As I've mentioned in the past, I used to be runner. I started running in middle school when my twin sister and I decided to be managers on the track team. The track coach took one look at us scrawny 7th graders and decided we should be long-distance runners, so we ended up running the 1600 meter race and instead of "managing" the team peacefully from a distance, each week I'd spend the entire meet feeling nervous and nauseous until after the race. Four years later, my twin convinced me to run again. I ended up running track for three years and even got suckered into cross-country my senior year. I remember thinking that 3.1 miles was a very long distance to run, but as it turned out, I enjoyed trail running.  In addition, I loved the fact that anyone I wanted to beat was right in front of me instead of in a different heat or on a different leg of a relay.

I ran off-and-on through college and I remember being one of the few female runners in Spain when I studied abroad in Seville. It wasn't until I moved to Chicago and met a bunch of people who had run marathons that I decided I wanted to run one myself. Removed from the pressure of being on a competitive track team, I began to enjoy running more than I had in high school. Despite the pressure and nerves I had felt as a student, it was all those years of running with a disciplined track regimen that helped me recognize which pace to run, when to push myself and how to finish strong--skills that made me a decent age-group runner.

By the time I got pregnant with Monkey, I had done several marathons and triathlons and lots of running around the soccer field. It was a sad day when I concluded I needed to hang up both my soccer cleats and my running shoes during my pregnancy. It was then that I realized that even though I was a mediocre triathlete and soccer player, being a "good runner" was a huge part of my identity. 

Because of a separated pelvis diagnosis after I had Monkey, it was about a year before I could run consistently and train for my first post-baby half-marathon.  It was great to get outside, make time for myself and get back into shape. On race day, I felt like I was back in high school--nervous and sick to my stomach wondering how I would do. How much slower would I run than I used to? Would my finish time be embarrassingly slow?  Would I know how to pace myself anymore? I didn't feel like I really knew my body anymore and I'd only done two races since Monkey was born. In addition, this race wasn't on my familiar stomping grounds of Central Park and I wasn't sure what to anticipate on such a flat course. I started out fast, struggled a bit with uneven pacing in the middle and hit a wall around mile 11. Encouragement from my speedy brother-in-law got me through the last 2 miles and I finished within five minutes of my best half-marathon time ever. Seeing my husband and Monkey at the finish line was incredible and I felt a huge sense of pride and an even bigger sense of relief. I was so happy that I could come back from incubating a baby and recover from a separated pelvis and still be a good runner. 

I did a few more races before getting pregnant again, but this time I was able to run in the first few months of my pregnancy and start running again six weeks after Munchkin was born. I've had a hard time finding more than 30 minutes to run, but as Munchkin sleeps better and gets older, I'll aim for another half-marathon. My latest source of pride is the 10k mud run I did a few weeks ago with three other mothers. Despite our varied experiences as runners and varied levels of training, we had a great time tackling obstacles and getting muddy. Getting out of the house for a few hours without the kids renewed my sense of individuality, reminded me that I was capable of physical feats that did not involve my children (can you hold 55 lbs of squirming children in your arms?) and that I was still a decent athlete.  

Tomorrow I--along with many other parents--will be running a local 5k and Monkey will not only be cheering for me, but I'll be cheering for him. He'll be running his own race (his second race ever) and this year he is old enough to understand the goal and he is already excited to be a part of it. He and Munchkin are young, but I hope that with time, they'll get the same sense of accomplishment and pride from running that I do. It does a body good.

I am not a fan of Halloween. I'm sure I enjoyed trick-or-treating as a kid, but I don't have an undying desire to wear costumes--especially the skimpy kind offered to adult women--nor do I need 80 pounds of candy within reach. 

However, since Munchkin's due date was October 31st last year, I figured I should finally embrace Halloween and make the most of it. This year, I bought a costume for the kids, along with little pumpkins to decorate. But it was only after a fun-filled visit to a pumpkin patch--complete with good friends, a hay ride, and walk through a maze made from bales of hay--that I decided that I needed to tackle the messy task of pumpkin carving. 

