Son-I-Care

Today my son shared the most horrifying bit of information that he could have ever told me. We were in the bathroom trying to get him ready for the day. As I rolled the tube of toothpaste against the side of the counter to try to squeeze a 1/4 size dab out of the flat tube, he looked up and sheepishly, yet proudly admitted, "Mom, sometimes I use your toothbrush."

What!!! My head was reeling. I know this little dirt dauber, candy eating off of the floor when no one is looking, fingernail biter, yet never washing hands unless told to, nose picking little imp, did not just say he had my toothbrush in his mouth.

My own mother wouldn't even share a glass of water with us on a 100 degree hot summer's day. "I don't know where your mouths have been!"she repeated over and over like a parrot throughout our entire childhood years.

"Why?" I demanded of him incredulously as my mind wondered where my own mouth had been.

"Because your's spins. I want one that spins, too," he said matter-of-factly as if that made it okay.

Well, it may not have been okay, but it was my fault. Stupid me. He had had a cheesy spinning brush with a Spiderman head, and he once had another with the Hulk. Spongebob even made an appearance, as did Thomas the Train and others. They all came and went with the batteries. But most importantly he has been using a spinning brush for over three years.

That is until the day I forgot. The batteries had gone out in his, and for convenience sake, I dug out the dentist freebie and gave it to him. I replaced it a couple of months later with another dentist small head freebie. It must have gone on like that for six to eight months.

Completely forgetting that he had been using quasi high tech brushes (no, it was not the Sonicare that I used, but it did spin), I had done the equivalent of replacing a child's xBox with an Atari pong game. And instead of telling me about it, he simply resolved the issue himself. I typically love his resourcefulness, but I am not quite feeling it this time for some reason.

But I will admit one thing, it got me going... straight to the store for a new toothbrush for him (and me) and you better believe they both spin.

Hobby Dropping

As I was sitting here for hours yesterday  finding wonderful ideas on pinterest to pin for later use, I began to realize that I spend so much time researching new ideas that I never have time to actually do one. And as I thought about it even more, I realized that I have a history of doing that. I find a new interest, I throw myself into it head first and then spend hours upon hours reading about it and shopping for supplies.

I have boxes of paints, canvases, and brushes for the paintings I never created. There is another box somewhere with suede upholsory material and stitchwitchery for seat cushions I never covered. I have empty scrapbooks, photographs, stickers, and hundreds of empty sleeves. (I think I did two pages.) It is sad to say, but I even have a box of grinning doll heads and body parts worthy of its own scary movie.

No matter what the hobby is, or was, it literally always engulfs my life with such an urgency and need that it supercedes all things sensible in my world -- for just about two months. Then I discover a year later in hindsight when I stumble across a paintbrush or doll head, that I have commited Hobby Dropping.

For example, in 2009, I was asked to join the knitting club at school after admitting that I used to crochet as a child.

I went to my first club meeting. There were young girls experianced enough to teach, and others awkwardly holding their needles. But all were filled with such enthusiasm, and were asking questions and showing off beautiful works of art that I began to feel the yarn calling out to me.

Hours later I was in the Michaels' checkout line with over eighty dollars worth of yarn, kntting needles, and pattern books. My evenings were spent on Ravelry.com looking for patterns and saving them to my "future" projects box. I even had to buy a four drawer storage unit to keep it organized. And I, who never watch television was propped in front of one because my friend said that is how she finds time to finish hers. So there I sat splitting my tv time between crocheting 120 granny squares for my mom's blanket and knitting my first scarf for my husband for Christmas.

Well, it's 2013, and I believe the storage unit is in the back of the closet of the guest room wedged behind some paintings we took down, and beside an old vacuum cleaner.  The needles are still in the scarf where I left off, and the five completed granny squares should be in the bottom drawer.

Hmm, I wonder how long does it take for material to dry rot? I could always donate it to the knitting club, (which I dropped after one year, btw.)

Nah! I will get to it one day. It is, afterall, a hobby!

The Workbook Blues

He sits beside me hiding beneath a blanket while doing his workbook as slowly as he possibly can. I have screamed, punished, threatened, and more. He was even begging for time-out at one point, which I refused. Why would I remove him from the very workbook I want him to complete?

"Vacation Station" they called it. Just 15 to 20 minutes of simple reading and math to keep them from forgetting everything they learned all year.

So why does it take us over two hours and a ton of stress!

Then again , maybe it is my fault. Maybe I should not have given him the bowl of cereal first?

