Author: joannemann

I washed my hair, sliced some peaches, and resumed working on my knitted sweater. Hooray!

The anesthesia kicked my butt, and I felt bleh the day after surgery, but I’m better now. I am moving around pretty well with the walker and doing stairs with the cane. One more day of my “surgery coach” hovering whenever I get up to go anywhere, and then I’ll graduate to moving mostly on my own (except maybe stairs for a few more days). Then I’ll be off the walker and onto the cane for several days. I guess I should use the cane for a good week when I’m outside because of the unevenness.

I had always known my cats sleep most of the day, but now I’m seeing it up close. They really do sleep all day, except when they briefly wake to stretch and reposition. What the heck do they do that makes them so tired? I know they’re not active all night because they sleep in our room for a good part of the night. They must be doing serious cardio when we’re not looking.

Okay. The muscle relaxer I’m on is making me feel tired, so I’m out.

I set my alarm for 5:45 this morning, knowing it wouldn’t be necessary. I knew I would be awake before then, anxious to get the day started.

I guess I’m a little nervous, especially when I picture what will be going on while I’m under. I’ve been noticing the tendons that run around my pelvic bone. I guess they know how to get around those without cutting into them. I’m sure they’ll remember it’s my right hip. I am confident the anesthesiologist will have my correct weight and use the right dose of knock-out drugs. Of course, of course.

The days leading up to today have reminded me of the nesting weeks before giving birth. I’ve been making to-do lists and methodically ticking them off. I’ve been cleaning, cooking, slicing and freezing fruit. I’ve weeded the garden and washed the car. I got through the tricky first part of my latest knitting project so that it will be smooth sailing once I’m home from the hospital this afternoon. I even started making an agenda for a late-summer CLT planning day.

It’s just Chris and me, since Edwin is in Richmond and Maxine left Saturday for Camp Varsity, where she’ll be a counselor for three weeks. Since it’s summertime, the demands of taking over what I usually do won’t be too much for Chris. Still, the women have insisted on a meal train. I met with my knitting friends yesterday morning at Suzanne’s house, and her husband was making dough for his delicious pizza. I eyed it in the bowl, and he smiled and said, “This is for you, you know. Monday’s dinner.”

I hissed, ‘Yessss! I had been hoping you’d be on the meal train.”

I have tentatively made plans to venture out in a few weeks to see jazz in Georgetown and to see my brother-in-law’s band play in Westover a few days after that. I assume I’ll be dropped off at the door, possibly with my cane. I have my pass to Ft. Myer ready to go so I can park myself in a lounge chair by the pool with one of my fellow sun-loving friends.

Time check: it’s 5:44. I am one-third of the way through the one cup of coffee I am allowing myself this morning. They said I could have black coffee, so of course I’m having some; it’s why I get up every morning (kidding, not kidding). I’ve removed my wedding band, as instructed, which had never been off my finger since the day we were married in April, 2003. I removed my toenail polish so they can see my circulation. I have one more shower to take with the antiseptic soap. The walker my neighbor loaned me is by the door. Let’s get this show on the road.

I’ve been fretting a little over the past several weeks about my upcoming surgery but not only for the obvious reasons. On the days when I feel fine, I wonder if I’m overdoing it getting a hip replacement. Rowing is no trouble; walking around my house and classroom haven’t bothered me. Sure, sleep often takes a little longer to overtake me because of the dull pain in my hip joint.

Then came last night. We drove into Brevard with Chris’s parents and his brother’s family and walked about four blocks to park our chairs on the campus of Brevard College near an idyllic stream, facing the line of trees across the modest football field over which the fireworks would appear.

About a block into the walk, I began hobbling like a granny. The pain wrapped around my entire hip and deep into my joint and shot jolts of pain down to my knee. This has happened before but not recently to this extent. I’m usually the one sprinting ahead of everyone and impatiently waiting for them to catch up. This little jaunt put me in my place; I took up the rear, surrendering the chairs I was carrying to my kids. Chris offered to pick me up rather than have me walk back to the car, but I gritted my teeth and refused.

