Random Ramblings: Sports Edition

I wish I could say my long absence from blogging was the result of something amazing - a European pilgrimage, completion of a novel, finally learning how to curl my hair with a straightener.

The sad truth is that we were camping and our computer was being repaired and I had nothing good to write. If you've ever read my blog before, you know that that has never stopped me before but there you go.

Today's Random Ramblings all have to do with sports and exercise. Which makes me sound really athletic. Which I totally am (unless you know me in real life. And then I'm totally kidding.).

Professional Soccer

As a thank you to coaches, my local chapter of Girls on the Run gave the coaches free tickets for them and their families. Girls on the Run is a really cool running program that teaches girls how to be confident and encourages positive emotional and physical health. I'm one of the coaches and Kate is in the program, which is such an amazing experience to go through with her. But that's a post for another day.

Back to the soccer game. So we got these free tickets for coaches (there I go again, flaunting my sportiness). It was pretty fun - much more fun to watch than football or baseball. It's constant action and the athleticism of the players was astounding. Jack plays soccer and Kate will play next season so it was fun watching the game with them. My in-laws watched the littles for obvious reasons.

All I have to show you are two mediocre cell phone pictures. I can either learn photography or I can concentrate on being beautiful. No time for both.

At one point during the game, the captain of our local team (who was a phenomenal player) did a couple wrong things and got kicked out of the game. I don't know what they were but everyone was booing so I did.

Apparently I look like I know what's going on even though I'm actually clueless. It's a rare gift. So one of the guys in the row behind me starts talking to me like I know things. He has that beautiful lilt in his voices that I associate with Afica. Our conversation is like this:

Guy:  I don't know what the referee is thinking. You can't call players out on a (soccer term) play. It's absolutely ridiculous. It changes the entire game.

Me: Don't I know it.

We are both shaking our heads with disgust and then I turn back around. He goes back to shouting and making animated gestures concerning the game and I go back to the kettle corn.

Beachbody

I consider myself in ok shape. Not great but not terrible. Just average. I decided to try the 21 Day Fix workouts. Not the dumb little containers which are most likely overpriced but the workouts. I borrowed them from a friend. The workouts are pretty good except that woman who leads them always says at the beginning "We're going to have some fun today" and I then make a mental note to never invite her to a party because her idea of fun and my idea of fun are very different. And also I wouldn't be able to enjoy my pizza rolls because she'd be judging me.

These types of workout videos always have a modifier, someone who shows you how to make the moves a little easier. You know, push ups on your knees, squatting but not as low, etc.

What I need is a modifier to the modifier.

"Hey guys, we're going to have some fun today. If you need some help, Janelle is over here to modify the moves for you (Janelle smiles and nods at the camera). And if you need even more help, this is Jessica's first week doing this program and if you feel like you're about to die, do what she's doing."

 - 45 seconds into the 60 second cardio blast move (or whatever fun term they have for torture), Jessica stops and gets a handful of chips and watches everyone else finish.

 - Jessica starts doing push-ups on her hands and feet, then goes to knees, then eventually against the wall, all while trying to get the dog off the yoga mat.

 - 9 minutes into the 20 minute workout, Jessica stops and says aloud "Ok, that's it, I'm done." She flips open a computer and scrolls through Pinterest while everyone else finishes the workout.


Holiday Themed Races

This past Sunday my best friend and I ran a Halloween 5k. We laughed so much that we were wiping away tears and our cheeks were sore. We always joke that our children are confused by our smiling and laughing on our Friday afternoon playdates.

"What is that sound?"
"Oh that's mom laughing. I know it's confusing as she's usually barking orders but you'll get used to it."

We thought about signing up for a 5k every weekend.

Or bypassing the race altogether and just driving around for a couple hours by ourselves.

Even though it was a Halloween race, there weren't a ton of people dressed up. Rosie and I decided to go as two stay-at-home-moms who didn't train much. If I do say so myself, we nailed it.

For those of you non-racers, everyone lines up according to their pace so as not to irritate people in front of and behind you. I think it started at a 6 minute per mile pace and moved up from there. We thought about joining that one but in the end moseyed over to the 12 minute mile flag, where the toddlers in costumes were starting out.

Usually the race announcers are chipper and encouraging. This one wasn't. His voice would boom over the runners:

"Make sure you're in the right pace group. If you're too slow, we're going to pull you out and put you in the back with the walkers."

"The course is clearly marked. If you get lost, it's your own fault."

To Rosie I said "If you guys even finish. Losers."

To add insult to injury, I had forgotten my mp3 player. So instead of listening to the sounds of Lecrae and Creedence Clearwater Revival, I had to listen to the sounds of my own breathing.

Horrible, gasping death rattle.

As typical with races, I was passed. While it's still demoralizing, at this race I could at least amuse myself by watching those who pass me:

A middle-aged woman dressed in what I can only assume is a toddler's pirate wench costume. Bustier, fishnet stockings, striped miniskirt. I can only imagine running a long race in that.

Oh the chaffing.

Rosie and I were also passed by a man who looked about 90 - long, skinny, sinewy legs. He wasn't even really running, just short stepping ahead. And still he gained.

The worst is getting passed by EVERY SINGLE RUNNER WITH A JOGGING STROLLER.

Sometimes they were double strollers, some athletic and cute young parents chatting happily as they passed me, probably planning their jaunt up Mt. Kilamanjaro, baby carriers strapped to their Under Armour clad backs.

The announcer was right about me, after all.

Random Ramblings

It's that time again!

Never Recovering

A couple evenings ago one of our offspring walked in on us.

Yes.

It's probably every parents' nightmare and wouldn't you know, the one time we forget to lock the door and a kid comes to our door at night, which never happens. I'm sure you'll be able to read all about it in this kid's future book:

Traumatized: An Autobiography

Chapter One: I wanted to stick a fork in my eyes

I am very thankful that it wasn't Jack. He's not old enough to know things but he's old enough to know something. He would probably just move out of the house because he couldn't stand to be near us anymore.

"Jack, what are you doing?"

"Taking my mattress out to the workshop. Please don't contact me ever again. You are both dead to me."


I'm sure we'll hear all about this decades down the line, at a family card game or something.

"Hey, you guys remember the time I walked in on you? My life was all downhill from there."

Kids, we just don't have enough in the therapy fund for all of you. You're just going to have to deal.


What Dreams May Come

A friend of ours told us he takes magnesium supplements to feel more refreshed in the morning. He did tell us a side effects is vivid dreams. So far my dreams have consisted of:

1. Everything in my friend's new house is made of paneling. Everything - walls, furniture, food. I struggle throughout the entire dream trying to figure out how to be supportive and positive about her new house but, at the same time, ask her what the frick is wrong with her. I sit at their panel table and try to cut my panel food with my panel knife.

2. I am driving around an unknown neighborhood. It's snowing - a blizzard. The road is treacherous. A white cat is sitting in the passenger seat, arguing with me about directions - we're lost. The cat is my best friend. I know I love the cat, we are like sisters, but I want to wring its furry little neck because she won't stop harping on me about where we should be going.

3. I'm at Comic Con and I'm eating Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. There's a girl there that everyone likes but I don't and I can't figure out why I don't like her. She's small, a dwarf. It turns out she's actually Hermione from Harry Potter (not the actress but the character come to life). I realize the reason I'm mad is because I thought she was taller and I feel betrayed.

