What I'm made of

"Having kids is guaranteed to make you feel like an idiot or a tyrant at least half of the time." Alan Joyce, my husband in his infinite wisdom and wittiness.

The past month and a half has been just a blur of illness, passed back and forth between the whole family. Somewhere in the muddle we also had to make a huge decision that was a long time and several thousand dollars worth of car repairs in the coming. We had to part ways with our beloved Honda CRV. After much deliberation we decided to replace it with a newer Subaru Forester, the day before Aldo turned 4. We said goodbye to the CRV and drove the Subaru home the day before the first bout of my new derby season, which was on Aldo's 4th birthday.

We all have had achy muscles, runny noses and nasty coughs for a few weeks back and forth. Then my lingering cough somehow developed into walking pneumonia in the middle of the car deliberations. Which I had for the first bout. Then Oona puked in the new car four days after we got it and had explosive diarrhea for 3 days. Then on Alan's birthday, en route to his birthday dinner out, one week after the bout and Aldo's birthday the poor boy puked what can only be described as copious amounts in the car. And continued to do so for about 2 and a half days. At the patient advisory nurse's instruction we kept him home as he was still peeing. At the end of the third day of vomit he woke screeching that his hands and feet felt funny so Alan rushed him to the emergency room and he was admitted to the hospital with severe dehydration, the result of what they thought was norovirus. He stayed there for a few nights. 

Add to Alan's previous, spot on description of parenthood the feeling of overwhelming helplessness and despair when your child is unable to keep water down, wincing in pain as you attempt to stroke his hair to get him to rest, unable to stand to walk to the bathroom. The emotions that wash over you as you witness him struggle and scream as they attempt and fail to get an IV not in one but both hands, finally needing to put it in his arm instead. Rest your head for a moment on the hard couch in his hospital room as he fitfully drifts in and out of sleep, listening to all the machinery he's hooked up to, jumping every time you think he missed a breath. The worry that consumes you when you see him lying limp and hooked up to a bunch of machinery in a hospital bed, with none of the usual sparkle in his eyes you realize you often take for granted. The sadness you feel when each time a different doctor or nurse comes into his room and he turns his head, asking quietly whether or not they are going to poke him again.

It is indeed these moments you see "what you're made of." 

But here's my question. At which moment during this ordeal do I judge myself and my strength and "See what I'm made of?" 

Is it when I'm exhausted, starving, with a blinding migraine and way past frustrated, dizzy from the stress and and questioning why I had kids with the wee viking, drastically away from her usual schedule, confused and shrieking at a gut wrenching level non stop at me from 6:00 when I leave the hospital all the way down the hall, in the crowded elevator, echoing in the parking garage, as we drive home, make dinner, eat dinner, as she uses the toilet, as I am fighting to brush her teeth, during her entire bath till 8:00 when she has her pajamas on and we collapse into each others arms on her couch and read? 

Or the utter despair that brings me to uncontrollable sobbing after I've gotten the wee viking to sleep and am faced with what seems to be the overwhelming task of deciding on something to make myself to eat? Or perhaps I take a snapshot and judge myself and what I'm made of in my moments of anger at the brand new car being barfed in twice in the week we've had it? At which point is "what I'm made of" to be measured?

When I'm having a rough time, an especially challenging moment, feeling useless or incompetent I just imagine my skates on my feet. The instantaneous feeling of power and freedom that comes along with wearing them. A feeling that stretches all the way back to the first time I ever skated on my fifth birthday to the present, 37 years later as I have been gifted the amazing opportunity to experience participation on a derby team and continue to learn the game.

This moment. Not all the extra minutes you wish you had every day. Not all the stuff from yesterday you're still thinking about. Not all the what ifs in the future you're worrying about. This moment. Right now. When I have my skates on they deliver me firmly to the present moment and allow me to glide through it, facing challenges with the boldness I strive for in my daily life. 

It's me and my breath, the intoxicating feeling of flight that skating provides me.  For a little while I'm not helpless or an idiot. I am kinesthetically blissed out, empowered and I'm able to glimpse my essence, see "what I'm made of." It's my time to be a superhero, the fuel that gets me through the challenging kid stuff or long weekends at work.

I choose to judge myself here, in the billionth lap of a Satan's mattress drill, holding yet another plank position with my damn elbow pads slipping on and chaffing my sweaty elbows. Or working with a partner, alternating pushing and pulling each other continuously for 10 minutes, heart pounding in my chest, challenging myself to work harder and experiencing my body in such a complete way, followed by seeing how many laps we can do in 5 minutes, which I am extremely proud to report is 31. Derby has taught me that in spite of all the unexpected obstacles daily life can potentially deliver that this is what I'm made of.