The sleeping (or lack of sleeping) is my least favorite part about flying to other parts of the world

I've had both good and bad experiences flying to Europe.

The worst was probably the time I spent 8+ hours from Chicago to Frankfurt in a middle seat next to a guy with a very active cold who was apparently gunning for the Guinness record for World's Loudest Cough. I somehow managed to avoid getting sick, but needless to say, I didn't get much sleep on that flight.

The best was undoubtedly the time I went from Newark to Brussels in business class. I slept like a baby in my little pod with the lie-flat seat and the comfy pillow and blankets. The only trouble was, they woke us up for landing way before I was ready to leave Dreamland. It was the one time I could have done with a 10-hour flight.

I fondly remember the first time I flew to Europe in 1999 because it was a daytime run from Toronto to London. We left early in the morning and got to the UK that evening. I may have dozed a bit, but the important thing was that, unlike overnight flights, I didn't feel I had to sleep.

It's that pressure to get significant shuteye that makes me dislike late-night flights of the sort I'll be taking this evening. Tonight I'm scheduled to fly from Cleveland to Atlanta, then from Atlanta to Paris to spend a week in the French capital to watch Les Olympiques.

(That's the Olympics, for those who don't know a baguette from a hole in the ground.)

The overseas flight from Atlanta doesn't take off until 11:30pm Eastern, which is 5:30am tomorrow in Paris. Basically I'll be trying to sleep on the plane at a point when it's already morning at my destination, thus ensuring that my internal clock will never, ever adjust to the local time zone while I'm there.

Now on one hand, hey, I get to go to the Olympics in Paris. I should quit my whining.

On the other hand, why can't I find flights that arrive in Europe the same day? Why do these seem so scarce anymore?

First-world problems, I'm aware, but they're the only problems I know.

Allons-y!

Working through the dead zone between Christmas and New Year's

 

Years ago when I would plan my vacation days for the year, the first thing I would block out was the week between Christmas Day and New Year's Day. This was mostly to take advantage of the kids being home on holiday break so we could do things together and I could assemble heir toys while cleaning up the mess we had made in the living room opening presents.

Even now, with four older kids having moved out, I still like to take that week off to relax and recharge before returning to work in the midst of the cold and gray of January in Northeast Ohio.

This year, however, I've been working this week thanks to having used up all of my vacation days early.

There were a few reasons for this, the biggest of which was the week I took in March to accompany the Wickliffe Swing Band on its once-every-four-years trip to Disney World.

I wouldn't normally take a week off in March, and truth be told, I wasn't thrilled about burning a week of vacation that included a combined 40+ hours on a bus.

In retrospect, though, I'm glad I did it. It was a fun adventure, and it felt like the least I could do to give back to an organization that has given me so much over the years.

But those were the days I would normally reserve until the end of the year. Throw in the week I took in late June/early July for our family beach vacation, plus another summer week for our annual church retreat, plus the standard assortment of one-off personal days here and there for various reasons, and I found myself essentially out of PTO by September.

I'm whining about a first-world problem, of course, but it makes for an 8- to 9-month stretch between weeks off. That's a long grind, though one that's made easier this week by the fact that (a) I can work from home, and (b) most of my co-workers are on vacation right now, so it's very quiet and I'm getting a lot done.

Still, I do miss the slower, carefree days that normally make up late December for me. I can't do quite as much non-work stuff as I would like this week, though all in all I really shouldn't complain.

I will complain, of course, but I really shouldn't.

Born to run. Or at least I used to be.

I have long thought of myself as a runner. Some people don't think they're runners because they don't do marathons, or they "only" run two or three days a week.

Rule of thumb: If you get outside and run, or you hop onto a treadmill and run, you're a runner. If you cover even 10 feet more ground than a couch potato does, and even if you do it at a snail's pace but it's a running pace for you, then you're a runner.

Trust me, it's not some elite club you can't join.

Anyway, I run. For the past couple of years, the cadence of my running has been four days a week. Usually Saturday, Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

Most of my runs are 3 miles in length, over a fairly hilly course in my neighborhood. On Saturdays I'll often do a 5-miler over that same hilly course.