So there you have it, a completely legal way to spend the first moments of each morning questioning your sanity. Recently I read an article that said our dreams are secretly our desires and our minds play them out. I don't think I want to drive around lost in a blizzard with a abrasively chatty cat but hey, maybe I do.

Violence Starts Young

Noah is in pre-k this year and everyone is happy about it. Everyone. The big kids and I get to have quiet homeschool times where we read about Ho Chi Minh (did you know that the city and trail are named after a person who began a revolution in Vietnam? I had no idea. It's so exciting to learn stuff) and discuss Einstein's thought experiments and watch Youtube videos on why cereal is attracted to magnets (there's iron in it but also something about the properties of water - I totally get it).

Anyway, Noah is very serious about pre-k. He tells us all the serious things that happened each day - from the letters they learned to the kinds of cookies they ate for snack (I want to send healthy snacks but every parents seems to send delicious desserts like pudding and rice krispy treats. If I send carrots and hummus, they will probably shank Noah at recess with blunt scissors). He loves going and being picked up by my best friend and her kids.

Noah also tells us how good he is each day. Which is both a frustrating and heartening thing for a mom. While you want your kid to be wonderfully behaved around other people, it's also a real kick in the teeth.

"So what you're saying is that you're completely capable of being kind and sweet and using a soft voice and being obedient and not screaming that you'll never sleep ever again while throwing toys and yet you choose not to be that way when you're at home?

You little punk, you.

The conversations go something like this:

"Mom, I didn't hit anyone today."

"That's good. Hitting hurts people."

"I also didn't pinch. Or kick. Or bite."

It just starts to escalate.

"Or stomp. Or spit. Or punch people's head."

...Or use an AK-47, or detonate a bomb, or steal someone's identity online..."

Please stop telling me all the kinds of violence you could have engaged in but didn't.

We'll be sleeping with one eye open.

And locking the door.

Pregnancy Dreams: I'll Take "Things That Make Me Cry" for $100

These are the days I feel like I should be posting about more serious stuff - gay marriage, the Confederate Flag, abortion, the Mexican drug cartel.

So many serious things from which to choose (it's my blog but the ghost of my 8th grade grammar teacher is standing over me, waiting for me to write "So many serious things to choose from...)

But instead I'm here to talk to you about pregnancy dreams. Because writing about womanly issues (and not serious ones) and scrubbing toilets badly and bikini waxes and toddler diarrhea is just who I am.

First off, I'm not pregnant.

No.

No.

No.

But a friend is and the night I spoke to her on the phone I had a dream about being pregnant. Well, a nightmare really. Don't get me wrong, I desperately planned and wanted my babies and so enjoyed those sweet early lives, when their heads smell heavenly and they do that thing where they stretch their arms and yawn and keep their little legs bunched up. It's so cute I can hardly stand it.

But then they grow. And while their heads now smell like dirty hair and sunscreen, so many wonderful things are in this phase of life. No more diapers (hell ya!); long, serious discussions about life and faith and the purpose of nipples; being able to leave the big kids at home for small bits of time; enjoying my Kate reading Harry Potter and Roald Dahl and so many of my favorite books for the very first time.

And really, when people feel done having kids, that's pretty much it. I can watch a diaper commercial and instead of sobbing and beating my fists and crying out to the cosmos that I want to be pregnant and why am I the only person in the world without a baby? (like when I was trying to get pregnant with Jack), I just think "Thank God those days of feces escaping even the most capable of diapers are over." I can sleep the sleep of a parent who does not expect to be woken up at night. Ever. And if I am, so help me, you'd better be puking up your boxed macaroni dinner because I sure as shooting will not be getting up because you can't find your green dinosaur at 3 am.

So it was quite a shock to have a dream about being pregnant. Especially since my brain has long since threatened my ovaries - "If you let one more sperm in, so help me I will strangle you with your own Fallopian tube."

Apparently I threaten children and body parts with "So help me..." a lot.

The point of this whole rambling story is that I had a dream about being pregnant and instead of closing my eyes in rapture and hoping with all my might and wishing on a star and praying to God that it was true, I woke up in a bit of a terror and then narrowed my eyes suspiciously at Matt.

"If you got me pregnant, I will pummel you with my purses. All of them. So help me..."

Biting Back My Wishes

You know when you wish for something and then after it happens, you regret it?

Deeply.

Over the past couple weeks I've been thinking occasionally that I wish something interesting would happen so I could blog about it.

So dumb. Sooo dumb.

Last Friday we were at my best friend's community pool for her son's birthday. Swimming, presents, cake, happiness.

After a while I heard Noah calling to me from a bathroom. I stuck my head in and he said "Wipe me, Mama."

As I walked further into the bathroom, I started seeing things. Horrible things.

Let me back up a bit.

Noah doesn't just sit back onto the toilet. He does it with style. He plants his left foot on the seat and swings his right leg over to the other side, like straddling a horse.

Unfortunately, this time he miscalculated, just a bit.

He began his bowel emptying as he was swinging his leg.

That's right. Poop all over next to the toilet.

On the trash can.

On the floor.

On the wall.

On the outside of the toilet.

I stared in blank horror for a few seconds then slowly walked out of the bathroom and called to Matt, where he was talking to some friends.

"Maaaatttt?"

He comes in and we both stare in blank horror for a few seconds.

Matt starts sputtering - "What...?  How did you...? What...?

"Are you sick?" I ask Noah.

"No," he replies, almost cheerfully from his view on the toilet (there is nothing in the toilet - nothing.).

We start the arduous (odorous?) process of wiping everything down with the only thing we had available - paper towels.

"Noah, how did this happen? This doesn't even make sense. I've never seen anything like this before."

"Holy heck, it's in the grout. How the crap do I get crap out of the grout?"

At one point, Matt stops and looks up at the ceiling.

"Why did I come to this party? Why was I born?"

While washing our hands at the sink, Matt asked Noah, "So what did we learn today?"

Noah, "It was bad."

Indeed it was.

As we were exiting the bathroom, holding the trashbag (that was ruined because Noah got poop all over the bag, as it was rolled down from the can), a friend remarked, "Well, at least you got a blog post."

It's a very thin silver lining but it's there, I suppose.

Random Ramblings

Famous Smamous

The other night Matt and I were watching Jimmy Fallon's Tonight Show and Jennifer Lopez was on. The blouse she was wearing was unfortunate in that it seemed to be missing the top few buttons. How embarrassing!

Matt remarked that it must be difficult for Jimmy Fallon to interview her when she's dressed that like. I said that it's certainly not the most risque outfit she's worn. Matt nodded thoughtfully and then said "Who is she again?" Even after I said "Jennifer Lopez," there wasn't much glimmer of recognition.

I've mentioned before how funny Matt's almost complete lack of pop culture knowledge is. You do not want this guy on your team if you're trying to get him guess the tune to a popular song in Cranium or when the entertainment card comes up in Trivial Pursuit. Want to know how to change oil or brakes on your car? Ask Matt. Want to go on a competitive bike ride with virtually no chance of leisurely enjoying the lovely surroundings? Ride along with Matt. Have a question about how to invest your money or what to do with your 401K? Matt is your man.

But if you can't remember who Chris Martin dated after he uncoupled with Gwyneth Paltrow, don't bother (Answer: J Law of course). You will have to explain each of those people in great detail and not even get your answer.

I imagine us in Maui, bumping into celebrities (so I'm going to Hawaii with unrealistic expectations. Whatev.). We're biking down a volcano and stop for waffles halfway down the mountain. While pouring syrup on my waffles, I notice that Jay-Z and Beyonce sat down next to us.

