Told Mom I was going to make this shirt. She could have one, too, I said, since it affects her like it affects me; obviously, if I’m old enough to be sitting in a gymnasium for a freaking middle school orientation, then she, as my mother, must be ancient.

But for real. This kid isn’t old enough for middle school!

Right? And obviously this girl isn’t old enough to have a kid old enough to go to middle school…

…shut up.

(Oh, the memory; she plays cruel, cruel tricks.)

Anyway, it was a very nice middle school, if I have to send my kid off to the dark and horrible place that middle school holds in the recesses of my recollections. This one is a charter school, and it’s all alternative thinking, and no bells, and random dog in the hallway, and calling teachers by their first names. Sam would probably love it and thrive there, once he got past the initial bump of realizing that he would have to be more of his own boss. Then again, it’s a very competitive lottery, so I’m not getting my hopes up, and I’m trying to discourage him from counting his chickens, too. The orientation for his home middle school is tomorrow night, and maybe it won’t be so bad…maybe all those police calls for fighting are, y’know, exaggerated in the newspaper…(somebody hold me!)

So, say Sam doesn’t make it into the hippie-dippy middle school, and my little free spirit becomes a target for bullies at the home school. There are other options, too. Another charter school, from which I’m waiting to hear back. Maybe the Christian school, though it’s private and expensive. And maybe the home school wouldn’t be so bad, after all; some people are reassuring me that it’s not. Demons always seem to rear their heads more vividly in your rear-view mirror than they do through the windshield. He’ll probably be fine wherever he goes…probably.

Man, do I wish I was sending Gabe with him. Not wishing Gabe’s life into fast-forward, of course, but if ever there was a brother willing to step up and defend his brother against all comers, it’s that one, bless him. But they won’t be in school together again after this year – unless, of course, they get into one of the charter schools, which are sixth through twelfth grades. Another reason to keep fingers crossed!

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First, I didn’t really sleep well at all last night; my shoulder and knee inexplicably decided to start hurting more and more, which bothered me and kept me from getting any good rest. Then Gabe had a nightmare that brought him into our bed, which meant an end to even the little good sleep I was getting between tosses.

Sam woke up late and on the wrong side of the bed and threw a horrible tantrum about being hustled into the shower before eating his breakfast. While he thumped around and growled, Gabe began wringing his hands about how “I hate it when my family fights!” (Man, I just know he goes off to school and describes to his teachers about how we’re the most dysfunctional family this side of the after-school specials.) Then, while he was in the shower, I discovered a sheet of homework in his backpack that didn’t get remembered last night, so I had to rush him even more.

The homework threw Gabe into a tizzy, as he was convinced that now he’d be late for school and miss a planned field trip. “I’ll have to sit in the office all by myself until everybody gets back!” he wailed. “I want to get out and see my world!” Never mind that the bus wasn’t even going to come for another twenty minutes; he was heading toward a panic attack over it, running around in his coat and gloves as though everything was falling apart.

Eric was low on laundry, which was entirely my fault, I admit, but the added stress of that caused more tension. I especially need to catch up there, since he needs to pack for his trip out of the country in a couple of days. I worked a little on that, which ate into my run this morning – the run that might have ordinarily been my sanity-saving measure. On the other hand, the knee was still grouchy, so perhaps that was for the best.

The physical therapist said I looked pale and drawn; instead of exercises, we focused on pain relief today, and she suggested I take some time to recharge today. Ha.

Got home, pulled into the driveway, and a squirrel stared me down from the side of the neighbor’s house. I should interject that these neighbors are the ones with a great, gaping hole under their eave, which they know about, which they’ve addressed only when the squirrels living in the hole managed to nearly yank one of the boards completely off, and then only by resecuring that board with a smaller one across it. So the squirrels still live there, feasting on the seeds the neighbors put out “for the birds,” and they’ve become quite territorial. This one began chattering and hissing at me before I even opened my car door…and then it spun around and OH MY GRAVY it had one eye that was completely pale and blind-looking and was the CREEPIEST THING EVER. I sat there staring, door shut firmly, until the thing sauntered away on its own.

Then I took my sore shoulder and my drawn face inside, where I did more laundry, found another incomplete homework assignment of Sam’s, and then discovered that I’ve managed to accidentally upset, through careless words, somebody I don’t even really know, and even though I’ve apologized, you know? I just feel like giving up.

I don’t feel like Christmas shopping, baking, any of it. I just want to crawl back into my bed and pretend today never happened.

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Been some confusion about where, who, and how it’s happening this year; there was no news at all, and some folks said the original maintainers weren’t doing it (I messaged and heard nothing). I thought maybe Facebook, and then Kat asked me to join in on a standalone site, so there was that, and then other people started saying that other folks were doing it, and…well, somebody’s doing something, and since the WHOLE POINT is to write entries on your own site anyway, I figure I’ll just do that and just wait for somebody else to tell me where to put the links when it all gets decided.

Not that it matters to you. You obviously got here via other resources. So this is just all behind-the-scenes stuff that can safely be ignored, other than to say: this is what is irking me. A little. But not nearly as much as my annual irritation:

I know. I know. I’ve said it before, but every year the radio starts playing overly ornamented versions of the carol from various pop singers, and they’re all doing it wrong, and GAH. If Santa wasn’t staring down my chimney, that darn list of his in hand with pen poised at the ready, I’d be tempted to start throwing elbows.

But I’ll stay somewhat cheerful today, because my physical therapist was happy with me again. I’ve got lots more range of motion in my shoulder than when I started, and she gave me more strengthening exercises on top of the ones I have, and I feel optimistic that this whole thing will be a memory sooner rather than later. Of course, I did try swimming with a kickboard this morning, and that was a failure after only 400 yards, but I’ve got patience. No rush.

Also, cheerful because my kids are now happily enjoying me reading to them each night from the Wee Free Men books which…just YAY. So glad to have them liking good, fun books that don’t pander. Thrills my heart.

What’s making you happy tonight? If nothing in particular, try this:

Helium walks into a bar. The bartender says, “Sorry, we don’t serve noble gases.” Helium doesn’t react.

Ba-dump bump.

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Actually, at this point, most of the ordinary muscle soreness has abated. If my shoulder and knee weren’t aching from the falls, I would almost certainly be gearing up to (slowly) trot through either the 2-mile or 5K Thanksgiving Day runs I have around me. (Not the 10K yet, though.) But despite the fact that I think I am seeing improvement – I was able to use both hands to wash my hair today! – I’m still playing things cautiously. I’ve raced enough miles this year, and I don’t feel guilty for not doing two races inside one week when one of those races was fifty miles.

Sort of difficult to snap a picture of a slinged (slung?) arm.

The official race photographs are starting to be processed. While a few are really nice…

Heading up the first, long, hill.

Feeling goofy on the AT

I just don't even know.

…only one really captures my late-race feelings with crystal clarity:

Bear and grin it!

I recalled reading in The Hip Mama Survival Guide, back when I was pregnant with Sam, how Ariel Gore scrawled herself a note during labor: “NEVER DO THIS AGAIN.” That came back to me several times during the race, making me wish I had paper and pencil to do similarly, since, like her, I had a feeling that amnesia would kick in and make me forget just how bad this hurt. That photo does nicely. On the other hand, I can feel that the amnesia is sneaking in. Would I do it again? Well…

I need to seriously assess whether I can become a better trail runner, or whether I’m destined to forever be the Queen of Fall, no matter what I do. Would practice help? Ankle strengthening? Balance work? Improving form? Or is it a case of general clutziness that can’t be eradicated? That would at least determine what kinds of these races I’d consider in the future, if not totally dictate the yes or no. I love going long, so maybe I should just avoid crazy technical stuff if I want to do that? St. Pat’s was a blast, and I could totally see doing the twelve-hour!

Doesn’t really matter right now; I have time. I’m taking time away from distance for the coming year. Over the course of this training, I’ve noticed my speed ebb away as my endurance grew, and while the tradeoff seemed acceptable, it’s something I plan to fix in 2012. Lots of 5Ks and 10Ks, maybe rounding out the year with a very nice half-marathon, but meanwhile doing all the speedwork I’ve been ignoring for a year. Good news? Fewer 4AM Saturday morning runs. Bad news? I hate sucking wind. Good for the soul, though!

I can’t wait for these injuries to get better. My house is a wreck, but between the knee scolding me when I bend it too much and the shoulder yelling when I reach for things…well, the clutter will have to wait.

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So I mentioned I hurt my shoulder, right? And that I was going to the doctor when I got home? Well, yesterday morning, I called my doctor’s office right as they opened, chuckling over my joking prediction, made directly to my doctor, that I’d be seeing her when I got back. We thought it would be for my legs or something running-related, but it was true nevertheless. Point is, my doc knew what I was doing this weekend, and she at least sort of understood.

The receptionist and I joked around about why I was calling (“Fifty miles?!”), and she told me that my doctor was busy all day. I could either wait until Tuesday, or I could see another doctor, new to the practice. I went with the fast. BAD CHOICE. All I wanted was a check on my shoulder, mind you…

New doc’s assistant was mildly freaked from the get-go, as she took my history, but I didn’t think much about it. I mean, I recognize that ultrarunning isn’t what you’d call a common hobby around here, but since I was there because of a fall, not the running, I pressed on. She left, wide-eyed, and I waited, trying to keep the kids calm. (Thanksgiving Break! Such good timing! )

The doctor came in with eyes already pre-popped. For some reason, even the fact that Gabe was hiding behind the table (just for fun, because he’s Gabe) made her look more unnerved. I tried to tell her the basics of why I was there: shoulder hurt in fall; knee possibly hurt as well, but I couldn’t tell if it was IT band or from the rock that hit it. She couldn’t stop thinking about the race, though. When she asked what painkillers I’d taken, and I explained that I hadn’t had many because I wanted to let my irritated bladder settle down a bit after the single incident of bloody urine, she completely flipped out.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she said, actually holding my hands, “but I want you to go to the ER. You’ve exceeded what this clinic can do for you.”

“Really? I just wanted my shoulder checked…”

“Blood in the urine can be a sign of a very bad thing after exercise.”

“I do not have rhabdomyolysis. The blood went away after I drank water, I had no fever, and there’s no pain.”

“Painkillers can hide it.”

“I didn’t take them!”

“But the blood…”

“It went away! There’s no more blood!”

“I need you to go to the ER now, because you might need an IV.”

“Oh, for…can it wait until this afternoon? My kids have school conferences.”

Her eyes bugged more. “Can your husband take them?”

“I want to go to the conferences!”

“Do you promise me that you will go? I will call ahead and ask them to look for you.” Apparently, I looked like a danger to myself.

So I left, highly ticked off. I called back from the car, trying to double-check with my own doctor, but apparently new doc had already talked to her, and whatever she said had alarmed my doctor, too. I went to the conferences, and then we went to the ER, where – oh, glorious day! – I finally scored some medical professionals who understood. The nurse who came to me said, “I just ran my first half-marathon! They told me I had to take you, and when I saw your history, I understood why!” The doctor was a runner, too, and nobody gave me any crap; they were just interested in hearing the story.

Of course, I did not have rhabdo. I did have a mild bladder infection, though with my history of getting those asymptomatically, I’ll bet it was there pre-race. The x-rays of shoulder and knee showed no broken bones, so they said to ice and rest, and if things don’t improve in the next few days, I have the number of an ortho guy. Oh, and I got stronger NSAIDs.

What I didn’t get all day? Rest. So today, that’s what I’m doing, at last. And nobody better look at me like I’m nuts, either. Had enough of that to last.

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The car that hit us from behind took us all by surprise. I quickly rounded the turn and stopped at the curb, putting on my hazards and getting out of the van…just in time to see the guy hit the gas and take off. Gabe was howling: “I’m sorry, Mommy! I’m sorry!” (Somehow he drew a line between his tantrum and the crash.) Sam was flipping out, too, terrified that the van was damaged. I couldn’t see any visible damage, but I quickly grabbed the phone and called the cops.

While I was on the phone, another van pulled up next to me. The man driving said he’d seen the accident. “I tried to follow him and get his plate, but he turned off his lights and sped off.” He showed me the partial plate number he’d gotten, described the car, and then gave me his contact information. The police got there just after he left, took down everything, then gave me an accident card and said goodbye.

And then? I drove the two blocks home. All that, practically within sight of my own driveway…

Took the van to the garage today, since it was due for an oil change and tire service, anyway. They said everything looked fine, so, all things considered, could have been way worse. But I’d just like it to go on record that A) Eric went away on business, and B) calamity struck. The track record continues.

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The kids are being kids, which, well, duh. It’s the last couple of weeks of summer vacation, and they’re apparently all out of energy, except what they can expend in manic bursts as shouts at a computer screen or video game or each other. (Oh, yay, there they go again. “IT’S MY LEGO PIECE! GIVE IT BACK!” as though we don’t have giant plastic tubs overflowing with Legos. That one is special.) We did almost all the school supply shopping yesterday, with the exception of Sam’s oil pastels and erasable blue pens. Beyond the weird specificity of the latter, haven’t we all decided that erasable pens are pure evil by now? They smear, they blot, they don’t really erase anyway…and he already bought some black ones, also found on the list. Why do we need blue ones, too? What’s the bizarre importance, here?

Perhaps I’d mind less in a better mood. But you should have seen the epic tantrum Gabe threw when we couldn’t find them at our second stop yesterday, before I managed to make him understand that we didn’t need to go searching in another place that day. Of course, he was only expressing the frustration probably felt by every one of the parents packed shoulder-to-shoulder in the narrow school supply aisles, but he was doing it with panache. And volume. And what we’ll call “interpretive dance,” so as to give his six-year-old pride a little break. Heck, I was hot and tired, too, so I can understand how his breaking point got smashed to bits there.

My ribs are still fiercely aching, and even my face still hurts some, usually when I forget about it and go to rest my cheek in my hand or put on moisturizer a little too slap-dashedly. Swimming on Monday morning was a failure from the get-go (had to use a kickboard for the entire workout, since stroking with my arms was agonizing), and I called the doctor afterward, who prescribed me some pain pills with instructions to call her if things didn’t improve after a while. Funny thing is, she wants me to take them at bedtime, but the pain is the worse when I wake. That’s when I need help; the first hour after getting out of bed, I’m creeping around like an old lady who can barely stand up without wincing. By bedtime, it’s not so bad; maybe being upright for that long just inures me to the pain or something. Who knows?

Need a cheer-up.

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Ah, the faces of the heat wave. The manic, tired eyes and the humidity-wrecked hair…the sweat sheen that never dissipates…the pupils dilated from the sugar rush you get when you try to medicate with ice cream…the brain frazzled from the complaining and whines that inevitably follow said sugar crash…And we’re all snapping at each other for any and no reason. Lovely, right? This was the best of several pictures I tried to snap here before finally giving up and declaring it honest, if not flattering.

School got cancelled today, too. We’re in a nearby hotel, using Rewards Points Eric’s earned from all that travel that I sighed about earlier this year. (I’d say I’ll not sigh again in the future, but who am I kidding? ) It’s a luxury, but probably a necessity, too; Sam started barking with asthma coughs just stepping into the lobby this morning. This air is No Joke for people with breathing issues. Even I had trouble drawing breath during my very brief “run” this morning (which was meant to be in the hotel fitness room on a treadmill, before I found out we didn’t have one), so I have strong sympathy for anybody with involuntarily stressed systems.

Gabe’s having nightmares. Sam’s butting heads with me at every opportunity, and I’m butting back. Eric walked full-force into a door last night. It’s…it’s…

COUNTING BLESSINGS!
1. It’s only a handful of days a year, when you add them up.
2. Pistachio ice cream with almonds.
3. The kids are playing peacefully with cheap plastic army men, and nobody’s arguing!
4. Tomorrow’s a swim workout day, and I’m looking forward to that.
5. Post-sugar crash leading to lethargy now, which feels not unwelcome, all things considered.

Oh, swim workout: forgot to say. My plan for JFK is going to involve Saturday and Sunday long runs (well, long and recovery), sandwiched by cross-training days. Swimming will feature heavily, being so wonderfully non-impact. I’ve been continuing to go for about an hour a couple of times a week, and I think I’m really getting the hang of it now, with the Swimplan.com drills.

Lethargy hitting full-force now. Must lie down.

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After we left, we had another, longer talk. He was utterly appalled, thankfully, and I was very relieved that he hadn’t taken the time to help Gabe sound out the words on the locker. Thankfully, Gabe was uninterested in the actual vocabulary used; he was far more freaked by what had caught Sam’s eye first: the rest of the sentence, which made reference to hanging. (Can I just say, once more, that these are the milestones you really, really don’t want?!) I told them both that the sort of people who write those things on lockers are usually cowards, the sort of people who would probably drop the pen and run if anybody caught them at it.

I didn’t say that they wouldn’t have had much to worry about, anyway, being the “right” color of skin for this racist vandal. That lesson, the one about privilege, can wait.

