The Bliss of Being Selfish

I love the word 'selfish'- don't you?  For one thing, words with the -ish suffix are usually cool with me.  Plus, if you're really angry, like, spitting mad, and yell at someone for being selfish, it often comes out as 'shellfish' instead.  That's always funny.  Also, when you say it over and over in your head, the 'fish' part of the word stands out.  Then you can imagine yourself as a beautiful, colorful, terribly vain and self-centered fish.  The self fish.

Turns out, there was already a name for the self fish.  Betta fish are very keen on themselves. Thank you, Google!

There.  Now that we've had a proper digression, you know you're on the right blog.

Everyone in my fishbowl world just celebrated Mother's Day; my third-no, fourth-fifth!-favorite holiday.  (It's cool that we live in a country where we celebrate so much that people can have fifth favorite holidays, huh?) I was the substitute teacher for a 3rd grade class the Friday before Mother's Day, which meant that I was to help the kids work on gifts for their moms.  They were tasked with writing a few sentences from the prompt: "My Mom is my hero because..." Walking around the classroom and trying to keep all the students engaged, I noticed some trends.  Moms are nice.  Moms take care of their kids.  Moms are helpful.  I started asking the kids to think a little deeper.  "Does your mom have another job beside being your mom?"  "Yeah, she's a probation officer.  She has a gun that she never lets me see."  "So, your mom must be pretty tough and brave, then."  "Yeaaaahhh...Yeah.  Yeah!  She is tough!"  "How about your mom?  What is she good at?" "Um.  Cooking.  And, um.............She's not good at cartwheels."  "Ok.  Moving on. I see you wrote that your mom plays with you.  What do you guys play together?" "Well, she helps me practice baseball.  But really, it's just me practicing and her playing.  She's not even on a baseball team, and I am." "Does your mom work while you're at school?"  "Oh. Um. Yeah. She's a nurse."  "My mom is a doctor!" "My mom throws the best birthday parties!" "My mom is bad at cartwheels, too!" "My mom gave birth to me!" "My mom potty trained me!"

Available on Amazon. Yes, for real.

The thing is, it was pretty difficult for the kids to think of anything unique or special about their moms.  Later, I asked Rip Claw how he would have answered some questions about me.  "Can you think of anything about me that is different from other moms?" Long think break. "No."  Sigh.  "Do you know what I like to do?"  "Um.......no.  Wait! Yes. You like to use the computer." Siiiiiggggghhhhh.  "What about running?  Have you ever seen me run?  Read books?  Play with you and Cupcake?  Go to the park?  Do I ever make you laugh?  How about our conversations?  Our bike rides?  I like to play games.  I like to go to the beach.  I like to do crafts."  He seemed surprised, but more than that, he seemed totally disinterested.  I'm pretty sure I was about 10 years old before I ever noticed that my mom did anything other than take care of me and my siblings, so I guess I shouldn't be too upset with my 7-year-old for still thinking of himself before me.

Which led me to thinking of this post.  (We always come back around to the point eventually.)

The fact of the matter is simple: Mom is a title, not a description.  Women who have children were women way before the children came along.  Obviously, kids are going to take a while to get to the realization that their moms are actually people with thoughts and needs and wants.  Rip Claw seems genuinely shocked when I say things like, "I was so bored." or "I'm so excited about going to this concert.  (Most) moms are, in a word, selfless.  That's what their children see, and that's about all they see.  Their moms give of themselves pretty much every minute that the kids are awake.  Even for a kid as thoughtful and sweet as my son, it's difficult to see past that selflessness and realize that there is sacrifice taking place.

I'm friends with some very smart women.  We have college degrees, insight, experience, and wit.  We're driven, successful, happy, and, yes, selfless.  Well, most of the time, anyway.  We've learned that we are all better when we take some time to be selfish.  By 'better' I mean in every way.  We're better moms, better wives, better at our jobs, better at being happy.  We even look better!  Almost 5 years ago, we started talking about planning a weekend away, just us girls.  After 10 or so months of emails, travel site visiting, and conversations with our husbands preparing them for what was going to happen, the Girls' Weekend tradition was born.

I'm pretty sure moms invented the "selfie" in order to get out from behind the camera once in a while. 

Our destination qualifications are pretty simple.  We want a pool.  We want a quiet room with a full kitchen.  We don't want to have to drive very far.  We want flat surfaces on which to lie down whenever we feel so inclined (or should I say, reclined).  Last year, we found a pretty perfect spot, about an hour's drive away, but the weather was horrible.  Totally hurricaneish.  We had to stay in the room watching movies, catching up on our magazine reading, and napping for many hours.  This year, we decided to go back to the same place, and were blessed with postcard-perfect weather the entire time.

