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La 6000D in France

Americans do many memorable things when they visit France — eat, drink, gawk — but Mr. P and I were the only Americans who participated in this year’s La 6000 D, an ultramarathon that goes through the mountain village where we ski. It is a classic mountain race in France that has been around for nearly 25 years, and Mr. P has been threatening to register for the past couple of years. I always humored him, figuring he would never go through with it… but he floated the idea enough that people began asking him when? When are you going to do La 6000D? And then, suddenly at Christmas during our ski trip in France, it became “This Year. This July.”

And if we were going all the way to France for the race, what was I going to do? Stand there and hold my husband’s bag?

So La 6000D is 60 KM (36 miles) and 11000 ft of elevation gain, with a 12 hour time limit. By comparison, the North Face Endurance Challenge marathon that I did in May was 26 miles and 4222 ft of elevation gain — and that took 6 1/2 hours. My longest training run in June was 22 miles with 7000 ft of elevation gain — and that took 7 hours. You might look at these times and wonder how I could ever hope to finish the rugged La 6000D, but the terrain in the Alps is much faster. By virtue of New England’s low altitude, the trails are under the treeline and thus covered in roots and rocks, so running is a more technical (and thus slower) experience.

The race was on Saturday, and we arrived beforehand in France from a short stay in Ireland late Monday night (near midnight) and promptly crashed in our condo. Little Boy woke me up at 8am the next morning, and I took him to his first trip to the boulangerie to buy baguette for breakfast. The village is decidedly quieter in summer, but there were a few people milling around. In America, I could pick out my fellow La 6000 D participants, but in France, everyone is trim and athletic-looking, even the couch potatoes.

After breakfast, we met up with Mr. P’s family (father, sister’s family including a 15 yo, 5 yo, and 2 yo) and took the chairlift up the mountain.

Chairlift

We were meeting Mr. P’s mother and some friends in the valley for a BBQ picnic lunch. Mr. P and I wore our gears so we could train a little on the terrain where we would be racing and get accustomed to the altitude. We separated from the group (leaving Little Boy, who in the company of his 5 yo cousin scarcely noticed we were gone).

Running in La Plagne

Running in La Plagne

We're Racing WHERE?!? (the Glacier)

Typical Alpine Obstacle

The BBQ lunch was in the valley, next to a small brook that the kids neglected lunch in order to play in. After spending two hours eating and relaxing, everyone headed to the car except Mr. P and I, who headed back up the mountain.

The next three days progressed the same as this: walking and eating, with daily trips to the swimming pool. The weather was perfect. Mr. P’s cousin arrived with her two tweenagers and her ultramarathon husband V, who is the real deal — sponsored by Montrail, a very strong amateur runner. It was hard not to feel intimated looking at his super-skinny build and top-notch gear.

Our big excursion was to the glacier, which was the toughest part of La 6000 D. The whole family took a series of telecabins to the glacier, where in the summer there’s an elaborate manmade ice cave filled with chiseled animals.

Near entrance to ice cave

An Alpine Glacier in Summer

After touring the ice cave (which was cold, dark, cramped, and generally an unpleasant experience for Little Boy), we descended the mountain partially for another picnic lunch.

The race was getting closer. On Friday. Mr. P and I drove to Aime to pick-up our numbers and “cadeaux” (gifts — a race-branded athletic towel made from bizarre fabric and a pen.) There was an exhibition that we toured briefly with the typical offerings: shoes, watches, clothes, and of course the pre-race wine/cheese degustation.

It was at the exhibition that I found out only 8% of the entrants were women. Ultimately, 1000 men and 80 women would finish. This quickened my anxiety, and I was all keyed up Friday evening. I slept about 6 hours, woke up at 3:30am (an hour before the alarm) and sat on the floor of the tiny kitchen, eating chocolate and reading The Age of Innocence. When Mr. P woke up (Little Boy was staying at his grandparents), we made coffee, put on our gear, used the bathroom and met my father-in-law downstairs. We drove down to the valley and picked up cousin V. and one of his ultra friends (both of whom would ultimately finish in the top 30).