I hope the graffiti is gone when the kids enter the locker room next time. Honestly, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m a little less comfortable sending them in there next time than I was today. The time they go in, the locker room is full of young kids, not grownups, but I don’t like it. Sadly, Sam’s just undeniably too old for me to take him in the women’s or the family locker room, even if Gabe wasn’t hitting the borders of that stage, himself. I felt fine about Sam being in there with Gabe before today. Now we’ve hit yet another of those bumps that make me want to whisk my family away to some safe, clean place…that doesn’t really exist, I know, but I can’t help wishing, and mourning yet another loss of innocence.

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Mind you, our long-standing policy is that if you try to eat your dinner, you can subsequently make something else for yourself (not doing it for you, though), but if you don’t at least try, the kitchen is closed. So there will be no snacking tonight for little gentlemen, which they both claim to accept.

Anyway, Eric’s almost recovered from the strep throat; he doesn’t feel great, but he didn’t feel bad enough to stay home from work today. Gabe had a bumpy day back at school, and Sam has had his rocky evening, so between all of us, it’s the sort of evening that begs for everybody to stick to his own corner as much as possible, avoiding interaction with everybody else.

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I have to do all my runs before dawn for a week, before Eric goes to work. Whine-whine-whine…

And tomorrow, that means having to do six miles in wind and rain and dark, and there’s no escaping it this time. But it’ll be nice and dry, though dark, for my long run this week. There’s that, anyway.

Sam came home from school with testosterone poisoning again. He’s got this sporadic attitude that I didn’t anticipate appearing for another few years, where everything anybody says to him is obviously the most idiotic thing ever spoken aloud by another human, or else it’s a horrid insult against his own intelligence (“I KNOW I have homework! You DON’T have to SAY it! MAAAAAAAAAN!”). It’s fun. Seems to appear most often right after school, which leads me to believe he’s mainly have trouble code-shifting when he goes from playground to my house, where we Will Not Be Having That. (But it also doesn’t help that Gabe’s forté is, often, insulting his brother’s intelligence…)

I need to get into the whole Spring Break attitude, I know, but it’s hard when Wisconsin is still firmly of a mind to stick with winter for a little while longer, at least.

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The scene: this morning, on the phone with our doctor’s office, trying to fix the situation.
The complication: the referral specialist can’t even find Gabe in the computer system, despite him being a regular patient. She’s obviously frustrated, and she takes out her frustration on me by becoming increasingly snappy and rude, hanging up on me before I can even thank her or say goodbye.
FUN LEVEL RATING: 3/10

The scene: driving to the gastro.
The complication: an ice storm hit last night, and everything is coated in a moderately thick layer of ice. The van’s side door wouldn’t even open, so Gabe had to climb in the driver’s door. Roads are awful, Gabe is making funny noises that might be related to motion sickness, and the van begins to make a strange, jack-hammery noise whenever I get to a certain speed. (In hindsight, I think it was from the corner of the bumper, which got torn away from repeated impacts with snow boulders after the last blizzard.) Couldn’t find the office; called on my cell and was told they were not in the building I thought they were. Circled around again and again; called back, got another receptionist, and learned that they were in that building. Drifted into the parking lot on gas fumes.
FUN LEVEL RATING: 7/10

The scene: the exam.
The complication: my son is a monkey on crack, refusing to cooperate or be quiet so I can hear the doctor talk. She’s suggesting procedure after procedure, and he’s hopping on the colored tiles on the floor, yelling, “IT’S LAVA, AND I CAN’T STEP ON LAVA!”
FUN LEVEL RATING: 3/10

The scene: gas station, on our way to radiologist and lab for tests
The complication: everything is covered in ice, including the pump and the card reader. It’s a pre-pay pump, too, so then I have to go inside, taking Gabe along so he can beg for every form of candy or beef jerky at eye level.
FUN LEVEL: 2/10

The scene: the lab.
The complication: Gabe realizes where we are and what’s about to happen. The lab tech sits in front of an impressively scary array of syringes and vials while doing the paperwork, allowing Gabe enough time to FREAK THE HECK OUT, run away down a corridor, and shout dire threats back at us should he be forced to comply with a blood draw. “I’m not even sick! I feel just fine! Sam should be here – make HIM get a blood test! I’m not doing it, and you can’t make me! I’ll beat you up!” In the end, it takes me (legs wrapped around his, one arm around his chest and unused arm, the other arm holding his head immobile) and two lab techs to get the blood, while he writhes, foams at the mouth, and screams loudly enough to thoroughly terrify the three children waiting their turns in the next room. He also manages to give me two bloody gouges in the back of my hand and some impressive bruises on my shins (before his boots went flying). We only manage one and a half vials before the lab tech completely freaks out and gives up, and then Gabe scrambles, Gollum-style, to a far corner, where he hunches in a ball and shrieks about how much he hates me. The techs wring their hands, looking close to tears (both very young women, probably second-guessing any plans they had for motherhood any time soon), and suggest sedation for future draws.
FUN LEVEL: 10/10

The scene: the radiologist.
The complication: Gabe’s still holding a grudge over the blood draw. Instead of sitting in the waiting room, he chooses to hide in the curtained prep room, muttering things I’m actually glad I can’t hear. A cheerful radiologist sees him and is startled, but luckily he finds it funny rather than alarming.
FUN LEVEL: 1/10

The scene: back home.
The complication: I’ve dropped Gabe off back at school, where I signed him in and walked him to class. Went to the gym, ran on a treadmill (sweat stinging my bloody gouges), then came home…to an answering machine message from the school, asking where Gabe is. Luckily, she had just missed my signing him in; when they checked, he was safely accounted for.
FUN LEVEL: 2/10

SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT: Eric’s in Mexico again. Twooooo biiiiiiiiiits!

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But after they stayed the night, enjoyed a lazy Saturday morning and then left, things deteriorated. I mean, they always deteriorate when loved ones have to leave, but…her baby didn’t want to go, and when Gabe tried to encourage him (and I do mean encourage! He wasn’t explosive then), the baby got mad and screamed at Gabe. As they were pulling out of the driveway, we turned and found Gabe sobbing his heart out, thinking he’d hurt the baby. Sam, meanwhile, had fled the emotional scene to nurse his sadness in private.

I had to throw Gabe into the car for a birthday party, around which neighborhood I planned to go for a run until pick-up time. And all was going well; my foot seems fine. (Interestingly, when I went to the multi-sport expo, a physical therapist pointed out that my foot looked fine, but my tibialis anterior muscle (the one along the outside of the shin bone) was very tight and a little swollen. He rubbed it, and bingo, pain in my foot. So…I’d been icing the wrong spot. ) Unfortunately, about 7 miles into the run, my groin, which had been a little achy, suddenly began to hurt. I stopped immediately, and now I’m really, really freaked and angry and agitated and sad. Things I’ve read have said that running on slippery surfaces can encourage you to tighten those muscles and lead to a groin pull, which would make perfect sense, but I just don’t want to deal with this.

Super Bowl today. There’s a party to which we were invited, but the kids weren’t, and…a sitter for Super Bowl Sunday? In Wisconsin? When the Packers are in the game? Yeah, sure. About as likely, it seems, as me getting a worry-free run in.

(Oh, and bonus misery: last night, just before bed, Gabe plummeted off the computer chair, whacking his face into the floor. Cue massive blood and hysteria. He seems fine now, but his teeth are a little sore. I, meanwhile, demonstrated my parental skills by almost fainting. Mom of the Year, that’s me.)

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Unfortunately, it all went downhill from there. Actually, the downward spiral started last night, when a nasty stomach thing hit – naturally – Gabe, who spent the night head down in the toilet, weeping for Eric.  I hit coffee with the running club only briefly after my run, heading home to fill my role as chosen puke-catcher while Eric went with Sam to his Scouts Pinewood Derby.

Only I misread the email. Derby is next week. Whoops. Eric was rightfully unamused.

So I spent the day babying Gabe, who is “that kind” of illness sufferer.  I myself prefer to be left alone to suffer, as usually does Sam, but not Gabe.  On the flip side, he is very appreciative. “Thank you for caring so much about me,” he actually said between sprints to the bathroom.

Tomorrow I sing in church, both services, and then I’m going to try to cram in a cross-training session before the Packers play the Bears and all hell breaks loose in this town. :rolleyes:  Actually, I plan to swim; I’ve been using a free trial at the “posh” gym in town, just to add variety, and I am sort of beginning to not grit my teeth to get through it…

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So I had the MRI yesterday, and it’s a darn good thing I do have the Power of the Intarwebz at my disposal, for the information I don’t have coming fast enough from the doctor’s office. (Eric says they outsource MRI reading to India now. I say that outsourcing is probably meant to expedite things as well as make them cheaper, so READ FASTER, y’all.) Other folks’ docs have prescribed at least three weeks rest, so here’s hoping for minimal sentencing, but it probably axes Lake Geneva, considering I’d need to gently ramp back up after the rest, not dive in where I left off. And that’s assuming that’s all the rest I need. Could get worse.

(Interestingly, the X-ray also showed a bone spur in my heel, which I had been assuming was a mild case of plantar fasciitis. It goes away with calf stretching, so I wasn’t concerned. I intend to remain unconcerned until somebody tells me I should be otherwise.)

Other folks’ docs also treated with things like ultrasound and air casting, which apparently hasten bone growth. I’ll ask about those, praying insurance would cover. I’m wrapping, icing, using ibuprofen and Epsom salt soaks, and walking around in my old boot in the meantime. Proactive: thy name is running-deprived Carrie.

Running-deprived Carrie is also a sad, sad, dejected and depressed Carrie, though. Don’t be fooled by the determination; I’m sitting around, for the most part, feeling about as sorry for myself as I have in a very long time. Epsom baths are great opportunities for moping, as it turns out.

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I get this call as I’m sitting here shivering in a snow-covered house – lake effect snow falling like crazy all over the gosh-darn place – wearing PJ pants and feeling thoroughly grumpy about it. I should still be riding the high from my morning run, which would have been so much fun in this snow! But no, I’m instead resting an ACE-wrapped foot and waiting for a call back from the doctor to let me know whether yesterday’s X-ray showed anything. (Not that it will; even if it is a stress fracture, X-rays don’t usually show anything until after the fracture begins to heal. Unfortunately, insurance companies prefer to start with cheaper tests before moving to more pricey ones, such as the bone scan that would reveal stress fractures, so an X-ray it was.) The NP who saw me doesn’t think it’s a fracture, at least, so we’re treating it as a foot sprain for now. Ice, wrap, ibuprofen, no running until Thursday. Boo!

Mind, if it turns out to be something requiring more time off, I haven’t signed up for Lake Geneva yet; it’s possible that I could do a later race. At least there’s that.

So, my foot’s injured, and there is scariness lurking in my neighborhood. Think it might be a good excuse to say, “To heck with caffeine cutbacks,” and have an extra cup? There are worse things you could do when you’re feeling sorry for yourself, I’d say.

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I thought it was March that was supposed to come in like a lion, not January.  I just hope it’s a month mix-up, not a portent for 2011 as a whole…

Literally, the day began quite leonine, with the traditional running club “run in the year” being done in suddenly below-freezing temps and WIND LIKE WHOA.  Rough stuff! But that’s all good and worth it.  After all, friends make things like gusting weather way more bearable.

What’s not so much fun is figurative lion stuff, or, to cut to the chase, fleeing a football-watching party with a shrieking, struggling, flailing kid in your arms who’s trying to rip off your face.  I hate being “those people” SO MUCH.  So then Gabe got tossed in bed immediately, amid alternating howls of anger and wails of contrition (he was honestly sorry, but he still couldn’t stem the tide), and we all slumped our shoulders in exhausted surrender.  You win, 2011, but only the first battle…

I feel challenged, somehow, to up my game.  Marathon training begins tomorrow.  My primary resolution for the year is to get back to the strength and core training routine I desperately need, but I also want to focus my running a little more clearly.  Hills, speed work…I’m coming for you.  It begins. 

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Not the best ending to a day, or the best start to “vacation week.”

Tomorrow’s another day, though. We’re going to have to regroup and refocus – better meals, more quiet time (the screen-free kind) interspersed between wrestling episodes or Nerf battles, and some planned time apart from each other for the boys, who tend to go all testosteroney when left together too long. (They forget that no matter who wins the fight du jour, the role of resident Alpha Dogs remains with the parental units.) Eric has to take his car to the shop tomorrow morning, so the enforcement of regular house rules will be back in my hands. I’m thinking it might be snow-man-making time; the snow’s a bit powdery for efficient sculpture, but that just means they’ll be out there longer, which will tire out any rebellious muscles. Then it’s to those books Santa made sure were present under the tree…

How many more days until regular routine can resume?

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GOOD: Our regular babysitter posted on Facebook that she had nothing to do today. I commented that if she was bored, I had a way for her to make some money, and she agreed to sit the boys this afternoon.

BAD: On the way home from picking her up, Gabe started feeling nauseated. We got home, and he kept moaning and whimpering, so instead of getting to go party with my husband and friends, I had to call him home (luckily, from only a few blocks away) to stay with Gabe so I could drive the sitter home.

UGLY: On the way home from that, my van died in the middle of Main Street. I panicked. We were a little late on getting the oil changed, and I knew – I KNEW – that the oil was so low that the engine was now completely fried. Then I restarted it, and it went fine. At Eric’s equally panicked suggestion, I drove, heart in throat, to the nearest oil change place, where they determined that, yes, my oil was low, but not low enough that it should have caused the engine to die. The engine didn’t even feel very warm to them. Good news, but who knows why it died, then?

MADDENING: Gabe is still having spells that make him run to the bathroom and perch on the toilet, metal bowl on his lap for insurance. I am exhausted, and there’s no way I can handle getting up all night long to deal with it, so I just messaged Eric to beg him to take the night shift. He’s grumpy for having had his party stepped on so thoroughly, but he’s willing, in exchange for staying out later than we probably had in mind initially.

FRUSTRATING: To console myself, I ate a kabocha squash filled with lentil soup. It was delicious, but now my stomach hurts.

UNRELATED, EXCEPT THAT I’M SORT OF IN A “SALT THE EARTH” PLACE: Some of the characters on “Avatar: The Last Airbender,” which the kids are currently watching are extraordinarily irritating. Gah.

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But then, a few minutes after Sam had come out to join us in shoveling the driveway, he blithely informed me that he’d locked the door to the house behind us. My phone and house keys were on the other side, unfortunately.

A neighbor helped us break in the back door, which wasn’t too difficult, in retrospect, but also in retrospect, it would have been better to call a locksmith and pay whatever they wanted. The doorframe was old, and fixing that wood will be complicated. Worse, our kicks broke the plaster on the wall around the doorframe. My stomach sank when I saw it, and I wanted to throw up.

But we went to the party anyway (why not, at that point?), and when I vented my frustration to one of Eric’s friends, the story carried to another friend, whose husband does home remodeling and repair, so they’re dropping by in an hour to take a look at the door. It, of course, needs repaired immediately; the exterior door still locks, but it doesn’t hold heat well at all…and it’s cold out there. Snow, you know.

Why does this crap always happen when Eric’s away on business?

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Sam went off to school today with a large green “P” scrawled on the back of this hand. He loathes having his skin written on, but (and therefore) I decided it was probably the most effective way to get him to remember to have his planner looked at by his teacher. I don’t really buy his story that he hasn’t had homework in three days again; after seeing the number of missing assignment at that teacher conference, and having verified again that he’s supposed to have homework most nights, I tend to be a bit skeptical of his claims. Part of me thinks I need to bite the bullet and let him discover the consequences on his own before he can begin to get in gear, but I don’t think I’m that brave yet. (Maybe it’s that I know deep down just how very like me he is, and I know how bad his procrastination efforts and results could get before he hits bottom. Been there, on the other side of the coin. Wasn’t fun, and I don’t think it would be more fun on the parent end.)

Snow “storm” coming tomorrow. Looks like most of it will be north and west of us, with only a few inches for us, but since it’ll be the first accumulation of the season, I expect traffic to be of the “OH SWEET MERCY WHAT IS THIS FALLING WHITE STUFF” variety. People: we live in Wisconsin. It’s only been about half a year since we did this. If I, the east coast transplant, can remember how to do it, so can you.

Okay, I need to find a way to get less cynical, stat.

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And then I decided to try Christmas shopping. Bah, humbug.

I dunno; I just can’t get into the mood for that this year. It doesn’t help that, as baffled as I am about what to get Eric, he’s apparently discovered a wonderful gift idea for me, and he’s positively crowing about it. Not that it’s a competition or anything, but…he’s totally going to “win Christmas” this year, and while I don’t mind losing, I do like it to be at least something other than a complete landslide. So there’s that, and then there’s the fact that honestly, my kids don’t need anything else. They’ve both raved about the idea of Pillow Pets (I’ll spare you the link to the website, complete with the obnoxious jingle), but when I finally decided to suck it up and find a couple yesterday, I found that they’re perfect examples of the worst, shoddiest crap around. I swear, from across the mall, I could see loose threads and offset eyes, and these were on the legitimate pillows, not even the knock-offs. No. I can’t bring myself to plunk down the cash for that.

