Contagious Imagination

Nico has finally started talking. Not that he was officially verbally delayed, but he was certainly not early to speak. Neither of our kids were which I found strange because we are a very loquacious couple. One of our friends joked that maybe our kids didn't talk early or early-ish because they couldn't get a word in edgewise--touche. Maybe.

But now Nico's talking, and Alexandra's talking, and Adam and I are talking, and at times we will all four be sitting at our little formica kitchen table and Adam and I will be trying to break down the day to each other and then both kids start speaking at the same time, about things of absolutely no relation to either our conversation or anything in general, and it's just. totally. NUTS. You can't even hear a word anyone is saying. It's a stereo of voices.

And sometimes, this random talking gets too crazy and I get pulled into the crazy. Let me explain.

Nico, in particular, will scream "'Scuse me!" at the top of his lungs and interrupt a perfectly lovely conversation as if the world is ending and only he can see it. Once you give him attention (what he really wants), usually with an exasperated, "What Nico!?" he smiles coyly at you and says something like this:

"Mommy, sometimes I fly on an owl to come and see you."

Alright, kid. Kinda poetic, beautiful, and completely random. Statements like that usually get a reply of:

"You fly on an owl to come and see me?" (You always have to repeat what he says to get peace.)

To which he nods his head vigorously as if I have finally figured it all out.

"Okay, honey...."  (And then you have to tell him you understand him to get peace.)

So, this happened Tuesday night--exact conversation--but he kept repeating this same statement about flying on an owl to come and see mommy. The words would get switched up a bit, but it was always the same idea:

owl
flying
mommy

He introduced the topic at the table, repeated it in the tub, while I was reading books, and as I kissed him goodnight. He was so convinced that sometimes he flies on an owl to come see me that he started to convince me! Okay--this is where I feel I lose my already fragile grasp on reality--I start wondering,

"Hmmmmm....maybe he is flying on an owl. Maybe my son is a magical creature who flies on owls at night when I'm sleeping and I don't know it...Maybe he is telling me the truth but like all mothers in the world I am just nodding my head with a 'Sure darling, whatever!' smile while he's actually really flying on owls!!!!! How awesome, Nico flies on owls!"

And then I shake my head and wonder what's happening to me.

But I love it. I love the wild imagination these kids have, and I do love being pulled into it. Even if only for a split second, and even if it makes me feel a teeny-tiny bit like I might need a vacay at a mental institution or a very posh rehab center in Arizona. Ahhhh.....

The kids last day of daycamp is tomorrow and then they're home with me for the month of August. If you see us flying on owls, don't be surprised.

[This definitely looks like a kid who *just might* fly on owls....]

Born to Run Barefoot

I love running. I always have.

My mom did daycare at our house when I was younger, and in the summer she'd take care of a kid or two my age. Of course, we didn't have enough bikes for everyone, so I always volunteered to run beside everyone riding their bikes to the Creative Playground, our stomping ground, about a mile away. Even then, I loved to run.

I have never been super fast, I have never been ultra-competitive. I enjoyed running cross country and track in high school for the comraderie, and some of my best college memories are running around Chapel Hill after dark (because it was too freakin' hot to run in daylight) with my college roommates Ashley & Malina. I completed one marathon with Team in Training and the NYC Marathon in 2002, both with my good friend Julia. Running is both my time alone and my time with friends.

And then (insert screeching tires, car crash sounds, screaming and sirens here), I got injured.

No, it was not a glorious sports related injury. I remember the exact moment it happened. It was days before our wedding in August of 2003 and I was on the Upper West Side to get everything waxed for the wedding and our Mexican honeymoon. I was wearing flip flops and I was late. I shot across Broadway as the cars were coming, and snap! My right calf just...I don't know. Pulled? Tore? It hurt, badly. I took two weeks off, ran on it, and pulled it again. I took a month off, ran on it, and pulled it again. It became a sad routine, and then I stopped running.

And it wasn't because I was off my game. That summer I was training for the NYC Marathon again. I was in excellent shape--I could bike up to Central Park, run 18 8-minute miles, and bike home.I didn't run that marathon, or any other one, ever. My running life, for the most part, was kaput. Depressing.

I have had this chronic calf injury off and on for NINE YEARS. It has sucked. Every time I start to run again, I pull it again. I have had orthotics made for my marshmellow-y running shoes, I have had three different physical therapists, I have been taped, iced, heated, and I have rested. Nothing helped. I was told that it's because I have totally flat feet, feet that only became flatter with two pregnancies (and went from a size 10 to a size 11--god help me). I felt defeated.

