January 24, 2012

We are all Athletes

By Susan

An article of mine is published in the current edition (January/February 2012) of IMPACT Magazine.  Check it out on newstands now!!

It looks like this:  Get On Board the Athlete Train – Impact Magazine. 

It goes like this…

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Every January — after the holiday season chocolate-induced haze clears — I find myself thinking about fitness resolutions. I hold an impromptu AGM with myself, usually over teeth brushing, to ponder my options. Eventually a series of fitness-related goals emerge.

This year, it’s doing a leg of an ultra-marathon, completing the home workout program P90X-2, three days a week of weightlifting.  Oh, and eat more fish. Then there’s my recurring goal. The one where I hope, against all odds and precedent, that this will be the year of the unassisted pull-up. Goals like these keep me focused. They set a course for another year of breathtaking, sweeping — and completely imaginary — personal sports glory.

Having personal fitness goals releases the inner athlete, the competitor. They put the sport back in our, well, sports. We regular Joes need that. What we lack in performance clauses and the lure of the Wheaties’ box endorsement we make up for in the list of promises we make to ourselves.  That list of promises is like cranking up Eye of the Tiger and announcing Game On!      

Do we get to call ourselves athletes, us coachless everyday hacks? I vote for a resounding yes.

With Olympians and champions inspiring us from the headlines, sometimes it’s easier to see what we are not. We are not elite. We don’t have a stadium of adoring fans (unless you count our partners and kids, and even they sometimes think we’re a little nuts). We don’t win races. But here’s the thing. We keep showing up and getting in the way.    

You do an Ironman. You win an Olympic medal. You compete for the Stanley Cup. It’s clear you are an athlete. But you run a personal best 10K? Let’s declare you an athlete, too. Actually, you run your worst 10K. You run 1K. You fall down. It doesn’t matter.

You do burpees and squats in your basement every morning. You are an athlete.

 You play basketball in a rec league.   Athlete. 

You play darts with your buddies at the pub every Friday.  Uh, let’s not push it. 

You decide – inspired by the upcoming summer Olympics – to finally take up trampolining.  You, my friend, are in.  I checked with the judges; bum wars count.

Bum war. Crack the egg. Whatever.

Without going all Webster, the key to being an athlete is the regular practice some form of physical activity and the constant strive to improve.  Sticking your triple-flip dismount from the tramp is not required. You simply pick your activity, and then you self-declare.    

Ask around what drives the everyday athlete, and the answers are many. “Endorphins.  I want to look good on the beach. If the apocalypse hit, I want to know I could run all night through the forest to save my family. I am done with sloth and the nagging sense of regret. Wow, look, my pants fit.”   Frankly, it doesn’t matter where it comes from.  It just matters that it’s there.

I met a woman years ago at a triathlon. She was 74. I knew this from the number painted on her calf. She side-stroked the open water swim wearing a flower-patterned rubber swim cap.  She rode a fat-tired mountain bike along the highway. She ran/walked the 10K wearing a sun bonnet with a chin strap. She came in last. But I’ve rarely seen such adoring fans as when she crossed the finished line. She was like Paul McCartney trying to get through Heathrow airport. After the race, I approached her and told her what an inspiration she was. When I asked how long she’d being doing triathlons, she said, “A few years now. It started when I learned how to swim when I was 67.” Tell me this woman is not an athlete. 

In the end, being an athlete is a personal mindset that’s up for the choosing. Your goal doesn’t have to be a triathlon or making the local Scottish Log Tossing Finals.  But you have to commit to something. Then comes the fun part: you get to follow through.

So choose a sport, an activity, or a bunch of them. Grab your bike. Your running shoes. Some dumb bells. Whatever. Then set some goals. Get wild with them.  Challenge yourself to improve, even just a little, every day. Once you do that, your own personal sports competition has begun. Order a team track suit.  Prepare for random drug testing.  Then limber up and settle into the starter blocks.  

Competitors, on your marks . . .

 

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December 13, 2011

10,252 Cookies

By Susan

The Christmas season is extra busy in our household.  Between all the regular madness, both our daughters have late-December birthdays.  So I look for every opportunity to maximize efficiency.  

Enter: the Cookie Walk.

