My French nephew

Last week was chaotic in the Khan household. Not only did my small two-bedroom Chicago apartment play host to my parents (visiting from Karachi), but it also tried to valiantly accommodate my sister, her husband, and 18 month old son (all visiting from London). The last time we had all been together was almost three years ago at my sister's wedding, and at the time there were no children in the mix. With new additions to the family for both my sister and I, it was wonderful (and crazy busy) to have everyone in one place last week.

My favorite moments, by far, revolved around interaction with my nephew. First of all, the litte dude is HUGE. Easily in the 99th percentile for his age group, his mother is forced to buy clothing meant for 3 year olds. Second, he is a typical little boy - virtually indestructable. And finally, he's endearingly weird.

While most children are happy giving parents fits about what they will and will not eat, my nephew will voraciously devour anything in sight (which may, now that I think about it, explain his size). While most children start getting sleepier as evening turns into night, my nephew acts as if he's just chugged a 16 oz. can of Red Bull. This is obviously quite the problem for us in my apartment, because there aren't very many clear pathways for a kid to zoom around in. We eventually resolved this by moving as much furniture as we could against the apartment walls, so that by 10:00pm, when my nephew first started to crave the need for speed, he was able to run full tilt from end to end in our apartment without injuring himself (given his size, this was probably a good thing for our furniture too, as I'm not sure what would have borne the brunt of the punishment). When tired from all the running, and in an attempt to catch his breath, my nephew would ocassionally go sit inside the refrigerator to cool off. Once recovered, the breakneck sprinting would resume, until finally about 11pm he would start to run out of gas, and would sputter to an abrupt stop.

My favorite memory of him from this trip, however, will be listening to him try to communicate with us. As would be expected of an 18 month old, he has a limited vocabulary. What would move me to fits of laughter would be his enunciation of this vocabulary, specifically because he would insist on pronouncing his words using a French accent. This imparted a bizarrely haughty demeanor to all his attempts at communicating with us.

"Shoes" became "shuss," "food" became "fewt," and my favorite, "potty" became "pottay." Actually, that last was pronounced as two words "po" and then "tay." Which is a great way to tell someone that you need to use the facilities. "Excusez-moi Monsieur? Ou est le po-ttay?" Gives the message such a sophisticated touch. Especially when we'd be getting ready to leave to see Chicago for the day, and he would cycle through all of his words with us. Even now, several days after my last interaction with him, I find myself pretending that he is speaking to me before I leave home for the day.

"Excuse me," he would say to me. "Are you sure you are ready to leave? Did you have your fewt? We will not be eating until lunchtime. Do you have your shuss on? Because it's going to be terribly inconvenient to walk around barefoot. Oh, and please make sure to void your bladder and bowel by using the po-ttay before we leave - there will be no clean facilities available for quite some time."

Ah, to live in Europe. No wonder kids grow up multi-lingual there.

26.2!

On Sunday I ran the Chicago Marathon. I've detailed some of my running adventures before here , but by some miracle I was able to actually complete the training program and show up to toe the line with runners from all over the world. The start corral was crowded, and I was surrounded by athletes who were barely able to contain their nervous energy. Among them were people I knew - friends I had made during my many months of training runs. There was Aaron, the University of Chicago researcher with his trusty water bottle strapped to his hand; Seth, with the amazing midwestern ability to shrug off any amount of discomfort; and of course, Melissa, a constant source of energy and conversation for the group.

These were just three of the friends that I had made over ten months of running endless miles on the Lakefront Trail in Chicago. All of us - all 33,000 of us - were there for different reasons. Some wanted to set personal records, some wanted to run for a cause, and others wanted to run for the memory of a loved one. My reason for being there was admittedly selfish - a desire to "check the box" on that great list of Life's ToDo's, and to prove to myself that I could conquer my distaste for running.

The marathon did not disappoint. I was amazed by the sheer number of physically fit people around me - so many that it took over 15 minutes for me to cross the start line once the gun went off. All I saw ahead was a sea of bobbing heads and wondered who all these people were that were willing to endure such a gruelingly long distance. I don't know if I figured out the answer to that question in the five and a half hours it took me to complete the course. However, along the way I did manage to amass a set of memories that I will treasure for a long, long time:

- Hearing the national anthem play while thousands of people stood in hushed silence. There was something about the melodious strains, the early morning light, and the sheer silence of the crowd around me that made it a very special moment.