We'll strike up a conversation (I'll be totally cool because celebrities just aren't that big of a deal to me and Matt will be cool because he'll think they're regular people):

Matt will be like, "So what do you guys do for a living?"

"You're singers, huh? Both of you? Like in a band? What kind of music do you play - rock, hip hop, folk?"

See? Completely cool.

Lord of the Runs

This Saturday I went on a run with a friend of mine. I've always run alone before and now I know why. My friend Kristie is the type of runner one might see in an ad for Champion or something. The day before our run, I even looked up articles on how to run faster on a long run. You know, because I had so much time to prepare.

As soon as she took off next to me, I knew I was in trouble. It was a faster pace than I was used to and we were planning on doing 12 miles.

At first, my plan was to stay with her. I kept telling myself things like "You can do this! You're amazing! Yay me!"

She quickly blazed ahead, her ponytail bouncing jauntily behind her, taunting me.

I told myself that I just needed to keep Kristie in my sight. I was like Gimli chasing Aragon over the hills of Middle Earth - "Just got to keep breathing, that's the key."

"Alright, so you couldn't keep up. You're still doing ok. Running is hard."

Eventually I told her to just go on ahead. The plan at that point was to just finish my run on the same day as Kristie.

And you know what? I totally nailed it.

How to Wrap a Present in 26 Easy Steps

Step 1: Assemble all the items you need.

Step 2: Start rolling out the wrapping paper.

Step 3: Realize you forgot the scissors. And the tape (repeat step 1 as needed).

Step 4: Wrestle the scissors away from toddler.

Step 5: Ignore the screaming.

Step 6: Choose a box from your assortment of Amazon boxes on the garage freezer. Don't worry about taking the shipping label off. Too much work.

Step 7: Eat an Oreo. It says 'limited edition' on the box so you really don't want to procrastinate on eating these. This is a time-sensitive endeavor.

Step 8: Use your amazing sense of measurement for the wrapping paper. You're a college educated individual - surely you can correctly eyeball how much wrapping paper you'll need.

Step 9: Struggle with folding the paper on the ends. Realize that this is fancy wrapping paper (which was given to you by your mom). Cheap wrapping paper folds easily and tears if you use too strong of a grip folding it. This stuff doesn't - it's real wrapping paper, the type sold at fancy department stores where people buy silver baby rattles. Not the sort of stores where your wrapping paper usually comes from - the sort of stores where people buy Slim Jims and Charmin along with their wrapping paper.

Step 10: Ok, so maybe you didn't eyeball the wrapping paper that well. You're just a simple person, for goodness' sakes!

Step 11: Eat an Oreo. 

Step 12: Cut off the excess paper from both ends. You should've moved the box over so you only had one end to cut but you didn't think of that at the time. This has only happened every single time you've wrapped a present in your life, how is a person to know these things? You're not a flippin' magician.

Step 13: Sides trimmed, you now fold up the paper around the main part of the box.

Step 14: Apparently there's not enough paper width-wise.

                                    

Step 15: Stare at the box, wondering how you could have made such colossal errors of measurement with the wrapping paper.

Step 16: Ponder not only measurement skills, but also powers of reasoning and logic and possibly existence.

Step 17: Put "The Office" on for background noise. Drink milk.

Step 18: Take one of the strips of paper trimmed off the ends (Strips of Shame) and tape it to the side of the box to cover your other mistake.

Step 19: Realize you forgot to buy present labels. For the 3rd year in a row. Write the name inside one of the reindeer with Sharpie so it almost looks like you completely planned on the Sharpie route. 

Step 20: Slap a bow on the box. Now tape the bow to the box because the bows are, like, 4 years old and the adhesive has dried up.

Step 21: Repeat for every present. 

Step 22: Enjoy a job well done! 

Step 23: Reward self with Oreos.

Step 24: Feel bad about self, drink lots of water to compensate.

Step 25: Clutch stomach, which now hurts from too much water and too many Oreos.

Step 26: Lay on couch. Watch Netflix.

Haircuts and Fairy Tales

Take the Mirror!

Every time I get my hair cut, the stylist insists that I take a tiny mirror and swivels me around in the chair so I can look into the mirror at the back of my head's reflection in the big mirror. I always dutifully glance even though I don't care a bit what the back of my head looks like. With very few exceptions, my haircut in the back looks identical to what's happening on my sides and I've already seen those by the end of the cut.  Often I'll just give the stylist a vague idea of what I want (not to look like a mushroom) and then tell him or her that I trust them to figure the rest out as they go.

Last week I got my hair cut and the stylist again handed me a mirror to see the back.

"It's ok," I said, "I'm sure the back looks fine. I don't need to see it."

"No, I want you to see it."

And here she swivels me around.

(Wow, this mirror really magnifies my poor, untweezed eyebrows. Is it normal to have eyebrow hair grow this fast? Maybe it's my gummy vitamins...)

"So, how does it look?'

"What? Oh, it looks great. Really lovely."

(I really should try eyebrow waxing. It could change my life.)

The stylist nods contentedly with the knowledge that I am indeed deeply satisfied with how the back of my head looks.

This leads me to believe that stylists must be constantly plagued by customers who come back after a cut, pointing angrily to the back of their heads and yelling "What's the matter with you? The sides of my hair are amazing but the back is an absolute nightmare. People have been laughing at me, literally behind my back, the entire day."

The Brothers Very Grim

My kids will probably tell you I'm mean. Which is true much of the time.  I'm constantly harping on them to clean up, do their math, put their shoes away, and actually use shampoo in the shower and not just wet your hair because I can totally tell. I've heard that being a grandparent is the reward you get for raising your kids and I believe it. My mom tells me she enjoys being able to do fun things and spoil them because she isn't responsible for how they turn out, unlike her own children. Therefore, it's oatmeal at home and 6 bowls of Lucky Charms at my parents.

 In fact, we stayed the night at their house over this past Thanksgiving and my mom bought three different sugary cereals just for their arrival. One was open so I took it out to give to everyone.

 My dad: "No, no, take them all out. They can have whatever they want."

"But this one is open," I sputter.

"It's fine, open them all."

And I'll be darned if my big kids didn't have like 6 bowls apiece, 2 of each kind of cereal.  Seeing how different my own parents are as grandparents, happy and smiling and generally enjoying it, makes me look forward to when I have my own grandkids and I won't have to worry everyday that I'm disciplining too much or too little or that I won't have enough money for therapy someday.

So whenever I can get away with not directly sucking the happiness out of their lives I do. Which means that whenever I read a book aloud or tell a story, I will often sneak in my own sentences so it sounds like it's coming from the author and not me.  For instance:

"Once upon a time there was a little girl named Goldilocks. She was walking through the woods and spotted the house of the three bears. She decided to go in, even though her mom had told her not to but Goldilocks didn't listen to her mom at all which resulted in her almost being eaten by bears, which we'll see later on in the story."

And then later...

"Goldilocks woke up and saw the bears, screamed, and ran way. She vowed from that day forward to be an obedient kid and to always do what her mom says. The end."

Of course, this really only works for Noah. With the older kids I have to be sneakier. Like if I'm reading Harry Potter and come across a section about the trouble the twins get into and how stressed it makes their mother, I might add:

"George and Fred were worried that their mother might be disappointed in them and so they decided to do their best to make good decisions because they realized life would be more enjoyable if they weren't in trouble so much."

