Try, Tri, Again

The latest in my series of “What does not kill me (or get me mugged) makes me stronger” adventures was the Sigourney Tri in July. This sprint triathalon included a 330 yard swim, 5.4 mile bike ride and 2.02 mile run. I'm always on the look out for something new and different, and I figured, Hey, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

This kind of thinking only occasionally leads me to disaster.

I enjoy these kinds of physical challenges because they give me plenty of time alone with my thoughts. I usually I don't pay much attention to myself, but there's something about running (or biking or swimming) that forces me to actually think about what I'm thinking. I gotta say, there may be a good reason why I tune myself out most of the time.

My race number, or how old I felt after the race.

The first “Oh, so this is what could go wrong” moment hit as we were lined up according to our estimated swim times. I used to be a lifeguard and I used to be on my college's swim team (small college, smaller team, bathtub-sized pool), so I estimated that I was a slightly faster than average swimmer. (Besides, being completely honest about my 5K pace time always puts me behind the walkers. It was my turn to be optimistic.)

Please note I used the past tense when referring to my swim experience. I am convinced that most former athletes (or former anythings) tend to underestimate the importance of the term “former” when given an opportunity to brush off those skills.

Regardless, I found myself lined up on the pool deck between a current lifeguard and her high school-age friend. My confidence was already beginning to ebb when these girls started questioning their ability to finish the swim.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong,” I thought. I could drown or I could get lapped by the 20 people following me. My internal monologue for the swim was pretty simple: “Stroke, breath, don't drown.” Words to live by. All three of us survived, and none of us were lapped.

The transition from swim to bike went pretty smoothly, although I may have wasted valuable time double checking to make sure I wasn't removing my sports bra along with my swim top.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.” The sight of my codfish-white belly probably traumatized enough people.

The 5-mile bike ride gave me plenty of time to think. I realized that while I like riding (moderately) fast, I don't like turning corners (even moderately) fast. After watching the riders ahead of me lean (dangerously far) into the corners, I tried to console myself with the old “it's not a sprint it's a marathon” platitude.

Then I remembered it was a sprint triathalon.

Eventually I reached a zen-like peace with being passed by young men with tree trunk-sized calves, curled over the handlebars of their high-tech racing bikes. My competitive spirit kicked and I picked up the pace as we neared the turnaround point. I even managed to pass someone myself. (So what if he was only 12 years old, and wobbled all over the place.)

I started to enjoy the thrill of riding fast, and the rush of the wind in my face. I felt free! I felt like I was flying! I felt like I was hardly pedaling at all!

Because I was hardly pedaling at all. I was going down hill. And what goes down hill must eventually go back up....

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.”

By the time I made it back to the park to leave my bike and start the run, my butt cramps had butt cramps. I wondered if I would be able to unclench long enough to get off my bike, or if I would have to run with the seat stuck between my cheeks.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.”

The second transition was even smoother than the first, and I was able to dismount without disrobing.

So, this went wrong.

I had hoped the run would be my strongest part (relatively speaking) of the event. And it might have been. If it wasn't for the swimming. Or the biking. Or the swimming and biking. As it was, I ended up doing a “Lego” run, going block by block. By block.

But I did keep going, and I did finish (24 seconds slower than I really hoped to finish). And it didn't kill me. And I did have fun.

And I am going to do it again next year.

Because anything worth doing just for fun, is worth doing 24-seconds faster.

Carpe Di-Cave

Early summer descended on Eastern Iowa packing all the heat and humidity usually reserved for much later in the season. In this weather, the corn shoots skyward, and the weak are culled from the herd until only the hardiest Iowa natives are left to complain about the weather.

The Princess and Little Prince had retreated to the cool solitude of their bedrooms, perfectly content to relax and stare at their smart phones in air-conditioned comfort. (“We needs the charger. Must recharge the precious.”) But underneath it all, I could tell they were longing for some quality, enforced family fun time.

It was time for a Mom-tervention.

It was time to pry them out of their man-made, air-conditioned, soft and cushy caves

and take them to some nature-made, naturally cooled, drippy and muddy real caves at Maquoketa Caves State Park. The King declined the opportunity, citing work deadlines (and lack of air-conditioning).

