Rollercoasters vs. Merry-go-rounds

I've never been one for rollercoasters. They go too fast, too high, then too low. The twists and turns are stomach-dropping and vomit-inducing with names like "The Mega Beast" or the "The Death Spiral." Not to mention those little tiny bars that come down to allegedly hold you into place while you are hurtling through space at tops speeds in a supersized slinky... upside down. No thank you, no rollercoasters for me. They are just too scary.

I'm sure I inherited the anti-thrill seeker gene from my dad, who also chose to keep both feet firmly planted on Terra Amusement Parka Firma. While my brother and my cousins soared into the stratosphere on the Blue Demon's Revenge or some other equally terrifying contraption, my dad and I would make our way over to safer ground. Past the spinning tea cups (vertigo, anyone?) and the Ferris wheel (if wheels were meant to be this big then I'd like to see the cars that go with them) to our happy place: the merry-go-round. Dad would stick to the big bench seat but since I was such a wild child, I'd pick a nice, tame looking horse somewhere in the middle row- enough room to roam but still pinned in by his pals in case he got any funny ideas. 

That tinny, canned music (which did well to drown out the screams from the coaster around the corner) would come on and off we'd go. Up (just a little) and down (gently), around and around (not too fast), I'd hold onto the pole and feel the wind in my hair. After a few rotations I might even feel bold enough to let go, turn around, and wave to Dad in his seat behind me. But mostly I kept my eyes closed and tried to will that ride to keep going. One more time around, I'd think to myself, and smile when my silent prayer was answered. I never wanted it to end. 

Once when I was about 8 years old, my dad and I were wandering through a festival of some sort when we came upon what we thought was a gentle boat ride and decided to hop on. Little did we know it was the Pirate Ship Of Doom that may have started out gently but picked up steam (and height, and velocity) with every SWOOP to the right which was followed by a WHOOSH to the left, leaving us briefly suspended and staring perilously at the ground at each terminus before it plunged back into action. "GET ME OFFFFFFFF!" I screamed. But he couldn't- we were both helpless until the ride ended. 

Lately life's been feeling too much like that ride. We've been traveling far too fast, crashing down way too hard. Feeling so helpless as one too many giant hills left my my stomach in a permanent state of drop as we hurtled through a dark tunnel with no end in sight. Illnesses, injuries, work stress, family stress, home stress, it's all felt like a rollercoaster and I wanted to get off. 

And then I saw a merry-go-round and I wanted to get on. 

My husband and I were celebrating our 10th anniversary in New York City and taking a morning stroll in Central Park. The weekend had been lovely, albeit somewhat weighed down by the mental baggage I had stowed in the overhead bin and under the seat in front of me. We had reservations for brunch and I knew we might be late but there was just something about that music, something about the carefree smiles and the little girl holding her daddy's hand as they stepped off the carousel.

"Please can we ride it?" I asked him a little too desperately, trying to keep my voice steady.  

And so we did. 

Middle horse for me. 

Up and down, around and around. 

Tears streamed down my face as I closed my eyes and prayed it would never end. 

But of course it did and when the music ended and the merry-go-round slowed to a stop, I knew it was going to be OK. 

I knew that somehow, whatever came next, we'd make it through the ride. 

The Evolution of a Runner

"I can't do it."

Her voice is loud and insistent, and I recognize it immediately. She may be a child, but she knows how to get her point across, so I do everything I can to drown her out. Headphones in, music blaring. Come on, Adam Levine- don't fail me now. But no matter how high I crank the tunes and how much inner ear damage I do, I can still hear her. 

"I can't do it."

So I choose to ignore her and go about the business at hand. I make my way to the starting line, check that the number is securely pinned to my shirt and give one last tug at the shoelaces. One final hamstring stretch, set the stopwatch, and take my position at the back of the pack. The gun goes off and though her voice is blaring and my legs are shaking, I'm carried forward by the momentum of the group. 

"I can't do it!"