Stuff like that.

Of course, there is a risk that someday they'll realize that Hansel and Gretel weren't actually sent out to the woods for punishment for not clearing their dishes and also for arguing over whose cookie was bigger, but it's a chance I'm willing to take.

Adventures in Mediocrity: The St. Augustine 10k

Whenever I run a race (which really isn't often, maybe 4 races so far), I'm always confident. Confident with no reason to be so. For instance, before I showed up to the Outrun Hunger 5k a week and a half ago, I really felt good about my prospects. I've run farther than a 5k so I knew I could finish. Heck, maybe even win. All those other chumps would be left in my dust. Maybe a picture in the local paper the next day, me running through a finish line tape, my arms raised in triumph, headline reads "LOCAL WOMAN ENDS HUNGER."

Something like that.

Of course, it ended up that I was the chump left in the dust, my fat cells begging my brain for a Milky Way. My 7 year old even beat me. Which is to be expected, as she's built like a little Lolo Jones. I knew the race was going to be a bit more difficult than I imagined when I showed up at the 5k and half of the maybe 40 or so runners were serious runners. They wore actual running clothes, not the cheap Walmart stuff I sport.

Me being the dull crayon that I am I approached the St. Augustine 10k with the same overinflated sense of ability. Because the race was a fair bit away from our house, Matt and I decided to take the family camping over the weekend at a state park in St. Augustine.

The night before the race, I got all my gear ready and set my alarm for 5:30am. That night I had two nightmares, one that my key fell out of my Flipbelt and the other that I woke up at 8 am in my parents' old house and had missed the race completely. I woke up tingling with sweat at 3 am and struggled to get back to sleep.

I did wake up on time and got to the race at 6am. Since it didn't start until 7 am, I had some time to kill. Everyone seemed to be walking around purposefully so I busied myself walking from the portapotties to my Powerade in my car and back again. Columbia, a great Spanish restaurant in the historic district, sponsored the race so they had cookies and bananas and coffee for the runners before the race. It was 48 degrees at 6am and all those poor Floridians were shivering in parkas and gloves, huddled under huge heaters under the tents.

Eventually we all lined up (a sunny 59 degrees at 7) and I became quick friends with the person next to me, both of us joking about our lack of speed. The horn sounded and we were off.

Right away, it was clear that I was surrounded by elite runners. Or maybe they were simply average runners but seemed elite compared to how I was running. Almost immediately, people passed me in astonishing numbers. It was like I was a boulder in a stream and people were just rushing around me. It would have been almost peaceful had it not been so demoralizing.

About 1/2 mile into it, a runner came up behind me, held up a car key and asked "Is this yours?"

That's right. My nightmare came true.

The problem is the Flipbelt is not made for people with muffin tops. It's a flexible belt wore tight around the hips that has slits to hold your cell phone or keys or whatever. Note the difference:


       


Look closely. One of these women has a muffin top (hint: it's me). So instead of staying nice and flat on boyish hips, my Flipbelt slides above my childbearing hips and gets folded by abdominal fat. Hence, the car key fell out. Thank goodness someone found it. I would still be searching the pavement over that bridge.

Then I had to figure out what to do with the key. I couldn't put it back in the Flipbelt (which works great for my phone). I put it in the only place I could think of - my sports bra. Let me tell you, if running 6 miles with a metal key under your left boob doesn't earn you a medal, I don't know what does. Plus I was paranoid to lose it again so I kept checking to make sure it was there.

That's right. Every couple minutes I would thrust my hand down the front of my shirt and feel around in my bra. Needless to say, my dignity meter was really low that morning.

On top of that, I was so caught up in the beauty of the day and the key and the excitement of the race (people waving and clapping and cheering alongside the road - for me!) that I forgot to breathe very well. So for miles 2-4, I had to jog slowly/walk with my right arm raised over my head in a strange attempt to relieve the stitch in my side. My right arm alternated between being raised up while I shuffled along and feeling around down my shirt.

The last two miles were actually great. I jokingly asked one of the police officers directing race traffic for a ride to the finish. He high-fived me and assured me that he could drive me there and be sneaky about it. We laughed and I continued on.

After the race, Columbia's served up Cuban black beans and rice, a shrimp and scallop dish, their famous 1905 salad, and Cuban bread. There were cookies, water, bananas, cans of Coke, and free beer. All that food and a medal made up for the key fiasco and my laughable pace.

There were a couple kids running with their parents, all boys around 10-12. I went home and told Kate that she should run with me next year and she was all for it, once she found out about the amazing food and the medals. That's my girl.

I'm going to end this post with a little anecdote that has nothing to do with running or races. You can give a sigh of relief if you're sick of hearing about the race now.

Over the weekend at the campsite, I took Noah to the bathroom. Here is a write-up of our conversation in the bathroom stall, keeping in mind that there are other women in the bathroom and he is talking very loudly:

Noah: Do you have boobs? (he talks about them almost every day)

Me: Yes

Noah: Do you like your boobs?

Me: Yes (actually, not especially. Not fun to run with them)

Noah: I like your boobs.

Me: That's nice.

(Here he has a loud bowel movement)

Noah: You hear dat?

Me: Yup.

Noah: Dat's you

Me: No, it's you.

Noah: Yeah, it's me.


Good talking to you, buddy.

Home Projects and Other Marriage Counseling Topics

Projects

As any normal wife does, I often peruse Pinterest in search of home remodeling projects for my husband to do - don't want him being too relaxed or anything.

The kids' bathroom mirror has always bothered me - it's one of those boring builder-grade mirrors whose holders have gone rusty from time and depression.

See how sad and boring this is? Unfortunately, I didn't get a shot before we painted the walls. They went from off-white to gray.

See how much nicer it is with the frame? Listen, I know that people are supposed to take pictures with natural light and not that glaring artificial light. But this is really all I have - no one promised you a high quality blog.

When I saw the ideas on Pinterest, it was full of pictures of easy projects and happy couples. Get a couple pre-cut pieces of molding and throw it on the mirror with a squirt of liquid nails and be done before your blushing bride can cut the freshly baked coffee cake.

Matt, however, looked at those projects and decided against a fast, cheap fix that won't look as nice and may indeed fall off the mirror and conk unsuspecting guests in the head. Of course, it's fairly safe to assume that when people come to our house, they may indeed suspect that something terrible could happen, especially if they've come over before.

Regardless, Matt kicked it up a notch and began getting all sorts of material - see the top piece? It's actually three pieces of wood, with the top piece nailed at an angle like a mantle. Both the top and bottom pieces also wrap around to the wall so there's no gap. My husband? Is pretty amazing.

Because it was somewhat more complicated than the easy tape-or-glue to the mirror projects, it caused Matt some anxiety, figuring out how to affix it to the studs at the appropriate spaces and calculating the angles of the saw and whatnot.

We were somewhat snappish with each other over that terrible weekend and every time I walk past the bathroom and see the frame, I feel a twinge guilty. Not enough to stop suggesting projects from Pinterest, though. Just a tad.

Speaking of things that are good for marriage...

Romantic Texting

I really hate to begin yet another subject with me looking things up on Pinterest...but here we are again. I saw this little bit about '50 Love Bombs to Send to Your Spouse' or something. Normally those sorts of titles induce my gag reflex but I thought "You know, I really should do stuff like that." The suggestions were things like:

"You're so strong."
"Need your cuddles."
"You are one good looking guy."