And then I read Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. And I read it again. And again. The whole book resonated in me, especially the part that we--as homo sapiens--are all meant to run, not to be fat mother effers who sit on couches and eat french fries. Transport us back thousands of years and we'd have to run for food, from invaders, for life--what has happened to us? I refused to believe that I can't/shouldn't run because I'm flat-footed. And then he talked about barefoot running, and trusting in the architecture of my feet and my muscles to carry my body. He examined the history of running shoes, a tribe of indiginous peoples in the Copper Canyon of Mexico called the Tarahumara who run ultra-marathons wearing sandals and eating chia seeds, and the birth and new trend of barefoot running. I decided: screw those fluffy running shoes and my orthotics, I needed get barefoot. It was my last desperate attempt to re-cultivate my running self.

After having Nico, I was at a running ground zero = I was totally out of shape and had no mileage under me. Thankfully, this is a good place to start re-training your body on how to run. I read about running barefoot, studied the gait, and started small runs on the treadmill with the focus to land on my mid-foot, not on my heel. I got some Nike Free running shoes, and starting working out in them. Spin, small runs, elliptical, etc. I also stopped wearing my bulky Dansko clogs and other shoes I was told I needed to wear for "support" and wore only shoes with no support so my feet are on the ground, my favorite in the summer being Saltwater Sandals. Being both a teacher and a New Yorker, I walk a lot, so even when not at the gym my feet were practicing being barefoot, getting new muscles, and learning what it felt like to hold my body (which is not tiny) up. I remember my feet being sore last spring; they are never sore now.

A month ago I took the next step and got the Vibram five-finger running shoes. I headed out for a slow jaunt in Prospect Park (3.3 miles), cautious of my new kicks, and I found myself jumping over rocks on the trail and kicking it in at the end, I felt so good. I figured I would pay for it the next day--I'd wake up and my feet and legs would be immobile, but not at all! Not an ounce of pain.

Monday I went for another run in the park in them, and I am happy to report that for the first time in YEARS, I ran the loop in total joy. I felt great, my feet felt light and strong, and I ran with the happiness I had as a kid. I just wore them to a cardio interval class, and I felt so stable and connected to the ground as we jumped and balanced--so much better than those big running shoes.

I am sold.

I have put off writing this post for fear that I'll jinx myself and pull my calf again, but I'm hopeful that maybe, baby, I was born to run--just not in actual running shoes.

(PS: I have heard that Peter Sarsgaard is directing a movie adaptation of Born to Run, the book. I can't wait.)

Banana Bread Thanks

So, news around here is Adam got a new job. He's an architect for a construction & development firm (which is awesome!), but the construction office is located in Larchmont, New York. For those of you who don't know the City or its layout, Larchmont is not in New York City. It's in the 'burbs. So he has a long commute now, but he's doing it for experience and he uses his train time wisely to read and work on his side work.

Due to his new job, I now have to do the mornings as well as morning drop off. For years, Adam has done the mornings and drop off b/c as a teacher I had to be at work at 7:45 and daycare didn't open until 8am. But now I am in charge of the mornings and all the chaos the morning brings.

I have NEVER been a morning person, ever. Even when I was a baby, my mom claims she would have to wake me in the mornings (sadly, my kids did not inherit that trait). I am grumpy, I don't want to be touched, and I hate everyone. Of course, this is difficult when you have two little lambs who need your attention. I think that maybe the hardest part of becoming a parent for me has been cultivating some early morning kindness. I am just naturally snappy and bitchy when I wake. One of my tragic flaws, I guess.

Monday night I made banana bread. Yes, it was 90 degrees at 9pm and I decided to turn the oven to 350 for an hour and a half to make banana bread. Our 800 square foot apartment became a veritable sweat lodge and, naturally, I was sweating like a beast, but the bread was sooo good it was totally worth it. I added some chocolate chips and cut back the sugar and the result was simply divine. Wish I had some now, but we ate it all in two days. Damn, our kids can eat.

Tuesday morning the kids were whining, crying, ripping out their hair and gnashing their teeth over going to camp. I was just beyond sick of listening to it and playing the calm and patient mom. I gave them banana bread and yogurt for breakfast and sat glaring at them, wondering why I had chosen to have kids and fantasizing about how easy my life would be when I can send them to sleep away camp in the far future. Then Nico looked up at me, chocolate smeared all over his face, and said, "Mommy?"

"Yes, Nino?" (Nino is his nickname b/c for the longest time he couldn't say the hard "c" of Nico)
"Tank you."
"Thank me for what?" I asked, a little snarkily b/c I am just a mean mom before 8am.
"Tank you for banana bread," he said, barely making eye contact as he continued to nosh the bread, getting chocolate all over his face, hands, and swim shirt.

And from that moment onwards the morning was okay.

(Note: The recipe is from The New Best Recipe cookbook, btw. Our fave cookbook.)