The Post That Ends This Blog

Last week I lost a scavenger hunt.  Well, some employee at Parrot Jungle lost it for me because instead of running around the park as the organizers @Hispanicize intended, I found a well-meaning teenager who could give me the answers.  We had about twelve questions to answer and one photo to take.  The teenager answered ten, Joe the boys and I got the other two, while some dude took our picture.   We ran back in record speed to our assigned meeting place.  It was Memorial Day weekend in Miami; it was HOT and I was dripping in sweat but content to have won.  The boys were ecstatic and Joe, in all fairness, was a good sport but couldn’t care less. 

Then the other family arrived and the person in charge of our hunt reviews the answers.  It is not over until we know all the answers were correct.  They kept us in a cliff hanging suspense for about fifteen minutes while the other teams who played the game as intended returned to our base.  I overheared one of the organizers that one of the questions was incorrect and I had a feeling it was one of ours.   After all, didn’t I put all of our eggs on one teenager’s basket? And one carrying a Macaw to boot!

Picture Needed For Our Scavenger Hunt

Once again, worried about my boys losing I ask the organizer if we could get them some extra tattoos or a poster or something because they tried so hard and would be so disappointed.  He, in a very friendly and respectful way said something like “so kids must be rewarded no matter what … if they win or lose?” If he didn’t say that, he said something similar to that, or that is what I understood and my reaction was “shame on me”.  Did I not learn anything from my own post about winning and losing?  You can read it here.

And then I turn the finger on me and maybe the one who is afraid of failure is me.  Ok, not maybe … I know I am afraid of failing even if I have had many failures in my life.  But my failures in adulthood have more to do with “you win some you lose some” situations. Oh well, you can’t make it to the podium in every triathlon.  Oh well, they don’t make that car in the color I like.  These are different than venturing into unknown territory and sticking my neck out for something.  I’d rather fight where the odds are good.  I play blackjack, not roulette.  But what do I want to teach my kids?  To try hard only when there is a good chance of winning or to go all out?

I heard this poem the other day and it got me thinking:

Life should not be a journey to the grave

with the intention of arriving safely,

in an attractive and well preserved body.

But rather to skid in sideways,

body thoroughly used up,

totally worn out

screaming “woo hoo” what a ride.

In general I don’t like rides and I don’t like rollercoasters.  Give me predictability, rules and order and I tend to work well within that framework so here is one big step in venturing into unknown territory.

I want to do an Ironman.  And I want to do it on a November weekend in Panama City, Florida in 2013.  Did I really just write that?  I guess I did. 

As of today, I am totally unprepared: physically, emotionally and financially.  There are many costs that go above and beyond dollars such as the toll on my family, the toll on me, the actual riding a bike outside of my house (you can read what I am talking about here). Before I finalize the paragraph I almost talk myself out of it. But I must remember the skid.  I want not only to skid, but I want to skid sideways.  And yes, I could credit card a new bike, and credit card the race costs but the mom in me feels like those resources should go to my kids.  If I am going to follow this pipe dream, I am going to work for it.  And if I fail, my hope would be to fail epically but have my kids watch me pick myself back up.  I want to try.

And if you want to follow my journey to Panama City, Florida … come visit me at this new blog: www.triathlonmami.blogspot.com.  My journey is not just as a triathlete but as a mom, wife, teacher, Latina and all the other roles I play (and that I know you play too).  So please click now and become a follower and help me get closer to being an IronWOman (I can’t help it, my Wellesley education won’t let me leave it at Ironman). 

I am learning that if you are going to stick your neck out, then you have to work to not get it chopped off.  To get to the Ironman competition I must train.  To finance it, I must write.   To be happy in the process, I must be open to risk.  No one can do it for me.  So maybe the lesson to my kids today is that next time, to have a chance of winning the scavenger hunt, we shouldn’t rely on random teenagers but do it ourselves. 

The Loser Who Won In A Garden

My son Diego thinks he is a rock star.  Being one of the oldest children at our school has fed his rock stardom, and at six years old the kid jams a mean air guitar to his preschool audience.

So it was no surprise that he was convinced our school was going to win something big at the Fairchild Tropical Garden Challenge.  It was also no surprise that he convinced me to drive him and his brother to the awards ceremony held on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Miami.  The Fairchild Challenge is a yearlong project where each school plans, plants, maintains and uses a garden as a learning tool.  There is more to it than that, and if you are interested, you can visit them here.  Our school goes up to kindergarten, and being the eldest ones, Diego’s class led our gardening efforts.  They came up with their own country: Kind-er-landia.  It had a flag and they even had a national anthem to the tune of “we will we will rock you” which Diego helped create.

A group of us head to the awards ceremony with the spirit of rock stardom in all of us.  I too am convinced we were going to win.  After all, didn’t my prodigious son help create an anthem?  Hadn’t I invested hours both as a parent and as a teacher to that garden?  The entire school participated - we even had eighteen month olds watering the flowers. How cute is that?

We get there and the place is PACKED with hundreds of kids.  We find a space near the stairs leading to the stage.  The award ceremony starts and we get ready to inherit our rightful place on that stage except our name is not called.  I start noticing that though some individual awards are age-based, the ones Diego qualifies for are school based.  And the schools present are bigger than ours and they are ELEMENTARY schools.  That is, their eldest students are fifth graders competing with our eldest class of kindergarteners.  I am taking this personally. Who the heck do these 5^th graders think they are anyway? 

It finally dawns on me that we don’t have a chance, and after close to an hour of seeing other schools win, doubt finally enters Diego. 

“Mami, what if we don’t win?” he asks me.

“I don’t know son,” I answer.

This is my cue to scramble for some wise life lesson that my son will soon be painfully learning.  This would be his first major disappointment and I want to be ready.  I think: we learn more from failures than from victory; the joy is in the journey not the destination; the important thing is to compete and have fun.  New lessons to him – stale to me.  A consolation pizza party sounds much better.

And then comes a category that is basically the “thanks for trying really hard but you didn’t get the big prize” category.  Sixteen schools would be recognized for their effort.  It was an “A for effort” award.  In my arrogant, annoying, sometimes cruel mind I label it “the loser award.”  And of course, we are one of the schools called.