We shopped for groceries beforehand, and we each brought a typical mom amount (1-3 grocery bags full) of snacks to share.  I ate every meal on our 10th floor balcony, looking out at this view.  We spent hours in the sunshine, switching between the private beach, one of many pools on the property, and the lazy river.  We went for quiet runs in the mornings after not setting an alarm or having a child crawl into bed to wake us.  Well, some of us did.

One of our number was forced to spend her time on crutches or a wheeled knee cart.  Great conversation starter, at least!

We missed our kids.  We missed our husbands.  It's always hard, being away from our families, even though it's only for a few days.  Rip Claw was very upset before I left.  When he asked me why I would even want to go somewhere without them, though, I had what I think is a pretty good answer.  "Well, son, the job of a parent is never, never done.  You know how I'm here all the time?  I get your breakfast, pack your lunch, make your dinner, help you with your homework, wash your clothes, and give you back tickles.  I wake up if you or Cupcake cries in the middle of the night.  I bring you to football practice and teach you new things and play with you and make sure you're behaving and growing up well.  I notice if your neck is dirty or your socks are stinky.  I find your shoes.  And you know what else?  Even when you're not around, or the house is clean or the laundry is done and I'm just sitting on the computer, I am ALWAYS worrying about, thinking of, and planning to make sure you and your sister are safe and happy.  I don't get weekends off from being your mom.  I don't even get hours off.  You know how much I love you, and I am so happy that I get to be your mom, but that doesn't mean I don't need a break sometimes.  It's like when you try to figure out a difficult problem.  Sometimes, if you give your brain a break from thinking about it, even just for a few minutes, you come back refreshed and with a new view, and that helps."  Okay, so that probably isn't the exact, word-for-word transcription of what I said, but it's pretty close.  He seemed to get it.  I was worried that he would still think that I wanted a break from him, but he didn't ask again about my reasons for wanting to go.  I told him that we would be having fun, relaxing, and having lots of naps, which he seemed okay with.

I spent about 20 minutes staring at the darkened elevator shaft, watching the bright cars zoom up and down, only to be bathed in darkness again as soon as the passengers stepped out.  It was oddly beautiful.

Less odd, more beautiful.  Midway through my beach run, I sat on a chunk of coquina like this and had myself a long Think and Stare at Water break.  Utterly blissful.

Every time I would settle in on a sunny lounge chair and take a deep breath of the fresh, salty air, I got a little choked up.  I felt such overwhelming appreciation and love for Charming, for our kids, for our lives, for the fact that despite all my imperfections and shortfalls, I have a husband who loves me and takes care of things so that I can lay in the sun and relax without worries for a few days.  It was absolutely marvelous.

I hope it's obvious that I would love and appreciate my Charming and my children even if I didn't get away from them for 52 hours a year; of course I would.  But I also think it's obvious that selflessness needs to take a holiday sometimes, and the colorful, unique, fun, exhausted person inside the Mom needs to be let loose to stare at elevators, dance, sit on rocks, try whiskey, keep the balcony doors open without concern about losing a toddler, finish a book, zoom down a water slide, paint her toenails, put on lipstick, sleep late, talk about Athleta's clothes for hours, laugh until we cry, and take a post-dinner nap.

If you don't believe me about the benefits of temporary selfishness, ask any one of these brilliant ladies.

What is your favorite way to spend your "me" time?

Living The Life

Hm.  Haven't done an a.k.a. for a while!

Alternate post title: If I Had A Billion Dollars...

It has been hard to avoid hearing about the billion dollar bracket challenge that started recently, so I'll assume that you already know about it, or have clicked on the link I provided just there.  I entered, and lost almost immediately.  However, it is also hard to keep from thinking thoughts that start with, "but if I did win a billion dollars..." even now, that my chance of winning has been reduced from 1/920,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 (That might be too many zeros.  It might be too few.  I know I'm tired of typing them, is all.) to zero.  Rip Claw knew about the challenge, and helped me make my picks.  The day after my bracket was submitted, I saw this article about Patriot's Quarterback Tom Brady and his wife, model Gisele Bundchen, putting their home on the market for $50 million.  Rip Claw has lately been thoroughly obsessed with football, so I called him over to look at the pictures with me of Tom Brady's house.  It is jaw-dropping.  Beautiful.  Magnificent.  Eco-friendly!  Enormous.  Palatial.  And, nauseating.  

I hope that's a secret passageway above all the shoes.  Otherwise, I don't want it.

I told Rip Claw that, sure, we could buy Tom Brady's house if we won the billion.  He understood, though, that we weren't going to win it, so he quickly informed Charming that it was time for him to start playing in the NFL.  I guess he thought that our telling him that Daddy didn't play tackle football because it was too dangerous meant that Daddy's fear was the only thing holding him back from an NFL career.  Awwww, right?

