And swimming lessons.

Emma is not a huge fan of the water – or at least, being SUBMERGED in water.  Or having water touch her hair.  Or, God forbid, going anywhere near her eyes or nose. I cried the first time I gave her a bath because it felt boderline abusive.

The first summer I took her for swim lessons, I tried to just focus on introducing her to the water.  I sat in those steamy bleachers at the Y; watching kids younger than her flip-flopping along with the kickboard while she stood on the stairs of the shallow end conducting a 30 minute gear check: Googles: check.  Floaties: check.  Arsenal of excuses as to why I can’t leave this step: check.

It was the summer Emma turned 4 that I knew I needed to lay down the hammer with teaching her to swim.  Taking her and Phoebe to the pool was what I call High Risk Parenting: there was simply not enough of me to go around.  The minute I turned my attention to Phoebe, Emma would start shrieking and flailing around in the shallow end – while wearing a swimmy vest.

If the main reason for drowning is due to panic, then this kid could drown in a rain puddle. I knew I had to take action.

I solicited advice from the experts, a.k.a. Moms With Experience.  The general consensus was that if your goal is to have your kid be safe in the water, take her to a place that refers to swim lessons as “drowning prevention.” Every single mom that recommended it said, “she will learn how to swim…but you should probably make Phil take her….it’s a little….intense.”

Apparently you can check your swimmy vest at the door because these folks mean business.  Thanks to Phil and a lot of bribery Rita’s Water Ice, Emma completed the program.  I greeted her at the door on that last day with a smile and a congratulatory hug, but she was having none of it.  She stood in the kitchen in her Tinkerbell bathsuit, her cherry water-ice-stained lips set in a grim line and said, “I am never doing that again.  SO DON’T. SIGN. ME. UP.”

I can’t say I blamed her.  I despised swimming lessons.  I have vivid memories of the cold water, the noxious smell of chlorine, the pain of cramming my thick curly hair into my red rubber swim cap.  The reason my cap was red, I realized at about age 6 or 7, was because I was in the remedial swim group.  You know, the crowd of misfits in the shallow end wearing nose pinchers and ear plugs.

Swimming lessons – at least when I was a kid- adhered to a rigid class structure: Guppies, Minnows, Fish, Dolphins, Sharks.  Don’t sharks eat guppies?  It was like Lord of the Flies Fish.  I spent one summer as a polliwog: a larval stage in the life of an amphibian.  AN AMPHIBIAN.  Polliwogs don’t become sharks, they become FROGS. Talk about setting a kid up for a life of low expectations.

Around 9th grade I decided I wanted to be a shark, dammit.  So I joined the swim team at the YMCA, thinking it would make me a shoe-in for eventually making the high school swim team.  Unfortunately my dreams of butterflying my way to aquatic greatness were shattered during the first swim meet.

I guess I was a little freaked out by the start gun and overall chaos of a competitive event, because while backstroking I managed to get myself tangled up in the lane divider like a manatee caught in a fishing line.

On the way home, my dad said, “So I saw where you got a little rattled there and lost your bearings. But why the fake asthma attack?  You don’t even have asthma.”

“Well Dad, I would rather be known as the girl who hyperventilated than the girl who SUCKS AT LIFE.”

“Hmmm, fair enough.”

But the failure haunted me through the years, as did the shame of moving into adulthood as a perpetual polliwog…mommy stroking my way across the shallow end in a visor and sunglasses. So, at age 31, I signed up for a triathlon -and swimming lessons.  Within 8 weeks I scissor kicked my way into the watery world of respectable swimmers.  As for the triathlon, I didn’t break any records, but I lived, and that was pretty much my goal.

I recognize that I had to get to this place on my own, and decided to let Emma do the same.  After her successful completion of Drowning Prevention, I backed off.  Last summer when I tentatively broached the topic of swimming lessons,  she said: “No. Way. You crazy bitch.” I didn’t push it.

On our maiden voyage to the pool a few weeks ago, Emma dug her trusty swim vest out of the box in the garage and strapped it on tight.  However, as I slathered on her sunscreen, I observed her surveying the scene – staring wide eyed at the kids her age doing backflips off the diving board.  She leaned in close and whispered in my ear: “Let’s lose this thing,” pulling on her vest. “Permanently.”

On the way home she said, “Hey Mom, I think I am ready to try swim lessons this year. That swimmy vest is kinda ridiculous.”

Is peer pressure the motivation, or does the desire to conquer fear come from a deeper place? I put my money on the latter.  Once we get over the initial sting of failure, we realize that the decision to sink or swim is ultimately our own. My yoga teacher Baron Baptiste says, “First you must show up and suck before you can show up and shine.”

Or, in this case, swim.

This morning I re-read my post from last week with a mixture of compassion and bemused awkwardness, rolling my eyes to mask the subtle squeezing of my heart.  I feel equal parts critical and protective of this girl woman girl who declared this challenge with such pomp and circumstance, filled with confidence and “I’ve got this!” optimism.