Deer in headlight Diego

The announcer says only two representatives per school are allowed on stage and Diego’s hand immediately, without hesitation, goes up.  His teacher has no choice but to let him go with an equally eager friend.  They get up there, two kindergarteners with a deer in headlight look amongst a sea of “graders” holding their glass-framed diploma.  He comes back to our group, regains control of his nerves and returns to rock stardom.  He won’t let go of the award. I bet every picture taken has Diego in it.  He is emphatically proud.

The kind word for what I feel is compassion but really I feel pity.  Here is my poor kid feeling so proud of an award that just means he participated, not that he won.  In my mind that does not make him a winner.  I don’t say anything and let him bask in the victory that at least in his own mind, exists. 

The awards ceremony ends and our name is not called again. By now it is late.  It is past dinnertime and almost bedtime. As we are getting ready to leave, a rainstorm blows through Miami. “Great.” I think, “Why on earth did we come all the way here? To lose and now to get soaked?”

Not letting go of award

Our car is parked pretty far away - we need to run through the garden to get to it.  How more miserable can this be?  We begin to run and the rain starts to get stronger.  The laughter that comes from Diego and his buddies running around this garden on a torrential storm is divine.  It comes from inside and fills me with joy.  It is pure, and innocent, and contagious.  It is so monumentally moving that I almost cry.

I realize that today I was the only loser.  Diego really is a winner.  He never stopped believing in his potential, he got up on stage to get his award, and now he was rejoicing in the rain with his brother and friends.  He really is a confident rock star.    He lives in the moment and does not doubt his achievement with the garden just as he doesn’t doubt his running in the rain.  He simply revels in it.

On the other hand, I was there complaining about getting wet, disappointed with what I labeled as a loss.  I belittled my son’s achievement because it didn’t match my expectation of what should’ve happened.  I lack humility.  He got up there, said thank you, and is celebrating in a natural, wonderful way.  I struggle with the ability to accept a compliment, a praise, or an award.  I lack the graciousness of just getting up there and enjoying the moment instead of judging it.

My son was my teacher today.  I learned I did not have to protect his ego nor coddle his upset.  He didn’t have any.  Instead he taught me how to handle mine.   In the rain I stop, I let go of judgment, listen to the squealing laughter and laugh myself. I sing and jump and splash in a puddle with them because we are happy. Because just by being present at that moment,  by letting myself be taught by a six year old, I am a rock star too.

Mami rock star in the rain

The Fast Lane On The Right

In the fast lane on the right

I quit my triathlon team about once a week.  Sometimes twice.  I have perfectly reasonable reasons to do so.  I work, I have children, I now have a blog and triathlon training takes a serious amount of time and commitment.   I have the words I will tell my coach and this is it: I am tired, I am cranky, my kids deserve better, I quit.  Except that this all happens between my ears, in my mind.  My husband will sometimes hear it but pays no attention to it.  He “hears” it but does not listen – after all, of the hundreds of times I have told him I am quitting it hasn’t happened yet.  Chances are that it won’t happen this time either.


Triathlons means I need to train in three sports: swim, bike and run.  For swim practice my team meets on Mondays and Fridays at a public pool nearby.  We are divided into lanes, and contrary to driving, the faster you are the further to the right you go.  So the fastest lane is on the right side of the pool.  I am not sure this is universal in swimming but that is how it works for us.  Somehow or another I have made it to the right lane.  I wasn’t there before – it was one of my teammates that almost literally threw me into it.  And to make matters worse, I don’t keep up with the rest of my “lane mates”.  These are fast swimmers with nicknames such as “Iron Beto”, “kicktastic Julie”, and Mickey who doesn’t even need an intimidating nickname.  She just rocks.  In true team spirit though, they push me to go faster than I have ever gone before.

Yellow cap in the middle of the pool

Every Monday, or so it seems, if I am not quitting the team I am at least getting out of the fast lane.  I go determined to move over to the left at least one lane.  I have perfectly reasonable reasons to do so: I didn’t sleep well, my cat woke me up, I did my long swim over the weekend, I don’t want to start the week feeling tired. And again, all this happens between my ears.  When I get to the pool usually right on time at 5:59am I am told “Cris, lane 1”.  I sigh. And I dutifully walk to the right lane and jump in.

My mind is a terrible neighborhood to walk around by myself.  It can take me in all kinds of directions and distort whatever I see. I think reality, much like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.  What is “real” is tainted by who sees it.  What I find appalling someone might find normal.  I thought it was appalling to eat at a table with your hands, and then I learned living in Morocco to use only my right hand when I ate exquisite meals sitting down at a fancy restaurant.  I have learned that many of the things I judge I end up doing.  I judge a parent yelling at a child, and then turn around and yell at mine.  I used to say I would never use a TV as an electronic babysitter and guess what my kids are doing right now?  I see God’s sense of humor.

I used to judge a lot more before.  I’ve grown up a little.   I used to be afraid that you didn’t think I was smart enough so I would put someone down to make me feel smarter.  Or funnier. Or wiser. You get the picture.  I didn’t realize I was doing this.  I was judging out of fear.

Triathlon training helps keep me humble.  I only compete against myself as most of my team is faster than I am in all three sports.  So when I quit my team in my head I have to look at myself.  What is it that I am afraid of?  Not keeping up? Being late for school? Feeling tired in the afternoon? Losing my patience with the boys at dinnertime? Dropping one of the many balls I juggle? 

But as soon as I get out of my head, as soon as I show up at that swimming pool on Monday morning I am gratefully no longer alone.  Something comes over me and I just focus at the task at hand and swim on Mondays, bike on Tuesdays, run on Wednesdays and so forth every day of the week.   Once I chit chat with another human being at an ungodly early hour who is probably on the same boat as I am, I no longer regret not quitting.  I realize that I am where I need to be.

I need to push myself and sometimes fail. I need to know that if too many strong swimmers show up one morning, I am the first one to be bumped to the left.  But if I get to the pool and am indeed sent to the fast lane on the right, I go there.  And if someone else judges me because I am too slow to be on the fast lane it may just be that they are too scared to try to get there themselves.