I’m actually kind of relieved to have experienced this; it has confirmed I’ve made the right decision to go under the knife in eight days. Bring it on!

When offered three words to define myself, “runner” unfailingly made the list for years, up there with “mother” and “wife.” It even edged out “reader.” I laced up in 25-degree weather, taking an absurd pleasure in the ice crystals that formed on the fleece buff I wore over my mouth. I headed out in 85-degree weather, satisfied by the dry, salty sheen coating my skin by the time I finished my last mile. I relished the escape I could make on family vacations as I crested the bridge over Sarasota Bay, passed the crab pot buoys bobbing in Chincoteague Channel as I ran down a barely-stirring Main Street, or quietly lacing up as the rest of the house took a late-morning snooze after opening Christmas presents and finishing up the last of the coffee and French toast.

I vividly remember watching the sun rise in a brilliant orange and pink sky on a cold morning on January 7th, 2021 as I ran along Arlington Ridge Road, filled with a sense of hope, convinced the bloated ogre had gone too far and would be forever banished from politics. Surely, our national healing had begun.

One year later, I would hang up my running shoes for good, no longer able to ignore the increasing pain in my knees and hips, particularly aggravated during and after running. I pivoted to the rowing machine for my daily cardio. My preferred Apple Fitness coach, Anya, with her unfailing pep and vigor, has led me through surfing adventures, a Hawaiian vacation, amusement park rides, and through the four seasons as I row easy, moderate, hard, and all out in my basement.

I am actually in the best shape of my life. Rowing has made me stronger and leaner than running ever did and doesn’t damage my joints. The trade-off, however, is no small thing: no sunrises or laughing gulls greet me during my morning row; no blast of frigid air assures me I am fully alive when I step out the front door in the depths of winter.

Here I am now, on the cusp of yet another pivot. I am getting a total hip replacement in 12 days, due to arthritis and the total absence of cartilage in my right hip joint. I should be taking slow walks around the block within a week or so after surgery, but the all-out rowing adventures will have to wait at least five months.

Over the last couple of years, I have slipped into a bit of an obsession with rowing, even lugging the machine up to the living room to avoid missing even one day when we have guests staying in the basement where I do my rowing. No matter how little sleep I’ve gotten, I feel a sense of guilt if I skip my workout. Nothing short of a fever stops me.

Life has a way of slapping you upside the head once in while, which can be a very good thing. When you’re forced to pivot, you have an opportunity to step back, observe, and recalibrate. Maybe I will take longer and more frequent walks outside with friends, take that after-dinner evening stroll with Chris more regularly, get on my bike and just ride without a destination in mind.

I would be remiss if I do not use this as an opportunity to take a careful look at myself and consider what’s important, what I may have been missing, and then decide how to move forward.

Chris and I took our first spring break without the kids, and it was so easy. Nobody dragged their feet getting out of bed and making the chances of getting a parking spot at the trailhead slim-to-none. Nobody argued about what kind of food we should have for dinner. Nobody complained about the steep hike up the mountain (at least, not aloud). In full honesty, however, I did find myself remarking, “Oh, our kids would’ve loved this four-foot-tall Connect-4 game when they were little…” Or, “Edwin would be so excited about these plants if he were here…” and “This hike is so much like the one we took when Maxine slept the whole way in her sling.”

We landed in Phoenix Sunday morning and quickly escaped the parched sprawl as we drove north to Sedona. Once we were about a half-hour from our destination, we started noticing green valleys filled with cottonwood trees and rushing creeks. Vineyards dotted the whole stretch of the Verde Valley. This is not the Arizona I had imagined (I hadn’t even heard of the Verde Valley). I was excited about the hikes we would be taking through Red Rock Country, and this was an added bonus.

