While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Archives for May 2013

Of monsters and boys

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There are three parenting bridges I thought we’d have plenty of time to cross: drugs, dating and bullying.

I suspected bullying would rear its ugly head first, but I figured we’d at least have until kindergarten to give Henry street fighting lessons.

Turns out I was wrong about bullying. Turns out that happens pretty quickly. Like as soon as your kid can walk away from you.

Last week Henry and I crossed paths with three bullies.

The first two looked to be about eight years old. First they taunted my kid for wearing a diaper, then they threw fistfuls of rubber mulch at his head.

“Wah wah,” they snorted. “I’m a BABY. Change my diaper!”

Under their breath they whispered, “I wish he would go away.”

They didn’t know I was watching them, that I had been watching them for 10 minutes before my son even wandered in the direction of their closely-guarded mean boy space.

They radiated piss potted-ness. They scowled at their mothers and hissed at each other.

I’m not the kind of parent who hovers over my child on a playground. Consequently, I let Henry walk into this mean boy space. As usual, he was looking to make “friends,” someone with whom he could briefly dig in the dirt.

My child approached. The boys grew agitated. They cast their eyes at the ground and then at each other. They mumbled something about “dumb babies,” and retreated to a new mean boy space. Henry, however, followed. As did my gaze.

Upon noticing the toddler’s return, the mean boys made a joint decision to pick up mulch and toss it at his head. This act was followed by the aforementioned diaper comments and mock crying, prompting my involvement.

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The view from here

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Two days before it was scheduled to be shut down, I took Henry to the St. Pete Pier so we could bid farewell to our favorite ailing tourist attraction.

Like most Bay area residents, I’ve known for years that this old landmark would soon be demolished. I also knew that once I had my son I would regret having not made memories with him on the old pier before a slick new pier one day opens in its place.

The fate of the Pier has become a hotly contested subject. I refuse to discuss the pros and cons of its replacement design, The Lens, out of sheer exhaustion. I’m tired of hearing about it. When it comes to CHANGE I’m as much a fan of progress as I am a curmudgeon, so I’ll refrain from offering what would likely be an uneducated opinion.

However, this fact remains true: the Pier’s infrastructure is falling apart, its concrete pilings, if left alone, would crumble into the bay. Studies revealed 10 years ago that the aging destination with its smattering of kitschy gift shops and empty restaurants wouldn’t survive another 20 years of saltwater erosion, never mind an impending economic blow.

When this news became public fodder in 2010, I added the Pier to my biking route. When Henry arrived in 2011, I added it to my running route. Knowing it would close before he’d be old enough to remember it, I decided to take him there often – always by foot or by bike.

Save for a handful of brooding old men drinking coffee and reading the paper, the food court inside the Pier’s dated building was usually vacant in the afternoon. Often it looked like Henry and I were the only people to order an ice cream cone for hours. In order to get the attention of the proprietor of the ice cream stand, I’d have to rap on the freezer doors and shout, “Yoo hoo! Anyone here?”

I once caught the guy asleep in a chair.

I wondered which was crumbling faster: the Pier’s infrastructure or its business.

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swim.bike.run.joy.

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Why do I love triathlons?

There are the obvious reasons.

The constant training keeps me in shape. The constant outdoor training forces me to explore my city by foot and by bike, activities that immediately appeal to my inherent sense of wanderlust.

Also appealing: the fact that I can build muscle and endurance without having to be married to a gym.

Running is free. Biking is free. And the paths available to me for these pursuits are gorgeous, well-lit, lined with palm trees and guarded by dolphins and a popular family of manatees.

And then there’s swimming.

Swimming feels SO good when you spend half the year living in stifling humidity. If you’re lucky enough to live within two miles of a 50-meter public pool as I do, you don’t have to fork over big bucks to install a backyard pool. For five bucks and no upkeep, I can bike two miles to a sprawling aquatic complex that borders the bay and swim 80 laps before Henry rises from his afternoon nap. (FYI: This is only when Joe is home to man the fort.)

Living in St. Petersburg how could I not be a triathlete? I read somewhere that Florida is the triathlon capital of the world. I’m not sure if this is an accurate claim, but whatever. I’m reaping the benefits.

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On 31

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Quick disclaimer: April was a crazy busy month. I had a ton of work to complete, a triathlon, a visiting sister, visiting parents and a brief family vacation on Daytona Beach. I apologize for the two-week hiatus. Here’s what I should have posted on April 24 to commemorate Lance’s FIFTH BIRTHDAY, a milestone I let slip by with little acknowledgment.

Hey! The Lance turned 5! 35 in pug years! That’s like a big accomplishment for an easily distracted, moderately busy mommy blogger. Woop woop.

ANYWAY. I read this piece April 19 before a small crowd at CL Story Time: Birthday Edition in Tampa’s Ybor City. I wrote it nine days after my 31st birthday and 45 minutes before the start of the event. At 31, I’m finally making peace with my procrastination pattern, among other things.

AND in case you missed it, this is how I coped with last year’s 30th birthday woes.

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¶  Last year I spent my birthday curled into a fetal position, sobbing quietly into a pillow. The voices in my head, sounded, on this particular day, a lot like Marge Simpson’s sisters crossed with my husband’s 95-year-old grandfather.

True to form, they were none too pleased with my despondency.

“You’re pathetic,” they rasped. “I’d give my left titty to be 30 again.”

As I sobbed, my infant son napping in the room next door, I glanced down at my left titty. It was visibly TWICE the size of my right titty.

Why? Because my breastfed child preferred the left boob to the right boob and because I subconsciously offered him the left more than the right so my stronger hand would be available for such important tasks as operating a remote control, reading an issue of Vogue, swigging from a bottle of Vodka (just kidding) or in some cases conducting a phone interview for work (not kidding).

After 10 months of exclusive breastfeeding, I was taking back my chest, which among some circles of mothers is considered sacrilegious. The healthiest, smartest, most benevolent children wean themselves. Didn’t I know that? Cutting my kid off early would cause irreversible damage to his psyche. Our bond would suffer and he’d grow distant and resentful. Formula would give him cancer, lead poisoning and cavities.

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