Let me tell you a little something about swimming. It is hard.
I don't know how swimmers do what they do, let alone how often they do it and how long they do it for, but it never ceases to amaze me, especially the children who swim competitively, like mine do.
My three daughters swim year-round and for three different leagues: CYO in the spring, Interclub in the summer, and USA Swim all year long. There are goggles, mismatched fins and a colorful variety of swim caps strewn everywhere in our house and ubiquitous towels to be washed or dried at any given moment.
Their practice schedules are daily but staggered, which essentially translates into my being their swim chauffeur after a long day of drilling teeth, not to mention their short-order cook in preparation or replenishment of depleted calories pre- or post- practice.
That's perfectly okay by me because they love it. It's great exercise, they're taught discipline by some great coaches and are surrounded by conscientious athletes from supportive families.
However, I'm amazed at how anyone can swim well after 7pm, which they often do, which is around the time I personally start to shut down from a long day at work and need a glass of Chardonnay.
They say swimmers have some of the best bodies in the world (and in Ryan Lochte's case, some of the most adorable faces. Poor Michael Phelps... not the handsomest devil ever, but you have to admit -- as my girls say -- he's got abs for days. But I digress). Who wouldn't, after doing 10 laps of this and 20 laps of that every night?
I've watched the practices. I know. Trust me when I tell you it's mind-numbing, the stamina they have. Ahh... to be young again. I can barely do 25m now without desperately needing a massage and a frozen beverage at the wall tap.
Incidentally, Michael and I recently took our 3 kids on a weekend trip to Lancaster, Pennsylvania with my parents, sisters and niece and nephews. Just "for fun" at the hotel pool, my daughters tried to teach me how to do a proper 50m breast stroke. No kidding, I almost drowned. Muscles I didn't know I had hurt the next day.
My girls and nephews
eventually even challenged me to an IM (individual medley--- all four
strokes!) race, when they mistakenly thought I got the hang of it. I
finished dead last and said nothing when all the kids expressed
appreciation for my "letting them win." If they only knew how much I
water I swallowed. Pathetic.I don't know how swimmers do what they do, let alone how often they do it and how long they do it for, but it never ceases to amaze me, especially the children who swim competitively, like mine do.
My three daughters swim year-round and for three different leagues: CYO in the spring, Interclub in the summer, and USA Swim all year long. There are goggles, mismatched fins and a colorful variety of swim caps strewn everywhere in our house and ubiquitous towels to be washed or dried at any given moment.
Their practice schedules are daily but staggered, which essentially translates into my being their swim chauffeur after a long day of drilling teeth, not to mention their short-order cook in preparation or replenishment of depleted calories pre- or post- practice.
That's perfectly okay by me because they love it. It's great exercise, they're taught discipline by some great coaches and are surrounded by conscientious athletes from supportive families.
However, I'm amazed at how anyone can swim well after 7pm, which they often do, which is around the time I personally start to shut down from a long day at work and need a glass of Chardonnay.
They say swimmers have some of the best bodies in the world (and in Ryan Lochte's case, some of the most adorable faces. Poor Michael Phelps... not the handsomest devil ever, but you have to admit -- as my girls say -- he's got abs for days. But I digress). Who wouldn't, after doing 10 laps of this and 20 laps of that every night?
I've watched the practices. I know. Trust me when I tell you it's mind-numbing, the stamina they have. Ahh... to be young again. I can barely do 25m now without desperately needing a massage and a frozen beverage at the wall tap.
Incidentally, Michael and I recently took our 3 kids on a weekend trip to Lancaster, Pennsylvania with my parents, sisters and niece and nephews. Just "for fun" at the hotel pool, my daughters tried to teach me how to do a proper 50m breast stroke. No kidding, I almost drowned. Muscles I didn't know I had hurt the next day.
So there I can usually be found, on dry land and in the bleachers, cheering for my kids and their teammates at swim meets, armed with a good book and an iPhone to entertain me between races.
Of course I'll have my Canon DSLR at the ready, too, set on low f-stop and high ISO to get the proper shutter speed because that's what my photographer friends, Charles and Patrick, tell me to do, and not because I've ever captured an excellent swim shot, the most elusive in world, I feel. I'm saving up for a Canon f/2.8L 70-200mm IS II lens. That should improve my sports images. Again, I digress.
Alas, this past week, the last of 2012, we've been enjoying winter break, a welcome vacation from work, school, and all things swim (and basketball), a chance to recharge and enjoy quality family time without the daily heart attacks. If you're lucky enough to be a mom, you're unlucky enough to know what I mean.
Moms across the land join me in breathing a sigh of relief the past few days. All this down time is quite the stark contrast to the normal hustle and bustle of break-neck pace, right? Although I must admit I'm quite productive during the school week. It's amazing how much we can squeeze into 90 minutes every morning!
Moms get more done on weekday mornings from 6:30-8am than I do any other part of the day, without exception to even the busiest schedules at work. When that dreaded alarm clock rings at daybreak, it's non-stop, organized chaos.
I pop out of bed and my heart races from 0-60mph in 3 seconds flats. I grope around for my eyeglasses (too chicken to go for Lasik), trip over a few toys and hangers in the hallway, and make my way into the bedrooms of my three sleeping beauties, as my Mom used to sarcastically call my two sisters and me when we refused to get up in the morning.
Of course my repeated pleas for my 9-year-old twins to lay out their clothes the night before are unheeded and one of two things happen: 1) They tear their closets apart looking for something cute (and clean) to wear; or 2) They go to school with an atrocious, mismatched outfit. When the latter happens, I tell my friends that I had a board meeting and it was Michael's turn to dress them. Good one, right?
My eldest daughter attends private Catholic school, so she wears a uniform. You'd think this would simplify thing, but it doesn't. Someone has to wash all these blue blouses, skirts, sweaters, navy socks... and that someone is yours truly! I start a load of laundry, pour her some OJ. She's on the bus stop by 7:05.
Then the twins saunter into the kitchen. I unload the dishwasher, do their hair, make their lunches. I crack some eggs into the frying pan: two eggs scrambled and two eggs over easy, because liking the the same way would be too easy and less annoying.
I sign papers, review after-school activities with the kids, test them one last time if they have an exam that day. The next few minutes are consumed with finding matching shoes to wear (I think we've brought the mismatched socks in vogue).
By 7:28am at the bus stop, I've a 5 minute reprieve from the morning madness. I get to chit-chat with other bus stop moms. They are smart and funny and we invariably have a good laugh over the homework or science project.
But as soon as the bus pulls away, I rush home, clean up breakfast dishes, and chop up some onions and potatoes and put them in the slow cooker. Add to that mix some soy sauce, paprika, baby carrots and chicken breasts that I defrosted the night before... and voila! Dinner will hopefully be ready tonight at 5 pm. I make sure to press the "on" button.
At 7:45am I go upstairs, make the beds and start "the transformation." Goodbye pajamas, hello stilettos and pantsuits. I blast the iHome thingy with some Justine Bieber or Gaga, just like my kids taught me. Mentally I morph from "mom" to "dentist." I review the patients and procedures that await me. I put on my makeup, pop in my contacts, pin up my Medusa hair, and head to work.
My patients sometimes ask me why I'm always in such a great, happy mood at work. Truth be told, work is not work at all. It is fun. The real work is at home, being a mom to my three kids. It's the job that counts.
And like most of you, I wouldn't have it any other way.
I wish you and yours a healthy and prosperous New Year, filled only with love and laughter.
