My 9/11 Story (to be written)

Biden Our Time

Vice President Joe Biden said it himself: “The good news is, the Vice President is coming! The bad news is, the Vice President is coming!” as he stood before US Embassy Moscow employees and family members eager to meet him and shake his hand.

It had been a typically atypical morning again: my husband was off to work earlier than usual, our pre-schooler was scolding me for not reading her book about tea parties for a third time in a row, and our toddler was sleeping in unusually late, daring to threaten our timely arrival at the Biden event. She had gone to sleep in a princess dress and so was dressed for the day already, until she urinated on the floor next to her potty just minutes before we were to leave for the event.

No food or drinks were allowed, so while there would be no chance of beklekering, as the Germans say, the girls’ outfits, there was every chance that we would be waiting for an hour and a half with children whining from hunger and thirst. The only thing not unusual about the day was my high level of anxiety about photographing the event, which I had been asked to photograph but declined, remembering my follies from Governor Schwarzenegger’s visit (see previous blog post). Even without the onus of being the event photographer, I was still the self-proclaimed family record keeper and had to live up to my claims as such.

Joe Biden was introduced by Dr. Jill Biden, his lovely wife, who thanked the spouses and families of the Foreign Service officers who dedicate their lives to this line of business. Amen to that, because every time somebody in, for example, Korea (North or South) decides to make some maneuver or provocative political comment, my husband comes home late for dinner, as he follows these issues. Our family dinners and bedtime stories are often directly affected (read: disrupted) by people in far away places who have no idea they are affecting us, but that is part of what diplomacy is about, I suppose.

On the other hand, the late nights and weekends spent by my husband and his boss and colleagues in order to facilitate the VP’s visit to Moscow were rewarded by the very sincere and articulate words of the Biden couple, Joe’s warmth toward all the children present, and his willingness to shake hands and take pictures with everyone. While gathering all the children to some carpeted steps where Joe sat down, he saw our toddler, dressed in a frilly pink tutu and plastic silver tiara and called to her, “Hey Princess, come on up here, too!”

Triathlete Slogs to Finish Line, Chocolate Clenched in Fist

This headline, for better or worse, has not yet made the news at our local paper. Today was the last day of the two-week long Ironman Triathlon, and like a true athlete, I did cross the proverbial triathlon finish line, even sailing past it by a few inches.

It actually took me less than the full two weeks allotted to finish (okay, I finished only hours before the deadline) the 112-mile bike-ride (okay, it was a recumbent, stationary bike and I got through my pile of fashion magazines, looking at the pretty pictures while clocking miles at a very low speed), the 2.4-mile swim (I admit, I did this over 7 different days, inconsecutively), and the 26.2-mile Marathon run (done over 8 different days, also inconsecutively). At the end of each day (if not in the middle or at the beginning), I also consumed squares of milk, dark and white chocolate, and recorded my consumption of these. (Those stats will be brought to you later…)

What I learned from this venture:

• You can do anything you set your mind to, as long as it involves chocolate.
• Never underestimate the power of a good fashion magazine to get you through the rough times.
• Never mix milk and dark chocolates when you are feeling guilty about the milk and are trying to “dilute” with dark, it’s such a letdown if all you really want is milk chocolate!
• Do mix chocolates of any sort with almonds, walnuts, bananas, yes or even honey, in order to dispel any guilt surrounding the consumption of chocolate.
• Don’t run unless you have good running shoes and a good bar of chocolate waiting for you at the end of the run.
• Don’t swim unless you are sure you have a bar of chocolate waiting for you at home.
• Don’t get on that bike unless you have brought Vogue, W, Elle or InStyle with you to the gym and have secured access to a bar of chocolate.
• Never try any athletic endeavor, unless you have a serious chocolate consumption plan in place.
• Also never try such an endeavor without the full support and consent of your spouse (who must also be eating chocolate with you as you go.)
• And lastly, never discuss these strategies with anyone who is a serious athlete or doesn’t like chocolate.

Okay, now I’ll tell you the real reason I did this, chocolate or not: I turned 40 during this triathlon, and I wanted to do it for myself (could I really do it?), as well as for three of the most important women in my life: my mom and her two sisters. I did it for their hearts, and mine.

