Tea and Snippets

My husband eagerly volunteered to swim part of a triathlon yesterday. The swimming part.

His commitment was unmistakeable over Christmas dinner last year when my two athletic sisters-in-law (one a runner, one a biker) were chatting about wanting to do a triathlon together if only they could find a third person who could swim.

Greg raised his head ever-so-slightly above his full beer stein and turkey leg and slurred, “I’ll be your shwimmer, I can slim.”

He had several months to back out of his participation in the event. Right up until the day before in fact, teams were withdrawing due to the freezing conditions of the lake.

If only Greg hadn’t had another full beer glass, he may have considered re-thinking his plan.

He was determined. He was sober. He was swimming.

I would mention to people that Greg was swimming in a triathlon this summer and would often receive the following counter, “Greg who?” Or “Greg…..your Greg?” Or, “Does Greg swim?” And “Is he training?”

Greg my husband. Yes my Greg. Yes he swims to cool off. No he isn’t training.

It seemed like a fantastic idea.

Except the rest of the world wanted to warn him of the dangers of swimming.

He heard from a number of previous triathletes who told him some or all of the following in brief conversations about the competition.

“People will punch you when you’re in the water.”

“People will kick you when you’re trying to swim.”

“People will swim over top of you and push you under the water.”
“You will have to wear an unflattering wet-suit and cap.”
“Your nipples will get so chafed.”

“I nearly drowned when I swam in that lake.”
“I lost my contacts the last time I swam in that lake.”

“Do you have any idea how cold that water is?”

“You think you’re swimming 1.5kms but you really swim more like 12kms because you get way off course.”

“Did you know when you get out of the water you have to sprint up a hill that’s on a 90 degree angle–straight up?”
“Do you swim?”

“Have you trained?”

“Were you drunk when you agreed to do this?”

We received emails and calls from people warning Greg not to attempt the triathlon saying it would be too hard.

We heard from family and friends who wanted to support Greg but always finished the conversation, “It’s not too late to pull out.”

I knew he could do it. He knew he could do it. Our kids who cheered at every swimmer in the lake, “Go Daddy! You can do it!” Knew he could do it.

He swam in his baby blue cap in the group for men 45-60 years old which may have been an error but not one any of us were willing to argue.

He swam 1.5kms in 34 minutes and walked/jogged up a gradual slope to hand off to our sister-in-law.

He did it.

We are so proud of our triathlete.

In a full circle moment, he is celebrating with a beer.

My three year old said, “Mommy, stay very still. I promise I won’t kick you in the neck.”

Fooled me once.

Chloe (my three year old) and I were colouring and revolutionizing the world of stickers–moving a series of stickers from their original package onto a piece of paper in a similar but not exact pattern. If I hadn’t had two kids before her I would have thought this simple approach to sticker sticking to be unprecedented.

Without encouragement, Chloe announced, “Here are the rules: No hurting, no scratching, no punching, no stupid, no ugly, no jerky-jerky.”

I giggled (quietly, reserved) “Are those the rules at preschool or did you make them up just now?”

Chloe: I just made them up because someone has to be the boss. You’re not the boss of me anymore.

Me: I’m not?

Chloe: No, Daddy is. Hello, Moneymaker?

Over the past nine years, since becoming a parent, I have had to deal with a number of cleaning products for various stains.

Anything from bodily secretions (sometimes by the kids) to red wine (lots and lots of red wine) to kid’s nail polish (who the F#@! would make kid’s nail polish?) to mysterious, glowing globs that are hot to the touch and may contain peanuts.

The majority of our messes can be dealt with by simply using baking soda or vinegar or, a combination of the two and almost always involve food.

I get asked almost daily, “Does apple juice come out of carpet?”

“I wasn’t touching your perfume but if I spilled it, would it stain the bathroom floor?”

“Does milk smell if I dropped my cup behind the couch a week ago and forgot to tell you?”

“How do you get watermelon seeds out of a vent?”

But yesterday was my favourite.

Chloe (our three year old): Do boogers come off of chairs?

Ellie (our seven year old): They do if the chairs are leather.

Cleaning tips from the pros.

Sometimes I think life would be easier if we had a staff of people who were invisible when not needed (read: no work making up guest bedrooms) but magically appeared when one of their unpaid tasks required their service.

It’s really just taking the whole, “I wish there were two of me” to a higher, more efficient level.

Let’s start with a full time “Turtle Monitor.” This post would be for a person to never, ever take their eyes off the windows, constantly looking for turtles so they could add a check mark to our “Turtle Sightings” chart. Who knows how many turtles we miss while engaging in trivial things like eating or sleeping or documenting raccoon sightings?

The Turtle Monitor candidate should have zero years of schooling so they could never be lured away by a flashier title that paid more (this job pays nothing). All applicants will be tested for ADD as this role will require you to sit very, very still and simply stare, document and stare some more.

The role of translator would also be helpful. Someone to let us know what exactly our kids are singing when they repeat the Hit List from the radio. I’m not so naive that I can’t figure out when Hanna sings, “I’m gonna pop some tags. This is bleeping awesome” what she means, but does she know what she’s bleeping? This position would also require someone to help figure out what Chloe means when she sings, “A ram slam slam, A ram slam slam, gooey gooey gooey gooey ram slam slam” repeatedly while tugging her ears and running in a circle.