We quickly learned that getting up early was crucial in beating the throngs of other tourists for pretty much anything you wanted to do, whether in town or at the numerous trailheads. The heart of Sedona feels almost Disney-esque, but you can easily forgive this if you have your eyes open: the place is breathtaking.

Of the several hikes we did, my favorite was the 5-mile trek up and down Bear Mountain. I couldn’t stop gawking at the scenery and saying things like, “This is what I came here for!” and “Can you believe this? I mean, really! How would you ever get used to this?!”

After our strenuous morning hike, we rewarded ourself with huaraches and ceviche from a family-owned restaurant in Cottonwood followed by a wine tasting at Page Springs Vineyards in Cornwood.

I love that this country still has so much to surprise me with, so many places I have yet to see.

Maxine and I spent part of today in Tampa before we had to check in for our flight home. We first headed to the river walk. It was just okay: pretty, but devoid of culture.

It didn’t take long before we hightailed it to Ybor City, which was founded in the 1880s by cigar manufacturers and immigrants from Cuba, Spain, and Italy. We stopped here last year at the end of spring break and ate at the historic Columbia restaurant but didn’t have time to explore.

It wasn’t long before we heard Irish music floating between Cuban-influenced brick buildings with iron balconies. The James Joyce Irish Pub was hopping (it’s St. Patty’s Day, after all). They let us in once Maxine had two black xes drawn on her hands with sharpie. We shared a long table with green-clad revelers as I drank my beer and Maxine her Shirley Temple. We vowed we wouldn’t be caught without proper attire next St. Patty’s Day.

After we left the bar and stepped back out into the crisp sunny day, we soon came upon Ybor’s free-roaming chickens. Based on their lack of caution around people, I surmised not everyone adhered to the signs advising people not to feed the chickens.

We didn’t have anything to offer beyond our flattery; they are quite beautiful. I think the signs should read, “Please admire the chickens.”

and I do not stay the same age.

Maxine and I are staying at my husband’s parents’ home in Sarasota for our beach getaway while they are on a repositioning cruise.

Chris first brought me here on our first vacation together back in 2001, two years before we were married. I remember being entranced by the palm trees along the driveway, the pool beckoning as the centerpiece of the house that wraps around three sides of the lanai, and the elegant Japanese dining room furniture they had shipped here when his dad was stationed on Okinawa in the late ‘80s.

Over time, as their three children married and had kids of their own, the oriental rugs became perpetually littered with Legos, wicker breakfast table chairs were pushed aside to make room for a high chair, and the once-pristine pool deck sprouted a fence that ran around the pool.

Our visits here became less frequent as the kids got older and accumulated more obligations at home and his parents began traveling more in their retirement. The frequency with which we came here peaked in the years around 2010, so most of my associations with Sarasota involve taking the kids to tropical playgrounds, going for a run between their nap times, visiting the aquarium so they could crowd around the touch tanks, and keeping them away away from freshwater ponds and creeks.

It’s much more leisurely these days. I have to apply only my own sunblock. Maxine can feed herself her own veggies. I am not in danger of stepping on a stray Lego with bare feet. I am not worried about being judged for letting my baby sleep with me or being inflexible about their nap schedules (this could be its own post, but that’s for another time).

But…I wouldn’t turn down a day with those little ones, wiping their sticky hands and wrestling them to the ground to reapply sunblock in the blazing sun. Then I’d be more than happy to return to watching the sun go down as I sit next to my daughter who has become a young woman and a dear confidant.

Our 6:00 PM flight finally took off at 10 PM last night because of a concerning chemical smell that was believed to be coming from the air traffic controller headquarters, which affected all the airports in the DC area and Richmond. I guess we can count ourselves lucky we got out at all. That put us in Tampa after midnight, and then we had an hour drive to Sarasota.

*Airport bonus: a large group of middle schoolers were on our same flight, so I could enjoy their antics during the long delay without being in charge of them. A mini-vacation?

After not really sleeping much at all, Maxine and I didn’t hesitate to rouse ourselves by 8:30 this morning to hurry up and relax. Let the unwinding begin.