Oh, who am I kidding, he would act like this without the sugar. 

As we are coming up on one hour and twenty minutes. My breathing has become shallow and I am feeling horribly anxious. Maybe it's from the third cup of coffee that I consumed to replace the yearning for a shot of Jack Daniels. But at least the tide has turned and he is now speaking to me again. The last thing he had said earlier as he scooted his chair as far away as possible was, "I do not like you!" I guess I am on the friends list again.

"Mommy, if I blow in your ear, will it come out the other side?"

"No, baby!"

"Can we try?"

I smiled at him and tapped the book as if to say let's get back to work.

"Please!"

"Okay." Maybe if I let him, he will  finish his work which should take five more minutes.

Not so gently, he blew. I stiffened and cringed beneath the spew of damp, spittled breath. Fun, I thought and then wondered how much more I would have to tolerate before he wouold get back on task.

It worked. After ten more minutes of playing "Blow Hot Wet Air in Each Other's Ears," he became bored and finally began to slowly complete the rest taking all of 1 hour and 45 minutes. Yeah! We kept it under two today!

Now it's time to start his minimum 10 minutes of daily reading. I wonder how long that is going to take?

First Twenty-Five in Fifty

The simple email mentioned that the last day of swimming practice would be filled with fun and games and that the parents should wear suits to participate in a family relay. It was, in fact, very innocuous at best. It actually sounded like something I would not mind doing.

I knew only a small amount of the mothers had bodies suitable for the bathing suit competition in Miss U.S.A., so I had no shame in being in the larger percentage that did not. I also knew from conversations that a lot of them could not swim, either. And since they told us we would be wearing weights, I did not mind playing along for the children's sake. Lastly, the children had been told by their coach to make sure all of their parents remembered their suits, so there was little wiggle room for getting out of it, anyway.  Surely, I could participate where the parents had to run across with anklets while the children swam.

The morning of the big event, I awoke at 6:30a.m. as usual, threw on my shorts and a tank top, and headed out to walk my dog. I opened the front door and I was immediately assaulted by a burst of cold air.  The temperature had dropped 30 degrees. Instead of the 95 degree days we had been experiancing for the entire swimming season, the thermometer read sixty-four. Talk about an omen.

I quickly ran upstairs and threw on my sweats, and I do mean long pants and a jacket. This was going to be a probelm. If I couldn't even walk the dog without being bundled up, how was I supposed to strip down to a tiny swimsuit and then get into an unheated pool? It was just not going to happen. I was also sure that the children would not be forced to endure this. I hurried to check my email for the cancellation notice. 

There was none. 

That's when a tiny little voice in the back of my head reminded me of the rules: "They will swim every day rain or shine unless we hear thunder or see lightening." The rules book never mentioned temperature. And as much I was wanting to find a big black cloud off in the distance, I saw only a clear blue sky. We would be swimming. 

"Parents who are swimming, line up behind your child!" the voice commanded.

I moved to the other side of the pool and slowly began to realize something, First of all, there were very few participating parents... and secondly, most of them were men. I overheard one dad telling another how he thought it odd that his wife asked him to bring her today and then added "be sure to pack your swimsuit."

That is when it hit me, the other moms knew what was involved and had gotten out of it. The two men laughed at his joke, but they may as well have been laughing at me. I secretly cursed the fact that my husband was out of town. But I knew he could not have taken off anyway.

Next, I heard the coach announce jokingly, that the kids had voted for parents to do the breast stroke. Oh my gosh, I am actually supposed to really swim. And any stroke for me to attempt was going to be a joke. I told my son, I thought it was a mistake for me to be there and that I did not belong because I am not a real swimmer. But he looked at me and said "Uh-uh! You going in!"

Had he not noticed, I only play with him in the 4 feet, and  he has never seen me swim the length of a pool. In fact, he had to talk me into going down the waterslide for the first time last year. Somehow I feel as though those little facts escaped him. Unfortunately, he would have been heartbroken if I backed out of it now. (I know because I tried.)

I looked around again and noticed that the two other lady swimmers that I did see were wearing competition style speedo suits. The boring one piece suits that are ugly but extremely functional. I was in a two piece halter just waiting for my boobs to pop out. 

Just then my chest tightened and my breathing became very shallow. I  looked down into my proud son's face who was beaming and hugging and hanging off of me because he was so happy to have his mother one of the few participating. The was no escape. 