 She yells this time, and as the faster runners zoom past it's almost enough to bring me to a halt. But I keep going because I know that voice all too well, and I know that eventually, she'll stop. I know that it's just a matter of pushing her aside, of pushing forward, of pushing through. I know that because she's me. 

She's me at 8 years old, an awkward, uncoordinated, overweight elementary schooler in gym class, trying to negotiate a way out of the Presidential Fitness Test. You remember the annual ritual: how many situps can you do in one minute? How long can you hang from this bar? How many pull-ups can you do? How far can you jump? How fast can you run one mile? Top finishers got certificates, medals, and bragging rights on the playground. Those who came in last... didn't. 

As a consolation prize, I got a lifetime of negative self talk. I'm not blaming the Presidential Fitness Test or whichever founding father created it- it was simply the annual showcase of my fitness-o-phobia. Gym class became the elementary school equivalent of waterboarding, and that week of testing in particular was to be avoided at all costs. Ear infection, stomachache, sore ankle- you name it. Anything to stop the voice which grew louder each year: "I can't do it." 

A few decades later, I decided to makeover myself and become a runner. It was a move sparked mainly out of frustration- I had accomplished many things on many levels, but fitness still eluded me. Overweight, overworked, and underpaid, running seemed to be the cheapest option for a grad student. I grabbed my shoes and hit the path near my apartment, hoping no one would see me and call my bluff. "I can't do it," she'd say as we started to jog. But I thought as long as no one was looking, or timing, or keeping score, maybe I could try. 

For months I ran nearly every day, not very far, and slowly at first... oh who am I kidding, slowly at the end, too... stopping to walk each time a "real" runner came by so as not to insult him/her with my inferior efforts. I thought about subscribing to Runner's World magazine, but feared I might be arrested for mail fraud. So instead I'd discretely grab a copy from the grocery store checkout lane and stuff it under my cereal box on the conveyor belt. 

I entered my first 5K in 1998 in scenic Big Sur, California. I had never run with a watch and had no concept of whether it would take me an hour or a day to traverse 3.1 miles. Turned out it took about 35 minutes. And for every one of those, until the very moment my feet crossed the finish line, I heard that voice inside my head yelling "I can't do it!" But I did. 

Since then I've logged tens of thousands of miles, lost dozens of pounds, gained plenty of muscle, and crossed finish lines of every variety from 5K to marathons, but I still hesitate to call myself a "real" runner. Oh, I just like to go out jogging, I'll say in that self deprecating way so many women have of downplaying their own accomplishments. No, I'm not a "real" writer, I just have a little blog about family life. 

And every time I show up for a race I find I am not alone- that voice is right there with me, telling me that I can't do it. As the faster runners leave me in the dust, she yells. As the woman pushing the double jogging stroller passes me, she yells louder. As the local sensation in his 70s who runs while juggling three basketballs passes me, for a second I start to believe her.

Then something happens. At some point I settle into my own breath, I settle into myself, and the voice begins to fade. The pounding of shoes on pavement begins to take on a familiar and comfortable rhythm. I might even pass one or two of the early sprinters (Team Tortoise in the house!) but I barely notice. I just know that it has finally gotten quiet in my mind and the relief is palpable. 

So why do I do it? 

I do it because I need to prove that girl wrong. 

I do it for my own little girl who needs to know that she can do it. For all my kids who need to know that success doesn't always mean being the best, the fastest, or the strongest. That there is value in competing even when you don't stand a chance of coming in first. That sometimes to lose, really is to win. 

I do it because I work hard every day to train and live a healthy life, and crossing the finish line is a celebration of that effort. 

I do it because it is incredibly humbling for a type-A overachiever to work so hard at something and still not rise to the top.  

I do it because I really AM a runner.

I do it because this is my life... and I will run my own race. 

Chicago, Oct. 1999: My first marathon

Milestones- are they just for kids?

When our first son was 6 days old, I called my husband at his office in a panic.

