This week marked my return to the pool for more reasons than just working on my tan or entertaining my kids. I’ve decided to train for a super-duper tiny triathlon, and consequently, this will require some swimming. Now before you get all impressed, you should know that I’ve done one before, about four years ago, between the births of Mr. Skywalker and Princess Lea. The one I did before was more challenging. The one I did before required more training. The one I did before seemed more sophisticated. The one I did before included men in the race.
So I’m starting over again, and despite the short distance of this race, triathlon training at any level requires a certain amount of commitment to the training. It is not easy to just go biking or swimming. Biking requires time, a lot of distance, and a bunch of equipment, namely the bike itself. Swimming requires, well, going to a body of water . . . and getting wet. Running requires much less stuff, time, and is not as wet (unless you are Darth Vader, who comes home and drips sweat all over the kitchen floor - - hazardous and gross to those of us barefoot-for-the-summer people), or at least it does the way I’ve gone about it. Walk out your door and run. Simple as that!
I arrived at the triathlon decision because running alone is not getting me where I want to be. Certainly, I have gained some cardiovascular endurance, but I haven’t dropped the extra pounds that I had hoped, I haven’t been able to vastly increase my distances due to excuse making (see last week’s entry), and frankly, I just don’t like it enough. I mean, I dislike it so much that I spent $35 plus shipping for a shirt that says, “Running Sucks.” Unfortunately, I did this before I thought about what I would say when my kids asked me what the letters spell on my shirt. I can’t even wear it! Okay, I wear it. I just tell my kids that it says, “Running is Awesome!!” but Princess Lea will figure out the real answer soon.
Once I made the commitment to myself that I really would do this triathlon thing again, I made a little training plan in my head and a list of supplies I would need. Luckily, all I could come up with was a swimsuit for training in the pool (and new tires for the bike, a bike computer, a better bike seat, better watch, etc., but let’s not think about that stuff right now.) You know, the Speedo kind. So I dragged Princess Lea to the Nike outlet hoping to find something simple, suitable, and Speedo-ish. “Ummm, yeah, we didn’t get any suits in this year,” the nice Nike salesperson quipped. Frustrated (me mostly), we distracted ourselves with back-to-school sales and the playground at the outlets, and then I pulled her along to Dick’s, promising a smoothie if we could just make it through one more store.
Of course Dick’s could deliver on the swimsuit, but their selection was kind of small, so, having kept my daughter in shopping mode for much longer than she is normally willing to endure, I grabbed the most unassuming, slimming, blackest suit I could find in my size and countered it with a psychedelic, tie-dyed swim cap that I was actually excited to squeeze onto my head, and we hit the checkout. I mean, my size is my size, right? Who needs to try the bathing suit on? This is a one-piece, swimmer’s suit. This is not the same as a beach/pool suit. I should not have to order my customary 5-10 suits, spend gazillions of dollars in the process and then send them all back only to settle on one from Target, right?
Wrong.
The day was planned perfectly, like any self-respecting, stay-at-home-just-for-the-summer mom would do it. We were going to be up at 7:30, the kids would be deposited nicely in the childcare at the gym by 8:30, and I would be in the pool by 8:45. At 8:10, I went upstairs to change into my new suit. Pulling it on, it felt a bit snug, but hey, I was a lifeguard before, and I spent a couple of my younger years on a summer swim team, a new suit is supposed to be a little snug, this is how it works. I looked in the mirror. “Acceptable,” I thought, and turned for a profile view . . . “Ugh! What is THAT??” I asked the mirror. I got closer. I wiped the dust from the mirror. I looked again. What I saw is the fact that the fine people at Speedo have reduced the rear-end portion of their suits by at least 50 percent. I should’ve known, I mean, I did not fail to notice as all of the fathers’ heads at swimming lessons all did a simultaneous 180 degree swivel as the cute, young swimming instructor passed them by with her clip board. I remember thinking, “Wow, that suit is a little low in the back, yes?” but this wasn’t really on my radar as I picked out my own.
Now I know what you are thinking, “Maybe, Kelly, it’s just your backside that has increased by 50 percent, not the other way around,” but I can say honestly that even though I am not the same size that I was at the tender age of 17, my size now is my size now. It should fit, right? It’s not like I’m trying to squeeze into something smaller or need some kind of reality check about my figure. A bathing suit in my size should not be a squeezing device for love handles!!