But lately there have been no 3-mile runs. There have been mostly 0-mile runs. Because I'm hurt.

99.99% of runners, at one point or another, get hurt. For some it's the joints. They tweak a knee or an ankle and have to sit out for a period of time. Then, once they're healed, they run again.

For me it's muscles. And specifically the muscles of my calves.

Over the past year, I've strained various muscles in both calves a total of nine times. That's according to my daily running log, which I've been keeping assiduously since 2001.

(NOTE: I thought of the word "assiduously" the other day for no reason at all, and now I get to use it in a blog post. Score.)

Actually, those calf strains have all happened over the past eight months. The problem being that I hurt one, I rest for a little while but not long enough, I go back out and try to run, and I hurt it again. Then I repeat that cycle.

Then that calf finally heals, and somehow the other one decides to tear. And I go back out, and I hurt it again, etc.

I'm in the middle of this insanity right now with my left calf, and I've been sticking to brisk walks, rather than runs, in an attempt to let it mend itself. This works for a while, but then I'll be out walking and think to myself, "The calf feels fine. I should run a mile or so to test it."

So I do. And for most of that mile it feels fine.

Then it suddenly doesn't. Because my calves hate me, and they delight in nothing more than letting me think I'm OK and then tearing themselves out of sheer spite.

This leads to a love-hate relationship with my calves. On the one hand, they're clearly trying to kill me, or at least drive me crazy, which makes me hate them. But on the other hand – and I'm going to be perfectly honest with you here – I have great calves.

No, really, it's one part of my body I actually like. My calves are genetically awesome. One time I remember walking back to the locker room after a football practice, and Vic Peroni was behind me and said, "Tennant, give me your calves!"

This is Vic Peroni, who was pretty ripped. The guy had muscle upon muscle, but my calves were the one area where I had him beat.

So as vain as it is to say, I have nice calves, and I tell them how nice they are all the time, yet they still choose to hate me. I feel like the parent of a criminal: I want to love them, but they continually disappoint me.

Anyway, I am, as I type this, once again sidelined by a left calf strain. I'm walking four days a week, and I've created what I hope is a sensible, patient recovery schedule that involves walking for the next few weeks, then a couple of weeks' worth of combined walking and light running, and eventually stepping up to a full running schedule again.

In the meantime, I can't run. And I hate that. I HATE that. I run for health and weight management and all, yes. But do you know the #1 reason I run?

Because I love running. I love the physical act of running. I love that, at the age of 47, when my calves cooperate, the rest of me is in sufficient condition to run several miles a week. The feeling of putting one foot in front of the other is my high. I don't really drink. I definitely don't do drugs. But I do run.

And right now I can't.

It's a terrible sort of withdrawal that manifests itself in the form of general fatigue and blah-ness. I'm addicted to the act of running, and right now I can't do it.

My advice to you: Do not become a middle-aged person if you can help it.

At some point I'll learn to be content whatever the circumstances...

...but until then I can only envy the Apostle Paul, whose words I appropriated for the title of this post.

This Is Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Winter:

"Oh man, it's cold! IT'S SO COLD! I hate living in Cleveland. The winters here are terrible. It doesn't matter how many layers I wear, these January runs are terrible. This is so stupid. Why don't I just join a gym and exercise inside? IT'S SO COLD! My fingers are numb. And I can't feel my face. There's snow blowing directly at me, and as usual that west wind only kicks up when I'm running west. Why does this happen to me? Why? Why me? IT'S SO COLD!"

And Me When I Go Out and Do My Morning Runs in the Summer:

"It's so hot. I can't believe how hot and humid it is at 5 o'clock in the morning. I'm going to be drenched in sweat by the time I finish, and no matter how long I wait to cool down, I'm still going to be sweating after I get out of the shower. IT'S SO HOT! We need to move to Canada. Like, somewhere in Northern Canada. Somewhere where it never gets above 65 degrees even in July. IT'S SO HOT! I hate running when it's this hot. I love running, but I can't stand running in the heat. My life is terrible."