"I've....Made....A....HUGE....Mistake!" I managed to blurt out between ginormous, postpartum hormone-fueled sobs. Fearing our newborn baby boy's very life was hanging in the balance, I explained that in my sleep-deprived fog, I had scheduled the all important 1-month well baby checkup for the wrong day, and that our precious cargo would in fact be 33 days old at the time of his visit. I didn't know how this could have happened, because I had taken my planner (this was the pre-smart phone era, back when a pad was still made of paper and had no "i.") with me to the 2-day visit and carefully scheduled out the next 6 months worth of checkups, each one clearly noted and annotated on my calendar. And now... this.

What about all the critical development that would take place in that span? What about all the milestones? The all-important MILESTONES! You know the ones you read about in What to Expect When You Don't Know What the *&^% to Expect So You Cling Onto Those Books For Dear Life?

Less than one week into baby ownership and I had failed to stick to the recommended maintenance program. Did this void the warranty? Would child protective services come after me and take the baby away?

Three phone calls, a lot of pacing, and half a jar of jelly beans later, the very kind staff at the pediatrician's office had talked me down off the ledge. I called my husband back with the good news- those 3 days would not be the determining factor in our child's future.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully.
"Hmm," I agreed.

Fast forward nearly six years and two babies, and the conversation was a little different.

"The pediatrician's office just called and it looks like we're three months late for Eli's 18-month check up. Did you know we were supposed to take him in for an 18-month checkup?" I asked my husband in a remarkably calm voice.

"Did you know he's 21 months old?" he asked.

"Hmm," I said thoughtfully.

"Hmm," he agreed.

Now trust me when I say I'm not exactly proud of my Slacker Mom tendencies with baby #3 and I did get that appointment in right away (much to Eli's dismay, since even his advanced age was not enough to get him out of the shots required at the 18-month appointment). And while I am confident in his development I still sat there and filled out the detailed surveys checking each and every last milestone. Yes, the MILESTONES.

There are the large motor milestones: Can your child walk up the stairs while holding on to only one of your hands? Only if you can catch him. Can your child climb onto a chair, a stool, or a bench, or stack pillows on top of each other in order to reach things in higher places? Yes, and I'd appreciate if you'd stop giving him so many ideas.

And the fine motor milestones: Does your child pick up a marker or crayon and imitate writing/scribbling? Your Honor, I submit the dining room wall as Exhibit A (I think it's an A. It might be a dog). Does your child eat independently using a spoon or a fork to feed himself? Uh-huh, and I can't wait for him to be able to pronounce the "r" in "fork" because it's a bit embarrassing when Mr. Independent Eater screams out for his desired utensil in the middle of a restaurant.

There are cognitive milestones, communication milestones, creative milestones, social milestones, sleeping milestones, waking milestones. 4 full pages, front and back, of questions about milestones.

Contrast that with my own recent annual appointment, which was all of 3 minutes long and most of that was devoted to an ill-fated battle between a very full bladder and a very small container. Let's just say there are certain milestones that a woman who has birthed 3 babies should not have to meet.

But you see, there was no discussion of milestones at all, and considering I have a very big birthday (the kind that ends in a 0) looming in a few months, I think I could have used a little milestone check-up.

Sure I've hit the traditional societal marks: college? Done. Grad school? Got it. Career? 4 and counting. Marriage? Check. Kids? Check, check, and check. But what about the more subtle milestones? The things we feel we "should" be able to do by a certain age?

If only there was some sort of roadmap for being an adult, a handy chart or list of milestones to check off to make sure we're staying on track, or an easy prescription to fill when we fall behind. But I guess that's just for kids.

Because part of growing up means that you're now in charge of your own milestones, of deciding for yourself what is important and what isn't, what constitutes success and how to measure growth.

So even though I'm approaching age 40--or 480 months, if you prefer--my large motor milestones might be slightly lacking (I can't fold a fitted sheet and if you can, you just might be a witch), my fine motor skills could use some work (I can't apply eye makeup without looking like a victim of domestic abuse), and my social development might be a bit off the mark (giving a speech to hundreds of people = cake. Making new female friends = brutal), it's taken me nearly 4 decades to realize I am who I am for a reason. And that's one heck of a milestone.