So I came home and vented my frustration by clearing out the big particle board bookshelf in my living room and junking it. (Hey, trash-pickers: good condition five-shelf bookshelf; will be on my curb Friday morning. Enjoy!) We’re clearing out a lot, in the hopes of selling this house, and every load out of here makes me feel a little better. Maybe if I can get rid of enough stuff, I’ll finally be able to get into the holiday spirit.

Let’s just hope it happens before March.

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Had to go get a screaming-in-pain belly-aching Gabe from school, where his deafening cries had everyone in a tizzy.  (And stopped at the drugstore for a just-in-case antinausea prescription for him, where he terrified those folks, as well.) Got home…and he was fine to the point of giddy.

Went for my chocolate stash and found the boxes nibbled open and shredded by tiny little teeth.  Squick!

Banker friend called to talk to Eric; wouldn’t talk to me. I called Eric (in Mexico), who freaked and desperately tried to call the bank back, thinking something was wrong with our account.  Turns out it was a sales call; he wasn’t so much “evasive” with me as “didn’t recognize my name.”

Kids were naughty at bedtime. 

I didn’t sleep well in my big empty bed.

Here’s to a brand new day! (Hopefully with 100% fewer rodents and rodent-related discoveries.)

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Worried about Sam. He’s such a smart kid, but he’s battling the same stuff I did all through my early schooling years, and I remember just how much that stunk. (Also? Doesn’t stink less from the parent’s side of the equation. )

Worried about Gabe. Yet again, he’s got the pukes, complete with painful gut spasms (and bouts of fist waving, drama-laden shrieks of angst: “Why does this keep HAPPENING to MEEEEE?!”). This time, he sort of felt it coming on, so he didn’t even eat dinner before it all began. I had made an appointment for him to see a doctor tomorrow afternoon, after he had some very strange gastro stuff yesterday, but now I’m fretting about whether we just wait this out tonight or hit Urgent Care (at bedtime, with Sam in tow…). Between feeling bad, he’s positively normal, as he is now, so it’s easier to say, “We’ll wait,” but when he’s howling and wailing, I just don’t know.

Worried about the logistics of getting to this race-thing on Saturday. Not such a big deal, though; I handled the train by myself just fine today; it’s the idea of having the family along, so early in the morning, though they’ve all said it’s fine, and the kids are looking forward to it. They’ll all say something different that morning. I keep saying I’ll just go by myself, but then they scramble to tell me it’ll be good, so…

Worried about other stuff.

Worried about my dad, who’s mostly recovered from the kidney stuff, but whose back is now in need of treatment and who is adjusting to new, stricter dietary rules. Worried about my mom, doing so much to care for him.

I’m a ball of worries, and right now, I just want somebody to tell me it’s all going to be okay.

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Go ahead. Ask!

All day, since about 8:00 AM, there has been chaos in my kitchen.

Holes everywhere. Dust everywhere. An electrician, uttering such spine-tingling phrases as “Oh, my God,” “Whoa!” and “Man, there’s another one!” By the time he was “finished” (ooh, foreshadowing with punctuation), every last nerve in my body felt positively wrung out. And at the end, just before that, Sam and Gabe got home from school and the madness reached a peak with Gabe SCREECHING WILDLY at the injustice of being caught in a lie (he tried to accuse Sam of bugging him instead of the other way around) and Sam wailing about having forgotten his science book at school, and…DONE. I’m just DONE.

You know, until five minutes after the guy left, when Sam announced that we had no working light upstairs.

So now, with the guy back in our house, trying to puzzle it out (he seems truly mystified now), I think my mind has been truly broken, and I have no faith in its restoration this side of today.

Uploading fast now, before the computer decides to simply explode in front of me.

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“I’m sick! I feel the worst I’ve ever felt in my whole life! This is worse than when I used to take naps, and I threw up in my bed! Do you remember that?! THIS IS WORSE!”

Gabe was sick on and off yesterday, and I thought when we put him to bed that he’d probably be okay, because there simply seemed no way that there was anything possibly left inside him to eject. I WAS WRONG. So he wound up in bed with us, since his entire bed needed to be stripped and I didn’t have an extra mattress pad to replace the saturated one. That, in turn, meant that I stayed in a state of semi to full alert all night, every time he moved, wondering if this sigh would be the one that heralded another puke-fest. Thankfully, we made it through the night without incident, but now he’s screeching wildly at having to stay home from church. Pleasant. And my ear, which has been hurting mildly for mumble-mumble-length-of-time has now progressed to full on OUCH, so that makes the screeching doubly fun.

And Eric is covered in bug bites of an indeterminate nature that have swollen into scary raised spots, and who knows what that’s about, and I just want to bathe us all in Lysol and erect a bubble around everything. Sterility now, I cry.

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And so I went as far as I was allowed, about two hours away. And then I got married, and I went to grad school, which was seven hours away. I had a child, and my mom had a serious health scare, and I had my first inklings of doubt about whether being far away was all it was cracked up to be. It brought me good, and we began to really set down roots and establish ourselves as a family, but being even a firmly rooted tree can be disorienting when you realize that the other trees which might have sheltered and been sheltered by you in storms, had you gone a different path in life, are nowhere near. You make new connections, but there’s nothing quite like family.

And then we moved another seven hours away. Seven hours was far enough, if a bit of a haul by car; fourteen is very, very daunting. We moved for good reasons, ones that I cannot see having ignored or second-guessed, but…

Today I got a phone call from my mom, and my dad was in an ambulance being taken to the hospital. His blood pressure was scarily low; his blood sugars were insanely high. He was retching and in intense pain in his abdomen. As I type, he’s in the ER, undergoing tests as they try to solve the matter of what’s wrong with him, besides dehydration. My mom is beside him…alone. My brother and I are phone calls away, but too far to hop in the car and join her immediately.

The world is small these days, but it’s still a big, big place, particularly when you’re a long way away from where you want to be at the moment. I wish I could be holding Dad’s hand, hugging my mom, talking to the doctors myself and understanding what they’re saying with my own ears. I wish I could bring my mom a drink, get my dad whatever will bring him comfort. I wish my brother was there with us, so that we could all support each other – four firmly rooted trees, protecting each other from the buffeting winds.

When Eric’s dad had heart surgery a while back, he was lucky to be able to fly down to be with him. We weren’t so lucky to be able to fly down quickly when he got married this month, which felt wrong in countless ways. Wisconsin has become our home, though it took a long time for it to be that way (seven years, the same amount of time it took for Toledo to become “home” before this), but the thing it lacks is Our People.

I haven’t felt this alone here in years.

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Eric’s on his way to Mexico. I’d rather not know about that, either. Mexico is not a nice place to be these days, at least according to news reports, and it’s scary to send one’s spouse to places that require armed escorts as a matter of daily business.

Yesterday wasn’t fun. I had a bunch of mundane, unpleasant tasks to do about the house, and then in the course of peeling a butternut squash for my dinner (while trying hard to ignore the scent of beer-braised short ribs in the crockpot; honestly, vegetarian cooking is delicious, but it just doesn’t have the same olfactory dazzle that slow-cooking meat does, in my opinion), I managed to also peel the tip of my ring finger. Cue bleeding and pain. Cue me, in a brilliant show of calm mind and stalwart will, nearly losing consciousness and winding up flat on my back on the floor while the room spun and turned grey. On the bright side, my sons proved that in situations such as this, they are quite capable of…shooting me with a potato gun and putting me on the phone with a political pollster who happened to call at that moment. (“Mom, it’s Shawn.” “Shawn who?” “I don’t know…”)

So that was delightful.

Sixty-six days until Haunted Hustle. I did 9 miles this morning that would have been more pleasant, probably, without all the wine that didn’t quite save last evening for me, but at least it wasn’t hot. I only looked a little like my bladder had failed by the time I finished.

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Sam ate…cornbread. Apparently, the bean soup wasn’t what he thought it would be. Gabe wouldn’t eat it, either. Surprisingly, he was willing to eat a chard stem. Only one, but, hey, it’s the small things. Sam wouldn’t even touch them with his utensil.

But we didn’t go out to eat. Yay?

I think I’ll just enjoy this glass of red zinfandel, here – purchased before the budget went into effect, naturally.

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And found the dining room window bent in half, ripped from its frame.

Somebody, while we were gone, came into our house and took away a collection of portable electronics. Our iPods, the boys’ handheld video game players (including the plastic box of cartridges), two laptops, some older PDAs. They attempted to but didn’t take the main computer, probably because it was large and connected to such a mess of cables. They didn’t take the kids’ game consoles, probably because they’re old and not worth much, but they did yank them out of the entertainment center and strew them across the floor in a hasty search. Interestingly, they didn’t touch my camera or my pearl necklace, both of which were visible on the desk, next to the iPods that they were so careful to pack up with all their necessary cables and chargers. They didn’t take any medications. The search appears to have extended upstairs into our bedrooms (the drawers were yanked out and rifled; the closets were tossed), but nothing was taken from there.

It was all just stuff. It was all replaceable. What shakes me to my core is this: somebody came into my house. They probably knew my routine, knew that I take the boys to school in the morning and am gone for at least that time. But what they couldn’t have known was that Eric would be home. The scene that plays through my head is one where Eric takes the boys to school, I stay home and wait for him, and I hear the window being broken while I’m alone. Or I take the boys by myself, Eric stays home, and I come home to find something has happened to him. Yes, they probably would have run if they’d been caught…but nobody can be sure of that. An intruder, in a panic, could choose fight over flight, and those are the images I can’t stop seeing.

The kids are shaken; they keep panicking over misplaced objects, leaping to the conclusion that they’ve been stolen. Sam keeps thinking they’ll come back again. I’m trying to stay calm on the outside when the kids are watching me, but when they’re not around, I’m just trying not to break down.

Whoever did this, whoever you are, I hope you’re pleased with yourself. (And enjoy trying to sell that one particular laptop. Maybe you’ll get some quick cash from somebody in need of a large doorstop.)

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A few weeks ago, while playing outside at a wedding reception, Gabe decided it would be a grand idea to pitch rocks into the air. One came down directly onto the car of the wedding photographer. He had two different estimates done for the repair work. $$$

Eric had some medical testing done about a week ago. $$$
I’m having physical therapy. $$$

Sam’s birthday party is this weekend. $$$

In about two weeks, we’re going to Devil’s Lake for my race. $$$

If anybody has any extra seedlings for a backyard money tree, keep me in mind; I’m on the hunt.

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A rare appearance by him. I have so many more videos and pictures of Gabe lately, it seems, because Gabe is always all over me, yelling, “TAKE MY PICTURE!” or “MAKE A VIDEO OF ME!” Sam is more reticent. It’s nice when I can get him to share. He is just getting so big lately! He’s past my shoulder now, which is simply unacceptable. Of course, I’m short, and we’re still holding out hope he inherited taller genes. Really, though, would it be too much to ask for nature to allow me to grow taller while he does? (Sure would make those kitchen cabinets a little less annoying. Also, capri pants. I’d love to not look as though I just shrunk my trousers.)

So now I have a fourth-grader (despite Sam’s reluctance) and a kindergartner. And they’re both out playing in the neighborhood right now, which is the most bizarre thing ever, because how can I have kids that just…go, and I’m left saying, “Don’t run off and leave your little brother behind!” (I know he won’t, and even if he would, I would quickly HEAR ABOUT IT from Little Mister Indignant.) Shouldn’t somebody be sitting in my lap? Shouldn’t somebody be in that bouncy chair over in the corner…now, wait, what happened to the bouncy chair? I could swear it was here and occupied, just last night…

Everybody’s having babies, too, which goal I want to clarify quickly is not shared by us. No more babies; not even to try for a redhead (the question I get asked more often than the “trying for a girl” one). Nobody appears to be missing from our family, which is sort of the litmus test we use for such things. Still, it feels as though, with that decision made, we’ve officially moved on to the next stage of things, while many of my friends are opting for another go-around on the first ride. Honestly, this new stage is scary in its own right. New doors open, and all the things that were so very, very important in recent memory are fading. A brand new baby products store just opened downtown, and it looks awesome, but…*sigh* Somebody buy something nice for me, okay? (Well, not for me, you know. In my stead. As I would have liked to, had I a current need for a fleece diaper cover or teeny little twee moccasins.)

Caveat: the first person to try to “console” me, evil glint in his or her eye, with all the fun I’ll have shopping for aftershave, jockstraps, or prom boutonnieres gets it between the eyes.

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…Marathon in a little over a week. The weather, at this point, looks to be sunny, but with a high of seventy. That’s a little warm for my comfort zone. Oh, well; it’ll be warmer in July, when I’m running further and harder…

…Sump pump running. Please keep running, little pump.

…I’ve only got two more MOPS meetings (one official, one a “graduation breakfast”) before I’m aged out. What am I going to do without my regular infusion of adult contact next year? I’ve tried the PTA thing, and it doesn’t seem to be a fit for me.

I think I’m just grumpy from being tired, and I’m tired because my ear infection keeps me from getting a good night’s sleep. I’ve had an ear that’s been bugging me for a while, but on Monday, it finally pushed me to the point where I went to the doctor because it hurt so much. Well, I got ear drops for it, but they have a primary side effect of “ear pain,” and, yup, I got that side effect. The infection seems to be improving, but whenever something stirs me awake in the night (last night it was thunder), I become aware of the pulsing, dull ache, and it’s hard to get back to sleep after that. I don’t want to have to keep taking ibuprofen to deal with it, so I’m trying to tough it out…but I’m feeling pretty exhausted now. Yuck. At least it’s not as bad as it was, and I can tell the end is in sight for both drops and infection. In the meantime, I’m pretty glad it’s a step-back week and I don’t have to run so much…but I wish the weather was doing a better job of helping me stay upright and conscious. Thunderclouds and rain showers just make me want to go back to bed, even when I’m feeling 100%.

Somebody tell me something silly, something that’ll restore my bounciness?

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I think all that is fairly typical, isn’t it? Barring chemical imbalances and issues of the psyche, the gently swaying pendulum is part and parcel of the human condition.

But this is why I can’t stand mornings where people around me start pushing hard, right off the bat. Mornings are typically even for me: wake feeling neutral, and the initial experiences of the day – frequently a run, or else breakfast with Eric – are key in deciding the day. And then…I have to wake Sam. This is often where things go downhill, as today. He needed a shower. He didn’t want a shower. Cue drama. Now, Sam’s like me, in that he swings back quickly and easily, so by the time his shower was done, he was in a grand mood! (Oh, hey there, Red Licorice shower gel!) But his personal olfactory cure, and the subsequent and unprompted apologies for his rudeness, aren’t good enough to pull me back to center quite yet.

It’s not Sam, though. It’s that I didn’t begin at neutral today. I’ve been operating from the sad end of the arc since last night, when Eric told me he’d be going away again soon, for another week. For some reason, it whammed me hard, and even a shared sushi roll didn’t save me after that. I initially blamed my upset on the fact that his trip will overlap a 22-mile run of mine, which is definitely problematic, but it’s a cop-out. It’s easy to let myself get angry about the details; it keeps me from focusing on the bigger picture, which is how much it hurts when he’s gone.

Better to roll my eyes and complain about reshuffling a running schedule. Calendars are pragmatic things.

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I use an old phone, as such things are determined. It’s a Palm Centro, and it does everything of which I require it: not much. I don’t surf the web on it, and my motto is that if I can’t wait until reaching a real computer to check my email, then I have an Email Problem. I don’t even text on the phone. What I want is a cross between an ordinary telephone and a file-handling PDA – specifically, one that can talk nicely with my Mac computer and automatically sync up with my calendar and contacts over a USB connection. That’s it. (Oh, and Sudoku. Shaddup.)

So when I went into the Sprint store to see about getting a new battery, I was most displeased to learn:
A) They don’t have a battery for my (positively antique, quite discontinued) phone;
B) I could buy one at the battery store…for about $50;
C) It’d be cheaper just to upgrade my phone, which I’m eligible to do, but…
D) All the phones to which I could upgrade that would do what I want them to do would require having a data plan.

I don’t want a data plan. Honestly, the only reason we’re on Sprint right now is that Dad went out and got Sprint phones for me and my brother so that he could call his kids and grandkids whenever he wanted to. I could switch off to another carrier, but then Dad would have to pay more to call us when he wants to, which he naturally would prefer not to do. Further complicating things, Eric’s work might choose to provide him with a phone in the coming days, but it won’t be Sprint. Switch me to his carrier? Get my own plan?

The guy at the Sprint store was all about trying to sell me on the idea of switching our family’s plan to a data plan, even though I’m the only one with a phone that would use/require it and even I don’t want it. Only forty more dollars a month! A true bargain! Ugh. I don’t think my level of “enthusiasm” was what he wanted, for some reason.

