Triathlon for Morons (an excerpt)

"You're going to be a great mother!" I heard her shout down the hall after me as I hurried away. Shut up, shut up, shut up! Why wouldn't she shut up?

I swung open the door and sat down on the polished pine bench, fighting back my tears, feeling completely defeated. Already. And I hadn't even started yet. What had I done? What was I thinking? I was too old for this.

The smell of the place combined with the nervous pit in my stomach left me wishing I'd skipped dinner. That horrible woman's comment about my supposed pregnancy had me feeling the same way, albeit for a different reason. Note to self: salads from now on. Forever.

When I called yesterday to get myself registered, I was pretty pumped up. I felt kind of invincible, ready to, like... totally crush it... or something. OK, maybe that was a stretch, but I at least felt empowered, ready for the challenge. Now, sitting here in this too-bright, stinky, stuffy, overly-mirrored room, I felt anything but.

After the "well-wishes" I'd just endured, baring myself in public was among the last things I felt like doing. Awesome. I pulled myself together, found a semi-secluded corner, and began to disrobe. I was here. There was no turning back, at least not without passing that woman again. How long was her shift, anyway?

It was time to learn how to swim. At 38.

Don't get me wrong, I don't sink or anything. The fact is, I was probably more buoyant than I would have preferred, as evidenced by the congratulations I received on my pregnancy that wasn't. I could swim underwater pretty well provided I could hold my nose. And I was a master at the triple crown: doggie paddle, treading water, and floating on my back. My greatest skill in the water, however, was my ability to be in the pool with my children for hours without getting wet above the waist. No small feat when surrounded by children ages seven and under doing cannonballs. Yay, me!

When I looked at the description of the adult swim classes, I skipped right over the beginner class, the one for those "fearful of water." I was totally comfortable in the water. I had no fear, just no skill. Other than that staying dry one. And that didn't really count. I chose the "intermediate" level, reasoning that I wasn't afraid and that I could swim the whole way across the pool without stopping. Right?

I registered and paid for my class at the YMCA over the phone, while at the beach honing my second best water-related skill, getting my toes wet in the surf and then sunning myself while reading a good book. The class was to begin the next evening and I already had butterflies in my stomach, excited for the challenge, but nervous because this was completely out of my comfort zone.

Pushing my comfort zone was kind of my theme for the year. Two months earlier, I'd completed a 10K mud run complete with military-style obstacles. In training for the run, I totally messed up my ankle and found myself in a walking cast for four weeks. I had been doing a pretty easy 3.5 mile loop before I hurt myself - sitting on my dining room chair... what? - but with the boot off just two weeks before the race, I was kind of screwed for completing my training. A 10K is 6.1 miles. I had only been running half that, always flat, no obstacles. I expected to make up the other three miles and add in some hills in the last six weeks of training. Or not. The furthest I got before race day was 4.5 miles. And it sucked.

I was on a team, and they couldn't compete if I didn't run. So, race we did. It wasn't pretty, but we completed the difficult and hilly course. Lots of laughs and a few short walk breaks actually made it enjoyable. Three cheers and and post-race beer for everyone.

On a high after the race, I went looking for my next physical challenge to push my limits. The obvious answer to me was a sprint triathlon. And, no, I don't know why that was obvious. Depending on the particulars of the race, this involves an open water swim of 1/4-1/2 mile, a bike ride of 12-15 miles, and a 5K run at the end. Since I could easily run a 5K, I figured this would be great. What the hell? Why not add the other stuff in the beginning?

Except that I couldn't swim and was afraid to ride my bike.

Oh, details, details! I had time! Nothing but time! It was only May and the tri was in mid-September. Plenty of time! Like I said, I was on a high.

My always wise and honest husband's response when I told him I'd registered for a triathlon was, "Um, Tash... You can't swim and are afraid of your bike. What are you doing?"

Hmmm... When you put it that way...


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After Twenty Years of Thinking (an excerpt)

As I found myself driving into the parking lot in my silver Dodge Grand Caravan, you know, the one with the "Stow 'n Go" seating for all kinds of flexibility, seating, and storage options, I had second thoughts. This was so not my kind of place. I am comfortable just about everywhere, but this place was a stretch. Even for me.

I shifted the car in to "P" and flipped down the visor to apply my lipgloss in the light-up mirror. Then I fluffed my hair, gave myself a winning smile, flipped the visor back up, and climbed out of the van. Never before has the "toot" caused by the remote control lock for the minivan seemed so out of place – the announcement of the arrival of a woman who clearly does not belong – as it did in that parking lot on that day.

I looked around nervously, hoping no one would see me. I couldn't have looked more suspicious. This was a pretty sketchy part of town and I didn't need anyone to see me hanging around. Most people wouldn't understand why I was here. I wasn't sure I could explain it either. My thoughts wandered to marathoners, who, when asked why they run, answer with the unsatisfying, "Because I can." 

When this got out, I was pretty sure I'd be judged, and harshly, by my peers. Your every-day, average, suburban mom didn't do this. Was I your every-day, average, suburban mom? Or was I just a little bit... hip? Oh, who was I kidding? It wasn't too late. I could just get back in the car... While I would have been less conspicuous under cover of darkness, that wasn't going to work with my schedule today. I had a small window of time to get this done. You know, seize the day and all that jazz.

Earlier, while ignoring my children at the outdoor playground/hell on earth at McDonald's, I called my husband and told him what I had planned. I'd been thinking about it for some time, 20 years in fact, and I felt I had given it ample consideration. I was finally ready to do it. What the hell? Today was as good a time as any.

"What are you going to do with the kids?" he asked. Duh. I was going to take them along with me. While he was out playing Ultimate Frisbee, we'd finished our errands, and had the rest of the day free. After all, they'd just eaten a nutritious lunch and were getting their exercise all in one conveniently germ-infested location, so clearly, it would be fine for them to come along. Which is what I told him. Duh.

"Tash! You can't take them with you! They're six and eight years old! They don't belong there!" he exclaimed.

Um, what? They don't belong there? Huh? Our kids were pretty worldly, you know, for kids that haven't actually seen much and still get really excited to take the subway into Boston, just 12 miles south of our sheltered suburban home. They were cool. They could totally hang. Right?

