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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.”

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

North Face Endurance Challenge, Bear Mountain, NY

About 3 months ago, when it became evident that a New England winter would not preclude outdoor training, I got an idea that I wanted to do the North Face Endurance Challenge in Bear Mountain, NY. After considering the various distance options (ranging from a 50-miler to a 5K), I picked the marathon — 26.2 miles and 4222 feet of elevation gain — which was on Saturday. Then, Mr. P decided he would do the half-marathon distance on Sunday (which served as a training run for a 22-mile mountain race next weekend). So, we decided to head down to Bear Mountain with Little Boy and our camping gear and make a fun- and pain-filled weekend out of it.

We left Friday after work and stopped at a Hampton Inn in Danbury, CT. After a mostly restless night caused by light pollution seeping around the curtain, we woke up at 5:30am, grabbed a bite to eat and strapped a sleeping Little Boy in his car seat. It was more than an hour to Bear Mountain, during which I silently freaked out about the task at hand. We arrived at the starting line at around 8am and milled around with the other marathoners, waiting for the 9am start. The 50-milers started four hours ago at 5am, and the 50k racers at 7am. I have to say, I had expected most of the hard-core runners to be in the earlier races, but the marathoners looked like a buff crowd: lots of fit, skinny men and women with slim hips and bony arms — the opposite of me, with my tree-trunk legs and pear-shaped profile.

But in trail running, looks can be deceiving. The race started rather gently; it was four miles to the first aid station, “trending uphill,” and I took it easy. I could tell the people who would be in trouble — they were the ones already breathing heavily and sweating while trying to keep up their pace. I passed some people. I also stuck my right foot directly in a puddle and thoroughly soaked my shoe and sock. On mile 3. Brilliant!

Little Boy and Mr. P were waiting to cheer me on at the Anthony Wayne aid station at about mile 4. Despite my soggy sneaker, I felt great. I have raced on much more technical trails than this and the pack was starting to spread out. And there were my boys, cheering me on!

Spirits soar at Mile 4

Without my trusty iPod to keep me company (headphones were allowed but I never wear them for trail races), and with the scenery not being as breathtaking as the brochure promised (it was a foggy day), I started to get, well, not bored, but in need of distraction. For a few miles I traded positions with a slightly younger woman who was one of the skinny people I eyed at the starting line. She passed me on the flats but couldn’t hack the uphills. On one long rocky descent, she was directly behind me; for sure, she was an agile runner, obviously good technically, and I thought we’d be able to run together for a chunk of the race. But she faltered on one of the uphills. Then, I met a nice young man (skinny, of course) from NYC who asked if I minded him following me — “Your pace is really good for me, and you find great ways around mud.” He trailed me for about three miles. It was very motivating for both of us. He declared “I’m on Team Meredith!” Then, he totally bonked on an uphill and I never saw him again. So much for Team Meredith.

At the bit-past-halfway (13.9 mile) aid station, I filled my hydration pack and chugged a few glasses of energy drink. I ate some M&Ms but they made my stomach queasy. Indeed, no solid food passed my lips since my 180-calorie nut and fruit bar at 6am — unless Chomps energy chews count as solid food. As I prepared myself to continue running, I realized that there were about 8 people — runners — waiting for rides back to the starting line. They were done. Some people had ice packs on their ankles, but most… just looked done. This wasn’t the race they were expecting.

With the herd thinned, I ran mostly by myself for about 3 miles. The course leveled out a little, and two young chiseled male runners blew past me. My legs felt a bit beat, so I slowed down, but I was still solid on the uphills. I began passing two guys who would in turn pass me on the flats. We traded positions like this for the next 4 miles. One of the guys was in pretty bad shape, talking about “how f**ing dead” he was and “f*** this” and “f*** that.” He was a little scary. The other guy seemed, like me, to be okay but with awareness that his limits were nearing. We all stayed within sight of each other until the last aid station at mile 20.9.