As for the chocolate, it certainly helped me get to the “finish line.”

The stats are in: 12 squares of white, 33.5 squares of dark, and 56 squares of milk. No, make that 57, as I pop one more milk chocolate heart before the midnight finishing bell.

Chocathlon

I have signed up for a triathlon -- my first ever! Not just any triathlon, an Ironman, one of the roughest, toughest sport combos out there, besides the Tour de France and pregnancy.

This triathlon will be spread over two weeks, unlike “normal” triathlons which start and finish in the same day. Still, two weeks is not very long when you only have 12 hours’ worth of babysitting available during which to attempt participation. Actually, if you think about it, we all do triathlons over time. It might be over a year, but if you swim, bike and run, however intermittently, then you do triathlons!

It is less than two hours before the race begins and I still have not even opened my race packet to see how I am going to divide my swim/run/bike schedule over those 12 hours and some nighttime hours, when the kids are sleeping.

But in order to prepare for this and reduce my risk of injury due to overtraining – a problem most serious athletes like me often have – I came up with the following simple regimen, and I marvel at its simplicity:

1. Avoid the gym
2. Consume large quantities of chocolate

During this triathlon, I will be celebrating my 40^th birthday – yet another valid reason for the consumption of chocolate. I will allow only gifts involving chocolate. This extra consumption and the support of my friends should give me just the boost I need to clinch a victory.

“Triathlete Wins After a Chocolate-Only Diet!” This is the title I am sure will grace the headlines of our local newspaper, and it will, of course, be referring to me. I will go to the podium, take my medal, bow, and wave bars of chocolate with a gesture that indicates, “I owe it all to these guys right here – Milk, Dark and White!”

Mommy Firsts

The first trip away from the babies is cause for both pain and celebration.

Okay, so there are Baby’s First Steps, Baby’s First Solid Food, and Baby’s First Poop, but what about Mommy’s Firsts? How about Mommy’s First Attempt at Putting on a Diaper? Or, Mommy’s First Time Breastfeeding While Typing? What about Mommy’s First Time Outside Alone with Newborn and Toddler? Now that’s scary.

But even scarier is Mommy’s First Time Away from the Babies. I’m not referring to that first two-hour break between nursings when you literally run to the store to buy yourself a new nursing bra. Nor am I thinking of the three brief hours of pre-school during which you exhaust yourself with the plethora of possibilities only to find that all you’ve accomplished between drop-off and pick-up is throwing together lunch and throwing yourself in the shower. What I am talking about is that first 7-day trip you take alone, sans enfants…

…first to your mother’s house to clean out the attic (is it really necessary?), where you hope to find your childhood Barbies, plastic horses and Smurfs to pass on to your daughters,

…and then on to a work-related conference in New York City (will it be worth it?), where you hope to collect pearls of wisdom from seminars with all your favorite industry gurus, and if not, then at least to collect some cool paraphernalia, in this case, photography-related tote bags, note cards and lens cleaners.

As my capacity for empathy has grown to unbearable proportions post-double-partum, I think I have mostly my own hormones to blame. I cry at everything now, being a Mom. Any emotional moment, whether in a movie, cartoon, or real life, my eyes tear up. So, to calm down before bedtime the night before my first solo Mom Voyage, I tried doing yoga.

It didn’t help that I was experiencing what the French might call le PMS, and I discovered that my tears were stronger in downward dog and child’s poses than upward dog and cobra. I guess there is something to be said for literally keeping your chin up. I also discovered that doing yoga without breathing somehow made stretching more difficult. Who knew?

At just about every juncture the morning I had to leave, tears came to my eyes. The already hectic, short amount of time I usually have in the morning with the girls had seemed to have been chopped to mere moments. I spent a few moments with them eating breakfast at the table, then a few minutes as they sang and danced to the Disney Cinderella song , “Once Upon a Dream” (a tear-jerker just when you don’t want it to be), then it was time to leave. I was so surprised at how much room I still had left in my suitcase and carry-on, usually stuffed with diapers, extra baby clothing, wipes, and snacks, that I briefly considered asking my four year old if I could pack her in my bag.