Yeah... no. He was so right.

They still felt the need to point out every smoker they saw loitering outside of a building, reminding me how "totally stupid" it was to smoke because they were "going to die" from it one day, or at least get "really, super sick." Note that this was especially cutting, given that  "stupid" is now considered a bad word with the elementary school set.

They liked to discuss the tattoos they saw on the guy who pumped our gas, along with just about everyone else in modern society, and reflect upon the choice that person made to have that particular design emblazoned on his or her body for eternity. "Those things are permanent, you know. Like, when you're as old as Oma and Opa, they'll still be there. Will you want that?" they'd caution me.

They'd talk at length, for weeks, about the waitress at the Mexican place on Route 1, that wore bad lip gloss, too much eyeliner, and had a stud in her cheek, tongue, eyebrow, nose, wrist, thyroid, and likely countless other places that were thankfully covered by the pesky clothing required by her day job.

Yeah, he was right. I totally couldn't take them.

Shit. I was going to have to do this alone.

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Parenting Opinion Article for Wakefield Patch

How Will Today's Generation be Remembered?

I know I’m going to sound like that old fart who walked up hill to school both ways – in the snow – but I gotta say, I think most of today’s kids are pretty coddled.

I don’t remember things being like this when I was a kid. So… pampered. In contrast, I remember not always winning games. I remember not getting trophies when I wasn’t first, second or third. I remember having to fend for myself in socially awkward situations and defending myself to my teachers. I remember getting bad grades when I’d earned them – and keeping them because it was what I deserved. I remember competing, losing, and crying. I remember staying out in the neighborhood with my friends. After dark. Without adult supervision. And living to tell about it. I remember being put in my place regularly and not feeling entitled just because. I remember earning the good things that happened to me and accepting punishment for the bad things I did. I remember, you know, being a kid.

The generation of children we’re raising today won’t – for the most part – have many of those memories. As I see it, many of them are learning to live in a bubble, where they always win, stay clean and safe and have mommies and daddies that will fix anything that goes wrong. They’re learning that they’re entitled to nearly anything they want without having to put in the time and energy to earn it. They’re learning to be scared of the world that might hurt them. They’re learning that there are few consequences and if there are, someone else will take care of them. They’re learning that “participation trophies” are just as good as first place.

On the other hand, there are a lot of fundamental things they are not learning. I don’t see them learning to be independent, to get hurt, to heal, to communicate, to win properly, to show grace, to accept rejection, to fight their own battles, to be strong, to lose. It makes me sad that they’re missing out on those important lessons.

I know why these things aren’t being taught. They’re hard. And it hurts to see your kids learn these difficult lessons. Our job as parents – our most important job, really – is to keep our children safe. We all know what it’s like to “break up” with a best friend, to fail a test, to lose a game, to be under prepared and overly embarrassed. It sucks. Truly sucks. And we don’t want that for our kids. But by protecting them – however well-intentioned – we are crippling them and setting them up for inevitable heartache as the hurts get bigger and their tool boxes are woefully empty.

I want this generation of kids to be known for overcoming their well-meaning helicopter parents and for being independent, driven, creative and successful people. I hope they transcend the suffocation of lovingly over-protective mothers and fathers and follow their dreams, whatever they may be. In fact, I don’t just hope that happens; I expect it to. I just expect that it will take them a little longer to get to them since they’ll first have to achieve all of the dreams their parents have told them to have.

This generation of children has so much to offer and so many ways to express it. I want them to be known as the generation that kicked ass as soon as their parents stopped kissing it for them.

What am I thankful for, you ask?

When asked what I was thankful for, I wrote this poem to sum it all up. Enjoy!

I won't annoy you with sappy prose
And wax on and on some more,
Let's all be thankful for rhyming couplets
And a reader I hope not to bore.

I am thankful for my children,
Sweet Addison and Reid.
Without them I wouldn't be who I am,
For better or worse, indeed

I am thankful for my husband
Who puts up with all my crap.
He really is a saint, you know.
Anyone who knows me will confirm that!

And without my supportive parents
Who on earth would I be?
Surely no one I'd recognize,
Not the strong woman you see.

Thanks for my sister, Heidi,
And her fam, Don, E, A, and M
They're close by and I'm lucky.
Don't know what I'd do without them.

Thank you to sweet Sophie
My dog of over 13 years.
I love that stinky old pup,
And her toots that bring me to tears.

And without my awesome girlfriends
I'd be an empty shell me.
Who else would run at the crack of dawn
Or keep my secrets expertly?

I'm thankful for Lake Quannapowitt
And my runs before sunrise.
I am also so thankful for FightFit
And my sensei who is so wise.

I am thankful for the right I have
To speak my mind at will
I should be thankful for a filter of those thoughts,
But alas that filter is nil.

I'm thankful for a margarita
On the rocks with salt, no doubt
I'm thankful for chips and salsa,
And salted caramel chocolates I can't live without.

On that note, let me say thank you
For my Starbucks extended family,
And for Whole Milk Lattes and Decaf Americanos,
That I drink obsessively.

I'm thankful for People StyleWatch
And a fabulous eye cream as well.
I also say thanks for jewelry and shoes
And outfits that look wicked swell.

I give thanks for good hair,
Thick and healthy, curly or straight.
Thanks to Erica at Carl Michael Salon
Who performs magic to make me look great.

I'm thankful for my freckles,
That mean I've been in the sun.
I'm thankful for my wrinkles
That mean I've smiled, I've cried, I've won.

I'm thankful for my flabby belly
That shows I'm a happy mom.
I'd rather have my children and chocolate
Than a body that's the bomb.

I'm thankful for a sense of humor
That keeps me alive and (mostly) well.
I'm thankful for a body that moves,
Hands that create, and a voice to give 'em hell.

I'm thankful for the life I've built
And all things good and bad.
I wouldn't know how happy I am
If I didn't sometimes feel sad.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Motherly Advice for Mother's Day

This was written for Wakefield Patch in answer the the question: What's the best advice your mom ever gave you?

