More specifically, what sparked my return to running was my best friend from graduate school. After facing similar post-partum body issues (along with a startling dash of PPD), she talked me into signing up for a 5K with her. We were several years out of grad school by then, each plodding along in the plastic-coated business world that felt foreign to us, two women who’d spent some of our most inspiring years settling into the pea-green couch in our university’s English department, discussing Shakespeare and logical fallacies. We were submerged in work and baby fog, busy, surrounded by new faces and complex obligations. Living a half an hour from each other, we seemed to find less and less time and reason to see one another. Until running. Suddenly we had everything to talk about again – techniques, training tips, protein goals – and all the other stuff that we love so much in each other just folded right back in. I run because it’s too easy to let good friends slip away.
By Annie I started running again after my third child was born. It was those damn last 15 pounds that did it. After my first two kids, the weight just fell off. I didn’t exercise. I didn't diet. Yep, I was that annoying chick who just nursed my babies and lived my blissful size 0 life. But after stretching and collapsing a third time, my torso and thighs, defiant and defeated, simply gave up. I spent a few months cursing my way through bitter elliptical workouts in the basement before I finally decided I hated my body enough to run.
More specifically, what sparked my return to running was my best friend from graduate school. After facing similar post-partum body issues (along with a startling dash of PPD), she talked me into signing up for a 5K with her. We were several years out of grad school by then, each plodding along in the plastic-coated business world that felt foreign to us, two women who’d spent some of our most inspiring years settling into the pea-green couch in our university’s English department, discussing Shakespeare and logical fallacies. We were submerged in work and baby fog, busy, surrounded by new faces and complex obligations. Living a half an hour from each other, we seemed to find less and less time and reason to see one another. Until running. Suddenly we had everything to talk about again – techniques, training tips, protein goals – and all the other stuff that we love so much in each other just folded right back in. I run because it’s too easy to let good friends slip away.
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By Annie
Someday, my kitchen will not be filled with five bodies at 7:27 a.m., approximately seven minutes post intended departure time as I try to weave my way through chaos and humans, frantically packing my lunch and searching for the lid to my travel mug. Someday, there will be no tiny bodies sprawled out on the floor in front of the heating vents. Someday, there will be no ranting almost-tween sugaring her morning tea, no dog anticipating scraps of bread and lunch meat. Someday there will be no couch cushion cover air-drying on the chair after a toddler pissed on it in her sleep, no crusty booster seat on the table, no clutter, no screeching, no obstacle course to get from one side of the room to the other. I will be disproportionately wistful and will pause to look at the empty spaces... But this morning, can everyone just get out of my face already? I'm late. I want my coffee. And I want to sit in the silence of my messy car as it carries me an hour away from home. By Annie OK, listen, we gave this whole communal snack-sharing thing a fair shot, right? Can we call it quits already? I’m not talking about birthday treats or class holiday parties or any kind of special occasion. That’s fine, mamas, I get it. I’ll wait until the last minute and forget anyway and pull up to the school or field a hot mess and dump shopping bags of food and sheepishly walk away the intricate failure that I am. But I’ll happily comply. No, I’m talking about the classrooms that rotate feeding responsibilities with a monthly calendar, and the sports teams with the schedules where each game lists the “snack parent” right next to the start time, and the scout meetings where we all have to take a freaking turn feeding each other’s kids. Enough! Feed your own precious kid, and I’ll feed mine.
