the pieces of my life

Hockey season is fully underway. Tonight was the boy’s first game of the season after a few weeks of scrimmages. Full ice for him this year, and late ice times (so far he’s had practice/games at 7:40 p.m. on Sunday nights!)

The girl had her final day of soccer today. She loves the sport and watching her play is a joy: She truly gives it her all. The New York Times recently ran an article about how hideous running photos turn out. You feel like you’re a champ, giving it your all, and the race photos show a bloated middle-aged woman who looks like she’s out for a leisurely stroll. (“Runners with two feet on the ground look as if they are walking.”) Luckily, Pie has no such woes as this. You can tell that girl is flying.

Today, as the boy was putting in his many hockey pads–an event that takes him a good 20 minutes–I said, “Hey, Dad’s the only one without a sport!”

“You don’t have a sport,” the boy told me.

“I don’t?” I said, surprised.

“What?” he asked. “You mean running? That’s not a sport.”

Last weekend I ran a half. I started keeping track of my races late in the game, but it was the 14th half marathon I’ve run since I started counting. I promised myself I wouldn’t race anymore–training took the fun out of running for me and I grew to dread speed work and intervals and all the other miserable things you need to do to train–but I had a friend who wanted to run her first half. What kind of a loser would I be if I didn’t pace her?

I was pretty pathetic out there. I had gum surgery quite recently and my mouth is hyper sensitive to cold. Tap water makes the nerves in mouth scream in agony. So I was freaked at how to hydrate when the temps were just chilly enough to turn every water station into a waterfall of ice daggers to my mouth (note to self: work on metaphors). My brillant idea was about an 1/8 of a mile before each water station, I so elegantly dug out of my pants rear pocket a tube of Orajel. I gracefully opened it while running, slathered it on my finger, shoved it in my mouth, then put the tube back into my pants. It worked enough that I didn’t hurt myself on the run and had the bonus of disguising the taste of the gel, which I don’t like. My mouth was numb, but not so numb I couldn’t yell out drill-sergeant-esque insults to my running partner, my favorite one being “You can’t cry till you cross the finish line!” Her goal, she mistakenly admitted to me in mile 10, was a 2:20 half. She did it. She probably won’t ask me to run another race with her again, but I got her across in 2:18.

And I just saw the race photos. I look like I”m walking.

I’m not sporty, my ass.

I yell, “Time for lacrosse!”

The girl runs to the car. I gather my stuff and follow her. She’s buckled into her seat.
Me: Do you have your stick?
Pie: Mmm… No.
Me: Do you have your water bottle?
Pie: Nope.
Me: Do you have your goggles?
Pie: No.
Me: What do you have?
Pie: Um, I have my snack! [She looks down and shakes her feet.] And my cleats! But they’re not tied. You need to tie them.

I sigh, tie her cleats, get her stuff.

Me: What don’t we do in lacrosse?
Pie: Cry. No crying.
Me: What if your goggles hurt?
Pie: I deal.
Me: What’s the family motto?
Pie: Suck it up.

We get to lacrosse. Coach says, “Where’s her mouth guard?”

Pie looks at me, opens her mouth, and then quickly thinks better of it and runs onto the field sans mouth guard.

She’s playing. There are no tears. And we may have a huge dental bill this afternoon.

But, apparently, there is crying in lacrosse.

The girl has been excited for lacrosse for years. She’s been begging to play lacrosse since she first saw our next door neighbor with her lacrosse equipment. There is no preschool lacrosse. I can see why. I’m not really sure why there’s kindergarten lacrosse. This is not a sport for the meek. Or the non-meek, for that matter, all those crazy balls flying, sticks waving, girls screeching.

The girl was super cute out there: When instructed to run, toss the ball out of her lacrosse stick, and then scoop the ball back into her stick, Pie would run, halt, dump the ball out, lean down, pick the ball up with her hand, stroll a little, and then place the ball in the pocket. To her credit, I was informed by a mother more in the know that we were supposed to place a ball in the pocket of the stick, lodge a pencil in to keep the ball in there, and then let it sit overnight to stretch out the netting in the pocket. So every time Pie tried to hold the ball, it would bounce off the flat non-existent pocket (a nocket, perhaps?).

The evil was those stupid goggles. She complained they hurt and when I took them off her face, she had deep red grooves on her little cheeks. But then again, so did everyone else. I tried loosening the goggles but when then they fell off her head. Stupid girls’ lacrosse. Boys lacrosse is contact, so they get to wear helmets. But girl lacrosse? Noooo. None of that contact for them! C’mon, let the girls go at each other, too! So painful goggles it is! She started crying and saying she just wanted to be with me, as my seat on the sidelines was clearly the next state over to her. Yet when I asked her if she wanted to go home, she shook her head and went back into the practice. And despite her goggle misery, she plans on returning next week.