I had been to the caves as a kid – we made frequent trips to the area to visit relatives – but The Princess and The Little Prince had not. This trip was a chance for me to share old memories (which they loved – not) and create new memories (which I loved – totally).

Part of the reward for not selling off your children when they were pre-teens, is having them develop into people you actually enjoy spending time with. While The Princess and The Little Prince can, individually, be mutes, when they are thrown together in a car they become Laurel and Hardy. Their schtick began before we even left the house:

The King (from his air conditioned throne): Be sure to wear sunscreen.

Princess: Did Sacagawea wear sunscreen? Did Herbert Hoover?

Prince: And he became president!

Princess: And had a sport named after him! (http://www.hooverassociation.org/newsevents/hooverball/hooverball_history.php)

For more than an hour, I listed to their constant back and forth, covering everything from family trips (“Hey, remember that time you told The Little Prince it was time to go, and we searched the house for him for like, 30 minutes, because he thought you really meant it was time to go and he was waiting in the car? Good times.”) to my driving ability (“Are we lost yet? Are you sure we're not lost yet?”).

Gramma Anna at the caves, 1936

For the record, we weren't lost (yet), although I never did find the little wooded, copse my Grampa liked to point out as the spot where my Gramma Anna once hiked her skirts (literally) to answer nature's call. That historic location seemed to move each time we traveled those roads, but Grampa's delight in telling the story – and Gramma's adamant denial – never did. There's a slight chance hyperbole runs in my family.

Eventually we did make it to the park. I didn't remember it being quite so popular, but that day it was overrun with 20-something year-old hikers and rock climbers (“I think they're high on more than nature.”) and families with little children.

At times I watched wistfully as the parents held their child's grubby little hands, or boosted them up onto some of the small rock formations, arms outstretched to assist if needed, but giving them the chance to explore their independence.

Meanwhile I panted, trying to keep up with my little angels, letting them lead the way over rocky trails and trees, and cringing as they insisted on climbing to the highest points they possibly could. Every so often The Little Prince would scout out a trail, only to 

tell his sister it looked “a little sketchy.” They would silently lock eyes for a moment, then The Princess would smile and shout “Parkour!” and off they would scramble over mossy boulders, muddy logs, and loose rocks. This is why we say that when The Princess becomes the voice of reason, you know you're in trouble.

Still, there were times when the littlest hikers out parkoured us. While The Royal Procession picked our way cautiously across the creek (again), tottering on the slippery rocks, one intrepid 8-year-old sloshed right past us through the ankle-deep water. (In our defense, it was muddy, it looked much deeper, and it was cold.)

Fat Man's Lament

In between the daredevil feats of climbing, tentative spelunking, and creek fording failures, The Princess and Little Prince turned their comedy routine to a variety of topics:

The beauty of the park – “You know you're from Iowa when you learn to pronounce methamphetamine, but not aesthetic.”

The natural features of the park – “Fat Man's Lament? I thought they said Bat Man's Lament!”

Philosophy – “We have to cross the river again?” Me: “It's a creek.” “It has potential!”

In the end, the joke was on me:

“Why didn't you tell us to wear old shoes?” “Why didn't we bring flashlights?”

Me: “Because I didn't think I'd be able to get you out of the car.” Honest.

(Sharing an incredulous look.) “Why not? This is the best place ever!”

Parkour!

Junior High Dance Survival 101

It has come to my attention that some people have not had the opportunity to chaperone a junior high school dance. To them I say “How did you get so lucky?” and “Can we trade lives?”

It's not that I dislike junior high or middle school students. I was once in middle school. The Princess and The Little Prince were once in middle school. If you think back really, really hard – back to those memories you try to repress – you will probably recall that you, too, were once in 6th, 7th or 8th grade. Think bad perms, braces, and over sized Sally Jessy Raphael glasses. Sound familiar?

Individually, these children can be mildly tolerable to almost bearable. However, when gathered in groups of two or more, junior high-age kids should be caged and tranquilized. “Middle School Teacher” is one of the virtues recognized for canonization, and an automatic “head of the line” designation for angel wings.

