While My Boyfriend Was Sleeping

What I write after Joe and Henry go to bed

Hank, Charlie, Geraldine and me

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On 11/11 I got up at 7 a.m., roused by Henry whose new favorite way to wake me up is to throw the sheets off my body and tug at my legs until I fall out of bed.

“Breakfast Mama. Cook eggs Mama. Get up Mama.”

I was in the middle of a reoccurring dream about Ben Affleck and wife Jennifer Garner, which recently replaced my a reoccurring dream about Brad Pitt and former wife Jennifer Aniston.

I pleaded with Henry for another 10 minutes. He granted me 30 seconds before yanking me to my feet.

I sluggishly made my way to the stove. Cooked pancakes, topped them with syrup. Sliced an apple, topped it with peanut butter. I opened the window by my kitchen table to survey the never-changing weather. It was as it always is this time of year: sunny, warm and perfect; a ripe morning for a paddle on the bay.

I slid a plate of pancakes in front of Henry and asked him if he wanted to go kayaking. I might as well have asked him if he wanted to eat birthday cake while flying a rocket ship with a robot as his copilot. YES OF COURSE HE WANTED TO GO KAYAKING.

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The bright side of things, or how to stand in the rain and stay dry

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https://www.jojobride.co.uk/collections/beaded-prom-dresses

Oh hey September! You’re here. I’ve been waiting for you.

Due to last week’s cantankerous post, I feel I owe you an upbeat story, minus the sarcasm, salty language and snarling.

So here goes it:

A funny thing happened after I pouted about my Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad August.

Things got better.

The last seven days have been a testament to the old annoying saying this too shall pass. Since airing my dirty laundry (and by dirty laundry I mean my gratuitous references to swamp ass) on the internet, I’ve felt a lot less like Charlie Sheen and a lot more like his toothy, hapless counterpart on that sitcom I’ve never seen, Two and a Half Turds.

It would appear that our August hex is over. The Pig-Pen-like dirt cloud that has hovered over our house dissipated about a week ago, giving way to a bright blue sky with puffy clouds that resemble ukulele-strumming unicorns. Not really, but I’m inclined to see unicorns in all clouds, so maybe.

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Mysterious days

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Mysterious things are happening around my house.

Strange, eerie, beautiful (and sometimes maddening) things.

Those of you who follow me on Facebook are well aware of the MASSIVE beehive that has taken over a portion of my property … and my life. If you’re not yet familiar with THE HIVE, don’t worry. The saga will likely result in a metaphor-rich post about productivity, fertility and sweetness. It’s obvious the all mighty honey bee is my latest animal spirit guide.

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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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Friday in 15 pictures

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We dressed in warm clothes. We went on a picnic. We picked up our Hot Mama’s of St. Pete Co-op basket. We played kickball. We made a sweet organic salad using fixin’s from our basket. We tried to set up a trampoline, but ended up bouncing around the yard instead. We got excited when Joe came home. We played with a strange, creepy baby doll from the 1960s. We fell asleep happy.

Exercise is my Adderall

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At the top of 2013’s to-do list: complete an Olympic distance triathlon.

An Olympic distance triathlon breaks down as follows: 1.5K swim, 40K bike and 10K run. In non-metric terms this is roughly a one-mile swim, 25-mile bike and 6.2-mile run. This is perfectly do-able if you put in the training, which is the hardest part.

I’m on the roster for St. Anthony’s, an ambitious triathlon that every year draws some of the world’s most elite athletes (including Olympians) to downtown St. Pete. I wouldn’t even attempt to compete with these animals. My doughy Reese’s-loving behind can’t hold a candle to these fat-free lean machines. I’m thrilled just to be in their company.

And I’m eager to plow through the food tents. I love post-race food tents.

I ran my first race three years ago. At the time I considered this an epic undertaking. Turns out it was more of an epic life-changer. I’m addicted to these things now. Since then I’ve clocked five sprint triathlons and two half-marathons.

Somewhere in the middle of this I had a baby.