I just want my own phone to keep working. $50 for a new battery is looking pretty keen compared to the other options, which seems sad. Maybe some folks walk into the phone store and go all “Ooh, sparkly!” but that’s not where I’m at right now.

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(This is what I get for trying to switch up yoga routines. My dreams are just as vivid, but sometimes a bit less relaxing.)

Well, today is a snow day for the kids. I am completely mystified about that, since there’s really not that much accumulation out there; I know I’ve sent Sam to school in far worse conditions before. I can only think of two reasons for the cancellation:
1) The snowfall is supposed to increase dramatically around noon, and it’s easier to cancel for the day than to send them home early, or
2) Have we even had any snow days yet this year? Maybe those in charge of it were getting antsy for one.

Whatever the reason, I thought it would only put a slight crimp in my routine to have Sam home (Gabe is always home on Tuesdays) – that I could just take both kids with me to the gym instead of one. Sadly, other gym-going folks who had signed their kids up for the kid care room before today decided that snow was a good reason to stay home, and when they all called to cancel, the worker decided not to come in this morning. Boo, hiss! I got them signed up for the afternoon, but I hate running so late. Plus, now I get to listen to them shriek at each other all morning long, whereas if we’d done the gym, by the time we did that and ate lunch, it would have been Quiet Time for Gabe, and things would have been much more peaceful.

Whine, whine, whine. And, according to Sam, “Three minutes until lunch time!” Good to know I’m on a shot clock.

Pffft. It is so not snowing hard enough to cancel school. (It is, on the other hand, snowing quite sufficiently to allow me an extra cup of coffee or two. Maintaining internal core temperature is very important, don’tcha know?)

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Meh. I’m feeling sort of toxic at the moment. I need to turn it around, but I haven’t decided on the best or most effective way to do that yet. Things that aren’t working:

• Load after load of laundry
• Sam’s Club bulk coffee
• “Mommy, what’s for dinner? I’m not eating that!“
• Frozen Wisconsin

Hmph.

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Today is one of those days that looks like it would steamroll right over me, given half the chance, and would neither notice or care. Best I can hope for is to dodge out of its way. But I did get new running shoes yesterday, and the guy even gave me a “health club discount.” In retrospect, perhaps that was the stroke of luck that tipped the scales the other way for today. Balance in all things?

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- Gabe woke up with a nightmare this morning. I guess I must have been a little harsh with my scolding last night before bed, since he dreamed (though he didn’t want to tell me; he told me it was “too creepy” and might give me a nightmare) that I was trying to get rid of Sam because he messed up my bed.

- He’s been humoring me today when he plays on Eric’s DS, at which I am utter crap, and he knows it; he brings it to me when it involves reading, then swiftly takes it away because “this is a hard part.”

- Sam brought home math homework, corrected by his teacher, with errors to be fixed. Um, I may have gone over this piece of homework after he finished it the first time.

- I’m the “best cook in the world!” as declared by both my boys! I need to make more meals like this one! Huzzah! I…boiled spaghetti and put some jarred sauce on it. Woo?

Not to mention that I completely spaced on today being Epiphany, and that we had presents that were to have been delivered by the three wise men this morning. Oops. Good thing that neither boy reads calendars or will know the difference if those three guys are a day late in arriving. Roads were icier than their camels are used to traveling. That’s my story, anyway.

I’ve always enjoyed reading blogs and journals that are written with sometimes brutal honesty, not whitewashing the authors foibles and failures. That doesn’t mean I don’t blush as I share, though. Somebody, please, join me at the confessional! Tell me that I’m not the only one that life decided to take down a few pegs today! I’d pour myself a glass of wine, but something tells me it might end up all over the floor instead of in my glass.

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Christmas shopping “fun”!
Younger son out of control.
Older? Not better!

When do they outgrow
the tantrums? The whining that
makes my brain shatter?

And why do they choose
this “jolly,” crowded season
to really push things?

“Santa is watching…”
They don’t give a flying crap.
I dream dreams of coal.

I could be that mom,
the one who cancels Christmas.
Don’t you push me, kid.

Ho, ho, humbug, boys.
Haven’t bought you a thing yet.
Thinking socks and combs.

You should feel darn glad
you have another two weeks
to change my tired mind.

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I’m sort of proud, really; we managed to finish a book report and have both kids ready with their respective memorizations, right on time. No eleventh-hour “I can’t find my shoe!” freakouts, even!

But then we were made late to church by the roads, which required extra caution. We didn’t wind up getting anything close to the Snowpocalypse the weather folk predicted, but we got icy slush and rain (which really made today’s seven-miler entertaining!), and now temperatures are dropping sharply and freezing every bit of that moisture. Slip-sliding away…

I’ve hated winter driving ever since I flipped and totaled my little hatchback in college, heading home from Eric’s house over Christmas break. Black ice caught me by surprise that day, and it had me terrified for ages. I don’t get cold chills when I have to drive in snow anymore, but I wouldn’t call myself relaxed, either – and it doesn’t help when two little boys are yammering about the Ten Commandments from behind me. “At least my mind will have been on my Maker if I have to go meet him now,” I decided as I tried to navigate the sharp turn that would either take me to the church or send me sailing down the hill into Lake Michigan. (As I’m typing this now, I obviously am neither underwater or in the arms of God, but…well, it’s going to be a long winter.)

Wednesdays are busy, and this one is finally coming to a close. I’m in bed with the netbook writing this, trying to stay awake so I can catch the finale of Top Chef with Eric, and then I’ll draw a happy double-bar on the day. Good night!

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I did this when I was a new runner, too, and when I jumped into marathon training. Now that I’m looking at my first ultra, it seemed logical to subscribe to a few listservs for ultrarunners, just to lurk, listen, and learn.

Well, it seems more normal all the time, listening to these people chat. Fifty kilometers, in fact, is starting to seem much more manageable each day, and I haven’t even started training for it. There’s just been one hitch about that, though, and it’s become my first resolution regarding this whole adventure. Confidence is a good thing and something I want to foster, of course, but…well, my first personal goal has become not to become a jerk. Because…wow.

An “ultramarathon” is technically a race of any distance beyond 26.2 miles. If someone organized a 27-mile race, it would qualify. In the more traditional sense, though, the shortest usual ultra is considered to be a 50K, about 31 miles, which is what I plan to run in July. I’m suffering no delusions in comparing it to a fifty or hundred-miler, but when I hear folks start saying things like, “A REAL ultra starts at fifty miles!” I sort of wonder whether they’re compensating for lack of length in other areas of their lives. This sort of “my race is better than yours” isn’t limited to ultrarunning; for some reason, a certain segment of people feel like their achievements are diminished when the field gets more populated. (Poor babies; somebody else got a medal, too!) It’s embarrassing – not because of a slower group of runners, but because of overinflated egos that also tend to be more vocal than they ought to be.

I got even more incensed when somebody on one of the ultra listservs wrote in asking about a support crew for an upcoming fifty-mile race, and another, more seasoned, runner had the gall to reply to the tune of, “A crew for a fifty-miler? What a concept…” Well, hurray for you! You sure showed that new runner! A real runner wouldn’t think of needing assistance for anything less than a hundred miles! A fifty-mile race shouldn’t require more than a fanny pack and a visor!

Again, confidence is great. I can remember when I was a new runner, barely able to get down the block without my heart feeling about to pulse right through my chest, and now I can’t imagine not being able to step out my door and go for at least an hour without much effort. A “short run” for me is four or five miles; I threw that Thanksgiving 5K in on top of my regular training without needing to compensate in any way. But here’s the thing: my confidence in my own abilities doesn’t require any sort of judgment of anybody else’s. Some folks are fast, and some are slow. I was slow, and now I’m faster, but I’m still just an age-grouper and will be lucky to stay there. It doesn’t stop me from cheering on slower or newer runners any more than it keeps me from rooting for Paula Radcliffe or Usain Bolt. Resentment isn’t in it. It doesn’t belong in it at all.

If I ever get so cocky as to mock another runner’s speed or skill, I hope somebody takes away my running shoes.

Hello, Holidailies.

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Why am I doing this again?

Gabe had a checkup today. The doctor pronounced him well. Go, Gabe. Hard to become a successful evil overlord without your health (Davros notwithstanding).

It’s Tuesday, which means Eric’s out late with his Scrabble gang. That leaves the kids’ Bible Blast studying for me tonight, which I’ve taken to doing snuggled up in bed with them on either side of me. It would work better if Gabe was a snuggler when less than 75% sleepy, at which point he’d be no good for studying, anyway. Actually, I’m not sure there exists a point at which he’s “good” for studying. I am so not looking forward to his school years if things stay like they are…

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Good thing. I would have been there as it was happening.

You know, what with things like that, and the stabbing of three weeks ago that happened in my neighborhood (domestic, but still), and the drive-by shooting last week that was only a few blocks from Eric’s work…it all makes you feel pretty depressed after a while, and a not a little scared.

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And to top it off, we got backed into a corner with other assignments and obligations, and now we’re probably going to have to skip Scouts tonight in order to reach the next checkpoint along the path of this project (a second “sloppy copy,” complete with illustrations, due tomorrow). So much to do, and so little time to do it all…isn’t that the story of life, though?

But this afternoon, Sam’s at school, and it’s a rainy day that’s inspired Gabe to do quiet things around the house. I’ve baked pumpkin, not for any particular reason except that I had a can of pumpkin and a need to smell something comforting. It didn’t let me down. Just imagine that I’ve put a picture here; it doesn’t photograph well, but you can’t take a photo of a smell, anyway, or of a flavor.

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Last night, I was already asleep when Eric came in, and he woke me to tell me that I shouldn’t run in a particular area. “Between [x] and [x] streets, and [y] and [y] streets,” he said, outlining the square of the area to be avoided. “There’s been a surge of violent crimes there.”

I have trouble with maps and directions, so in my foggy, barely awake brain, I didn’t have much of a chance at being able to visualize the area he was describing. I faded back into sleep, trying unsuccessfully to figure out where I shouldn’t run (I managed to erroneously include the entire west side of my neighborhood in my visualizations) and to picture what he might have meant by “violent crimes.” Muggings? Gangs? Cults? The imagination is quite fertile in the half-dreaming state.

When I woke, I clarified with him what he meant on both counts, and, luckily, the area he wanted me to avoid wasn’t an area I typically run, anyway, though it’s good to know and be sure to keep it that way. Then we had a discussion about how the whole town seems to be sliding a little further into scary territory as of late, probably as a result of economic woes. After having the warning sent to him about the trouble zone, Eric had further talks with other folks, several of whom had first or second-hand knowledge of scary crimes happening nearby. It’s anecdotal, but still unpleasant. (Interestingly, it looks as it statistics are actually disputing that feeling, at least for our bigger brother to the north. Hmmm.)

It’s a bizarre thing, but I now actually feel much safer on my secluded trails than I do running through my own town. The criminals looking to mug folks aren’t trying their luck on pre-dawn bike paths; they’re doing it in neighborhoods – even the nice ones.

I won’t be driven indoors to a treadmill, but it’s scary out there. It makes me glad that I’m also fairly unpredictable with my running locations; nobody watching me would have any idea how to lie in wait for me, since even I rarely know where I’ll be running on any given morning before I wake up. I’ll be more diligent about leaving a map of at least my general direction up on the computer when I leave the house, and my schedule there already lists how far I’m planning to run. I’m doing all the right things; it’s the stupid world that’s not.

I ought to take boxing lessons…or else learn to run a whole, whole lot faster.

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Filling in the details, we did breakfast here at the hotel, which was great for everybody else but underwhelming for me. Seriously, no bagels? Not even a packet of instant oatmeal? I’m planning on getting something tomorrow at a grocery to tide me through for the rest of the week, at least in cooperation with the fruit and coffee the hotel provides. Then we went to the hotel waterpark, which was great for all except Gabe, though that was predictable; he still hates all things watery.

After enjoying/tolerating that for a bit, we went back to the room, dressed, and headed for Bay Beach Amusement Park, which was fantastic. Seriously, even Gabe loved it – my kid who normally is terrified of carousel rides! With tickets costing next to nothing, we were able to let the kids ride everything they wanted for a grand total of five dollars. Woo! And there was even a playground, where they ran and cavorted to their hearts’ content. I think we’ll go back later on, perhaps with a picnic lunch in tow.

Then we went to Cooks Corner. I think we all expected more from that, but Eric really enjoyed it, finding a few things he’s been seeking for a while now. The kids, unfortunately, were on a downward behavior spiral, despite the store’s play area. By the time we got to dinner at Titletown Brewing Co. (where I had the cranberry tukey melt: nice and soft, and on zucchini bread!), they were hanging on by a thread, and when I had to leave the table to visit the restroom, all hell apparently broke loose in my absence. Mostly Gabe, it seems; when we got back to the hotel, Eric took Sam to the pool again, while I sat back and watched Gabe unravel until he was finally asleep.

I feel exhausted just thinking about starting over tomorrow. Thank God, the day is due to start with a run.

In other news, Sam has a new, odd “tic.” He’s coughing and clearing his throat at night and in the morning in bed – allergies, I think – and after each cough, he mutters, “Okay…” I asked him not to, and he said, “I’m just testing my voice out,” and he won’t stop. He does it more quietly, but…argh! Hopefully, it won’t grow beyond those brief periods.

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First it was the speaker, which gradually became taciturn. At first, I thought it was just me, that either I’d managed to lower the volume or that my ears were just playing tricks. No, it was the Garmin, losing its voice until it made no noise at all. Then there was a dead line across the screen. Some folks suggested resetting the device, which I’d had to do in the past when it temporarily locked up on me, but that made no difference this time. The final straw, now, is that it is refusing to cooperate with the charging/communication cradle. When docked, it now likes to power itself on, mysteriously and when I’m not looking, so that when I come to put it on, the battery charge is lowered significantly. Even when it’s not powering on, the connection between the device and the base seems spotty; the “Battery charging” message will flash on for a moment before disappearing and leaving a blank screen. As for getting it to “talk” to the training software…this morning, it took me twenty minutes of fiddling with it, turning it on and off and resettling it in the cradle, to get it to send the post-run data.

Enough.

But here’s the catch. The folks at Garmin are a lovely bunch and so very helpful; the guy to whom I spoke on the phone today was very sympathetic to my problem, and he even offered to take care of expedited shipping costs of a replacement unit for me, which I didn’t expect. But (and I realize how whiny this sounds) the switch-off between me sending mine in and the refurb getting here will be about a week to ten days. That’s a bunch of running that I’ll have to do without GPS, and…well, I’m a little bummed about that. I’d already have taken the Garmin to the post office this afternoon (I talked to the phone rep a few hours ago), but I have a fourteen-miler tomorrow morning, and I really don’t want to have to map out and remember fourteen miles worth of running. So tomorrow, maybe, and that will leave me with perhaps six or seven runs that will require some other method.

I’ll point out that while I do have particular areas that I frequently run and whose distance is familiar to me, we’ll be spending much of the next week on vacation. I really wanted to run in Green Bay, too. If push came to shove, I could just estimate the distance by time, since I know my “happy pace” is about an 8.5-minute mile right now. It’s a step-back week, so the “time logged in trainers” is probably more important than the miles covered, right?

I’m trying to talk myself into feeling better about it, I guess. It’s better than the other method of calling myself nasty names for being spoiled and pouting about something so stupid.

Unrelated, I got some Chocolate Cherry tomatoes at the farmers’ market this morning. I might go munch a couple now to console myself a little more.

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Soup, then.

Confession: I can’t ever just add the amount of garlic that a recipe recommends. If it says “two cloves,” you can bet there’s at least three or four in there. You ever come to my house to eat, and I’m cooking, and you don’t like garlic? Better let me know ahead of time.

In other news, it was all rainy this morning, and I liked it, because it suited my mood at the moment: tired, slow, a little pensive. Now the sun’s out, and the kids are celebrating, because that suits their moods, which makes me feel all irritated. Bring back my clouds! I want the sound of raindrops hitting the porch and roof! I want a cool, damp breeze blowing in my screen, wafting the smells of onion and garlic around me. I think…I want fall.

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But even on mornings like this one, when the boundary was clear and necessary (yes, you must brush your teeth), and I kept myself outwardly cool and firm without sinking, and the incident ended, after some mild protraction, with unprompted apologies and hugs from him…even on mornings like this, a small and ugly part of me is grumpy for, of all things, not taking the last word. Not “winning.” It’s idiotic, but even though the desired goal was achieved, that ugly part of me wants payback for the rolled eyes, the hurled insults, and every other attempt to get around me or make me feel bad for having dared to impose the rule. Mind you, he has been disciplined; he won’t be going out with his friend this afternoon to play. To this, he responded with a resigned, “I know.” It’s exactly the sort of reaction you want, ideally. No extra arguing or pleas for mitigation. He accepts that he was wrong and earned what he got.