And so I constantly have to remind myself:

My kids just got out of school 5 minutes ago and now they're going back tomorrow...

I have been guilty, on this blog, of being very "BACK IN MY DAY!" when it comes to complaining about the way school is for my kids now vs. the way it was for me back in the 70s and 80s.

Which is unfair, really. I like our local school district a lot. I think they do a good job educating my children.

So when I whine today about the fact that my youngest three children go back to school tomorrow (yes, on August 18th), please know that I do so with the understanding that Wickliffe isn't the only school district following this trend of ever-earlier start dates.

I just sort of wish we could go back to the way it used to be.

As I've mentioned before, when I was in elementary school (and maybe a bit beyond?), we never used to go back to school until after Labor Day. Of course, we also didn't get out for the summer until mid-June, but I liked that schedule. Once you get into early September, summer is much more "over" than it is in mid-August.

Because that's the problem, you see: IT'S STILL SUMMER RIGHT NOW. I'm writing this several weeks in advance and thus don't know what the weather will be like in mid-August as you read it, but I'm betting it feels a lot more like summer than it does fall. And "fall" is when you should be going back to school. Not summer, when 90-degree temperatures are far more likely in Northeast Ohio.

Now, having said that, I will also say that I'm a proponent of year-round school. If we're going to mess with the traditional academic calendar, let's go all the way and do it for the right reasons.

The fact that schools let out for so long every summer is a remnant of an age when kids were needed to tend the crops and bring in the harvest. That's not the case for 99% of American students anymore, so why can't we have the kids go to school 9 weeks at a time, then take a 4-week break and do that year-round? If you want the summer break to be a little longer, than make two of the breaks from other times of the year last only 3 weeks.

The point is, the kids don't need to be off for 11 or 12 weeks at a time, do they? I'm not an educational expert and am happy to be corrected on this, but I would venture to say shorter breaks would mean increased retention of learned knowledge and skills, no? I remember back in my school days that the first several weeks always seemed to be spent in review anyway, so why not shorten breaks and get right into new learning?

Am I wrong there, teachers? Let me know if I am.

In any case, if we're going to stick with the current set-up, my vote is to keep summer vacation going until early September and then let the kids out round about June 15th. If one of you could look into that for me and make it happen, I would appreciate it.

Why you shouldn't yell at referees or coaches when your child participates in sports

Actually, we all know we shouldn't do this. Yet a lot of us do it anyway. I sure have.

Let's say your kid is playing soccer, which is something I can personally relate to since all of my kids currently play or have played soccer. Soccer is thought of as a passive, non-contact sport, which is absolute nonsense once your child gets to be, say, 12 or 13 years old. Soccer from that point on becomes an aggressive, full-body contact game. Kids can and do get hurt. Regularly.

Anyway, let's say your kid's team is playing in a tournament against a local club team, and the opposing team's players are all head-and-shoulders bigger than your players. I can also relate to this because it just happened to me recently.

Melanie's soccer team played in the finals of a tournament against a group of girls who were all supposed to be 14 and under, but who looked to be juniors and seniors in high school. Clearly at least half of them drove themselves to the field for the game. (NOTE: I'm being facetious here. I'm sure they were all legal, but man, they were huge.)

This team used its size to great advantage, repeatedly bumping our girls off the ball, leading with their elbows, and generally doing things that technically are violations of the agreed-upon rules but that the referee in this case was letting go without calling fouls.

Many of our parents spent the game screaming at this ref, which I understand. But I wasn't one of them. It's not because I'm especially virtuous or anything, but mostly because:

(a) I spent years as a coach, and I know that screaming at an official gets you nowhere, in terms of helping your team. (Like I said, I've done it before. I'm certainly not without sin here.)

(b) I also officiated dozens of soccer games, and I'm here to tell you it's difficult. You have to find a balance between keeping the players safe and letting the competition flow naturally. That's not easy.