In the spirit of a child's poem for Mother's Day, I offer you this:

Roses are red

Violets are blue

I have a way better

Mother than you!

So there. :p

I can't credit my mom - or anyone, really - with any life changing moments or deep conversations that define the way I live my life. What I can do, however, is look back and see a lifetime's worth of love, security, advice and support. I remember my mom always being there for me. Always. And still. She is my best friend. A woman I adore,  who happens to be my mom. I am very lucky.

I don't rely on sage words of advice or nuggets of wisdom she passed along to me. I don't need to. It was all there in the day-to-day way she raised me and in the way she lived her life. She modeled the behavior that I would one day aspire to demonstrate, both as a mother and a woman.

With my mom in my corner, I can do anything, try anything. If I fall, I never fall alone. And when I succeed, she's my biggest cheerleader. Sometimes she's quiet about it. Sometimes she's loud about it. But she's always there, even when I don't know it. To me, that's much better than a kitschy line of advice. That's a lifetime of unwavering support and love.

There are tons of nuggets of advice - don't lie, listen to your heart, go for it, there's always time to break up - and I live by all of them. But the best thing my mom ever told me was that she loves me.

And I hope that's what my kids learn from me too. That I love them, no matter what. Always and forever. That even when they don't see me, I'm still there.

If Only

She stole a glance
and her breath hitched
when she saw him.

Meeting his eyes
she looked away,
hiding her smile
in her shoulder.

She missed the look he returned.

He longed for her.
He did not look away.
He did not hide.
He wouldn't.
Not anymore.
He willed her to look at him
So he could tell her -
that she was beautiful
that she consumed him -
So he could tell her everything
with just the look in his eyes.

Having her there
so close
but still distant
hurt.
She was a world away.

He didn't see her look
that matched his.
He only saw her look away.

Opinion Article to Local Papers

Meet me at Town Meeting!

I have cleared my schedule and booked my babysitter. I am totally pumped for a night on the town. I will be spending the evening with forward-thinking, passionate and engaged people.

Yup! I’m going to Town Meeting!

On Monday, May 14, the citizens of Wakefield will be given a historic opportunity to vote in favor of a prosperous future for their beloved town. We can show our support for our children, our businesses and our property values by voting for the new Galvin Middle School. I urge you to join me at Town Meeting and be counted among the supporters of this necessary improvement. Without your voice, Article 5 for a new Galvin will not pass.

We’ve already cleared two major hurdles in the 4-step process to give our town’s children a new middle school. The first was to approve the $686,400 schematic design and feasibility study. The second was to have the budget and plans approved by the state to have them contribute 54.67% of eligible project costs. The third is to pass Article 5 by a two-thirds vote at Town Meeting in order to get the debt exclusion on the ballot for the June 9^th election. The fourth is to pass the debt exclusion in the town-wide ballot question.

We are half-way there. If we don’t get support at Town Meeting, all of the work and research we’ve done, all of the time and money we’ve spent, all of the excitement and awareness we’ve generated will have been for nothing. We will have to tell the children of Wakefield, the businesses, and the property owners that we did not care enough to vote for their futures.

We have an opportunity to impact this town by simply raising our hands at Town Meeting. If the vote does not pass, there will be no ballot question vote on June 9th. The school will remain in its current state and continue to deteriorate. The Town of Wakefield will lose a $34.7 million State Grant to offset the total project cost of $74.6 million. There are no alternative plans or funding available to remedy the numerous deficiencies of the current facility.   

I have two children that will attend the Galvin – new or old. I will not pretend that they are not a large part of why I support a new middle school. Obviously they are. But even if I were not a parent of children who will benefit, I would still raise my hand at Town Meeting to support Article 5. Without quality schools, property values will decrease. Without a vote for our children, families will not consider Wakefield when looking for a home. Without a community vested in its own future, businesses will reject Wakefield as a place to conduct operations. A “Yes” vote on Article 5 at Town Meeting is the right vote for everyone.

I’d like to thank you in advance for your support for a new Galvin Middle School. I am looking forward to seeing you at the upcoming Town Meeting at the Galvin Middle School Auditorium on Monday, May 14^th, 7:30 pm.

So… what are you waiting for? Call your sitter! I’ll save you a seat!

If you would like more information or would like to participate in helping to promote a new Galvin Middle School, please contact the Galvinize Wakefield Committee (http://www.galvinizewakefield.com/).

Real Simple Magazine Essay Contest Entry

The Meaning of Love

by Tasha Schlake Festel

She is snoring sweetly on the couch next to me, her head on my lap, finally settled after a stressful evening of trying to walk without falling, getting stuck - again - under the dining room table or slipping down the stone stairs leading to the swingset. It was a tough day, another in a string, where I responded to her cries for rescue, never knowing what she had  gotten herself into this time. I repress the guilty feeling of resentment for the demands her presence makes on my time, my body and my emotions. I am exhausted, as I am sure she is, by the emotional and physical toll this has taken, so much more than I had ever anticipated.

Despite the exhaustion and resentment, I look at her trusting face and feel her warm breath and love washes over me. I am overcome to the point of tears, realizing the full scope of my affection for her. This is not what I expected. It's complete, innocent, pure. It is the very definition of love.

It's easy to love a puppy. It's like loving pizza, chocolate, a beautiful sunset or a man that does laundry. Who could resist the nearly intolerable cuteness? The oversized feet and lack of coordination? The sweet puppy smell? The way they play hard until they pass out? They are sweetness and innocence wrapped in fluffy fur. Who could resist falling in love?

And 14 years later, I am still falling in love with Jaz. I do it every morning when I see her chest moving up and down with each breath, thankful that she made it through another night. I do it again when I gently wake her and she looks up at me, confused at first and then lovingly as her surprise turns to softness. And I do it all over again when I carry her 75-pound frail body down the stairs so she doesn’t fall, still stiff from sleeping soundly on her far-too-comfy memory-foam dog bed. I fall in love with her countless times throughout the day, as I respond to her needs the way she has always done for me.