The whistle blew and the children swam the first leg, donning what I found out were the weights -- t-shirts that we would have to peel off of them and then place on our cold dry bodies before taking the next leg of the race.

As I fought to get into the twisted wet mess, I saw the two men on either side of me dive in like Michael Phelps. I, then, sat down shamelessly on the edge, slid into the water and proceeded to do the worst version of freestyle anyone had ever seen.

Everything I ever chastised my son for doing, was done, including keeping my head above the water. I stopped three or four times. I finally gave up on the stroke and did some crazy under water streamline the last 1/4 of the way. I stopped short of the wall because I was out of air and I couldn't find the energy to do one more stroke. It brought back images of my son struggling and stopping just shy of the wall while I screamed, "Keep going, you got to touch the wall!" Now I know what he was feeling.

As I mustered the last bit of strength to come up and lunge for it, someone grabbed my hand.  No, not to help me, but instead to get the wet T-shirt off of me while not understanding that I was fighting and pulling back under the water to keep my halter top from lifting with it.

Finally, it was on the next kid, and all eyes were off of me.

I had to stand there a moment longer to catch my breath and then it hit me, I am almost 50 years old had just swam my first 25 meters.

On the outside I may have been wheezing, and gasping for air with no energy to even climb out, on the inside I was beaming. Once again, I had conquered another fear. But for now, I guess I will finally listen to my husband and take those swimming lessons I had been avoiding like the plaque.

Jumping in the Pool with Both Eyes Closed

There we were sitting by the swimming pool of an aquaintance, watching my son play in the water alone (her boys had just left for ten days in Hawaii with their dad); meanwhile the guys grilled in her outside kitchen.

There were three of us. The other two ladies were discussing pool "stuff" while I (mildy bored) was trying desperately to listen intently without yawning:

"So who is your pool service company?"

"Pool Professionals."

"I use Acme Pool."

"Oh, I have been using mine a few years and he is pretty good."

They seem to be belting out one liners of  information just to fill the silence because there was no real discussion or reason to the statements.

"I have a new guy. I have had him for two years and he is really good.

Did she just say she has used him "for two years?" News flash: He is not new anymore.

"Really?"

"Yes, he is Hispanic, but he really knows his stuff"

Did she just say that? Why does it matter what his ethnicity is? Because he is Hispanic is he not supposed to know anything about pools. Now if she said he was young, but he really knows his stuff, that would be acceptable.

"Have you heard of the new resurfacing material? It's supposed to be great on the bottom."

"Oh yes. I am having it applied next month."

"I am so glad that I have the electronic cover."

"Me too. It really helps."

Helps what? I wondered because neither finished that thought?

Finally, I chimed in, "Wow, that blue tarp rolls out by itself? I thought you had to pull it across."

"Oh no!" they sang together.

"It keeps all the leaves out and you wouldn't have to get a fence if you didn't want to," one said.

Wait, what did she say? I think I heard something I could actually comment on; I could finally join the conversation. Or, so I thought.

"I definitely can understand and relate. Even though all I have is a cheeesy blow-up pool from Big Lots for my son, I still need to take into consideration the two year old next door since we do not have a fence. So much to my son's dismay, I have to deflate it or drain it every night for fear of him wondering onto my property and crawling in. So imagine the water bill to constantly fill it. It's crazy."

I waited. No response.

I went on, "Because all it takes is a couple of inches of water to drown a little one."

Still no response.

"We all share one expansive yard without a fence; the kids just run from one yard to another."

Uncomfortable silience.

"So that pool cover unwinds and covers it automatically, huh?"

"Oh yes, you just push a button."

"That's great," I said with a big Vanna White smile that was probably just as genuine (not) as hers. The only difference was that she got paid to put hers on while I was trying to hide behind mine.

All Things Possible!

Yes, one and a half months ago I ran my first 5K. That was huge to me. But it cannot touch Saturday's feat. I completed a 1/2 marathon.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have a bad back and knees. They also know that I signed up for this run back in December when I had not so much as run a 1/4 mile in two years. But Anita asked and I said yes.

Well, I honestly admit that I did not practice like I was supposed to for the race. I was either too cold, too late, or I was too tired, so I did not start practicing until February. I had my first 5K scheduled in March and had a big fall two days before the 3 mile run. But, I did it anyway and was fine. In fact I was proud of myself. I had run my first race. But the next day I was tingling and numb all over. I had to hang upside down on an inversion machine just to stop the pain and then lay on the floor for twenty minutes. I was a mess.