Tri2One at the pool

And so it is with life.  Woody Allen said “90% of life is just showing up.”  I am not a huge fan but I am beginning to think he was right on this one.  I just need to physically make it to where I have to be.  I have to let go of the fears, of the insecurities, of the tiredness or laziness and just go.   Because really … there is no doubt I AM going to drop the ball once in a while regardless of what I do.  It would be unrealistic and indeed arrogant to think otherwise.  So why not just show up?  That sounds easy enough.  This morning I showed up at the pool and decided to continue training.   If too many balls come down at once then I can revisit and quit again … next week.

The Censor And The Sea

"My" long swim beach

Some people enjoy long runs.  I don’t.  I enjoy long swims.  Fortunately for me I live on a beach and get to swim back and forth from ocean post to ocean post for a couple of miles each weekend.  Sometimes I swim twice in a weekend. I don’t get bored.  I hear my breath.  I look at the fish.  I search for stuff in the sea grass bed below me.  There is a sense of oneness with nature.  Of peace. Of calm.  And I love it. It is swimming that I find my voice, I work out situations, I meditate and I “write” my blog posts or at least  I come up with a story to tell. 

Today I thought about my grandmother Daisy, now 94, who has written on her journal every single day since she was fifteen years old.  When she left Cuba, her diaries where the one thing she made sure she got out.  To my knowledge she has never let anyone read them.  As she explains it, she writes events as she sees it at the moment, and at some moments she may be upset at someone and she wants to feel the liberty of writing about it.  She would feel bad if years later, someone read something they didn’t like or agree with and get upset.  She is afraid of what others might think of her given what she wrote.  But imagine, a whole lifetime is documented every single day.  World wars, civil wars, births, deaths, and family dramas all documented through the eyes of a single person.  She says she wants her diaries burned once she passes away.  I sincerely doubt anyone will let that happen.  Daisy censors herself.

I began blogging because I love writing and hadn’t done it in a long time.  I thought I wanted to get back to it and if I made a “public” commitment to writing then the chances of my keeping it up would be greater than if my stories stayed private.  Putting up the first post was interesting.  I was concerned about what someone out there would think.  I thought “I can’t write about this or that because so and so will think something or other”.  I was afraid of hurting someone and of being judged.  My husband Joe encourages me.  He wisely reminds me there will always be people out there that won’t like me or what I write regardless of what I do.  There will always be critics.  So what?  There will always be people that I don’t like nor do I like what they write.  I am also a critic:  one with nothing to hide.  I let go of much of that initial fear and while swimming I discovered a list of fun stories to share.   Mostly about how my experiences in my youth, and the many mistakes that came with it, has helped me become who I am today.  How the past shapes the future.  How I unconsciously try to either relive or run away from the past.  Deep, literary genius stuff.

So when someone who cares about me suggested I think twice about what I write I got stumped.  After all, this person pointed out, I am a teacher in a small community and still represent the school … even if in my blog.  Let’s say I write about something crazy I did in high school. We have all done at least one crazy thing in high school, but a parent at my school might read it and judge “how can someone like that be teaching children, especially at a Christian school”.  I get it.  I understand.  But I don’t like it.  As I began talking more about this I heard teachers at the public school cannot have Facebook pages, or colleges see kids Facebook pages and that influences admissions, and even employers asking for Facebook passwords from potential employees to see what is behind the private settings.  What the heck!  (notice my constraint in that exclamation!) That is crazy.  But from what I understand it really does happen. 

Now all of a sudden, that super funny story about when my sister Bia and I were backpacking in Europe during the summer of 1990 … is no longer suitable for my blog.  Or that one, or that other one, because to be on the safe side I have to stick to parenting stories.  I can’t go wrong with that.  And although I love my children more than anything, there is more to me than being a mom.  Or let’s say, the mom I am today is shaped by a whole slew of stories that someone else may deem inappropriate.  My mistakes and mishaps were mine and I learned from them.  To pretend I am a holier than thou seems fake, and if I have to be fake then I might as well write fiction.  Not that there is anything wrong with fiction, it’s just not what I wanted to do when I started my humble blog.  Or to be private and safe, I could write a journal, like my grandmother.  I could even write under a pseudonym to be private since then no one would read it at all given that most of my readers are my friends. 

So I am stuck.  Stuck because there are people out there who judge others instead of looking at themselves.  Because it is easier to see how someone is unfit to do something whether it is going to college, getting a job, or being a teacher, instead of looking at what really causes their upset.  Because someone’s moral standards might be so high that no one, at least no one who is honest with themselves and with the world, will ever be able to meet them.

And for the hour and a half that I swam this morning looking at the ocean floor I thought of tons of anecdotes and am not able to write about any of them.  Sure I will be able to write them later … I could probably figure out a politically correct way of telling the same story with less details.  Yet for today, the story that kept creeping into my thoughts as I blew bubbles underwater is the one I am writing now. This one, about the lack of a more appropriate one.

With Felipe after today's long swim

The Dork At The Airport

My beloved sister is fond of calling me a dork.   Today, I might have deserved it. 

Last week I wrote about letting go.  You can read the post here.  Synopsis: I am a teacher where my boys go to school.  My eldest Diego, will have to leave our school after kindergarten is over to attend first grade at the local public school three blocks away.  I am planning on being a strong mom inspiring confidence into my child as he braves first grade in a new, big, public school away from the small cozy one where we are now. If today is any indication of how that separation is going to go … well, it isn’t going to go very well.

Today Diego is going on a one-week vacation trip to Los Angeles, CA.  My mom is taking him to see my sister out on the west coast.  He is excited, and we have been preparing for this.  We even did a special shopping trip to Target (which to Diego is THE best thing ever).  All was going well.  I was perfectly okay with the idea of him going, expanding his horizons, experiencing new things all in a rather known environment given that he is with my mom and all.  For me, I was almost feeling guilty as I was “kinda sorta” looking forward to some quality time with my younger son, and with 50% less work in the evenings I thought I would even score some free time.  My mom raised me and I survived.  Chances are, Diego is going to survive and love the trip too.