I find my earnestness both endearing and slightly embarrassing. The vision of myself as a laid back beer and pizza chick struck me as so naïve, so simple and sweet…like a little boy, proclaiming, “When I grow up, I am going to be an astronaut!”  And you pat his head, and say, “Of course you are!” But just one week ago, I felt caffeinated confident.  Breezy, even. 

Then the days began to creep by.

 Uptight, anxious, bitchy? Yes.  Breezy?  Uhh, not so much.

The adrenaline rush that comes with “Signing Up” was wearing thin as the Buyer’s Remorse settled in.  Hey, that rhymes!

This past week felt similar to the one leading up to the triathlon I did in Florida a few years ago.  It was all sunshine and lollipops when I was swimming laps in the safe little pool at the gym…but as the date of the race approached I started thinking about the Tampa Bay, and how it had things like waves, and no black line on the bottom to keep you in your lane. I started Googling “Shark Attacks in Tampa Bay.”  My vision of slicing effortlessly through the water began to melt under the hot interrogation lights of fear.  

 The point is, it wasn’t all “I Am Woman, Watch Me Pound Pizza”.  There were some angsty moments.

But then I started to do what I am beginning to learn is what real grown-ups do when they are scared, in lieu of sobbing uncontrollably or hiding under the bed. I talked myself off the ledge by reminding myself that I always have a choice to throw fish at the crazy Muppet-guys-in-the-balcony (aka. the voices in my head),

or I can run off the stage crying. 

I remembered something my favorite writer, Anne Lamott said: “My mind is a bad neighborhood I try not to go into alone.”

So, I called in some troops in the form of our good friends, Todd the Bod, (named for his bulging biceps) and his lovely photographer wife, Mrs. Todd the Bod, aka. Danette.  They busted in like the Party Patrol, armed with champagne and Danette’s intense looking camera to document the event.  I think God sends me these ridiculously fun people quite intentionally…crackpot crusaders on a mission to remind me that life is short and that IT DOES NOT HAVE TO BE SO HARD. 

Special Agents of Joy, armed with fart jokes and a case of Coors Light. 

While the Muppets in my head may think that I suck, my friends must think otherwise…because they keep on showing up. 

And by hanging around people who think you are awesome for reasons that have nothing to do with the size of your jeans…and they tell you those reasons….and you actuallly let yourself see what they see…well, I think that’s where the change happens.  That’s where the pizza cutter starts rolling some new grooves in your cranium. 

Speaking of the pizza…it was yummy.   Just as I remembered it.

 But I can honestly say, that amidst the laughing and storytelling, the pizza itself became quite secondary…which was exactly the point.

Oh, and incidentally….as a kid, my sister had a friend named Paul who would say, “When I grow up, I am going to be an astronaut!”  And you know what? 

He is.

 

Chase:  WHAT is that?

Me:  It is what Daddy and I are going to eat for the next 11 days.

Chase:  That’s it?

Me:  I think you also get to eat a few almonds here and there.

Chase:  And WHY are you doing this?

Me:  Just because.  I want to be healthy.

Chase:  Mom!  You just ran a triathlon!  I THINK you are HEALTHY!

The kid has a point.  I feel healthier than I have in a decade BUT, truth be told I could still drop 20 pounds and not look skeletal.  I would settle for 10 pounds.  While working out has shaved inches off my waistline, it has also built up muscle that has kept my weight at a level that I do not like to discuss publicly.  Plus, my goal of someone coming up to me in the supermarket and saying, “Did anyone ever tell you that your body looks just like Linda Hamilton in Terminator II” remains elusive.

Time for Plan B.

I have been told that one can drop 10-15 pounds on this Isagenix plan.    The marketing folks call it “cleansing.”  Those smarty doctors with letters next to their names call it ketosis which essentially means that at some point in the next 11 days, my body will go into starvation mode and will burn fat to remain functioning.  A colleague of mine told me that on day three I will want to eat my own arm but after that, it’s fine.  Good times.

Dave has signed up to do this with me.  The biggest kicker is that you can’t have caffeine and anyone who knows my husband knows what he is like if he doesn’t have his four cups of coffee in the morning.  It should be interesting.  I have already put a call into child protective services, asking them to check in on us around Thursday.

We will measure.  We will report back. We may even take some pictures.  I have not been paid to try this plan.  In fact, I paid to get these drinks, shakes and Scooby snacks.  So I will be completely honest in my assessment.  I may even ask Dave to chime in if he can stop shaking long enough to put his fingers on the key board.

So back to Chase’s question:  WHY am I doing this?  Because this is what crazy women who have children starting middle school today do to feel better about themselves when they are faced with the reality that they are old enough to have a child old enough to start middle school.   Or translated into a language that my kids can understand:  Just because.

Stay tuned.