Later, once we had explained the statistical improbability of Charming going from his desk job in the communication industry, and taking his English degree to the gridiron to start making millions of dollars, Rip Claw asked me about other ways we could afford to buy Tom Brady's house.  

RC: "Well, what other jobs make a lot of money?"

Me: "Other than professional athletes?  People who make smart business decisions usually make a lot of money.  People who invent things, people who make things that almost everyone needs or uses every day, they have enough money to buy Tom Brady's house."

RC: "Ooh!  What can I invent that nobody else has thought of?"

Me: "Um.  If I knew that, I probably would have already invented it.  The point is to think of something that nobody else has thought of or been able to make before.  Like, the guy who started Facebook.  He has way more money than any football player."

RC: "Hm.  Are you sure that Dad won't play football?"

Me:  "Yup.  You know, Tom Brady's wife also has a lot of money.  Her job is to be a model."

RC: "What's a model?"

Me: "A model is someone who wears clothes for pictures or shows in order to make people want to buy the clothes."

RC: "What?!  So, she just gets paid to wear clothes?  How did she get to be a model?"

Me: "Models are usually very good looking.  They make people think that they'll also look good in the clothes they're modeling, so the companies that made the clothes get a lot of money from people buying their products."

RC: "Why don't you be a model?"

My first thought at this point in the conversation was to use the following visual aid:

Your mom, modeling her clothes. "Look how many shades of pink I can wear at once!"

Yeaaahhh.... That just ain't me.

Me: "You have to be really good looking to be a model.  They're pretty much all a lot taller than me, a lot skinnier, and they don't eat nearly so many chips as I do.  Plus, I never really wanted to be a model."

RC: "You're really pretty!  Sometimes you even smell pretty!"

Me, thinking: "Coincidence that the times I smell pretty I am wearing Victoria's Secret Halo perfume and Gisele is a Victoria's Secret model?"

Me: "Thanks, son!  But really.  I don't want to be a model."

RC: "Can boys be models?"

Me: "Oh, yeah.  There are lots of boy models.  You're definitely good looking enough to be one, too, but that's not really something Daddy and I want for you.  We like to focus more on your character and your actions and teaching you to be honest, kind, friendly, generous, and, you know, to make good choices."

RC: "Yeah.  You want me to do the right things and not worry about how I look."
Me: "Exactly!"
RC: "So, why do you think they're selling that house, anyway?"
Me: "It's hard to say.  Maybe they want a bigger house.  Maybe they want to live somewhere other than California.  Maybe they want a smaller house!"
RC: "OOH!  Like our house?  Do you think they want to trade houses with us?
Me: "It's possible.  About as likely as us winning the billion dollars

Why wouldn't they want to trade?  

Because of all the talk about becoming billionaires, I came to a few conclusions about riches.

• You know how they say money can't buy happiness?  I believe it.  Not to say that the Brady-Bundchens aren't happy because they have so much money, but I cannot imagine that they're happier than my family.  
• The next bullet point is going to sound like a lie.  It's not.
• ~$2 million would go toward buying a few nice houses in a few nice locations.  ~$1 million would go toward traveling, with the family.  We might have to do it all on land and sea, though, as Charming hates to fly.  I would hire a financial planner and make some investments.  Charming and I would play in the World Series of Poker.  Then, I would donate the rest to causes I feel are important.  

I think that the best part of having a lot of money would be the ability to give a lot of money away.  I would love to have a house with a spiral staircase and more than one bathroom, but I don't need 14,000 square feet, a crystal chandelier in my closet, or pictures of my home in Architectural Digest.  My favorite wine costs $10/bottle.  I mean, I'm sure there are better wines out there.  Otherwise, why would Sommelier be a job? But I just can't see myself suddenly finding a gaping hole in my life that only fine wine or expensive shoes or extra cars could fill.  You know where I do find myself lacking?  I'm lazy about housework.  I waste time on social media sites and on playing games I will never win (which you should totally start playing right now, by the by).  I certainly wouldn't become a better person by having the money to pay people to clean and organize my house(s).  I don't need extra time until I learn to discipline myself to use the free time I do have in wise ways.  If I could buy a migraine cure or the ability to never procrastinate, show up late, or snap at my kids, I might spend more millions.

The bottom line is that I really, truly can't see how anyone with gobs of money can possibly justify spending it on themselves.  Now, I do realize that my buying a couple million dollars worth of houses and spending so much on travel and poker qualifies as spending gobs on myself.  However, I feel I'm being realistic.  It would be thrilling to not ever have to worry about having enough money, to live comfortably, and to not worry about a job schedule, retirement, or my family's well-being.  I would love to be able to go with Charming and the kids to see different places and experience different cultures all around the world.

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow mindedness,

and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts..."