Immediately I knew that if I texted him something like that, he would realize something was terribly, terribly wrong. This sort of stuff is really sweet in other couples but it's just fake and cheesy with us. So in the end I texted something like "Hey, what's up?" Which is silly, because I knew what he was doing - talking to people about their investments. Obviously I didn't want to hear the details about that because OH MY GOSH, SO BORING, PLEASE STOP TALKING. And it was silly for him to ask me what I was doing because it's always the same as well - "Breaking up fights among offspring, please send wine."


Cutting off the Dead

Hair, that is. Kate convinced me months ago that we should both grow our hair like Rapunzel in Tangled. Science notwithstanding, I agreed. She's only young once. I know the style is long with beachy waves and curls nowadays but I simply cannot bring myself to care about hair enough to put the time in. Especially if the only outing most days was to Walmart, where even in yoga pants and a greasy ponytail I felt ok about myself. I had finally convinced Kate to at least cut some layers into her long hair so we went to the (where else?) salon at Walmart. The hairdresser told Kate that she had similarly thin hair and kept her hair short so it looked more styled. Katie suddenly said "Cut it all off."

So we did. And then, freed from the bondage of hair care, I cut mine off the next morning. The hairdresser kept telling me as she cut "You're going to have so much fun with this haircut" "My goodness, SO much fun."

I appreciate your enthusiasm but let's be honest - this is a haircut you're giving me, not a bounce house. Let's tone it down to appropriate levels.

Then as she teased it a little as it dried, she said "Oh my, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to give it so much body..."

Not to worry, my friend. It's going to look like a wavy mushroom unless I slather it with serum and straighten it repeatedly.

Needless to say, we've been having fun. SO much fun.

Leather Upholstery and An Unfortunate Song

EL Poor Decisions

A couple weeks ago we bought a car due to our minivan meeting an untimely end. I still shudder when I think about our poor minivan, exposed on the main commercial street in town, doors wide open for all to see its cheerios and trash. The minivan wasn't worth a whole heap of a lot so we went on the hunt for a new vehicle.

Have you shopped for a car lately? It's like a circus but without all the fun. Craigslist is always achieving new levels of odd and we even had one seemingly honest couple ask us to send money via Western Union and we would be sure to get the title to the car they were selling.

Yeah, no.

We even tried dealerships, which we always swore we would never do but we were getting desperate with the slim pickings on Craigslist. We looked at used minivans and the nice saleslady told us that the usual price for this van was $18k but as a special deal for us special, special customers she would let it go to us for the very secretive and amazing price of $16k. Matt told her we'd think about it and went out in the car to look up that dealer's inventory. Turns out, our special, secretive deal was the price listed on the internet for the same van.

Not so special anymore, are we?

We finally settled on an older Expedition (it's a longer version of the original, named 'Expedition El' which is Spanish for 'Expedition you cannot parallel park.'). We had to drive a few hours south but it was a nice older couple with meticulous record keeping, which is Matt's favorite type of people from which to buy.

On the way down, we stopped at a little dollar store to buy drinks as a treat for everyone. I bought Matt a bottle of Diet Coke and he showed me the label after we got back on the road:

It says "Share a Drink with Jess."

That's right - share a drink with me! Which is his favorite thing to do. I'm sure it's some sort of social media contest but still, it was quite exciting for us.

On the way home from getting our car, we stopped at a Wendy's to eat dinner.

Every time we eat at fast food, we remember why we try not to. As we sat forlornly at the table, staring glumly at our lukewarm fries and pathetic little burgers, I mused on the fact that we were the only people eating there at dinner time. My eyes wandered to the highway in front of the restaurant and settled on the IHOP across the street. In big block letters, its sign proclaimed "KIDS EAT FREE! 4PM-10PM!"

Son of a value fry - you've got to be kidding me! We could have been eating better food, maybe not great food but better food. And for half the cost! That put a damper on our evening, the thick, cold reality of the sad news covering us like a spilled Frosty.


We Won't Be Invited Back...

On a somewhat lighter note, the older two kids went to a local VBS in town a couple weeks ago. I grew up in church and my mom (and then my mom and I) ran VBS every year of my childhood. It's just as I remember - the cookie cutter boxed themes, the hand motions to every song, the overly exuberant leaders. But the kids really enjoy it.

We left VBS the last night, all of the participants and leaders streaming from the church to the parking lot. It was a nice evening and my windows were down. As I turned on the car, the radio began to blare.

I kid you not, the song playing at that moment on the classic rock station I was listening to on the way over just happened to be 'Highway to Hell.'

That's right - the CHORUS of 'HIGHWAY TO HELL' was blaring from my car as everyone from VBS walked to their cars.

<HIGHWAY TO HELL!>

"What's that? Yes, it was a very nice VBS."

<ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL!>

"Yup, the kids did have fun. They sure did learn a lot about God's love tonight. Thanks for putting on such a great program."

<I'M ON THE HIGHWAY TO HELL!>

The Week is Ending with a Bang...

Sunday

The start of this week was slightly stressful, despite the Father's Day celebration. We had Matt's parents over for breakfast sandwiches and then Matt went to church early to practice and I began the weekly torture of getting the two toddlers ready for church.

We were on the very first song of the service when Noah began to cry that he wants to go home. Which is very unusual, because home is usually the place he likes the least, considering I am always wrestling him into naptime.  Noah loves church because he gets to go to nursery, a land flowing with juice and baby puffs. I knew it was serious when he put down his cookie and laid his head on his arms and cried. He was becoming increasingly desperate to leave so I knew that either he wasn't feeling well or he had somehow found out the nursery was out of baby puffs. So in the middle of the service I took the toddlers home and left the older kids in the row, telling friends behind us to relay the message to Matt that he now had the responsibility to take Jack and Kate home.

Noah wanted to watch Frozen when we got home so I envisioned a snuggly-sweet morning with the little ones.

Ha.

Noah screamed and cried for about 20 minutes, until Elsa sang "Let It Go." Then he suddenly asked for a blanket and pillow and went to sleep.

Not long after he fell asleep, Tali realized that no one was crying. She started up suddenly, like an actor who's forgotten her lines. "What, it's me? Oh, right. WAAAAAHHHH!"

For the next 20 minutes, she rolled around on the homeschool floor crying. They say not to negotiate with terrorists but I was desperate, offering her cheerios, juice, snuggles, a Cadillac.

Towards the end of the tantrum, she began to fall asleep. Like a dog in a dream, she would close her eyes then continue to softly cry and slowly thrash about. Even in her sleep she wouldn't surrender.

Finally, peace.

You can see the sweat on her hairline. She gave it her all.

The rest of Father's Day was happy and fun, spending the day at my parents with my sisters and my in-laws.

Monday

Late last week I got my hair cut and highlighted. I'm pretty sure it's the first time I've paid for highlights (meaning myself and not my mom) and that's only because there was a Groupon for it. It's not that I don't feel like they're nice and lovely, it's that I don't care about my appearance that much. I just don't. This sounds funny, but I feel like it's not a big deal because I only see myself when I look in a mirror, and that's maybe 5 minutes out of the day to brush my teeth and such. The rest of the time, I don't think about how I look because I can't see it.