Then, for the last 5 miles, I was on my own. I walked up all the hills. I “ran” down the hills. I desperately wanted my iPod to motivate me. Just when I felt confident that no one would pass me, a skinny blond woman running with two men cruised by me on a downhill. Shot! Every woman who passed me would knock me further in my gender and age group standings. It was funny, because before the race, my only objective was to finish within the 8-hour time limit without twisting an ankle. But now that I was in the thick of it, my competitive side took over.

I was running with a GPS watch that told me I had already reached the 26.2 mile marker, yet the finish line was nowhere in sight. This was extremely frustrating. Finally, when my watch said 26.75 miles, I could see the buildings around the finish line. I began to run faster. A 50-miler passed me — a gaunt man with a beard who was whooping with joy.I can only imagine… 50 miles of that. I crossed the finish line and got my medal. Six hours, 27 minutes. Firmly in the middle of the pack among women.

I looked around for Mr. P and Little Boy. They weren’t there. (Before the race, I had told Mr. P to expect me around 7 or 8 hours, but what did I know?) I walked around drinking water, so very very happy to have finished. Ten minutes later, my boys showed up. Little Boy was a little disgusted by how smelly, sweaty and dirty I was and avoided me.

"Mommy, you're dirty!"

I wasn’t hungry at all, but I dutifully got my free meal and my free beer — neither of which I could finish. Little Boy snapped a photo of me while I was sequestered in the beer garden.

"Mommy" by Little Boy

All I really wanted was a shower, so Mr. P drove us back to the campground so I could avail myself of the free hot showers for, oh, about 20 minutes. Then I sat by the fire, so tired that I could have skipped dinner and fallen asleep, but Mr. P insisted that we go out to eat. We found a Japanese restaurant and I devoured a bowl of udon (much more interested in the broth than the noodles). Then we headed back to the campground to settle in for a long night of discomfort (at least, I was uncomfortable) under the clouds and rain.

Campfire!

We awoke the next morning at 6am. Actually, I was awoken by rain at about 4:30am, but I was happy to continue to lay down. Surprisingly, my muscles weren’t nearly as sore as I thought they would be. Mr. P and I both ate bagels (I was beginning to get hungry) and we broke camp (after waking up a poor Little Boy, whose slight sleep deprivation strangely wasn’t yet manifesting in his behavior.)

"You run, I'll carbo-load."

The half-marathon started at 8am. Mr. P was pretty relaxed, much more than I was before the marathon, partially because of the reduced distance, but also because we now knew the trails were not as technical as we expected. Also, Mr. P is skinny 😉

Half Marathon Start

After the race started, we took a shuttle to the first aid station to cheer on Mr. P at mile 4.

High-five!

After our fleeting glimpse of Daddy, we then went back to the starting line and played in the grass. The 10km race and then the 5 km race started. For once, I could be a spectator to a race without feeling jealous of the runners! I registered Little Boy for the 1km kid’s run that would start after the majority of runners came in. Then, I watched the finish line. Mr. P expected to finish at about 2 hours and 30 minutes and indeed, he did just that!

Getting Ready for the Kid's Run

Soon, the kid’s race began to converge. Little Boy seemed excited to run, but we were unsure if he’d follow the other kids without our help. So Mr. P ran next to him (though he was hardly the only parent running). And Little Boy did awesome! He ran nearly the whole time and came into the finish line strong!

Kids Run Start

The final push to the finish

Chariots of Fire

Home Stretch

The funny thing is, when they came in to the finish line, Mr. P was still wearing his half-marathon number and the announcer assumed he was just finishing the half-marathon and called his number (probably didn’t connect him with the black kid running next to him!)

After the kid’s race, we posed for a picture with celebrity ultra marathoner Dean Karnazes, who was a constant presence during the weekend. Super nice guy, really inspiring, and his legs are just unreal! Little Boy was a tad unsure about Dean.

With famous Ultramarathon Dean Karnazes

With all three of us having done well in our respective races, we headed to the car and started the long drive back to Boston. What a memorable, wonderful weekend!