I do suspect that the goggles weren’t the real problem. I think it was the mouthguard. Because with the mouthguard in, she couldn’t chat. I saw her taking it out a few times to say something to another player, but she’d inevitably have to put it back in before she could finish her thought. I’m sure by the end of the season she’ll have figured out a way to communicate with the mouthguard in. In the meantime, she’ll just have to rely on the family motto to get her through it: Suck it up.

Actually, it’s supposed to be “Fit Kidz,” but I can’t bring myself to do that. It’s just wrong.

Two moms at my kids’ school (Beetle is one of them!) decided to bring a before-school fitness program to the school. It’s based on the work of Dr. John J. Ratey in his book Spark: The Revolutionary New Science of Exercise and the Brain, which discusses the brain-body connection and how students do so much better after exercise (mind you, I haven’t read this book. I should, but I haven’t yet). I, of course, had to be involved. Fitness for my kids? A no brainer.

A school in a nearby town has implemented a program, and one of the trainers from there came and gave us some training. The program is actually sponsored by Reebok, and we have these official training manuals and everything (T-shirts and shoes for us trainers are coming soon!).

We had a run-through today with just the trainers and the kids of the trainers. Our class is about 35 minutes (our regular school starts at 8:15 and we can’t exactly expect the kids to be there at 7. The program starts at 7:30 and goes to 8:05, giving kids time to get their stuff and head to lockers before the first bell at 8:10). Thursday is the first full day, with all 53 kids who are signed up. My kids loved today’s program, which included warm-up with basketballs, running drills, animal relay races (seal walk, bear walk, crab walk), toilet tag, and a cool down.

All was good for us, except when Doodles’s team was the tagger in Toilet Tag. He spied that sister of his and went for her. He tagged her. She went down. Hard. I will say, in the boy’s defense, that it wasn’t malicious. I will say, in the girl’s defense that she went klonk! Luckily, the teachers and staff at our school are so great that the school nurse–whom Pie loves–came early as a “just in case.” Pie got to be her “just in case.” But one ice pack later, and Pie was fine to come back for the cool down.

The kids had a blast. They were sweaty and happy and ready to go to class when we were done.

So many benefits. Focused kids. Strong hearts. Strong bodies. But, really, that all pales in comparison to the one greatest thing. The best part of this program. The. Coolest. Thing.

I got a whistle. Me! A whistle! I’m so happy I could burst. No, I’m so happy I could whistle! I love my whistle. It’s my whistle to keep. My happiest moment today is when I got to blow my whistle!

Who knew there were so many side benefits to fitness!

I’ve been suckered. It’s 7:59 p.m. and I’ve got two incredibly sleepy children next to me. But I made the mistake earlier of saying, “Hey, the Olympic opening ceremonies are on at 7:30. If you guys want to stay up late, you can watch it.” They, of course, took me up on the offer, and we started watching.

Before we began, I said to Adam, “Did you hear about the luger?” “No,” he said. “Look it up. But don’t say anything. I don’t want it a topic of discussion.” What was I thinking? Doodles and I had a huge battle when I turned off the TV when Tom Brokaw said, “The footage you are about to see about the death of Georgian luge slider Nodar Kumaritashvili is graphic.” We had no choice but to explain to them about the accident. Pie keeps asking over and over, “So he went off the quarters?” “The course.” “So he died?” “Yes, he died.” “How did he die?”

Let me move on by saying the (male) sportscaster is interviewing snowboarder Shaun White. Me: “Man, I wish I had a head of hair like him.”
Pie: “Him? That’s a guy?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Pie: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just know.”
Pie: “Are those two people [Sean and the sportscaster] married?”
Me: “No.”

So all this is happening, and I finally say to Adam, “What time, exactly, do these opening ceremonies start? I thought it was 7:30.”

He does a little zing zing on his computer and then laughs at me. “Coverage of the opening ceremonies start at 7:30. But the opening ceremonies don’t start till 9.”

Try telling my kids, “Nevermind! I was wrong!” So instead I have two already tired kids trying their best to make it up till 9. It’s not going to happen. But they’re giving it their all, although I predict Pie will be out in about 2.73 minutes.

5. 4. 3. 2. 1. No, the ceremonies haven’t started. But Pie wins the gold medal in sleep. One down, one to go!

Many of you know that my father is, proudly, from New Jersey. Don’t go teasin’ with any of that “What exit are you?” He’ll have none of that.

