I’m not a bucket list kind of girl.

I make tons of lists. One day I’ll have to show you. I make multiple lists every day – chores, projects, ideas, reminders. Lots and lots of lists. I even make lists of goals for each year. But I don’t truly have a bucket list of things I want to accomplish in my life.

And for the record, I just don’t want to do scary things. Heights? Not my thing. Scary movies? No thanks. Bungee jumping? Nope, nope, nope.

I do not have a list of things I need to do in my life that are scary – just to overcome the fear. If it’s something that’s going to scare the living daylights out of me, I’m pretty sure that’s a sign I shouldn’t do it.

So when I boxed for three rounds in front of about 400 people last Friday night, that was probably not part of my general life-accomplishments plan.

But man, what a rush.

Let’s back up for a minute so I can explain how the heck this all happened. If you’ve been following along with FCV, I talked about why I started the boxing training here, but I didn’t really give you the news that I was participating in the fight. I think I was in denial until I actually stepped into the ring. Once we started sparring in training, it became clear there weren’t enough girls to fight and that I was in whether I liked it or not.

And let’s just say it was more like not. I think I sparred two times, and both times I got nicked in the face and panicked and nearly cried. Between the mouth guard and the head gear strapped around my neck, I felt trapped. I’m not naturally aggressive. If you hit me in the face, it makes more sense to me to turn around and run the other way than to hit you back. So that may have been what happened in my only two sparring sessions before the real fight.

Fast forward to the Friday night fight. We had shiny boxing outfits and three rounds of ninety seconds in front of 400 screaming friends and family. Michael and I practically didn’t speak for weeks because we were both so nervous. I was so nervous my hands shook for at least three days before the fight. Michael sighed every twenty minutes for a week.

So on Friday night, here’s what happened. There was an enormous boxing ring set up in a hotel function room, filled with the friends and family of the thirty fighters. At 8pm, we paraded around the room in our shiny red and blue boxing gear. My fight was fourth. I took a few big hits but didn’t back down. (My heart is pounding just thinking about it!) I held my own and landed a few punches as well. In the end, I didn’t win, but it was by majority decision, not unanimous, so that means I won one of the rounds!

But it might as well have been an all out victory for me. I didn’t panic. I didn’t make a fool of myself. And I was a whole lot tougher than I thought I ever could be. The next day, my body felt like I’d been in a car crash. Neck, shoulders, arms, even my nose. Sore and creaky. But I did it. And if there was a fourth round, I would have won it!

{Or maybe not, apparently I punch with my eyes closed!}

After my fight, we still had Michael’s to get through. His was the penultimate fight of the night and by far the more exciting. And even better? He won! He did so great and even looked like a real boxer out there. Which is probably why he’s got a bruised face and I don’t. But the other guy looked much worse, I heard he had two black eyes to Michael’s one.

All in all, it was an incredible evening and we’re both just a little bit proud of ourselves. It was a night for the bucket list – or maybe to start one at least!

And that photo there proves I still have all my teeth!

Special thanks to my dear friend, Sebastian (with me above), for the amazing photos. I’m so glad it was captured!

Don’t worry – I survived my boxing match on Friday night. I’m just a little behind on my presentation for The Hive, so you get rhubarb today and boxing tomorrow! All the gory (well, not really) details, I promise!

The taste of rhubarb reminds me of late spring in Maine. My mom would send one of us down to the edge of our garden to cut the stalks with her big serrated knife, and she would make rhubarb pie for my dad’s birthday. Every year I’m tempted to buy a rhubarb seedling to plant in our garden. I always stop myself because I know it will take years for it to grow large enough for a whole pie. Some day, I’ll have a big, huge rhubarb plant at the edge of my garden and I’ll make pie every May and think of Maine.

In the meantime, I pick up a few stalks from the grocery store and make this simple baked rhubarb parfait. Perhaps the best part? Michael has no interest in it, so it lasts so much longer!

Simple Baked Rhubarb Parfait

6 stalks rhubarb, chopped

2 tsp coarse demerara sugar

plain or vanilla yogurt

granola (see below for my favorite recipe)

Layer the rhubarb on a sheet pan and sprinkle the sugar over it evenly. Bake at 350F/180C for 30 minutes, or until the rhubarb starts to break down.

Once the rhubarb has cooled, drop a few spoonfuls into a dish or cup. Over it, spoon the yogurt as the second layer. Top with granola and enjoy!

