Rediculously Optimistic

Several months ago, I signed up for my second triathlon. I then should have promptly changed my middle name to “ridiculously optimistic” Or better yet, “stupid.” I have no idea why I like to punish myself in these kinds of ways, but I do. And it seems to be a pattern for me. I had full intentions of (using my best and most forceful air quotes) “training” for this one. I had completed my first sprint triathlon in 2008 while visiting Michigan during my mother’s chemo treatments. I say completed, but what I really mean is “didn’t die.” (Again with the air quotes.) I consider myself an athlete, so the first time around I thought, ‘oh, well, I can swim…and ride a bike…and run…so, let’s do a triathlon!’ 


Wrong.

I found out how wrong I was 50 feet into the swim portion of that very first triathlon. The only person I beat out of the lake was an 80-year old woman…and not only was she on my heels, but she started two or three waves behind me. Luckily, the part of the country where I participated in that initial Tri was as flat as any performance Rene Zelweger has done. With the exception of Chicago, actually. I really do like that movie. The flat land made it easy for me to catch up on the bike and trot through the run to cross the finish line under 2 hours. I was completely satisfied with myself but floored at how difficult that triathlon thingy was.

Not again! Oh, no. ‘Not again’ I told myself this time around. I will train for this. Oh, yes I will. I will train and lose the weight of baby number three….and the weight of Oreo cookies…and the weight that comes with the depression of grief. I will train and be amazing! I will look amazing…I will conquer and get there!

Then I discovered my left ACL reconstruction was torn. And the meniscus in that knee was deteriorated leaving my bones from my femur and tibia to make nice together in a little dance we call arthritis. Oh..and having three children really puts a damper on any regularly scheduled exercise. And… I still couldn’t swim. 


Hmmm….I’m not sure how, exactly, I thought this was going to go, but the ridiculous optimist in me thought it would ‘all work out.’ So, I borrowed a road bike from a friend, I started getting up at 5am to sneak in a jog or a ride and a really sweet neighbor offered to go to the YMCA with me to give me instructions on how to swim effectively.

All good in theory, yes. But the 5am workouts only happened when my knee cooperated and I wasn’t completely exhausted from the day before. Those celebrities who go to rehab for ‘exhaustion’ have nothing on mothers. Nothing. I say they’re wussies. Ok, not wussies…actually kind of smart, really. I’d totally go away for a while due to ‘exhaustion,’ if I could. Going to the YMCA with my neighbor happened only about four times due to schedules. It was enough time for me to learn what to do, but not enough time to actually practice doing it. Those pesky kids and their needs…if they hadn’t gotten in the way, I’d have reached my goal! Grrr.

Cut to this past Sunday morning. Event day. Five months after I signed up, I packed my bag and left at 5am with all of the things you need for a triathlon… towels, running shoes, shirt, bib number, visor, chip timer, helmet, water bottles, protein and carbs. I was prepared. I had even switched to clip in shoes on the bike and was comfortable using them. From the outside, I totally looked like I knew what I was doing. On the inside, however, I was terrified but ridiculously optimistic. 

Donning a purple swim cap signifying I was between the ages of 30 and 39, I stood surrounded by other purple caps who were surely going to leave me in the dust. Why was I here? I had no business doing this, I certainly didn’t train and saying I’m not a strong swimmer is an understatement. Here’s the thing… I didn’t care. I just wanted to finish alive. There was no way I was going to quit, because well, I just don’t ever quit. When the horn sounded and the mass of women ran into the water, I prayed to God to give me the strength to finish. Within just a few feet of the start I knew, once again, how difficult this was going to be. And it was.

I was comforted by the fact that I was not the slowest one. Five other purple caps struggled right along with me. I went from swimming on my belly to the backstroke wishing I could just float in on the waves from latter heats of women passing me. No such luck, but what actually happened to kept me going, was the drop out of those other purple caps. One by one, they all yelled for help and were escorted via lifeguard to the side of the lake for an exit from the event. By the halfway point, there were two of us left.  I had a lifeguard on a surfboard following me the entire time asking every 4 minutes if I was ok. So, other than looking like I needed help, I didn’t drown and I managed to keep the vomit down.