We've been through a lot together since I picked Jaz from the wriggling mass of soft gray feet, bellies and ears in the straw at the breeder's barn. She has been there for me through happiness, dark times, sickness and stress. She has never judged. She has always been the strong and silent one whose constant presence has calmed me and allowed me to survive.

I could have grown a human in the time it took me to housebreak this dog. For nine months, Jaz would run into the living room, make eye contact with me, and then pee on the shag carpet, soaking it, endearing us to the landlord, no doubt. Oh, how she used to piss me off. It was a test of wills and she was my first real match. I’ve always easily out-stubborned anyone I’ve ever known.

Her stubborn desire to get whatever she wants is impressive. One day, Jaz sniffed out a fresh carnitas burrito, filled with rice, sour cream, pico and guac. Right there. On the coffee table. Unattended. What goal-oriented and determined girl could resist that little piece of heaven wrapped in a tortilla, wrapped in foil, tucked neatly into a white paper bag? The attainment and immediate consumption of the goal pleased her to no end, at least until the intestinal distress kicked in. But the minor discomfort was clearly worth it. Her furiously wiggling nub of a tail and the smell of cilantro on her breath spoke volumes.

Somehow we survived puppyhood, inseparably bonded, shell-shocked from the experience.  I loved her in spite of and because of her behavior. What didn’t kill us, made us stronger. She tolerated the addition of my boyfriend, who became my live-in, who became my husband. She tolerated another puppy, who turned in to an annoyance, who tuned in to a playmate. She tolerated the apartment, then the starter house, then the money-pit fixer-upper. She tolerated the addition of a daughter, then a son, then playgroups loaded with easy targets carrying snacks, conveniently at eye level. She stoically tolerated all of it. Through it, she was constant. She was solid, my rock, my dogged companion.

When she was about three years old, I decided we should start running. Together, of course. As someone who had previously only run if being chased, I was a novice. I thought I would need my hands free – no, I do not know why – so I got a leash that went conveniently around my waist. I laced up my sneakers, strapped on the leash, clipped it to Jaz, and off we went, hitting the sidewalks of our sleepy seaside town. I enjoyed the fresh salty air, and judging by the speed of her quivering nostrils, Jaz did too. We had gone about a mile at a manageable pace, when suddenly a squirrel appeared in front of us and took off up the sidewalk in a blur. I have never run so fast in my life. Jaz and I chased that squirrel for a half a block, while I pulled back on the leash, yelling, “Nooooooooooo!” I was no match for the combination of power, hunting instincts and inertia in that crazy Weimaraner. I was never so happy to see a squirrel run up a tree as I was that sunny morning.

Always by my side, never questioning and forever understanding, she has patiently waited for it to be her time again, when my life would revolve around her as it did when she was a puppy. When her needs would be paramount in my day-to-day existence. When it would be just us again.

Jaz went through a time of self-soothing, when I was too preoccupied with being the mother of two humans to also be the doting mother of a canine. She used to cuddle with her faux sheepskin gingerbread man, “Buddy,” who was approximately the size of a newborn baby. She would drag him around, tripping over his bulk, eventually settling to hold him in her paws and resting her head on him until she fell asleep. She knew I couldn’t comfort her, crazed with the responsibilities of my too-busy life. She was there for me, again, by giving me space.

We've now come full circle. What started as a naughty puppy I couldn’t help but love has turned in to a needy, elderly dog who I can only love. Gone are the days of chasing the ball, long walks and housefuls of children using her as the patient in their game of doctor. And as I did when she was a puppy, I find myself loving her in spite of and because of her behavior.

Six months ago the depth of my love for her became clear. I heard a funny noise from the playroom where I found her in the early stages of a Grand Mal seizure that would last for twelve minutes, an eternity. I didn’t know then that this event would be the first step in a steep decline. What I did know then was that I could not say goodbye to her yet. I wasn’t done. I hadn’t yet given enough back to her for the 14 years of devotion she had given me.

Now completely deaf and partially senile, she’s a ghost of who she was, but I love her more every day. I can see that trouble-making puppy in her eyes. I see the toughness that once allowed her to best a Rottweiler in the Rottie’s own yard. I can tell she’s still in there, still my rock. She is my heart and I am her center. She completes me. I don’t know who I am without her.

She is not the proud, strong, noble presence that she once was. She is frail, weak, needy. Awkward and unsettled. For her entire life, I have been the center of her world, but age and dementia have made her world smaller. Now I am its entirety. There is no happy ending. Heartbreak is on the horizon. Things will not get better.

I’ve spent the last six months taking care of her, tending to her every demanding need, trying to make up for her lifetime of devoted service to me. I’ll never be ready to let her go, but I think she finally understands what she means to me because I finally understand.

It’s been said that the only problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats. The fact that puppies grow up to be dogs is not the problem. The problem is that they steal your heart and then die too young. The 14 years I’ve had with Jaz is about 100 years too few.

Wakefield Patch MomTalk Column: How Has Parenting Changed?

In the 7 years I have been a mom, I have seen changes in the world of mothering. I talked to my mom and mother-in-law to get some perspective on just how much mothering has changed in the last 37+ years that they have been mothers, given how much I’ve seen it change in just the last 7. I was surprised, impressed and depressed by their observations. And I agree with just about all of it.

Things are more complicated than they used to be.

Moms have more to worry about than they used to. From the pressure to be perfect moms, to the pressure to have perfect kids, to the pressure to be perfect women, to the pressure to have perfect homes, moms can’t catch a break. We also have more “threats” than our moms had to deal with. There was no Internet, FaceBook, texting/sexting. Hell, it wasn’t even dangerous to ride bikes without helmets, sleep in cribs coated in lead or take car rides in our mothers’ laps instead of safely strapped down in 5-point harnessed, memory-foam laden, indestructible car seats. While in some ways the knowledge that we have gained has clearly made life and parenting better and easier, in other ways, it’s just given us new things to be scared of.  Are there more pedophiles? Is kidnapping more common? Can you catch your death from the water in Lake Quannapowitt? I really don’t know. It sure seems like it though, doesn’t it? (Interestingly enough, stats show that crime rates in general are down, and crimes against children have declinedby about 50% since 1993.)