The Cookie Walk is a new concept for me.  Think cookie exchange.  Except you don’t do or bring any baking.  You just show up at a local church where other people have done a mountain-load of Christmas baking.  You bring $20 and get a plastic box with a lid like you see in the grocery store.  Then you proceed to stuff as many cookies as possible into the box, while several hundred other people are trying to do the same.   The only rule is that the lid has to be able to snap shut when you’re done.  They seal it with packing tape as you leave so you can’t sneak back in and get more. 

It’s the perfect blend of my penchant for competitive sports and my love of Christmas baking. 

My mom told me we should get there early.  The Cookie Walk – held at my parents’ church – is apparently very popular.  Last year all the cookies were gone in 45 minutes.  I couldn’t quite imagine an early morning line up at a church fund-raiser.  But Isabelle and I took the advice to heart and got there at 9:30 a.m. (doors opened at 10:00).  Boy, am I glad we did.    

These are serious competitors

My competitive instincts immediately set in.  I envisioned a stampede of plastic glove-wearing senior citizens running wildly to the tables of cookies the second the door to the church hall opened.  Rookies like us may be in trouble. I needed a plan.           

We began to chat with the lady in line behind us.  Let’s call her Paula.  Paula, it turned out, had been coming to the event for years.  I probed for details.  How many cookies are in there?  Do people throw elbows? Should I fear for the safety of my five-year old?

“It’s about strategy,” Paula told us seriously.  “If there’s a particular kind of cookie you like, find them first.  Don’t oooh and ahhh at the selection.  Hone in on what you want.  Then take lots.”

Good, I nodded.  This is good. 

Paula went on to tell us that she comes to the Cookie Walk every year.   She gets a tonne of cookies and squares, which she then packs up into care packages and sends to her grown children who live in various provinces.  They think it’s her own baking.

“Like they’d ever know,”  said Paula, with a laugh.     

As we waited, one of the organizers – let’s call her Marge - stopped by to say hello to Paula.   

“We have a lot of cookies this year,” Marge said proudly.  ”10,252 of them to be exact.” 

That fact that she knew the exact number of cookies impressed me.  These were my people.   Paula inquired to Marge about the location of the iced gingerbread men.  Marge went into the main hall to check.  When she came out, she spoke in a whisper.

“There’s not many.  I can only see one tray.  They’re on the back table, toward the left.”  

Marge was Paula’s mole - her gingerbread man mole.     

At 9:57, I warned Isabelle that it was almost time.  I got down on my knees and took my daughter by the shoulders. 

“We’re going to move quickly,” I said.  “So stick together.”  Isabelle looked at me wide-eyed.  

“If you see cookies you like, just take some,” I continued.  ”Don’t dilly-dally.”  Isabelle nodded. 

“And not too much shortbread.  Go for ones with icing and sprinkles.  And chocolate chips.  DO YOU HEAR ME, CHILD? THE ONES WITH CHOCOLATE CHIPS!” 

Isabelle and I did some trunk rotations and lunges to get the blood pumping.  The last thing we needed was a pulled hamstring.  We had senior citizens to outwit and out run.   At 10:00 a.m. precisely the line started moving.  As we entered the hall, we got our boxes and plastic gloves.  The crowd scattered.  It was game on. 

We went to work.  We blocked and pivoted around aggressive old people.  I sent Isabelle in first at times, seeing that people were taken by her cute charm.  With laser focus and nimble footwork we filled those containers. 

"FILL IT TO THE CORNERS! DO YOU HEAR ME?" someone may have hollered to her child.

At 10:24 a.m. we emerged from the church hall.  I was sweating lightly but feeling good.  Our two boxes were sealed with very few air pockets.  We got a nod of approval from the elderly packing-tape-cookie-box sealer at the exit. 

Not bad for a couple of rookies.

As for Paula, we didn’t see her again to inquire how she fared.  She was last seen standing her ground at the gingerbread men. 

But something tells me she did just fine.

10 comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Life As It Happens, What Goes in the Pie-Hole

November 20, 2011

Not all who run in circles are lost

By Susan

A few weeks ago on a mini-vacation with my husband in Arizona, I did some early morning running.

They say running is a great way to get a feel for a new place.  However, with my terrible sense of direction, I don’t do it often.  When I’m out-of-town for business I usually opt for the hotel gym (which means – with most of the places I’ve travelled for work in the last few years - a crappy old treadmill in a closet).      

But this was Arizona, and so for my morning workouts I ventured outside. 