On the way back from my doctor's appointment I called my husband.

"So what did the doctor say?"

"Not much, but I'm right on track," I told him.

"On track for what?" he asked.

"Me." I said with a smile.

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully.

"Hmm," I agreed.

Eli demonstrates the all-important self feeding milestone. 

It was just lunch: how one meal rekindled old feelings

We made plans to meet in a place miles from home. It's just lunch, I told myself.

I'd never done anything like this, so I suppose it was normal to be nervous. I was excited and hungry. It felt wrong, and yet right. With first date-type jitters I put on fresh lipstick in the parking lot, checked my hair one last time in the rearview mirror, and headed in.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted some ladies from the office and instantly got nervous. Would they see us? What would they think? Would they tell someone? Should I just turn around and leave? It's just lunch, I reminded myself. 

Then I saw him, took a deep breath, and decided to go for it. 

And just like that, for the first time in our ten year marriage my husband and I met for lunch in the middle of the week.

We've always worked far away from each other, with commutes that take us in opposite directions, so I guess the opportunity never really presented itself, or we never presented the idea to each other. But on this particular day, an otherwise unassuming Thursday in January, business brought us to the same part of town at the same time.

"Why don't we meet for lunch?" he suggested the night before, and we agreed on 12pm at one of our favorite locations (Let's just get all the "nooner" jokes out of the way right now, it was JUST lunch, people).

I thought about it all morning. 9:30am meeting = 2.5 hours until my lunch date! 11am conference call = get to the point people! 11:45am traffic jam leaving the office parking lot = SERIOUSLY???

And then there we were. He was waiting with a pot of my favorite tea and that same floppy hair I fell in love with more than a decade ago. 

Sure, we have regular date nights, but there was something so easy about this. No babysitters to arrange, no racing around to prepare dinner for those staying home so that we can leave and go sit somewhere and talk about those staying home before heading back home. No toddler clinging to one leg on the way out the door, leaving a firm coating of guilt and goldfish crackers on my skinny jeans. No warnings to stay on your bottom or else and no complex negotiations involving a requisite number of bites took place. No referring to oneself in the third person, and no third, or fourth, or fifth person at the table. It was just lunch. 

I'd love to say we discussed something deep and meaningful, but we didn't. Just some basic talk about work, about home, about plans for the weekend and an upcoming vacation. It was ordinary, and yet not. The same, and yet different.

In our every day lives we are so entrenched in the roles that we play: Mom, Dad, daughter, son, sister, manager, employee, etc., that it's easy to forget that were are also just us. Two individuals: Mona and Mark, who very much enjoy each other's company. And lunch.

So for 48 minutes we gobbled up as much we could. Then we put our many layers back on- coats and gloves for the cold, multiple hats for the roles we play, superhero capes for good measure. We went our separate ways: back to the office, back to business, and eventually back to the home we've created together.

I was just lunch, and it was absolutely delicious.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt perfectly full. 

Tofu: It's What's For Dinner (Really. And You'll Like It. Really. I Promise)

Many of you have asked over the years how I get my kids to eat healthy foods, and I know a lot of you have also made New Year's resolutions to change your diets for the better, so I thought I'd start sharing some of our favorite recipes here.

Keep in mind that I am Egyptian, which means I was born without the exact measurement gene. I grew up surrounded with incredibly delicious food and incredibly vague instructions. If I ever dared to ask how long to bake a certain dish, I'd hear "Just cook it until it's done." Duh. So what did you use to flavor that dish? "Enough salt so that it tastes good, but not so much to make it salty." Perhaps it was all an elaborate ploy to ensure that the recipes were not replicable and the chef was the only one capable of producing the desired results. Well played, Egyptian ladies.

Somewhere between there and Martha Stewart-esque precision is my happy place, which we'll call The Land of Non-Recipes.

I'm a firm believer in meal planning and spend most of Sunday afternoon prepping meals for the week ahead, but tonight's non-recipe, Tofu Veggie Unfried Rice can be easily and quickly thrown together after work.