Basically, that’s what I saw - - squished love handles. Love handles amplified by a too small rear of a bathing suit. “THIS is NOT going to work, “I thought, or more honestly, said aloud to myself. Simultaneously, a crack of thunder interrupted my thoughts. Great. My suit does not fit and now the pool will be closed for 20 minutes - - as long as there is no more thunder. Another rumble. “It’s a SIGN!! YES! That’s it!! Mother Nature has decided for me that this suit will not cut it. I cannot be seen by anyone, even the 15-year-old, acne-faced lifeguard with these back bulges!!”
At this moment, the good angel appeared on my shoulder. “Oh, but I have been planning this swim for like four days. It’s my first swim! If I miss this, my entire training plan could be ruined! Stop being so vain! Nobody cares! “I ran downstairs to go check it out in the basement mirror. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad from another view.
On my way, I ran into my children, who were surprisingly eating a very civilized breakfast at their kid table in the living room, watching some Phineas and Ferb. I tried to take advantage of this and snuck quietly past . . .
“MAMA! WHAT IS THAT??”
Oh my little Skywalker, he doesn’t miss anything. “It’s my swimsuit.”
“Are you going running in THAT??” he asked. Princess Lea just stared.
“Oh, no, Buddy, I’m going to swim some laps in it . . .maybe,” and I’m sneaking, sneaking, sneaking behind the half wall between the living room and the hallway.
“Where’s your other one?”
“Don’t worry about it, big guy. Just eat your breakfast.”
Break! I took the silent pause as my moment to escape to the basement. I looked at the front. Good! What was I worried about? Turned to the side . . . ugh. There they were. Turned to the back . . . and as if on cue once again, a rumble of thunder.
Taking my hint from Mother Nature, I canceled my swim for the morning. I probably could’ve sucked it up, and in, and made the suit work, but after fretting about it for a half hour, and with the passing storm, a morning swim just wasn’t going to work with the schedule for the rest of the day.
There is, however, a positive ending to this story. After dropping the kids with my mom for the afternoon and having a fun lunch with some good friends, I rallied. I would not let this first day of swim training pass me by. After lunch, I stopped in Hudson’s All-Star Sports, which, to my delight, was exactly what I was looking for. They cater to the high school athlete, but they have a huge wall of swimsuits, a plethora of Lycra that would suit a wide range of aqua-minded folks. I grabbed a suit one size bigger, sized up the rear, and took it home.
Twenty minutes later, I was comfortably gliding my way through the cool water, listening to the rhythmic sound of my breathing, and feeling a little impressed about the way my body just does what it is supposed to do when I’m swimming - - even after taking a four year break. Even after what it took to get there, I can say that swimming definitely does not suck. Somebody should make a t-shirt that says that.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Take a Number
As a teacher of high school students, I’ve heard my fair share of excuses. There is no worse day at school for excuses, however, than the day the senior research paper is due. It’s been a while since I’ve taught senior English class that requires a traditional research paper, but research paper d-day, and all of the excuses and explanations that accompany the line-up of empty handed students has left an indelible mark in my brain. On one of those days, after experiencing the “excuse round up” for a couple of years, I felt like telling the kids in line at my desk to take a number, like when the deli counter is too busy, and just sit down, I would get to each student’s slice of his or her unique story for why the paper wasn’t awaiting my eyes to read as soon as I could.
Then I stopped myself. Why was I engaging and indulging these kids in their excuse making? Why was it taking up half of a forty minute block of learning time? What a waste! What was I teaching them? The paper is still late no matter how awesomely contrived the story is (oh and some of them were really good), so what did it matter if I heard the excuse or not? It was always awkward anyway. Some kids would fidget through a story, some giggled the whole time, others would produce actual tears, and I would just nod my head and in my most monotone, disingenuous voice say, “I’m sorry that happened. Turn it in as soon as you get it done. You know it’s late no matter what, right?” Ugh! Agonizing!!
So at my breaking point, I stared down the serpentine line of kids winding its way from my desk back to the door of my classroom, and instead of having them take a number for me to listen to their stories, I had them take a number of a different sort. I got up from my desk, shooed the kids back to their seats, took up a piece of chalk and composed a list that looked something like this:
1. My printer broke.
2. I’m done. I just have to write the conclusion and do the Works Cited page.
3. My computer crashed.
4. My computer crashed AND my printer broke.
5. It’s in my car and “they” won’t let me out to get it.
6. Ummm, I just found out we had to put research in the paper.
7. My printer ran out of ink. Look! I brought you the blank pages.
8. I had baseball, soccer, softball, volleyball, football, basketball, track, AND wrestling practice last night.
9. I changed my topic yesterday.
10. My dog ate it. For real. Here are the scraps.
I turned and smiled at my students. I said, “Pick a number.” They looked at me and we all started laughing. Excuses are comical - - especially when grouped together in a big old list. There is no doubt that writing a research paper can be a challenge. It’s out of the comfort zone for a lot of people, and when we feel uneasy or forced to confront a situation with which we are uncomfortable, we make excuses to rationalize why we just can’t get it done and why an easier task is much more suitable.