I have run in worse places

I typically run out and back when in an unfamiliar neighbourhood.  They say this is smart.  It means, in theory, I can get myself back to my starting point no problem.  It minimizes the chances of ending up lost in a back alley face-to-face with a street gang.  And having to employ self-defensive Ninja moves.  Or break into a dance sequence from Thriller, which is likely to wow my potential assailants with a different kind of fear.

This particular Sunday in the outskirts of Phoenix, however, I employed an alternate strategy. I decided to run in a loop. 

This was a loop we had driven several times the day before going to and from my husband’s mountain bike race.  It started from the hotel.  It went out along the highway for a bit.  It then turned up a hill into a suburban area heading toward the nearby mountains.  At Saguaro Boulevard, a left turn would bring me back down the hill to the highway.  Its map image was firmly entrenched in my mind.  It felt like about an 8 km circle.  I figured I’d be back in about 45 minutes.   

Let me put it this way.  At 45 minutes into the run, I was not back. 

At 45 minutes, I was ready to be filling my coffee mug and loading the waffle-maker at the Comfort Inn breakfast bar.  However, I was not even at the second turn-off, which – according to the laser precision of my mental geographic planning – would bring me to the down-hill home stretch.  At 45 minutes, I was still chugging up hill.  I was wishing I’d eaten something before leaving the hotel.  I was starting to fantasize about water.          

I had two options.  I could turn around and run back.  A guaranteed 45 more minutes.  Or I could plug on, in hopes that Saguaro Boulevard was just around the next bend. 

I went for plug on.  This was not the greatest decision I’ve ever made. 

I was not technically lost.  I knew the turn was there.  I had just grossly misjudged the distance.  It was simply a much bigger circle than I figured. 

As I ran on, the agony chorus of my hip flexors kicked in.  I found my inner-monologue ranging between two camps.  The first camp was the one of ”What was I thinking?  I can’t do this.”  The second camp…”Relax. You’ve got this.  Just run.” 

On I plugged.

Eventually the turn came.  As did the down-hill stretch.  I found my way back to the Comfort Inn on the highway and the blessed end of the loop.  There were no street gangs.  No attempts at smoke screening to assist an FBI-led search party.  I just kept running – thirsty, hungry and sore - for like an hour longer than I’d expected.     

There’s a lot of basic running lessons in this tale.  Always double-check your route.  Tell someone where you’re going.  Bring water.  Bring a cell phone.  Uh, run out and back when in an unfamiliar place.  

I think there’s some life lessons too.    Like sometimes you end up in tough situations that you weren’t anticipating.  Sometimes you’re on your own and you’ve gotta figure your own way home.  Sometimes it’s your fault you got yourself in a situation in the first place.  Sometimes the circle is plain-old bigger than you thought. 

And sometimes when you think you can’t, it turns out you can.  You just keep moving forward. Because you can’t just stop in the middle of nowhere and give up.  Because people are expecting you.  And because – perhaps most importantly - the breakfast bar closes at 9:00.

9 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures

October 31, 2011

Sometimes I Eat Dinner at Zellers

By Susan

There are two emotional states that can assist one greatly in the epic journey of parenting.  

Patience.  And its quiet second cousin, surrender.  

I’m not particularly good at either.

Patience is required those times you want to scream to the hills when your children won’t do what you want.  But you don’t.  Instead you steep in your sky-rocketing blood pressure.   You sigh heavily.  You curse silently (or at least very quietly).    

Surrender follows.  Surrender is when you find yourself doing things that shatter all you know to be true about yourself. 

Take last Friday night.

My husband was away for the weekend.  I was geared up for a weekend of single-parenting.  After a busy few weeks of work, I was looking forward to some uninterrupted time with my daughters.   

I picked the girls up after work.  We did a quick run to Zellers to get a few essentials, as we often do.  What followed was the usual series of events when we go shopping.  You know, me insisting that we ‘stick together’ and the kids ignoring me. The kids running around like banshees with those seemed-like-a-fun-idea-at-first little shopping baskets on wheels.  Me saying ”we’re not buying that” every 35 seconds. 

This particular day also involved the newly (and questionably) potty-trained two-year old announcing every three minutes  “I need to go poo.”

With every announcement, we abandoned our baskets and made the approximately one-kilometre dash to the washroom on the other side of the store – at the back of the cafeteria.  The two-year old then wandered in and out of every bathroom stall  – pants down – trying to decide which one to use.  Every attempt to help or hurry her resulted in screams of ”I CAN DO DIS ON MYSELF!!!!”   So I just stood, tight-lipped, and observed.  For like seven minutes. 