At Aime, my father-in-law dropped us off near the starting line. We had 25 minutes until the start at 6am, and I promptly got in line for the bathroom to rid myself of the water I had been chugging. (One thing about this race is there isn’t much tree cover, making it trickier for women to relieve themselves along the way.) The French don’t have porta-potties, so the line was long and slow-moving for the two toilets available. I got out roughly 5 minutes before the start and Mr. P and I headed to the starting line. The sun was just beginning to rise, though it was cloudy and, just before the start, rain drops began to fall.

Yes, everyday of our vacation was rain-free except one: the day of the race. Even Ireland was dry and somewhat sunny. The rain dropped off before we started running. The speakers blared inspiring classical music as we took off through the streets of Aime towards the trail. The first 2-3 miles were flat and crowded, and we managed 9:30 minute miles. Then the incline began. It was slight, and the last words I heard Mr. P say before we separated were “I think most of the course is like this. Really gradual.”

Ha. Quickly the climb began. I slowed to a walk (like most people around me) and jogged the easier parts. At around mile 6, the rain began again. Thunder. People were stopping to put on relatively heavy rain jackets; I donned my paper-thin windbreaker, which was promptly soaked. The climb intensified and that’s when I began to think about quitting. I could turn around and trot back to the starting line and find a cafe to hang out at until the race ended. It would be so much easier… except, it wouldn’t. No, I had to continue.

Thoughts of quitting came back at mile 9, when my GPS stopped working, I was thoroughly wet and cold, and I was running in ankle-deep mud. I came to a checkpoint where I could surrender my bib… but I was greeted by an adorable young boy holding a sign that said “Pas du glacier.” Yes, the rumors were true: Due to the storm, the organizers closed the toughest part of the course, probably to prevent hypothermia. That meant 5 fewer kilometers and, more important to me, 2000 feet less elevation gain. Without the glacier, the race just got easier.

My spirits up, I continued. Spectators cheered: “Bravo, madame!” when I passed. I was steadily eating Chomps energy chews, drinking from my hydration pack, and swallowing salt tablets, so I only picked at the food offered on the trail: cheese, ham, raisins. Runners seemed to favor Pepsi over the energy drink, and I was surprised to see sparkling water. Soon after the food, we hit the first significant downhill, and it felt wonderful. The sun came out and my previous thoughts of quitting seemed ridiculous.

And so on I went. And on. My legs began to feel tired around 25-30km, but my progress was steady. The course went through several resort towns, and at around 40km I reached to portion of the trail where I cross-country skied in the winter. It felt great to run on a trail that I knew so intimately. Plus, the rocky terrain was more like the trails that I trained on in New England. I passed a fair number of men on this trail.

I was approaching our mountain village, where I was expecting to see Mr. P’s family and Little Boy cheering me on. This thought made me so incredibly happy, but when I reached the town I didn’t see them. I finally spied my father-in-law, who is an annual volunteer for the race, and through my limited knowledge of French I understood that everyone left after they saw Mr. P. Since it was 1pm, I assumed they went home for lunch. This burned me a little bit, but it turned out that they were following our progress on the internet. At every checkpoint, our bibs were scanned and apparently mine didn’t make it to the internet. They had assumed that I stopped running after the start, so Mr. P’s father was very surprised to see me… especially since Mr. P was only 8 minutes ahead of me.

The last 10km were downhill, but they seemed to last forever. I began walking periodically on the flats. What drove me on was when I passed another women who had passed me previously. Since only 80 women were running, I didn’t want any women to pass me right before the finish. It sounds silly now but at the time it really motivated me. Finally the trail let out on a bike path that led to the finish line. I jogged slowly, saving some energy for the final push. Through the streets of Aime I ran, past some cafes where people sat, drinking and smoking, and finally the finish line appeared. As I approached, suddenly Little Boy and his cousin darted out in front of me. If I was thinking clearly, I would have took their hands and crossed the finish line with them, but my brain was so focused on the finish line that I simply patted there backs and continued.