But you may not know that my mother is an actual Southerner. I don’t mean Miami Beach. Plenty of people have asked me what it’s like to live in the South. And I don’t know. Because Miami and Miami Beach are not the South; they’re the East Coast. South of Orlando is the East Coast; north of Orlando is the Deep South.

My maternal grandmother and her big sister were born in Chipley, Florida, where people came from all over to see if “the Jew baby had horns.” My great-grandfather had to travel a couple of hours to Alabama to buy kosher meat to bring back for my barely-spoke English great-grandmother. My maternal grandfather (whom I called Abba) was born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee. My mother, while born in Memphis, moved before her memory even kicked in and spent all of her formative years in a suburb of New Orleans. My mom comes by the “y’all” honestly, and it doesn’t take too much riling up to get her accent out.

Let’s move to football. Once upon a time, I cared a great deal about football. Abba was a serious fan. He had season tickets for the Dolphins for as long as I could remember, and occasionally, I’d get to go see, first Bob Griese, and then Dan Marino play. Abba would travel to watch the Dolphins and he was at the ’73 Super Bowl when the Dolphins had that unforgettable year. I became interested in late high school, when it was a fun way to hang out with Abba. We could bond over the Dolphins. When I lived in Seattle, football was amazing because it was never on past my bedtime, and I had two good from-Miami Beach buddies who would, week after week, go to the sports bars with me at 10 a.m. for beer, fries, and Dolphins.

But then kids came along and I became a Dolphins fan in name only. Sure, if they’re on network TV and it’s not starting past my bedtime, I’ll watch. But I have no idea who is who. As Dave Barry once put it, at this point I’m pretty much just routing for the color. I do watch enough to know that the evil man Jimmy Buffet replaced the Dolphin’s fight song at touchdown with a stupid Landshark song, but my loyalty is pretty much a remnant of the past that shall always remain. I follow playoffs, I watch the Super Bowl, but I’m not as invested as I used to be. Perhaps one day I’ll have a good team again, my kids will be big enough I can lounge on Sundays, and I’ll be able to spend a little time caring.

Okay, this is the part where we bring everything together: Deep South mom and football. My mother knows exactly two things about football: 1) Peyton Manning, the quarterback for some team, went to Isidore Newman School in New Orleans, which is the same school she attended and 2) Peyton’s little brother, Eli, the quarterback for a different team, also went to Newman.

But suddenly my mother has found a bandwagon. And she’s jumped on it. In an e-mail last week to me and my father, she announced, “Okay, I care about the Super Bowl. Geaux Saints.”

My father had to point out that the Saints weren’t in the Super Bowl yet, and she’d have to get through a playoff game. Her response, “Oh shit. That means I have to watch two games.”

Tonight I went out and had a lovely dinner with Pie at a friend’s house (a friend who is so creative and engaged with her kids that she makes the rest of us look really, really bad. I know you read this! Stop that now!). I got home and Adam was putting Pie to bed, so I started cooking a little dinner for him (I’ll take cooking for anyone any day over putting her to bed) and I turned on the game. It was a commercial, so I called my mom.

“I just got home and it’s a commercial. What’s going on in the game so far?”

My mom replied, “Um, the Jets lost?”

“Yes, I know that. What about the Saints game. The one that’s on right now?”

Silence for a minute. “Um, I forgot. Let me go turn it on.” We hang up.

A few minutes later she calls back. “It’s not on!”

“Yes, it is. Of course it is. Put on Fox.”

“Oh. I guess it’s a commercial.”

Theoretically she’s watching the game right now. Ask her who the quarterback for the Saints is. She won’t know. He went to high school in Texas. Geaux Saints.

(photo from Miami Herald)

The only bad thing about going to Miami in January is coming home. Nothing like leaving 75 degrees for single digits.

While I did miss my family while I was gone, I discovered this amazing thing: sleep! Friday night I slept so soundly, with no elbows, knees, and feet in my sides. No requests for waters. No bad dreams. No snoring husbands. Just me and my bed. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Friday night went so well, on Saturday I treated myself to a nap. And then, while I had trouble falling asleep on Saturday night (“I need to be awake in six and a half hours! I need to be awake in six hours! I need to be awake…”), once I was out, I was completely out. This is the first marathon where I didn’t wake up every fifteen minutes thinking, “Is the alarm about to go off? I don’t want to wake everyone else up,” because this was the first of five marathons when I didn’t have three others in my bed. I could just sleep and not worry and let the alarm wake me up.