Patience. 

Other people came in and out of the bathroom.  They instinctively furrowed their proverbial brows at my bare-assed daughter.  I fake-smiled and nodded.  This is my child. 

Surrender. 

It didn’t stop there.  On the third trip out of the cafeteria washroom (and still no poo), the five-year old made an inquiry.  

“Can we eat dinner at this restaurant?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s 4:30.  And you don’t eat dinner at Zellers.”

“Why?”

“You just don’t”

“But why not?”

“Just because.”

“But it’s a restaurant.  I’m hungry.  Pleeeeaaaaase.”

My blood pressure began to rise.  Deep breathing started.  We’d been in the store for 20 minutes and all we’d done is go the washroom 47 times.  Can we not, I begged to any higher being on duty, just buy our paper towels and milk and leave?  

Apparently not.

I stood in silence for a second.  Thinking.  What tone did I want to set for the weekend ahead? 

Patience.   

By the time I navigate through this war zone - I found myself thinking – including three more poo-attempts, and get home, it will be dinner time. Why not eat dinner at Zellers?  Why not again? 

Surrender.

“Excuse me,” I said to the waiter.  “Could we get a table for three?”

My understanding of myself shattered again. 

My name is Susan.  

I let my daughter run around in public restrooms with her pants down. 

And sometimes I eat dinner at Zellers.

5 comments   |  tags: , , , , , | posted in Things I Tell My Kids

October 14, 2011

Emilio Estevez Counts

By Susan

There are a lot of things to love about New York City.  Every day is a glorious assault to the senses.  Everyone’s stories of that city, I imagine, go deep and wide.

The possibilities are endless

So when I met my old university friends Martha* and Marianne* there last weekend in honour of Martha’s recent 40th birthday, things could have gone in many directions.  I hadn’t seen these girls in years.  In between our collective list of must-do’s in the Big Apple, there was a lot of catching up to do. 

Two of my New York must-dos came together nicely on the Friday night: 1) eating a fabulous meal at a fabulous restaurant; and b) spotting a real, live famous person. 

We had just finished the chef’s menu five-course dinner at Maze by Gordon Ramsay.  It was almost midnight.  I may or may not have been tipsy.  Because I may or may not have had a cocktail and two glasses of wine over dinner.  That’s three drinks, people.  I am that wild.  

I was heading back to our table from the ladies’ room.  I walked right passed him.  He was standing at the entrance waiting to be seated.  Just like a normal person would.   

“Emilio Esteves is in the house,” I whispered, as I slid back into our booth.

“Shut up.  Where?” said either Martha or Marianne.  I can’t remember exactly who said what. 

“Right behind me,” I whispered.  “Behind the post. Short guy with the hockey hair.” 

This is the point in the story where details become fuzzy. 

But what  followed was a discussion of where exactly behind the post he was located.  Then a discreet walk by Martha to the ladies room in order to confirm.  Then there was some hysterical laughter about a range of things I can’t remember.  Ultimately, a plan was hatched to send Mr. Estevez and his male companion a drink along with an unignorable and witty message. 

How does the story end?  I present you some options.  

Possible Ending 1:

We sent over two Scotches with the message “Thank you for ’Bobby’.  You deserved the Oscar“.  Within moments, a message came back via the waitress.  The message was ‘Thank you.  Would you care to join us?”  We joined them.  He was dining with his agent.  Eventually Martin Sheen and Charlie Sheen arrived.  Charlie was totally wasted, but quite charming.   He told rude stories about Ashton Kutcher.  Emilio dished about what really went down with Demi Moore on the set of St. Elmo’s Fire.  After the third round of Scotch, Gordon Ramsay joined us.  We all did the dance scene from The Breakfast Club with the waiters.  Martin Sheen is  a good dancer.  And he seemed to appreciate me constantly impersonating him from Apocalypse Now.  At 3:00 a.m. we convinced Emilio to prank call Molly Ringwald.  He totally woke her up.  Later, we left hilarious messages on C. Thomas Howell’s answering machine.  The night ended on a high, as we were promised small roles in  “The Outsiders 2“.  It starts filming in February.   We also got an invite to the Sheen’s for Christmas dinner. 

