My big writing goal for the summer was to complete the first draft of the sequel to my early middle grade book. I'm an early-morning-writer, and that habit has mostly stuck this summer. But I'm also a during-soccer-practice writer and coffee-shop-writer in the hours or minutes in which I can squeeze writing.
But I realize summer is not the time to be productive. Summer is a season where I really need to put the tasking and self-imposed deadlines on the shelf a little and just BE. I'm not going to un-stick myself from this summer's writing goal, because although I'm not writing the chapter a day I was earlier in the month, I'm writing a few pages a day. I'm furthering my book, little by little. Any forward movement is good. I'll be fine.
There's just too much fun to be had in the summer to chain myself to my desk right now! The weather is fantastic, my best friend and her son are in town, and the mountains are calling my name to go hike and swim and explore.
And that's why I've got to keep this short. Because I want to still write every day, even if it's just a few paragraphs--do these even count as paragraphs? sure, it's summer, let's count them as paragraphs--but I want to be with my people and in this place more than normal.
Tuesday, July 25, 2017
Tuesday, July 11, 2017
Summer Nanny
I hired a summer nanny.
I do not have a full-time, paying job. However, I am a
full-time mother of three and am trying really hard to spend 20 hours a week
writing. I’ve got a few published essays under my belt, but my half-dozen
picture book manuscripts are aging on a shelf while I actively search for an
agent with my completed early middle grade novel. Plus, I’m five chapters into its
sequel.
Oh, and I’m training for a half marathon and go to Crossfit
on my non-running days. Does that count as justification for a full-time summer
nanny? I think it does.
In summers past, I work hard to prevent that infamous summer
slide. Right now my children are ten, eight, and six, so in years past they’ve
(obviously) been younger and needier. I’ve worked hard to keep my kids moving and
thinking and engaged in all their various interests. We’ve gone on field trips,
hikes, long excursions to museums and historical places, and sampled all the
ice cream shops within a fifty mile radius.
But the summer slide is real in my own life. All of the
workout gains I’ve achieved during the fall, winter, and spring gradually fade
as I get to the gym less and run significantly fewer miles. My husband and I
constantly argue about how much I need to work out, versus how much I should,
and want to. As if there is an answer. As if I should have to defend my hour a
day of sweat in order to stay mentally sane and physically fit. But that’s a
slice for another day.
And, more important, my writing gets stuffed into the very
first hour of the day, before anyone else wakes up. This has always been and
remains my most productive writing hour, and I grasp onto it with sharp elbows
and scowls if you dare interrupt me. But any other writing is counted in
minutes, squeezed into the time my kids are watching TV, they’re occupied by
themselves (this never lasts) or in the evenings after they’re asleep, during
our “couple time.” Which I know is important, but sometimes it’s hard to be
present and happy when I’ve not given myself the other time during the day that
I need.
Enter Nikki. She’s our summer nanny. We all love her. My
husband’s job allows her to be with one or two or all of my children when
they’re not in camp, and she drives them around to help me with the different
pick-ups and drop-offs and play-dates and practices. It is a win-win situation.
No, actually it’s a win-win-win-win-win-win situation because my husband gets a
wife who is—for the most part—present and not completely frazzled at the end of
the day. Sometimes, I’m even showered. Nikki is earning a big chunk of change to augment her Catholic schoolteacher salary.
And my children only get dragged to half the things they usually get dragged
to, which means more hours of play with the neighbors and painting rocks and
walking their dog.
Whenever that inevitable mommy guilt threatens to creep up
and rain on my gratitude towards this happy summer arrangement, I remember the
facts: In one week, my kids are awake for about 100 hours each week. Nikki is
with us for 40. I’m still doing my share. I’m doing enough.
But I’ve got to go. Chapter six of my book needs to be
written, and I have just two more kid-free hours and a whole lot of work to do.
Tuesday, July 4, 2017
Marathon Mama
In Spring 2007, I received the good news that I won the lottery--I got into the New York City Marathon. At that point, I'd run four or five marathons before and knew a) what I was getting myself into and b) this race would be different from the others. Why? Because when I received my entry confirmation, I was still pregnant with my first child, who was due in early May.
I was a first time mom, so there were few things I knew for certain at that point. But I was certain that I would not be pregnant forever. I was naive enough to be certain that I would be able to start training for the November race about a month after giving birth, although now I'm wise enough to know that I was lucky not to have complications to prevent this plan from happening.
But that is, indeed, what happened. I gave birth to daughter Lorelei the second week of May, and started to count down the days until marathon training. When I got the go-ahead from my doctor, I began the humbling journey back to fitness by way of marathon training, which is always taxing. But in addition to marathon training, I was also adjusting to sleepless nights, nursing a child, and being responsible for this little being. I did fine on both accounts, but my marathon training was hardly rigorous. Because of the hot Virginia summers and my crazy-first-mom habit of never leaving my child, I did a whole lot of runs--including long runs!--on our treadmill.
The New York City Marathon fell almost exactly six months after her birth. And so, a few days before the race, Lorelei, my husband, and I hopped a train from Washington, D.C., to New York City. We attended the race expo, saw a few sights, and tucked ourselves in early in the city that never sleeps. The start of this marathon was miles and miles from downtown--I couldn't tell you exactly where because I'm not a New Yorker and I don't know New York well, facts that come into play a little later. Because of that, we runners had to take buses to the start. We arrived at this staging area, on average, two hours before the actual start of the race.
