COUNTDOWN TO COLLEGE

Tomorrow is college move-in day. I'm handling Eben's impending departure really well. I only cry at work once or twice a day, and it's not ugly crying. It's quiet, elegant, lady-like weeping. Like a silent film star. 

In the moments between dwelling on the tragedy of my soon-to-be-half-empty nest, my time has been occupied with helping the boy collect what he needs for college life. In my head this has been a two-part checklist: material needs and pseudo-adult life readiness. The first one is definitely the easier one to handle. Twin XL bed sheets, cleaning products (never to be used, of course, but hope springs eternal, so moms buy that shit anyway), a lamp, some posters, and, according to Martha Stewart, a dutch oven for braising and a large stock pot for lobster (JK, guys. I'm assuming Martha was still addled from her prison days when she penned that absurd list, so we decided the boy just needs a soup pot big enough to make a midnight batch of Kraft Dinner). I think the physical world list is all set, and I can't wait to see Eben's dorm room, because according to all the catalogs we've received, it looks like all we have to do is buy coordinating bedding sets and his room will magically sprout a window seat, oak floors, and floor-to-ceiling walnut-trimmed windows.

From the Pottery Barn Dorm collection. File under "HAHAHA...dream on, kids."

The second part of the checklist has been harder to get my head around, in part because at this point it's really not up to me - Eben is an adult, my role now is really peripheral - and in part because I couldn't nail down what I felt I still needed to take care of on this list so I wouldn't worry. 

So I decided I needed to put myself through a worry-elimination process. First, the practical things I haven't taught Eben yet. For example, I don't think he knows how to sew a button on a shirt. But he knows how to use the interwebs, and with the help of YouTube, he can muck his way through that sort of thing. 

Next I moved on to worrying about the on-the-fly adult decisions that he'll have to handle on his own. But Eben is a super-confident fella and has been gifted with a deep wellspring of common sense, so again, not an issue. 

The permanent image in moms' heads that
makes us an embarrassing weepy mess on
college move-in day.

Then I thought about the inevitable moments of "holy crap, I can't do this" that every college kid encounters sometimes (finals week!). How will he handle that, will he find/have help? But Rick and I raised our kids to think of mistakes as part of the adventure that is learning, and to know that asking for help is absolutely the smartest thing a person can ever do. Eben is resourceful, even in his most anxious moments. He'll be okay. 

So I had to admit that there's nothing really to worry about. I mean, there's a mother's ever-present box-o-jitters that doesn't ever go away, but the kid is really okay. It boils down to this: the only person truly unprepared for Eben to go to college is me. Eben is ready because we made sure he'd be ready. I completely forgot to make sure I'd be ready. I don't know... who can be ready for this, honestly? This is my baby boy... But I've been employing every ounce of Russian stoicism I can muster and I WILL KEEP MY SHIT TOGETHER. 

Mostly. 

(who am I kidding, send vodka and a therapist, holy crap.)

BIRDS TAKE FLIGHT

My firstborn kiddo turned 18 a few weeks ago. Legally a man, old enough to vote, old enough to fight for his country (not old enough to have a beer, but old enough to be trained to operate a thousand types of killing machines in service to his country. "The law is passion, free from reason." -Not Aristotle)... and old enough to leave home for college. Today, Eben graduates from high school. A couple of months from now, we'll drop him off at The Ohio State University where he'll begin studies as an Honors Program student in the Computer Science and Engineering Department of the College of Engineering.  

Readers, I am so crazy proud of this kid. He's graduating 2nd in his class (by the merest fraction, he would want me to point out... only a thousandth of a point separates my Salutatorian from the Valedictorian). This boy worked his ass off and was offered admission to many competitive universities. Though he initially wanted to attend college a little further away from home, he wisely chose the school that offers a world-class program and a reasonable tuition. For those of you who, like Rick and I, put yourselves through college with student loans... you know what life is like when you graduate with mountains of debt. And it's worse now, because unless it's a state school, tuition is just STUPID. Of course, I understand that it's hard to provide scholarships to deserving students when you have to pay your university president $7 million, or give a $40 million package to a sports coach, but those choices on the part of pricey institutions mean they miss out on my superstar kid. Their loss. OSU is a kick-ass school, we couldn't be more impressed by Eben's maturity and wisdom in his choice, and we're so excited for him. 