Possible Ending 2: 

We did a few more double checks to confirm Mr. Estevez’s identity.  We ignored the waiters hanging around who were clearly waiting for us to leave.  One young  waitress told us the about the time she met George Clooney (I think) in the restaurant.  She’d never heard of Emilio Estevez.  We laughed hysterically about more things I can’t recall and got side-tracked talking about other things.  We could not come up with a witty message that would make sending over drinks worthwhile or remotely cool.  We left.  Outside the restaurant, we attempted to snap a picture of Mr. Esteves through the window.

Can you see Mr. Estevez? Keep trying.

More hysterical laughter.  We hailed a cab.  We fell asleep in the taxi on the way back to the hotel.  At about quarter past midnight.  

Care to hazard a guess which was the actual ending? 

Tough one, I know.

*names may or may not have been changed.

10 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Life As It Happens

September 21, 2011

Maybe I Could Do That Too

By Susan

I love sports movies.  I love stories of the underdog. Of people finding strength and power they never knew they had.  I love watching the transformation of people from thinking that they can’t, to seeing that they can.   

I saw this video clip on Juliet’s blog a while back.  I wrote about it elsewhere previously, but for some reason this morning I can’t help writing about it again.  I love this clip.  If you love sports inspiration, this is one to watch.

There’s something about sport that is elemental to the human experience.  It moves us in ways few other things can.  It moves us as individuals, as communities, and as nations.  There is a drama in the game, and a joy (or sorrow) in the outcome, that gets us at our core. 

This is why we stand on our couches screaming at the TV during the championship game.  

This is why grown men and women jump on each other with sheer joy and rip their shirts off when a teammate scores the winning goal. 

This is why we cry during the national anthem at the Olympics. 

We cannot tear ourselves away.

When we watch great sports, or feats of athletic performance, there is a moment of clarity.  We feel something down deep.  We stand transfixed.  Our mind clears, and a voice within us rises. 

That voice whispers: maybe I could do that too. 

My favourite part of this clip is when the other boys realize what they are watching.  They get quiet.  They stand up so they can see better.  They then start following their teammate as he completes his deathcrawl.  They cannot help themselves.  They sense they are witnessing a moment of personal greatness – a moment of transformation.  They are drawn to their feet from a deeper place.  It’s the same pull as the watching the championship goal.  They are inspired and amazed.  

Maybe I could be great, they are thinking. Maybe I could do that too.

Here’s the thing.  If they feel that feeling, it means they can. 

So can you. So can I.  All of us can. 

We can all do our version of whatever we’ve seen that inspires us and draws us to our feet to watch. 

That feeling, when you’re standing there transfixed by the greatness? 

It’s your life calling to you. 

Go and get it.

6 comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures

September 15, 2011

(Crappy) Life Lessons from a Disney Princess

By Susan

Our five-year old, Isabelle, is into princesses.  I’m going with the flow on this one.  Sure, I appreciate princesses’ general against-all-odds spunk, but the being-rescued-by-a-Prince schtick is so old.  Personally, I’d like to read to story about Snow White nine years into marriage where she’s trying to get her kids to soccer on time.  Or the one where Cinderella kills it on the volleyball court.

Nonetheless, when we saw Princess Aurora (aka the Sleeping Beauty) and Snow White wandering through Disneyland on our recent vacation, it was a big moment. 

“Isabelle!” I hollered.  ”Look! Princesses!”  I don’t know what came over me. 

Isabelle gasped.  We instinctively picked up our pace and started following them. 

Soon there was a little group of girls and parents following the two Princesses. Everyone looked a little startled.  The kids, because they couldn’t believe what they were seeing.  And the parents, because they weren’t sure what the plan was.  But it very clear that we should follow these ladies because THEY’RE PRINCESSES, PEOPLE! 

It’s exactly what I image will happen if I ever run into Colin Firth walking down the street. 

Eventually the Princesses stopped, and the little crowd of girls gathered around them.  Princess Aurora spoke to us in a very princess-like voice.

“We must keep walking over to our castle,” she said. ”Our show is starting soon.  We hope you’ll come and see us there.”  (Read: back off folks. I’m gonna be late for work). 

“But…” she continued.  At this point Isabelle happened to be standing right beside her.  Aurora looked down at Isabelle.

“…would you like to walk with me?”

Isabelle looked back at me, mouth open and eyes wide. 