I’m drinking coffee to drown out the ugly voice that, I guess, wanted more of a reaction. How bad is that? Don’t answer that. I think it’s just my hurt feelings talking. You can only be called “meanest mom ever!” so many times before all the subsequent apologies stop meaning all that much. (And yes, we’ve told him that. But he’s eight, and self-control is still a work in progress.) I’m human, and sometimes that’s a pretty big hurdle.

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I did try to wake him, since I know he’s going to be irate at having missed playground, but all I got was a fluttering of eyelashes and a muttered “Sleeeeep…” Hopefully, he’ll feel a little more friendly upon awakening; I’m getting really sick of the fraternal brawling taking place every time I turn my back for a moment (and sometimes in plain sight, all care about consequences tossed aside).

Sam might be overtired, too, but he’s far more stubborn about any efforts to assist in those lines. If he doesn’t want to sleep, he won’t, no matter what I try. I think, too, he’s got some hormonal stuff going on, because he’s going back to the whole “I’m so stupid, and I hate myself” pendulum swings that we had a while ago. Man, I hoped we were done with that! Nothing seemed to help last time; he just stopped the refrain one day. Hate when history repeats itself like this.

And here’s me, the “fixer” with no good solutions. Makes for a cranky Carrie, it does.

Oh, crap; Gabe just woke up, and, well…

Good times.

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So, how has your morning gone?

I was grumpy and tired from when I woke, to the point where, for the first time in a very long time, I had to mentally muscle myself into my running shoes and out the door. I felt okay after that, or at least a little better, but just as I switched off the hand blender after whirring my spinach into my oat bran…A MOUSE DARTED FROM UNDER THE STOVE, RIGHT BY MY FEET. It ran across the kitchen floor, brazen as anything, ducking under the kitchen table and disappearing. I screamed at the top of my lungs, which miraculously did not wake the kids, but which amused Eric to no end.

I’ve swept meticulously now, and I see no more signs of any rodent life than I had before – no tracks, no poop, no chewed bags. If he’s here, he’s very sneaky. Don’t tell my kids, but I’ll be setting out traps later today, as soon as I can get them. Sam would have a complete fit if he knew, and he probably wouldn’t forgive me for weeks. Even Gabe, unrepentant stomper of ants, would be irate over the slaying of something small and furry.

But, as I told him a moment ago when he asked curiously if I was afraid of mice, I don’t mind them in their proper place: in the great outdoors or in pet store cages. My kitchen is Off Limits.

Gah. And please don’t comment to tell me about humane traps or whatnot. My dad (who’ll be here by 3!) is a former exterminator, and I’m well aware of my options and about how well they usually work.

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Pardon me if I’m lacking my usual habit of finding the bright side in most everything.

So I finally had it tonight, and I told Eric I was bugging out for a while. I’m at Caribou Coffee, and I sort of hope I can make this escape last until everybody in the house is asleep for the night. Coming home to a dark and silent place sounds really good right now. I know better than to believe that’s what will happen, though.

I’ll regret posting this later, when the part of me that feels like I need to just suck it up and be the one who holds it all together kicks in. Whatever, though. Sometimes I’m weak, and I’ll confess that tonight, this week, this…everything…is getting the better of me at the moment. And of course, my gut reaction to it was to “self-medicate” with copious amounts of sugar, so now I’m dealing with the negative feelings of that, as well as the resultant crash, but I can’t blame that for it all. I was in the mud and muck before I reached for the jelly beans.

I need an honest laugh. Seems odd to have to search through one’s journal to remember the last time one had one.

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Got home, showered, forced Sam to do the same and endured the dra-aaaaaaaa-ma surrounding that (we made a deal that he could shower this morning instead of last night, in exchange for no whining, but he’s a dirty deal-breaker). Was just beginning to recover my stride after that when he tearfully informed us that a friend of his is taking summer school class with the teacher whose class Sam’s just left, and the woman is criticizing Sam to all those kids in the summer class.

No.

Got us all dressed, dropped Eric off at work, and drove to the school. Ushered Sam off to his art class, then found the principal and laid it all out for him. We went through “progress reports” for wiggling and finger biting; severe and frequent punishments for ordinary silliness; and even an incidence where she reported that another teacher had had to scold Sam “repeatedly” for misbehavior, and when I talked to that teacher, she said it never happened at all – turned out that his teacher had asked other kids about Sam’s behavior, and they made up that part. This was the final straw. She’s not even his teacher anymore, and she’s still giving us grief. The worst of it is that Sam really likes her – or he did before this blow. He’s hurt and bewildered now.

Anyway, the principal seemed shocked, and he wrote down many notes and said he’d talk to her. I assured him that we didn’t want to cause trouble, because Sam had liked her and because we had another child who would be coming up through the grade eventually, and he promised he’d take care of that. We’ll see, I guess. I just don’t know that I could have met my own eyes in the mirror if I let this happen to my child without saying anything. I tried calling her after the whole “she [didn't] say, they said” experience, but she didn’t return my calls.

So! Then! I picked up Sam and took both kids to the dentist! Because I’m a masochist like that! Sam does fine, but Gabe…this was to be his first “official” cleaning, and it went as well as I expected it to – meaning that they had to actually remove us to a separate room, close the door, have me bear-hug him on my lap, and muscle our way through the trauma. Mind you, until a year or so ago, it took three adults to hold him down so the barber could cut his hair, and he’s only gotten stronger and more stubborn since then. It was BAD. By the time we finished (skipping the flossing and intro x-rays entirely), we were both sweaty, he was missing both shoes, and I was bruised from neck to waist from his kicks and thumps. The dentist did a quick check, and then Gabe went FERAL, running to the corner, hiding under a counter, and – inexplicably – doing HANDSTANDS OF RAGE while the dentist tried to make nice. I stood there, sort of laugh-crying with my hands over my face, while the hygienist tried to console me and reassure me that he wouldn’t be the last child to do this. Well, no, of course not: we’ll be back in six months!

And then we went back to Sam, and the dentist informed me that his laterals might be coming in crooked and might require straightening. Shave and a haircut…

I fully expected we’d be hit by a semi leaving the parking lot, just for good measure. We weren’t, but it would have felt appropriate.

Too hot for Calgon, too early for merlot. What’s a girl to do?

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I forgot to take into account the special activities that happen within the overlapping time frames. Today, both boys’ programs have “Parents welcome!” potlucks at 3:30.

I’ll drop off fruit at Sam’s playground at 3:30, leave (I warned him; he was fine with it) and go to Gabe’s potluck with sandwiches (nobody else signed up for them, so I, the last person signing the poster board, got stuck with it) and stay there for a bit, then head back to Sam’s to hang with him. Might take Gabe with me, might not; depends on whether he’d rather stay and play with friends or come to the Big Kid party with me.

And, of course, this virtually ensures that neither son will be remotely convinced to try the butternut squash casserole that I’ve already started prepping for tonight. I mean, they probably wouldn’t have been thrilled to begin with, but being full of greasy potato chips and fruit snacks on top of it all…yay!

Ooh! Next Thursday, they both have field trips! One’s going bowling, and the other’s going skating! They have staggered drop-offs, thankfully, but somebody’s going to need picked up a bit early and somebody a bit late; both outings end at 4:30.

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It seems like my really low points coincide with when Sam gets home from school…and we’re receiving “progress reports” from his teacher each day, detailing negative behaviors. Again, though, here I go with the swinging back and forth. On the one hand, I can see where some of the things he does would be disruptive, and I definitely think they’re worth correcting. On the other hand, “Sam was biting his fingernails all day; please deal with this situation!” seems a bit severe. I mean, of course, we’re dealing with it (hand salve seems to be helping), but…really?

End of school can’t come soon enough. Just hanging on and waiting for next fall.

Related, we’re giving violin until the end of the school year, and at that point, we’re giving in. It’s hit the point where he’s become almost aggressively opposed to picking up the instrument, and he spends the entire class time with a scowl on his face and angry mutters on his lips about how much he hates the violin and wants to quit. This can’t be good for fostering a love of music. On the other hand, I’ve made Eric’s and my decision clear to him: if he quits this, we are taking at least a six-month hiatus from any and all lessons and classes (not counting the summer playground program; we mean things requiring a commitment and focus). He can’t decide in a few months that gymnastics sounds like a real blast, and that’s even if Gabe decides that he wants to do them. Sam needs to show us that he’s well and truly able to give his best to an activity before we’ll invest more time and money into it. Maybe that’s firm for an almost-eight-year-old, but I don’t intend to coast in and out of lessons that he wants to drop the moment that the newness wears off and the work begins.

I remember getting bored with activities as a kid and wanting to drop out. Heck, it’s why I switched from flute to piano in college; I went as far on both as I could without putting much actual gruntwork into them, and then I needed to decide which was going to be worth actual effort. Piano won for usefulness in the future, but I was still resistant to work, honestly. I just knew that I’d be more resistant to work on the flute. Lord, I’m lazy. At least I know it, though – and I see it in Sam.

Gabe is awake, I must dash.

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But today! Today was different! (Odd how that always seems to happen the morning after I have some red wine. ) I woke up before the alarm, got out and – crossing my fingers – attempted the mile repeats that were so painful last week…and rocked ‘em! No pain, lots of fun! Rawr! Came home, showered, and had possibly the best bowl of oatmeal I’ve had in my life! Added Grape Nuts, banana, walnuts, a little milk, some ricotta cheese, and a splash of sugar-free caramel coffee syrup. I melted with the first bite! Then Eric and I skipped The Love Dare in favor of spending the time in each others’ arms.

So far, this has been the best day I’ve had since the marathon, and possibly one of the best for the YEAR.

And here in a bit, I’m going to take Gabe out and select the tree that will finally serve to replace the one we took down a few years ago. We want something smaller, prettier, and – if the rest of the family has their way; I don’t care, myself – potentially fruit-bearing. Then the two of us get to get all down and dirty to plant the thing. Fun times – and, amazingly, I’m not feeling sarcastic when I’m saying that.

I hope I’m not blowing all my “good day” karma on today. Sure feels like I could be!

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I was at least a little relieved to have a few coupons lying around for clothing discounts. I used them today and, by also shopping from the lowest-priced sale racks I could find, procured myself three pairs of shorts and a summery skirt for an amount that didn’t nauseate me too badly. One pair is purple. Purple! I also need to say that, as a short person, I detest the new “maxi dress” trend that everybody’s springing out for the season. Maxi dresses make me look even shorter than I already am; the proportions are terrible on me. They’re almost as bad as those little tiered, floofy skirts that are designed to hit just below the knee; on me, they hit low enough to make me look as though I have some sort of bone-structure problem.

In news of other situations that mess with my head, I had my dentist appointment last night, and – ack! I had a cracked filling that needed to be replaced, and there was badness under it that was almost to the bone. Not only that, but the crown next to it looks like it might be covering some more decay, so I have to go back in a week to have it removed so the dentist can check it out. To add insult to injury, it looks like I might be grinding my teeth at night, so I might need a mouth guard.

But my dentist rocks. He’s gentle, especially being aware of my phobia surrounding dental work (for those just joining, I had some fairly traumatic work done when I was in grad school, featuring a dentist who couldn’t get me numb, so she just kept drilling anyway), and he was more than willing to numb me as much as I needed and then talk me through what he was doing to keep me calm. He’s a marathoner, too, and he would say things like, “Okay, we’re at about mile 25 now!” as he worked. Then, today, he called me personally to make sure I was doing all right and that I didn’t have any more questions. Awesome!

Anyway, tomorrow I get to get back to the therapy that works best for me. The recovery training plan says I can do an easy two miles or so, and I am looking forward to it so much, I can barely keep from squeeing. My legs feel rested and good, and my sneakers are calling my name!

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And then I planned, and told the kids as much, to let them watch a movie tonight, but while Gabe was finishing up his food, he got the idea to taunt Sam by telling him how much he hated nature and wanted to cut down all the trees. (Boy, does somebody know his brother’s hot buttons or what?) I could have dealt with that, but Sam snapped and was pinching Gabe before I could intervene. So I snapped and called off the movie. Shot myself in the foot, there; I needed the quiet time it would have afforded me. I dunno. Maybe they can earn it back somehow. The living room needs picked up, what with all the Lego play going on recently.

(Actually, I looked over just now, and that’s exactly what Sam’s doing. (Is he reading my mind? Am I that predictable? More likely, knowing him, it’s guilt-cleaning. But he’s also making nice with his brother, too – just brought him a heart he found under the toy boxes, and it appears very sincere. I won’t break out the popcorn yet, but at least the evening isn’t degenerating completely into a pile of tears and recriminations!)

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So I gave her my driver’s license…the picture on which was taken about thirty pounds ago. She looked at that card, gave me more stink-eye, and finally apparently decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and let me buy my trail mix.

So this is where we’re at now.

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Run today was just so-so. What with my stuffy head, the cold gusting wind, my shoes refusing to stay tied (don’t ask why I didn’t double-knot them; I have no answer except “SNARRRRRRL!”), and some little yappy dog that wasn’t leashed and whose owner was probably lounging comfortably inside their house, I was kept going by sheer force of “if it’s going to be bad, might as well get my money’s worth.” For a moment, when I opened the window and got hit with that first blast of blowing rain, I almost decided on the gym and the treadmill, but then I remembered that A) the gym didn’t open for another hour, and B) It Could Be Just Like This On Race Day. (Have I mentioned that that’s one of my mantras these days? Well, it is, along with HTHU: Harden the Heck Up.)

Aaaaaaand I just spilled coffee down my front. Considering that I already managed to spill coffee beans (unground, thankfully) all over the kitchen counter this morning, I’m dying to see what exploit I’ll manage next. Ooh, ooh! Can it involve Sam’s violin class this afternoon? ‘Cause that’s already a whole bunch of fun; it needs more awesome-sauce on top.

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… WINTER STORM POSSIBLE LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON THROUGH SATURDAY NIGHT… CURRENT INDICATIONS SUGGEST SNOWFALL ACCUMULATIONS WILL RANGE FROM 6 TO 9 INCHES ACROSS MUCH OF SOUTHEAST WISCONSIN…IN ADDITION… NORTHEAST WINDS WILL STRENGTHEN TO 15 TO 25 MPH… GUSTING UP TO 35 MPH. AS A RESULT… AREAS OF BLOWING AND DRIFTING SNOW ARE POSSIBLE SATURDAY NIGHT.

Whee…

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So the opportunity arose this morning to do that, and I jumped at it. Ordinarily, right now I’d be out running, since Tuesdays are mid-length run days, and I do those while Gabe is in preschool. The skies are ominous, though, and they’re calling for at least an inch of rain today, starting any minute now. I decided, instead, to brave the “few showers” forecast for 4:30 this morning, and I lucked out: a light sprinkling around mile seven, but that was it. Now I have the preschool slot wide open, so I’m typing this from Caribou Coffee, a mug of good brew close at hand. My feet are up on a cushy ottoman, and I feel relaxed. No household clutter around me; no chores nagging out of the corner of my eye. My soul needed this, as brief as it unfortunately will have to be. (Have to go run errands momentarily.)

Only drawback is that refills are free, and who can pass that up, I ask you? ::twitch::

Eric is out with buddies tonight, so it’s a good thing this chance came when it did. Otherwise, Mama Bear might have turned on the cubs by dinner time.

Whoa, that was thunder out there! Here she comes! Ordinarily, not a problem, but the darn basement is going to get wet again. I have less subtle expletives than that to toss at the neighbor who redid his driveway last fall and screwed up the grading next to our house. Yes, lots of creative language for that situation. Colorful language; sparkling, even. Pirates go wide-eyed…

C’mere, coffee.

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I’m having real trouble being awake today, for some reason. I had to run by the store before MOPS (needed DVD-R disk for Sam’s school project), and I let myself buy a Diet Coke, which kept me animated through the MOPS meeting, but now I’m sinking back below sea level once more. I don’t think this coffee is going to cut it, either, as good and lovely as it is. Caffeine is just a bandage on an open wound. Need to get to bed early tonight…but that might prove tricky, if we can’t get Sam’s project done quickly.

I had a bad dream last night, which could help explain my tiredness. Some folks dream fretfully about serious issues, like illness, mortal danger, etc. Me, I have nightmares about loose birds in a moving car. In the dream, I pulled a blanket over my head and screamed and screamed, but the driver wouldn’t pull over, and the bird kept landing on my blanket and peck-peck-pecking at me. I shuddered for a long time when I woke up. In fact, I shuddered more just typing it.

And then MOPS was challenging. Let me ask you parents this: if you had to write down what your best parenting attribute was, could you do it? Would it be a simple thing? Or would you, as I did, find yourself holding a pen over a blank piece of paper, suddenly feeling like crying?