Kids also demand more than they used to. The amount of “stuff” in kids’ lives is overwhelming. And I don’t just mean material stuff. Moms are supposed to enroll their kids in every possible activity that will potentially enrich their children’s lives so they one day get in to Harvard – sports, cheering, karate, art, Spanish, origami, etc. They also must fight all of their kids’ battles and never allow their children to feel the pain of losing a game or ever get a bad grade that they have clearly earned. Kids can never be left alone outside, be exposed to germs, use the words “stupid” or “shut up,” think that they are better at something than their peers, or be honest with themselves that they don’t actually like everyone in their first grade class. Kids cannot experience the satisfaction of delayed gratification, be told “No” or “because I said so, that’s why.” They don’t have to “eat it because there are starving children in Africa” when they hate what is put on their dinner plates. Moms can’t let that stuff happen anymore. It just isn’t done. All of which, in my opinion, is total crap, and a huge disservice to our children.

Things are more complicated than they used to be. And some of it is our own fault.

Moms can’t be “just moms” anymore.

I thought it was just me, but I have to say, I was really happy to hear that these two wonderful and experienced mothers both saw the pressures that today’s moms are under. I don’t mean the pressures that we have created for ourselves with unfair expectations, but the pressures our culture and economy have put on all of us.  

Moms are part of the workforce – by choice and by necessity, bringing home the bacon and frying it up in the pan. Or at least they’re guiltily microwaving the pre-cooked, no-refrigeration-required-until-open kind of bacon they grabbed off the shelves at Market Basket at the end of the day after putting in 8 hours at the office, hitting the gym, attending a PTO meeting, followed by a therapist appointment and a guaranteed-to-last-10-days manicure, wishing they had stopped at Whole Foods for the soy-based organic “bacon” that they read about in some green-parenting guilt-inducing blog on their lunch hour.

Did you know that our moms didn’t do all that? Why do we?

Even moms who don’t work outside the home aren’t able to “just” be moms. They have to be PTO Presidents AND troop leaders AND bloggers AND wanna-be entrepreneurs AND marathoners AND activists AND serial volunteers AND more! Remember when our moms used to be waiting for us at the bus stop, excited to walk us home and hear about our day over fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies and a glass of cold milk? OK, I don’t remember that at all, but I’m sure somebody does!

Don’t you wish you could do that sometimes? I do.

Dads have an active role in parenting.

Think of all the things dads were missing 37 years ago. No late night feedings. No diaper changes. No cleaning up puke at 3AM. I’ll bet dads thank their lucky stars every day that they get to experience all the glamour of parenting that their fathers never did!

But seriously, it’s not just the grunt work of parenting that dads now share. They have become true partners in the parenting team. According to my mother-in-law, moms used to be the primary parent – the one who provided most of the love, discipline, teaching… everything. Dads were relegated to be bread-winners. Today, dads are equal parents. They stay home with sick kids, pack lunches, kiss boo-boos, check homework, read bedtime stories, and get showered with their kids’ adoring hugs and kisses, as only moms did in the past. Today’s moms are lucky to have the support of our husbands that our mothers did not. My father likes to brag that he never changed a diaper. My husband thinks my father missed out. Times have changed, and I’m thankful for that.

Moms have more support than ever.

With all of the added pressures, I’m pleased to say that I think moms have more support than they ever have. When Hillary said it takes a village, she knew what she was talking about. Our moms didn’t have the benefit of society embracing that proverb. Being a mom can still be isolating and lonely. But today we have cell phones, FaceBook, therapists, husbands, organized play dates, moms’ groups, parenting blogs, email, preschool and professions that our mothers didn’t have. We have the power of the Internet to research our children’s health issues and can be armed with the knowledge we need to advocate for their proper care. We have the support of our immediate and virtual community to vent to, laugh with and share our tequila. We are not “just” moms and never will be again. We are a sisterhood of mothers, raising the future generation the best way we can.

I got the feeling that neither of the moms I talked to would really want to be moms in today’s world. They said they have a lot of respect for the work that we do, the way we do it, and the children we are raising. I was touched and honored to have both my mom and mother-in-law tell me that they both thought I was a good mom.

Apparently, there is one major thing that hasn’t changed: one of the best things you can get in life is a mom’s stamp of approval. Thanks, guys. It means more than you know, from one great mom to two much better ones

Happy Mother’s Day, Wakefield moms! Keep up the great work.

Wakefield Patch MomTalk Column: Mommy Bodies

Things I hate:

1)      Undies that don’t stay put

2)      Spinning rides

3)      Snotty people

4)      Standing in line

5)      Bathing suit shopping

So there you have it. Right up there in the top 5. Among the suckiest of all things that suck. Bathing suit shopping.

Every year I tell myself that this year is going to be the year that I can confidently walk in to the store, choose a 2-piece bathing suit, try it on in the glaring and unflattering lights of the dressing room, admire myself in the 3-way-mirrors and know that hot damn, I look gooooooood! Sadly, I’ve been saying this to myself every year since I was about 12. Now, at nearly 38, I am still saying it.

I sometimes look down at this body of mine and I simply don’t recognize it, like it couldn’t possibly be mine. Age, motherhood, lots of baking and too many carbs have not been kind. I can tell you that it looks and feels nothing like it did before I had two 8+ pound babies… and nursed them for 18 months… each. The only thing I recognize is my hair, of which – as I have mentioned previously – I am quite fond. Other than the hair though, it’s all gone downhill.

Or has it? I suppose that depends on how I look at it. And how I look at it depends on the day.

A few things that have changed for the worse are fairly obvious to anyone I encounter. I have bumps, wrinkles, dimples and bulges that I never used to have, mostly in places where they don’t belong. There are parts of me that sag lower than should be allowed. And I am no longer able to wear high heels for longer than about 45 minutes or I will be limping for days with achy ankles and knees. The fact is, I have gotten old and soft.

However, on the good days, I can see that in many ways I’ve improved and totally kick ass, if I do say so myself.  I am in better shape than I’ve ever been and able to do strenuous things with my body that I have never been able to do before. I am fit. I am strong. I am confident. I use my body in new ways regularly and am amazed at what it can do. Beyond pregnancy and childbirth, motherhood is a physical challenge and I have risen to that challenge and taken it to another level. I have set and achieved physical goals for myself that I never would have attempted before becoming a mother, even if I did have a much nicer body. On the good days, I feel damn good.