It's really not the kids' fault. They just have that unlucky distinction of being in the roughly 11- to 13-year old age range, frequently referred to as “possessed” – I mean, “'tweens.”

They are the victims of an uncontrollable onset of hormones – a volatile chemical combination that is constantly agitated by the same abrupt growth spurts that it causes. These once adorable youngsters are unwitting captives on an out of control Tilt-A-Whirl of emotions. The rapid personality swings from sweet, considerate child to abrasive, rude, inconsiderate, obnoxious jerk seem to confound even them. Or maybe that's just their voices breaking.

Whoever decided that hosting a dance for junior high students was a good idea had a masochistic streak a mile wide.

Whoever decided that hosting a dance for junior high students as a fund raiser had a shrewd business mind.

On any given night, the parents/guardians of a 'tween are more than willing to pay to get rid of them for a couple of hours. That is to say, they are anxious to ensure that their child is learning proper socialization skills to better interact with their peers. Failure to develop such skills would, no doubt, lead to even more nights spent at home whining that there is nothing to do and no one to do it with.

Hosting an “End of the School Year Dance” for junior high students – on the day after the last day of school – is, in theory, a brilliant marketing idea. This is attested to by the ear-splitting shrieks of joy emitted by the girls whilst hugging their BFFs, and the running, full-body slam greetings exchanged by the boys. After all, it has been upwards of 30 hours since they last saw each other leaving the same school building to which they have now voluntarily returned. (Although some of them spent the entire first day of no-school together, meaning that it's been close to two whole hours since they saw each other. Ohmygod!)

Using the term “dance” to describe this gathering is stretching the meaning of the word. Very little recognizable dancing is done, and relatively few students attempt the spasmodic flailing of limbs that passes for dancing.

The “dance” moves can be loosely categorized as:

The Repetitive Motion: A random dancer breaks out one move – such as the “running man” (the new one, duh) the “whip” or the “nae-nae” – completely unprovoked. This sets off a domino effect of random dance moves with little or no relation to the music being played.

The Line Dance: A favorite with all ages, these choreographed dances take all the pressure and decision making out of dancing – you either lead, follow, or watch from the sidelines. It also shows who knows their right from their left.

The Slow Dance: At the junior high level, the slow dance is actually a group dance which consists of one couple awkwardly swaying, straight-legged and flat-footed, while 20 other students gather around them, gawking and pointing.

To be honest, the gathering probably should be billed as a “stand,” since most students spend the evening standing/sitting and watching others. “Herd migration” would be another, more accurate description of events, as packs of students spend the evening slowly oozing around the gym floor. They approach and abut, but rarely merge with other packs, and occasionally discharge micro groups. Viewed from above, they give the appearance of a human lava lamp.

The main duty of the adult sacrifices, or “chaperones,” is to be a fun hater and to squelch any attempt at fun undertaken by their youthful charges. Chaperoning a junior high dance brings out a side of me usually reserved for Costco shopping trips with my family (“No. We do not need the industrial size vat of ketchup. No. We are not getting the Pallet 'O Jerky. You haven't finished the last one. Yes. It does go bad.)

As a chaperone, your duties will include:

Yelling. A lot of yelling. You yell because they are endangering themselves and others. You yell because the music is loud. You yell because they didn't listen the first 10 times you warned them. You yell things like “Stop. Stop! Stopstopstopstopstopslowdown!” “Don't sit on that.” “Don't sit on him.” “Get off of there.” “ForGodSake Get Off Of Her!” “Don't swing on that.” “Don't swing on them.” “Don't pick that up.” “Don't pick him up.” “Put that down.” “Put her down. Gently!”

Being alert and suspicious. You need to keep your eyes out for couples getting too friendly, groups not being friendly enough, anyone hiding in dark corners, individuals trying to escape, groups plotting a coup, and the quiet ones sitting there doing nothing. The quiet ones are always the most dangerous.
Photobombing. Nothin' says fun hater quite like popping up in the back row of a carefully arranged, “spontaneous” photo of 18 'tween girls all making a pouty face at the same time. In the future, extra chaperones will be needed just to keep up with photobomb duties. Yes. They take That. Many. Selfies.

