While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

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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If this ring could talk

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If my wedding ring could talk, it would sound like Jean Arthur, the throaty-voiced spitfire in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. It would be full of piss, vinegar and the kind of wisdom you earn the hard way. Picture 84-year-old Katharine Hepburn: blunt, memorable, sarcastic and dressed in baggy trousers. She would be full of good gossip and zingers. My ring would be the life of the party, if rings were dames.

Of course I have no basis for these flights of fancy – just an overactive imagination and an antique wedding ring that once belonged to Joe’s great-grandmother Millie.

Here’s what I know about Millie: she was a small Italian woman who lived with my mother-in-law in a three-story walk-up in Brooklyn, where she cooked big dinners and sewed fabulous clothes. She was married twice and couldn’t keep a secret, especially if it was a pleasant one. Other than that I don’t know much else about the woman, which feels kind of wrong since I wear her wedding ring 24 hours a day.

Some girls spend their girlhood picturing their ring finger bedecked in a diamond, emerald-cut and mounted in platinum, fastened to a band that was dipped in gold at the end of a rainbow somewhere in Africa. Me? I had other fantasies. On more than one occasion I said I’d be perfectly verklempt if my husband-to-be proposed with a hot tub.

When I did, however, finally warm to the idea of a ring I latched onto one word: antique. I wanted a ring with a past. But since Joe and I rarely spoke of marriage, much less marriage BLING, my fondness for antique rocks never came up. I figured if my hand ever needed a swift Liz Taylor-ing I’d browse Zales in my jammies and order one of those eternity rings middle-aged husbands buy for their middle-aged wives to let them know they’re still the cat’s meow.

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One mother’s fairy tale

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When Henry was an infant he went through a ghost phase. And by ghost phase I mean he saw ghosts (ie: waved at Nothing, smiled at Nothing and acknowledged the presence of Nothing in a way that was both unsettling and mystical to his reasonable parents.)

This phase lasted from about nine to 12 months of age. It began one morning when I waltzed plodded bright bleary-eyed into Henry’s room and spotted him staring into space, smiling and blah-blah-blahing at a very specific Nothing in the corner of his room.

“Good morning Henry,” I said.

No reaction. He was too preoccupied with the Thing I Could Not See to pay me any mind.

For three whole minutes my perfectly rowdy baby failed to whine, coo or so much as nod in my direction. Although I was invisible, the Thing I Could Not See remained perfectly in focus.

I stared at the Nothingness he was staring at.

What on earth was he looking at? Or better yet, WHO was he looking at?

“Henry? Yoo hoo? Good morning,” I sang croaked.

It took some effort to divert his attention. When he finally did turn to face me he gave a little goodbye wave to the apparition in his room.

“Sweetheart, did you see something over there?”

He smiled smugly as if to say YOU DUMB ADULT. YOUR EYES ARE TOO OLD TO SEE WHAT I SEE. Returning to his usual helpless state, he threw his arms in the air and grunted – the universal baby sign for GET ME OUT OF MY CRIB DAMMIT.

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On track

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Something I think about all the time:

My neighbor has a step-daughter who’s a few years older than I am. I met her a couple years ago at a party. She’s funny, in her 30s, the mother of a six-year-old, and currently recovering from a kidney transplant.

After spending more than a year on dialysis waiting for a donor, she found her match this summer.  She knows very little about the donor, other than the fact that he or she lost their life shortly before saving hers.

She had surgery in May. Her body accepted the organ as if it had always been there, as if it’s had her name on it for years.

Whenever I see my neighbor, I ask how she’s feeling. Each time I get a better, more cheerful answer.

The first time I inquired, he said, “She’s doing well. We were all worried for so long. It’s a terrible thing to see your children sick.”

I told him I couldn’t fathom it, that I would be a basket case if anything happened to Henry.

To which he replied, “That’s why we should all laugh and eat ice cream every day.”

 

The great skimp

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My name is Heidi and I’m a crazy bag lady.

I’m a crazy bag lady because I recently returned six cans of tuna fish to Save A Lot. I pulled six cans out of my enormous purse, stacked them in front of the cashier and shamelessly asked for my money back.

Henry squawked. The people in line behind me squawked. Ohnoshedidn’t. Tuna fish in a purse? Those cans better not be opened.

(They weren’t.)

I was that woman. The one who plods into a bargain basement grocery store with a baby on her hip and a purse full of tuna fish.

Upon pulling the cans out of my purse, I explained to the cashier (and to anyone behind me muttering bag lady under their breath) that I had mistakenly purchased albacore instead of chunk light.

Ten dollars is a lot of money for tuna fish your husband won’t eat.

I never felt more like my grandmothers, although I’m pretty sure even they’d suck up $10 and move on. Not me. I was the penny-pinching old bat; the one who wears her hair in a babushka and carries change in a margarine container.

“There’s paperwork,” the cashier said flatly, handing me a form on which I had to write my name, phone number and address.

Seriously? I thought. Paperwork? Fine. Bring it on. If I’m not too proud to return the fancy kind of tuna to the poor kind of grocery store, then I’m not too proud to create a paper trail.

This should come as no surprise to you: I don’t live large. Never have.

I come from blue collar stock; the kind of people my husband describes as “salt of the earth,” which is ironic given the metaphor comes from Jesus, whom I was raised without.

New money. Old money. It’s all someone else’s money to me. Writing, though I hoped it would one day catapult me into a new socioeconomic stratosphere, has yet to buy me a Stephen King-sized house or a J.K. Rowling-sized movie deal.