Sam has a violin concert tonight, on top of having to finish his project. (The project is recorded, by the way; we’re just in the “post-production” segment of the work.) He’s not ready. I suppose that in the grand scale of things, that’s not catastrophic or even a bad lesson to learn, though certainly not an easy one. Still, I cringe at the thought that he’s going to get up there and in no way be able to play the pieces as fast as the other kids, and it’ll be a mess. I don’t know how that makes him feel, but it makes me feel pretty rotten. I’m over-identifying, maybe, or else it’s Mama Guilt again. Whichever. Doesn’t matter. Both suck.

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I love Sam’s school. I love the enthusiasm with which each grade embraces the “big unit” designed for them, and how they approach it from all sorts of angles and learning styles. What I don’t love is how that somehow translates into All The Projects. Second grade does Africa, and so Sam has to put together booklets, write news broadcasts, sculpt bugs and write reports about them, research various peoples of Africa, and more. I’d love to know exactly how much of this is being done at school, because when doing said news broadcast (“…about what you’ve learned about Africa!”), it became clear that he’s not retained more than a handful of unrelated facts. (Or else he’s deciding not to cough up more than that to us, thinking it could lead to more work. See above genetic traits concerning “dragging feet” and “lying.” )

I don’t want to do it any more than he does! Does it make me a rotten parent? If I am, I’m in good company; I mentioned it to a few people, on Twitter and in real life, and the universal response was, “Sing it, Sister.” I can’t stand the arguing, the trying to toe the line between motivating him and staying out of his way, and the constant stream of paperwork coming from the school. A part of me feels shamed when he suddenly brings home an assignment with a due date that he’s already missed or has no hope of reaching in time; he’s the one who messed up, but that inner kid of mine is the one with the knot in her stomach. Why is that?

Again, I have to remind myself: he’s just like me, and I survived this, and I’m not living on a park bench. He probably won’t, either. (But it’s the qualifier in that statement keeps me awake at nights. Okay, maybe not really, but check back with me after a few more years of this.)

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And, most currently on my mind:
* It’s not the most lovely accompaniment which I can imagine to a 19-mile run.

So guess what’s in store for Saturday? Yeah. Could you cross your fingers for me, please, that the weathermen will be wrong about at least the timing? I’d love to see that rain hold off until at least 8:30 or 9 o’clock.

Moving on! We had a brief respite of a few days during which Sam reverted to his old clothing style, but now he’s back to dress shirts and ties again. This morning, he sported a sweater vest over his tie. Then he groused because the only clean “nice” pants I had to offer him were his old brown trousers with the elastic waistband. God forbid we should have to go without a leather belt, you know. Next he’ll be wearing a blazer and carrying a briefcase.

Eric’s dad continues to recover well. It was a relief to get Eric home again last night, let me tell you. He did enjoy the non-surgically-related parts of the trip, especially getting to meet our nephew for the first time. (Said nephew will be two years old this summer. We are the worst aunt and uncle ever.) We need to plan a trip back east for the whole family soon; wish I had a better idea of when would be the best timing for that. I think Gabe and his younger cousin would get on smashingly.

While I’m flitting from subject to subject, tonight’s dinner will be a parmesan-encrusted perch, balsamic (sorry, Eric) roasted eggplant, and a tossed green salad. Don’t forget to tip your waiters!

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Ugh. I suppose that the best of the likely scenarios would be for the snow to start later than anticipated, so that there would only be an inch or so when I start running by 5:15 tomorrow morning. What I wouldn’t give for somebody in the group to be at the same point in training that I am, so that we could start at the same time! A couple of guys are running the same marathon, but their plans are different enough that they won’t be starting until about fifteen minutes after me. If ever I needed the support of peer pressure, though, tomorrow’s the day. Next week, I’ll only have twelve to do, and after that, we’re into March, and the end of winter is in sight, right?

March 21st, 2008

Oh. Right.

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(But I ask, who could predict that of the dinner of sweet-glazed meatloaf and various vegetables last night, the only thing the boys would eat would be the asparagus? What sort of aliens am I rearing? And how do you not spend the night in miserable hunger when that’s all you’ve eaten?)

I was feeling rotten last night, anyway, on top of the soul-crushing dinner rejection. My weariness and headache turned sharply into waves of nausea, and I spent the evening making sure I had a large bowl within reach at all times. Never had to use it, but Murphy’s Law surely would have come into play had I stepped more than six feet from it, so I kept it cradled to my chest for the most part. By bedtime, I was feeling a bit better, but when I woke up early this morning, I decided to do my run outside instead of in the gym, as I’d planned (due to rain in the forecast), just in case; suddenly dodging to the side of the path to throw up sounded better than jumping from a treadmill and dashing for the nearest wastebasket. Thankfully, going early saved me from having to run in the rain after all, and I stayed nausea-free for the run and the rest of the day so far. My throat even feels a bit better, too! Hurray!

Almost naptime. Just keeps getting better!

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- Feeling more run-down by the minute. Throat is only a little hoarse, and I’m not stuffy or runny or anything like that, but I feel sort of weak and tired. Decided I’d better prep dinner early tonight, since odds were that if I waited, I’d not have any energy left at all to do it.

- Saturday’s date: Eric is thinking this to follow our sushi dinner, but neither of us are 100% convinced yet. Thoughts? What are you all doing?

- Thursday, I sort of want to go look at shoes to go with my dress. I also dreamed about a matching shawl and an upper-arm bracelet (for the bared arm/shoulder), but I don’t know where I’d find such things. Ideas?

- The meatloaf is in the oven, but right about now, I’m considering roasting the children instead. Noisy noisy noisy noisy why won’t they stop with the noise…

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For some reason, my hardest runs of the week, on my current schedule, are Mondays and Fridays. Mondays are short runs and Fridays are mid-length, but they both fall after running rest days (I do cross-train on Sundays, but that’s different). I suppose that’s enough to make my body have to work to remember how to do things, especially at the beginning of the run. Interestingly, my best and easiest run is usually my long run on Saturdays; go figure.

So I had a tough four miles this morning, then came home and found a seven-year-old who was his usual reluctant-to-rise self. Tackled that as patiently as I could, and unfortunately left myself little emotional reserve to handle an argument that arose with Eric, so I was sharper than I could have been. By the time Gabe was demanding citrus fruit, cut just so, and refusing to get dressed, I decided to cut my losses and go with the flow. Even so, I’m feeling drained and sad. There is a MOPS “girls’ night out” tonight, so the day may be salvageable, but in the meantime, there’s general ugh-ness.

Then again, I’m making pretzels with Gabe for his preschool snack tomorrow, and we’re going to form them into hearts and other shapes, so this could be fun. So long as there’s cooperation, the dough rises, and nobody burns him or herself, of course. Not going to count those chickens yet.

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I hate “snow” days.

In an effort to get through the day with a minimum of bloodshed, I’m thawing dough to make monkey bread. I have Shrinky Dinks. Beyond that, I’m stumped. Can I turn laundry into a fun group activity? People on forums are tossing up reasonable, normal-sounding bad weather activities, but I’m cringing at the thought of most of them, for some reason. Could be I’m just grumpy at the built-in sedentary nature of most of it. Why can’t my house have an attached gymnasium instead of smallish rooms and floors that creak ominously when the kids jump and run?

I made grilled cheese sandwiches on the Foreman grill to give them very pronounced stripes. Sam found it delightful; Gabe declared that he was having popsicles for lunch. I managed to convince him to give in by allowing him to cut the sandwich with a real knife. (But I’m pretty sure he’s not giving up the idea of popsicles yet.)

When I was a kid and weather canceled school, I remember sleeping late, then curling up with a good book. Maybe Mom remembers it differently. All I know is, I have tons of books around, and the only one whose fingers are itching toward them is me.

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I couldn’t find Cracker Jacks at the store (they’re our family’s traditional New Year’s treat).

I also couldn’t find fatback for Eric, who’s embroiled in a sausage-making extravaganza at a friend’s place right now and who really needed it for the sausage to be “right.”

I bought a bag of cookies, and most of them were broken.

It’s been nice for days, but tomorrow, race day, will see a high of 15 degrees, and there may be some snow and ice on the ground once more.

Runner’s World sent me a calendar I did not want or order, and they tried to bill me for it as though I had. (Apparently, old hat for them.)

Gabe just threw a very loud fit over nothing, intentionally broke a Lego structure Sam had been building, hit me, and declared that he hated Christmas and Santa Claus and me. (Early bedtime, son…)

I think I need an early bedtime, but with Eric being busy at work on those sausages and Sam both not having earned himself an early bedtime and hardly being amenable to the suggestion of a voluntary one…I’m stuck.

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Right now, our solution, after futilely attempting to staunch the flow, is to build a makeshift trough toward the floor drain. This was actually Eric’s dad’s idea, after we came up blank. (I actually thought of trying to use the rubber tubing from the old aquarium, but it was too narrow and we don’t have any kind of putty.) Eric was freaking out with steadily increasing volume, and he’s now gone out to a work-related holiday party, for which I couldn’t get a sitter so we both could attend. Presumably, he’ll be trying to console himself with yummy goodies and good company; all I’ve got is you guys and a host of liquors – well, I’d have that host if I didn’t have to remember to go downstairs and check the influx periodically. And, of course, if I wasn’t the sole Parent On Deck. I told Eric not to stay too late, if it could be helped.

He’s in the “MUST SELL HOUSE NOW WHILE STILL MOSTLY SANE” state that we hit every so often. I tried to calm him, suggesting that we revisit that in the spring, but now he’s all about getting an inspector out to identify what must be fixed before selling. I’d say that waterproofing probably will fall high on the list. Then again, I’d have guessed that holes in the wall were prone to be a Not Good idea, so perhaps it should be left to the professionals and out of the hands of silly little girls like me.

Give me snow, honestly.

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My optimism breaks down when I have more fingers on my hands than there are degrees of warmth, not even figuring in the wind chill. It’s the kind of cold that freezes doors shut, so that when you open them, they creeeeeeeeeeak with the sound of a million shattering ice crystals. It’s the sort of cold that creates shivers that start deep within you, as though your diaphragm is sending tremors outward. It’s a cold that makes most wise men and women say, “Heck with that, I’m not going anywhere today.”

Tomorrow morning is my regular running club meeting, so I don’t have that option. Oh, sure, I actually could stay inside and do a treadmill run, but giving myself the out now, before winter is even really upon me, doesn’t bode well for January, February, or March. I can’t get to April, the month before the marathon, before getting serious. It’s do now or die, baby.

But I look out there at the glistening surfaces all around, and I just whimper. I’m not built for this kind of weather, physically or mentally. I’m weak! I’m fragile! Somebody box me up and ship me to some moderate clime! I like tee-shirt weather, if you’d be so kind!

Please? Someone?

I guess no giant FedEx box is forthcoming. Good thing my upper lip is already halfway stiffened, albeit probably from frostbite damage. My nose is peeling, too, though I don’t know whether that’s from the wind and cold or from sunburn; I came back inside from a run last weekend with a bright red honker, and I have no clue which was the culprit. End result is the same, I suppose. I need some of that neon sunscreen that surfers and snowboarders slather on their noses; add that to my running ninja get-up, and won’t I just be the sexiest thing out there?

Polar bears use more than twice as much energy as other animals to move at any given speed, due to their size. They then eat four and a half pounds of fat a day to survive. That sort of feels like me these days: a whole lot of effort required just to get off my butt, and then the only things I want to eat are chocolate and Christmas cookies. The only difference between me and a polar bear these days is that the polar bear, unlike other bears, has no burning desire to enter deep hibernation for a chunk of the year. Silly polar bear.

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Snow is nice. I can handle snow. That stuff that was out there this morning? Not snow. It rained and spit “wintry mix” all last night, and even though it looked deceptively okay when I glanced out the window, the “bare pavement” was actually covered with a thin, almost invisible, layer of wet slush that made everything slick and dangerous. And did I mention wet?

Maybe it’s that I got a bad taste in my mouth for it almost immediately, when I made the horrible decision to go for an outdoor run instead of hitting the treadmill for a second day in a row. I actually remarked on Twitter this morning something to the effect of, “I’ve got gear to run in it, but it’ll be a mighty cold rain.” The finely misting rain actually wasn’t the issue; it was that with the very first invisible puddle I hit, my shoes were penetrated by icy water, soaking my socks and making my toes want to give up and fall off. I actually screamed aloud; nobody heard, because nobody else was idiot enough to be out there in that nastiness.

I did ten miles of unadulterated torture and agony. The worst part came when the rain-turned-snow decided to morph into little pellets of sleet. I was sure that my face would be bleeding from a thousand tiny cuts by the time I got home.

Then I had to drive in it. Do they make YakTrax for vehicles? I had much better traction running than the van did; it was sliding all over the road, and my brakes kept thump-thump-THUMPing at me with their antilock assistance at nearly every intersection, no matter how slowly I approached them or how soon I tried to stop. I was far from the only scared driver, too.

Back home, I rechecked the weather site. “Snow is heavy due to high moisture content and will be difficult to move.” Well, great. I went out and “pre-shoveled” this evening, and gross doesn’t begin to describe it. I might as well have been trying to lift Gabe on the end of the shovel for how it felt as I hefted load after load of slush off the sidewalk. All the while, it kept falling around me, covering the areas I’d just cleared.

Nasty. Just nasty. At least it’s supposed to get up into the forties, with more rain, this weekend, so much of it should disappear…except that on Monday, it’s calling for continued rain and high temps that are going to drop into the teens with snow by nightfall. Looks like we’ll get to do this all over again! Ugh!

Whine, whine, whine. Can’t believe I’m saying it, but…can’t we please just have normal snow? I’d rather it stay in the freezing temps if we could just skip the rain until spring, thanks so much.

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1. A working flashlight, small enough to run with.
2. Running socks that come up over my ankle bone at a minimum.
3. A headlamp that’s easily washed.
4. Either a second pair of running shoes, or
5. A space heater or something small that will dry the one pair I have if I decide to run two days in a row.
6. A smaller band for my heart rate monitor so it doesn’t keep slipping down. (Yay for accuracy…)
7. Pretty nail polish to cover up my black toenail.

I’m going to go run in the rain now, splashing through puddles with my already damp shoes and trying to get silly in an attempt to ignore the rest of it.

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EDIT: Trying to plan is giving me a headache. I think that for the next few weeks, right up until Christmas and the beginning of marathon work, my motto will just be “Run whenever you can.” If I only have half an hour, I’ll take it, since I might not even get that the next day.

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Laundry. Yuck.

I don’t know about you, but Tuesday is the new Monday for me.

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I was grumpy all last evening with the kids, who suffer no such issues of idleness. About the tenth time somebody jumped on top of somebody else and caused loud and sudden squealing, I snapped and packed everybody into bed early. It was probably for the best, as Sam still fell asleep not long after hitting the pillow (not night owl Gabe, but he always has a hard time going to sleep at night), but still. Eric’s been in Missouri all week, but he’s coming home tonight, and not a moment too soon. In the meantime, Sam and I are learning the value in “do-over”; a few times, I’ve caught myself being terribly unfairly angry with him for the transgression of being seven years old, and I’ve made myself apologize and ask for a do-over, with a hug to seal the deal. It seems to work well for us. Now, if I could eliminate the need, or at least lessen the frequency of the need…

It’s possible I’m feeling the first tenuous strains of seasonal funk. Grandma’s death is probably a big part of my recent malaise, but it feels so familiar – the whole world is cloaked in fog and dimness that feels permanent.

Mental note: check into full-spectrum light bulbs. Also, may want to actually use the lights, rather than sitting here in the darkness, complaining. Should probably just invest in a darn Happy Light, or else get the heck out of Wisconsin. It’s bad for my brain here.

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And now I’m fighting off something trying to take root in my throat. Not going to even hint that “I’m getting sick,” because I’m not. Y’hear? Not going to happen! So what if I needed an extra cup of coffee this morning, just because the warmth felt so good in my throat? Whatever works is fine by me!

I hate winter, y’all.

It’s our turn to take in snack to preschool on Tuesday. They’re currently studying fruits and vegetables, and it’s nice if the snack goes along with the lesson. Somebody already did fruit skewers, though. Also, that’ll be the day they celebrate Gabe’s birthday at school, so I’d like the snack to be something special for that. Carrot muffins? Not sure yet. Ideas?

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EDIT:
The answer: I’ll drop off Gabe, chill at home with Sam until bus time, then start my run. I’ll take the jogging stroller (blanket mounded inside, to alleviate the “I’m an idiot running with an empty stroller!” appearance). The preschool is just over two miles from home, so I can coordinate the run to pass by his school at pick-up time; I’ll be smelly and sweaty, but it can’t be helped. Then I’ll finish the run with Gabe. Gotta remember to have a snack ready in the stroller, but we’ll be okay, I hope…

I hate planning.

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Jealous little Gabe
Can’t choose whether he prefers
Sam or Sammy’s meds.

“Mom! Can I have soup?”
“Mommy, I fink I’m sick, too!”
“Mom!” “Mommy!” “Mom!” ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!