Diego saying goodbye to Felipe who was on his
his way to school.

So much to my surprise, as Diego and I went to pick up my mom at her house to take them both to the airport, I felt a tremble in my chin and my vision became blurry.  I was holding back my tears … its one of those things I am really bad at.  Where was that strong mama bear that was going to make sure her son knew he would be fine?  I put on a happy face, played with him, hugged him and kissed him as much as I could.  He was a little anxious as well as excited so we were both clutzy and awkward.  He broke a glass candle, I almost crashed the car.  You know, the usual nervous excitement stuff.

But when we got to the airport I lost it.  The strong mama bear was nowhere to be found.  I tried, but there is this sadness that came from my stomach and in seconds made its way to my eyes and I couldn’t help the tears.  Mind you, I cry very ungracefully.  My whole face wrinkles, my mouth contorts in ways that are very unattractive and I lose total control and have no idea when the crying is going to start or stop.  At that point, my rational self has taken a hiatus and this babbling, emotional idiot takes over.  I act as if it’s the end of the world, not as if my son was given a tremendous opportunity.  I don’t want to act or think this way, but I can’t help it.  I carry all 68 pounds of him and smush him as tight as I can.  He obviously realizes that I am crying but acts brave and courageous.  He takes the role in comforting me and that makes me feel even worse.  I take a breath, pull up my sunglasses, and show him I am crying because I am excited for him and for him to have the time of his life.  That we are okay and will be here waiting for him … in 7 sleeps.  And he kisses me, tells me he loves me, grabs my mom’s hand and they walk away.  I go to my car and become inconsolable.

I know airports well.  I have said my fair share of tearful goodbyes as well as tearful hellos.  I remember at 15 moving away from Brazil and being devastated as I said goodbye to my friends who where with me until I crossed security.  I remember arriving in Boston after a long summer and jumping into the arms of my college boyfriend, so happy to be back.  I also remember running through terminals in heels and running through terminals with a double stroller.  I do know airports well.

I also know, rationally, the advice my friends are giving me.  I have given it hundreds of times to them.  My mind knows he is coming back in a week and this is something I have to do but there is something more powerful than I that is not letting me understand it.  I look at his picture, or at his bed (unmade, of course) and think about how much I miss him.  Of how I would rather have him here, whining about the rain instead of there … away from me.  I want him back now. 

Then I breathe, and I remember feelings aren’t facts, and the fact is that he is so lucky to be going, and I am so lucky that he is my son.  That I am grateful of having two healthy, happy boys and that I just need to let this swell of emotion come and go.  Instead of feeding into it with thoughts of loss, I need to watch them float away.  Cry if I need to, and stop when I can.

From the airport drop off to the school pick up of my second son I had about 1 hour.  I went home, tried to distract myself with the basic goal of taking the crying face off.  When I cry, the whole world knows.  My whole face puffs up.  My eyes get lost in this red sea of sorts and it is impossible to hide the fact that I was crying. 

At school, Felipe sees me and runs to me.  He jumps on me as usual and I hug him fiercely.  I think, maybe I can take him out for ice cream or do something special … just  the two of us on this lonely rainy Miami afternoon.  And as soon as this thought is over, he asks if his friend can come over for a play date right now.  And I say yes, even if all I want is to hold him and play with him myself.  Because my letting go process may not be gracious, and I may not be as tough and as fierce as I thought I was or would like to be.  But the process is underway and that includes sharing my boys with the world, even if it means the world can see this dork was crying.

Felipe (aka Captain America) enjoying his play date

The Bear Down The Hallway

There is a bear at my sons’ school.  It’s a mama bear but no one is afraid of her. She keeps a watchful eye over her cubs and growls if needed.  She lives and works amongst the community and is one of them.  The bear has a name.  It is Ms. Cristina.  It’s me.

Door from which Felipe's screams would emanate from!

I am a teacher at my sons’ school.  It’s one of the many blessings of my life though our first day there was a disaster.  My youngest boy was barely 2 and it was his first time at school EVER.  As any mother out there about to send her child to school for the first time, I was nervous.  I was nervous for him and for me too.  It would be my first day as head of my own classroom.  Felipe, the youngest, must have sensed the tension around me because getting out of the house was so monumentally difficult that to make a long story short my house keys ended up down the elevator shaft and he ended up with scratches on his neck from trying to rip off the car seat.  Not the best start.

I tried to get to school early and I was able to unglue Felipe from my arms to go focus on my new job.  I left him with his loving teachers, but I could hear him screaming  as I walked down the hall.  I had done this before.  Diego, my eldest had already gone through this separation torture.  I knew it would pass.  I knew this crying would end and he would grow to love his school.  But as I walked down the hallway to my classroom, about 20 feet away I could hear him screaming at the top of his lungs “maaaammmmmiiiii”.  I could hear him screaming through the closed doors … and this was not figuratively.  I could literally hear him crying all the time until he would either pass out or someone would take him outside to find iguanas.  Outside he would forget all about me in 3 seconds flat.

Felipe's first day of school EVER

Felipe’s crying pierced my gut and my heart.  I was trying to keep it together as I welcomed 15 3-year olds to their own first day of school.  For many, it was their first day of school ever and what they got was one extraordinarily compassionate teacher.  For about two months, every time I saw Felipe’s class heading my way I had to hide so that he wouldn’t see me.  Eventually I stopped hiding until he would see me, come hug me, and then go back to his line.  This routine has lasted until today, though now he is capable of tumbling me over as he runs towards me and jumps trying to grab my neck.

On the other hand, my eldest son Diego’s class was directly across the hall from mine.  If both of our doors were open, I could catch glimpses of him sucking his thumb.  Not crying, not playing, just watching from the sidelines trying to figure things out.  It was his first day at the “big school” which is what we called it during the summer before the start of the school year.  He is not a screamer.  He is not a crier.  He is my nervously brave faced one and he was doing just that.

Diego first day at big school

That first day of school the mama bear was torn between her heart and her steadfastly responsible soul.  Eventually though, things sorted themselves out, everyone fell into a routine and we have been happily going to school, the three of us together, since.