Yes, vomit.

Somehow, in my struggle to swim, nausea set in. But still… I didn’t quit. I couldn’t. Oh, dear Lord, why did you give me the father I have? There was no way I would ever be able to tell my Dad that I quit. Curses. I had to finish that swim. After I turned around the last buoy, I had a clear sight of the finish. And with God’s good graces, I did not die in my 22 minute swim. Yes, 22 minutes. Most finished it in 12. 

It took everything I had to walk up out of that water and not stop. I wanted to sit down right smack dab in the lap of that event photographer who was probably getting the absolute most unflattering picture of me. Somehow my mind convinced my legs to move in a fashion that could be considered a jog… or a seizure, call it what you want. I had plenty of room to get ready for my bike, since everyone around me was already gone. I put on my socks, grabbed my shoes, clipped on my helmet, took a big bite of a protein bar and with bike in tow, ran out of transition.

I mounted the bike thinking this was going to be the easiest part, as if sitting on a seat the size of a Kit Kat for 11 miles was somewhat of a rest before I had to run a 5k. I was shaking, tired, hungry, wishing I had a pillow and a blanket and the pain of having to pee was overwhelming. Why was I here? I had no business doing this. 10-year old boys and 80-year old women were passing me on BMX’s and mountain bikes.

I have never, ever wanted to stop moving so bad. You see, a Southern California event is full of lots of things that make me cringe, including very fit people and hills. I actually used the first half of the bike to rest and ride easy and once I caught my breath and had water, I found my second wind. I was able to change the gear and speed up, passing several people who had left me behind a while back. But I still had to pee. I tried to convince myself to just pee in my pants. “Just let it go, Jess.” is what I was saying over and over. I would have peed my pants, intentionally, if I could have. My body was so mad at me already, cooperation was not happening. Darn that potty training.

After 50 minutes and a beautiful ride over Hansen Dam, I was back at transition. I dismounted, shook out my body and headed to get my running shoes on. On my way out of transition and into the run, I was hoping to stop by a porta potty, but it was in an area I couldn’t get to. Those first few minutes of running were hell. Absolute torture. What was I doing here?!

My bladder felt like my stomach does normally on Thanksgiving. I tried to pee my pants again, but it just wouldn’t work. The 5k was a trail run and at many points we were running in sand. As if I weren’t moving slow enough, now I had fight with sand to make it look like I was moving backwards… or in super slow motion. I was so exhausted that I was getting annoyed at the shoe prints I was following. Have you seen those barefoot shoes? The one’s that hug your toes? Annoying. Someone in front of me had them on and I was disgusted. Who actually wants to wear something in between your toes?!

Ironically the pain in my bladder was soon replaced with the pain in my right foot. Apparently, one of my toenails was a wee too long and started scraping the inside of the toe next to it. Have you ever tried to run while clenching your toes? And I thought sand was my problem. Suddenly, those huggy barefoot shoes that would keep my toes separated seemed alright. The run turned into a run/walk/run/putter/walk until the midpoint when I felt rested enough to continue. 45 minutes after I started the run, I saw the finish line.

Hallelujah. Amen. Done. Thank you Jesus.

I promptly took my medal, ate an orange, a banana and a bagel, said bye to a few new friends (who made it all look too easy) and headed for my bike to pack up. As I walked back to my belongings, I was absolutely satisfied. My knee never gave out, I had not quit and for being 30 pounds overweight with very little training, I didn’t do as bad as I expected. I suppose being ridiculously optimistic pays off.

Me...the triathlete.

Dinner and Conversation

Sitting down to a quiet, intimate dinner with someone is probably one of the greatest bonding experiences you can have. Casual talk starts as menus are handed out. Drinks are soon on their way and after you’ve decided what to eat and place your order, the distraction of printed words is removed from the table. Now, you can toast, fold your hands and sit back to have a moment with someone…a spouse, a friend, a brother, sister, a date, a lover, a great dinner does not discriminate.