8 hours, 14 minutes. Wow. If not for “Pas du glacier,” I would have probably finished closer 10 hours and I would have been physically and mentally destroyed. (The next morning over breakfast, I told Mr. P “My second-favorite phrase in French is baguette avec beurre et confiture. My first-favorite phrase is pas du glacier.”)

With the race over, I could finally relax and bask in my accomplishment. My soreness was not as profound as I feared. Out of 81 women, I finished 35… but among American women, I was the first (and only).

The next day, we went for a short walk in the valley to see a waterfall. Of course the weather was perfect.

Mr. P and I also went to the sports complex for massages, courtesy of his parents. We made the aperitif rounds to visit family and friends, all of whom plied us with alcohol and sausage. His sister’s family left for the beach, followed soon by his parents. We had one more night in the mountains and spent some time at the pool.

Our mountain village

On Monday, we packed up, cleaned the apartment, and took off in a rental car for Geneva, where we were staying with another cousin before the flight Tuesday morning. On the way, we stopped at some scenic sights and also at the town of Beaufort, where we bought a significant amount of cheese.

At the Beaufort cheese co-op

Summer vacation was over, but the memories will last forever. So now the question we’re getting from France is… will there be another La 6000D? If you had asked me an hour after the race, I would have said “No way,” but now that a week has passed, it’s more like “Probably not.” Probably not.

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By Meredith – August 7, 2012

3 Days in Dublin

Little Boy, Mr P, and I have reluctantly returned from our big vacation of 2012, which began with 3 days/2 nights in Dublin (essentially an extended airplane transfer so that all of us can claim we’ve been to Ireland), followed by a week in the French Alps in the mountain village where we normally ski. There we relaxed with family and friends, taking long walks in the cool summer sunshine and eating even longer meals, playing at the pool, and watching Little Boy bond intensely with his 5 year-old British cousin.

Cousins in the French Alps

But… I digress. We arrived in Dublin on a Saturday morning after an all-too-short 5 hour red-eye flight. Little Boy was in surprisingly good spirits as we boarded the bus to the town center, after which we struggled down a quiet residential street to our hotel. I was struck by Dublin’s relative flatness — no skyscrapers or tall buildings. It was unmistakeably European, but one could tell that, historically, Dublin didn’t have the money that other European capitals boast.

Having arrived well before check-in time, we left our bags at the hotel and walked to the nearby Dublin Zoo in the magnificently large Phoenix Park. Going to the zoo was my idea; I figured a sleep-deprived Little Boy wouldn’t tolerate traditional sight-seeing, but it would be good for him to walk around in the sunshine, gawking at lions, monkeys, sea lions, and giant walking bananas (“Mama, there’s a people in there?” he asked me fearfully.)

The Dublin Zoo was surprisingly impressive, and it was sort of cool to be among regular Irish families instead of fellow tourists. It struck me that the Irish parenting style resembles what I see in America. Parents quietly fought to get their kids the best spot in front of the leopards. Tantrums and crying were pacified by food (and boy, do they like their junk food!) Massive strollers were ubiquitous and even 3-4 year olds were pushed instead of walking. Take away the Irish accent and add some diversity (populations with homogenous populations are creepy to me), and we could have been in America.

After the zoo, we headed back to the hotel to freshen up in our room. We were staying across the street from the Kilmainham Gaol, a large jail (unoccupied since the 1920s) that played a prominent role in Ireland’s modern political history, so we decided to take a tour.

Kilmainham Gaol

We tried explaining to Little Boy that the jail is where “bad guys” used to live, though I don’t think he understood why they “lived” there. All in all, he found the experience rather terrifying.

Kilmainham Gaol

After a trip to the hotel’s amazing pool, Little Boy was still thriving despite his 4 hours of sleep. Indeed, he was manic. It was inevitable that his energy would crash suddenly and dramatically and over dinner in a restaurant.

