Swimming

If I didn't blog, did it really happen?
I swam this morning at 5:30. I have never joined a gym before & now I am one of those people who gets up at 5 to go to the gym.  Except it's too nice to work out in the gym (really, why would I take a spinning class when I have a perfectly good bike? Unless, of course, I wanted to learn how to spin yarn).

Swimming at 5:30 is good for me b/c I don't have to share a lane.  However, I also don't swim very straight at 5:30 in the morning.  I'm not sure if it was lack of food or carelessness or just general incompetence.  Those lane separators are painful.

Swimming is still quite boring--maybe if the laps were longer.  Or if I knew more strokes.  Or if I could listen to music while I was swimming....or not.

I can say that I think I'm up to 30 minutes of swimming, now.  I'm not exactly sure when I started--the clocks in the pool were different.

Training

In this new world of posting your entire life online with no privacy to speak of, it seems that maybe things don't happen if they aren't blogged about.
So, after learning to snowboard this winter, I've decided to participate in a triathlon this year.  Actually, no, I've decided to train for a triathlon. I can train, but I don't actually have to do anything.  I don't particularly like swimming & I especially don't like running.  I guess the triathlon will be a real challenge.
Yesterday was my first day. I woke up with a sense that I could bow out--it was my first (very heavy) day of Aunt Flo (love that euphemism)--but I knew if I started with the excuses, they would continue and I be talking about this years from now.
So...Monday I joined a gym--actually an "athletic club." First time I have ever joined a gym. In my life.  I kind of felt like I was going against my very nature of simplicity and non-organized exercise.  But I also knew that if I didn't go when the spirit moved me, I never would.  So I joined.  That made the decision on Tuesday to go swimming all the stronger--I'm paying, I've got to use it.
Technically, I could train for 2/3 of a triathlon w/o a gym membership, but I'd probably flounder in the water. This gives me motivation to get in the pool & practice. In fact, I surprised myself on Tuesday & didn't even flinch when  I got in the pool.
Granted, I only swam for 15 minutes (it was my first time), but I still felt good. I was thinking of swimming today, but the lanes were full & I'm not a good enough swimmer to share a lane. At least I know that about myself.
Today I rode a stationary bike for 30 minutes.  Boring. Even more boring than swimming. I must get out of that mentally & into the zone.  Maybe tomorrow.

the mammogram

It's relatively easy to get a mammogram--especially if you have a family history of breast cancer and you are over 40. It's definitely not painless, but it's a short-lived discomfort (if you don't mind strange women doing things to your breasts that shouldn't be done to anyone but a masochist).
However, it's not easy to get the call (and it's always a neutral call--no details) asking you to come in for a follow up.
Despite the paperwork about percentage of false positives (and where did I put that??), it's more natural to panic about a positive positive.
And a hot shower didn't calm me down.
I'm trying not to be cynical, but why couldn't they tell me I had to come in right now because the radiologist has to be present and s/he is here. Instead, I have a week to worry about it.
There will be no sleep for me tonight--unless I somehow manage to forget The Call by bedtime.
Breathe, just breathe.

Underacheiver

I am an underachieving mother. I know this about me and the more I hear about other mothers, the more I know it's true.
First of all, I only have one child. When friends of mine have 2 or 3 or MORE, I know I'm an underachiever (or is that underproducer? Either way...).
When I listen to the elaborate parties some mothers throw for their children: tea parties, scavenger hunts, art, etc.--or all of the above (one friend is throwing a dance party/tie-dye/scavenger hunt for her 8 yr old)--I know I'm not even in the running.
For my daughter's sixth birthday, I said, "Play outside, the sun is shining," and went inside before the other moms had even left. Ooops!
I went back outside, watched the moms leave, then I went inside. Screaming, chasing, running--it was all good--and unplanned by me.
Goodie bags? The bane of my existence--getting them or giving them. Junk and more junk. My daughter was determined to give out goodie bags. We bought plain white lunch bags, which she decorated. Then, she gave each child a different colored sharpie and a bag full of smarties. Everyone got a balloon. Yay. But still...
I thought when I was pregnant I would create a quilt for my child so that s/he would have it forever. I never even bought a sewing machine.
When it came time to choose a preschool, I chose the one that we could walk to. Does it produce Harvard grads? I don't know and I don't care. Can kids read when they graduate? Again, I don't know and I don't care--it's preschool! Do the kids sit quietly in rows and practice their letters? I hope not!
Was she happy there? Yes. That makes me happy. I know I chose the right place.
I would love to be crafty--the best I can do is put holes in an old sock and call it a doll's dress.
My daughter has taken gymnastics for a year and still can't do a cartwheel. It's okay, she's having fun.
She was done with ice skating lessons after one session.
I'm not a pushy mom, but I know I'm the lap she wants to be in when she feels bad and I'm the one to read stories at night. That's what I need to be.
Is she the fastest, smartest, anything-est girl in the neighborhood? Maybe the happiest and that's what matters.

Innocence lost

I'm a strong advocate for keeping kids kids. Seriously, why force them to grow up?
But when my daughter asks about babies, I just can't lie or sugarcoat it or anything. It is what it is--this is how babies are made. Yet, when she asks about Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny, I lie. I hide behind platitudes and Christmas spirit thoughts.
She asks me, "Is there a Santa?"
I answer with a question,"Do you believe in Santa?"
"Yes," she says with conviction. "There has to be a Santa because how else would all the kids get toys all on the same night?"
And that should end the discussion. But if she asks me about how babies are made, I have to tell her. I have added a few details, like, you have to be married, but that came back and bit me.
She asked, "How did Aunt Alyssa have a baby if she's not married?"
Ooops!

What about the baby?

When my daughter was very small--you know, fits in a bucket, doesn't do much but eat, sleep, cry & poop--I couldn't believe how much work one little person was. The sleep deprivation, the constant concern, the paranoia, the guilt, etc. The bathing, the constant feeding, the changing of the diapers--on and on.
Well, I miss those days. I miss the baby. I miss dressing her in whatever was clean. Breastfeeding meant no choices in food, but that was okay because it was good. I could spend the evening just watching her sleep because she was so amazing.
Now I have a five-year-old who sasses, who refuses to eat, who is particular about her clothing and hates to take baths. She just wants to be with me when I want to be alone and she constantly wants to play with the neighbor when I want to spend some quality time with her.
I miss the baby.
But the baby never told me she loved me. The baby never had an opinion. The baby couldn't tell me about her day at school.
I miss the baby, but I love my child: I love watching her learn. I love her intelligent questions out of nowhere. I just love her and I know that she will do the same stupid things that all kids do and there's nothing I can do to stop it, even though I know what will happen.
Why can't they learn from our mistakes?

Church and the emotional Mom

I went to church for the third time since my marriage. Each time has been for a funeral. I have tried very hard to block out the automatic responses to the priest, but sometimes I just blurt them out.
I have also broken two cardinal rules: never go out without a tissue and definitely don't go to a funeral alone. I spent most of the time at the funeral trying not to cry because I would have had to wipe my drippy eyes and runny nose on my coat sleeve and grossed out everyone else who wasn't paying attention.
Curiously, though, if it weren't for all the standing and sitting and blabbing by the priest, the funeral was kind of meditative and relaxing, once I got the weeping under control. In fact, if it were in Latin, I might have enjoyed it better.
Near the end of the funeral, I was relieved that they hadn't sang Amazing Grace because then I definately would have bawled, not just wept. Instead, everyone sang The Star Spangled Banner. It seems, no matter how angry I am at current political policies or particular politicians, my country's song can still bring tears to my eyes.
And that was the end of the meditative moment.