Unauthorized Game Busting. As the night wears on (Two. Whole. Hours!) “dancers” may invent other activities to entertain themselves. The following “games” should be avoided for the health/safety/well being of all attendees: Hot Dog Free Throws (Literally. Shooting free throws with a half-eaten hot dog.) and Snotty Kleenex Soccer (Literally. Playing soccer with – you get the idea.) In a perfect world, the participants would be required to dispose of the game balls. But, to quote one gamer, “Eww. That's gross. I'm not touching that.” But you just put one up from the top of the key!

Turning on the Lights and Sending them Home. Eventually your indentured servitude will mercifully come to an end. After the last of the students has been picked up, the last of the trash thrown away, and the last of the hotdogs retrieved from behind the bleachers, you can go home and start thinking up excuses as to why you will be unable to chaperone the next junior high dance.

PS: Successfully shooting a free throw with a hot dog is much more difficult than it looks. And no. I have no idea how that ketchup got on the net.

Graduation Tassel Tissue Tussle

It's official. The Princess is a high school graduate.

Believe it or not, and most of you will not, I didn't cry.

That is not to say that at various times during her party, baccalaureate, and the graduation ceremony my eyes did not fill with tears, I didn't bite my lips, my throat didn't constrict, I didn't have to gulp for air, or that I didn't clench and unclench my fists and wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs.

I did.

I am sure my eyes were red by the end of commencement. But no tears slid down my cheeks.

I did not need a tissue. Which is good, because I forgot them in the car.

Someone – several someones – asked me how I felt after her graduation party. I told them the truth:

It was all a blur.

The Princess with all her level-headed wisdom – Where did she get that? When did she get that? – decided she wanted a small, low-key event at home. Somehow we managed to keep the fuss and stress to a minimum, which is to say no one was killed, seriously injured or driven insane. Not that I didn't give it my best shot.

Still, it was a blur of planning, shopping, sorting, cleaning, organizing, and ultimately hiding, storing, covering, and strategic decorating. The guests arrived, we mingled, we laughed, we ate cake and more cake. And more cake. The Princess was beautiful and charming and smiled and smiled and smiled. The Little Prince helped set up and stuck around even after we told him he didn't have to. When did he get so mature?

And then it was over.

A blur.

Baccalaureate came and went, a lovely ceremony filled with wisdom and humor and encouragement. And cookies. And the blinking, sniffling, chest tightening of not crying.

A blur.

The graduation ceremony itself, while not what anyone would call brief – especially when crowded into a noisy, hot gymnasium – rushed by. The graduates processed in, there were speeches, words of advice, songs and a slide show that brought me to the edge of tears. Then the graduates received their diplomas, moved their tassels and marched out of the gym for hugs, handshakes, congratulations, and pictures, pictures and more pictures.

A blur.

And somewhere along the way I realized it had all been a blur.

Not just the party, baccalaureate and commencement, but the last 18 years.

Bringing home our Little 5-pound Princess from the hospital. Helping her hold her baby brother. Holding her hand as she started preschool. Walking her up the hill to the bus stop and watching her climb the big stairs onto the bus for her first day of kindergarten. Watching nervously out the window later that week after she announced she could walk to the bus stop by herself.

Grade school, middle school, high school. Dance recitals, school programs, band and chorus concerts, sports, cheer leading, homecomings and proms.

College visits. College applications. College acceptance letters.

College orientation.

A blur.

And this fall she will start college, far enough away that I can't visit every day (well, I could, but...) yet close enough that she can come home when she wants to (I hope she wants to).

In between now and then, two and a half long, languid summer months that will seem to drag on forever.

Until they are gone.

In a blur.

Picture This

I have been organizing The Princess' official pictures – school, dance and sports – in a last-minute attempt to prepare for graduation. Nothing like a hard deadline to make you take a look around and ask “Crap, where has the time gone?”

By extension, I've been sorting The Little Prince's photos as well, because my usual style of photo organization is to slip the envelope full of pictures into whichever tote marked “scrapbook” is nearest the storeroom door. This is after the envelope sits atop the bookshelf for six months, or until the next set of pictures comes home.