As all parents who've gone through it know, the college application/admission/decision process is not easy. But in a few short weeks comes the really hard part. I have to take my baby boy to college AND LEAVE HIM THERE. This is a state of affairs that I - and I'm sure countless other mothers of soon-to-be college freshmen - have labeled in my own head (and sometimes out loud to anyone within earshot) as "complete bullshit." An explanation: 

This particular child-rearing milestone is, of course, the thing parents work towards. We raise a human child, we guide and teach, we bathe and clothe, we nourish and nurture, all towards this end. To have acquitted ourselves of the task of putting into the world a thoughtful, intelligent, kind, productive, ethical adult whose contributions will, we hope, amount to a better world. Whether our newly-independent adult children are headed to college or headed for other adventures, this is a ferociously pride-filled time for us all. 

BUT. It's also another thing. It is absolutely, irrefutably, and horrifyingly The Actual Worst. You see, the humans we raise happen to be the loves of our lives. The idea of dropping off our loves in smelly dorm rooms, or watching them get on a plane, or just drive away towards Life Not At Home, means more than just not seeing them all the time, more than the absence of daily, visible proof of their health and well-being, more than missing their goofy banter with siblings or with the cat. It means heartbreak. And it's crushing. AND WE KNOW, okay? Mothers know this is the whole point, and it really, truly, is what we want, it's the way things are supposed to be. But oh my holy hell, I want to stop time. I want that to be my super power. I want that more than I've ever wanted anything, ever. 

Alas... it seems to be impossible to will a time machine into existence. I know, because I'm the most willful person I've ever met and I've tried. So, absent any superpowers, or time machines, or even genie wishes, I'll just have to rely on the old standby available to women everywhere: the ability to "live through this," whatever this is, whatever comes. Superman could take lessons from women on what it means to be made of steel. We let huge foolish tears roll down our faces, and people look and shake their heads, thinking "What a ridiculous old woman. Get it together, lady." And we will -- just give us a minute, and we'll get it together, like nobody else can. And then we'll watch, with hearts at once shattered and glowing, as our nests begin to empty and our baby birds take flight.

To Eben - congratulations to you, my boy. You're more than ready for your next adventures, and I can't wait to watch you spread your wings. Just remember to land at home once in awhile to hug your weepy mama. I will always give you gas money.

Bog Blogging

I think about this blog a lot. All the time, every day. I miss it, it misses me. This has been a weird, crazy ride of a year, and I keep thinking "I'll write for myself, instead of for work. I'll write... when there's time. When will there be time?" Time has flown by more quickly this year than I'm comfortable with. The list of time-stealing demons this year:

College Research/Visits/Applications/Decisions

I regret nothing about this - participating in this process with Eben has been equal parts grueling and delightful, and I loved every second of the time spent with my boy. 

SIDE NOTE: For those approaching this time in your own life or your child's life - DO NOT BE FOOLED by the supposed "convenience" of the Common Application. There's always a supplemental essay or two. Or three. Or eleven. (a blog for another time: "WTF: How Colleges Determine Wonky and Annoying Essay Prompts").

Asthma

Diagnosed last summer with exercise-induced asthma after several months of trying to figure out why, suddenly, running made my lungs and airways feel like they had an "off" switch. I was told by my doctor that this all has to do with "the normal hormonal changes that accompany a woman's entry into the perimenopausal years." GREAT. 

SIDE NOTE: Asthma is easier to deal with if you can tolerate asthma meds, which give me a hangover-like headache. You guys, I like running, I really do, but it's not my preferred route to a hangover. 

OTHER SIDE NOTE: Despite the asthma hurdle, I noticed something kinda cool while I've been dealing with it... upon receiving my diagnosis, Indoor Recess Nadia didn't make a peep. A few short years ago, she would have shouted "Running gives us ASTHMA?!? Fuck it, darling." Instead, my head went straight to solutions and fitness alternatives. Readers, I think that's a significant "win." Silver linings, silver linings.

