Adventure Mom

Hitting the Bottle First thing in the morning, I think about it. Last thing before bed, I turn to it. It gives me comfort, warmth, and a feeling of well-being. I’ve started hitting the bottle. I broke new ground yesterday when, for the first time, I smuggled the bottle into the car. I stashed it beside my driving foot as I taxied to 2 schools. I felt naked, staggering from car to school gate to retrieve my flat mate’s daughter, minus my trusty bottle. Bottie awaited my return to the car. “She’s not hurting anything,” I rationalized. “I’m sure other people drive with their bottles, too.”   15 minutes later, we arrive at Fiona and Finley’s school. Once again, I leave Bottie next to the driver's side door in the Honda. “She’ll be fine without me. Or rather, I’ll be fine without her. I can survive another 10 minutes without Bottie.” The muddled thoughts of an addict. Am I addicted? I do feel a quiet pull, an urge -the need for Bottie.  Back at the house, I cradle Bottie and lovingly

Happy 50 th , Sean Sean in St. Lucia, West Indies, June, 2003 Today would’ve been my late husband’s 50 th birthday (I can’t believe I’m writing “late” in reference to Sean, because he hated being late). At least, it would’ve been his birthday today in New Zealand. We’re nearly a full day ahead of the United States. This is fitting, because the kids and I are moving ahead in so many ways. Ways Sean would be proud of. En route to school today, I reminded Fiona and Finley (ages 7 and 5) that today was Daddy’s birthday. “That was fast,” said Fiona. “I wish my birthdays would come that fast!” (Just wait, kid. Your turn will come, when birthdays arrive so quickly they make your head spin). Fiona said, “Can we buy Daddy a cake? We   can let the wind blow out the candles, like it’s his spirit.” Good idea, honey. Finley said, “Can you turn up the radio? I love this song!” I turned up the radio. I dropped the kids at school and took The Boyfriend, Pete, to breakfast at a café in downt

Reality Bites From my perch at the kitchen table of our borrowed bach (holiday home) in Pauanui, I watch rain bucketing outside. It beats down, rapid-firing at the picnic table, creating a pattern of dancing circles on the concrete slab below. The bach abuts an airfield – a grassy strip where rich retirees, hobbyists and tour operators can land their Cessnas, Pipers or Tomahawks in this jewel of a village on New Zealand’s ridiculously green Coromandel Peninsula. The Boyfriend, Pete, had planned to borrow a 2-seater aircraft (they jokingly refer to them as “bug bashers”) to buzz up for the day. He and a mate would take turns flying the kids, my flatmate, Amy, and I above the Coromandel. Heavy rain and thick clouds have grounded the flight. Bugger.  Sure, the plane ride would’ve been fun, but mostly, I miss Pete. This is ridiculous. We’ve been apart all of – what -20 hours? I’m still enjoying myself, listening to Fiona, Finley and Amy’s daughter, Blythe, explain their drawings, “I love

Born-Again Runner After the half-marathon at Mt. Maunganui "I don't think I can do this anymore," said the sweaty, overweight, 50-something woman wearing a pink t-shirt. I passed the woman and her friend as I ran the Mount Joggers half-marathon. Was she walking the 21 kilometer (13 mile) course? Trying to finish the 10k (6 miles)? I couldn't tell, but I remembered the old saying that goes something like, "If you think you can or can't do something, you're right." So much about a race – the running race, the walking race, the human race – is believing you can do it. Then mobilizing your butt (literally) behind your brain to complete the action. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot...(or, "lift foot, raught foot" is how it sounds to my American ears here in New Zealand). Trying, post-race, to stretch the sore back Despite a strained, sore back (following an overzealous first attempt at squash with The Boyfriend in the week