The next day we took a bus excursion to County Wicklow, home of Ireland’s most prominent mountains. After driving for about an hour, the bus stopped at Loch Tay, nicknamed Guinness Lake for its dark color.

We then stopped in Glendalough, which features a medieval monastery.

Glendalough

After touring the building, we decided to take a walk to see some of the lakes.

From there, it was off to lunch…

And then Trim Castle in County Meath. By then, Little Boy (who was the only person under 18 on the bus) had become a star. Everyone adored him and the tour guide at the castle gave him “the keys to the castle” to hold.

We got a family photo on the roof.

Trim Castle

Trim Castle

What struck me most about the countryside of Ireland is how, indeed, how emerald it is. And why not? Even in summer, it’s consistently cloudy, drizzly, and cool.

Our flight to France left Monday evening, so we had time on Monday for one last sightseeing chore: The Guinness Storehouse. Apparently, you cannot be a tourist in Dublin without visiting the museum at the original St. James’ Gate Brewery, drinking the complimentary pints, pillaging the store, and enjoying the “exhibits.”

After purchasing our requisite Guinness gear (branded “Ireland” for the kiddies), we bid goodbye to Dublin and took off for the French Alps… to be continued…

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By Meredith – August 2, 2012

Make Way for Little Boy

Today we made our way into Boston proper to enjoy an afternoon of hot (but not humid) urban fun. We walked a lot, enjoyed two dips in the Boston Common Frog Pond spray pool, took a spin on the Swan boats, went to a cool bootcamp-style playground along the Esplanade, ate pate sandwiches and took a bike ride along the Charles River, and then gawked at the lavish townhouses along Beacon Street (“What are these, Mama?” he asked. “These are homes. People live here,” I said. “Oh. Do the people have food in the homes?” he asked. Ah yes, that’s my Little Boy: worrying if the Boston Brahmins are going hungry!)

And of course, I forced Little Boy to pose with the Public Garden duckling statues. He was an unwilling model at first, until my unheeded pleas for “Smile! Smile!” turned into “Don’t smile! Please, don’t smile. No smiling, okay? Stop it! Stop smiling! Stop laughing! No, no, no more smiles!” Mommy begging like a fool = guaranteed Little Boy grins.

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By Meredith – July 8, 2012

Stories to Embarrass Him when He Gets Older

Best Friends

In a hotel in Vermont, we were playing at the kiddie swimming pool. A little boy around Little Boy’s size started inching closer to us, making friendly overtures until the two of them were locked in mutual pool frolic. Now that I no longer had to entertain a four-year old, I relaxed in the water.

After about five minutes, Little Boy came splashing over to me, full of smiles. “He’s my best friend!” he shouted before bounding back.

The other little boy’s mother heard this and laughed. I shrugged, as if to say “I don’t know where that came from!” but I wasn’t surprised. This is a new thing with Little Boy, making “best friends” with strangers in playgrounds and pools, and rapidly becoming overly attached to them. The next day, he’ll talk incessantly about his Best Friend. “Maybe we can call him on the phone. Maybe he can come over to our house and play.” And then we’ll go to the playground, and he’ll find another Best Friend. (Today, it was a little boy named Brendan at an indoor playground, where we went to escape the morning thunderstorms.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~
I’m Mommy

I was making sandwiches for a beach outing when Little Boy flounced into the kitchen. He wore a silver star necklace that he received as a party favor around his neck, and there were two tennis balls under his shirt in an, ahem, strategic position on his chest.

“I’m Mommy!” he announced, giggling madly as he sashayed past me.

It took me a second to realize what he was doing with the tennis balls. My shocked laughter was periodically stifled by flashes of semi-disturbing thoughts (Should I make him stop so he never does something like this in school? Is this going to turn into a discussion about breasts? Maybe I should stop letting him see me in various states of undress? Does this have anything to do with his recent interest in princesses?) He looked very proud of himself, with his perky bosom and feminine gait.

“Yes, look at you! You’re Mommy!” I said, furiously applying dijon mustard to a slice of bread.