Wobbly Work Life

How many heads of school can a school have in a year? Three, apparently. 

SIDE NOTE: This is also not my preferred route to a hangover-like headache.

My head is constantly flooded with
images of Eben when he was the size
of the little guy he's holding in this photo.
*SIGH*

Weeping

My baby boy is going to graduate soon and go to college. I am overwhelmed, and frequently paralyzed, by non-stop waves of nostalgia and excitement and melancholy moods and happiness and panic and planning, and mostly crying because this is MY BABY BOY and where did 18 years go?

SIDE NOTE: where can I buy valium in bulk? Is that a Costco thing? Is there a Costco for insane weepy old women?

So, the blog... the long and short of it is, I've been bogged down. It's hard to blog in a bog, but I'm going to try to re-energize this effort. Wish me luck, and I promise it won't all be "how to distract yourself when your oldest goes away to college and all you want to do is cry and look at his baby pictures" type of posts. I mean, there's going to be some of that, but it won't be all that.

"and you... you ought to give me wedding rings."

Sideways flames courtesy of full force fans.
Serious expressions courtesy of trying hard to
pretend melted wax doesn't burn skin.

20 years ago today, a boy and I stood next to each other in a church and made promises. It was unusually warm for late May, and the ceiling fans were on full force. We were holding candles, and the ceiling fans encouraged a steady stream of hot wax to pour onto our hands. We always remember the candles, how we alternately tried to ignore the wax or discreetly pick it off our hands when it dried. So elegant. Our friends and family stood in the church with us, and watched a ridiculously young couple promise their lives and futures to each other. Leading up to that day, we heard everything from "are you sure?" to "you know, there's no rush..." to  "[insert polite, well-meaning way of saying 'who the hell gets married at 22 and 24']" but we were resolute. One of my favorite literary moms, Molly Weasley, in reply to her daughter Ginny's observation that Molly and hubby Arthur were married quite soon after completing school, said "Yes, well, your father and I were made for each other, what was the point in waiting?" Exactly. The boy who stood next to me in that hot church was and is my Arthur Weasley.

Now, twenty years on, we are asked often by friends just married, soon to marry, or never married, "What's the secret?" Anyone who has "made it work" for a number of years with another person (married or not) knows there's no secret. You just make choices along the way and hope they're the right choices. But when asked, Rick and I generally answer with our best guess at a couple of things that we think have made it work for us. Rick always says "Remember it's a marathon, not a sprint! Grand romantic gestures are nice in the moment, but you can't keep it up. Don't set yourself up for high expectations." (ah, the romance...) And I answer "kindness." And though my answer is meant seriously and Rick's answer is meant to be funny (mostly) -- really, our answers are kind of the same.

It's true that there haven't been many grand romantic gestures between us. We're not a flowers-and-love-poems couple. We roll our eyes at flowers-and-love-poems couples. But Rick is right that it's a marathon, and he's been running it like an Olympian, as evidenced by the following completely incomplete list:

• When we go to rock shows - from the time we started dating in college to now - Rick finds the best place to stand so short Nadia can see the band. He places himself between me and obnoxiously drunk hipsters. He lets me lean back against him when it's a long show and there's no wall space to lean on.
• When babies needed midnight feedings, he got out of bed, went to the nursery and brought the wee one to me in bed so I could have a few more moments to wake up.
• When toddlers woke up way too early on Saturdays, he volunteered for "watch Blues Clues in the living room" duty while I slept.
• When small kiddos needed stitches for various injuries (thank you, Vinogradov genes), he knew to steer me to a chair in the ER room before our tinies noticed their mama was losing it and about to pass out. He checked to make sure all of us, me included, were steady on our feet before leaving for home.
• When my car tires are low on air, he notices and fills them without mentioning it. When he drives my car, it comes back with a full tank of gas. When it makes weird noises or leaks something from somewhere, he'll give up a weekend to make it right. He acknowledges my slightly unreasonable emotional attachment to my aging, dented, cranky car without judgement. I know he'll be sympathetic when it rolls its last mile and I weep buckets over it.
• There is always coffee made by the time I wake up. When we're out of coffee, there's a Dunkin Donuts run before I wake up.
• My Valentine's Day gift this year was crackers and cheese. Because again, no flowers-and-love-poems, and I like brie better than chocolate.
• When I feel like I need a running partner, I have one. Even though for him it's just kind of a slow jog/fast walk. He never mentions the fact that even at my fastest run pace, he doesn't break a sweat. When I mention it, he very sweetly lies and says "I'm totally enjoying this run, it's exactly what I needed today."  
• He has watched more Gilmore Girls than anyone who doesn't care about Gilmore Girls should. The same is true for Downtown Abbey, Battlestar Galactica, The Tudors, all LOTR/Hobbit movies, and cooking shows. (full disclosure: on this point, we're basically even-steven. I know every line of Pitch Perfect by heart, and not because it's my favorite movie. I also know that "this bit with Jason Jones and Har Mar Superstar is the best part!" because I've heard that sentence approximately one thousand times.)
• He has always said he likes my cooking, even though for at least the first decade of our marriage it was mostly mediocre and occasionally awful. 
• He knows the freezer should always have vodka.
• He is my on-call tech support. He knows to give advice/direction/instruction that a two-year-old could follow, but doesn't speak to me like I'm a two-year-old when delivering said advice/direction/instruction.
• I have rarely changed the cat litter in almost 18 years, but the cats I insisted we adopt have clean litter boxes every Sunday.
• Despite my pathetic cat-litter changing track record, two cats joined our family after the first two cats went on to the catnip garden in the sky, and he welcomed them with only a little grumbling.
• He knows what zakuski is all about, and that it's not just about the vodka shots.
• He goes to church in Labelle, despite deep commitment to being non-religious. Other reluctant church goers in our family know what this means, and why it's included in this list.
• I have never had to learn to operate our riding mower. It's possible this is because he tends the lawn rather artfully and I would probably just "mow" the lawn (really, what's wrong with the overgrown-wild-english-garden look?), but still...
• My house is spider free. When it isn't spider free, I know that's a very temporary circumstance. I generally don't have to do the un-spidering.
• He sleeps half-blanketed when I've stolen the blankets in my sleep rather than wake me by tugging the blankets back.

And the list goes on, but you get the idea... a marathon of kindness. I do my best to reciprocate (see above note re: Pitch Perfect), and of course - being human - we both mess up. Sometimes we mess up in spectacular and idiotic ways. But with kindness as our guidepost, and a commitment to do the work, we make our way back to center. Not the stuff of sonnets, I guess - but you get it, right? This is better than sonnets, because this is real life, this is actually love. It's as much about the unseen, boring, tiny details as it is about the deep connection that inspires poetry. It's about knowing that sometimes you hold hands while you run the marathon and sometimes you let go to be the road crew and to cheer each other on. 

Readers, raise a glass in spirit with us today, to marathons and to another many decades. 

Wish us happiness, wish us luck. Be good to each other. 

Love, 

N.

TIME TO GO OUTSIDE AND PLAY

It's official, I'm the laziest blogger on earth. Only one post between my end of Daylight Saving Time scribblings and now, when we've started the time change silliness again. I'm baffled each and every year at the start of DST (something I and millions others find pointless and ridiculous) that humans have an insane need/desire to control time. C'mon, kids. It's TIME. Messing with the numbers on your clock doesn't mean you have a TARDIS.

I tried a few bundled-up outdoor runs.
Too. Bloody. Cold.

Anyhoo... the bright side of DST: it also signals the unofficial start of spring, and here in CLE that means we get our pale Vitamin D-deprived faces outside. As I write this, we're in the middle of what is a typical "March in Cleveland" wonky weather week - 50 degrees on Monday and Tuesday, blizzard today, high of 17 tomorrow, 50 again by Friday. I ran outside in shorts and a tank top two days ago and plan to again on Friday, slushy roads and soggy sneakers be damned, because this winter saw some serious hibernation around here. Are we all sick of hearing the words "Polar Vortex"? I have never seen so much excitement among friends and family over being able to see a patch of grass. And rain! You know it's a bad winter when folks who live in Cleveland - a city that averages 155 days of rain per year - can be heard cheering at the sight of rain only because it isn't snow.  Funny how our perspective changes with seasons. Even me, the soulmate of Eeyore when it comes to cheery-ness of outlook - I admit to being totally stricken with Spring Fever. Time to clear out cobwebs and hit refresh on everything, beginning with my running routine. Time for Outdoor Recess.