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By Meredith – May 7, 2012

Vignette: Little Boy’s Shadow

We were enjoying an afternoon walk in our local Audubon wildlife sanctuary: Mr. P, Little Boy, and myself. We were chasing each other up and down the trails with sweaty abandon; we were “birding” with binoculars; we were counting the turtles we saw lounging on fallen tree limbs in a pond; we were talking about shadows.

“Look, Mama! This leaf has shadow!” Little Boy observed, holding a decaying leaf above his head and pointing at the holey shadow it threw on the ground.

“Yes, it does!”

“This tree has a shadow!” he added, pointing to the long shady line cast by a willowy maple.

“Yes, it does! Honey, everything has a shadow. See? The shadows are made by the sun.” I motioned towards the glaring sun bearing down on us with a touch of unseasonable humidity.

This is not the first time he’s heard about shadows, but for some reason, he was fixated. “That plant have shadow,” he said, pointing at a clump of young ferns.

“Yes, because everything has a shadow!” I said, not really exasperated, but trying to head off exasperation.

Little Boy paused for a second. “Does sun have shadow?” he asked.

D’oh!

Goose Watching

"Look!"

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By Meredith – April 21, 2012

ONE YEAR HOME!

Today marks exactly one year home for Little Boy. One year! Six inches taller! Ten pounds heavier! Hundreds of English words savvier!

Sometimes I wish I could freeze time, and Little Boy could remain as he is now forever: Cute, obliging, curious, excited, cuddly, and small enough to be carried (for 5 minutes or so).

Yesterday we went to the Blue Hills for a picnic at the Ponkapoag Bog. After a 20 minute walk to the bog, we teetered on the half-mile boardwalk through the bog, most of which is dessicated from our springtime drought. He walked extremely well on the boards. He was excited to see a frog. We passed another family with an older boy who had apparently “taken a unexpected swim” as his mom commented to us, and as we passed she pointed at Little Boy and said “See? He’s much younger than you, and he can do it!” I wanted to say, “Well, he he’s too young to realize he has a choice.”

When we reached the end of the bog walk in the lake, Little Boy stepped onto a submerged log and was very surprised when his shoes and socks got wet. He howled. He couldn’t believe it. He was very eager to go back to dry land and have our picnic.

We spread out a mat near the lake and ate pate, which Little Boy is very passionate about (like his daddy).

After eating, Little Boy found Mr. P’s phone and managed to bring up the Angry Birds game. “Look, Little Boy, there are real birds all around us,” I told him, but he didn’t seem to hear me.

So when Little Boy was being distracted by a large bug, I grabbed the phone and sneaked it back to Mr. P, who put it in his pocket. It took Little Boy a second to realize the phone was gone. “Oh, I think a bird carried it away,” I said.

“What?” he asked.

“A bird flew down and took the phone.” I handed him his kid-sized binoculars. “Let’s see if we can find the bird, okay?”

Little Boy was distraught. “Daddy, we go to the store and get more phone,” he suggested.

In our moment of peace, we laid down on the mat as Little Boy looked around for the thieving bird. Then, a whoop. “Daddy! Phone in your pocket! In your pocket!” Yes, indeed, he spotted the outline of the phone in Mr. P’s pocket. “Bird no take phone! You joking!”

I thought he would be mad, but he seemed genuinely amused, and we all laughed very hard. Then Little Boy took the phone and commenced playing Angry Birds.

We did get Little Boy to put down the phone to play some whiffle ball (Mommy had to teach him how to stand properly when batting, because Daddy is French). Then we headed back to the car, holding hands and enjoying the sunshine, and the trees, and the birds.

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By Meredith – April 16, 2012

Of Basket-Bearing Bunnies

I started stoking Little Boy’s brain with the Easter Bunny myth about three weeks ago, when we happened upon a free poster promoting the book E. Aster Bunnymund. “That’s the Easter Bunny,” I explained, hesitant to use such a militant-looking rabbit as our visual point of reference, but at least he looked official. “Soon, he will come to our house and — only if you’re a very good boy —  hide a basket filled with candy and toys for you to find! Won’t that be fun?”