                                                    -Mark Twain

I also feel I'm being realistic about how much money I would share.  Enough to make a difference, that's for sure.  I'm not the smartest brick in the tower (or however the saying goes) but I can give money away to worthy causes like nobody's biz.  I have no desire to go to fancy parties with other rich people, I have fun friends already.  I couldn't care less about fashion designers or expensive clothing/shoes/accessories.  It's the poor people, the sick people, and the parents from my son's school who are unable to afford $50/year for their kids to join a running group that make my heart hurt.  Come to think of it, I got the same sick feeling from looking at all those scholarship applications as I did when I looked at the pictures of Gisele's closet.

For once, I'll let you solicit advice.  I shouldn't tell others what to do with their money...unless they ask.  Just remember this: "rich" is totally subjective.

The Last Enchilada

So long, dear friend.  See you in a while. :(

I'm about to do something I've never done before in all the years I can remember.  I have committed myself to a Clean Eating Challenge.  Me.  Mrs. I don't have to try to lose weight.  Mrs. Bucker of trends.  Mrs. I can button my jeans.  One of those links may have been a test to see whether or not you click on them. The truth is, my jeans don't button without a lot of breath-holding, these days.  I have some bad habits, which started to catch up with me as soon as I stopped running after my stress fracture.  There was no cost to commit to this challenge, and although I know being coached through a detox-ish diet-type thing like this via social media goes a teensy bit against what I've said before, I've accepted the fact that I do need to change some things.

Charming agreed (voluntarily!) to accept the challenge with me, so for the next two weeks, our diet will consist of all gross food and nothing delicious.  Okay, I know that isn't true.  Actually, I do cook healthy meals most of the time.  We eat a lot of vegetables, fruits, and lean proteins.  We don't keep soda in the house, and rarely eat fast food.  We do eat tacos from Tijuana Flats every single Tuesday.  My sister says our lives revolve around TF's Taco Tuesdaze promo, which is only partly true.  Only our Tuesdays revolve around it.  But still, it shouldn't be a problem to indulge one night each week with a soda, tortilla chips, and a couple of shells filled with juicy meat, crispy lettuce, lots of cheese, crunchy onions, seeds-removed jalapenos, briny black olives, fresh tomatoes and a generous drizzle of jalapeno hot sauce.  The problem lies with what happens after our other healthy, balanced, appropriately portioned meals.  Chips.  Chips.  Lots and lots of chips.  We eat a shameful amount of chips.  Go on.  Get a mental picture of a "shameful" amount of chips.  I bet you imagined low.  I won't exaggerate and say that our chip habit keeps Frito-Lay in business, but I will tell you that I calculated how much money we could save by cutting the chips from our grocery bill, and the number fell right between "embarrassing" and "nauseating."

It seems contradictory to tell myself (and others) that I'm passionate about health and fitness and doing what I can to maintain both, when all the while I'm giving in to every food that cries, "Eat me!" I don't believe that cutting out all sugar, all fat, all carbs, or all meat is a good way to go.  But I can't deny that eliminating all the super-processed, deep fried, nutritionally void foods will be of benefit to me.  I don't need the leftover holiday candy.  I don't need ice cream.  I don't need beer.  I'm pretty sure that I've passed the point in my life wherein I can indulge in those things without consequences to my body.

Cheers!  No adult beverages for 14 days!

So, here's the plan:  Coach Jasmine will provide recipes, online motivation, workout guides, de-stressing yoga poses, and all the Shakeology a person can drink.  (I've never tried Shakeology.  I really dislike drinking anything that comes from a blender, unless it is, like, peppermint-chocolate flavored vodka with vanilla ice cream and brownie chunks.  I also tend to gag on things made with powder, except when I've mixed a hot chocolate packet into a cup of coffee and added some toffee flavored creamer.  So, I'm not too eager to try the shakes, but we'll see how things go.)  Those of us participating in the challenge are responsible for eating 3 "clean" meals and 2 healthy snacks each day, and drinking lots of water.  We are to abstain from alcohol, processed foods, and lethargy.  We are encouraged to share our successes and shortfalls, to post pictures, and to track our workouts online for all to see.

Day 1.  Whose jeans do you think are happier: mine, or Alessandra Ambrosio's?  I think mine are under an awful lot of stress, and that can't be good.

I don't actually plan to cook any different, except that I'll not be taking Tuesdays off from my kitchen duties.  On the menu for tonight is spaghetti.  I made a big batch of my vegetable-chocked sauce last month and put some in the freezer.  Today, I just have to heat the sauce and cook some whole grain pasta, and throw together some salads.  Tuesday, I'll make tacos (surprise!) with chicken breasts instead of ground beef and with more vegetables than cheese.