And then it happened.  I walked outside of my classroom the other day and I saw him.  I saw Diego with his cap and gown.  They were taking their graduation portraits.  “Look mami!”, he showed me excitedly.  Both were inevitable: the tears in my eyes and his graduation from kindergarten.  To us, graduating from kindergarten means changing schools.  The school ends here.  Children move on to first grade elsewhere, and to me it seems like they are going to China.

Of course, he is not going to China.  He is going to the public school three blocks away.  He knows the place and many of his future classmates. But the mama bear in me wants to keep him close, the mama bear is growling at all the things she won’t be able to do and see anymore.  It’s as if some evil poacher has taken one of her cubs captive and is selling him to the zoo in another continent.  The mama bear cannot go with him, cannot control it, and as she rages against the terrible man she becomes desperately sad at losing her cub.  And the cub looks at her with big eyes, scared and nervous but trying to be brave.  At some point, she has to surrender.  She has to stop raging and pass on peace to her cub.  She has to convey to him, as he looks at her being carried away that he is strong, that he is capable, and that his mommy loves and will be with him forever.  I want my cub with me, but I know he has to go.  Not because an evil poacher is taking him away … my evil poacher is time.  And it’s not evil … it's necessary.  I want to do what I can to raise a strong, confident, moral, responsible and capable son that knows his mom loves him.  And that implies letting go.  Calmly.

Diego graduating from Kinder

Signs are everywhere for his need and want of independence.  While Felipe still jumps on me anytime he sees me, the older Diego says hi … sometimes.  He doesn’t like me to kiss him around school.  We made a deal that I can say “hello kindergarten” as he passes by but no kissing, no PDA. 

We went to the public school after hours one day.  We walked hand in hand around and we saw the hallway where the first grade is.  His hand was shaking inside mine.  He was nervous, unsure.  The janitor let us see one of the rooms and he began to see much of the same things he knows, pictures of children he recognizes, and by the time we left nervousness was giving way to excitement.  We go to the public school as often as we can, each time he seems more comfortable with its size.  He is shinning a light on his fear and it is going away.   And I have a feeling that when the first day of school comes around, this time, I will be the one that is crying as Diego heads down the hall.  Not because I am afraid something bad is going to happen to him, on the contrary, I think he will be great!  But because this mama bear won’t be there to witness it.

The Bike In The Kitchen

My blue road bike sits nicely against a sliding glass door of our already cluttered kitchen.  Penelope’s cat food and water bowl lay between the front wheel and the pedals.  Now-a-days there is reason to believe my bike is clutter: it is rarely used and occupies space in a place where more space is needed.

It wasn’t always that way.  I bought my bike in June 2010 right before my first triathlon.  Prior to that I had been sitting on the couch for 6 years. I bought it used for $300 at Key Cycling, my local bike store. Here I was thinking I had made a “ginaourmous” (in my son’s language) investment, and little did I know what I was getting myself into.

It’s a running joke that I asked the owner, Sergio, if I could put a little basket in the front as I still did not have a regular bike to ride around the island.  Yes, I live in an island paradise where we get around on bikes, golf carts and minivans.  He said “no” in an “are you seriously asking me this?” kind of tone.  Okay.  I did not know what I was getting into.

I was terrified.  The bike seemed so light, so thin, so …. wobbly.  My feet were going to be bound to the pedals so that I could go faster, I was going to have to ride up Mount Miami (aka the William Powell Bridge linking Miami to Key Biscayne) and if I wobbled then, I would fall because my feet were going to be *gasp* bound to the pedals.  It was quite funny, in a pathetic way, the first time I rode it.  I fell three times, all of them in the middle of some major intersection where half of Key Biscayne (the half I know, of course) saw me. 

So race day came and off we went.   Nothing went wrong.  On the contrary, everything went great and I was hooked.

Since then my bike and I have been through a lot.  12 triathlons in 2 years from sprints (.5 mile swim, 10 mile bike, 3 mile run) to a half ironman (1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13 mile run).  I did it all with my blue faithful used road bike.  There were two things I loved most about training on my bike.  One was riding on a 3 mile loop we call Virginia Key in the pre-dawn hours.  There were few, if any, cars.   I felt the wind, heard the birds, and embodied the quiet.  It was perfect peace.  It was my alone time with the universe and it gave me all the energy I needed to get through the busy day ahead. I also loved riding my bike over the Powell bridge at sunrise and see how the sun would begin to light up the Miami skyline.  It was powerfully beautiful.

But my bike was always difficult.  My teammates and competitors fly by me with their $1500+, light as a feather, perfectly fitted bike.  In comparison, I am riding a heavily armored tank.  To give them credit, my teammates physical abilities are indeed stronger but I can only keep up with them for about 5 minutes.  As soon as we start heading up the Powell bridge (and that is 5 minutes into the training) I am left in the dust.  As my coach points out my bike needs to be upgraded.  I agree.  I understand but I can’t justify the expense.  Truthfully though, neither the speed nor the price tag are the reasons my bike is now clutter. 

The reason is this guy:

 

His name is Aaron Cohen.  I never met him.   He was riding on the Powell bridge, at the time I am usually there, in the pre-dawn spectacular hour I described before.  The time I enjoyed most in one of the places I found peace.  That is where he was hit by a drunken driver who then fled the scene.  Aaron died of brain injuries the next day.  This happened on a Wednesday.  Had it been a Tuesday or a Thursday, the days I ride, this could’ve been me.

There was another fatal accident on the Key Biscayne causeway a couple of years ago.  This was before I started riding.  It was another drunken hit and run of another father of two young children.

Both drivers, both hit and run drivers, live in the same building in the Key: my building.  Well mine before I got married.  The one my parents have lived in for over 20 years.  The building I go to at least once a week.

So in a weird, bizarre, self centered way, I somehow connect all this to me.  Some karma, some way of God telling me “don’t do it, riding is not safe.  You have too much to lose.”