Regardless of where they were stashed, or how long (or if) they were displayed, each portrait stirs memories – the haircuts, the clothes, the braces, the glasses. The Princess' reviews of these photos have ranged from laughter to indignation – “Why did you cut my hair that way? Why did you make me wear that?” As if I had any control over anything picture-related after she started school.

The Little Prince has, as usual, taken everything in stride. Each time his sister runs down the hall waving one of his pictures in the air and laughing, he shrugs, grins and rolls his eyes.

He is suffering from Second Child Photo Deficiency Syndrome, combined with a healthy dose of Digital Technology Affliction. Where as The Princess has a ginormous tote full of baby pictures (along with 10 completed scrapbook pages... ok, maybe only five... ish), The Little Prince has only one medium tote. Half-full. And an empty scrapbook.

I console myself with the thought (unverified) that all his childhood pictures are safely stored on a flash drive or SD card. Somewhere. I hope. I have three years before he graduates, so I'm sure I'll come up with something by then. Somehow. I hope.

The official school and team pictures capture the essence of different children than the candid shots that eat up space on my phone. I sigh and roll my eyes – where'd I learn that? – every time I try to take a “serious” picture of them. It seems impossible to get them to hold still and stand next to each other (within arms length, as if they possibly know and/or like each other, but without employing a sleeper hold). Getting them to both smile at the same time, with neither of them caught mid-blink, is … impossible-er.

And yet, when I look at those snapshots of my two teenagers happily hanging upside down on the playground, my heart fills to overflowing. I hear them shouting and laughing and urging me to “hurry up and take the picture already,” their faces reddening as the blood rushes to their heads.

I look at the picture of them trying to squeeze into the kiddie swings and I remember all the playgrounds we've visited. All the slides and swings and teeter-totters and climbing walls. All the ways they used to scare me as they explored their independence. I remember rushing around behind them, arms outstretched, ready to catch them or give them a boost or to applaud (nervously) when they reached the apex and turned around, so excited and proud.

When I organize the official portraits, I hear a different voice. I remember a different type of dread and pride. As I study the familiar-unfamiliar faces captured in these photos I remember sliding each picture from its packaging. I marveled over the changes brought about by another year. So serious. So mature.

So grown up.

Now I look at the portrait of the second grader missing all his front teeth, or the apple-cheeked fifth grader with her new glasses, and I think how young, how long ago.

I compare those pictures to the lanky freshman towering over me, to the brown-eyed beauty in the senior pictures.

Again I think, “They are so grown up.”

And yet I hope, I know, I make plans, to take them to as many playgrounds as possible. I will take the pictures that capture the laughter, and the love, and the fears, and the pride.

And I will save them on the computer and print them out and store them in boxes and paste them in scrapbooks, and share them, and keep them close.

Where has the time gone?

Fashion Springs Fauxward

Spring has sprung in Eastern Iowa.

Or at least spring has sprung in the minds of clothing retailers in Eastern Iowa.

Mother Nature seems to have a different opinion. Then again, that is the nature of spring in Eastern Iowa – warm one day, cold the next; sunny one day, rainy the next three; rainy one day, snowy the next, melted the day after that.

After a week of unseasonably warm weather, we muddled through a week of seasonably unpredictable weather, only to be smacked upside the head with a weekend of unseasonably seasonable cold and wet weather.

That's Iowa. That's Spring. We're just as likely to shiver through graveside observances on Memorial Day as we are to sweat through them.

I only whine about this because The Princess and I did some uncharacteristically successful shopping recently. I was looking forward to wearing a new, short sleeve outfit, even if it was only around the house.

Instead I'm wearing a sweatshirt and fuzzy socks.

Spring clothing displays at the mall are every bit as enticing as those gardening catalogs you receive in January. They're both so full of promise, potential and color. They brim with the anticipation of warmer, sunnier, longer, busier, more vibrant days. They tempt us to throw off our winter doldrums. They encourage us to drag ourselves out of our suffocating winter rut. To plan a blue-sky escape.