You know what's cool?  You can join, too!  The internet is wonderfully inclusive like that.  You don't necessarily have to change in every way the challenge suggests, either.  You could be like me, and just push yourself to break your worst habit(s).  I would love to hear about it, whatever you do!  Wait-- unless it's eating at Tijuana Flats and gorging yourself on chips.  I can do without your telling me those things.

Know When To Hold Babies, Know When To Fold Laundry

Did you know that Husband and I met while playing poker?  Did you know that from 1999-2007, I played poker an average of once a week?  Do you know anyone else with this shirt?

Front

Back

Becoming a mom has drastically reduced my poker playing time.  Big surprise, right?  Despite the fact that I would usually rather sleep than have pocket Aces, I'm still a player.  I just happen to use my poker skills on my children, these days, rather than on those across the felt.

Poker Face- (Don't sing the song in your head.  You know you'll regret it.)  It takes talent and skill to keep your face, tone of voice, and body language neutral when in an intense or exciting situation.  Similarly, not letting a smile escape when Baby is in timeout, grinning and giggling and nodding repentantly as she is sternly told, "Hitting hurts!" for the 23rd time in an hour, is a learned and honed skill.

Patience- The better the poker play, the longer the game.  There's no "quick pick" option in tournament poker, like when playing the lottery.  Not to blow my own horn or whatever, but I've kinda got the patience of a saint.  I can deal for a long time with 6 y.o.'s deliberate attempts to be annoying.  Hours.  Days!  I stand in front of the pantry cupboard for a total of ~2 hours, 8 minutes each week while Baby decides what she wants for a snack.

"Crackah"

"You'd like a cracker?"

"No no no."

"Cereal?"

"No no no."

"Raisins?"

"NO!!!!"

"Sesame sticks?"

"Yah."

"Ok. Let's put some in a bowl."

"No no no no no!  Crackah!"

"Cracker?"

"No."

"Cashews?  Craisins?  Graham cracker?"

"Wahhhh hah hah hah!  Crack ahhhhh!"

"Cracker?"

"Yah."

"Ok.  Here's your cracker."

"No."

It takes gobs of patience to listen to 6 y.o. read, even now that he's gotten quick at it.  Usually, he peppers every other sentence with a bout of whining, unless he's in an agreeable mood and things are moving along well, at which time Baby makes it her mission to test her lung capacity for screaming and her climbing-on-people's-heads ability.  Both of them were colicky as infants, and my patience kept me calm during hours of non-stop, inconsolable crying for those months which seemed like decades.  I've waited out countless tantrums, kept my cool even when repeating the same instructions over and over again, and I've even managed not to lose patience with drivers ahead of me on the road going 10 mph under the speed limit while a freshly-potty-trained little boy is in the back seat telling me he needs to go.  See, I realized long ago that my ability to wait for the right time to make a big move (or not) during a card game could serve me well in so many other aspects of life.  

Reading Tells- If you watch the pros play poker (don't click on this link if you don't want the November 9 revealed) in the World Series of Poker, you'll quickly see that their ability to read their opponents' tells is almost magical. I'm not that good a poker player, but I do know how to read my opponents, and my kids.  I can tell what they are thinking and can predict their next moves like I'm inside their heads.  

I like to hold 'em.

I know the look 6 y.o. gets in his eye when he's about to start talking nonsense or make gross noises come from various parts of his body.  I know just by looking at Baby when it is too much for me to ask her to put down her filthy, germy, most loved stuffed friend, Bun Bun.  I can tell when one of them is about to test the limits and run into the road, and I am rarely surprised by their behavior out in public.  I know what to expect, because I know their tells.

Calling a Bluff- Perhaps most important of all the poker skills is to know when your opponent is bluffing and you can safely push all in or make a big bet and get them out of the hand.  As a mom, it can be hard to tell the difference between, "My tummy hurts" and "My tummy hurts" and to figure out when your child is bluffing to get out of eating and when you need to scoop him up and run into the bathroom.  So far, I've been able to make the right call whenever my son has tried to bluff* me.

On Tilt- Going "on tilt" during a poker game is a pretty quick way to lose a lot of chips.  Basically, it happens when you lose a big hand or make one bad decision and immediately try to make up for the lost money by playing more aggressively or without thinking as clearly; playing emotionally rather than with your head.  Your all-in opponent sucks out and beats you on the river, for example, by getting the one out that they needed.  Or you simply call a bet when you should've raised and allow yourself to end up losing a hand that you could have won.  I've learned that parenting is not its most successful when played done on tilt.  Despite all the patience, all the good reads, all the knowledge about child-rearing and decision making, sometimes there are bad days.  If you let that frustration get to you, or you start to question yourself as a parent because of one mistake, or you focus on the negative instead of on the big picture positive, you'll soon find it difficult to make good decisions or to keep your smile.