There is this story of a man who had faith and a hurricane came.  I am sure someone can tell it better but the basic premise is this: there was a big flood and the police came around helping people evacuate.  The man told the police he was a man of faith, he would be ok.  The water rose and he sat on the second floor of his house.  A boat came to rescue him and he said, “no thanks, I am a man of faith”.  The water rose some more and he sat on the roof of his house and a helicopter came to rescue him.  He said, “no thanks, I am a man of faith”.  And he eventually drowned.  When the man got to heaven he asked God “what happened? I thought I was a good man, one of faith and you let me die”.  God answered: “I sent you a police escort, a boat, and a helicopter but you weren’t willing to listen”.

No real changes have been made to make cycling safer.  No one is really enforcing more accountability for both drivers and cyclists (because if you are from down here you are well aware of a polarized, hateful squabble between drivers and cyclists).  Cycling activists are doing all they can but change will be slow.  There is a whole lot of work to be done here.  And in the meantime, my bike is collecting dust because I promised my family I wouldn’t ride until change came and it were safer. 

So now I am a driver, and when I drive by the cyclists I look out my window and long to be there, riding.  I want to yell out “hey!  I am one of you too!  I am in a car now but I did ride once!”.  And then I look at the rear view mirror and see my two boys ages 4 and 6.  They are either singing, smiling, or more frequently fighting. But for a moment they take my breath away because the love I have for them is overpowering, so incomprehensible.  I think of the two fallen dads and their kids and my eyes fill with tears.  I don’t want to miss a second of my boy’s life and I don’t want anyone but me to be their mother.  Is riding my bike that important to me?  Is the risk really worth it?  It’s not like I have been a triathlete my whole life, and I do have a crappy bike anyways.  Then I don’t envy those cyclists on the road so much anymore because I have too much to live for.  I can find another way to exercise and I can find another way to find my peace.  And all of a sudden the bike in the kitchen turns more into a trophy, than clutter.  A sign of past challenges conquered.

I do still however, have this nagging inside of me that one day, one day, maybe I could do an Ironman triathlon.  But to do so would entail some riding.  Not just a a little riding but some serious mileage.  The Ironman distance is 2.5miles swim, 116 miles bike, 26.2 mile run.  Unfathomable right now.  But I know the impossible can become possible so who knows.

A type of moment I am not willing to miss

So today I am looking for an indoor bike trainer.  This thing that holds your own bike so you can train inside on the same bike you race.  Its one of those “if you don’t go to the mountain, the mountain comes to you” solutions.   I will be able to at least maintain what I have gained over the past two years of riding my good ole’ blue.  And if all this were to pass, my bike would no longer sit against the sliding glass door in the kitchen.  It would be nicely mounted on the trainer ready to do some spinning probably next to my boys watching TV.  And I will be grateful. 

A Martian in Connecticut

Tanya and I were the only two students in the entire Cluett dorm on a Saturday night in 1990.  Every single other student was away.  Even the internationals with nowhere to go found something to do that open weekend when boarders are allowed to go “home”.  It was us and Ms. E.  We were being disciplined … we were basically grounded.  The details are for another story, but it suffices to say it was due to an inappropriate drunken affair on a previous open weekend.

I parachuted into boarding school my senior year of high school.  I was from Brazil and was living in Morocco before showing up in Cluett Senior Hall at an all girl boarding school in what I considered “the middle of nowhere” Connecticut.  It’s ironic.  I considered Simsbury the middle of nowhere even if to many I was coming from the middle of nowhere.  Compared to the girls around me, many of whom had been friends and roommates for years, I was a three headed Martian.

I was completely unprepared for the experience.  I was rebellious.  And I got into a whole lot of trouble.  Fortunately for me, mail to Morocco where my parents still resided was very slow so by the time the letter stating I was one demerit away from being suspended arrived there and my mom called with the reprimand, it was old news and I had already worked myself out of the situation.  This all just explains the type of 17 year old I was. 

Tanya was in the dorm room next to mine and she was as crazy as I was at the time.  We had gone to her house for an open weekend, lied to her parents, got caught at a bar by a teacher,  and hit and ran with her moms car.  In short, we were in a whole heap of trouble.  The weird thing is that people who know me describe me as the nerdy one, the responsible one or the “good student”.  In my selective memory, I still think of myself like that and many times I was just that.  Other times, such as this one, it was quite a different story.

Figuring out who I was turned out to be complicated.  I did high school in three different countries where the world around my American school spoke different languages.  Fitting into boarding school, the more I think about it, was the hardest of them all.  Maybe my schoolmates did not see me as a three headed Martian.  Maybe the Martian was inside me. 

As I grow older and create my own family with my own values and making my own mistakes, I no longer feel like a Martian.  I feel like someone who can grow and change and mold and be whatever I need to be in order to make my life, and my family work at that moment.  I need to be the brave mother, the sensitive wife, the caring daughter.  I can’t be them all at the same time.  I need to change opinions because I learn, and sometimes my learning curve isn’t all that graceful.  But I know I make an honest attempt to be the best person I can be.  The person the God I believe in, wants me to be.  There are days I fall way short and someone is watching and judges me.  There are days when I totally hit the mark and my pride swells and I judge myself.  All this to say that who I really am is a moving target.

But that Saturday night in Cluett Hall, Tanya and I were sharing a bottle of vodka and talking about robberies and guys and stuff and we decided to take out a Widgi board.  We were going to call on the spirits to clear up all our doubts and teenage angst about the future.

I don’t know if it was my unconscious, my fingers or Tanya’s but that thing moved.  By golly did it move.  And when it did we both screamed and ran around and around the empty dorm screaming our heads out.  I can see it in a movie scene.  Two teenage girls in their pajamas and ponytails, running around an empty dorm with only the hall lights on.  They pass room by room, up and down the stairs, along one side of the building and round to the next.  From the outside, the evil spirit is looking in and following them, waiting for the perfect time to attack.

We ran around screaming for a while and somehow ended up hiding inside Tanya’s closet.  At this point fear and paranoia had completely taken over my already not too sober self.  As I sat uncomfortably on top of Tanya’s shoes it dawned on me.  A spirit would find me in a closet and now I was stuck with no where to run.  So in a faint and trembling voice I whisper to Tanya.

“Hey, the spirit can find us here.  It can see us through the wall”. 

