The Ghost of Us Past
A vignette of me, a Seattle transplant, packing for a 10-day trip home to see my family in New York over Christmas with Travis and Levi: My massive suitcase will probably exceed the 50-pound limit. No matter. I need all the things: Running gear times 3. Yoga outfits times 5. Should I bring hiking clothes? Might we go Nordic skiing? Should I bring two novels, or just one? How many skeins of yarn? … Ultimately, the bag weighed in just under the limit, and I sent it off in the hopes that for 10 days, I would be able to commune with the spirit of Old Sarah, in the traditional garb of Lululemon and Nike, unobstructed, disenfranchised, sweaty, happy, free.
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Skiing on Fumes
A few years ago, our neighbor, a father of two, asked Travis a seemingly mundane question: “How are you?” Travis, not yet a dad, and therefore unaware that his honest answer would hit a nerve, replied, “Tired.” Something immediately altered in our normally amiable neighbor, who spat back, “You don’t even know, man. You don’t even KNOW!” before disappearing into his garage. We were perplexed by it then, but now we both realize he was right: we didn’t know.
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The Mom & Dad Show
Like so many poignant moments of introspection I’ve experienced since becoming a mom, this one was precipitated by an off-the-cuff remark that Travis made, with no intention of being “deep.”
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Cross-Country Skiing With A Baby 101
I see you, sad Seattleite. If you’re reading this, you want to get outside with your wee one, but it’s January and it has been raining for however many days (you’ve stopped counting because what’s the point?), and you have officially given up all hope of seeing the sun ever again. You are no longer even slightly amused by your son’s puddle antics. You have checked flights to Arizona and Southern California (just to see) and scroll through your camera roll in the hopes of catching a glimpse of yourself in a T-shirt. Maybe you even have a tan. . . But don’t despair, soggy reader! It’s time for you to hit the ski trail!
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The Trip That Broke Us
Only 2.5 months have gone by since the Labor Day vacation that is sure to go down in Menaul Family History as the Camping Trip That Broke Us. If I start banging my head against the laptop while writing this, I’ll know I need more time to elapse before tackling this post. To maintain distance from the events of the weekend, I shall write this post in the 3rd person.
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There's Turning Back
My friend and her husband were planning to take their infant to Family Swim Time at the Y. After packing up (a phrase that does not adequately reflect the laborious process of assembling everything you could possibly need), her husband cheerfully said, “I’m so glad we’re doing this!” to which my friend immediately replied, “We’re not doing it yet. There’s a 30 percent chance it won’t happen.”
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"What Would Sacagawea Do?"
I was 2 months pregnant and camping with Travis at Yosemite National Park. We were about to go to bed, and I was extinguishing our fire with a bucket of water. I hoisted the full bucket over the fire and, remembering our midwives’ warning against lifting heavy objects, I said, “Maybe I shouldn’t be doing this.” To which Travis, without missing a beat, replied: “What would Sacajawea do?”
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Car Camping with an Infant 101
If you’re reading this post, you want to spend the night at a campground with your infant. Hooray! Read on to find out what worked for us when Levi was a wee little babe.
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About Us
We are Sarah, Travis, and wee Levi Menaul. Because Levi can’t talk yet and Travis’s nickname is “Silent Bob,” Sarah will from here on out be known as “I.”
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