They say that Texas Hold 'Em is a game that takes just minutes to learn, but a lifetime to master.  I believe that almost the same thing can be said of parenting- almost anyone can become a parent, but then it takes the rest of your life to master the "game."


"When in Vegas, I play __________"

Lady Gaga or Kenny Rogers?  Whose song is in your head after reading this?

*Husband and I don't take lying lightly, and we don't call it 'bluffing' around the house.  I promise.

The Intelligence "Quonundrum"

EXASPERATED SIGH

No, I take that back.  It isn't fair to you.  My exasperation has nothing to do with you.  It's just, I've been writing a post about 6 y.o. for weeks, and I can't seem to say what I want to say.  I've written lots of words, of course, but I can't seem to get my point across.  So, let me try again, this time using the K.I.S.S.(keep it simple, stupid) method that so many of my college professors were fond of pretending they invented.

Be still, my heart <3

A recent letter, conference with the principal, classroom change, conference with the new teacher, and lots of research have combined to bring up a lot of questions in my mind about intelligence, achievement, being gifted, and parenting.

Pride = Prejudice? I worry that showing too much pride in my children will lead to prejudice from their peers and teachers.  If I tell anyone who will listen about all the words Baby can say or about all the ways 6 y.o. impresses me with his knowledge, do those listening immediately feel defensive?  Like most parents I actually know (not those tv parents), I don't compare my kids to others.  However, I always think that they think I'm bragging, like, "Lookit what my kid does!  Does yours do that?  No?  HA!  I win!"  If that were the attitude behind my words, I think some prejudice would be justified.  It was this fear, of eye-rolling behind our backs and alienation of our son, that kept Husband and me quiet(ish) last year, when he was in Kindergarten.  I think we both felt that it was more important to go with the flow, to let the teacher lead, than to make a fuss about how bored he was, and how little he seemed to be learning in school.

Gifted?  I'm growing increasingly annoyed by the label 'gifted.'  Everyone is gifted.  Some are emotionally gifted, some are athletically gifted, some are artistically gifted, some are gifted at making friends, some are gastronomically gifted, and can eat anything.  The belief, which can be confirmed with an IQ test, that 6 y.o. has greater intelligence than some, does not change who he is, how he has been raised, or what he can eventually achieve.  We've taught our son that name-calling is wrong and can be hurtful.  Similarly, I feel that labels, even those intended to be positive, can be harmful in the long term.

Red oval marks the spot of my educated guess of his IQ.

When a new teacher meets him, I don't want them thinking, "Oh, here's the gifted 6 y.o."  I want them to think, "Here's a unique 6 y.o."  Is it so much to wish for his teachers to get to know him and to recognize and adapt their teaching to the ways he is "gifted?"  His current school doesn't have a gifted program.  Testing is done after 1st grade, so if he qualifies and we decide to enroll him in the gifted program next year, he would have to leave his friends and all that is familiar to go to a new school.  Is that fair?  Conversely, is it fair to make him sit in a classroom where he is repeatedly "taught" things that he already knows, just because he's sitting with people he knows?

Parenting 101: Husband and I both love reading.  We read to both of our kids, and have since before they were even born.  We talk to them.  We answer even the really hard questions that 6 y.o. poses to us.  They're smart kids, and we have always parented under the assumption that smart was a good thing.  We bought puzzles instead of video games (until quite recently), we play games instead of watching television (at least some times!).  When our son started preschool at age 3, we were thrilled that he already knew his colors and letters and how to count, which were the requirements for the end of the year.  Each year since, we've been less and less thrilled with what our child knows in relation to the standard expectations and in relation to his peers.  I feel ridiculous, even admitting that.  We should only be proud!  He knows the things he has been taught, so why do we now feel even the slightest twinge of regret at having taught him?  It's because we don't want him to be an outcast.  We don't want him to hide his intelligence in favor of seeming "normal."

Butterfly on his knee, on release to the wild day.  Oh, and those are Clone Wars Captain's bars (homemade, of course) on his shoulders.

I've started to worry that preparing Baby for school, teaching her colors and letters and numbers, is not as good a technique as is keeping her on the same level as other kids her age.  Should she have been watching inane television shows a long time ago?  Which is more important, early in life?  A sense of belonging, or academic achievement?  6 y.o. isn't lacking friends, and I do think he feels like he fits in with his peers.  But how long can that last, I wonder.  How long before he withdraws into his own head because his thoughts are more interesting than the chatter of the kids around him?