Last week, on the day Monkey had early dismissal from school, I put Munchkin down for a nap, and hauled out the two big pumpkins we had picked out from the patch to carve. Realizing Monkey had no idea what carving pumpkins was all about, (when you live in a high rise, there are limited places to show-off carved pumpkins), I did what all modern parents do and showed him carved pumpkins on YouTube. He seemed to love the idea, so I set a mat on the floor and started carving. He helped me pull out the seeds, but after I sketched the faces, Monkey lost interest and went back to playing with his trains.  (No word on when he'll lose interest in those.)

As I struggled to remove all the seeds and threads and attempted to carve the eyes and teeth of the pumpkin, I wished I had one of those pumpkin carving tool kits. You know the ones--they have scrapers for cleaning up the inside, little sharp knives to cut edges, and tools for creating intricate patterns I could not accomplish with the wimpy paring knife I was using. I then thought that no, that'd be cheating! Carving pumpkins means being tough and sawing through pumpkins using regular kitchen knives and brute force. However, that's not entirely fun, since I couldn't get the pumpkins to look quite right, not to mention I couldn't let Monkey help me much because the knives were too dangerous. Plus I had very limited time to get the carving all done before Munchkin woke up and dinner had to be started. Maybe those kits over-simplified things, but they certainly would have helped me reach my goal of doing something fun with the kids that resulted in kooky pumpkin faces.

As I was mulling this over in my mind, I realized that pumpkin carving is a lot like parenting. You can do it one way--make each meal from scratch, sew the kid's costumes yourself, never let anyone else watch your kids--or accept a few shortcuts to reach your goal. If you can't make cookies for the bake sale, use that pre-made dough. You want to cut your time grocery shopping in half? Get a sitter while you shop. Become friends with the crock-pot and learn to love the ease and nutrition of frozen vegetable mixes. Yes, you're not using your own brute strength and stamina to get everything done, but you're still getting food on the table, contributing to fundraisers and preserving your sanity. As I've learned, without sanity, it is impossible to continue to feed, water, bathe and teach kids every day, all day, over and over again. 

In the end, I carved the pumpkins myself and even though the kids didn't help, there were no children harmed in the making of scary pumpkin faces and that is an accomplishment. Besides, Monkey was obsessed with the pumpkin seeds and learned to wash them, coat them in oil and salt to roast them and then gobbled them up before bedtime. Learning where food comes from was not exactly the lesson I planned for him, but at least we both learned a little something, courtesy of our toothy, smiley pumpkins.  

Are you carving pumpkins this year?  Are you using a kit?  What are shortcuts you swear by to retain your sanity? (Assuming you are still in possession of sanity, that is.)

When Munchkin was almost six months old, I saw her little friends eating Mum-mums and  wondered if Munchkin was ready to eat crunchy (yet quickly dissolving!) snacks. I bought her a box of Mum-mums and handed one to her and waited. And waited. And waited. She was not interested in a whole Mum-mum, half a Mum-mum or pieces of Mum-mum. Then I bought her some Puffs thinking that might get her interested in finger foods. No, fancy organic strawberry and beet-flavored puffs were not fancy enough to draw Munchkin into the world of mass-marketed baby food.

I'll admit I was a little disappointed that Munchkin didn't take to the baby snacks, but my wallet was relieved. The puffs were $12 for a small bottle of snacks that, once Munchkin did start snacking, went very quickly. The Mum-mums--individually wrapped environmental threats--run $20 a pop. One month later, as I toted the snacks around, I didn't know if I should feel proud showing off the snacks and Munchkins new hand-to-mouth coordination or feel like a sucker who just got taken by Gerber and Happy Baby.  What happened to parents' love affair with Cheerios and their imitators? I know that a highly-marketed big yellow box is not the key to happiness, but at least it's only $5.

I'll admit some of these baby-friendly foods are tasty, but have you tasted some of the Graduates toddler food Gerber offers?  I bought one box thinking I could use it in a moment of desperation, but Monkey was not a fan and, after I tasted it, I was not either. It wasn't just bland and mushy, it was entirely unappetizing, and I'm not a picky eater! I don't want to train my kids to eat, nay love, such bland, uninteresting food. Or, in the case of some of the other treats targeted to toddlers, train them to love overly salted and sugary food. 

