If you’ve been following my blog, Reader, you know that I’ve been waffling on whether or not to do a triathlon this year. I decided to at the last minute (read: when I could still get the cheaper rate), even though I have not been training like I really should have, even for a sprint tri.
Well, I ran it on Saturday, and the good news is, I finished! And you know? It was just FUN! A LOT more fun than last year, when the entire thing just had me freaked out. I had a miserable swim, due in large part to lack of a wetsuit (lesson learned) and the beginnings of a head cold that made it tough to breath. The bike was OK, really, for me, and I did not push it like I should have on the run and had way too much left at the end. But I loved it. I’m hooked. I see more of these in my future, now that they are just fun instead of terrifying.
But this one was preceded by an episode of Husband Failure that is just too funny not to share. The night before the race, Mike had a buddy over, and it became pretty obvious that it was going to be one of THOSE evenings. I had gone for an easy little run, just to stay loose, and when I got back I decided to get all the stuff I dug up at my Mom’s that afternoon into the ground. By the time all of that was accomplished, it was time to chase the girls to bed (Tobin had a sleepover at Grandma’s) and crawl into the shower.
Being a responsible triathlete, I packed my gear, loaded my bike, and headed up to bed before my usual bedtime, to try and read myself sleepy. The noise level from downstairs indicated that a Good Time was Being Had By All, so I shut the door to my room and kicked on the fan. Moments later, I hear “Honey!! HONEY!! Come here QUICK!” I hobbled down the stairs, imagining the worst, to find that I had been summoned because the keyboard on MY computer was not working… Because MY braincells were still fully functional, I rebooted, smacked some heads, and went back up to sleep.
Around 2:00 A.M., my beloved stumbled up the stairs.
“Honey. HONEY! Wake up. What is your password on Facebook?”
Well. Now. CLEARLY that was vital information. Definitely worth waking me up for, the night before a race. And even at 2:00 A.M., I am nobody’s fool. When it was clear that he was going to settle in for a lengthy session of pestering to get the password after my initial refusal, I got up to pee and simply located another bed until he decided to stumble back down the stairs.
2:30 A.M., and once again comes my beloved, this time thinking, “Hey! Time to get lucky!”
Dear Reader, I will spare you the details of my tactful refusal and his inebriated attempts at persuasion. Suffice it to say that in very short order he was once again stumbling back down the stairs (still, I might add, wearing his VERY LOUD BOOTS), miraculously still in possession of all his body parts.
3:00 A.M. He is back. The VERY LOUD BOOTS were tossed to the closet, the dirty socks thrown woefully short of the hamper. Dimly I become aware that he is messing with the alarm clock, which I have set for 5:00. I am instantly awake. “WHATAREYOUDOING?!”
“Honey! You don’t need to get up at 5:00! What time does the race start again?”
Because 3:00 in the morning, the day before a race, it is a good idea to MICRO MANAGE ME. Yeah, that is a GOOD IDEA.
I don’t remember clearly what I said, or did. I do know that the alarm remained set at 5:00, and am pretty sure I did not do or say anything that might require legal action if I were to confess it.
As you might guess, my beloved and my girls were not there to see me off for the swim leg of my race. And they weren’t there when I came in from the swim to head out on the bike. And they still hadn’t made it when I got back from the bike and took off for the run. But when I crossed the finish line, there they were in all their uncombed glory, my girls, and my beloved, who might as well have been wearing a sign over his head that said, “Epic Hangover.”
He took pictures, and kissed and hugged me IN PUBLIC, and helped me haul my gear back out to the truck.
I can’t wrap this up neatly with “All is forgiven” though. That would imply that I was actually MAD, which I wasn’t. Really. I was irritated, yes, but more than that I was amused in a resigned sort of way. The whole series of events just sort of epitomizes My Life as Wife and Mom - my entire crew really sucks at noticing when Mom might need something, like a little extra sleep. And fixing that just adds to an already silly list of things to do.
Eight years ago today, a little girl named Zoe was conceived. She was unplanned, but never, ever unwanted, and in the weeks and months that followed the despair of September 11th, I took enormous solace in her approaching birth. There is an immediacy about pregnancy, giving birth and tending to a newborn that keeps you simultaneously focused on the moment, and looking ahead to what will come. There was such promise there, such hope in my burgeoning belly, and when she arrived… well, see for yourself! She was the happiest baby, always smiling, quick to laugh. She was “The Glue”. Where once there were two families, now there was one, united and cemented by our adoration of this small girl.
Every year, on the anniversary of this day, I look back and remember what began that day, rather than focusing on what ended. Zoe is joyful and fierce, silly and scientific, and absolutely, utterly unique. She is agile, athletic and graceful, compassionate and stubborn and strong.
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