Feeling sick, torn, and anxious, I left my children at the top of the stairs, tears in my eyes, and stepped into the sedan taking me to the airport. After wishing him a good morning, I asked the driver about the traffic. He said today it should be light. Moscow traffic is particularly unpredictable, and I spent the extra hour built in for the car trip to the airport stuck, not moving, in traffic. The ride to the airport became an excruciating mix of emotion, handwringing and inescapable sadness. All I wanted to do was kiss the gummy cheeks of my babies.

The compassionate driver took every turn possible to avoid being stuck in traffic on the big roads, only to be stuck in traffic on the small roads. He could see my furrowed brow in his rearview mirror as I spoke on my cell phone with my two year old, who said, “I love you” to me for the first time ever (visualize Mommy’s heart melting). The “baby’s” favorite song is “A Foggy Day,” by Frank Sinatra. She requests it at every meal, and as it plays now, the tears well up again. It’s a peppy tune, it puts us all in a good mood. It’s always followed by “Let’s Fall in Love,” which my older daughter likes best. Thanks, Frankie, we love you!

“We’ve never missed a flight!” the driver chirped, as we arrived ninety minutes before takeoff. He graciously led me to customs with my bag and wished me well. He will be receiving a large bar of chocolate from me when I get back. Passing through Russian customs, there was, miraculously, no line, nor at the security check for bags, nor at the check-in counter, nor at passport control. Where was everyone? Arriving this late turned out to mean that I had missed the crowd I remember from previous years flying with Delta out of Moscow, when they would check each bag, meticulously opening every wrapped gift and every bottle of nail polish you’d wrapped in a sock.

I even had time to buy some water before boarding, but realized that in my tearful morning haze at home, I hadn’t thought to pack a single ruble. Luckily, Moscow airports still accept “hard currency,” albeit only in the overly lit, heavily perfumed Duty Free stores, where I bought two tiny bottles of water for four dollars and twenty-eight cents (they even accepted pennies!)

As we flew over Northern Europe, I wondered how I would bear each of the following seven days without my children. Would I be in my element once I get over these few hours of transition? Or would I be racked with longing and sadness for the entire trip? Would I make it back to them safely? Would I ever leave them again willingly? The nanny thinks I’m crazy because I miss my children even when they’re just outside on the playground. I had thought I would feel unending guilt, instead, I felt the deepest sense of sadness, longing to be with them, hug them, kiss them.

It was not as if anyone was hurt, sick, or dying, God forbid, knock on wood, etc. We were all okay, I was just going on my trip, the one I’d been planning for months (years, actually). Nevertheless, I counted the hours as the distance between us grew. What will the baby feel this evening and the next and the next, when I am not there to nurse her before bedtime? Had last night felt like the last time I’d ever nurse my child again? Actually, no. It was really no different than other nights of recent months. I was exhausted at the end of the day, as usual, ready to finish up, but nevertheless, cradling my little one in this unbreakable, sometimes unbearable, close bond, that keeps a mother from leaving and draws her back to the nest again, and again, from whatever the distance, from whatever ambitious thing she may be doing.

Not being able to communicate with my babies, or with anyone I knew was what made that flight so alienating and painful, such that with every trip to the bathroom, in the solitude of those narrow, claustrophobic lavatories, I sobbed. I realized that I had been operating under the false assumption that I would feel a freedom I hadn’t felt before. Instead, what I felt was a beshackling lack of purpose and an unquenchable longing, wondering every half hour, what were they doing right now? It’s twelve o’clock, they’re going to school. It’s 2:30pm, the baby must still be napping. It’s 4:30pm, they’re on the playground. I hoped that I was feeling my own absence more than they were, but achingly I knew they would notice it more at the end of the day, at dinnertime, bedtime.

My hours of desperation during that flight, dotted by moments of numbness, were temporarily quelled only by the act of writing about it, as if this would either hasten my reunion with my babies or erase the pain of this voyage altogether. And I’d like to think that it was more love than just hormones that was giving me this pain in the first place.

As it turned out, shortly after the flight I was able to contact my husband, who reassured me that they all had a good day but missed me, of course. I called several times daily, was able to hear their voices when they felt like coming to the phone, and felt relieved, that each day, each hour, that passed meant that I was that much closer to returning to the nest, to cuddle my babies once more. But not before enriching my life in other ways first – Mom Voyage!