I try to remember those things when I look in the mirror, but it doesn’t always happen. I am not blind or delusional. I have work to do. I want to be a slimmer – and healthier – version of me for myself and for my kids. I especially want my daughter to see me eating right, exercising and loving my body. And I want that because I want her to feel the same way about herself. I will never be a size 4 without medical intervention involving removal of my hips and several ribs, but I can show her what a healthy and fit woman looks like. I don’t love my body right now, but I’m trying to fake it until I make it for my daughter’s sake, and my own.

I recently registered for a minitriathlon (quite a challenge as I am afraid to ride my bike and can’t swim all that well). I did it to conquer my fears, become stronger, shape up a bit more and show my daughter that her mom is one tough broad, no matter how flabby the tummy or how big the pants size. While I am a work in progress, I love what I can do with my mommy body and look forward to improving it and finding new and challenging ways to use it. I discovered my new mantra when I came across at-shirt  a few weeks. It says “Strong is the New Skinny.” Hell yeah, it is!

Wakefield Patch MomTalk Column: The Love/Hate Relationship of Parenting

There isn't a single thing I don't love about parenting. From the glamour to the ease to the loads of praise, it's all rewarding all the time. Why people bitch and moan about the struggles, I will never understand. How they can say that all of the hard work goes unnoticed, is a mystery. That laundry, arse wiping, doling out punishments, taxiing and homework checking isn't all razzle-dazzle is lost on me. C'mon! Think about it! How can you argue that it isn't all daisies and sunshine?

Anyone, parents or not, can clearly see that there is a lot not to like about being a parent. “Nights out” are now at TGI Fridays, Bertucci’s or the NinetyNine (especially the day after the Sox win when kids eat free). A movie date is usually an animated flick that one can only hope will be enjoyed on two levels. Road trips seem to include more bathroom stops than miles. Not good. Not good at all. However, those of us that are parents can clearly tell you how much there is to absolutely love about it. We all know the obvious stuff like unconditional love, an endless supply of Goldfish crackers and fruit snacks, and a ready excuse to act like a bozo and dance around in public when your favorite song comes on over the airwaves at Target. But the less obvious stuff is where the true love lies for me. (OK, maybe the “fruit snack benefit” is less obvious to others, but I love that stuff. Don’t be a hater.)

I love that I can see myself in my children. I don’t mean physically so much, because my blonde-haired, blue-eyed babies bear very little resemblance to me, but more the impact my parenting and personality has on them. I hear my words and intonation in their expression. I see my style in their communication and relationships (however not in their clothing choices, thankyouverymuch). I notice my likes in their preferences. My kids have a lot of me in there, but more impressively, they have a lot of them, mixed up with me, mixed up with what I have taught them. I love helping them become who they are and will one day be.

I love being the greatest sculptor of all, molding some of the most fabulous works of art this world has ever seen. Art enhances and adds beauty to every day life. That’s what my children do for me. Their smiles, their laughter, their hugs, and even their tantrums are extensions of my creation and influence. I love the masterpieces that they are.

I love that my heart lives outside my body and in my children. I send it to school every day and hope it comes back in one piece. I send it to basketball, to jujitsu, and on playdates and tuck it in to bed every night, hoping it sleeps peacefully with happy dreams. My capacity for emotion has tripled, with the addition of the feelings of two kids paired with my own overwhelming sensitivity. I am open to more pain than I ever thought possible, vulnerable all over again to playground drama, cliques and mean girls. But I also never knew the joy and love that the open heart of a mother could experience and I can never explain it. I love the depth of feeling I now know.

I love the daily abdominal workout I get from laughing at these ridiculous children I have produced. There isn’t a day that goes by where I don’t belt out a big, healthy, open-mouthed belly laugh. That rocks. Without trying, these kids amuse the snot out of me. I love the heck out of that.

I love how much I learn about myself every day through them and because of them. I didn’t know I was a baker, or a cake designer, or a coach, or a triathlete, or a fighter until I had kids. I didn’t even know I liked kids all that much until I had my own, and they had friends, and then I’d love a houseful of ‘em. I didn’t know I wouldn’t want to be “corporate girl” for long or that ruling the business world would have little to no appeal. I didn’t know I’d choose a job that doesn’t pay or that that job of being a mom would be my favorite. I love that I know me a little better every day.

And while all these things are definitely worthy of love, the thing I love most about being a mom is that I have something bigger than myself to be strong for, to get up for, to be better for. There is more than just me and my silly old stuff. On those dark days where I don’t want to get out of bed, I suck it up and put on a brave face (and plenty of under-eye concealer.) Instead of bending and cracking to pain and pressure, I find the strength and kick the crap out of my problems. When I consider sacrificing my standards and calling it “good enough,” I think about my kids and I recommit, try harder and knock it out of the park. For as much as I give them, they give me so much more. I love them more than they will ever understand.

Wakefield Patch MomTalk Column: Kids' Fashion

My daughter was such an easy baby. Laid-back, happy-go-lucky, flexible… I should have seen the warning signs! By the time she was 22 months, she was refusing – and I mean refusing – to wear jeans. There was no way I was getting those things on her body. And if I did manage to get them on her, swearing and sweating during the entire battle of wills and emotional endurance, she would demonstrate a level of manual dexterity rarely seen in toddlers, expertly unbuttoning, unzipping and removing the pants at mach speed. Eventually, I gave up on the jeans.

Her fashion rules have gotten more and more restrictive as she’s gotten older and more articulate, and continue to dictate her wardrobe at age 7, even despite the clothing choices of her fashion-forward friends. Jersey-knit only. No buttons, not even decorative. No long cuffs. No tights. No puffy sleeves. No sewn-on embellishments. No over-sized iron-ons. No empire waist. No strappy tanks. No lace, ribbons or frills. No seams across socks. No dress shoes. No cutesy sayings. No brand names. No leggings. No skirts without built-in shorts. And the list goes on. While she can give a valid (to her) excuse for why she won’t wear these things, I challenge you to find 4 seasons worth of school-appropriate clothing.

