Packing Heat

So I went to Matt Bernson today on Harrison. A new store, his workshop has been in Tribeca for a while but it's nice to have a retail place to shop. I love his shoes. Love his bracelets. I've been obsessed with getting a gun necklace (ironic, since I'm such a pacifist I walked out of The Hunger Games movie), and found this sniper rifle necklace. Much bigger than the $850 one here, in fact styled completely differently, but a great happy little springtime bobble, don't you agree?

Why "Queen of A Small Country?"

I worried that the name of this blog would sound a little silly, as in 'what country'? 'what queen?'
It's actually just a simple joke on me, and here's the story:
About 5 years ago my sweet husband came home from a long day at work to find me in tears, knee-deep in kids and unmet expectations. Crappy dinner. Probably no workout, cagey day. As I vented and vented about how much I hated it, how Motherhood made me feel like I was a round peg trying to shove myself into a square hole, I finally concluded, "There's been some huge mistake. This is all wrong. I wasn't meant to be a mom. I know I was meant to be the Queen of some small country!!!"
I was totally 100% serious when I said it. I really believed it. Some days I still do. But at that point my husband, as usual with my freakouts, tried I'm sure to suppress his giggles, all the while trying to figure out how to fix it all.
I got over it that day, and every other day that felt that way. Barbara Bush once described her child-rearing time as "Long Days and Short Years". Nothing more true than that. Some days you want it to end. NOW. Other days you know you're seeing into eternity, with 60 seconds of bliss that somehow makes all the other stuff work it. I still work to reconcile this job. I'll always be a round peg, only now I've created my own round hole to fit in. Just to be myself and be their mother and realize that it's not mutually exclusive.

If Las Vegas is The Devil's Playground...

...then New York City is his office.

My brilliant husband- I always knew the sky's the limit with him.

Stockholm Syndrome, Mommy-style

I'm so excited to be running Ragnar SoCal this weekend! It's a 2-van, 12-person relay over 200 miles long. It goes for 24-30 hours straight, which means I'll be running in the middle of the night. Everyone runs three legs, and I'll be Runner #1 (of 12). My three relay legs will be roughly 5, 10, then 5 miles. I'm doing it with a group of friends with whom I don't mind in the slightest being stinky, including my husband. I have had all kinds of aches and pains this past year, and right now I feel like 90% injury-free, which I'll take. I'm ready to go! The only stresser, of course, is leaving my kids...

I have my 5-page typewritten document, listing out everything that will happen and when, including all emergency contacts (is Mayor Bloomberg's cell too much?) and meal plans. Playdates. Scheduled events. Entertainment ideas. We are ready to GO! And I love the girl watching the kids, I totally trust her and I know that kids will be well. But that thing that makes my heart beat faster is that my 11, 9 or 6 year old, one of them, might want me. Might need me. And I won't be there. I'll just be off, being selfish, probably kissing Daddy 'marriage-kiss' style (that Daisy's obsessed with- but that's another post entirely), laughing, peeing alone, drinking more than one Diet Coke. And one of them will want me and I won't be there... Or what if they can't find that one thing they're looking for? That particular sock, toy, book for school? And like everything in the apartment, only in asking me (while peeing) and making me go myself will it be found? (not in it's place though, nor in the last place you used it)...

Maybe this anxiety comes from the inevitable- the worst-case scenario of all, coming on the horizon but I hope not too quickly: What if I'm gone, running and playing, selfish and kissy-like, and they actually don't want me at all? What if they realize, "Hey! this is a party, and our mom is cramping our style! Life is so much fun without her!" I can be fun, you know. Behind the baths and piano practice, math drills and vegetables, I'm a circus. And everybody wants the circus. right?

It's coming, though, that sentiment. And as I polish off the sixth page of instructions, it's with the hope that somehow all this prep will prevent it from coming anytime too soon. Circus.

Running, Post #1

Jennifer Aniston once said of running, "It's the only thing that burns fat". But fom me, falling into running was never intentional. To say I made it up as I went along is a huge understatement. Having quit ballet in college, I started walking to burn calories. After a year of that I decided to start running to get the distance up the canyon over with sooner. Mixtapes in my (heavy!) yellow Walkman, running the hills of Provo, Utah, I got in decent shape (for an ex-ballerina) and my loathing of running went from 100% to 95%. After 2 years I was running for 60 to 75 minutes, even finishing a half marathon by the time I graduated. (I credit a good guy friend my Junior year, Matt, who became a great running partner and was patient with my pace.) I hated it the whole time but it kept me in shape better than the Callenetics VHS tape and aerobics classes in the huge indoor track of the RB I did religiously.
After graduation I became a missionary for my church and had only one companion Allison, who would get up earlier than the required 6:30am and run with me. (The rest of the time I used a jumprope to get in some form of cardio, because the street-contacting never gave me the opportunity to raise my heartrate- I was in France, not Brazil, after all). From that my love of running slowly started to build. One of my best memories of my mission is of those early morning runs, going down the main avenue in Bourg-La-Reine, circling a chateau and it's gardens, then looping back. I can still see the townsmen (yes! they had 'townsmen'! or maybe they were just the intentionally unemployed?), at 6:30 in the morning, emerging from their cafe/bar (either still drunk from the night before, or just getting started), who would come out of the cafe, confused (French women don't run- they're just born that way), and smelling of stale wet cigarettes. I could always count on this one particular fellow who would see me running as fast as I could ahead of my comp in some random sprint to the finish, yelling after us in the pre-dawn light, "Allez les filles! Lui, elle va gagner! Allez les filles!"
I still sucked at it, still hated it- 93% loathing. But it did something and made me happy for the day.

Years later, when it came time to retire my Walkman and get an iPod, I had to name my running playlist. Keeping in line with my poetic self, I titled it 'Allez les Filles'.

Never mind that it's that portly drunk Frenchman's face I see, every time I see my playlist. Never mind that I remember those runs as awkward and hard and far too short. In the dim light I see him step out of the cafe, espresso in hand, and begin to watch us running down the street. He pretends surprise as always, elbows his buddies and points. He begins to smile and for the next 30 seconds he's my fan. I hear his mutterings and guffaws and then as we get closer he gains confidence. It's coming, I can see it on his face. Then just as I pass, he bellows, "Go girls! Her, she's going to win! Go girls!!!" I try not to smile in acknowledgement or approval but I can't help it. I pass him and hear faintly as he laughs at himself, or us, but I don't care. His yells and jeers somehow motivate me. Echoing in my head today, they motivate me still. I can run faster, he's telling me to. I can give more, I can go. Those early morning cheers are the first ones I hear in my head when I start a run, and years later I wouldn't have it any other way.