Retailers feed our growing resentment of bulky layers and head to toe coverage, displaying outfits that seem to shrink from both ends, simultaneously exposing shoulders and legs. Tank tops, spaghetti straps, cold shoulder and off the shoulder blouses are paired with cropped pants, capri pants and ever shorter and shorter shorts. Dresses are frothy and loose, form fitting and curve hugging.

Boutiques burgeon with everything pastel and white and sweet and floral and delicate. They sprout aggressive patches of  navy blue, black and rust, bursting with big, loud, geometric patterns. Because, hey, this is fashion and we'll wear whatever the designers tell us to wear.

Spring is a season of optimism. That's what drives us out to our yards to rake and clean and plant. That's what sends us to the mall in search of a fresh, clean, new look.

Optimism whispers that yes, we can squeeze into a trendy pair of leggings and the gauzy swing blouse that looks so adorable on that size 0, headless mannequin.

Spring shakes its head, hands us a pair of baggy sweatpants, and tells us to lay off the ice cream for a couple of weeks while we wait for the unseasonably warm weather to become seasonable again.

Just Say Whoa

 It was bound to happen sooner or later.

After all, we live just to the left of the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields of every stripe and contour. As much as I hate to admit it, most urban-dwellers would say we live in the country.

But The Princess is still just a baby in my mind. She's a sweet, little thing. So young and impressionable.

Of course that's the problem, right there. She's young and impressionable. Prone to errors in judgment, like all youth. Like I was once. Although never like this. I swear.

Somehow I always thought she would benefit from the influence of nearby, uber-hip Iowa City. Sure, I worried a little about the University of Iowa's party school reputation, but this?

Never saw it coming.

I just wasn't ready for it yet. Then again, maybe no parent ever is.

I mean sure, she drives a pick up truck. Sure, she's in FFA – which used to stand for Future Farmers of America but now just stands for FFA (but only FFA members know that) – even though she's a good two generations removed from actually living on a farm. Go figure.

And yes, the local FFA chapter still has a Drive Your Tractor To School Day during FFA Recognition Week. And yes, she really, really wanted to drive a tractor to school. But we don't have one.

In the end, it was her FFA connections that proved to be the bad influence.

I blame FFA and Iowa State University.

She left home for the Iowa FFA Leadership Conference at ISU as my little radio hog. She came home a changed young woman.

She came home a stranger to me.

She came home listening to country music.

It seems like just last week she was listening to a playlist that almost exclusively featured rap and hip-hop music. Tunes – to use the term loosely – in which every other word should have been bleeped out. And the words that didn't need to be bleeped out couldn't be used in polite or politically correct conversation.

It seems like just last week when she wasn't listening to hip-hop lyrics that caused even me to blush, she was listening to overly-harmonized boy bands and the high-pitched, breathy whining of the latest pop-Tart of the month.

It seems like only last week because it was only last week.

Where has the time gone?

I feel a little (very little) like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof:

Is this the little girl I weaned on 80s music?

Is this the little girl playing those awful Kidz Bop CDs?

I don't remember voluntarily handing her the aux cord,

When did they?

There she was, fresh off the school van, excitedly telling me about the food and the architecture, and the mullets (or lack thereof), and oh, yeah, there were presentations and stuff, too, when – as The Gap Band would have said – she “dropped a bomb on me, baby.”

“Who knew country music could be my jam?”

OK, now the very fact that she used “jam” and “country music” in the same sentence with “jam” being slangfor “my favorite” and not slang for an “improvised musical performance,” is just wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

This is not about the fact that I am not a big country music fan.

OK, maybe it is. Full disclosure: My least favorite Billy Joel song is “Shameless.” It's not that I don't like the way Billy Joel sings it, but no matter how many times I hear the Billy Joel version, I am always reminded of the Garth Brooks version.

Shudder.

The only country music song I have ever actively sought out (that I will admit to) is "The Rodeo Song" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tX6ggRByE8g). Come to think of it, every fourth word of that song should be bleeped out, so maybe country music and hip-hop aren't always so different after all.

Not that it really matters because tonight when I hopped in the truck, she had the radio tuned to pop music again.

But I'm still not handing her the aux cord.