Anyway, I got my hair cut by a girl who was approximately 12. She was stylish but had the personality of a potato. It was exhausting, trying to keep the mood happy and light for that hour. She asked me the obligatory questions about family and jobs and stuff. At one point, she asked about the kids' schooling so I begrudgingly told her we homeschooled. Cue moment of awkward silence and then the horrified realization that I am one of those people. She then proceeded to tell me that she guesses it's alright as long as kids are able to get out and learn things and stuff. I thought about the fact that my 7 year old had been quietly sitting in the chair next to me, reading Calvin and Hobbes and asking polite questions of the hairdresser. I thought about the fact that this college-educated person had asked me the definition of at least four words I used, including 'amateur.' 

But I just nodded my freshly highlighted head and said "Yes, they should be adequately socialized and educated, you are quite right."

Then she told me how to recreate this look with a round brush. 

Absolutely I have one (the toddlers take turns beating each other with it).

I tried to go as long as possible without washing my hair because man, I looked good. All coiffed and trendy and whatnot. But that's the problem with hairdresser-styled do's. It's just not a skill set I have.

You leave the salon looking like this:

This was the actual picture I showed the stylist.

And the next time you wash and dry your hair, you end up looking like this:

I tried the round brush but it just keep getting stuck in my hair. Katie, who had been getting happily used to a prettier, sleeker mommy expressed alarm - "What happened to your hair? Why is it all puffy?"

Well, it went back to normal. 

She tried to smooth out my hair with her hands, which is like pouring a dixie cup of water on a raging wildfire. Nothing tames these magnificent tresses of puff.

Wednesday

I had been smelling urine near the hallway for a couple days. At one point I thought "Shoot, the cat peed somewhere." Then I realized we don't have a cat and became more alarmed than irritated. What was it, a diaper, a pee-soaked blanket? Then the other night I went to give the littles a bath and grabbed the cup I used to rinse off the window sill in the tub. It's full and sloshing. It smelled so much of ammonia that I was concerned a child had somehow gotten into a container of hair dye. 

One of my children, who shall not be named but is known for doing ridiculously awful things in the name of science, confessed that he filled the cup and left it just to see what would happen. Turns out, if he leaves a cup of pee out for days, his parents will discipline him mightily. 

I met my mom that night for my annual birthday shopping. It's really the most wonderful time of the year. We eat, we shop, we are fabulous for that night. It's a couple weeks early but I wanted to get new clothes for Matt's company's annual retreat next weekend. I want to show up those other women because that's just the way I am. 

Is there anything more depressing than trying on clothes? The bright fluorescent lighting, the endless mirrors. They should dim the lights and softly play "You Look Wonderful Tonight" by Eric Clapton overhead. Women will be like "Dang, I look good - break out the Mastercard, we're buying all the clothes!"

My mom had bought me a Brighton charm bracelet for mother's day so we picked out a few charms that night.

Afterward at dinner, I was admiring my bracelet.

"Doesn't this make my wrist look so fancy?" I asked as I reached out to dip a fried onion petal in the mayonnaise sauce.

Thursday

On the way home from swim practice tonight, we were heading home on a four lane divided road when a car pulled out in front of me. I tried to swerve left and stop but it was obvious she didn't see me because she wasn't slowing down. She hit the front right part of our van. Luckily, no one seemed to be hurt and we weren't going too fast.

It was quite jarring but not too bad as far as accidents go. I got out and walked to the other car. The lady stepped out and was so sweet and shaken and worried. I told her not to worry, we're ok and accidents happen sometimes. Then Jack stuck his head out the window and yelled "You've got crying over here!" When the woman found out there were kids in the car, she became really upset. I've been in accidents when others have gone ballistic over their car being hit and it certainly doesn't help when you already feel awful about it. Thankfully, Matt works on the same road and was in an appointment with a client. A random citizen pulled over to ask if we need help so I sent him to Matt's office to have him come over. Honestly, having kids in the car makes accidents so much worse. My hands were shaking a little and so were Matt's. Kate was crying, asking if we were going to sleep in a hotel, as if this accident somehow compromised our house as well. Noah started crying about our house. Good gravy, you guys, pull it together!

So that was our Thursday.  Jack came straight home and drew a picture of the accident. Kate sat down and wrote a letter to Matt's brother about the crash. It was all a bit like therapy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some Pringles to attend to...

Mama's Back, Jack

Matt's been out of town for a few days on a business trip. Earlier this week, I dropped the kids off at my mom's house so I could have a couple fun-filled days to myself.

I'm kidding, of course.

The leadership class I'm taking for my BSN degree requires clinical hours so my classmates and I helped out with my college's summer camp for middle schoolers. In theory, it was for kids interested in health careers. In reality, most of the kids were there because their moms made them sign up. And, as we all know, nothing is more fun than entertaining kids who don't want to be there. If being a youth group leader taught me anything, it was that.

At first I was so excited about the whole thing because I was going to have Monday night all by myself at the house. I could go dancing or buy antiques or do a 5k through some sort of interesting material (mud, food coloring, perfume, floam...). The sky was the limit.

I don't know why I get my hopes up about these things.

In the end, I cleaned a little and did homework. Woohoo, indeed. I had dinner at my in-laws, which was also novel, being there by myself. Matt's dad suggested some background noise of children screaming and discipline being meted out. You know, just to make it feel more normal.

The few days leading up to it I waffled about pigging out on some fantastic food. After all, being able to eat whatever you want is honestly one of the few great things about being an adult. Well, that and finally growing into your adult teeth. That's always a relief, not to be forever stuck with teeth too big for your head.

Monday's dessert was steamed edamame and red wine. As it turns out, I'm pretty boring by myself.

When I got home from college on Tuesday, my mom and the kids were there. The little ones were happy to see me. Pretty soon, though, the cold, hard, reality of mom being home set in for an unsuspecting Noah. At one point, I held him in my lap after a few screaming fits (him externally, me internally). He rubbed his eyes with his chubby little hand and told me "Mama, I want you to go to work. I want you to go to school."

The fact that my mom brought with her foods with an approximate sugar content of the country of Brazil had nothing to do with it, I'm sure.

Today was a little rough, considering the transition my kids made from a grandparent wonderland filled with movies and Fruit Loops back to a house of schoolwork and child labor. Jack told me he needed about 5 minutes to just rest and remember certain things that he had already forgotten in his 3 day absence, things like unloading the dishwasher and checking to see if the lid was on the carton of milk before carrying it sideways to the fridge (hint: it was not).

Later on in the afternoon, a delivery guy showed up with a package from Amazon (seeing those boxes makes my heart go pitter-pat). I saw him pull up and met him in the driveway, Talitha on my hip. The guy said immediately, "Wow, she is adorable."

Yup, I know.

Then after a minute of small talk and the handing off of the package, he said "Really, she is so cute. How can you stand it?"

Well, to be honest, I'm flipping out right now. I'm just really good at hiding it.

Then he said "Bye, sweetheart."

And I said goodbye back, pretty much at the same time I realized he was talking to Tali. This is going to be tough, as I am used to being the adorable one. Transitions.

Random Ramblings

Adults Not Needed

The other day while I was working, Matt and the kids watched Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves. Matt told me that he asked the older two what they would do if Mom and Dad weren't at home for a weekend.

Kate: I would probably clean a bit. And eat healthy food. Well, a little sugary food but not much. Not like those kids (in the movie) were eating."

Jack: I would do a little less homeschooling than usual."

So basically their adult-free weekend would consist of cleaning and some light schoolwork.