First appropriately-attired outdoor
recess run of the season. So much
better than running in a parka.

My Spring 2014 running goal: increase my distance. 5k seems to be my wall. A couple of the pieces of my wall:

Motivation: I'm not terribly competitive when it comes to running (but don't let me near a Scrabble board...), so I don't have the motivation of racing to improve my time or distance. I like 5k races - mostly because running with a crowd is fun, even if everyone passes me, and I generally choose races that raise funds for a charitable cause, so I can feed the do-good feel-good part of my soul while enjoying a good run - but I never enter a race to win (or even to finish with a respectable race time) and I'm not fussed about racking up finisher medals for longer distances. Rick is the competitive runner in our family. He really wants a marathon under his belt. He struggles with injury and training schedules to work up to the distance. But that's just not me. I dig my race t-shirt collection, but the medal? Meh. I'm never going to be the person with a collection of distance stickers on my car, though I kinda love this one: 

My one motivating factor is wanting to do more of something I enjoy, which isn't nothing as far as motivation goes, but it's not race training and it adds no urgency. I had planned to work towards longer distances over the winter, but my gym days found me gravitating more towards the hot yoga studio and less to the treadmills (polar vortex, polar vortex... being warm trumped everything else).

Air: When I can run outside, my allergies quickly get the better of me. Ineffective airways make distance running a wee bit challenging. I can feel more energy in my muscles, but my lungs are all "bitch, please." I am committed to a more serious effort in finding a solution, starting with switching doctors. I'll see a new doctor next month, who will hopefully understand that traditional allergy drug treatments make me feel worse than the allergies themselves, and will hopefully not throw another unusable prescription at me. Fingers crossed.

If (when? when!) I can run farther, I'm looking forward to trying some trail running. Anyone have a favorite trail they like to run? 

MY YEAR IN LISTS

The "2013 Year in Lists" articles have been littering my Feedly and social media timelines since late November. Lists of top health trends, top celebrity moments, best films, best books, best songs, most important political developments, prettiest robes worn by the Pope (seriously, he's on some kind of best-dressed list. Side note: I hope anybody running for president in 2016 has hired the pontiff's PR team, because that guy has done nothing more than HIS ACTUAL JOB AS A CHURCH LEADER AND MAN OF THE CLOTH but according to social media and Time Magazine, he's the second coming or pretty close. That's some very strategic work done by one hell of a PR team. Get on that, presidential candidates.)

So, do these lists mean anything to any of us? Probably not much, with the possible exception of political developments, but they do provide something to read while hanging in the waiting room before your dental cleaning. Still, the prolific list-making enhances the general mood of both retrospection and anticipation that accompanies a new year. What were our successes this year? Our failures? Things accomplished or left undone? Are these big things or small things? And in that regard, how do we define a defining moment?

During a recent conversation in which people were sharing news about job promotions, marriages, babies, graduations, anniversaries - the types of milestones by which so many measure the value of life - someone made a (well-intended, probably) comment to me about the fact that it was "okay" that none of these things, or anything really significant, occurred in my life this year.

Just sit with that for a second... took me a minute to get over the unintended condescension before I spoke.

No, readers, I didn't lose it. I was very polite in replying that the small adventures that made up the whole of my year were a thousand times better than the catalog of clichés that Hallmark makes cards for.

So, as it's Year in Lists time, here you go. The List of Small Adventures and Perfectly Imperfect Moments That Made Nadia's Year Actually Pretty Wonderful (in photos):

New Year Trip to Miami/Key West for Rick's Ragnar Race.
Exploring Key West with E & M was amazing. We raised adventurers!

Family Running. A fair number of 5k races, some blizzard running,
a marathon relay, a Color Run, and the best race number ever (see bottom center pic).

Eben Moments: driving, NHS, Rock Off, recording and playing out with his band, being adorable.