The other day, I was talking with Darth Vader about why I wasn’t going running. “It’s just too hot,” I said. “I mean, when the sun is beating down, my body just doesn’t respond. I shut down! I need clouds.”
“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure everybody feels that way, Kelly. Go on the treadmill.”
“Ugh. I don’t want to! I hate the treadmill, especially when it is so nice outside.”
Hmph.
Yesterday, I was talking to my cousin about the same thing. She totally agreed. “Oh yeah, I can’t run when it’s super hot either - - especially when the sun is out.”
Yes! See? I’m not crazy after all! “Yeah, like sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me.”
“Uh, I think everybody feels that way, Kelly. I just go on my treadmill.”
SNAP!
It turns out that I am a classic excuse maker, especially when it comes to running, which brings me to why I was thinking about the research paper excuse list. Running, despite the fact that it has been a part of my life since about fourth grade, is still out of my comfort zone. I want it to be less difficult than it is. I see people out there running on 90 degree days, and I think that they are having an easier time than I would. They’re not. Running is hard and uncomfortable - - literally and figuratively - - for everyone. As the adage goes, “If it were easy, then everyone would do it.” Duh. I make excuses all the time to rationalize in my mind the reasons that I should do something easier - - like recline and read a book. (I mean I AM an English teacher after all.)
So I’ve decided to compose my own excuse list and tell myself to pick a number when I don’t want to go running. After all, it doesn’t matter what the excuse actually is. I could say, “It’s too hot,” or I could just say, “Number 2.” Both groups of words mean: “I am afraid to push myself. I am uncomfortable with being uncomfortable.” My hope is that I will look at it and laugh at myself when I realize how ridiculous my excuses sound when lumped together - - like my students and their missing research paper reasons. I will probably share this list eventually so you can laugh at me, too. Chances are I will eventually come up with a way to rationalize why the whole list is completely valid. Change is hard!!
Then I stopped myself. Why was I engaging and indulging these kids in their excuse making? Why was it taking up half of a forty minute block of learning time? What a waste! What was I teaching them? The paper is still late no matter how awesomely contrived the story is (oh and some of them were really good), so what did it matter if I heard the excuse or not? It was always awkward anyway. Some kids would fidget through a story, some giggled the whole time, others would produce actual tears, and I would just nod my head and in my most monotone, disingenuous voice say, “I’m sorry that happened. Turn it in as soon as you get it done. You know it’s late no matter what, right?” Ugh! Agonizing!!
So at my breaking point, I stared down the serpentine line of kids winding its way from my desk back to the door of my classroom, and instead of having them take a number for me to listen to their stories, I had them take a number of a different sort. I got up from my desk, shooed the kids back to their seats, took up a piece of chalk and composed a list that looked something like this:
1. My printer broke.
2. I’m done. I just have to write the conclusion and do the Works Cited page.
3. My computer crashed.
4. My computer crashed AND my printer broke.
5. It’s in my car and “they” won’t let me out to get it.
6. Ummm, I just found out we had to put research in the paper.
7. My printer ran out of ink. Look! I brought you the blank pages.
8. I had baseball, soccer, softball, volleyball, football, basketball, track, AND wrestling practice last night.
9. I changed my topic yesterday.
10. My dog ate it. For real. Here are the scraps.
I turned and smiled at my students. I said, “Pick a number.” They looked at me and we all started laughing. Excuses are comical - - especially when grouped together in a big old list. There is no doubt that writing a research paper can be a challenge. It’s out of the comfort zone for a lot of people, and when we feel uneasy or forced to confront a situation with which we are uncomfortable, we make excuses to rationalize why we just can’t get it done and why an easier task is much more suitable.
The other day, I was talking with Darth Vader about why I wasn’t going running. “It’s just too hot,” I said. “I mean, when the sun is beating down, my body just doesn’t respond. I shut down! I need clouds.”