Ol' Curly Toe

A couple months ago, I was playing This Little Piggy with Tali and I noticed one of her toes bent under another toe. Here, I'll just show you the picture because I'm sure you're confused (not you specifically, the rest of the readers. You are a shining example of intelligence and wit. Not like the rest of them - you know who I mean):

So today I took her to a pediatric orthopedic clinic to have it checked. Apparently it's congenital thing where the tendon is too short. They might cut it in a quick, 10 minute surgery next year. Or some other time. Orthopedics are a fairly blase group of people when it comes to curly toes.

The doctor and her assistant walked into the room and stop.

Dr: "Oh my gosh, isn't she the cutest thing in the world?"
Asst: "Yes, she is. So cute!"

Me: "Ladies, please. You're embarrassing me. I don't even have makeup on or anything. Stop."

They then proceeded to grill me on her history.

Dr:. "Family history of blah, blah, blah?"

I shrug.

Dr: "How long has her toe been like this?"

I shrug more emphatically.

Dr: "She's so little. Was she premature?"

Me: "Listen, I'm going to stop you right there. All of my answers to those types of questions will be a shrug."

In other news, she's still holding steady at about 20 lbs - my fiesty, little, curly toed girl.


Purple Haze

Just when you think you've gotten through one embarrassing stage of parenting, another one rears its humiliating head. Noah is often without his underwear, either from getting damp or becoming misplaced. Thankfully, Kate's little tushie is about the same size as Noah's shapely one. So more often than not, he is sporting a pair of hers. I don't think about it much. Well, I didn't until yesterday.

We were at small group, all of us adults sitting in the living room while the kids were off playing and watching movies and poking each other with sticks. Noah came into the living room holding his underwear and shorts, having recently visited the bathroom. A hush fell over the room as he waved his purple girl panties towards me. So I felt I had to explain the situation. Much as I had to a year or two ago, when the last pacifiers in the store were pink and purple and we proudly used those until, inevitably, they were lost. Noah? He's just keeping it real.

You Can't Make This Stuff Up

The weekend began yesterday pleasantly enough. Beautiful day, lots of swimming and floating and cold beverages. We had dinner with our friends last night (Fine! It was our doctor friends! Geez, twist my arm...) so I made caramel brownies yesterday. We had to leave at 5:30 and the brownies were taken out to cool at 5. A few minutes after I took them out, Jack told me that it looked like someone had gotten into them. I raced over there and sure enough:

I literally had to take a moment. The stirring, the melting, the pouring...all gone. I looked over at Noah, who had a ring of chocolate around his mouth.  He looked at me and said innocently "What?"

We had to rush to get ready, now that we had a trip to the store for dessert tacked onto the evening. When I was curling my hair, Noah came into our room and said to Matt "My underwear is wet."

To which I called out "I hope it's soaked with the tears of your guilt!"

Tali needed her diaper changed and as I lifted her sweet little leg, I realized that the extent of her diaper contents were much more, well, extensive than I originally thought. I followed the trail down her leg...to the ankle I was holding.

Sigh.

We had a lovely dinner with our friends (Jack got to see his good buddy the cardiologist) and headed home and went to bed. I woke up at 2:40 am.

That time is burned in my mind.

I woke up and thought "What is that strange feeling?" Oh yeah, it's nausea. I rushed to the bathroom, the stomach virus working its way quickly through my insides. By the time I got back to bed, my stomach was in knots. Wearily I pulled a blanket and pillow from the closet and settled in on the couch. Much as I tried to sleep, the constant trips to the bathroom prevented it. I had to call in sick for work this morning. Which I hate to do, as I actually enjoy what I do for the most part. Interacting with adults and sticking needles into people while getting paid? Yessiree, good times. But these types of bodily functions are frowned upon unless you are a patient.

Because my stomach hurts so badly, I haven't slept since 2 this morning. Well, 2:40.

The thing about stomach bugs is that it makes you really contemplate life. Maybe not so much life but certainly death. You think "Is this how it's going to end, me calling out for more Charmin and whispering for the sweet release of death?" You also wonder at some point how much more can possibly be left inside you. But then I remembered Jack telling me there's like 25 feet of intestines so hope fades pretty fast.

Matt left for church with the oldest three and I kept Tali with me. She ate Nilla wafers and laughed and snuggled up next to me while we watched banal sitcoms.

Around 10:30 I felt my leg getting warm, right where Tali was snuggled up. Oh yes, you know where this is headed. Diarrhea. On her dress, on my pants, on the blanket, the pillow behind her. That diaper was no match, really. I stared at her in horror for a moment. She bit into a wafer and smiled at me.

I rushed to get her into the bath and then ran around gathering up the soiled items. It was at that moment I got one of the intermittent hot flashes that often accompany sickness. I was sweating and panicking. I basically stripped off my shirt (my pants were already in the laundry) and rushed to put my hair up because I couldn't stand one more moment of it touching me. And that's how I did laundry.

Not my finest moment.

Later in bed I was curled up on my side when I felt a little fluttering. My first thought was "Oh, how sweet!" Then I remembered I'm not pregnant and that was just my insides trying to get outside.

Earlier in the afternoon I took a swig of Scope to get rid of that awful taste. Not wanting to germify the rim, I carefully poured it into my mouth. Normally I'm pretty good at this sort of thing, like when you lose the little cup that comes with the Nyquil or Pepto Bismol. Today? Not so much. Peppermint Scope all down my tank top. Let me tell you something - Peppermint Scope on skin? Burns like an Irish girl in the sun.

I told Matt he had to bring me things and tell me I'm pretty. Which he did with only the slightest of hesitations, slowly backing away from our plague-ridden bed.

So that was my day. My evening is pretty packed, a lot of saltine eating and staring glassy-eyed at nothing in particular is on the docket.

It's safe to say the weekend has been on a downward trajectory as of late - now where's the bottle of Nyquil, the one with no cup...

Of Illnesses and Genetics

One Sick Mother

I'm on the recovering end of a cold this week. The cold itself wasn't too terribly awful, just the usual sore throat, sneezing, coughing, chills, blah, blah, blah. But I happened to be experiencing women's difficulties at the same time so the fatigue was incredible. My body just basically threw in the towel - "What, you expect us to fight off a virus while losing precious iron? Forget it, we're shutting down."

Exercise?   No.
Personal appearance?   Shoddy at best.
Level of caring?    Negative.

I just didn't want to move. I wanted to lie on the couch all day, reading historical novels and watching House, until it was time to fall into a Nyquil-induced slumber. And really, that's one of the worst things about being a mom - no one's there to take care of you because it's your job to take care of everyone else. It's right up there with with pushing big-headed children out of your delicate lady bits and catching someone else's vomit in your own hands while soothing them with "It's ok, it's alright..."

Matt tried to help, letting me sleep in as late as I wanted and bringing home pizzas for dinner and such but someone had to go to work so I could continue to live in the way to which I've become accustomed. Every morning I would give the same speech:

"Mommy is sick and she doesn't feel good. Please be good and watch out for the little kids, ok?"

They would nod solemnly and then go about their usual business of poking each other and getting into the nail polish.

Exhibit A:

We've watch countless movies this week, including an introduction into the wonder that is The Neverending Story." You know you're firmly entrenched in adulthood by the way you react to Disney movies:
\
Watching The Little Mermaid as a child:  "Why is her dad so mean? She's 16 for crying out loud! She's practically an adult and can make her own choices?

Watching The Little Mermaid as an adult: "Why is she so selfish and disobedient? Her dad is only trying to keep her from making bad decisions. She's 16 for crying out loud! She's practically a baby!