Mad Moments: Winning Power of the Pen, finding field hockey ferocity,
crossing a signed Neil Gaiman book off the bucket list, being adorable.

LABELLE!

Citizenship, conquering the rock band mom life, time spent with cousins between summers,
dressing up with my favorite fella to celebrate a milestone at my school (and the culmination
of a huge project for me).

Whole Life Challenge, Beard Adventures, first college visit with the boy,
two kiddos going to Homecoming, some good CLE fun (Captain America filming!)

Friend visits. 2013 saw a lot of old friend love. We're hoping for
more in 2014.

...and I knitted three scarves. The end. 

WINTER IS COMING

First, a note about why no blogging recently:

...sigh.

So, Daylight Savings Time ended recently, and for me that day marks the official beginning of Gym Season. I live in a sidewalk-less burb, so that means a post-workday run is either in the park, running loop after loop on a pretty, tree-lined and very short path, or on the street - less boring but you take your life in your hands with all the texting moms. 

(Yes, I'm singling out the moms. Mini-rant: this road runner has observed that the teens around here - the ones who get all the billboard and tv-ad blame for texting while driving - are actually driving with hands at 10 and 2 and are paying attention to the road. The minivan mom, however, has added texting to the already unforgivable distractions of opening juice boxes, pressing play on the movie on their kid's iPad, passing back a container of raisins... seriously, you can let your child be bored and hungry for a few damn minutes, wait until you park to text your BFF about meeting up for Mommy and Me Pilates, and ARRIVE ALIVE. With the added benefit of not plowing into your friendly neighborhood runners with your Town & Country). 

Our cute little park is pretty much unavailable for a run after work during fall/winter months (it officially closes at dusk, and while you can still walk there - there are no gates - the coyotes tend to take over at dusk. I don't recommend a turf war with the coyotes), and the streets around here get dark. We have no street lights, except a few driveway lamp posts, so dark is DARK. If you want to live to see spring, outdoor runs from November through April are relegated to weekends.

An autumn sunset run in Ohio
can be the prettiest thing in the world.

I figured out in years past that the couple of weeks after the early-November time change are critical. Suddenly, it's dark when I go to work and dark when I come home, and I just want to hibernate. "The sun is down, it must be SO LATE, there's no possible way I can work out, I have to eat comfort food and curl up with a book." The only way for me to combat the hibernation instinct is to hurry up and embrace the night owl life, forcing myself to be active every single day. I take gym clothes to work, and head straight to the treadmill instead of going home first, where books and couches are waiting to swallow me whole.

There are stages of lost summer grief to get through, of course, before the transformation from summer babe to arctic fox can be complete:

Denial: "I can still run outside after work because I am a schedule management ninja. I am going to plow through my work today, skip lunch, leave early and go running outside while there's still a glimmer of daylight!"

Anger: "How is it EFFING NOVEMBER already and why do I live in EFFING OHIO instead of the tropics?!?"

Bargaining: "If only I had spent more time outside this summer. If I promise to run faster/longer, can I have a time machine and go back to July?"

Depression: "Cleveland. Is. Death. The. Sun. Is. Gone. Forever. And. So. I. Die."

Acceptance: "It's okay, Nadia. You are a Clevelander, toughen up! Treadmills are your friend, they keep you sane until spring and there are no allergens in the gym. You will see the sun again in a few months, and in the meantime you look adorable in sweaters and boots."

Winter is Coming and the CLE will soon be as grey and frigid as Winterfell. Gym Season has challenges, to be sure - I'm trying to reacclimate to the strangeness of an evenly paced and quiet run, as treadmills don't automatically accommodate my outdoor running uneven pace and other oddities (stop to take a picture of a hawk, stop to dance when the park is empty, run super fast for 20 seconds with arms flailing like a cartoon character begin chased by a bear because why not, sing at the top of my lungs because even if someone hears me I'll be down the street before they can notice how bad my singing is...) but the upsides are plenty - no allergens, more frequent yoga classes, heated indoor pools on freezing days, propping up a book on the treadmill (reading AND running! happiness, happiness...). Cleveland, I am ready to be in you when winter comes.

Cleveland, I'll meet you here on
a January Saturday morning.