Start with some tofu. That's right, I said "some." We're very technical around here. However much comes in a package. Drain the water then cut it up in cubes, or better yet- buy the stuff that's already cubed. Some people go through an elaborate ritual of pressing the tofu between plates and freezing it for better texture. Some people are also professional lion tamers.

And that's right, I also said "tofu." I know you've heard it before, but I'll say it again- it's good for you, it takes on the flavors of whatever you put on it, and it really CAN be delicious.

I brown the tofu in a wok with a tiny bit of canola oil. Resist the urge to push it all around the pan with your fancy Top Chef moves, and instead open a bottle of wine. Let it get nice and brown on one side, then stir a bit, then drink more wine.

Take the tofu out and add some aromatics. That's a fancy term for stuff that smells good like garlic, ginger, and onions. I use "some" of each. A handful of chopped green onions, a clove or two of minced garlic, a little grated fresh ginger. Add some veggies, whatever you have on hand. Crunchy stuff like carrots need longer to cook. Try to chop everything the same size, or else the food police will come and arrest you. Or your food won't cook evenly. I'm not sure which, so I don't take chances. Also try not to chop your fingers off.

Meanwhile, make some brown rice and set it aside. (You'll note that "some" is a fairly standard unit of measurement in my non-recipes.) I usually make a big batch of it on the weekends and use it in recipes throughout the week.

Then comes the sauce. Mix a few tablespoons of soy sauce (I like the low sodium stuff), a few more of rice wine vinegar, and a heaping spoonful of hoisin sauce. If you haven't tried hoisin, I highly recommend it. It's thick and molasses-y and oh so flavorful, and best of all you get to sound like a bona fide foodie when you say it. Like this: "Honey, I need to run out to get more hoisin sauce." Now you're cooking!

Add the rice and the tofu back into the wok with the veggies, then add the sauce. I like to thrown in some frozen peas at this point because they add color, and because my 18-month-old needs more projectiles to throw at us during meals. Let it all cook for a few minutes and then you're done. It took much longer to write this than it did to prepare it.

Examining the 12 Days of Christmas

Trust me when I say I am all about Christmas.

And believe me, I love me some Christmas music.

But there's one song that baffles even a Christmaso-phile like myself, and it's a classic. I'll give you a hint... in fact I'll give you 12 hints, one for each day of one of my least favorite Christmas songs.

Because really, could anyone handle the shopping and the wrapping and the baking and the cooking and the cleaning if we had to keep it up for TWELVE consecutive days of Christmas? That's nearly two weeks of Christmas, in case you're keeping score. It was hard enough growing up in a culture that celebrates Christmas on December 25th but a church that celebrates the birth of Christ on January 7th- and that's only two Christmases. So again, TWELVE?

Clearly this song was not written by a woman (9 ladies dancing- need I say more?), and sure, I know it's the thought that counts, but come on. Pipers and drummers? Have you ever heard of a little thing called naptime? Shhhhh already!!! And what in the world am I supposed to do with leaping lords? With three children ages five and under in our house, we currently have all the circus action we can handle.

Let's delve a little more deeply in the specifics of the 12-day extravaganza as laid out in the festive tune. Each year the U.S. Bank calculates the cost of the 376 gifts in the song, and this year the total comes in at $107,459.72. That's a lowball estimate, assuming minimum wage for unskilled workers in the milking department, and not taking into account things like the cost of the cows. Last time I checked, the cows constitute a rather integral part of the milking operation, and don't be looking at me because after having 3 babies in less than 4 years, I can assure you that my personal milking days are behind me.

But the biggest problem I have with song is all the poop. That's right, poop. While it's not explicitly mentioned, please note that between the partridge, the hens, the geese, the swans, and the other members of the menagerie, there are 23 birds gifted to the lucky recipient. And because the song repeats the previous verses, by my calculations that yields:

12 days X 1 partridge/day = 12 partridges 
11 days X 2 turtle doves/day = 22 turtle doves 
10 days X 3 french hens/day = 30 french hens 
9 days X 4 calling birds/day = 36 calling birds 
7 days X 6 geese-a-laying/day = 42 geese a laying 
6 days X 7 swans-a-swimming/day = 42 swans a swimming 


...for a grand total of 184 birds. Nothing says Merry Christmas(x 12!) like 184 flapping, squawking, e-coli carrying, feathered creatures flying around the house. Pooping everywhere. Did I mention the poop? Because what woman hasn't at some point said "You know, the one thing we need around here this holiday season is more poop. Now THAT would make for a Merry Christmas."