Naptime coming soon
Whether they like it or not
Else I turn feral.

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This is so hard. On the one hand, we were so thrilled to have them here, and it feels like we were just hanging out yesterday. Saying goodbye at the end of the evening, though, is like having a scab knocked off a wound that is still nearly as painful as the day it was earned. I want them here, where I can call up and say, “Hey, what are you guys up to tomorrow?” And she can say, “Morning’s free; want to hit the playground?” And we won’t even have to say which playground, because we’ll have our places and our routines, and all discussion will be redundant. I want Sam to have his buddy here, not seven hours away; they, too, were playing together as though they do it every day.

Augh! It just kills me. (More pictures over at Flickr.)

Then today, I woke up feeling a bit out of sorts; Sam kept waking up from nightmares about every fifteen minutes all night, and I found myself running a bit of a fever. By church’s end, I felt a little better, so I decided to go take care of some residual aching in my legs from yesterday’s run. Hopped on the bike and rode down to Kenosha. It was a gorgeous day, with sunshine and warmth; I took off my jacket and actually wore just a tank top for most of the ride. By the lake, there were huge crowds of folks, biking and walking and just enjoying summer’s last surprise hurrah. All told, I did just under 25 miles, which might be about my distance cap at the moment; for the first time, I actually felt tired when I hopped off the bike at the end. Good; now I know what to shoot for to improve there.

And exhaustion helps with the sad feelings.

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There’s no doubt at all in my mind that this is a Runner; there’s not even any “Future” to add to that as a prefix. All that needs work is his endurance, since a mile to me is double that to his smaller stride. But does he honestly need to test out his skills against me as often as he does? Specifically, does he need to take off running in efforts to escape from us in potentially dangerous situations, like he seems to want to do?!

The first time, it was from Eric, and he made it several blocks before stopping and allowing Eric to catch him. The second time, it was from me, and the only reason my heel-wearing self caught him when I did, after making it halfway around the block, was because he stopped to try to find a place to hide. Last night, he made a break for it as we were leaving church; it was pitch black outside, and our church is on Main Street with plenty of traffic zipping past.

He started off slowly, and I thought he was going to try his usual trick of ducking behind the row of trees and making me “hunt” for him. When I immediately went after him, though, he picked up his pace and headed down the sidewalk for Main. I started running, then, too, heart pumping hard; Sam called out to ask if he should chase him, as well. At that moment, Gabe reached the corner and rounded it, heading down the block. I dropped everything in my arms, hollered at Sam to wait there, and broke into a sprint. Gabe glanced over his shoulder, saw me approaching, and picked up his speed, too. I yanked off my shoes as I ran (darn heels!), trying to get faster, and it still took me two blocks before I could catch that kid.

He was howling by the time I got back to the church, where friends were waiting with Sam. The father told me that he “shouldn’t get into” what he would have done if Gabe were his. As it was, Gabe was most distraught at being shoved unceremoniously into the car, denied the lollipop we had discussed prior to his flight, and sent to bed the moment we got home. He screeched, “How can you do this to me?!” the whole car trip. But despite the punishment, and even after me iterating the horrors (cars, kidnapping, stray animals) that can happen to little boys who run away from their parents (Sam almost started crying!), I’m not confident we’ve seen the last of the running.

So the plan: for the foreseeable future, when we’re in places where running is a possibility, he will not be granted freedom. Hand-holding, being carried, and the stroller will become de rigeur. He’ll hate that, as he did this morning, when I didn’t let him out of the car at Sam’s bus stop (have to drive on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since preschool drop-off starts immediately after Sam’s pick-up time); on Tuesday, after all, he very nearly tried to run from me while there. We’ll stick to this for as long as it takes. If he does run…we’re developing a solid, enforceable-at-that-moment consequence that’s linked solely to this problem. (Eric: head-to-head on this tonight.)

And continue to give him positive opportunities to stretch his running legs, since that’s what he seems to need. This might be a problem as the weather worsens…but, then, it’ll be easier to catch him when he’s running through drifts up to his little waist.

Apropos of nothing, I have a weird lesion-thing developing on my abdomen. It seems to get worse after each run, and the best guess I can make is that it has something to do with my iPod, which clips to my waistband just below that. I may try making a “cozy” for it out of an old sock to see if it helps. As far as I know, I have no metal sensitivities…or didn’t before now.

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I tried. I took the boys out for the post-run coffee with the running club, even though I couldn’t run with them this morning (pushing a stroller and running next to Sam on his bike didn’t sound like a plan for success). I drove us to Party on the Pavement and didn’t even fight the losing battle of trying to find a single food stand that would please all of us. I kept a smile on my face as long as I could…and Sam whined and complained and dropped a florescent-painted gourd down the leg of my black pants, and Gabe hollered and threw tantrums and actually bit me on the butt when I asked him to sit down in the stroller.

I am not a saint. I do not have the patience of one. I am darn proud that I did not scream or completely lose my cool as I stalked back to the car, trailed by one hand-wringing kid and with the other one protesting from within the stroller. Now Child the Younger is in his bed (“No, I don’t need a rest time!”), and Child the Older is doing schoolwork at his desk (“How much more of this do I have to do?”), and Mom the Exhausted just wants a glass of wine and a good cry. Or a hug. And a contract out on the stupid “Yo Gabba Gabba” characters who put the whole biting nonsense into Gabe’s head in the first place.

This iced coffee sucks, and I’m not going to finish it.

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What I have said here, though, and will continue to say is that as exciting and motivating as politics, the current American election cycle, and the state of government in general can be, this is no excuse to be hateful or rude to other people. Like the yard signs I mentioned yesterday, name-calling and bitter speech rarely change minds; most often, they only serve to earn pats on the back from like-minded voters and bruised feelings from others. Those injured parties are more likely, then, to return the insults, leading to a cycle that turns folks off from the process altogether.

Debate is good. Venom is not. It’s really not that hard to tell the difference.

(Aaron, if you read this: this entry was prompted by your words, but is by no means solely directed at you. You’re not the only one who’s called me an idiot, directly or indirectly, over the last few weeks.)

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I was grouchy when I woke, since the last few hours of sleep were spotty; Gabe screamed me awake, having a bad dream, around 3:30 or 4, and I never really recovered. Then we got off to a late start and a grumpy one, with both boys shivering and not wanting to crawl out of their warm blankets and into clothes. Gabe didn’t want to leave the house to take Sam to the bus stop; Sam didn’t want to wear a jacket. I was planning on going for a run right after dropping Gabe off at preschool, but when I tried to turn on my Garmin while waiting with Sam for his bus, it refused to cooperate, despite having been on the charger overnight. Tried to call Eric for mental support, and the phone, which had also been theoretically charging, was nearly dead itself.

I finally let out a scream in frustration. Gabe started the lower lip trembling thing, making me feel horrible for breaking. Thankfully, we were only a block away from his school at that point, so his teachers could rescue him from me.

Back home, I managed to reset the Garmin, charge the phone, and I was out the door almost an hour later than I intended. Oh, well. I dropped my five mile plan and decided to run out my frustrations. God smiled at me and led me to another mystery trail:

It was tucked back between Sam’s Club and the landfill, to which I was running in an effort to join the Dump Runners Club. I love finding these things, even if I wasn’t in the best mood today. It really went a long way toward drawing me out of my anger and bringing me back to normal. Sometimes, all you need to do is step off the road you’re traveling and deliberately head in a completely unexpected way – and that can be literal or mental. Or both.

Much better now. Off to procure a violin!

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(Okay, watching that made me feel a little better, but the point still stands.)

Anyway, if things don’t change for the dramatic better within the next few hours, there may be real risk of be blowing up at somebody who may or may not deserve it. Not that I want to, of course, so I’d really love to just go into seclusion at some point. Gabe has preschool this morning, but only for an hour. Something tells me I need more than that respite – maybe time for a nap, or to go for a long walk, or perhaps just to enjoy a glass or four of a good red wine (out of the question at least until I’ve picked him up afterwards, of course, and probably better put off until after the kids are in bed or Eric is home, but by then the damage may have been done).

Cory, you once recommended hanging a punching bag. Today, I really wish I did have the option to use something like that, but first I’d need somebody to show me how to do more than just bruise my knuckles all to pieces. Ugh!

Maybe I’ll make some bread.

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Unfortunately, when around Gabe, Sam often tends to absorb and act on the cloud of craziness hovering over his little brother’s head, so perhaps that isn’t the best plan.

But seriously, when I’m out with Gabe, it’s often a far different scene from when it was little Sam toddling along next to me, chirping happily and peacefully at the world around him. Gabe earns his fair share of fond smiles and giggles from people watching him, but he’s also a master at the Jekyll-Hyde routine, causing the smiles to turn into open-mouthed stares of horror and the giggles into mutters of “Look at that kid.”

Today, it was the coffee shop where he went nuts. We had to go to a meeting of parents of kids at Sam’s school, and Gabe actually did really well for most of the time we were there; a mom with a baby sat next to us, so Gabe was absorbed with playing peekaboo and rescuing dropped toys. When the baby got cranky and had to leave (note how I didn’t feel, or notice anybody else indicating, that there was any shoddy parenting behind that child’s crying; babies get cut way more slack than three-year-olds), he started getting more restless, and by the end, when I was trying to talk to a few moms I’d missed over the summer, it was a steep slide downwards into awfulness. He started shouting about wanting candy; he tried to run away from me. When I picked him up, he started yelling, “I wish I had a grill, so I could grill you up!” When he tried to grab for ceramic mugs on the shelf, I took it as our cue to run, and the whole way out the door, he struggled and screamed in my arms.

At home, I put him in his room to finish his tirade, and I nearly sobbed, myself.

I remember Sam’s preschool temper tantrums giving way to sassiness when he was about four, and at this point, I’m sort of looking forward to that. At least sass doesn’t cause heads to turn from every direction, one end of a store to the other. On the other hand, I really feel like I deserve some sort of break at some point. Can’t we have an “easy” stage sometime? If the struggles are going to be so much more difficult with this kid than they were with Sam, can’t there be a break once in a while?

At least he seems to understand when he’s crossed the line. At the ends of the storms, he’ll apologize for the specific things he said in the moment. “I’m sorry I said I wished I could burn you up. Do you forgive me, please?” He’ll ask several times, depending on how awful he thinks his words were, and how badly he needs to be absolved. Of course, he’ll say the same things the next time he’s mad, but maybe he’ll eventually gain some control over himself. (Please, God?)

I wish Rita was still here to help me.

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So, here’s the deal: the orthopedist (who is not a runner, but who specializes in sports medicine) thought it was a stress fracture from the beginning. I brought up the idea of peroneal tendinitis, and while he agrees it’s a possibility, he doesn’t want to rule out a fracture, either. Here’s something I didn’t know: while you do treat tendinitis with anti-inflammatories, such as ibuprofen, doing that with a stress fracture can delay healing or make things worse. Yikes!

Anyway, only surefire way to test for a stress fracture is a bone scan. I’m having mine on Wednesday. Can you sense how thrilled I am about this? Can you just FEEL how happy I am to be having more scans, more tests… Ahem. Forgive. I yell so I don’t cry (which I’ve already done, thankyaverymuch).

In the meantime, I am booted. My leg is encased in heavy, thick…I dunno, lead weights, it feels like. I keep accidentally kicking myself in the other ankle with it. Stairs are a fun adventure.

I just want to run. Is that so much to ask? Why does it have to be an obstacle course? Does somebody out there have a voodoo doll with my face on it?

Need chocolate.

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It’s been tantrums, tantrums, tantrums from him, all day long. He is driving me up a wall.

“Noooooooo! I don’t want a nap! What if I want to speak with you?” Oh, honey. Speaking wouldn’t be a problem, but you haven’t “spoken” in about six hours now. One more shriek, and my eardrums will wave the white flag for good.

EDIT: And then I had to take them to Walgreens so I could get an ACE bandage for my foot (how do I always lose the clips for them?), and it was a complete disaster, with me on crutches, Sam struggling valiantly to push a cart, and Gabe running amok. I actually had an elderly lady pat me on the shoulder and say, “God bless you,” which I think was shorthand for “…because something else sure seems to have cursed you.”

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In keeping with the “DO NOT WANT” theme for the day, I’m getting ready to deliver my children into the hands of the dentist. One after the other, like ripping the Bandaid off in one jerk; that’s the way I like to do things. After that, I’ll look for some other way to beat my head against a brick wall. Why stop when you’re on a roll?

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I doubt that the particular person making demands of me in this situation, though, would care even if I were glassy-eyed and tripping over my own feet.

Sigh.

“Sure, Sam, Mom can give fixing your bike wheel a shot. Just let me grab my wrench…”

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Don’t mind me, I’m just a bit grumpy today. Neither the boys nor I slept well last night. Gabe called me out of bed a couple of times (to fix his sheet, to turn the “nightlight” (bathroom light) back on), and Sam was in my bed when I woke up this morning. He had to have come there after 2:30, because that was when I woke up to gnawing pains in my stomach informing me that I ate too little for dinner and too early. On the whole, trying get everybody up and out of the house on time this morning wasn’t fun, and my run felt like I was dragging myself for seven miles by my knuckles.

I’m really looking forward to the thunderstorm that’s threatening us right now. It’s cooling things off a bit, and it feels like what the doctor ordered, psychologically: something to match my mood and carry me through it. It’s a shame that it’s likely to cancel Sam’s playground parade, but my anticipation won’t affect whether the storm comes or not, so I won’t feel shame for smiling at the dark clouds.

Rain on me!

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One thing I hate about sunburns is how they throw off your internal thermostat. I am freezing right now; I actually put on a pair of fuzzy socks, and I’m debating a hooded jacket over my tee-shirt. In my defense, it is cooler today than it has been recently – not quite 70 degrees yet today – but still.

Eric just left for a week on the road again. As soon as he left, the kids were whimpering and sad, but now they’re back to being little imps, swinging back and forth between demands for food and beating each other with sticks. Or something like that. I’m deliberately avoiding the knowledge of why they keep hollering, yowling, and screeching. It does no good to know, I’ve decided; intervening usually leads to one of two scenarios:
1) Two innocent faces with wide eyes, utterly confused as to what I think they’ve been doing wrong, or
2) A tense agreement to “lay down arms” that lasts until I am so bold as to blink my eyes.

Since they usually come to peace on their own as well as they do when I orchestrate the cease-fire (see above: demands for food), noninvolvement seems the wiser course…at least in situations like the present, when my involvement is tainted by the sadness, self-pity, and just plain down-in-the-mouth frame of mind in which I exist on days when my husband has kissed us goodbye and headed for the airport.

Not a good day.

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Kiddie pool: has no plug. I go back in the garage in search of the sprinkler.

Sprinkler: nowhere to be found.

Interlude: one of the new renters in the house next door is having a very involved conversation on his phone next to an open window. By “involved,” I mean “loud.” By “loud,” I mean “angry.” By “angry,” I mean “filled with obscenities and screaming violence.” At one point, he hollered the phrase that I now dearly want on a tee-shirt: “DON’T TEST ME, I’M IN [censored] WISCONSIN!”

Gabe keeps trying to come out to see what’s happening, but he’s not wearing shoes, and since I’m not only a MORON but a hypocrite as well, I kept sending him back in. Oh, and I’d rather him not learn the very spicy new language of the neighbor. (Now, why is he threatening to call his sister? What’s she going to do? Is she a mob leader?) So he’s agitated, I’m frustrated, and in the middle of everything, I step down hard on a thumbtack hidden on the ground, which embeds itself in my heel.

Don’t test me, I’m in [censored] Wisconsin. (But my tetanus shot is up to date, according to the doctor’s records. )

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Still. It is a pain in the neck to deal with weeds and weird wild plants around the edges of our yard when it appears that on all three sides, the neighbors are choosing to ignore the patches of their own yards that meet our fence.

And when a neighbor’s trees go so wild that the branches are overhanging my yard to the point of sagging almost to the ground, I’m justified in lopping them off, aren’t I? (I did refrain from lobbing the cut branches back over the fence, much as I considered it.) I left the branches, spanning the entire back corner of our yard and actually heading for a third neighbor’s yard, that are bearing mulberries, though, and I don’t believe I’ll stop Sam from partaking, either. Is that wrong?

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We went to a little festival today, put on by a local Greek Orthodox church that friends of ours attend. We ran into them, and Sam and their son (classmates since preschool) were happy-giggly together, riding the rides and skipping around while his mom and I chatted and followed them with our littler ones in tow. (Gabe refused to ride anything at all, finding even the slow-moving train ride too scary.) Sam especially enjoyed the swings, so they rode that one repeatedly, though I feared for puking (and witnessed a couple of incidents from other less fortunate riders ).