Also, Ursula calls Ariel a little tramp, a line that went completely over my head as a kid.

My saving grace was that I have no school this week. I'm particularly thankful that my nutrition class is over. It was slightly uncomfortable to write scathing remarks on the evils of sugar while eating a Cadbury egg.

Question: How bad is sugar?
Answer: On the spectrum of evil, it falls somewhere between the restrooms at Walmart and Hitler.

Also, I ended the class with an A. I may celebrate with some ice cream. In your face, Nutrition Professor!

These Are Not My Children

All parents have those moments of "Who are you?" when it comes to their children and I am no exception. Kate loves to clean and cook and I thank my lucky stars everyday for that. She makes the salads, she cleans the toilets, she vacuums. Matt and I look forward to the day when she will be making all the meals (and so is she). The other day I told the kids to go clean their rooms and she came back with a list she had made:

Floor, dressers, vacuum, beds, shelf, closet, and check up.

At least I'm pretty sure she meant shelf. Although self is good to keep clean as well. She told me she wrote "Check up" at the bottom so she would be sure to check her work at the end. She then bounded happily back to her room to clean and check her list. 

I just don't know who she is sometimes.

Likewise, how Jack emerged from my loins is also a mystery. He's watching this high school biology DVD course I bought and although I find it pretty dry, he really likes it. Like it's a treat for him to be able to watch it. While going through the aquatic animals the other night, he called me over for every single animal's organ layout. He would excitedly point out the air bladder and intestines and such. Here he is, wearing a train conductor hat, pointing out the body parts to a starfish:

And then last week I was reading our Middle Ages history book and read a passage on Galileo. The story goes that he went to the top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa and dropped two objects with different weights. I read "One weight was heavier than the other, and according to old theories about the way the universe worked, this heavier weight should have landed first."

It was here that Jack looked up from his Legos and said "No, that's not right. They would land at the same time and let me tell you why." He then launched into a passionate tirade about the force of gravity being the same and something about physics. At one point he said "You see, it all comes back to E=mc2."

I just don't know about my kids sometimes. I really don't.

I'm Basically a Triathlete

Running

Of course, I don't actually run. I walk for a little bit, then I run, then I walk. Like I'll run for four or five mailboxes or something. It's a very scientific process.

Kate has been begging me to go running. I've put it off for a few reasons: she's only 6 and I really, really like running with my mp3 player and singing whenever I feel like it. Every parent of small children knows that being able to do anything alone is practically a trip to the spa: grocery shopping, mowing the lawn, peeing, getting tires rotated, etc. 12 hour shift at the ER? Yes please. Signing the tax return at the CPAs' office? You betcha. I have an appt to get my TB test done next week and I'm really looking forward to it.

But Katie wore me down so I acquiesced. The night before our first run together she could hardly sleep she was so excited. That's not quite how I feel before a run. She woke up at 4, at 4:30, at 5:30, peeking her head out to see if it was time. She had slept in her clothes and set out her sneakers and socks the night before. We headed out with Toby (our dog). Kate was skipping all over the place, smiling huge. I don't want to be one of those parents who hold their children back, but I really wanted to hold her back. Literally. She chattered excitedly the whole time, not even realizing that I was simply grunting my answers due to the fact that I felt moments away from a lactic acid filled death.

At one point I was struggling along thinking things like:

Breathe from the diaphragm, don't raise the shoulders.

Man, it is super hard to keep my arms going while holding onto a leash and a mp3 player...

I wonder if they make ultra compression shorts so nothing moves at all.

If I keeled over right now, how long would the batteries last on my mp3?

I look up and Kate is practically leaping ahead, kicking up her shoes because she likes the way they sparkle.

"Are you running while holding a rock?"

"Yeah, it looks like a piece of pizza and I like it."

Because running wasn't hard enough before without a happy little gazelle running with me.

Aerobics

Even though she's borderline abusive, I feel like I get a good workout with Jillian Michaels. The kids and the dog just add a little extra level of difficulty. Basically like working out on a minefield. I should give myself an extra gold star at the end of the day for getting through a workout while: changing diapers, grading papers, getting told that I'm not doing anything as well as the people in the video, etc.

I lay back to do a sit up with a weight and oh, hey! There's Noah on a yoga ball, guzzling my water bottle:

I crunch my way up and do a bicep curl (because Jillian likes to work multiple muscle groups - it's evil) and there's Toby. A lick on my hand while I'm curling? Sure, why not?

Then I'm doing mountain climbers and look over to see the older two whipping each other around by the ankles and laughing. Some women can just bounce right back after having multiple kids - I am not so elastic.

Biking

Matt and I took my new bike on a spin the other day. We have a great bike trail about 15 minutes from our house. My fabulous mother-in-law popped over to watch the kids and we headed out. Matt knows what he's doing and looks it: sport sunglasses, cycling shorts, moisture-wicking shirt. I'm wearing a tank top and workout capris and nothing whatsoever protecting my eyes. When I questioned Matt on why he didn't clue me in, he said he assumed I knew I would need glasses - it's so obvious. Yes, of course it is. For someone who has never been on a road bike and doesn't even have padded shorts, glasses to protect my eyes from the sun and wind never crossed my mind. I've never gone fast enough to need them. In fact, my most recent memory on a bike was when I was about 8 or 9. I was pedaling around our big neighborhood when I stumbled upon a garage sale that was closing up. Perhaps I was especially charming that day or they took pity on my horse teeth and knobby knees but they gave me a huge teddy bear and a sombrero. I pedaled my way home rather precariously, a teddy bear as big as me on my lap and a huge red and green sombrero on my head. So you could say I definitely have some experience on a bike.

Remember how much I loathe running with Matt - how he doesn't run at all but could easily sail past me and win a 10k whenever he'd like? Biking is worse. It's like riding next to Lance but without the doping. He looks like a commercial for Brita or an allergy medication or something, where people are doing these great athletic things. His calf muscles bulge in solid ropes as he stands up on his pedals and charges ahead, urging us to 'sprint' forward a bit. My butt hurt when I sat on my unpadded shorts, my legs shook with exertion when I stood up. It was just a matter of choosing which body part I wanted to torture at any given time. What made it worse was that I was struggling on a bike which has the brand name GIANT splashed on the side. That's a self-esteem booster.  Matt schooled me on clipping my shoes into the pedals and which gear I should be in. At one point, the sun was streaming through the trees and we were enveloped by dandelion fluff floating slowly through the air. The peace was shattered by Lance, calling out "Push! Push!"

Yeah...no.

They say that exercise helps with memory but just tonight I bathed a child in her diaper and didn't realize it until a few minutes in so that doesn't bode well for that theory.




Finally, a thought:

Have you ever seen someone after a couple months and they suddenly look so trim?

You gasp and say "My goodness, look at you! You look great! What have you been doing?"

And they smile and shrug a little, "Oh, you know. Eating celery, doing jumping jacks. Just eating right and exercising."

You walk away a little defeated, sucking in your gut and vowing to plank it up that weekend.

More often than not, you find out that person had some sort of procedure. Gastric bypass, gastic sleeve, Lapband, what have you. Which is totally fine but let's just all make an agreement to get those disclosures out in the open and not pretend it was simply eating more vegetables and jumping on a treadmill. It reminds me of this clip from Sinbad when he's talking about hair:

The part about the hair starts around 5:50. But the whole thing is funny so just relax and enjoy.

"Listen to me now, you can't be 300 lb in February and 175 in April..."