Did I mention I was nursing Lorelei? As she was my first, I was following all the baby books verbatim and hadn't introduced any solids to her yet. I figured I'd get to that as soon as we got home from this little trip. Did I mention that because I stayed home with her, I never pumped and gave her a bottle? Letting her latch on and eat was a million times easier and faster.
But on this morning, I had provided breast milk in bottles for my husband and wished him luck. Later, I would see the pictures of a very unhappy and very hungry Lorelei sitting, crying on the bed. Those bottles I left him never got touched.
And, worse news for little Lorelei: this was not my fastest marathon. My lack of serious training, the hills of the race made those 26.2 miles horribly longer than the other marathons I'd run up to that point. I couldn't figure out what borough I was in, but I didn't really care. I probably should have stopped, especially when I passed my husband and baby on the course around mile 18. But I didn't stop. I continued, trudged onward with that shuffles most marathoners know well.
And I shuffled and shuffled until the finish line finally was in front of me. I was completely exhausted, but I suddenly found myself with two more challenges: First, I had to find my husband and child in the meet-up area. They were not where I expected them to be, though later we realized we were waiting just yards away from each other and kept moving to find each other. Second, my breasts suddenly realized that they hadn't nursed in nearly 12 hours and were growing harder and more painful by the second. Who knew that my body could find more ways to hurt?
Finally, we linked up. I staggered to them, and my husband tried to explain that he'd had just as hard a day as I had. I did not answer him. I pulled up my sweaty jog bra to get some relief myself and to provide some for Lorelei, right in the middle of the street. I pushed my marathon finisher's medal to my back so it wouldn't hit her and we walked towards the train station. She went from left breast to right and back again for the next hour as we walked through the streets, got in a taxi, and boarded the train towards home. Sometime along that train ride I responded to my husband's ludicrous assertion that his day had been as hard as mine.
After the birth of my other two children, I waited a while longer to run a marathon. For their sake, and for mine!
I was a first time mom, so there were few things I knew for certain at that point. But I was certain that I would not be pregnant forever. I was naive enough to be certain that I would be able to start training for the November race about a month after giving birth, although now I'm wise enough to know that I was lucky not to have complications to prevent this plan from happening.
But that is, indeed, what happened. I gave birth to daughter Lorelei the second week of May, and started to count down the days until marathon training. When I got the go-ahead from my doctor, I began the humbling journey back to fitness by way of marathon training, which is always taxing. But in addition to marathon training, I was also adjusting to sleepless nights, nursing a child, and being responsible for this little being. I did fine on both accounts, but my marathon training was hardly rigorous. Because of the hot Virginia summers and my crazy-first-mom habit of never leaving my child, I did a whole lot of runs--including long runs!--on our treadmill.
The New York City Marathon fell almost exactly six months after her birth. And so, a few days before the race, Lorelei, my husband, and I hopped a train from Washington, D.C., to New York City. We attended the race expo, saw a few sights, and tucked ourselves in early in the city that never sleeps. The start of this marathon was miles and miles from downtown--I couldn't tell you exactly where because I'm not a New Yorker and I don't know New York well, facts that come into play a little later. Because of that, we runners had to take buses to the start. We arrived at this staging area, on average, two hours before the actual start of the race.
Did I mention I was nursing Lorelei? As she was my first, I was following all the baby books verbatim and hadn't introduced any solids to her yet. I figured I'd get to that as soon as we got home from this little trip. Did I mention that because I stayed home with her, I never pumped and gave her a bottle? Letting her latch on and eat was a million times easier and faster.
But on this morning, I had provided breast milk in bottles for my husband and wished him luck. Later, I would see the pictures of a very unhappy and very hungry Lorelei sitting, crying on the bed. Those bottles I left him never got touched.
And, worse news for little Lorelei: this was not my fastest marathon. My lack of serious training, the hills of the race made those 26.2 miles horribly longer than the other marathons I'd run up to that point. I couldn't figure out what borough I was in, but I didn't really care. I probably should have stopped, especially when I passed my husband and baby on the course around mile 18. But I didn't stop. I continued, trudged onward with that shuffles most marathoners know well.
And I shuffled and shuffled until the finish line finally was in front of me. I was completely exhausted, but I suddenly found myself with two more challenges: First, I had to find my husband and child in the meet-up area. They were not where I expected them to be, though later we realized we were waiting just yards away from each other and kept moving to find each other. Second, my breasts suddenly realized that they hadn't nursed in nearly 12 hours and were growing harder and more painful by the second. Who knew that my body could find more ways to hurt?
Finally, we linked up. I staggered to them, and my husband tried to explain that he'd had just as hard a day as I had. I did not answer him. I pulled up my sweaty jog bra to get some relief myself and to provide some for Lorelei, right in the middle of the street. I pushed my marathon finisher's medal to my back so it wouldn't hit her and we walked towards the train station. She went from left breast to right and back again for the next hour as we walked through the streets, got in a taxi, and boarded the train towards home. Sometime along that train ride I responded to my husband's ludicrous assertion that his day had been as hard as mine.
After the birth of my other two children, I waited a while longer to run a marathon. For their sake, and for mine!
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