Normally I’m all about sharing. And teamwork. And the sisterhood of motherhood and the village mentality and all that jazz. I’m basically a communist (the good kind!). But we have to stop the snack insanity! Why? Because my kids only eat about six things ever, and four of them are yellow and processed and either square- or fish-shaped. So if you’re bringing chick pea salads or fresh broccoli, that’s endlessly thoughtful, and we’re all really impressed that your kid considers that a snack, but my kid ends up feeling hungry. And if you’re swinging in the other direction and bringing king-sized Hershey bars? Your generosity is admirable and your cool points are sky-rocketing, and we’re all really jealous that your child doesn’t react to 41 grams of sugar like a frat boy on bath salts, but my kid ends up either pissed AF at me for not being allowed to devour a king-sized Hershey bar an hour before bedtime (weeknight soccer games are the worst!) or sobbing in time out. And don’t get me started on how impossible it is to explain to younger siblings why Sissy alone gets wicked snacks thrown at her as we climb into the car and she wedges between their two car seats twice a week on the way home from games. Stop the snack insanity because it’s 6:15 on a Monday night, and here I am in the grocery store, panic-buying tomorrow’s soccer snack, and I don’t know jack squat about what I need. How many kids are on the team? Do I need food and drink? Can I get away with just these squeezy applesauces, or do I need to add something more solid? What did they eat last game? Was it better than my snack? Twenty-eight bucks sure feels like more than I want to spend on snacks. Do any of the kids have allergies? Is my babysitter going to drop the kids off before I get home? I wasn’t supposed to stop anywhere, but after a full day of work and an hour commute, I simply couldn’t face this shopping trip with three kids in tow. And did you know Hillary Clinton was campaigning in the city I work in this afternoon, so my commute was even longer than usual? DID YOU EVEN CONSIDER CLINTON CAMPAIGNING WHEN YOU SCHEDULED ME TO BE SNACK PARENT? Does this raise larger questions about my parenting in general? About my involvement in my children’s lives? About my civic responsibility to understand peanut allergies? Of course it does. But I don’t need some last-minute, rescheduled weeknight soccer game to elicit that. Here’s the thing: I am legally and morally responsible for feeding my own child already. And you are for yours. And for the most part, that’s been working our just swell. How about we use this sisterhood deal to say, “Hey, mama, let’s make this easier on ourselves.” By Annie My newly christened fourth grader returned to school this morning after a long, lazy summer spent crafting in her room, learning to cook and playing at the park. (Confession: There was a lot of YouTube on her tablet, too). Aside from a marathon six-hour shopping trip this past weekend and the onset of carpal tunnel after labeling enough supplies to stock a post-apocalypse school, this experience has forced me to field the incessant slew of back-to-school questions from well-meaning neighbors and friends. Back-to-school is a big deal. I get it. I know this is just pleasant small talk, and I forgive you all for not analyzing every nuance of my life, but there is one comment in particular that I am just infinitely tired of hearing. Please, please – at least before Kid #2 heads to preschool next week – stop saying, “You must be ready for the kids to go back to school! That’ll be your vacation!”
Because you know what? That’s actually a pretty clueless thing to say to a full-time working mama with an hour commute. The kids going back to school will be a break? Hmm. Perhaps for my husband, who is part stay-at-home-dad and part grad student. And surely it will be much needed respite for my parents, who are part free childcare and part angel. But for me? Not so much. I leave for work 45 minutes before the kids leave for school and return home four hours after they get home. Their goneness doesn’t impact me in the slightest. But their back-to-schoolness sure does. It means:
Oh, and the literal hundreds of dollars spent on glue sticks and Clorox wipes and my kid’s freakish ability to grow three shoe sizes in one summer. I don't consider that a perk either. By Annie Think it's time to celebrate when precious little Tommy wakes up dry two nights in a row? Think you should break out the champagne when sweet Susie Clean-Butt tells you she needs to tinkle? Think again, mamas. Potty training is a long, dark, twisted road that will break you in ways you never dreamed possible.
Case in point: Last night, after working a full day, commuting two hours, buying a last-minute birthday doughnut (yes, doughnut, not cake, whatever) and having a makeshift "party" for my oldest child, I stood at the sink, just trying to wash the last couple dishes before bath and bed and half-marathon training. My ass-naked 4-year-old, who has been "potty-trained" for well over a year now, comes streaking into the kitchen. Boy, exuberant: Wipe my butt! Me, still trying to get the dishes done: Did you poop? Boy: Yes! Wipe my butt! Me, frantically scrubbing dishes: WHY DID YOU LEAVE THE BATHROOM WITHOUT WIPING YOUR BUTT? Boy: Wipe my butt! Wipe my butt! Wipe my butt! Wipe my butt! Me: Just give me a second, will you? Sister, from upstairs: MO-OOOM! Henry needs you! Boy: Wipe my butt! Wipe my butt! Wipe my butt! Wipe my butt! Me, turning off water: ONE SECOND! Boy: [Bends over, hands on kitchen tiles, and starts shimmying his ass crack up and down my jeans, twerking his way to a wiped butt] Horrifying, right? Wrong. This is normal. So normal, in fact, that I am wearing the very same jeans to work today without having washed them. In my defense, I'd already put a load of whites in. Ain't no MOTY got time for two loads of laundry. By Annie Because after this: And this: And this: We get this: That's the last sip, mamas. And it's still hot.