Little Boy looked a little shocked. Not doubtful, not suspicious, but surprised that this amazing event was so close and we never mentioned it before. He had all sorts of questions: “How big is the Easter Bunny? What will he bring? When does he come? Will we see him?” I assured Little Boy that, like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny came only when we were sleeping and we would never see him. This seemed to satisfy him until a few days ago, when he randomly turned to me and asked “Does the Easter Bunny come to my bed when I’m sleeping?” There was a hint of fear in his voice.

“Oh, never,” I said. “He’s scared of people. He’s like the bunnies we see in our yard, always running away from us.” I was bracing myself for the big question: Why? Why does the Easter Bunny hide a basket of candy and toys in our house, especially if he’s scared of us? But I have never, ever heard Little Boy utter this word, “why.” I’m expecting it to come one day, like an avalanche.

Concurrently with all this, Mr. P was explaining his Gallic version of Easter morning, which involves finding eggs and candies hidden all about the house. I guess we should have gotten our stories straight, because my version of Easter morning was simply finding a hidden basket. When we discovered we were feeding Little Boy two different stories, Little Boy choose to believe me; he told Mr. P he was wrong about the Easter Bunny hiding eggs and candies. Because Mommy is judged to be the authority on mythical house invaders!

But leading up to Easter, my brain was certifiable mush from cramming and sitting for the GREs (I smoked the Verbal section, attaining a score that astounded even myself and that would make me eligible to enter pretty much any Grad school even if I bombed on the Math. Which is good, because I sort-of-kind-of bombed the Math.) I forgot to buy egg dye and other Easter-related decorations that would have enhanced the whole Easter experience, rather than having it seem like some random, creepy visit from a giant basket-bearing bunny. It occurred to me that we could tell Little Boy pretty much anything and he would believe it. “Oh, tonight a dragon will come into our house when we’re sleeping and make us a cake. And next week, a unicorn will sneak into your room and steal all the broken and/or age inappropriate toys.  And every day, an old woman climbs through the kitchen window and rips out a few more of Mommy’s hairs.”

But, for all my holiday failings, I did manage to hide the basket in a floor-level kitchen cupboard on Saturday night. I thought it was an easy hiding place, forgetting that 3 year olds have very simplistic ideas about “hiding.” We went from room to room, and he would look around and say “It’s not here,” not looking in any drawers or closets or under any furniture. “Maybe Easter Bunny didn’t come,” he said, getting very sad after we had walked around the whole house.

“I know he came,” I said. “I heard him… in the kitchen! Let’s look in the kitchen!”

I had to prompt him several times to open the cabinets, and when he opened the right one, he didn’t react at all to the sight of the purple and green basket sitting on top of some pans. I then realized he didn’t even know what his Easter Basket looked like. I made an excited noise and he finally reacted to the sight of a Matchbox car sticking out from the basket. I pulled it out and gave it to him, and he yipped and yapped around, and he promptly wanted to simultaneously eat all the candy and play with all the little toys.

“I knew that I heard the Easter Bunny in the kitchen,” I said.

“Me too. I heard him too, Mama,” Little Boy told me solemnly.

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By Meredith – April 8, 2012

Good Dreams

Dreams are a hard concept to explain to a 3-year old with a limited English vocabulary. Months ago, I started asking him in the morning if he had “good things” in his head when he was sleeping. He would look at me blankly, unsure of my meaning. Sometimes I would tell him, “Well, when Mommy was sleeping, she had a dream that there were kitty cats in the bath tub! And then stopped sleeping, and they were not there!” (This is a total lie, of course, as my dreams are typically more absurd and grim. Last week I had a dream that Mr. P and I were camping in the Wild West and he made me cook dinner over a fire for a grizzled man with a gun because there were lots of men with guns surrounding us and this way, we’d be safe for the evening. But “cats in the bathtub” is more child-friendly.)

I remember reading that children typically dream about animals 50% of the time, so I once asked him if he “saw any animals” while he was sleeping. This seemed to frighten him. “Animals, in my room?” As if, at night time, our house was invaded.