She went pale.  

She couldn’t speak. 

Not unlike my reaction when Colin Firth eventually stops and politely says Ma’am, if you insist on following me, I’m going to have to call the police.

I nodded to Isabelle.  Yes.  Rare life opportunity presenting.  GO! 

So Isabelle took Princess Aurora’s hand.  Snow White fell into place on the other side.  And off went my five-year old daughter for a ten minute stroll with two real-live princesses.     

Be cool, kid. Be cool.

As I tripped along behind them, fumbling for my camera,  I could only imagine what Isabelle was thinking. I hoped those ladies knew the power they had over my daughter.  This was an opportunity to incite big life lessons.  Their discussion could transform her emerging neural pathways.  I hoped that dealing with these moments with little girls was part of their So-You-Wanna-Be-A-Disney-Princess job training.    

When it was all said and done, Isabelle reported that they had a nice talk.  Apparently, Aurora had asked her name and where she lived. 

And what else, I wondered?

“She asked if I lived in a castle.”  Isabelle reported. 

“What?” I chirped. ”She what?”

“She asked if I lived in a castle.”   

“But what else?” I said. 

“That’s all.” 

That’s all? Do you live in a castle?  Are you kidding me? Like that’s a life goal. 

It was a moment to remember, that’s for sure.  But, thanks ladies, I think I’ll take it from here.

8 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , | posted in Life As It Happens, Things I Tell My Kids

September 3, 2011

I go without goals like I go without pants. Uncomfortably.

By Susan

This post is dedicated to Debby Simms, whom I quote in the title. 

It is also part of Fitness Blog World, a group of bloggers with a passion for fitness who write about a given fitness-related topic every month or so.   The question this month was “What’s next for you? What are your goals for the short and long term?”

*****

Over the last year, I’ve had a some pretty focused fitness-related goals. 

This time last year I was musing about hiring a personal trainer.  I wanted to inject something new into my home fitness routine, and I wanted to learn more about weight training. That lead to a six month process of preparing for an all-natural bodybuilding competition on April 9, 2011.  It was a wild experience not likely to be repeated by moi. 

I immediately transitioned into training for a 32-kilometre leg of an off-road ultramarathon.  I kept up my weight training, but from April through July, I took to the pavement with more frequency and intensity. The race was on July 9th.   It was awesome.  It was perhaps the best race I’ve ever had. 

But since July 9th? 

I have been goal-less (not including the goal of being able to walk in a functional manner after the race). 

At first, I loved it. 

I loved the freedom of working-out just because.  No strategy.  No plan. No looming races or competitions.  No program to complete. If I wanted to run,  I ran.  If I wanted to lift weights, I lifted them.   If I wanted to try a CrossFit class and swing around on a pull-up bar like a crazed monkey?  Game on.  

But I’m starting to get antsy. 

I’m feeling a little uncomfortable with all the freedom.  I have a nagging sense that I should be focusing on something.  There should be some big thing.    

But, simply, there isn’t. 

I’m sure there will be one again.  I can’t see it just yet.  So for now, I live in the question.  

And as I live in the question, I see there a hundred other types of fitness goals that I can have.  They’re not short-term or long-term.  They just are.  Like working-out consistently each week in response to my energy levels and daily desires. Like lifting, pushing and pulling heavy things at least three times a week. Like continuing to work on eating whole, real, unprocessed foods, consciously and with gratitude. Like limiting my personal embarrassment in a twice-weekly CrossFit class I’m taking in September. Right now, I like those goals.  They make me happy. 

So, yeah, I’m a little uncomfortable over here.  But I’m good. 

And I’m realizing that when I choose to show up every day and work hard, I am training for something bigger than a race or competition.  I am training for my health.  My sense of balance.  My kids.  Our family.  I am in training for the other 23 hours of my day.

For my future self. 

You know, for life.

6 comments   |  tags: , , , | posted in Fitness Adventures

August 27, 2011

Geometry Set, Label Maker, Telescope? Gearing up for Grade One.

By Susan

It’s back to school season. How did that happen? In typical Canadian fashion, summer just gets going, and all of a sudden it’s last call.

So ready or not, we’re preparing our eldest daughter for grade one.

Grade one! This is the real deal. No more circle-time-and-sand-box shenanigans of kindergarten. We’re talking full-day, sit in a desk, bring your lunch, school.