PS.  Thanks to all of the well wishers on this weekend’s triathlon.  It was so much fun. Anyone who wants to do their first triathlon, this is a great race.  Happy to tell you more. We all finished strong and felt very proud to be a part of it. Congrats to Liz who was our A-Team top finisher (we knew she would be).  Definitely same time next year!

The A Team Women — Liz, Mo, Em and Andi

Doug and Dave (Pre Race)

1) It was indoors. We swam in a pool instead of a river or lake. Rather than transitioning on the dirty, syringe-laden sandy banks of the Schuylkill River, we changed in the locker room. We had 5 minutes in between each leg.  Sadly, I did not have time to blow dry my hair.

2) It was a shorter distance than most of the official races. This race was a 500 meter swim, 10 mile bike, and a 2 mile run. The summer triathlons in Philly will be 750 meter swim, 15.5 mile bike and 5K run (3.1 miles).

3) It was a small race. A total of 35 participants spread across 4 heats so no one was swimming on top of me, cutting me off on the road, (hard to do on a stationary bike, although there was one ultra-competitive chick who I swore would have checked me if given the chance) or crowding my run.

4) They put your race number on your hand instead of your arm. Truth be told, having that black grease paint on my arm was the only reason I agreed to do this race in the first place. I have fantasized about being one of those women for some time now. But quitting before the race started because the officials weren’t in sync with my costume requirements seemed a bit prissy.

All that said, this race was no cake walk.  In fact I can’t recall a single moment during the entire three parts when the voice inside my head said, “Gee wilikers, this is really fun!”   Mostly the voice just kept saying, “Don’t you dare stop!”  “Push harder”  “Go faster” and “Almost there”.  It wasn’t lost on me that in another situation, these instructions would indeed be fun, a thought which allowed me to crack a smile or two during the race.

This was a competition amongst friends. Dave competed in the heat before mine (and kicked some major ass), along with several other women who are very much of the same mind set as I am, i.e. life needs to get better, not worse, as you get older.  Jenny, Mo and Liz – you all inspire me to be a better person and totally whip your collective asses next time.

Next time, BTW,  will be in August when I compete in the SheRox.  Thank you, Liz for the gentle push to register.  While I had my doubts as to whether I really wanted to sign up for another go, I have come to the conclusion that triathlons are a lot like childbirth.  You quickly forget about the pain and only remember what you take away from it – in this case a huge helping of self esteem.

Now all I need is a bike.  A minor detail.

2009 Healthplex Indoor Sprint Triathlon Photos

Pre Race with my Posse

Pretending that I know what I am doing (I’m really just copying whatever Liz does.) 

I think I look pretty in this one.

I am thinking about oatmeal here.

Mo, Liz and I — glad that it’s over…

…and ready for more, right Mo?

My Results:  Goal was under 60 minutes.

• 500 meter Swim 10:03
• 10 mile bike: 29:46
• 2 mile run: 19:48
• Total: 59:37
• Finished 6^th among all women entered. (even the young ones!)

When Dave (a.k.a. swimmer/surfer extraordinaire) swims, he does 50 laps or about 1250 meters.  I figured since I really haven’t swum a single lap since, uh, high school, I would try for 10.  That was easy enough, so I kept going and got to 20.  Then 30.  40.  50.  And I could have kept going.  So I took a little mental inventory.

• I can run three miles without much effort.
• I can bang out 30 strong push-ups without crippling myself.
• I can ride 20 miles on a bike with minimal saddle soreness.
• My heel problems have all but disappeared
• I have reduced my body fat by 26% and dropped 10 pounds.

 By God, I think I might be in decent shape!  But still a work in progress.

Consider the following photos:

October 2008 vs. Last Night

And I swear I am not sucking it in!   So,  I do not mean to boast.  (Well maybe just a little bit because I have been working my butt off these last few months… and I feel proud… and I told L.K. that I would eventually post photos and I don’t think she believed me.)  And I realize I still have a ways to go.  But my point is this:  Feeling good about yourself is totally doable.  And it doesn’t take anything more than committing to it, which is not easy but far from impossible.  I work out at 9:00 p.m. at night and 8:00 a.m. on the weekends.  And I can’t think of a suckier time to haul your ass out of a warm house to push yourself physically.  But I kept with it – and it’s paying off.  Everything feels better, including my disposition. For those MoB readers who are considering a fitness plan, get started, plow ahead, take pictures, and get proud.  You won’t be sorry. (And if you want an introduction to Kevin, let me know.  He rocks.)

In that spirit, here is my next public commitment:  completing a sprint triathlon this summer.  And I’m not doing it just to paint that cool black number on my arm.  (I can do that at home any day of the week.)  It’s something to reach for and I’m always looking for the next stretch   If I can do the pieces separately today, it’s just a matter of putting it all together.  I recognize it sounds much easier than it is…but I think I’m worth a tri.