We used to speculate that Little Boy had bad dreams because of his nighttime tendency to wake up and run to our bed, whimpering. For sure, there are complex memories in his head that could manifest in nightmares. But after we instituted the “sleeping sticker” system (in which Little Boy received a sticker for every night he stayed in his bed, and after ten stickers he got a prize) he instantly stopped coming to our bed. I think he just needed to know that we wanted him to stay in his bed. It has saved us hours upon hours of sleep, and it only cost us ten stickers and a cheap airplane that lights up and makes jet noises.

The concept of dreams was gradually made clear by library books. We read a few stories that graphically illustrated dreams — a little boy in bed with a thought cloud above him showing the boy playing outside, stuff like that. “Dreams,” I said repeatedly, pointing to the thought clouds. This clicked with him, and one morning over eggs he told us excitedly about how he saw tigers playing while he was sleeping. “Was it scary?” I asked him. “No!” he said brightly. “I want to dream tigers again!”

Indeed, most of his dreams do involve animals, though these might be the easiest for him to articulate. Yesterday morning he gave me a rambling rendition of a dream involving some boys from his preschool catching a “bad guy.” (It’s interesting that he uses this term, which he probably picked up from those very same school friends.) “We run and get him!” he told me with great gusto, and I marveled at the fortitude of dream-state Little Boy. Of course, I marvel at everything he does.

In Manhattan, looking very much the jaded pedestrian

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By Meredith – March 30, 2012

Nibbling the Big Apple

Little Boy and I returned home from our big Mommy-Son Amtrak trip to New York City on Sunday night, right at that precarious time cusp when I’m ready for dinner and he’s ready for bed. He half-heartedly lobbied for a bit of television, knowing instinctively that watching The Lion King on the train maxed out his allotted daily passive screen time. When I shook my head, Little Boy immediately threw in a bid for coloring. Which was, of course, immediately granted.

“Draw a picture of something you saw this weekend,” I suggested as I opened the crayon box and tossed a few sheets of paper in front of him. I don’t think he understood, but he complied all the same, rendering New York City in all its complexity and chaos and crowdedness (and with a river — that squiggly s at the bottom –to boot):

"NYC" by Little Boy

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By Meredith – March 26, 2012

Early Spring

Most years, Boston doesn’t really get a spring. The weather goes from 40 degree wind/rain to sweltering 85 degree humidity in a matter of weeks, with a few perfect 70 degree days of cool sunshine in early May. So this year’s early spring, with the unfathomable 75 degree days in March, is extremely unusual. Coupled with the mild winter, Little Boy has certainly received a meteorological reprieve for his first full year in New England. Oh sure, he experienced the discomfort of getting out of bed on a cold winter morning, of sitting on a ski lift in New Hampshire in February, of getting snow on the bare skin of his wrists as he played in the snow. But after a week of romping on playgrounds without a jacket, all of that is forgotten.

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By Meredith – March 21, 2012

The Presidential Resident (Mitt Madness!)

Yesterday was Super Tuesday, when ten states—including Massachusetts—headed to the polls for the 2012 Presidential Primaries. I knew early it wouldn’t be a typical sleepy Election Day in our neighborhood. Down the street, a swarm of television vans was staking out the senior center next to our local ballpark.

Which could only mean one thing: Mitt Romney and I have the same polling place.

Yes, we live in the same unassuming first-ring suburban town where Mitt claims residence via a seldom-used condo—purchased after the Romneys sold their estate on the hill. It’s one reason I have a soft spot for him. I can (almost) forgive the grotesque wealth and Swiss-bank-account vibe. Because he’s not just from some gated, hedge-lined zip code—he’s from my town. Which is, let’s be honest, only about one-quarter hedge-lined.

It will be hard—but not impossible—for me to vote against him come November. I mean, surely having the President of the United States as a local resident boosts property values? Just something to consider.

I did a little recon and learned Romney was scheduled to vote around 5 p.m., so I left work early to participate in a little Mitt Madness. When I picked up Little Boy from daycare, I tried to explain our post-school plan. He heard “vote” and got very excited—we were apparently going on a boat.