And before I could probe further into what gave him this idea, he pulled the tennis balls from under his shirt and rolled them into the living room, turning to say “I’m being silly” before skipping away to play with his cars.

~~~~~~~~~~~
Pancakes

This is an oldie but goodie. Last winter we were at the doctor’s office. At a previous exam, the doctor was especially concerned about Little Boy’s weight, which was disproportionately high compared to his height (it was all in his belly). I swore up and down that Little Boy ate cleanly, with lots of veggies and fish and no juice and little sugar and small portions and yogurt-based snacks, and that he was very active. The doctor seemed to believe me, as he knows Mr. P and I are in good shape, but he did caution me that if Little Boy didn’t start to “lean out,” he would refer me to a pediatric nutritionist. [As a side note, Little Boy has indeed leaned out enough to avoid that fate.]

So as the check-up was wrapping up, the doctor asked Little Boy what we would be doing when we got home.

Actually, we were planning to go to the playground, and Little Boy knew this. But for some reason, he looked at the doctor and said brightly “Pancakes!”

Dear lord. The doctor looked at me with arched eyebrows. It was 3pm.

“Pancakes?” I repeated, tittering. “Well, we had pancakes last Sunday, before we spent the entire day skiing. But honey, we’re going to the playground! We’re not going to eat pancakes.” I looked at the doctor, smiling in the face of his suspicion.

“Yes, the playground sounds like a better plan,” the doctor said.

~~~~~~~~~

Scotch Tape

Little Boy has discovered scotch tape. That is all.

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By Meredith – July 4, 2012

Mirth

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By Meredith – June 29, 2012

Happy 4th Birthday, Little Boy

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By Meredith – June 23, 2012

Mormon Man

Every day on the way home from work/pre-school, Little Boy and I drive past the grandiose Boston Mormon Temple. It’s located next to the exit that we take to get off Route 2, and Little Boy has come to recognize it as a landmark that we are almost “Home!” he sings. In the past week, he has expressed sudden, great curiosity about the temple.

“Is it someone’s home?” he asked.

“No, it’s a church,” I replied.

Since Mr. P and I are not church-goers, he associates church with his grandparents in Pennsylvania, who have taken him to their Lutheran church. So he knew all about church.

“People in church wear nice shirts!” he said.

Then, “Who go to that church?”

I then explained that Mormons went to that church, and for some reason he latched onto this word — “Mormon” — more readily than he assimilates higher priority and oft-repeated words like “America,” “Ethiopia,” “shoulders,” “playground,” and “wipe.” He began pointing to the golden, horn-bearing man atop the spire of the temple and saying “Mormon man!”

Today he was very excited, for tomorrow is his 4th birthday. He was enthralled to be going home; one more sleep, and then presents! Cake! Pizza! When we drove past the temple, he was buzzing, “Mormon man! It’s the Mormon man! I love the Mormon man! I love, love, LOVE the Mormon man! Yeh, Mormon man!” And on, and on. Cute. And freaky.

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By Meredith – June 21, 2012

Favorite Friend

Little Boy’s favorite friend at pre-school for the past 4 months is DY, the revered only child of Korean immigrants. As far as I can tell, their mutual affection is based on their love for chasing each other at the playground as well as an amateur interest in dinosaurs. It is a solid friendship, as demonstrated one day during pick-up when Little Boy and DY were leaving at the same time. DY was walking with his mother to their car in one direction and Little Boy was walking with me in the opposite direction. They had already said goodbye, but suddenly DY broke away from his mother and ran towards us on the sidewalk, calling Little Boy’s name, and Little Boy turned and ran towards DY. When they met, they hugged briefly and then both ran back to their respective mommies, waving at each other the whole way. It was the cutest pick-up moment ever.