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Lettin it all hang out: St. Pete Pride 2012

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I live in a city that’s home to the largest Pride Parade in Florida. So sweet, right?

80,000 people turned out for today’s parade and street festival. Henry and I were among the masses. It’s the one place where I don’t have to worry about him making a scene.

We ate frozen yogurt that tasted like vanilla cake batter and Italian ice that tasted like mangoes. Joe ran a carnival booth for Creative Loafing Tampa. I tried (and failed) to win Clown Hole. Henry went home with a string of green beads, a lollipop and something so naughty my mother suggested I not mention it online.

I find it difficult to schlep my Nikon when I’m schlepping Henry, so I took pictures with Joe’s iPhone instead. I’m still too stubborn lazy to do the Instagram thing, so for those of you who only like your pics retro-filtered and super hip, I apologize.

  St. Pete Pride is best left unfiltered anyway.

The day Henry had ice cream

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photography backdrops

(I started writing this Tuesday – and then Henry woke from a nap.)

There are a million things about motherhood that are exhausting. But for all of the things that are exhausting there are an equal number of things that are beautiful.

Sometimes the exhausting ones cloud the beautiful ones. Such is the way of life I suppose.

So right now, at 4:45 in the afternoon, when I’ve got work piled high on my plate, when Henry is down for an afternoon nap, when I should do be doing something more productive with my time…

like dishes, laundry, journalism

…marinating the chicken breast I’m grilling for dinner.

When I should be doing that and then some, I’m doing this instead:

Tipping my hat to Henry, to the baby who is well on his way to six months old, who is already so strong and bursting with personality.

When he falls asleep in my arms I count the tiny blue veins in his eyelids. They’re subtle, but when you notice them, they look like fireworks petering out in the night sky.

In these quiet moments, I try to picture the man he’s going to grow up to be.

And then I get hung up on the “man” part.

I’ve been told it happens fast.

So for all the moments when I could or should be doing something else, I’m going to do my best to do this instead:

be calm, be happy, be grateful, be easy.

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Training wheels

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I’m afraid I’m not ready for this weekend’s triathlon. I’m actually crazy worried about the thing.

I’m nowhere near as prepared for this race as I was for the last two. And no, it’s not because I pushed a baby out this summer. It’s because the baby I pushed out makes it harder to train.

Understandably, he likes to play. To be danced around. To be read to. To be kissed and hugged and bounced. He likes when I comb his five hairs with a fine-toothed comb. It soothes him. He likes when I rub lotion on his forehead. This too soothes him. He likes to be ferried around the house in his umbrella stroller, which Joe and I lovingly refer to as The Hank Patrol because when he’s in it it’s (usually) because he’s morphed into his wicked baby alter-ego, Hank.

My child isn’t big on napping and when he’s awake he requires entertaining. I would have been wiser to train for a circus instead of a triathlon.

Oh, and I’m back to work, so there’s always that excuse.

Two weekends ago, I swam 50 laps at the public pool. I biked there and back. When I got home, I ran three miles in the blistering heat. I didn’t break any personal records, but at least I was out there.

Thank god for muscle memory and jog strollers. I can’t wait for the temperature to drop below 80. The heat and humidity are killing me. (Oh, yeah. There’s that excuse too.)

And then of course there’s breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Some people run with weights. I run with them strapped to my chest. Breastfeeding has taken running with milk jugs to a whole new level.

I’d like to tell you triathlon training is the reason I lost all my pregnancy weight (and then some), but I’d be robbing my mammary glands of the tremendous credit they deserve.

Breastfeeding burns a whopping 600 calories a day.

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Five points (that don’t concern babies)

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♥ I watched my first episode of the Rachael Ray Show this week. This led to my purchasing the September issue of her magazine, which touts “1 Month of Make-Ahead Meals.” I’d really like to get a grip on this cooking thing and if Rachael Ray can’t help me, no one can.

♥ My sister PK wants to sign me up for What Not to Wear because of my love affair with quirky graphic tees.

♥ I applied for a front yard makeover by the DIY network because our front yard is the fugliest on the block, barring the vacant house on the corner.

♥ I should’ve known my favorite cozy down-home ice cream shop is run by a former Western New Yorker.

♥ My next triathlon is one month away and I’ve slacked in the running department. I wonder if those freaky Five Fingers running shoes will motivate me?

Flight 10.10.10

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| Flight 10-10-10 |

I shot this footage Oct. 10, 2010 back home in Western New York as part of the One Day On Earth project. My father is the pilot. On this particular flight, he took us from Gowanda, N.Y., where he keeps his two-seater Cessna at a gravel pit that doubles as an air strip, to Dansville, N.Y., where we walked across the street to McDonald’s for vanilla milkshakes. On our walk back to the airport, I spotted a group of kids awestruck by the planes taking off and landing. They’re the heart of this video. I imagine when my dad was a little boy, he looked a lot like the kids I filmed climbing the fence along the runway.

The One Day On Earth project is a collaborative documentary shot by people all over the world. It was open to all people. Anyone with a cell phone camera capable of shooting video could submit footage. The overriding tenant was that ALL footage had to be captured on 10.10.10, hence the name ONE Day On Earth.

I happened to be home Oct. 10 to photograph Kim and Jon’s wedding. So when my dad asked if I wanted to go up in the plane that Sunday, I said sure, on one condition: be cool with me sticking a camera in your face.

The resulting six-minute video has been edited in a way that might make you dizzy. For some reason it made sense to speed everything up.

The first song is Blue Turning Gray by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

The second song is Walking, Running, Viking by The Benevento/Russo Duo.

The third song (one of my personal faves) is Io by Helen Stellar.