Don’t get the wrong idea. I did do a few other things than sleep, but not much. A friend came down with me, and we went out for a nice breakfast at Front Porch with Teener Tuna and her man. I spent a while at the marathon expo, collecting shwag and buying an awesome running jacket. Dinner at cousin Ollie’s, massive amounts of pasta, birthday cake for his 41st birthday, and a little hot tub action, hanging out outside in his new tub, which overlooks Biscayne Bay with amazing views of Downtown Miami. Lunch at Versailles on Sunday was incredible, despite the tiff my mother got into with the counter person when she refused to serve my very blond friend because she wasn’t Cuban (she was served). And, of course, I ran 26.2 miles.

My cousin Ollie, his sister’s husband (A), his brother (R), my friend (S), and I all ambled to downtown at 5 a.m. on Sunday. Found a parking spot easily enough and headed to the American Airlines Arena for the start. It was so clear who was a local and who wasn’t: I had on my shorts and a tank top; Ollie peeled off his long pants, but kept on his long-sleeved black Under Armor shirt. But could you blame him? I mean, it was 61 degrees at the start! Brrr!

Ollie and I kept ourselves busy with the Portapotty line, and the next thing I know, the start went off right on time at 6:15 a.m. We were way in the back, so it took us about 11 minutes to cross the start line. But boy, did those miles just melt away. The race starts going across the MacArthur Causeway, and it is the most amazing start to any race I’ve ever run. As we headed up the causeway, the Blues Brother’s “Going Back to Miami” blasted, which quickly segued in the theme from Love Boat as we passed the cruise ships all lit up, which moved into Madonna songs as we passed Millionaire’s Row. The sky was still dark with twinges of pink in the distance; the new Miami Beach fire boat tooted at us from the Bay; the billionaires on Fisher Island were forced to wait for us to pass. A beautiful site indeed.

Running along the Beach is always amazing–up Ocean Drive where Stoney and Claudia gave us the first of many shout outs (thanks, guys!!); past my high school, Beach High, which bears absolutely no resemblance to the school I went to with it’s beautiful new buildings and a law-abiding administration; past the old Publix of my youth as opposed to the new shippish Publix (that was for you, Ms. O and Teener!); down the Venetian Causeway, where my parents live and where I grew up (not the same places, by the way–and what’s up with my good old Dilido Island–known in the day as Dildo Island–becoming Di Lido Island, as if it were suddenly better than us?; Those were the days when the S in San Marino Island was usually spray painted over with a D). We saw my parents and friends and I swear, the first ten miles were the shortest miles I’ve ever run. Oliver and I agreed that instead of running a marathon, we were going to just do a warm-up run of about, oh, 13.1 miles to the starting line for a half marathon.

The bands were great, the scenery was beautiful, and I had the same urge I had last time at mile 12.8: I wish I had a camera. Two arches awaited us, the one of the left read “Half-Marathon” and the one on the right, “Marathon.” As I said to Oliver, “This is where we split the wheat from the chaff.” Okay, that’s not exactly what I said. Because I didn’t know it was “chaff.” So I said, “The wheat from the chafe.” Which was kind of right, as by then, the Body Glide had sweat right off my body.

Moving on! The road suddenly got reaaaal quiet and I felt some serious superior feelings over those folks who were running only 13.1 miles. Because in the sold-out marathon of 15,000 people, only 3,000 folk chose to do the full marathon. But Oliver and I had our own cheerleading squad and A.’s wife and R.’s wife came out twice (with signs! I love signs), Oliver’s family was out at least four times, Teener Tuna and Claudia and Stoney were out many times, and we cruised.

At mile 16, I was giving Oliver the standard pep spiel, which he was rapidly getting sick of, when a woman, Heather, nearby overheard me saying, “We’re right on pace. You’re doing great. Just stay on pace. We’ll get in easily under five. Remember, one foot in front of the other. Slow and steady finish the race,” and she asked if she could join us because she wanted to finish in under five hours and her running partner injured herself the week before, which was pretty much the death knell for Oliver. Because as much as I could tell Oliver just wanted me to shut up, she asked me to keep the talk going. Let’s think about this: One person wants me quiet; one wants me to chatter on. Which do you think I did? Oliver actually started hanging back so he wouldn’t have to hear me, but Heather was just a glutton for punishment. At one point her knee was bothering her, so I gave her the standard, “You know, you really have to pay attention to your body, and if you need to walk, then do it,” but she gave me a look, so I asked, “Or did you want me to just tell you to suck it up?” She said, “I want to hear ‘Suck it up!'” Which pretty much replaced “slow and steady” as our mantra for the rest of the race.