When I trained through my pregnancy people told me I was crazy. When I raced a few months after Henry’s birth people told me to slow down. When it became apparent that my child was a fireball people told me it was good thing I have so much energy.

This energy is not always inherent. Sometimes it has to be mustered. Sometimes I burn out. Sometimes you’ll find me sitting under a blanket on the couch, eating a hazelnut chocolate bar, watching Sex & The City reruns.

The reason I’m able to stick to any sort of workout routine is because I don’t view it as a routine. I view it as therapy. I exercise to maintain sanity, strength and self discipline. If I go too long without physically exerting myself I get kind of flaky, scatterbrained and unfocused.

If I were drawn to taking psycho-stimulants I could probably get a prescription for Adderall. I’m hyper with a fairly compromised attention span. Writers have long upheld a tradition of taking drugs to produce good material. Me? I’d rather bike. It’s good for your cholesterol and the view is phenomenal.

The kind of mom I am

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Fifteen percent of the time I suck at being a mom. I do things other moms would find deplorable.

I lie to the pediatrician about how often I give my child his vitamin D supplement. (That would be never. We spend our days outside synthesizing Florida’s natural abundance of the vitamin.)

Also: I tend to wake up in a surly mood, not because I hate mornings, but because I hate 6 a.m. mornings. Most people think I’m bubbly. At 6 a.m. I’m as flat as an old can of root beer. I trudge into Henry’s room like a mom zombie. I close the door behind me and crawl under a blanket on his couch, during which time Henry tears through his toys, upends his collection of Legos, rips his clothes out of his bottom dresser drawer and squawks like an angry bird. This is not an ideal situation. If I’m lucky I can get away with closing my eyes for 10 minutes. If I’m unlucky, as I was Wednesday morning, I’m roused from my 6 a.m. coma via plastic truck to the face. For those of you who noticed, this was how I acquired the small gash on the bridge of my nose.

I’m a natural night owl. This doesn’t mix well with motherhood. Still, I’ve found ways to persevere.

Now that we’ve removed the front rail from Henry’s crib, I can easily crawl inside to catch a few minutes of shut-eye before his squawking reaches headache decibels. Last week I fell asleep in the crib while Henry gutted his bookshelf. When Joe got up for work he glanced at the baby monitor and saw footage of his wife curled up like a big galoot under a monkey blanket.

I’m not an ace mom. The first time I caught my kid eating dog food I made him rinse his mouth out with water. The second, third and fourth times I let him decide whether or not Kibble was palatable.

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The little yard that could

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This is Henry’s little red chair. I’ve got a thing for Adirondack chairs, no? Now my boy can sit in style next to his mother, who when she does sit, likes to sit in style. (Hello Sky Chair.)

The picket fence in the background was something of a neighborhood project. Without the help of family, friends, neighbors and virtual strangers, I’d still be sulking around St. Pete, grumbling about my fugly front yard.

Oh, but I love my house.

Well. Let me rephrase that. I’ve always loved the inside of my house. It’s got a cozy bungalow feel. It’s filled with comfortable furniture, meaningful art, an adorable toddler tyrant, a handsome husband and a fat, happy pug. What more could a gal want?

The front of my house, however, has always been a sore spot. Up until last month it had zero curb appeal. Our lawn was balding. Our once valiant attempt at a vegetable garden had become an angry bed of weeds, littered with bent fragments of metal fencing and forgotten plant markers. Our porch was about as inviting as a parking lot. With the exception of an overly shellacked manatee statue – a gift form my Oma – the entrance to our house was, in fact, off-putting.

We did try to jazz things up. Or rather, well-meaning family gardeners tried to jazz things up.

Two years ago, Oma took pity on us and came over when I was at work to lay down mulch and plant flowers in the sad beds by our front door. Despite diligent watering, her landscaping eventually gave way to weeds. Fed up with these failed attempts at beautification, we decided to let the one thing that wouldn’t die continue to grow – a frail Jacaranda tree in the center of our circular driveway that resembled a stooped-over geriatric.

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