“Uh, I hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure everybody feels that way, Kelly. Go on the treadmill.”
“Ugh. I don’t want to! I hate the treadmill, especially when it is so nice outside.”
Hmph.
Yesterday, I was talking to my cousin about the same thing. She totally agreed. “Oh yeah, I can’t run when it’s super hot either - - especially when the sun is out.”
Yes! See? I’m not crazy after all! “Yeah, like sometimes I feel like there is something wrong with me.”
“Uh, I think everybody feels that way, Kelly. I just go on my treadmill.”
SNAP!
It turns out that I am a classic excuse maker, especially when it comes to running, which brings me to why I was thinking about the research paper excuse list. Running, despite the fact that it has been a part of my life since about fourth grade, is still out of my comfort zone. I want it to be less difficult than it is. I see people out there running on 90 degree days, and I think that they are having an easier time than I would. They’re not. Running is hard and uncomfortable - - literally and figuratively - - for everyone. As the adage goes, “If it were easy, then everyone would do it.” Duh. I make excuses all the time to rationalize in my mind the reasons that I should do something easier - - like recline and read a book. (I mean I AM an English teacher after all.)
So I’ve decided to compose my own excuse list and tell myself to pick a number when I don’t want to go running. After all, it doesn’t matter what the excuse actually is. I could say, “It’s too hot,” or I could just say, “Number 2.” Both groups of words mean: “I am afraid to push myself. I am uncomfortable with being uncomfortable.” My hope is that I will look at it and laugh at myself when I realize how ridiculous my excuses sound when lumped together - - like my students and their missing research paper reasons. I will probably share this list eventually so you can laugh at me, too. Chances are I will eventually come up with a way to rationalize why the whole list is completely valid. Change is hard!!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
You Had Me at Barf
Last Saturday, my kids had their first race experience, well, first race experience since they were very young. I tried the whole wife who brings the kids to watch their daddy race thing, but I found it just wasn’t my style. The two times I did it included a triathlon where I chased Princess Lea on a beach that geese were using as a litter box and a 5K that involved packing up a newborn baby Skywalker and toddler Princess L and all of their stuff: bottles, blankies, burp cloths, strollers, snacks, hats, sunscreen, toys, oh yeah, and diapers. (What mom forgets those? This one.) By the time I had all that collected, loaded both kids in the car, drove to the race, unpacked all the stuff, got the stroller out and walked over to the finish, we got there just in time to see Daddy cross. There were plenty of cute, young moms there doing the same thing with make-up on and hair coiffed, and I stood there with my eyes half opened and a messy ponytail, wondering if I thought to brush my teeth before we left.
After that, I decided it would be much easier to just run in the race myself.
So after about three years or so of running in little road races here and there (and getting no faster, mind you . . . meanwhile, Darth Vader has run himself back in time, his biggest competition often being local high school cross country teams), the perfect circumstances arose for the kids to come to a race. It was a 5K in downtown Akron with the proceeds from the race going to a worthy local scholarship fund. Luckily, Grandpa and Nana agreed to take charge of the kids. Now if there were any two people that you would want to watch over your kids while in downtown Akron, Grandpa and Nana are the people to do it. Between the two of them, I think they knew everyone there, including every law enforcement officer, the mayor, and a priest, and if your kids get lost in downtown Akron, I would think all three of these would come in handy.
The kids were sort of bewildered when we first arrived. Princess Lea I think understood, but Skywalker seemed pretty impressed with the large amount of people who had gathered in their running clothes that day. “He goin’ runnin’, Daddy? She goin runnin’, too?” he asked as we made our way to the registration tables. Meanwhile, the voice of one of my best friends echoed in my head: “Oh man! I HATED having to go to my dad’s races when I was a kid. We always had to get up at the crack of dawn and dress in layers, and stay for the stupid awards. Ugh. It was awful!” Okay, so yes, I made them get up early, and yes, they did have on an extra layer, but they were cold! At least we don’t normally stay for awards. I was one for three, that’s close enough I guess.
We registered, deposited the kids with the grandparents, and we were off. As I ran, I thought about the kids and how I want them to above all be healthy. It would be great if they eventually embraced running as a hobby or a supplement to whatever sport they decide to take up, but I don’t want them to hate it or resent it because it’s something their parents do or force them to attend. I should mention now that my thoughts are never fluid when I’m running. I suffer from runners’ ADD. I’ll be in a zone, thinking about kids, their future, being healthy or trying to work over some other problem in my head, all of a sudden it’s: “Man, it is HOT!!” or “How in the world is that 65-year-old woman passing me?” or “I hope this chic next to me likes Jay-Z as much as I do because she doesn’t have an iPod and my music is super loud," and then I spend the next few minutes trying to figure out the thing I was thinking about in the first place. It’s mind boggling. For real.