If I could sit down to dinner with anyone right now, the obvious answer would be my mother. There’s no doubt we’d end up at Taco Bell sipping on pop and finishing up her favorite tacos. A conversation wouldn’t even be necessary, actually. I’d be perfectly happy just staring at her face. Forever.

I started thinking about what a great dinner would be this week, as I was reading Time Magazine in the Pediatricians office. I opened to an article on the current exhibit at The Philadelphia Museum of Art, Rembrandt and the Face of Jesus. They had a few printed examples of this exhibit and my eyes found and stuck with one image in particular.

This one.

I must have stared at this image for a good bit of time because Courtney, who was in for her 15-month appointment, had made her way through all of the toys in an enormous bin.

This painting is titled Christ At Emmaus and it’s dated from 1625. The men in this print have just realized whom they had been sharing bread with. One of them is thrown back and the other immediately falls to his knees. It made me envious of any man or woman who was able to sit down at a table with Jesus and have an actual, real-life conversation with him.

I honestly think, if I were given the chance right now to see my mother’s face again or to sit with Jesus Christ of Nazareth himself, I’d have to go with the latter. Sound crazy to you? Yeah, me too. Rembrandt has projected so much love from this work; I am on the edge of tears every time I examine it. This painting fully speaks to me about the longing I have to talk directly to this man who fills me with so much love… so much strength… so much confusion.

Yes, confusion. I must confess, I am a skeptic at heart.

I have many daily struggles. I struggle with how not to throw any combination of kids out of the window at any given time. I struggle with NOT eating the entire bag of Oreo’s. I struggle with getting the laundry done before any one of us runs out of clean underwear and also with keeping the floors shiny so all of our feet...and baby’s hands don’t stay permanently black from filth. But the whopper of all daily struggles for me… is my faith. The foundation of what I believed to be true was shaken when my mother died.

So, if I had the chance to meet this man at a dinner table, I think I’d order a glass of wine, listen intently and stare at his face. Forever.

The Mother Of All Comfort

Can we talk comfort food?

Thank the Lord above for gifting me with a mother who could cook anything, and cook it well......and probably with butter and salt.
I know how lucky I am to have had a mom who could delight us all in the kitchen and who taught me how to as well. I'm not saying, by any means, that I'm any kind of chef. But I do alright.
One of the best, and most simple things, my mother ever made was Chicken Noodle Soup...always from scratch.
It's easy, it's cheap and it's comfort.
I had just made a big batch of Chicken Noodle this past Monday for dinner and then my dear friend Lindsay went and had her third baby this week!  I'll be making it again this morning for her and her family. You see, if you've had a baby, or have been sick, or have lost a loved one....I'll make you soup. Soup is good. Since I have these pictures, I'd love to show you exactly what Lindsay will be getting when she gets home from the hospital.


The main ingredients:

Chicken, Onion, Carrots, Celery, Salt & Pepper & Water

Place the chicken, chopped up veggies, salt and pepper in a roaster or crockpot and let it go!

A nice big roaster. You can certainly use a crock pot as well. I cook the chicken at 325-350 for a few hours.

I use 1 large onion

I use as many carrots as I can fit. I love carrots in my soup!

I use 1 stalk of celery

Chicken covered in yummy goodness ready to be cooked for hours. Be sure to put enough water to cover chicken.

I cook the chicken  for at least 2 1/2 hours, depending on what else I've got going on that day. Easy!

Chicken...which makes your house smell delicious...is done.

I remove the chicken from the roaster and place it into a shallow pan to cool. It should absolutely fall apart!

You're left with this delicious stock, which I then transfer to a soup pot on the stove, because I make a very large pot of soup.

Thank you Mervyn's Going Out of Business Sale for this amazing soup pot!

Since I like to make enough soup to feed an army....or freeze for a second meal in a few weeks, I do add a bit more stock. I find that liquid stock is better tasting than bouillon of any kind. But this is just a personal preference. Either one of these are ok! 

This next part is where I've deviated from my mother's plan. She always loved Kluski Noodles for her soup, and they are very delicious indeed, but when I was a child, my paternal grandmother made some homemade noodles that were just as tasty as they come. So, a few years ago, I asked her how to make them. Ever since then, I've been making the homemade noodles instead of store bought. 