On what was to be his last ride, due to running out of tickets, Sam started getting a little goofy. I interrupted my conversation to call out to him, “Sam, stop that!” when I saw him begin to fiddle with the bar in front of his belly. Then, for reasons I can’t explain and he isn’t wanting to discuss, he suddenly lifted his body up by grabbing the chains above him. His bottom scooted forward, and when he came down, he was no longer in the seat; he was hanging in front of the swing, the chain between his legs catching him. Thank God he didn’t let go of the chains he was holding! His face went white.

I screamed and froze. My friend ran to the ride operator, who was oblivious, and yelled for him to stop the ride. He did, and he ran in to help support Sam as the swings slowed and lowered. Sam calmed down at that point, and when I ran to get him, he tried to smile at me – which was the wrong move, since it snapped me out of my fear and sent me headlong into anger. “You could have been killed! What on earth were you trying to do?!”

“I wanted to see what it would be like…”

Auuuuuuugh!

(At least the Greek coffee was good.)

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Waiting to hear from Eric. He called a while ago when his train was pulling into Chicago, and he’s taking the local train up here. I’ll have to go pick him up in a while. Gabe ought to enjoy that errand. He’s been upset with me over our staying close to home this morning, waiting for the phone.

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I’m hungry, and nothing looks good. It’s probably a good thing that just about everything in the house is healthy, as if I’ve ever experienced Bad Eating signs, then these are they, but fresh blackberries and whole grains don’t hold the appeal for me right now that a big gooey pizza does. And a giant soda. Saints preserve me, I want to run out and get it right now.

Thankfully, I also feel lazy, far too lazy to actually leave the house.

As I mentioned previously, Eric is heading out tonight. He’s going to a friend’s wedding and won’t be back until tomorrow night. I’m insanely jealous, and I’m preemptively missing Eric. Sam started sniffling when he heard that we’d be Daddy-less for a day; while I’m obviously sympathetic for him, the added drama of his weepiness isn’t something I feel up to handling at the moment.

Gah!

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His den was in charge of carrying the flags into the room, and Sam and the two other boys in charge of the American flag very nearly let the whole thing fall to the ground a couple of times. Everyone in the room seemed to have their hands up in that futile pose, as though they could psychically reach across the room and help steady it. Sam, of course, was giggling the whole time; that’s the sort of kid he is.

You know, many people warned us about Scouts when we were thinking about putting Sam in the organization. Sexism, racism, every other -ism concern were mentioned, and in the end, I think we went with it mostly because Sam so very much wanted to, and because I figured we could guide Sam through the worst of it. As it happens, much of Scouts is den-based, and the den leader is the one who sets the tone for about 95% of what we do. Our den leader is cool, and we have yet to come up against anything that rang any warning bells for me.

On the other hand, the pack meetings are…different. Lots of different leaders are involved in the planning of those, and you occasionally get presentations, skits, and whatnot that are exactly the sorts of things about which I was warned. I don’t want to go into details, because, truthfully, I’d rather wipe most of it from my memory as much as possible and recounting it would do more harm than good, but…

Sam blithely ignored the whole thing, far more interested in making sculptures with the coffee stirrers on the table. It’s doubtful that Gabe was even aware that a presentation was occurring, as fun as it was to climb under the tables and play “cave.” Eric and I were in a sort of agony. Thank God these meetings don’t happen often. Also, thank God our den leader would probably be easily swayed away from any of that garbage when it’s our turn to provide entertainment.

It’s difficult to navigate this, our giving of money to a group that does this sort of thing. Sam loves Scouting. Sam is also a very thoughtful, contemplative kid with whom we can have serious discussions about cultural appropriation and negative stereotypes. With a less sensitive child, I’d probably be inclined to yank him out, no matter how much he adored it. Sheesh! Since he is Sam, though, we’ll keep on going at this with our eyes as open as they can be, not letting anything pass without speaking up.

Den meetings are crafts (paper airplanes! leaf rubbings!), field trips to alpaca farms, and playtime. Why can’t it all be as innocent and simple as that? Why do we need to start sneaking in subtle messages about those “funny, funny” other cultures?

By the way, this is, of course, just a statement about our own experience with our own local group. I’m sure that there are groups around the country that are wonderfully sensitive, as well as those who are just this side of a KKK organization. Everybody makes his or her own call with participation in these things. If your group rocks, great! And I’m jealous!

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I was looking at some nice dresses, and I fell in love with a cotton (washable, even!) strapless one at The Limited. Have I mentioned before that being able to shop in that store at all is sort of a milestone for me and very special for some reason? Yeah, I know. But it also was 20% off… Anyway, I thought I might be a little overdressed in that one, so while I was debating dressing it down a little with a little shrug, I called Eric and had him check with one of the women going with us to see what she’s wearing.

“Nothing special,” she said, “and definitely not a dress or skirt, since the party room we’re getting might have us sitting cross-legged on the floor.”

So. No strapless dress from The Limited for me. I found a nice, inexpensive black top and some pants to go with it, and I’ll look good, but I’m bummed anyway. Somebody please tell me that I have no real use for a strapless dress in the first place, okay?

EDIT: Eric emails, “GO. NOW. AND. BUY. THE. DRESS. DO IT. OBEY!

I’ll take you out somewhere fancy in it.”

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EDIT: HOLY CRAP, 10.15 MILES. Time: 1:39. Not bad, especially considering that there were geese around the lake I was circling, and every time I passed them, I got all flinchy because I just knew they were going to charge me with their evil, snapping beaks. But I am going to be hurting this afternoon. Where are those ice packs?

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Gym actually sort of irked me today. How is it that when I go in and lift weights twice a week, and I’m getting stronger in nearly every part of my body, able to lift or push heavier and heavier loads, my shoulders steadfastly refuse to let me take on more than fifty pounds? Give me a break! I can see the muscle building there! I know I’m doing the work! Whither the numerical payoff, hmmm?

Also, I tried to use one of those “DIY barbells” today, where you slip the desired number of plates onto the ends of the cunningly bent bar. As it turned out, those spring-like squeezy things sitting around that I thought were for strengthening hand muscles? They’re supposed to slip onto the ends of the barbell, preventing the plates from, oh, flying off and rolling across the room. Three times. But who’s counting (other than the increasingly and justifiably huffy body builders around me)? Thank you, young college-y looking kid who finally came over and quietly put the clips on for me; I owe you two – one extra because you didn’t laugh or roll your eyes.

It’s just a blah sort of day, teetering on the edge of “bad,” but not quite interesting enough to push it over. Of course, I haven’t yet thought about dinner; a cooking catastrophe would be fittingly timed, wouldn’t it?

Date night tomorrow, though – a party with Eric’s work friends. Maybe you have to have a really bad day in order to set yourself up for a great one. Food for thought!

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(Pervy teenage neighbors, you’re welcome. )

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Today, a nice and sunny day, Gabe saw one girl riding her bike and called to her before I could say anything. He invited her to play with him in the backyard, as she’d done many other occasions when Sam was home. In theory, I’m fine with her playing with Gabe, and she was happy to do so, too. Now there are two other big kids back there playing with him.

When Sam gets home, he will have homework. Knowing these kids are already in his backyard will make him very sad and anxious.
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This sucks.

EDIT: And then, to complicate things, fifteen minutes after Sam was out there, the whole gang of big kids decided to move the party elsewhere, abruptly leaving Gabe (whom I don’t want roaming the neighborhood) behind. So much for him feeling included.

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Sam, on the other hand, is probably going to come home in high spirits. Tonight is the Bible Blast night when, for memorizing verses and Bible facts, the kids get to turn one of their adult helpers into a “chocolate volcano.” Sam has a bottle of chocolate syrup at the ready, though he was slightly disappointed when I told him that, no, it wouldn’t be possible to attach a garden hose to it. I don’t envy the man who’ll be sitting in the plastic swimming pool, being doused in all things chocolate; some of these kids seem to have a real sadistic streak in them. (Sam even considered bringing chocolate ice cream…)

Spring is here, mostly. Of course, it’s going to rain this weekend, despite being warmer, so the Tiger Scout trip to the alpaca farm (which I’ve actually been eagerly awaiting – they’d have to have yarn, wouldn’t you think?) may be less enjoyable than we’d hoped. Can’t have everything you want, I guess. (Grumble.)

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This could be worse, since I have an appointment in a week to have my eyes examined for the first time since we lived in Toledo, and I was planning on getting contacts again (the better for non-steamed-up running). Still, that’s a whole week of blind living if I can’t find them, and I was planning on hanging onto them for emergencies, anyway. And then there’s the wildly irritating fact that they have to be somewhere in my vicinity. Really, glasses don’t just get up and walk away. Gabe offered such helpful hints as “Look on top of the bookcase!” which is where I put items that he’s been throwing or otherwise using for naughty purposes. No way could he have put them there for me, and I don’t think he’d have hidden them elsewhere; his random acts of secrecy are less than covert. (“You don’t see me. Go away now,” he’ll announce suddenly, arms tightly crossed over his chest, holding whatever I “don’t see” closely to him.)

I have no clue where to look next, but I’ll probably spend the day tossing the house in search of the elusive spectacles. Send me “find it” thoughts, please?

EDIT: Found them!

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Went to the gym and ran. I made it five miles and had to stop due to my knee suddenly hurting quite a bit, which was very disappointing; physically and mentally, I had at least another mile or two left in me before I’d have started feeling ready to stop.

Went down to the neighboring town for new running shoes. The store was closed. (I should have checked before going, curse me.)

Ran to the pet store for crickets for Sam’s science experiment. We had just plunked down our money for four little cages of crickets when the lady heard what we were doing and informed me that we didn’t stand a chance at being able to tell how much the crickets were drinking, since more would evaporate than go down their throats. Well, this should be fun

Going here next weekend, and the hotel has a pool, but I don’t have a bathing suit that fits anymore. We stopped by Target for cricket drinks, and I tried on a suit. It was pretty, but it didn’t fit, and I didn’t have time to experiment since the boys started turning into wild hyenas. No suit for me.

Anything else care to go wrong? At this point, I’ve lost all expectations to the contrary.

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8-15 inches coming, according to weather.com. According to the twitch by my eye, what’s also coming is me with a shotgun, blasting at the clouds and screaming.

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I live in Wisconsin.
Our primary was two weeks ago.
I believe you meant to be calling Ohio, Texas, Vermont, or Rhode Island.

We actually had a human call last night, and she seemed quite startled to find out that we weren’t in Ohio. Automatic dialer, for the lose.

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…and that after a “big thaw,” it’s hard to do much but laugh strangely when people tell me that their bulbs are sprouting. I’m beginning to think it’s all some sort of conspiracy: that spring is never, ever coming, and everybody knows that but is still trying to pretend that it’s not the case. I’m the only one not in on the joke.

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Knew there was a reason I needed to do laundry last night. I just felt too lump-like to drag myself downstairs to do it. Consequences…

When Gabe was a baby, he used to get insanely jealous whenever I would try to give Sam any undivided attention. He doesn’t throw tantrums or try to push Sam away from me the way he used to, but, maddeningly, he still tries to shove his way into the picture so I can’t just focus on Sam. Doing homework with Sam? He wants to grab the abacus or steal Sam’s pencils. Listening to Sam read? He’s climbing all over us and singing loudly. Just trying to kiss Sam goodbye as he’s heading off to the bus? Gabe’s grousing that I’m not dropping everything to get him some more juice right now. I thought these were supposed to be first-born strategies, ways of acting out against the “new kid in town”!

Can’t wait for Eric to get back home from this trip; doing “crowd control” parenting is far more stressful than dealing with them one at a time.

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I should probably leave all that out of the Craigslist ad, right?

Hard to stay mad at him for long, though, especially when he gets horrified that I might be mad in the first place. Also, while he was in time-out the second time, a nearby stranger listened to me correcting him and complimented my patience. That made it a little better.

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THE NATIONAL WEATHER SERVICE HAS ISSUED A WINTER STORM WATCH…WHICH IS IN EFFECT FROM SUNDAY MORNING THROUGH SUNDAY EVENING.

SNOW AMOUNTS GENERALLY IN THE 6 TO 13 INCH RANGE ARE POSSIBLE SUNDAY INTO SUNDAY EVENING…WITH THE HIGHEST AMOUNTS OVER SOUTHEAST WISCONSIN.

…No. No, thank you. I’d like to exchange this for something more suitable.

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When I go to the weather.com site and the banner is flashing red at me, bespeaking the doom of me and mine, it makes me say very bad words. (This is why I try not to go to the site until after Sam leaves for the bus stop, if I can help it. Young Goodman Samuel’s tsks of disapproval are also a bit wearing before I’ve had my caffeine.) Milwaukee might get 12 inches now, they’re saying. Snow, snow, and more snow right up until Saturday. Lurvely.

I had planned to go visit another preschool today, but we’ll see, considering the weather forecast. We went to one yesterday, and Gabe fell in love. If you ask him what he liked about it, he’ll tell you about a bug in a plastic baby food box; it had been found that morning, crawling on the classroom rug, and the teacher had captured it for the kids to examine before freeing it. When she first showed it to Gabe, he freaked and ran away, but after being assured that it couldn’t get out of the box, he decided it was the Best Thing Ever, and more than enough reason to choose that preschool over all others. We’ll see.

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Gabe is sick. Again. Bad fever. Again. We’ve been doing the late night, fever-induced, surreal conversations, wrapped in a torturous swirl of tossing and turning and random squealing in my ear. Over and over and OVER…

If he’s still fevered tomorrow, I’m taking him back to the doctor. So sick of this, and I can’t imagine he’s much happier about it. I know he’s getting dehydrated again, too, because when he’s sick he goes off food and drink, and he won’t even make exceptions for popsicles or other liquid-giving treats. I try feeding him salty foods, but when he’s refusing to eat more than a couple of bites, it doesn’t help. Also, he’s constipated all to heck, so that’s making the situation worse (and being made worse by the situation).

Eric stayed home with him yesterday while I took Sam to the birthday party that Gabe had been awaiting so eagerly. He was consoled by the goody bag we brought home for him, as well as the promise that we’d take him bowling when he gets better. Eric and Gabe stayed home from church today, too, which also had Gabe rather upset. If this keeps up, he’ll be as angry as he is sick, and we’ll have a genuine Katie Ka-Boom situation on our hands.

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Sometimes I don’t even know where to begin.

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We do not have car, nor do we have any answers about car.

We do not have more diarrhea, but neither do we have nap.

We also do not have enough chocolate in the house for me to deal.

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Today it’s very, very cold. Naturally, that sent a signal to our furnace that it should go on holiday. Fifty-five degrees in the house. I restart it, and it valiantly attempts to work, but we’ll see. Making call in a moment, after I finish dealing with…

Fiasco #2! I need to return the monitor, and since we’re forced to go out anyway, I offer to pick up some baby formula for a friend who’s out and who doesn’t want to drag her baby out in sub-zero temps. We get out to the car…and the battery is dead. I call AAA, and they’re sending a truck to jump us, so while we wait, I have time to deal with…

Fiasco #3! (Three strikes; I’m out.) Gabe mutters that he has to use the bathroom, so I send him upstairs (I’m on the phone with AAA at the time). When I hang up, I go up to find that he’s had diarrhea! Thankfully – praise GOD – he made it to the potty in time. Unfortunately, he was wearing a onesie, and the tail end of it was in the potty when he went.

I want a do-over.

UPDATE: Jump-start of car – failed. Car has been towed. Furnace company’s answering service: “They went out to lunch a little early! Can I take a message?” Gabe: self-medicating his diarrhea by speed-eating mass amounts of string cheese. If it works, I’ll bear it in mind for next time.

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Sarcasm. It comes easy and early to some, apparently.

Everybody slept much better last night, though both kids found their way into my bed again at some point. Sam must have come first, though I didn’t wake then, because the first time I did wake was because Gabe was pummeling us both and howling, “Sam took my place!” Fortunately, Sam is amenable to moving over when the alternative is to continue being yelled at or kicked; I don’t make an ideal mediator at 2 in the morning.

Gabe is still off food, but he’s more willing to drink, so I’ll take what I can get. He is hungry, of course, but everything must taste bad at the moment; he had me open a banana (“Tastes bad!”) and a yogurt (“Yucky yogurt!”) and was moving on to a granola bar when I suggested that he take a moment and figure out what he really could stand to eat for more than one bite. The suggestion was not well-received (“No! I don’t want to talk!”), but he returned to his juice in the meantime and may be more willing to compromise when the subject is revisited.

I don’t think we’ll do MOPS today, as much as that pains me. I really, really could have used the adult conversation! Still, with Gabe’s fever coming and going, I’m not comfortable trusting that this “going” phase will continue on into health – at least, not enough to put him in a childcare room with other people’s little ones. Still, sadness. Last night, I kept the grocery delivery man in my kitchen, chatting aimlessly while I signed the forms, just out of loneliness; I have to return the (probably pointless) Holter monitor this morning, and I harbor a pathetic hope that the technician takes her time removing it. I probably need therapy for this. My favorite therapy has been out of the question for too long, since the gym, too, would require a healthy kid instead of the infected one I have.

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