We parked at home and walked down to the senior center. Our usually quiet neighborhood had turned into a press gauntlet: cars everywhere, cameras, reporters, local cops, and two helicopters overhead. Little Boy was enthralled by all the exotic vehicles, but I dragged him inside to cast my ballot. If I were smarter, I’d have waited outside for Romney’s arrival—but I prioritize efficiency when I’ve got a toddler in tow.

Also, I suspect we’re in different precincts. They switched things around so that my larger, middle-class precinct got stuffed into the smaller room, while the rarefied richies lounged in the ballroom. Democracy at work.

It took me all of a minute to vote. Then we emerged to join the growing crowd outside.

Romney arrived minutes later—swarmed by Secret Service and a wall of press. I caught a glimpse of his forehead behind a policeman’s shoulder, snapped a blurry photo on my phone, and considered it a win. He moved fast, followed by Ann, as if gliding toward destiny (or at least the ballot table).

We lingered a bit longer, but the crowd was getting restless and Little Boy was edging into meltdown territory. So we walked home. Later, we watched Romney’s mini press conference on TV—same backdrop, same helicopters, now in stereo. He signed autographs. Kissed babies. The whole thing felt oddly cinematic.

And yeah… I sort of wished we’d stayed longer. Or at least that I’d gotten a clearer shot of the forehead.

Do you see it—behind the massive policeman? Do you see… Romney’s forehead? That was the best my phone could manage. He moved quickly, ducking into the building with Ann close behind. We loitered for ten minutes, the crowd swelling, Little Boy getting increasingly squirmy, and I finally called it.

Back home, we watched the local news coverage of Romney’s mini press conference—helicopters in stereo. He smiled, signed books and signs, shook hands. And I kind of wished we’d stayed, just long enough to awkwardly thrust Little Boy into his arms for a photo op.

Ah well. Maybe we’ll try again in November. Preferably with a better camera.

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By Meredith – March 7, 2012

Slalom

Little Boy and I were on the ski lift at Nashoba Valley, our localish ski hill that will still manage to challenge Little Boy for another two winters at most. Mr. P was off in Salem, running a 20-mile race that started too early for us to drag a 3 year old out of bed, so I decided a Mommy-Son skiing outing would be a fine morning activity.

We were enjoying watching the “big kids” racing the slalom event below the lift. Suddenly, Little Boy screamed. “What’s wrong?” I asked, thinking he saw another tweenager wipe out on the slalom course (though normally he doesn’t scream, he laughs).

“I thought that man was a monkey!” he exclaimed, pointing to a grizzled Nashoba employee with a large bushy beard.

I laughed for a good 5 minutes, long after we descended from the lift and started down the mountain. My prolonged mirth coincided with a lapse of attention to Little Boy, who perpetually scans the side of trails looking for little bumps to “jump” over. Normally this is okay, but the scanty snow cover caused him to be stuck in a muddy groove, and I had to hop awkwardly to pull him out.

“Looks like you got your hands full, Mom!” a cocky voice rang out nearby. It was a ski instructor, who was skiing backwards while coaching a young teenaged boy. “That’s why I ski with no poles when I go with the little ones!”

“Well, I need the poles to pull him along the flats,” I said meekly, but he didn’t hear me because he was prompting Little Boy to do turns around the trail. Little Boy was staring at him, unmoving.

“Go on, now, turn!” the instructor said, and Little Boy slid straight down the slope. “Gotta work on those turns, Mom!” he called to me.

We reached the bottom of the trail and promptly boarded the ski lift to take the same trail. Another gander at the slalom racing seemed to inspire him, because on the next run, Little Boy was in fine form, taking small, tight, fast turns the whole way down. We passed the ski instructor and his charge, who watched Little Boy with a new respect.

“Not bad! How old is he? Five?” the instructor asked me.

“Three,” I said, flashing a proud grin before racing to catch up with my future slalom star.

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By Meredith – March 4, 2012