By Annie When my daughter Iris was in preschool, her best friend was an introverted tomboy named Lauren who loved dinosaurs and the color green. When Iris found out that girls could marry girls, she announced that she was going to marry Lauren and adopt "a China baby." Aside from from hoping the ready acceptance of an alternative lifestyle balanced out the cultural insensitivity of the term "China baby," I didn't give the news much thought. It was clearly an expression of affection for the first non-family member she ever really clicked with. Now, a few years into her elementary gig, Iris is experiencing her first real infatuation. She's star-struck with a woman who works in my office, though they've never met. Not that I can blame her -- this woman is more or less the pinnacle of what every fiery, dreamy, explosively creative eight-year-old wants to be when she grows up. She's an adult, but she's obsessed with Harry Potter and E.T. (and has tributes to those obsessions worked into the sleeve tattooed up her arm). She listens to One Direction, dyes her hair electric red, mothers a brood of guinea pigs, skates with a roller derby team, and works as a graphic designer -- which in a kid's mind means she pretty much draws for a living. Plus her name is Ash, which is splendidly tough sounding and cool as hell. Iris's interest in Ash began shortly after I started this job, which was a big shift for our family as I went from a part-time adjunct instructor with lots of flexibility to a full-time working mama with an hour commute and the responsibility that comes with being the sole breadwinner for our family. In an attempt to help Iris wrap her turbulent mind around my new life, I pointed out a milk display when we were grocery shopping. My agency does the packaging for this local dairy brand, and I thought she might get a kick out of it.
"See that milk?" I asked. "The one with the cows? My friend designs those." Iris rushed up the the dairy case and peered closely, in awe. "One of your friends draws these cows?" She was impressed. "Who?" "My friend Ash," I said without thinking. I left out the fact that the cow itself had been drawn years ago by a professional cartoonist, and that this quiet coworker who I only sort of knew really just Photoshopped and resized it. Details. By Annie
During a week that already involved my husband traveling out of state, a three-day migraine, an unexpected and medically inexplicable period, getting my face scratched up trying to drag three kids to three doctor appointments, a computer glitch that made me lose hours of work (on a tight deadline), and a tire blowout on the freeway at night in 16-degree weather, my toddler randomly decided to stop sleeping. Just stop. The first night, she stayed up until 11. I fretted and sighed a lot. The second night, it was 2 before she finally drifted off. We watched Blue's Clues and I begged her to sleep. Last night, I just said, screw it. By being awake at this hour, you're choosing to enter my world, kid. We hung out with Manhattan's finest til we both drifted peacefully off to sleep. Or, as peacefully as one can be when watching New York's most heinous crimes unfold. By Annie
The first Monday back to work after the holidays is tough on everyone, mamas. Don't be selfish. Make sure your kids are well equipped to face the longest Monday of the year, too. And don't be cheap -- none of this store-brand Market Fresh crap on a day like today. By Annie It's that time of year again, mamas. Time to revamp your kid's wardrobe, fill out a novella of forms and buy a bunker's worth of supplies based off of a list crafted by someone who clearly believes that if you don't comply with her need for 18 glue sticks, non-spiral-bound notebooks, and a clean sock, her cat will die. That's right, it's back-to-school time! For some mothers, this is a rejuvenating experience that empowers them to flex their sick organizational skills and inspires them to bake, label, coordinate and rhyme. However, for the true MOTY, and especially the working-mama type like myself who doesn't even get the respite of the suddenly empty house, back-to-school goes down a little more like this: |
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September 2017
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