The Momminator

It was a perfect storm of events: My husband was away on business, the baby hadn’t napped or eaten dinner, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was coming to the US Embassy in Moscow to speak. Like almost everyone else I know, I have been a fan of his since childhood, more for his bodybuilding than his gunslinging, I dare say.

I had been asked to take photographs for the event and then not to and then again to and then not to, until I figured I might as well have my camera and the girls with me, in case I could either shoot the event or have them both be in the shot. In the end, neither of these things happened. Well, they sort of didn’t happen.

Thanks to Moscow traffic, the Governor’s motorcade was delayed and the dinnertime hour came and went while we waited for him. Everyone was waiting and practicing for a group shot of California constituents. I even had time to run home from the event and grab some crackers and milk for the girls, while an equally anxious Mom watched them.

By the time the Governor arrived, the baby was loopy, had wet her pants (I still don’t know if it was milk or urine, but it looked to everyone else like the latter), and was being laughed at by all the kids, including my toddler, who, nevertheless, thankfully stayed seated with the rest of the group for the photo.

Seconds after the Governor’s handler told me I should join the group shot instead of take the picture myself (the Governor had his own photographer with him), the Governor strode up and took his place among the group of California constituents. I was, perhaps, on the edge of the shot, on the floor, actually, grabbing the flailing arms and legs of my screaming two year old and thereby giving up the millisecond opportunity of being in a photo with Arnold Schwarzenegger. As a Mom, these are the choices you make. The photographer took two or three shots and then the Governor and his handlers moved on to the stairs and stage below. I was wearing the true colors of motherhood of milk and urine on my dress, as I gathered up our sippy cups, stuffed bear and my camera to join the rest of the awaiting crowd below.

The Governor made kind remarks, thanking us all for our service to the Government and noting how much he enjoyed the fact that most of us remember him as The Terminator, as opposed to The Predator, or other such titles given him over his career. A resounding cheer came from the crowd when he said the words, “I’ll be back!”

In the end, I got to shake Arnold Schwarzenegger’s hand, or rather, he shook mine. I said to him in a barely audible voice, “Gutentag!”

And to think that just an hour or two before, I had been at home, scooping cat litter, chasing down a diaperless baby, and wiping the baby’s urine off the carpet. All in a Mom’s day’s work. Mom Voyage!

Speed Dating for Married Couples

For better or worse, I have never attended a “speed dating” session, which I believe is a setup in which you have, say, ten minutes to chat with someone and get to know them just a bit before moving on to the next victim – I mean, individual, and so rotating amongst several potential datable candidates. What happens after that, I don’t know, since I’ve never done it. My guess is that you pick the one you like best, who is surely the favorite of at least one other person in the group, at which point you begin a conversational tug-of-war over the chosen favorite and try to win him or her over with your charms, looks, or whatever.

Not so for married couples! Or more specifically, for married couples with children. Small children, to be exact. We have two of these (under the age of five), who require, as most young children aged 19 months to 4 years, more attention and care than you ever thought possible to give during your simple and quaint dating years many, many, many years ago.

We are on vacation in beautiful Cannes, France – the Cote d’Azur, a romantic, lovely place in this month of April. Just today, my husband, Toby, and I found ourselves sitting next to each other at breakfast time at a beach café, after having each provided our daughters with various things such as sand toys, sunscreen, cookies, juice boxes, sun hats, books, crayons and paper. Toby turned to me and introduced himself, “Hi! I’m Toby. Who are you?” -- a natural pick-up line for a guy you’ve been married to for eight years, and “dating” for thirteen.

We realized that we were close enough that he could put his arm around my shoulder and we could talk while the girls occupied themselves with the above list of items for precisely 2.5 minutes, until one of them cried.

Ten minutes – ha! That is NOT speedy. Speed dating for married couples is much more expeditious and truly “speedy.” At 10-second intervals over the course of a day, a week, a month, a year, a decade, those are the glimpses of the dating life we relish. And rather than rotate from candidate to candidate, you get to rediscover who this person, your spouse, is over and over again!