I firmly believe in choosing my battles when it comes to parenting, and I learned long ago that the “general appearance battle” is one that I don’t pick. Therefore, I am an expert on looking the other way when my kids get dressed. When they come down from their rooms dressed for school, I brace myself. I have learned that I can only make suggestions on what might match. I’m only their mother. I don’t actually know what I’m talking about.

My only rule is that they are dressed in a generally seasonally appropriate manner. Or that they accept the consequences of their decisions. I do not force them to wear jackets in the winter, nor do I force them to wear shorts in the summer. After all, it’s not my body. As I tell them, I am not at all uncomfortable when they are hot/cold. I advise, but do not dictate. Eventually they learn mommy isn’t always so dumb.

As the kids age, the battles over fashion will change. I tend to think that stuff is fleeting and not worth the fight. Clothing, makeup, hair – it is all impermanent. I will offer my opinion and my advice when asked, and I fully expect it to be disregarded.

The permanent stuff like piercings and tattoos, well, that’s a whole ’nother ball o’ wax. When I went to college and got a 4^th earring in my left ear, I remember my mother making me promise that I wouldn’t do anything to my face. I thought that was such an odd request. But now I get it. I will make the same rule in my house: nothing on the face.

And while I don’t have anything against tattoos (note: I am ink-free, myself), I do think they are something only adults should get. That thing will be on you forever. Even when you’re 93. Once my 5 year old boy asked me to get a spider web tattoo radiating from my elbow, because, you know, it’s cool. When I asked him what he would think if Oma, his great grandmother, had one, he thought it would be pretty silly. I told him I would be like Oma one day and still have a spider web on my arm. He decided that maybe I shouldn’t get one after all. Point made.

Personal appearance is part of personal expression. Kids will be kids. Fashions will change. I went through my fluorescent phase in the 80s. I had huge hair and claw bangs in junior high and high school. I wore ripped jeans and flannel in the grunge days of the 90s. Last year I got hot pink highlights in my hair. And this fall I wore jeggings.

My mom probably bit her tongue through each and every one of those phases. If she’d said something, I probably would have ignored her. I mean, what does she know anyway? She’s just my mom.

Wakefield Patch MomTalk Column: About Me

I am a mother, woman, wife, volunteer, daughter, coach, writer, marketer, entrepreneur, friend, baker, procrastinator, Daisy Scout troop leader, risk taker, room parent, nanny, athlete, over-achiever, trouble-maker, chauffeur, neighbor, sister, competitor and lunatic. I am confident, bold, self-conscious, independent, scared, fashionable, out-spoken, understanding, dorky, funny, inappropriate, shy, flabby, strong, critical, inquisitive, accepting, loving, generous, reserved and confused. And I have good hair.

I’m every woman. It’s all in me!

I was born in Tacoma, WA and grew up in Nazareth, PA in a supportive family with strong and loving parents and a kick-ass older sister. I graduated from Syracuse University with a BS in Advertising and a BS in Marketing and took a job in insurance, which had absolutely nothing to do with anything I had ever done or had any interest in. The job transferred me to Hartford and eventually to the Boston area in 1997 where I immediately left insurance, later met my husband and put down roots to raise a family. We moved to Wakefield in 2005 and have become fully entrenched in the community. I love it in this crazy little town!

Make no mistake. I have absolutely no business giving anyone parenting advice. I do most things wrong. But, my kids are miraculously happy, well-mannered and seemingly productive members of society for 5- and 7-year-olds. (As an aside, I recently listened to a brief interview with Bryan Caplan, who wrote Selfish Reasons to Have More Kids, a book detailing that “upbringing is much less important than genetics in the long run.” Interesting stance! Take that, Tiger Mom!)

As I have explained in a previous post, I am a working mom, attempting to strike the perfect balance of being mommy and being me. I work part-time from home as an Internet Marketing Manager for a company based in Pennsylvania. When I’m not doing that, I am perfecting my cake baking and cupcake making skills, preparing to dominate the world and cover it in buttercream. And when I’m not doing either of those things, I’m hanging out with my husband and kids, volunteering for various school and town committees, exercising and obsessively checking email. The two things I am generally NOT doing are sleeping or cleaning my house. You know, something’s gotta give!

Since I’m revealing so much fascinating information about myself, here are some things few people know about me:

• I have walked on hot coals.
• I have been in two fist fights.
• I cry easily.
• I have always wanted to be a hairdresser.
• I would give a kidney – or give up tequila – to never have to do laundry again.
• Until I had children and all pride went out the window, I would lip sync “Happy Birthday” because my singing voice is so terrible.
• I wanna be a billionaire so freakin’ bad.
• In a former life I was a Mary Kay Consultant.
• I have more ideas than three lifetimes would ever allow me to act upon.
• My parents are two of my best friends.

I try not to take myself – or life – too seriously. I attempt to live without looking back, doing the best that I can without second-guessing my decisions. I apply this philosophy to parenting as much as possible, but there are nights when I replay the day and wish I’d done it differently. I remind myself that dwelling doesn’t help and that I’ll just do better tomorrow. Every day is a new day to try again, and I attempt to do that regularly. I hope to pass this on to my kids. Life is hard enough without beating yourself up about it.

I have thoroughly enjoyed the experience of writing for Wakefield Patch. It’s given me an opportunity to think, create, communicate, (hopefully) entertain and solidify my own opinions on various topics. I thank you all for reading, and hope you continue to do so!

Writing Sample: Personal Essay

The Meaning of Love

by Tasha Schlake Festel

She is snoring sweetly on the couch next to me, her head on my lap, finally settled after a stressful evening of trying to walk without falling, getting stuck - again - under the dining room table or slipping down the stone stairs leading to the swingset. It was a tough day, another in a string, where I responded to her cries for rescue, never knowing what she had managed to get herself into this time. I repress the guilty feeling of resentment for the demands her presence makes on my time, my body and my emotions. I am exhausted, as I am sure she is, by the emotional and physical toll this has taken, so much more than I had ever anticipated.