She whispers back “what spirit?”

“The one that is after us?” I answer.

“You are running from a spirit?” she calls out rather loudly.

“Aren’t you?” I answer in a normal tone of voice.

“I am hiding from the robber!” and that is when both of us burst out in a belly laugh.  It was that laughter that comes from inside like a tsunami and takes over, and it is so funny and so powerful that I began to cry and she began to cry so now we are both sitting on her shoes half laughing and half crying thinking we are the best friends in the world.

But we were not. I don’t remember if it was Tanya or my other dorm mate who was expelled before the year was over.  I could check the yearbook but I am not sure where it is.  I do know that some years ago I received a notice from our school that Tanya had passed away.  I don’t know the circumstances, and I didn’t really venture to find out. 

Tanya, as many friendships I have had, come and go and change as I come and go and change.  It doesn’t make these friendships less valuable or real.  It makes them important for the time they lasted.  And for that time, for those months we were together at Cluett, Tanya knew me as well as I knew myself.

That Saturday night in Cluett was unforgettable.  It was fun and though no one else was there to share it with us, it somehow made me feel more part of a place that felt so strange.  Maybe the spirits of alumna past were indeed there, and maybe they summoned not to destroy us as in a cheap horror flick, but to welcome me, the three headed Martian, to the middle of nowhere Connecticut.

My Baby in Boston

I love my husband.  I really do.  We have this way of being with each other where we go back and forth on a subject, usually something one of us does, and how idiotic, inappropriate or genius (not) it was.  This time, it was Joe’s turn to be the genius.

It is one thing to be driving to a white Christmas in Vermont.  It is a whole ‘nother story when I am the one doing the driving with a three month old baby in the back seat sitting next to a perfectly capable husband.

Now, to put in perspective there are a couple of important details here I must let you know.   We are from Miami, so we don’t have snow.  Although I lived in the northeast for about 8 years, I did not drive a car.  And, most importantly, I was not a typical first time mom.  I took neuroticism to whole new level. 

During my pregnancy I did not have coffee, I did not have soda, I ate organic, I slept on my left side, I did prenatal yoga, and spent a fortune on both supplies and books about the supplies I just bought.  And then some more books.  I feel like I got a PhD in my 40 (well, 38) weeks of pregnancy and eventually went into early childhood education because of it.  So once my son Diego was born, my neuroticism became exponentially worse as it was combined with even more hormones and the fact that I was now RESPONSIBLE for someone.  Diego was flesh and blood … not some theoretical child I was reading about.

I realized there was no way of getting out of going to Vermont for Christmas when Diego was 3 months old so I took every precaution I could think of.  We flew to Boston instead of our usual New Jersey so the drive would be shorter.  We got in while it was light, I purchased every winter clothing item that was available and carried most of them by hand (just in case the suitcases and the baby were separated and I did not have enough warm clothes for him).  We checked and double-checked that the car rental company had car seats, which car seats, did they install it, where the installers trained or certified, did they have backward facing seats not just convertible ones.  Newborns need to be facing backwards.  I drove myself and pretty much everyone around me insane.

The plan was that my dear husband Joe would go out of the terminal in Boston, rent the car and drive back to get Diego and I so that Diego would not spend anytime in the cold.  Not only was he a newborn, he was from Miami and MY son. (Note the caps and italics to denote the extra emphasis here).

Not only that but I had seen, and I am not sure why, one episode of “I Should Not Be Alive”.   In this one of course, a family sets out to a Christmas gathering, takes a side road, a blizzard comes (did they not get the warning?), gets stuck in the snow, and no one can find them.  And, get this, the mom’s breast milk FROZE and the baby starved to death.  Awful.  Mom and dad eventually made it out alive.  This was NOT a good idea to see before our trip to Vermont. And it amped my determination that this scenario was not going to happen to my little family.

Prepared?  Definitely.  At least I was.  My dear husband …. well … not so much.

We arrive in daylight.  We get the bags from which we were not separated.  Joe leaves to get the car and I dutifully breastfeed.  And I wait. And wait.  And wait some more.  Joe was supposed to call me when he was coming back so I wait.  It gets cold every time the sliding door opens, so I put a jacket on the baby.  I move seats away from the door.  That gets too hot so I take off the jacket.  I had a lot of time to wait.  And I figure something is wrong but dismiss it.  It begins to get a little darker.  Joe does not answer the phone and so I breastfeed.  Again.

He finally appears, walking.  Not a good sign.  He preempts his next sentence with something like “remember, these things could happen to you too”.  Short story … he forgot his drivers license expired in October, and if you were paying attention we are in Christmas and it December.  He couldn’t rent a car.  Which meant I had to rent the car which meant I had to drive, in the snow, with Diego in the back and that was the equivalent of asking me to enter into a dark cave and touch a bears nose.  I could have killed him.  The mama bear in me shouts out but the clever me stays quiet.  Because a) this is a very “milkable” moment as in, you did THAT so now you need to do THIS without complaining and b) I had to keep my final goal in mind: to get baby safely to Vermont for Christmas. Right now in my neurotic mind, things weren’t looking too good.

We leave the terminal and take the bus to the car rental place.  GASP.  Diego’s face will feel a breath of freezing Boston air AND he will ride in a bus without a car seat (DOUBLE GASP).  Try to imagine how hard I was holding the poor child.  Now exaggerate it a little more and you are close to what I was doing.  Poor kids’ eyes could’ve popped out of their sockets from all that squeezing.  Alas, we arrive at the rental agency and it is still light outside but getting darker.  It gets dark early in winter.  That alone made the urgency of renting a car and getting out of there a priority. 

I, contrary to Joe, do have a valid drivers license … lucky me … and they rent us a car.  While we wait for the paperwork, changing of the reservation, putting in my information, etc… it got hot in there so I took off the 10+ layers the baby had on.  And I breastfeed.  When we receive the car, I bundle him up again with 10+ layers to get to the car only to find that it had indeed a car seat but it was facing forward and my baby was NOT going to be facing forward.  Back to the agency, back to unbundling, and back to waiting another while until someone comes to reinstall it (because, at this point, the only one that installed a baby seat worthy of my child’s tushy was the local fireman as I didn’t trust anyone else to do it).  I check and double-check the installation.  It looks dubious.  Anything concerning my son at this point is dubious.  I am neurotic remember?  But I took a deep breath and prayed that God would spear him some awful fate if I crashed the car, and spared me the associated guilt.