Bodyguard. Someone to show the kids my collection of bruises so they understand how their sharp elbows during story time actually do leave semi-permanent marks on my knees.

Last night, Chloe jumped on me when I was reading with Ellie. She knocked my nose right off the hinge, I feared it was broken and bleeding and she looked me in the eyes and said, “Ow, your nose really hurt my hand!”

Family photographer. Someone who would take one picture per year with all of us in it and teach the kids there are other settings on the camera besides ‘check out my pores.’

Do you remember when Oprah (and other talk show hosts) would dedicate an entire 1 hour to re-uniting someone with a lost love or a best friend or estranged relative?

It seemed impossible the two would ever come together again until the final moments of the show when Oprah would announce that her team of dozens of producers had spent months searching and found the person in question.

There would be a tear-filled reunion and not a dry eye in the studio or home audience and no one could believe Oprah’s magical powers had once again done the unthinkable.

Today, I need only type in “guy in red shirt riding bike past my house” and Geoffrey Switzer’s full linkedin profile, twitter feed and facebook friends populate my screen.

I know what Geoffrey had for breakfast and have perused his vacation pics before he even makes it to the mailbox.

Of course social media has changed our lives in hundreds of ways. Reunion shows more than anything.

It used to be that if a person moved outside the range of your phone book demographic, they were gone forever.

Oprah would announce, “Marjorie, we found Elaine! She was living right here in Arizona for the past 50 years, just in a neighbouring town.” (different phone book)

Or, “David, we found Jaqueline. She was living right here in Kansas but had changed her name when she got married.” (different name, same phone book)

Today, before that same hour is up, I know where Geoffrey bought his red shirt, that his rear bike tire appears to be flat, that he’s not in love with his job and is open to branching out and trying something new, maybe in Communications and I know who he went to the prom with.

Careful on that turn Geoffrey. You just had surgery.

I asked my nine year old what she did at school yesterday and her reply was, “Dodgeball.” Ah June.

My seven year old came home from school with the usual stories of academia including; going to the office for ice to dress various wounds, for Band-Aids for other less severe injuries, to escort friends and other random kids to have their first aid needs met. It was a busy day for all.

She did tell me something that happened that really bothered her.

A friend had written a story and one of her characters who happened to be named Ellie needed air.

Deep breath.

Me: I don’t understand why you are upset Ellie? Is it because the character in the story shares your name?

Ellie: No, it’s because it means I can’t breathe!

Great literature can have so many meanings. I did not get that one.

Me again: Did you read the rest of the story? Maybe she meant you needed to go outside for a breath of fresh air? Or did you just hear the part about a character who has the same name as you needing air and you went right for your puffer?

Ellie: What is a puffer?

Me: Tell me why this bothered you so much.

Ellie: It’s not nice to say people can’t breathe.

Why did I open up this can of worms?

Me: Hanna tell me all about dodgeball.

Hanna: Mom, can we have another sister?

Me: ?

Hanna: How about a baby bro?

I think I need some air.

Greg and I recently hosted a party which brought to light just how much menu planning for a large group has changed, even just over the past couple of years.

Gone are the chip and beer parties my parents hosted where guests were armed with their own nutcrackers and a communal bowl of airborne anaphylaxis.

Almost everyone is either allergic, intolerant or offended by at least one (or several) food groups today.

It hadn’t occured to me just how aware we need to be of everyone’s food allergies if we want a party to be a success.

Let’s start with gluten. I don’t profess to be a gluten expert. I can’t even tell you exactly what it is or where it hides its ugly invisible head in our food but I can tell you, it’s almost everywhere, it walks among us, it answers to “Big G.”

So we served quinoa salad which is a complete protein for those who are vegetarian, I added sunflower seeds but never peanuts for those who could potentially go into shock by the very mention of, or knowledge they are in our home.

There was some fresh coriander which causes some to feel faint while others adore it (me).

We had rice crackers and gluten-free bread but I feared somewhere in there the word “carb” would surface and party goers would be in the first smoke-free cab out of here.

We had soy and almond milk for those who are lactose intolerant.

We had Greek salad because this whole Mediterranean diet seems to appeal to the masses. Dressing on the side because to pre-mix would just be playing with fire and some people get nightmares from olive oil.

We served champagne punch which offended the somalier in the crowd who angrily made me change the pretty label to “sparkling wine punch” which simply doesn’t have the same ‘je ne sais quoi’ but you can’t call it champagne if it’s not from that specific region in France.

I laughed while chugging several red solo flutes full.

We had organic red wine (no sulfites) and ground flax sprinkled like fairy dust over everything including the patio to prevent falls.

We thought we were safe serving bbq’d hamburgers on rice cakes and all beef hot dogs on braised corn husks.

There was a beef enthusiast but also a pork refrainer in the crowd. I feared a fist fight might break-out if their identities became public. Thankfully, the chia seed misters maintained a welcome fogging over the group.

We were certain we had thought of everything until our last guests arrived and walked through the food line with two glaringly empty plates.

Vegans.

Is there anything more sad and hopeful at the same time than this?

Just when I thought cleaning day couldn’t get any more depressing, I figured out what was clogging my vacuum.

A ball of long hair with white roots.

Obviously from one of the girl’s dolls.