Oh yes...my mother would be proud. 

Here's how to make the noodles:

Beat 3 eggs

Then take one half of the egg shells and fill it three times with cold water. Beat. After this, add about a tablespoon of salt. Then beat again

This next step is a bit of guesswork. You need to add flour to make the dough. I start with 2 cups of flour and if I think I need more, I add more.

There is only one way to mix this...by hand. You'll know if you need to add more flour by the consistency of the dough. Mix and knead by hand until the dough bounces back after pushing it down. If your dough is dry, just add a little bit of water until you're good with it.

This is the dough ball I'm left with. I like to work with half of this at a time, so I'll just tear this in half and roll out one part at a time.

The tools you will need: A cutting board, a roller and a pizza cutter or knife.

Cover your rolling spot with plenty of flour. I mean...plenty of flour.

Roll out your dough to your desired thickness. I try to get it as thin as possible because the noodles do get thicker when cooked.

After they are rolled out, I pull it up on my cutting board and start cutting. You can cut them any shape, length or thickness your little heart desires.

Place the cut noodles in a colander and when you're ready to place them into your boiling stock, give them a quick rinse in cold water. I mean quick....they will get mushy and start to stick together if you're not quick enough. 

Simply add your noodles to boiling stock and let them cook for a few minutes, that's all they need.

At this point, all there is left to do is tear apart your chicken (Which I do by hand) and add it to your soup.

Voila!

Chicken Noodle Soup. Delicious.

Some of the best part of this is letting the kids help....and play. Flour is easy to sweep up, so I let them go to town!

I'm not sure why he looks so angry....he was having a great time. 

Lindsay will also be getting chocolate chip cookies, but that's a recipe I don't feel like sharing just yet.

Bon Appetit!

Rite Of Passage

When I was six, I got my ears pierced. For it being so very long ago, I actually remember the day quite well. I was with my mom in the Northtown Mall in Toledo, Ohio…long before it is whatever it is now… and as we passed Claire’s Boutique, I remember telling her that I wanted to get my ear’s pierced. She didn’t hesitate for a minute. She smiled, she told me it would hurt and led me by the hand into the store. After picking out some ruby studs and using a marker to dictate where the earrings would go, a nice young lady quickly pierced the first one and I immediately teared up. Mom had to hold my hand and calm me down a bit so I wouldn’t have to leave there looking lopsided. The nice young clerk then pierced my second ear. And that was it. I had pierced ears.

As mom was paying at the counter for my newfound body jewelry, I firmly wrapped my arms around her right thigh and hung onto her jeans while a few tears fell down my 6 year old cheek. She rubbed the back of my head and looked down at me.
“See, that didn’t hurt so bad, did it?”
I smiled, “No.”
“Does it still hurt now?” She asked.
“No.” I giggled, realizing she was right. They had stopped hurting.

I remember all of this. It was a great day and I’m thankful for the memory.

This summer, just before Shelby turned six, she asked me if she could get her ears pierced. I had been waiting for her to ask. A lot of people pierce their little girls’ ears at infancy, and I’ve had plenty of Latinas in the neighborhood ask me why I hadn’t done it to my girl. My answer was always the same.

“I’ll wait until she asks.”

She did ask, and I was excited. I made her patiently wait until our summer vacation was over and yesterday I took her to the mall to get her ears pierced. She was so excited as expected. I was definitely more nervous than she, but I had been telling her that it would hurt to try and prepare her. Shelby picked out a very pretty pair of pink flower studs and as she sat in the chair waiting for her step into earrings, I was extremely emotional myself.

 This is what my mom did with me. I remember this day for myself and I pray that she’ll remember it too. I thought of how important earrings are to girls..Middle school…High School…College! Earrings are fun and make girls feel special. Shelby was sitting right in front of me, growing up. Literally, right before my very eyes, she was growing up.

Shelby asked me to hold her hand, and I did. My only tweak was to ask if they could do both ears at the same time, just to be done with it. They did, she giggled in the reality of it….and now she’s got pierced ears. She never cried.

 I am so happy for her. She’s been talking about them nonstop…to anyone who, well, has ears.