The only brutal part of the race was a couple of miles in the hot, hot (okay, about 74 degree) sun on the Rickenbacker Causeway. As we looped back to Brickell, we knew we were in the home stretch, and I have to say, I didn’t think the race got hard till about mile 23. That’s when my leg started spasming. But I ignored it, and we kept going. I warned everyone that the last mile is the longest, and it absolutely was. At mile 25, Oliver said to me, “Is this where we can pick it up?” and I thought, “Dear God, I’ve got nothing in my to pick up!” but I said, “Sure! This is absolutely the time,” but I was greatly relieved when he started laughing and said, “This is my pick up!”

C
oming down the home stretch was amazing. At 26 miles, Heather went for the last .2 on her own. Ollie and I had enough oomph to give it a good sprint. As we were coming down, in the next chute, were all a zillion (okay, 4,000) young kids in orange shirts who were running the last mile of their “Run for Something Better,” in which they ran 26 miles over the course of several weeks. We crossed the finish line–beating our goal, with a clock time of 4:58:18 and a chip time of 4:47:24 (I was a second behind Oliver)–and while the bodies were bruised, we both (I think) felt strong. We collected our spinning palm tree medals, and then I nearly passed out. I stretched for a while on the grass and let S. (who qualified for Boston, beating her old PR by over ten minutes!) bring me bananas and cookies while I let the blood flow back to my head.

We found A. and R., who did amazingly for their first marathons, especially given that A. hobbled the last two miles with an aching knee. I will say, if anyone is considering a marathon, I think the Miami Marathon is a fabulous, fabulous race. It’s flat. The scenery is the best. There are more Portapotties on this course than even New York (laugh if you like, but this is an important fact!). The support is amazing. Multiple gel stations. Multiple Fig Newton and banana stations. Pretzel station. Parrot Heads giving out orange leis. Sponges. School bands and cheerleaders. Rock bands. Music blasting. Did I mention the scenery? Go sign up now. You can run for half price in you register now.

And now I’m back. And the prediction for Wednesday is 3 to 6 inches of snow. And my quads ache. And I have to pick paint colors.

Better start training for the next marathon. Hawaii anyone?

It wasn’t pretty (well, actually it was gorgeous, but I’m not talking about the scenery), but we made it over the finish line. I’m hoping Ollie forgets the pain soon enough to start planning the next marathon, but I’m not hopeful. However, he made it across in under 5 hours (4:47:23, to be exact), and he can check “marathon” off his life list. And I can be happy that I finally bullied someone into running a marathon! I’ll post more about it when I’m not about to keel over.

This morning was the boy’s first day of hockey. He’s taking instructional, which covers things like basic skating, stick handling, swearing, passing, body checking, shooting, teeth replacement, and all the other necessities of hockey. It’s the first step on the long road of 5 a.m. practices, traveling teams, and hockey dads (which seem to be more prevalent here than hockey moms, sorry Sarah Palin).

Our town is a BIG hockey town. It’s got a rep for it, and I was floored when we went today and saw, seriously, about a 100 kids all decked up in their hockey uniforms. The first day is “try outs,” meaning they place kids into one of four levels, and two of the groups meet at different times (not 5 a.m., thank goodness. At least, not at the start). The orange/blue level is for kids who are primarily in their second year of instructional (which goes from age 4 to 7). The yellow/red level is for the first timers. Doodles was placed in the red level, which is the “I can skate, but I can’t do much of anything else” level. The yellow level is for those kids who were floundering about on crates. But for this first class, they stick all the kids on the ice and see what they can do. It was completely overwhelming for me, never mind the kids. Kids like Doodles were being swarmed by bigger kids who were speeding around, waving their sticks. I have to say, I got the same pangs I got that first day of kindergarten, knowing I was sending my boy out into the world of team sports. knowing there is no turning back. I got weepy watching him wait patiently to enter the ice, excited about finally starting hockey.

Of course, there’s the flip side to this. And that’s the hockey dad. I saw shades of it emanating from my bleacher bench. Right next to me. My darling husband. “Doodles! Doodles!” “What are you doing?” I asked. “Look at him! He’s holding his stick backward. He’s not a lefty; he’s a righty. Doodles. DOODLES!” Adam finally gave up, but I could see the frustration oozing from him. In some ways I think Doodles would be better off if he didn’t have a father who played hockey as a kid (and grown-up, too, until hockey broke him).

So it’s official. My baby is getting big. And he’s totally, completely, 100% a New Englander. I think I even heard him say “wah-tah,” the other day, when he was asking for a drink. As long as he still roots for the Dolphins, though, all will be good in our household.