Me, I like DY, who plays nicely. Earlier this year, Little Boy idolized two other boys who, according to Little Boy, would sometimes hit or push him while playing. “But why do you like them if they hurt you?” I would ask. This seemed to stump him, and I wrote it off as typical three-year old boy playground romping. Then one day, our personalized weekly parent communication letter (which had always been glowing re: Little Boy), the teacher wrote “We are working on making good independent choices rather than imitating the sad choices of our friends.” This chilled me. Little Boy was getting in with a bad crowd!

But then these two boys moved into an older classroom and a bunch of younger kids (including DY) moved into his classroom, and no more bad preschool behavior manifested. Little Boy is both a teacher’s dream and the boy who all the boys want to chase on the playground. We’ll see what happens when Little Boy moves into the older classroom (with his two older friends) in a few weeks.

Last week, one morning during drop-off as I was hugging Little Boy goodbye, a girl in his class came to me and said “Little Boy and DM [not DY but another boy who is the only other black child in the class] have the same hair!” (It is not the first time a child at the school has made race-related comments to me about Little Boy. Months ago, a boy asked me why Little Boy and I don’t “look the same.” I was tongue-tied and pretended not to hear him. It’s the sort of question I didn’t think I had to prepare an answer for until kindergarten; to offer a simple on-the-fly explanation to a 3-4 year-old was overwhelming. Since then, I have resolved to address any similar inquiries by smiling and saying “Yes, he’s much shorter than me, isn’t he?” I have about a year and a half to come up with less glib response for his kindergarten classmates.)

But I could handle the girl who commented about Little Boy having the same hair as the other black child. “Yes, and you have the same hair as R!” I said, pointing to another little girl with wavy, dirty blond hair. “And I have the same hair as Miss M!” I said, pointing to a teacher who has straight brownish hair with highlights. “Isn’t it cool that people can have the same hair? Or different hair?” It was a bit nonsensical, but I smiled at her and she smiled back.

Then, the same day during pick-up, another little boy (whose mother is actually black herself, but who has his father’s fine Caucasian hair) said the exact thing to me: “Little Boy and DM have the same hair!” That’s when I realized that this was a recurring “thing” in the classroom. Little Boy looked a little upset to hear this said again. Because the underlying sentiment is not that he has the same hair as DM, but that they have different hair than everyone else.

There were about 4 other kids listening to this and I was just about the launch into my “yes, and you have the same hair as…” speech when DY ambled over to Little Boy and put his hand on his shoulder. “Little Boy and I have the same shirt!” he said, pointing to Little Boy’s white shirt and then his own white shirt. I think all the talk about Little Boy and DM having the same hair made him jealous!

Little Boy immediately broke out into a smile, as did I. “Oh yes, yes you do!” I agreed, and Little Boy and DY gave each other goodbye hugs and we were off to the car. That kid is my favorite friend, too!

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By Meredith – June 3, 2012

Weekend at Yurt

I left Friday after work to join Mr. P and Little Boy in the wilds of northern central Mass., where they had been living in a yurt on a state campground for the past three days/two nights. It was about a 45 minute drive from my office, but rural central Massachusetts is worlds away from Boston. People are slower, more relaxed, somewhat fatter, and generally better at fishing.

I showed up at the yurt, expecting that three days in the wilderness would have created a “Lord of the Flies” type situation where both Mr. P and Little Boy would be running around in loincloths with sticks, utterly uncivilized without my influence. But Mr. P was calmly tending to the fire so we’d have enough coals to cook on, and Little Boy was tucked in the yurt, partaking of his daily allotted 30 minutes of tablet time. He did look up for a solid minute to let me cover his face in kisses, and he did look happy to see me, but Angry Birds beckoned!

We cooked zucchini, peppers and steak over the fire and relaxed under the towering pine trees. The yurt was pretty amazing, as it removed everything about camping that I’m not too excited about (sleeping on the ground, changing clothes in a tent, lack of space for organization and sanity, fears about getting run over in a tent by drunk rednecks). It even had lights! Little Boy finished all his veggies in order to partake of marshmallows.