Over the course of the month, I was taking Motrin and/or Naproxin around the clock. I had all but stopped running and had told everyone that I would not be running in the race in June.

Before I knew it, it was June -- my girfriend arrived bringing along with her stories from her last few races of other women who were ill prepared but yet still tried. She also offered me other walk/run ideas. I listened. I heard. I thought about how much that race meant to me. It was a bucket list item. And on top of that, I loved seeing the pride on my husband’s face when he told others that I was going to attempt it. Needless to say, I easily took the bait (it did not help that the race cost me over 100 dollars). I was going to at least start. Since I had sore knees and a stiff neck, I told myself I would play it safe and run a mile, maybe even three, just to say I ran in it. I suited up -- pinned on my number and got in line with 3000 other overzealous people. 

It was a wine country event so I figured I could run a mile or two and then go back and drown myself in my sorrows until my friend crossed the finish line. 

I lined up, the gun went off and we ran. 

I felt okay. I was listening to my body, and I heard nothing. But I listened to my head and was told to stop before I do hurt something. I thought about a little more and decided that I had to take care of myself because my family needed me. I would stop at the second mile marker.

That’s when a lady ran passed and got in front of me. Her shirt was not covered in endorsements, but a message instead: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me (Phil. 4:13).

Whoa! Is that message for me, I thought. I continued to question my abilities, my sanity, and whether or not I should even be trying. But the message kept coming into my mind.  I quickly realized that that message was absolutely for me.

I had been hurting so bad the week before that I was popping pain pills like candy. But that shirt was a sign to keep pressing on. Though I have herniated discs, bad knees, and a chronic achy back, I felt nothing that day. I took my time and was surrounded by the angels in the back: women half my height and double my width, men with limps, people way older than me both walking and running. How can you stop with them for inspiration? So I didn't.

I ran 11 of the 13 miles and walked two. And yes I finished the 1/2 Marathon. I eventually realized that it was not so I could gloat, but so I could stand as a testament to the power of the Lord. And I believe that I was allowed to do so to inspire someone else that if you believe and put your trust in the Lord, all things are possible!

More than 11 MInute Mile Pokey People

Wow! I had no idea what head games I would have to deal with in a simple 5K run. It was my first, and being a virgin, I was truly naive. I thought we would all line up in our proper places and pleasantly run at the pace we had accustomed ourselves to, enjoying the scenery and urging each other along.

What I was not prepared for was the onslaught of verbal abuse that would plague me the entire race from begining to end. There was name calling, bereting language, and put downs. Any support and urging given was all from a negative point of view (ie: Is that the best you can do?) I was truly not aware of what to expect. And the most surprising part of it all was that it all came from within.

The whistle blew, gun shot, or someone yelled. I still am not sure how we knew to start, I just moved with the crowd. Two minutes into it, I was out of breath. I was unintentionally running with a 10 minute miler friend. I did not mean too, but I was standing beside her chatting when everyone surged forward. And when that happens you move together like cattle on a stampede. That is when I understood the purpose of the 11 mile sign lady standing on the side of the road. I thought she was just standing there to watch the show, and would later drive over to mark the eleventh mile. But what the sign really meant was that the people standing in that area can all run a mile in under 11 minutes. Hence, the gun goes off, they move together -- no problem. Except, I was right in the middle of the pack. And that is exactly when the yelling began: What in the world were you thinking? You are a 16 minute miler. Slow down you idiot, or you will not make it to the first mile. 11 Mile Marker, huh? THIS IS A 5K AND 10K RACE! THERE ARE ONLY 6 MILES IN IT!

I had to slow up, but how to do it was another issue. There were people shoulder to shoulder, and to do so would have tripped someone else up. (Or maybe me, again.--see last blog.) Soon, the pack began to thin out after we reached the open road, and I was able to slow down to my normal pace... just in time before  passing out from over-exertion.

After I caught my breath and found my pace, I could finally relax and enjoy the scenery. And what did I see?Dog walker/runners passing me. People with strollers passing me. Little children passing me. My old students passing me. Why, even slightly obese people were passing me. Wow! I thought I was prepared. Well, obviously not, the little voice snipped.

But I kept chugging along.

Watching a dog runner/walker made me feel guilty.  I was thinking I should have brought my own Daisy, except I knew she would have pooped at least three times; that is exactly when their dog stopped to poop. Hah! I made the right choice I thought as I ran pass them. I guess the joke was on me though, because each time their dog stopped... and they stopped, they still caught up and passed me, eventually disappearing up ahead.