I know that it's hard to find portable food in those early months of eating solids, but instead of offering fruit flavored puffs or fruity granola bars, how about offering them actual fruit?  I found freezing chopped steamed apples and yams in an ice cube tray to be really handy. Munchkin chows down bananas and both she and Monkey have formed a new addiction to apples. Don't ask me how she does it, but Munchkin can eat an entire apple with just five teeth.  Don't get me started on that "healthy" yogurt we're all supposed to buy into either.

I know I'm getting all worked up but I hate feeling like a sucker over-paying for food that isn't as-good-as-they-say-it-is for my kids. I also realize that I get a certain satisfaction from making the kids' food that makes the whole process more enjoyable than picking it up from a supermarket. That satisfaction also outweighs the convenience factor for me.  I get a little thrill when I've filled up cups of cheerios and regular yogurt for school. (Cue the music: I'm Geeky and I Know It.)

I'm sure the universe will laugh at me for writing this post the day my kids come home begging for something "all the other kids" are snacking on. Until then, they'll be eating lots of Coco Pop Cakes and I'll be hoping that the kiddie-targeted-marketing-machine never finds out about them and doubles the price.

Years ago, when I was told I had first one infertility issue and then another, I mourned the loss of having a child who would be genetically linked to me and my Bolivian heritage. I was very open to adoption and other options, but a part of me wanted a child who carried the traits of my and my husband's parents as a legacy to our ancestors. 

When Monkey made his appearance into our world--surprising us, my doctor and the specialist who told me I could never have children--we were blessed to see a wrinkly cutie pie that had features from both sides of the family. People comment that he is a perfect mix of my husband and me and, really, once you hear the word "perfect" in a sentence referring to your child, you just stop listening anyway. 

When we were lucky to get pregnant a second time, Munchkin popped into this world looking a little different. Her complexion wasn't the same brown hue as her brother's and her hair was lighter but she seemed to resemble my mother and my husband's grandmother. Now, as Munchkin approaches her first birthday, one passerby after another has said Munchkin looks just like me. After hearing that sentiment echoed by friends and family, I felt a little stab of fear. Yes, I want my kids to look like us--our parents, our siblings, their cousins--but faced with a little girl who is just like me, I felt concern instead of joy and I didn't know why.  

I had to sit and really analyze those feelings before I realized what was bothering me. The truth is, I don't want Munchkin to be like me. I want her to be better than me. I want her to be smarter, more confident, and prettier, as superficial as that may sound. I'm old enough to be comfortable in my skin on most days, but I don't want Munchkin to face the same challenges I did. I want her to have that grace that makes her worry less about what others think and be successful in ways I'm not. I want her to be more assertive and more patient than I am. It's not that I wish her an unusually easy life because people who never overcome obstacles rarely discover their own strength or learn to live on their own merits. I just wish her a better life. 

Even though my desire is couched by our resemblance, this wish is echoed by parents around the world who want their children to have a better education, more opportunities, and a bigger income than they did. It's echoed in the sentiments I have for my son. That said, kids can't accomplish much of anything without a good foundation and the best foundation to give any child is acceptance. I'll brush aside my fears for now and accept Munchkin and Monkey for what they are, no matter who they are like. 

Do your children resemble you physically or in personality?  How do you feel about those similarities?  

Now that Monkey has started going to school with a uniform, getting him dressed five days a week has been super easy*. Getting myself dressed has not. I've never been very trendy, but I do try to dress in a wardrobe that belongs to the same decade as the one we're in and have a modicum of style. Lately, I have found style to be a little harder to achieve because I'm getting old, and getting old means that my feet hurt after walking Monkey to and from his bus stop twice a day. Ergo, I have to wear tennis shoes. With orthotics in them. Every day. Monkey's bus stop is almost a mile away and despite 3 1/2 years of walking all over the city pushing or carrying some combination of 55lbs of children, it's walking these 3.5 miles a day, five days a week that has left me at a loss for what to wear. 

These tennis shoes prevent me from wearing cute capris (assuming there is such a thing), flattering skinny jeans (feeling doubtful those exist too) and made me look less than stellar when wearing those to-the-knee shorts moms like me are supposed to wear. I've started to feel that I'm giving into the dreaded and purportedly bland mom uniform:  jeans, ill-fitting t-shirt and clunky shoes.  