To make matters worse, apparently the cost of these foul fowl is up significantly this year, because the nation's drought drove up the price of bird feed. Let's just be clear: you can save yourself a whole lot of cash because the only bird welcome in this house is the $4.99 rotisserie chicken from Costco.

Perhaps if we gave this some thought we could come up with a more satisfactory, less expensive, and less poop-filled alternative:

On the first (and only) day of Christmas my true love gave to me... a nap. Repeat for 12 days. Now that's what I call true love.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good nap.

Firsts and Lasts

My oldest son doesn't take baths anymore.

Now, before you call the health department, rest assured, he does still bathe, but he's switched to taking showers. All by himself. All of a sudden.

I can't even remember exactly when it happened. I just know that there used to be three little wet, wiggly ones in the tub in need of a scrub, and now there are only two, with one increasingly independent boy down the hall, singing to himself under the spray. For so long they were all in there together and now they're not, nor will they likely ever be again. It's just soap and water, but with it comes a tidal wave of independence that's sweeping through our house. And somewhere, lost in the shuffle, was one last bath.

Had we known it was going to be the last one, would we have done anything different? Added extra bubbles? Perhaps. Let them splash a little longer? Possibly. Saved a vial of tub water? Umm, have you seen our tub? I don't think so. But the fact remains, we didn't know.

Parenthood is marked by the celebration of so many "firsts." Look no further than Facebook for proof of that. Status update: Baby's first smile! Mobile upload: First taste of solid food! New album: First Day of School! But the "lasts" don't often get mentioned, much less "liked," because we rarely if ever know they're happening until it's too late.

I can describe in great detail for you the first time our littlest little one walked, but not the last time he crawled. I remember the first time our biggest little one sat at the kitchen table, but not the last time he was in a highchair. I know what my daughter wore on her first day of preschool, but not on her last day of whatever you call that time before a child goes to preschool. You'd better believe I remember the first time baby slept through the night, but not the last time I held that fuzzy head against my chest for a 2 am feeding. First teeth, yes. Last gummy grins, not so much.  

I wish I could remember the last day my oldest son's eyes were blue, but all I know is that at some point, they turned green. I wish I had known that at some point, my kisses wouldn't be enough to heal all my kids' booboos. Which one was the last?  I wish I knew.

Recently, I attended the wedding of a dear friend. As I watched the glowing bride dance with her father, I found myself overcome with emotion. She was so happy, he looked so serious. I was instantly taken back to a day almost a decade ago, when another ecstatic bride danced with her very serious father. Both were nervous- it was actually his first time on a dance floor, he had even taken lessons to prepare. But neither knew the twists that life and health would take, and that their first dance would likely also be their last.

I don't think we're supposed to know when "lasts" are happening. If we did, we'd never have the strength to move forward, which is the only direction worth going. But perhaps just being a bit more aware that each "first" comes at the expense of another "last" helps us to appreciate the "during" just a little bit more.

Parenting is the most beautiful but also the most difficult thing I've ever experienced, and I think at some point, all parents have the feeling of wanting to hit fast forward and skip over a particular experience, or a tantrum, or a phase... or a year. "Just get me through the teething," we say. Or "If I can just make it until they're all in school all day." We look to the "firsts," the major milestones - we use them to pull ourselves up from the muck of daily life. But it's those "lasts," from the most routine ones that happen naked in a tub, to the ones that are covered in sequins and lace, that sneak up on us and knock us down.

There may not seem like that much difference between a shower and a bath, but for me there's a big reminder to be more aware.

Because all of this eventually washes away.