Granola:

3 cups oats (I used the inexpensive, quick-cooking stuff from the grocery store)

2 tbsp sesame seeds

1/4 cup sunflower seeds

1/4 tsp salt

1/2 cup honey

3 tbsp canola oil

1 tsp vanilla extract

1/4 cup almonds (slivered or chopped work equally well)

1/4 cup hazelnuts (again, whole or chopped work equally well)

Combine the oats, sesame seeds, sunflower seeds and salt together in a medium bowl. In a small bowl, whisk together the honey, canola oil and vanilla extract. Pour the honey mixture over the oat mixture and stir well to combine. Layer the mixture onto a parchment lined sheet pan and bake at 350F/180C for 15 minutes. After 15 minutes, sprinkle on the almonds and bake another 5 minutes. Add the hazelnuts and bake another 5 minutes. Allow the granola to cool completely before eating or storing in an airtight container.

Happy Monday, everyone! My Monday is nearly over, but I wanted to check in and share this little video Michael took on our road trip this weekend.

We took two more little mini videos while we were away, and I’ve shared them on the FCV Facebook page. Hop on over to take a peek!

I have so much more to share with you, including lots more photos. But today was flew by in a flurry of projects, so hopefully I’ll have those to share tomorrow!

Today I’m participating in a blogging challenge organized by the wonderful Ez of Creature Comforts. Inspired by this post, Ez rounded up a whole bunch of bloggers and challenged us to share what we’re afraid to share. 

When I visited America for Thanksgiving last year, one of my best friends commented that she was surprised to hear I was struggling in a few areas of my life because it seemed from my blog that life was just great. At the time, I was unhappy in my job and trying to decide if I should leave it to pursue other opportunities.

I suppose I must have been complaining a little (sorry Beck!), and for the most part, I try not to do that on my blog. Every once in a while I talk about my struggles (like here, here and here), and writing about them here on FCV helps me to process and see the solutions. Often those posts that start out as a story about a struggle turn into a story about a solution. 

But today, for me at least, is about sharing a few of my struggles and insecurities without worrying about the solution just yet. So here we go, three things I’m afraid to tell you.

I’ve acquired a little Irish accent.

I don’t mean to do it, but I say certain words with an Irish accent. In my day job, it makes it easier to blend in if I’m answering the phone, and it keeps the focus off me. It’s easier if I’m not the center of a conversation about where I’m from, how long I’ve lived here, do I miss my family, and all of the inevitable questions.

But some days I don’t recognize my own voice. I hear myself say certain words and I can’t even believe they came out of my mouth. Some days I miss the old me – the old sayings I must have used, and even my American accent. I hung onto words like trash can (not bin) and sidewalk (not footpath) for years, but now I can feel them slipping away.

I’m scared of moving back to America, and I’m scared of never moving back to America. 

We’re not planning to move back to America. For now, we’re settled and happy here. When people ask if we’ll ever move back, I usually say maybe we will in a few years. But if I’m being really honest with myself, I’m not sure if that will really happen, and I’m not sure which scenario scares me more.

It scares me to think of myself, fifty years from now, still living in Ireland and only visiting America in the summers and at Thanksgiving. But the thought of moving back to America is scary as well. Over the last few years, I’ve felt this growing feeling that America is full of people who are smarter, edgier, hipper than me. What if when we move back, I don’t know how to play the game anymore?

I was raised Catholic, but I now consider myself Christian.* 

I was raised in an Irish Catholic family, and I made my first communion and confirmation but as I grew older, I felt that being Catholic wasn’t a good fit for me.

When I married Michael, I started learning about his faith. After a few years of exploring, praying and studying with kind friends, I decided to get baptised as a Christian last summer. It was a wild day, with lashing rain and hurricane winds, and a group of our friends gathered on the beach to witness me getting dunked into the Irish Sea. (It’s the one time I’ve ever been in the Irish Sea!)

My faith isn’t something I talk about very much, but it’s a big part of how I live my life and how Michael and I live our life together. Religion and spirituality are very personal and often a little tricky. I sometimes worry that my family and friends back home think I married Michael and blindly adopted everything he believes. But I think that’s a worry I’ve made up on my own; I think they just want me to be happy.

***

Thanks to Ez for pushing us to do this challenge – my heart is thumping knowing that I’m about to click publish and you’ll all be reading what I’ve written. That last one was especially hard to share, but I know that’s a lesson in itself. Thanks for reading and accepting! 

*Thanks so much for all of your comments, they have all been so encouraging and informative! I did want to note that I understand Catholicism is a form of Christianity. However, in Ireland (at least in my circle of friends) we would think of ourselves as Christian. Perhaps technically, it’s more like evangelical Christian in America. But I do accept it’s changing denominations, not religions. Either way, it was a big leap for me!