My fears ---> his fears? When I was in 8th grade, our class had a spelling bee.  I lost on purpose.  My teacher knew I had thrown the game, and made me compete against the rest of the school.  I won.  I went on to a larger competition (districts, maybe?) and came in 2nd, meaning I was one of 2 people who moved on.  The next step was a regional bee, wherein I came in 8th place.  I went out on the word 'tirade,' by the bye.  I refused to study the list of words I was given to prepare for the district and regional competitions.  I didn't want to win.  The point of that story is this: will my fear of achievement transfer to my children?  Would all of these academic worries and talk of gifted-ness be irrelevant if not for my own concerns about feeling braggy and making sure my kids are comfortable with who they are?

The truth of the matter is that Husband and I think we have the best son on the planet.  He's brave.  He's funny.  He's adventurous and oh-so-handsome.  He's smart.  He has traits that make me think he's going to out-think me by the time he has out-grown me.  His memory is remarkable, his problem solving skills are very advanced, he's artistic and thoughtful, introspective and curious.  He loves being challenged, and he loves puzzles.  He reads, and comprehends, as if he's been doing it for years (plural) rather than year (singular).  He's also short-tempered, complains of a headache when the coffee table is turned backward, and would rather not participate than not be first.  The truth is that YOU also have the best kid on the planet.  The best one for you and the best one for us are different, but by design, I believe.

Does any parent know the best way to parent?  No.  We need to teach when we can, take what comes, solve the problems we are able to, and make sure our kids know that they are the best on the planet.

Have you ever thrown a game in favor of your opponents?

Na Na Na Boo Boo?

You know how when you tell someone you love dearly something- like, where you think a lost item is, or that their bike is going to get rusty from being left on the porch because the rain gets there, too or that they can't trust a certain friend, and then it turns out you were completely right and you find the lost item, the bike gets rusty, and the friend commits a blatant act of betrayal, but you don't want to stick out your tongue and gloat about being right because you love the person dearly and you don't like to see them suffering?(Or . That sentence went on so long, I'm not sure whether it ended up being a question or a statement.)  This is like that.  Well, sort-of.  I mean, I don't love Dr. Schmoctor, but I do love running (dur).  I probably don't care that it might hurt his feelings or damage his credibility with his other patients if I limped marched into the office and waved around my MRI results while chanting something like:

You're not a doctor but neither am I

You're not a doctor but neither am I

You didn't want to order an MRI

You didn't want to order an MRI

You said my problem was bur-si-tis

You said my problem was bur-si-tis

That's what we call a swing and a miss

That's what we call a swing and a miss

Sound off!

You were wrong

Wrong Wrong

Sound off!

I was right

Right Right

Na na na na BOO BOO!

I'm not really one to brag, though, about being right.  It is enough to know that I have proof that I told him so.  I told everyone so!  

Since I've been very grumpy whiny busy eating chocolate focused on other things and haven't written a blog post in a while, I'll sum up for you. 

7/4: Flat white flip-flops are the only shoes that match my 4th of July party outfit.  My calves hurt after standing all day in them.

7/8: Marathon training starts, despite my still-hurting calves.

7/9-8/10: Marathon mileage buildup at a totally safe rate.  Seriously.  Calves hurt at the beginning of each run, usually felt better a few miles in.  Around the beginning of August, I took a few days off because my left calf was hurting really bad.  I had a few bad runs because of the pain, but I could still run.

8/10: 12 mile, hilly run.  My left knee started to hurt during the last 3 miles.  Took a couple of days off.

8/21: 1st Chiropractor appointment.  Knee and calf had still been sore, despite only running twice in 11 days. Chiropractor convinced me that the problem was my hips, which makes perfect sense.  She stuck some KT tape under my knee, cracked me from top to bottom, and told me I could run.

8/23: Ran, it hurt.

8/24: Ran, it hurt much, much, much worse, and in a different spot.  My knee felt okay, but my calf and upper shin hurt very badly.

8/27: 2nd Chiropractor appointment.  Same diagnosis, same treatment.  She did check for signs of a clot in my leg since I told her that my left calf was so sore.  Too much pain to run, too much internet reading to ignore the signs of a stress fracture.

9/4: Dr. Schmoctor diagnoses my pain as bursitis, despite the fact that bursitis is usually more knee and less shin.  Injects me with cortisone, says I can run after 2 days, when I should be pain-free.

9/4 (later): Solar Cortisone flare, lots and lots and lots of pain and swelling.

9/6: Pain back to normal level, I run.  It hurts, but I don't care.

9/6-8: Pain much worse

9/10: Pain back to normal level, I run again.  It hurts a lot.  I care a little.

9/13: Second visit to Dr. Schmoctor, he admits that if it had been bursitis, I would be completely without pain.  Orders an MRI.  I don't ask whether or not I can run, because I'm sure that I shouldn't.

9/20: MRI.  It's an even louder "wowd" than I had expected. I fall asleep for 2 minutes at a time, several times throughout the procedure.  Impressive, no?