- Crossing the start line, and telling myself, "this is it - I'm not giving up until I'm done, come hell or high water." Crossing that line was my way of looking my age in the eye and saying "bring it on."

- Running into my friend Mansi the first ten minutes into the race. She was there snapping pictures, and I couldn't believe that we found each other between all those runnners.

- Experiencing Chicago's beautiful neighborhoods. As with any big city, one spends time confined to well worn locales. Running the Chicago marathon helped me experience this city's streets and avenues in a wonderfully intimate manner. I know that I'll quickly go back to walking the city briskly, head down, and looking up only to check street names, but for the duration of the run I was able to admire the texture and grit of Chicago like never before.

- Running with my training buddies. We lost Seth around mile 6, but Melissa and I managed to run together for 21 miles. I could never have run the race were it not for the constant partnership of someone running beside me. And God bless Melissa for her own non-marathon friends, who were waiting on the sidelines every 10 miles or so. We somehow managed to find them every time, and we would all run together as a big group until they would bow out and a new group of Melissa's friends would join us. The constant supply of fresh legs and energy kept our spirits up, especially when the temperature started rising and our legs started to weigh a hundred pounds each. One of these runners proved to be my angel, and ran the last quarter of the marathon with me, egging me on the whole way. And just as I crossed the finish line, he melted away anonymously.

- The hilarious signs. From the witty ("Marathon, a 10k with a 20 mile warmup" and "2.62? WTF?!") to the political ("Amy, you're a better running mate than Palin.") My favorite by far was one about two thirds of the way through - "Sure it hurts now, but keep pushing through. It'll feel a lot better in the end (that's what she said)."

- The adoring crowds. Bless their souls, every one of them. Each neighborhood had its own flavor of spectators cheering us on. In Lincoln park there were teens with their bands on the street, playing "Eye of the Tiger", in Boystown there were drag queens and men in cheerleader costume ready to make us laugh, in the West Loop there were homeowners with garden hoses to cool us down, in Chinatown there were dragon dancers distracting us, and near Bronzeville there were people with candy, snacks and treats for the starving runners. But most memorable of all were the cheering crowds for the last few miles of the race. It was as if each one of them had a stake in my completing the race.

By the time temperatures hit 84 degrees on mile 24, I hit the proverbial wall. There was no energy left in the tank and lead was coursing through my veins. I was tired, hungry, and just about ready to stagger to the sidelines when a lady saw me slowing down. She immediately started yelling at me. "Don't you dare quit now! Don't you dare!" she yelled. "I can see the determination in your eyes - dig deep and find that energy. You WILL finish this race, and you WILL finish it strong. Don't you dare quit!" I don't get emotional much, but I started sobbing like a baby - it could have been my depleted physical and emotional state, but I didn't care. She was saying things that I need to hear, and from that point on, I resolved to lumber on.

- Finishing the race. Arms raised, looking like a fool, relishing every second of the experience. Yes it took me 45 minutes longer than I had expected, but I didn't feel so bad. Experienced marathoners that were pace leaders had succumbed along the way because of the sweltering heat, so I didn't care that my pace had slowed down. Yes I hadn't set any records, but I had proven to myself that I could run this distance. And yes, in the grand scheme of things this will matter little, but knowing that I had the willpower to set a goal and see it to the end meant the world. My wife and daughter were there to greet me, and for the second time that day I broke down. I hugged Saeeda tight and just wouldn't let go. I'm sure she thought it wonderful that this immensely sweaty and stinky lunatic was hanging on to her, but I couldn't stop squeezing her. It took a couple of almost incrompensible "thank you for letting me do this" sobs, and a few kisses before I was ready to peel off. And my baby was a little annoyed at being woken from her nap, but I didn't care. Her father, a world-class athlete, was holding her in his arms, and that's what mattered.