I was watching yet another stroller person bombard and run through us "slower than 11 mile a minute pokey people" like we were an obstacle course.  I soon realized that I should not have been upset with the stroller runner people for passing me because most of them were young stay-at-home moms who have nothing better to do than run every morning to bring back their youthful figures (that were not gone away to begin with.) They were forced by the rules to start in the back of the pack, but must of them (and some were men) belonged up with the sprinting "less than 10 mile a minute" runners.

Up ahead, my old favorite student who had sprinted passed me ealier had slowed to a walk. Yeah! I thought, I can run to catch up and say hello. Wrong! I was able to catch up just before she took off again, but was too tired to do more than squeak out a breathy, "Good..gasp gasp... to see...gasp... you. I... gasp...would hug you,... gasp, gasp... but it would... take...gasp... too... much...gasp... energy." I then mustered enough energy to run on a bit, so I could hide in a small pack to catch my breath out of her sight.

Are you crazy? Please don't do that again! You know that you cannot run and talk at the same time! And you had the nerve to run ahead like Flo-Jo to save face? Puh-leeze!

It was about that time that I had passed the first mile marker and was feeling pretty good about myself -- until I looked over my shoulder and became painfully aware of how many... or should I say few, people were behind me. The name calling began again. Is this the best you can do? You have old people passing you. I looked back again and saw about thirty  stragglers. I looked ahead and saw small children. I was in the back of the pack. Eighty percent of the runners were ahead. What was I doing wrong?

That is when I began to notice the helpers in their bright orange vests would always call out to me to "hang in there." You must look like the walking dead for every one of them to single you out for support, she said. Leave me alone, I screamed back -- in my head. But was this truly the best I could do? I had been practicing for a couple of weeks. Surely my pace was not this slow. I then remembered something my track coach used to yell thirty-something years ago (when I last ran for a real meet). "Open your legs!" Yes, I know that is normally not what you want to yell to a lady, but keeping them closed was exactly my problem. My 5'7" frame had the stride of a 4 year old. My husband would be proud to hear the women inside my head screaming, Open your legs! Quit being such a stingy strider! Wider,wider!  So I did.

Suddenly, I began passing others. I kept my same slow pace and passed my student, again. I then passed the two cheerleader mean girls who I saw making fun of my favorite student behind her back (the teacher in me wanted to chastise them, but the jogger me did not have the strength to do it properly).

I passed a few of the elderly and overweight folk who had passed me earlier. They were all walking now. I had a childish urge to tease "Naa, naa, na-naa, naa!" but didn't. Instead, I had an epiphany, they did not have a pace, they ran fast short distances and then would stop and walk long ways. I was doing it the right way.

As I neared the end of the race, we came upon a huge hill. Well, more like a slight upward grade that you would not normally notice if walking, but one that would seem like Mount Everest at the end of a run. I saw people falling by the wayside as I ran passed them and started feeling real good about myself. Yes! All that running on a hill in my neighborhood was paying off. Oh, don't you get too cocky missy, she reared her ugly head again, if that were the case, you would not be breathing like someone having an asthma attack. 

She was right. By the time I got to the top, I was panting hard and the finish line seem to be moving backwards as I moved forward. The orange vest people were really pouring it on thick now. You must look like you are going to die. The balloons that framed the finish line beckoned and teased. A lady beside me kept saying come on Mom you can do it! You must look so tired and ragged that people are referring to you as an old mother dragging down the home stretch. Yeah, she was not talking to me. Her mother was literally right behind me. Up ahead, even at fifty yards away, I could spot my 6'4" husband above the crowd.

Yes, you are fiinihing but what a sight you are going to be crawling across that line. 

NO! I will not! I can do this and I will do it in style.

No, you can't!

YES I WILL!

I suddenly felt a strength from deep down inside rise up and take over. I felt my legs lift higher. My body went upright. My back straightened and my legs kept lifting higher and higher. I could not believe it. Even the voice inside my head quieted. I felt her attitude change.

I began to sprint! The voice inside began to cheer!

You can do it! Faster, faster!

I sprinted the last 40 yards to cross the finish line in front of my proud, beaming husband and son.

And my time? I came in at 36 minutes and 34 seconds. I was not a 16 minute a mile runner afterall. I was now a 12 minute a mile runner.