And just in case, because it was a three hour drive or so, I breastfeed so we wouldn’t have to stop on the side of the road and a mass murderer would attack us and hurt my precious child.  We place baby in the now backward facing seat, I tell Joe to sit next to him in the back (because somehow that would provide an extra layer of protection for Diego), and as soon as we are about to pull out we hear a massive explosion coming out of our child.

This was not an ordinary poop.  I fed him so much that his poop was everywhere.  One of those poops (and if you are a parent you know what I am talking about) that reach from the neck to the toes and all you can do is undress baby completely. GASP.  The cold!  My child was going to be exposed as I cleaned the seemingly thousands of folds on his legs to make sure no rash would ensue.

When that ordeal is done it is night.  And dark.  We had arrived in Boston at least 4 hours prior and still had not managed to get out of the parking lot.  I would be driving, Diego probably had caught pneumonia, and my husband was smart enough to dutifully respond “yes dear” because in my mind this was all HIS fault!  Well, actually, in my mind and in reality … this was all his fault.

As soon as we are driving out of the parking lot, after checking and double-checking seatbelts, bottles, seat adjustments, mirrors everything …. before we are out of the gate of the rental car agency … I kid you not (no pun intended) … the check engine light goes on in the car.  We need to get another one, we need to take all the bags out, reinstall the rear facing car seat, and change the paperwork.

I look to the back, I see Joe with his hand on Diego and tell him the good news.  And I laugh, because I realize I could not make this story up even if I wanted to.  Because family history is made of stories like these; and I can see myself as a grandma telling my grandchild “did I ever tell you the story when your grandfather forgot his license was expired?”  I laugh because I love Joe.  Because stuff like this happens and we can both take it in stride. And for the next 4 hours, as I drive like an old lady from Boston to Brattleboro, there is a familiar banter between us.  He teases me because I am indeed driving below the speed limit, I tease him because if he were “all that” he would be the one driving.

Two Minutes on Cristina & Kony 2012

SIDENOTE:  I put "two minutes" because I have spent very little time thinking about this.  I thought that writing how I felt about the whole Kony 2012 thing would help me understand how I FEEL about it.  So this is not a well thought out, articulate opinion piece.  They are just my thoughts, and truthfully, I would rather stick to storytelling ... but I am happy that I am putting another post on my blog!

Two Minutes on Cristina & Kony 2012

I was one of the millions of people who watched the Kony 2012 video on Facebook, cried, and shared it on my profile.  If you have no idea of what I am talking about, you can see the video here.

I was not going to buy the kit, I didn’t quite understand or believe that by a specific date in April Kony will somehow be brought to justice, nor did it activate me into action.  But I related to it at several levels.  The first and most obvious was as a mom of two boys ages 4 and 6.  Having them taken away from me at night and the things they would have to go through is truly heart-wrenching.  That was enough to press click on the share button.

On a second level, as a “gringa” who lived abroad for 22 years and began a nonprofit (more on that later, I guess) I could relate to seeing things that you think “how can this be?” and feeling moved to do something about it.  And finally, I stayed in-country long enough to be highly annoyed by world bank Harvard types (sorry guys) who made funding conditional to their solutions even if local people didn't think they were solving the real problem.   Gross generalization … I know.

I half read the critiques about how the organization that did the video, Invisible Children, was shady on their finances.  Of how the guy who did the video ended up on drugs and half naked on the street.  Of how sharing a video and buying a wrist band does not solve a problem but that there are people who have dedicated years of theirs lives to solving them.  Yes, I get it.  But I felt differently.

My reaction was “so instead of focusing on what the movie is saying, we are focusing on its production”.  We are calling into question those who at least did what they thought was the right thing to do. 

Like I said, I was not moved to action.  In part, because I think I am at a point in my life that my action-capacity is limited and I am a “go big or go home” kind of girl.  But if I am truly honest with myself, I was a little envious.  When I was working in Chile, starting a nonprofit from my savings and working day and night to get funding … I would have loved to have a movie like this.  I would drool over the opportunity of making my cause so well known.  Because whether you believe in my solution to the problem or not, now you know there is a problem.  I cannot be so arrogant as to think there is only one possible solution to fix this and that solution is my own.  So it might make things more difficult for a little bit, the field may get cloudier for a while, my position as “expert” on my issue may be threatened by some young kids in the US who think they can save the world.  But eventually everyone who is serious about the issue will be talking and organizing and with a lot more support because millions of people now know the problem.  In this case who Joseph Kony is.

And I am sorry.  I just can’t see how that is a bad thing.

Here I Am In A Blog

I can't believe I am doing this.  As if I had the time or the energy.  When my new years resolution was to read more of what other people wrote, not to write.  But yet here I am, in a blog and unsure of what to write next.

My parameters are: better late than never - better done than perfect - better "on paper" than in my head.  So here I am in a blog.

I was inspired by my new years resolution of being more "literate".  I began listening to podcasts as I cooked dinner or as I drove to and from my morning triathlon practice.  One of my favorites is The Moth, where storytellers tell a story.  My second favorite is, oddly enough, The Story with Dick Gordon. And finally TedTalks.  So here I am in a blog trying to figure out which story to tell first.

I sit on "my" computer (in quotations because my husband takes it over at times only for me to find his facebook logged in *sigh*) in my bedroom, surrounded by both literature and clutter as I hear the appalling sound of Lego Batman Wii coming from the living room.  Its been years since I even  made a new years resolution and I should have known better.  The idea was to listen to a podcast, or read a page of something, at least once a day, and by the end of January I had already failed.  So the chances of me keeping up with this blog are stacked against me.  But you know what? Stranger things have happened.  I have surprised even myself a thousand times in hundreds of ways so why not? So here I am in a blog and kind of looking forward to discover what comes next.