So much in life is centered around making things easy, or finding shortcuts. Running a marathon is a way of returning to the basics. It provides no privileges to the wealthy, and no breaks for the accomplished. All, wealthy and poor, are treated alike because no amount of kicking and screaming is going to lessen the distance from start to finish. No matter your station in life, all you need is a good pair of shoes, a trusty friend, and a healthy dose of ignorance for what convention says is possible. Beyond that, it's just a walk in the park.

We're "those" parents now

Having a baby keeps one busy. No matter how hard I plead with Nuha every evening that I need to update my blog, she simply wails until I relent and agree to change yet another poopy diaper. Not only does she require 100% of our time, she demands that we service her with a smile. One day I'll make her pay me back. Maybe by embarrassing her in front of all her high school friends by showing to pick her up in a spandex Spiderman costume. That'll show her.

Saeeda and I spent the last week on vacation in LA. Saeeda had left two weeks ago, with her mom helping with the baby on the flight over. I joined the family later, spent a week in LA, and then we all returned to Chicago together. So the return trip was the first time I had ever traveled with an infant. It also marked the first time I became "that parent" with the baby who slows everything down.

See, in my past life I was a high-powered tech consultant, flying from city to city on a weekly basis. I was cool. I was hip. I knew which belt buckle to wear so that it wouldn't set off the detectors. I knew exactly which order to place my belongings for screening at the security checkpoint. Laptop in a bin by itself, followed by laptop bag, followed by my carry-on luggage, and end with shoes and jacket in another bin. This way I retrieved my most valuable belonging first, placed it back in the laptop bag as that came through, then put on my shoes and jacket before heading on my way. Less than 3 minutes start to finish.

Here's how things play out now. Saeeda and I struggle to squeeze the baby stroller through the narrow Disney-land lanes at the security checkpoint. We get to the screening area, then need to spend ten minutes disassembling the Transformer-like contraption that is the stroller (see my post here on how long it took me to assemble the damn thing). We then struggle with the diaper bag, which we don't realize has bottles of water in it for Nuha's milk. The water bottles need to be tossed, which takes some more fumbling. Starting to get embarrassed at how long this is taking, I simply start flinging stuff onto the belt for screening. I almost toss the baby into the x-ray machine before my wife stops my arm in mid-swing. My daughter looks at me accusingly ("hey, free x-rays!" I think to myself). I walk through the detector, only for alarms to go off because I haven't emptied my pockets. Embarrassed and defeated at having made such a rookie mistake, I step back and run into the passenger behind me so that I can sheepishly empty my pockets into a tray.

With our security screening adventures over, Saeeda and I make it to our gate and start boarding the plane. Now we have to navigate the narrow plane aisle in search of our seats while carrying Nuha in a baby seat. Nuha, suddenly claustrophobic, decides its time she is taken out of the car seat and lets out a piercing cry. I look at her and plead with her to hang on, which does no good. Now the tears and the flailing start, while I try mightily to hold on to the car seat. I silently curse the passengers ahead of us blocking the aisle as they take their own sweet time trying to figure out why a gargantuan suitcase won't fit into the tiny overhead bin. When I see them try to shove the luggage in for the fourth time, I feel like yelling at them, but am saved by the flight attendant who gently admonishes them and tells them that they need to gate check their bag. In-flight Twister ensues as those passengers try to get by me while I hold a car seat with a squirming, squealing infant. As I maneuver the car seat, I clock a seated gentleman squarely on the head - afterwards I can't tell whether he is unconscious or simply resting his face on his copy of of the Wall St. Journal. I glance at my ticket, praying to God that our seat is coming up. No such luck - we're the absolute last aisle on the plane, just before the bathroom (I bet the airline does that on purpose - stick parents with stinky babies by the stinky bathroom and no one will notice).

Now attracting evil glares from every passenger, my wife and I (who have become "those parents" with the screaming baby) apologize our way through to the back of the plane and to our seats. We slowly shed all our gear - the diaper bag, our carry ons, my wife's purse, food for the flight, reading material for the flight, jackets, base for the car seat and then finally the car seat with Nuha still ensconced within. The moment we set her down, she stops crying, and looks up and gives us an angelic smile.

I'm so wearing that spandex Spidey costume in front of her friends.