Despite the exhaustion and resentment, I look at her trusting face and feel her warm breath and love washes over me. I am overcome to the point of tears, realizing the full scope of my affection for her. This is not what I expected. It's complete, innocent, pure. It is the very definition of love.

It's easy to love a puppy. It's like loving pizza, chocolate, a beautiful sunset or a man that does laundry. Who could resist the nearly intolerable cuteness? The oversized feet and total lack of coordination? The sweet puppy smell? The way they play hard until they pass out? They are sweetness and innocence wrapped in fluffy fur. Who could resist falling in love?

And falling in love with her is so easy. I do it every morning when I see Jaz’s chest moving up and down with each breath, thankful that she made it through the night. I do it again when I gently wake her and she looks up at me, confused at first and then lovingly as her surprise turns to softness. And I do it all over yet again when I carry her 75-pound frail body down the stairs so she doesn’t fall, still stiff from sleeping soundly on her far-too-comfy memory-foam dog bed. I fall in love with her countless times throughout the day, as I respond to her needs the way she has always done for me.

We've been through a lot together in the 14 years since I picked Jaz from the wriggling mass of soft gray feet, bellies and ears in the straw at the breeder's barn. She has been there for me through happiness, dark times, sickness and stress like no one in my life. She has never judged. She has always been the strong and silent one whose constant presence has calmed me and allowed me to survive.

I could have grown a human in the time it took me to housebreak this dog. For nine months, Jaz used to run into the living room, make eye contact with me, and then pee on the industrial carpet, soaking it, endearing us to the landlord, no doubt. Oh, how she used to piss me off. It was a test of wills. She was my first real match. I’ve always easily out-stubborned anyone I’ve ever known.

One day, Jaz sniffed out a fresh carnitas burrito, filled with rice, sour cream, pico and guac. Right there. On the coffee table. Unattended. What goal-oriented and determined girl could resist that little piece of heaven wrapped in a tortilla, wrapped in foil, tucked neatly into a white paper bag? The attainment and immediate consumption of the goal pleased her to no end, at least until the intestinal distress kicked in. But the minor discomfort was clearly worth it. Her furiously wiggling nub of a tail and the smell of cilantro on her breath spoke volumes.

Somehow we survived puppyhood, inseparably bonded, shell-shocked from the experience.  I loved her in spite of and because of her behavior. What didn’t kill us, made us stronger, and Jaz, the alpha dog, took her place in the pecking order, lateral to me, the other alpha. She tolerated the addition of my boyfriend, who became my live-in, who became my husband. She tolerated another puppy, that turned in to an annoyance, that tuned in to a playmate. She tolerated the apartment, then the starter house, then the money-pit fixer-upper. She tolerated the addition of a daughter, then a son, then playgroups loaded with easy targets carrying snacks, conveniently at eye level. She stoically tolerated all of it. Through it, she was constant. She was solid, my rock, my dogged companion.

When she was about three years old, I decided we should start running. Together, of course. As someone who had previously only run if being chased, I was a novice. I thought I would need my hands free – no, I do not know why – so I got a leash that went conveniently around my waist. I laced up my sneakers, strapped on the leash, clipped it to Jaz, and off we went, hitting the sidewalks of our sleepy little seaside town. I enjoyed the fresh salty air, and judging by the speed of her quivering nostrils, Jaz did too. We had gone about a mile at a manageable pace. Suddenly a squirrel appeared in front of us and took off up the sidewalk in a blur. I have never run so fast in my life. Jaz and I chased that squirrel for a half a block, while I pulled back on the leash, yelling, “Nooooooooooo!” I was no match for the combination of power, hunting instincts and inertia in that crazy Weimaraner. I was never so happy to see a squirrel run up a tree as I was that sunny morning.

Always by my side, never questioning and forever understanding, she has patiently waited for it to be her time again, when my life would revolve around her as it did when she was a puppy. When her needs would be paramount in my day-to-day existence. When it would be just us again.

Jaz went through a time of self-soothing, when I was too preoccupied with being the mother of two humans to also be the doting mother of a canine. She used to cuddle with her faux sheepskin gingerbread man named “Buddy,” who was approximately the size of a newborn baby. She would drag him around, tripping over his bulk, eventually settling to hold him in her paws and resting her head on him until she fell asleep. She knew I couldn’t comfort her, crazed with the responsibilities of my too-busy life. She was there for me, again, by giving me space.

We've now come full circle. What started as a needy puppy I couldn’t help but love has turned in to a needy, elderly dog who I can only love. Gone are the days of chasing the ball, long walks and housefuls of children using her as the patient in their game of doctor. And as I did when she was a puppy, I find myself loving her in spite of and because of her behavior.

Six months ago the depth of my love for her became clear. I heard a funny noise from the playroom and upon investigation, I found her in the early stages of a Grand Mal seizure that would last for twelve minutes, an eternity. I didn’t know then that this event would be the first step in a steep decline. What I did know then was that I could not say goodbye to her yet. I wasn’t done. I hadn’t yet given enough back to her for the 14 years of devotion she had given me.

Now completely deaf and partially senile, she’s a ghost of who she was, but I love her more every day. I can still see that trouble-making puppy in her eyes. I see the toughness that once allowed her to best a Rottweiler in the Rottie’s own yard. I can tell she’s still in there, still my rock. She is my heart and I am her center. She completes me. I don’t know who I am without her.

She is not the proud, strong, noble presence that she once was. She is frail, weak, needy. Awkward and unsettled. For her entire life, I have been the center of her world, but age and dementia have made her world smaller. Now I am its entirety. There is no happy ending. Heartbreak is on the horizon. Things will not get better.

I’ve spent the last six months taking care of her, tending to her every demanding need, trying to make up for her lifetime of devoted service to me. I’ll never be ready to let her go, but I think she finally understands what she means to me because I finally understand.

It’s been said that the only problem with kittens is that they grow up to be cats. The fact that puppies grow up to be dogs is not the problem. The problem is that they steal your heart and then die too young. The 14 years I’ve had with Jaz is about 100 years too few.