As I finished, I met up with my family. Skywalker was clapping, smiling and, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy-ing,” but Princess Lea was not. She was stone faced. I thought she might cry. She was scared, I could tell, but I couldn’t imagine about what. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked. There was no response, just more blank staring.
“Uhhh, I think she saw a couple of guys throwing up when they were done,” Darth Vader offered. People who run Vader’s speed do that, and maybe it’s just me, but I really don’t see the point of choosing to push yourself so hard that you barf. Just sayin’.
It ended up that the witnessing of “spitting up,” in Princess L’s terms, is what caught her attention. It may have scared her at first, but it definitely opened up the avenue of communication about running in general. She asked a bunch of questions of Darth Vader right then and there, and later on had even more to ask me. Hopefully someday she won’t be talking to a friend on the phone reminiscing about how her parents used to drag her to races where she had to watch people yak after pushing themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Hopefully, she’ll take this little nugget of interest and in her own way and on her own terms, discover a path of making healthy decisions that works for her.
After that, I decided it would be much easier to just run in the race myself.
So after about three years or so of running in little road races here and there (and getting no faster, mind you . . . meanwhile, Darth Vader has run himself back in time, his biggest competition often being local high school cross country teams), the perfect circumstances arose for the kids to come to a race. It was a 5K in downtown Akron with the proceeds from the race going to a worthy local scholarship fund. Luckily, Grandpa and Nana agreed to take charge of the kids. Now if there were any two people that you would want to watch over your kids while in downtown Akron, Grandpa and Nana are the people to do it. Between the two of them, I think they knew everyone there, including every law enforcement officer, the mayor, and a priest, and if your kids get lost in downtown Akron, I would think all three of these would come in handy.
The kids were sort of bewildered when we first arrived. Princess Lea I think understood, but Skywalker seemed pretty impressed with the large amount of people who had gathered in their running clothes that day. “He goin’ runnin’, Daddy? She goin runnin’, too?” he asked as we made our way to the registration tables. Meanwhile, the voice of one of my best friends echoed in my head: “Oh man! I HATED having to go to my dad’s races when I was a kid. We always had to get up at the crack of dawn and dress in layers, and stay for the stupid awards. Ugh. It was awful!” Okay, so yes, I made them get up early, and yes, they did have on an extra layer, but they were cold! At least we don’t normally stay for awards. I was one for three, that’s close enough I guess.
We registered, deposited the kids with the grandparents, and we were off. As I ran, I thought about the kids and how I want them to above all be healthy. It would be great if they eventually embraced running as a hobby or a supplement to whatever sport they decide to take up, but I don’t want them to hate it or resent it because it’s something their parents do or force them to attend. I should mention now that my thoughts are never fluid when I’m running. I suffer from runners’ ADD. I’ll be in a zone, thinking about kids, their future, being healthy or trying to work over some other problem in my head, all of a sudden it’s: “Man, it is HOT!!” or “How in the world is that 65-year-old woman passing me?” or “I hope this chic next to me likes Jay-Z as much as I do because she doesn’t have an iPod and my music is super loud," and then I spend the next few minutes trying to figure out the thing I was thinking about in the first place. It’s mind boggling. For real.
As I finished, I met up with my family. Skywalker was clapping, smiling and, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy-ing,” but Princess Lea was not. She was stone faced. I thought she might cry. She was scared, I could tell, but I couldn’t imagine about what. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” I asked. There was no response, just more blank staring.
“Uhhh, I think she saw a couple of guys throwing up when they were done,” Darth Vader offered. People who run Vader’s speed do that, and maybe it’s just me, but I really don’t see the point of choosing to push yourself so hard that you barf. Just sayin’.
It ended up that the witnessing of “spitting up,” in Princess L’s terms, is what caught her attention. It may have scared her at first, but it definitely opened up the avenue of communication about running in general. She asked a bunch of questions of Darth Vader right then and there, and later on had even more to ask me. Hopefully someday she won’t be talking to a friend on the phone reminiscing about how her parents used to drag her to races where she had to watch people yak after pushing themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Hopefully, she’ll take this little nugget of interest and in her own way and on her own terms, discover a path of making healthy decisions that works for her.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Kick In the Pants
This morning I woke up to my son kicking my butt. You see, when Todd and I got married, having kids was about the last thing on our minds. One of our first major purchases together was our bed, and we went with a queen because we couldn't imagine the thought of sleeping so far apart from each other on a vast expanse of a king. Sigh, yes, we were like that.