Well, it’s the middle of March, and I’m an extremely tardy, unofficial nonparticipant in Slice of Life.

I’ve barely taken a breath since our week of snow back at the end of January. I feel I’ve been checking some of the boxes on a behavior survey we sometimes get as teachers.

1. Have I appeared to be “driven by a motor” lately? Yes.
2. How often do I fidget or squirm with my hands or feet when I have to sit down for a long time? Very often. Right now, for instance, the only reason I’m not fidgeting or squirming is because I’m writing this. Maxine and I were booked on a 6:00 PM flight to Sarasota for a little mother-daughter beach vacation for the first part of her spring break. Out flight has been delayed to an 8:30 departure.
3. When you’re in a conversation, how often do you find yourself finishing the sentences of the people you are talking to, before they can finish them themselves? I’m trying desperately not to. I just have so much to do, and I know what they’re trying to say.
4. How often do you have difficulty waiting your turn in situations when turn taking is required? Does excessive foot-tapping count?

Thankfully, I can honestly answer “rarely” or “never” to the other questions, so maybe I don’t have ADHD, but boy, do I need to chill. I’m counting on sand, sun, salt water, and my daughter to help me reset.

We had an unforgettable week, making a new friend and developing a meaningful connection with Ukraine, as we helped host a group visiting from Kyiv. I am humbled being around people with so much courage and conviction. They face monumental challenges and yet seem undeterred in their determination to reform the child welfare program in their county. That’s actually not completely accurate: they’re not simply reforming a system; they are working to build infrastructure that doesn’t exist, all the while amid drones dropping bombs and working with only two hours of electricity a day.

Let me back up. My friend, Jenny, works for Kidsave, an international organization that works to place children in permanent homes. They do a lot of work in Ukraine, and nine Ukrainians came here for 10 days to learn about our child welfare system and to meet with members of Congress to garner support for Ukraine. We, along with a handful of others, hosted a delegate for a week. 

Our guest was Alona, a determined, kind-hearted, spirited, 34-year-old from Kyiv. She was the youngest and most fluent in English among the group and seemed to be the unofficial boss. She only began learning English about eight years ago, and she now even understands many of the idioms we use. Each time I used one, I checked with her to see if she understood, and she almost always did. She peppered me with questions about teaching and being a mandated reporter of suspected child abuse, how our schools are structured, the difference between private and public. She became fast friends with our prickly yet endearing cat, Ricky. She looked forward to coming home every day after meetings, touring the city, and shopping to pet Ricky and unwind with us. 

The week didn’t go as planned, due to the snow and ice. Many of their meetings were moved to Zoom, their lunches and dinners downtown cancelled or shifted, and they were left meeting with lower level staffers in place of members of Congress on more than one occasion. All our snow days, however, allowed me to be the host I wanted to be. Instead of putting her coffee in a thermos and texting her reminders or pointers on how to navigate the kitchen as I left for work, I was able to make her coffee when she emerged every morning from the basement and chat with her before she began her day. I was able to greet her in the evenings and sit in the hot tub with her without rushing off to bed by 9:30, as I do on work nights. 

We gathered throughout the week for potlucks big and small, shifted plans, picked them up from metro stations, and filled in for Jenny when her husband had to have emergency gall bladder surgery. We played board games together, listened to their stories, and answered their unending stream of questions. I found myself tearing up often as their departure date loomed. They were all heading back to a country under ruthless attack with no end in sight. Alona texted me early this morning to say she made it home safely and was using her two hours of electricity to do laundry and get settled before catching up on sleep. 

This past year has been horrifying in many ways here, as I witness the damage being done to our democracy and our relationships worldwide, and most of all, the terror being inflicted upon many of our citizens. I have often found myself “depression adjacent,” as I darkly joked with a friend. Yet, we are not under attack. We have heated and lit homes. I am confident that if I suspect a child is being mistreated, I can take steps to help that child. Their drive has inspired me to keep my eyes forward and chin up.