This dread, combined with the fact that I have to interact with people at Monkey's school and at committee meetings means I need to step up my game in the wardrobe department. Of course, I checked out what TLC says, home of my favorite show What Not to Wear and they not only offer 5 Tips to Create a Mom Uniform  but also 10 Fashion Staples You Should Own Now That You're a Mom.

In the last few weeks, I've been digging out my fitted shirts and dragging out my boots to wear with skinny jeans. They are suitable for school and warm, which is good since the temperature just dropped about 20 degrees. I don't think I'll look like this stylish mom anytime soon (unless my legs grow 8 inches longer), but at least I've taken a step in the non-baggy, non-stained, right direction.  This mom Meagan Francis even makes an argument for purchasing quality (read: expensive!) new clothes, which is both valuable and inspiring considering I still feel some guilt about shopping when I'm not bringing in an income. 

Even though I don't want to be someone who only thinks about fashion or external appearances, I have realized that the decision to dress nicely vs frumpily (is that a word?) comes down to my children. I want my children to see a mother who cared enough about herself to put some thought into her appearance every morning. I want them to know that even though I put them first, I don't put myself last. I want the kids to know that being at home does not mean I opt out of society, it means that I made them my job and I can still dress up to go to "work." This is especially important because I hope that by the time my kids are parents, both moms and dads will be able to stay at home full-time if they wish.  

Right now I'm wearing somewhat fitted jeans, a tailored shirt and tennis shoes, but when I go to the PTA meeting tonight with both kids and my tray of food (Bolivian cornbread if you must know) for the potluck, I'll put on the boots in the picture. My kids will be proud. My mother will be proud. I'll be proud. 

*It wasn't so hard before either, but word on the street is that dressing baby girl Munchkin is going to be a lot harder. 

Do you have a "mom uniform?"  Is it trendy? Frumpy? Clean?

One would think that living in a two-bedroom apartment would limit the amount of toys, chairs and baby gear I accepted before Monkey was born. Instead, unsure of what Monkey would need, I accepted my friends' exersaucer, bouncy seat, swing, baby swing, jumperoo, bumbo and a myriad of of other items. Monkey did use all (yes all) of them during his first year and a few even kept him occupied for long stretches of time. 

Since the thought of replacing those items filled me with dread, I held on to them until Munchkin was born 2 1/2 years later. I pulled the items out of storage the second they became age appropriate, but even though Munchkin is only 11 months old, I bid all the swings, chairs and bumbos adieu last month and I couldn't be happier. 
 
It's not that Munchkin didn't like the baby-geared playthings, it's that, as a little sister, she has so much other stuff to play with. As a baby, Monkey didn't have the pile of toys we have amassed in the corner of our living room. Our apartment didn't have a rug when he was born, nor was it as baby-proofed as it is now. Munchkin started to walk two months earlier than her brother and doesn't want to be restrained, but roam free. Where is the fun in sibling-hood if a little sister can't terrorize her big brother with the threat of wrecking his train tracks, his block towers or peace and quiet? Oh wait, that's my peace and quiet she is wrecking.  

The biggest reason I'm happy though, is that it not only feels good to be free of baby stuff, but I'm ready for the next phase of parenting. I have donated maternity clothes to a terrific mom-to-mom swap, passed on baby clothes to fellow moms and eagerly given that baby gear to friends. Making room in my closet for clothes that fit me before kids, before nursing, before gaining the baby weight I'd have to lose is freeing. Boxing up Munchkin's baby clothes reminds me that she is still little, but only a baby for one more month. We'll soon enter the phase of one nap a day, new words and furniture climbing. Before we know it parallel play will turn into two kids playing (and fighting) the way only siblings can. There will be no more nursing, no more cribs only sippy cups and toddler beds. It won't happen right away, but it will happen and I can't wait. I'll miss embracing my chubby baby snugglebugs, but I can still hug a squirmy toddler and pre-schooler, even if they don't always hug back. 

Now, who wants to take this last box of baby toys?