I awoke thoroughly rested on Saturday morning at 6am and decided to pull on my running gears and go check out the 4-mile hike that we planned to take Little Boy on. I grabbed the map, which would have been very useful if I knew where we were! There were three campsites marked on the map and I assumed we were at a certain one based on the location of the water. So I started walking in the supposed direction of the trail when I came upon… three men in military fatigues carrying guns! Good morning, I’ll go the other way. I walked around the campground for a solid 30 minutes looking for the entrance to the trail. “2 miles each way” said the sign. I started jogging, fearful that any moment a hunter would blow my head off. It felt very ‘hunger games.’ I discovered that the trail ended at beautiful Lake Dennison, and then I discovered that I was wrong about where we were camping on the map. But it was a nice trail that I knew Little Boy could handle.

So after a breakfast of eggs and berries, Mr. P and I convinced Little Boy to go walking in the woods. Hiking with 3-year olds… not easy! They don’t yet have the world-weariness to understand the joys of tramping through the woods with no purpose. We have to make it into a game. We have to find motivation. So for the first mile, Little Boy and I threw pine cones at Mr. P’s back. It sounds ridiculous but it works: Mr. P keeps walking at a pretty fast clip, and Little Boy and I hurry behind him, tossing pine cones in his general direction. What fun! For the second mile, the main motivator was the half-bag of peanut butter M&Ms in Mr. P’s pocket. When we reached Lake Dennison, the first thing Little Boy demanded was “Em-ems.”

M&ms (sun is in our eyes)

We played around the lake for a bit. Going back after a hike is always easier, because Little Boy is always eager to return to the home/car/yurt. Still, a 4-mile hike is not easy for such little legs! and he suffered a meltdown halfway there. I guess he’s not ready for a 4000-footer for at least another year.

After grabbing a bite for lunch, we headed to the campsite’s lake for an afternoon of frolic. The beach was crowded with locals… I felt somewhat conspicuous, especially when a little girl of age 5 or 6 approached me, demanded I give her one of our water buckets, and asked “Why is he orange???” while pointing at Little Boy, who was industriously constructing an intricate civil engineering wonder:

Why is he orange? I had to remind myself that we were in central Mass., and that her obese parents were lurking 100 feet away in the shade with beer and cigarettes, only giving notice to her and her siblings when someone began screaming. “People are all different colors, aren’t they?” I said nonchalantly. She took the bucket and dumped water directly on one of Little Boy’s sand rooks.

After about three hours of frolic and fishing, we headed back to the yurt and started the fire for dinner. I wow’ed everyone with my fire-roasted corn on the cob. The weather was perfect and everyone was happy. I slept for a solid 10 hours that night, and awoke feeling… even more tired. It was time to go home. We said goodbye to the yurt. Little Boy was very sad. On the way home, we stopped at Wachusett Mountain so Mr. P and I could both take a turn running up the mountain. Life is good!

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By Meredith – May 21, 2012

Home Alone

Mr. P is currently between jobs for a week (willingly!), so he decided to take advantage of the spectacular weather and take Little Boy on a camping trip, starting today. So I am home alone. Yes, for the first time since Little Boy came home a bit over a year ago, I will not get to kiss him goodnight, kiss him good morning, and generally arrange my daily existence around him.

And… what have I done so far in my roughly 90 minutes of freedom?

1. Took out the trash and recycling.

2. Cleaned the kitchen floor under which the trash and recycling sit upon.

3. Cleaned the entire kitchen floor after realizing, hey, I already have the steam mop out.

4. Started a load of laundry.

5. Applied and removed a Biore pore strip.

6. Performed 2 and a half Sun Salutations.

7. Drank a beer (ongoing).

8. Removed roughly two dozen toys from the living room floor.

9. Stood in front of the mirror and wondered, “Does this look like a woman on the cusp of 35?”

10. Researched which incredibly violent and/or sexy movie I should watch on Netflix after dinner.

But mainly, I missed Little Boy and Mr. P. My boys!

PS In keeping with this totally lame waste of freedom, I will probably go to bed at 9pm.

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By Meredith – May 16, 2012