Look, I get why any parent wants to scream when they feel their kid is being wronged or threatened. Your natural instinct is to protect your child. Anything you can do to keep them safe, you do. I get it.

But unless you're 100% sure your kid is about to suffer a concussion or something, I suggest you keep quiet. Sooner or later that child is going to have to learn to work through seemingly unfair situations on their own. And I have just enough parenting experience to tell you that "sooner" is the better choice.

Life isn't fair. Never has been, never will be. You can choose to raise a child who accepts that and learns to adapt, or you can choose to raise one whose reaction to the inherent unfairness of his/her existence is to whine and complain.

Because that's what you're getting when you constantly berate an official and/or your child's coach. You're sending the message that the proper reaction is to yell, and that that's how mature adults handle tough situations.

Trust me, you don't want that.

If it's a case of your child seemingly not getting enough playing time or maybe not being set up for success by the coach, that's a legitimate concern. And it should be handled in a private conversation in which you express that concern and allow the coach to respond.

Unless your kid is playing for a high-level athletic organization, chances are that coach is an unpaid volunteer. He/she just wants to help. They do what they do in most cases because they love working with kids, and they love being around the sport.

That doesn't absolve them from the responsibility of doing what's best for every kid, but what your child learns from the experience largely comes down to how they see you react to it.

I am often afraid that my city – a place in which I take a great deal of pride – is starting to get branded as a home for yelling, screaming, whining, unreasonable parents when it comes to athletic competition. And I don't want that to happen. Not only because it reflects poorly on our town, but also because I know it's not helping our kids.

Like I said, I have the same urge to yell and complain sometimes. But there are better alternatives for all of us.

You're a parent. Act like one.

Does The Calendar rule your life, too?

Our life is controlled by The Calendar.

This is both a good and a bad thing.

It's good in that The Calendar, by which I mean the large "Mom's Plan-It Calendar" hanging on our refrigerator, is an invaluable tool in helping us organize our life.

I always say, "If it's not on on The Calendar, it doesn't exist." If you want a ride, if you want to make sure the family attends your event, if you simply want to remind yourself, write it on The Calendar.

At the same, it's a bad thing because, well, since when did we surrender control of our schedules to a sheaf of laminated paper?

Since about three kids ago, I would say.

You people with children know what I'm talking about. Especially if that child is school-aged and/or involved in a lot of activities. Sports, music, Scouts, whatever. They all involve practices, meetings and games, and they all seem to happen at once.

You people with multiple children are already shaking your heads and saying, "I hear ya, brother."

As I type this, our family has, over the next four hours, a track practice (Chloe), a track meet (Jared), a soccer game (Jack), and another soccer game (Melanie).

I coach both Jack's and Melanie's teams.

Do you see the problem there?

This is not the first nor the last time this will happen. And I don't ask for pity because we brought this on ourselves.

But that doesn't make it any more fun.

If you wonder how I made the choice to coach Mel's game and not Jack's, it came down to the relative "importance" of their games.

I put importance in quotes because it's kids soccer. No game, no practice is anywhere really close to "important."

Their overall experience and what they take away from participating in organized team sports: That's important. Not a game. Not the final score.

But when you compare the two, I selfishly picked Melanie's game to attend because we're playing our intra-city rival tonight. Our opponents are a great bunch of girls with a great coach, but when we play each other, nobody holds back. It's actually a lot of fun, and win or lose, all the girls involved get something out of it.

So that's what I chose.

But I never like to choose at all. And I'm actually surprised how often I don't have to choose. With five kids (even with one in college), the potential for Event Conflict is enormous. Yet the schedules tend to balance out, for the most part.

Still, activities and events leave us very little down time. When we can, we all like to just stay at home and do whatever we want. Everyone in the family appreciates that.

But when we're "free," other people expect that's a good time for us to get together. And we really should, but those rare free nights are the nights when we rest and recharge.

Again, we made the choice in all this. I know that. But I'm still going to whine because it's my blog.

Except that I'm already late for a soccer game and I have to go...