Sharpen your pencils, kid, things are getting serious.

We’ve been trying to figure out what ‘stuff’ she needs for her new academic adventures. I am determined not to have a repeat of last year and do the equivalent of showing up for the first day of kindergarten with no indoor shoes (the horror).  And if a list of Grade one necessities came home with her on the last day of kindergarten…let’s be frank, I don’t recall it and it’s long gone by now. 

So out came the Staples flyer to do a little brainstorming. And with it came my repressed love for all things school supplies.

What does a Grade-oner need?

A geometry set is likely not required. But, man, how cool are those triangle rulers? And the compass that makes perfect circles with the little golf pencil? I mean, you can use the sharp bit on the compass to scratch your name on the tin case too!

Does she need a six-pack of hard pink erasers? Or a twelve-pack of ones shaped like clouds? Maybe. Possibly. Did I mention they’re shaped like clouds?

What about three-dozen fine tipped markers? In all the colours of the rainbow. Look, they smell like fruit!

What about spiral notebooks and binders? And subject tabs? A wide spectrum of duotangs? And, my God, a label maker? It can never be too soon to get your thoughts organized.

Look, the telescopes are on sale!

Eventually, after almost buying her a daytimer, a Bunsen burner, and a set of lab beakers, my husband did the smart thing. He called the school.

Turns out she doesn’t really need anything for Grade one, except a back pack and lunch kit. And the indoor shoes (yeah, I got it). The school will supply everything else.

It was a bit anti-climactic. Lunch kit, back pack, and shoes are so familiar. So, well, kindergarten. I was sure there would be something else required. Something big and different to mark this big step.

Regardless, maybe we’d better get her a pencil-case.

And a pencil sharpener.

And one cloud eraser. 

Just to be sure.

Leave a comment   |  tags: , , , , | posted in Life As It Happens, Things I Tell My Kids

August 13, 2011

Are you there, God? It’s me Susan

By Susan

Alternate title: A Parent’s Pre-Flight Prayer

Hello? 

Tap, tap, tap.

Is this thing on?

Silence

Ok, well…I’ll just go ahead and start. 

Hey, God.  It’s me, Susan.

Do you have a minute?  I’m a little worried about something.  I was wondering if we could talk.

Next week we’re going on vacation.  I’m really looking forward to it, by the way.  Disneyland with the kids.  I have a feeling it’s going to be great.

There’s one thing, though. 

It’s the flight. 

I’m going to need your help when we’re on the airplane.  

Remember last summer, flying home from Montreal?  Of course you do.  You bore the brunt of all my silent cursing that day. Sorry about that.  If you recall, that flight didn’t go so well.   

Remember how Sophie screamed like wild banshee for 3.75 hours of the 4-hour flight? Remember all the turbulence?  So that I couldn’t walk her up and down the aisle?  Remember how she, therefore, flailed on my lap for hours screaming directly into my face?  Remember the airline eff-up which had us not even sitting in the same row, so her dad couldn’t really help?  Remember the piercing stares of hatred from nearby passengers?  The scorn?  The indignity? 

Can you arrange that we not have repeat of that next week?

You see, I haven’t forgotten any of it.  And I’m a little scarred from the experience.

I know she’s a year older now.  But - at two-and-a-half – I still think she’s a threat.  At least this year she’ll have her own seat.  Plus one more year of brain development increases the likelihood that we can transfix her with the TV.  So that’s a plus.  But I need some back-up.

So if it’s not too much trouble, could you keep an eye on us that morning? 

Perhaps you could arrange that the flight be half-empty.  And keep the air patterns smooth so we can get up and walk around. 

Perhaps you could plant a nice old lady in the row behind us who thinks our little girls are adorable and wants to talk to them for hours.  

Or, ideally, there could be a children’s magician – with all his gear – sitting right beside us.  

Or a clown.  With an endless supply of balloons. That he turns into zoo animals.

I’ll bring seven tonnes of snacks, the Gravol, stacks of DVDs, and some shiny new toys.  But if you could throw us a bone, that’d be great. 

Ok, thanks a million.  I appreciate your time. 

I will stand by now, and wait for a sign.  A wave of insight. A surge of courage.  Or something. 

OK, then.  Thanks again. All the best.  

OK.  Amen.

P.S. By the way, what ever happened to Judy Blume?

11 comments   |  tags: , , , , , , | posted in Things I Tell My Kids

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