis like this one to 7-day expedition races. Hubby's been doing them for years and anything under 8 hours is like a warm up for him. For me, this was another Life Experience...another adventure to add to my Do-One-Thing-Everyday-That-Scares-You List. We ran, kayaked, and biked for exactly 2 hours and 23 minutes. We came in 2nd place overall, so we did pretty darn good, but during the race I fell twice, waded through murky water, portaged a kayak through knee-deep shoe-sucking mud, and got bitten by a mosquito on my eye lid. I have scrapes and bruises I can not even account for, and aches and pains in muscles I did not know I had. But I feel AWESOME.

In the past, when we competed in any athletic events, we'd come home and just crash: shower, rent a movie, and eat our traditional "We Raced Today So We Deserve This" meal of pizza, wings, beer, and ice cream. We wouldn't move. Sloth and gluttony. It was glorious.

But then we had kids.

Instead, we found ourselves bouncing and jiggling a fussy 8-month-old and throwing foam blocks with a squealing, hyper 3-year-old...our muddy wet clothes still in the truck, my bloodied scabbed knees stinging, and both of us counting the minutes 'til at least one of us could sneak away for a shower. Wings and pizza were replaced by teriyaki chicken (one of Ben's favorite take-outs) and a bowl of cereal. And instead of a rented movie, we sat through "Monsters, Inc." for the third time. We were in bed by 9:00...only to be awakened 4 times during the night. Ben woke up with an ear ache and an attitude. Aidan with his usual random senseless wailing. I almost laughed...almost. At 3:00 in the morning, exhausted and aching, I realized that from now on, when we are thinking about competing in an athletic event, we have to take into account not only the race itself, but the "post-race requirements" a.k.a. Ben and Aidan. We simply do not have the luxury anymore of being too tired. We will have to know, going in, that after the strain, challenges, and exhaustion of the race itself, we will then have the strain, challenges, and exhaustion of parenting waiting for us when we get home.