Well that was certainly then, when Todd had no idea that he'd be spending the better part of his 30s dreaming about throwing 'bows in an endless game of basketball. (What I wouldn't do for some extra space just to get myself out of the game!) Once we finally began to take parenting on as a serious idea, we were those naive people who think: "Our kids will NEVER sleep in our bed. We will be tough, and besides, OUR kids will sleep through the night." Flash forward to Luke sleeping in our bed last night because he had a bad dream, or at least we think he did. Really, he just collected his blankie and his stuffed monkey and said to me in his sweet, almost three-year-old voice, "I sleep in your bed, Mama," and when it's 3 AM, this mama doesn't argue. Just get me back in the too small bed, playing man-to-man defense as soon as humanly possible.
At 8 AM, I woke up to Luke kicking me in the backside as I was clinging to what was left of a half-way decent dream in my little patch of queen-sized heaven. Todd had surprisingly snuck off to work without a sound, and the two of us were huddled in a little clump. Sports dreaming must run in the family, and in Luke's case, soccer is the sport of choice. As my eyes opened and adjusted to the light (waking up when the sun has already risen is a tasty treat in our house), it dawned on me (pun intended)that today would be the day that I begin a blog. Does it matter that at the time of this revelation my son was using my arse as a soccer ball? Yes, yes it does. I like to think that my family inspires me all the time, and most of the time in ways that are extremely unconventional.
So here is my blog. I'm not really sure what the focus is yet. I named it "It Runs In the Family" because I think I want to write a little bit about being a mom of young kids, my plight of being a struggling runner, and being the wife of an amazing guy who is "dreaming the impossible dream" of making it to the Boston Marathon - - my own Man of Lamancha. None of these things make us super special or important, but I like to write, and I like to make people laugh, so this is my way of doing my thing. I don't know how long it will last or if anyone will read it, and I'm okay with that. If anything, it will serve as documentation for my kids later on that life probably was as crazy as they remember it. So thank you, Lukey, for giving me the motivation I needed, but now you can stay in your own bed. I'm good for awhile.
Well that was certainly then, when Todd had no idea that he'd be spending the better part of his 30s dreaming about throwing 'bows in an endless game of basketball. (What I wouldn't do for some extra space just to get myself out of the game!) Once we finally began to take parenting on as a serious idea, we were those naive people who think: "Our kids will NEVER sleep in our bed. We will be tough, and besides, OUR kids will sleep through the night." Flash forward to Luke sleeping in our bed last night because he had a bad dream, or at least we think he did. Really, he just collected his blankie and his stuffed monkey and said to me in his sweet, almost three-year-old voice, "I sleep in your bed, Mama," and when it's 3 AM, this mama doesn't argue. Just get me back in the too small bed, playing man-to-man defense as soon as humanly possible.
At 8 AM, I woke up to Luke kicking me in the backside as I was clinging to what was left of a half-way decent dream in my little patch of queen-sized heaven. Todd had surprisingly snuck off to work without a sound, and the two of us were huddled in a little clump. Sports dreaming must run in the family, and in Luke's case, soccer is the sport of choice. As my eyes opened and adjusted to the light (waking up when the sun has already risen is a tasty treat in our house), it dawned on me (pun intended)that today would be the day that I begin a blog. Does it matter that at the time of this revelation my son was using my arse as a soccer ball? Yes, yes it does. I like to think that my family inspires me all the time, and most of the time in ways that are extremely unconventional.
So here is my blog. I'm not really sure what the focus is yet. I named it "It Runs In the Family" because I think I want to write a little bit about being a mom of young kids, my plight of being a struggling runner, and being the wife of an amazing guy who is "dreaming the impossible dream" of making it to the Boston Marathon - - my own Man of Lamancha. None of these things make us super special or important, but I like to write, and I like to make people laugh, so this is my way of doing my thing. I don't know how long it will last or if anyone will read it, and I'm okay with that. If anything, it will serve as documentation for my kids later on that life probably was as crazy as they remember it. So thank you, Lukey, for giving me the motivation I needed, but now you can stay in your own bed. I'm good for awhile.
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