9/23: Baby's 18-month birthday!  My old friend Will's 34th birthday!  Terrible, awful, frightening migraine!  Phone call on behalf of Dr. Schmoctor with the MRI results.  "Mrs. Knowitall?  You have a stress fracture.  Try to not put any weight on that leg, and come back Wednesday."

Remember my engagement?  It's officially off.  I'm very sad about it, but I'll be alright.  Just like when a relationship ends, it's hard to stop thinking about all the things you're missing.  But then, eventually, you're able to recognize that if the relationship had been perfect, if the other person had been meant for you, you would still be together.  Savannah Rock 'n' Roll and I are not meant to be together.  I'm confident that soon, I'll find my Husband of marathons.  My Race Charming will come along and sweep me off my feet, and those 26.2 miles will feel like I'm riding on a white steed.  

My Prince

Let me ask your advice, for once.  Should I make a big deal about Dr. Schmoctor's misdiagnosis?  

This One is Really About Cheesecake

Cheesecake which was inspired by running shoes, of course.

Last week, I dragged (drug?) both children with me to my favorite running/sporting goods store to try on new shoes.  My well loved Brooks Trance 11s had taken me about 200 miles over the recommended limit, and my calves were feeling the effects of the wear and tear.  Unfortunately for me, Brooks Trance 11, size 8, is not to be found. That is, unless you're some shoe-finding god and can get me a pair?  Seriously.  Color doesn't matter, size does.  I tried on the new Trance 12s, among others, and eventually settled on

this bright and shiny pair.  They are the 19th version of the Asics Gel Kayano, and when I was told that this was the only color they had in my size, I started to really like it!  Turns out, they call it Raspberry/Mango/Lime.  It's hard to see, think about, or say those words together without your mouth starting to water a little.  While on my 12 mile run last Saturday, my second run in the shoes, I came up with the recipe for The Cheesecake.

The first thing I did was make fresh lime curd.  It was much easier than I expected, and much more delicious than I had hoped.  I could have eaten the entire batch, still warm, with the biggest spoon in my kitchen.  I didn't, though.

I may have accidentally forgotten to scrape the pan with the spatula until after I had put the batch in the refrigerator.  I definitely did not lick the pan.  It was still hot.

Step two was to assemble the cheesecake.  I usually start with this basic recipe, and then modify it to suit my latest whim.  This time, I used the graham cracker crust, but left out the sugar.  I also reduced the amounts of the other ingredients in the recipe by 1/3, to make room for the items I was adding.  I stirred in chunks of fresh mango once I was "aah done" with the "wowed" mixer.  Baby still hates loud noises.

Nothing to do with cheesecake, not a recent picture, and displays our playroom at its messiest.

See?  This picture isn't nearly so cute as the one above.

I poured the lime curd into the crust first, then added the mango chunked cheesecake filling.  All the while when the curd was curdling and the cheesecake was baking, then cooling, I was preparing the fresh raspberries to play their part.

Sugar, lime zest, and a splash of lime juice.

After several hours of flavor melding, I put the raspberries in a saucepan with a splash of mango Juicy Juice and a smaller splash of red wine.  I let all that simmer for a while (time enough to take a photo),

or, like so many Chopped contestants would say, "Then I let all that reduce while I ______" as I filled in the blank with "kept my daughter from climbing into a time-out chair and tumbling out on her head".  Finally, I strained out the seeds, and after letting the raspberry sauce cool for a while, I spread it atop the cheesecake.

Then, I cut out a slice, and took a picture of The Cheesecake and its muse.

Cheesecake + Kayanos = BFF

I don't know why I placed my lovely, nonsticky running shoes on the kitchen counter.  What seemed important was to find out if the colors on the shoes were actually raspberry, mango and lime.  They are not.  But that's okay.

Of course, I ate the slice I cut from the cake.  Then, I determined that if I ever had to choose one food to replace Husband, like, really had to had to, it would be this Cheesecake.  I must say, I made all the right choices.  The crust, being not too sweet, balances wonderfully with the sweet and tart lime curd.  I worried that the raspberry sauce would be too rich, but when it is combined with all the other flavors, it is just plain perfect.  And just when I thought the treat couldn't get any better, I bit into a juicy chunk of ripe mango.  True story- I sent my sister the following text message:

I kinda want to lock it away and keep it all for myself, like I'm its abusive boyfriend, claiming, "Nobody else can love you like I love you!"

My advice?  Don't touch The Cheesecake.

You thought I was obsessed with RUNNING?  Ha!

If you HAD to choose one food to replace your partner, what would it be?

Do You Need a Time-Out?

If you're my dear, sweet, beautiful 16-month-old Baby, then your answer will be an emphatic, "YES!"  Her new form of entertainment goes a little something like this:

Slap Mommy

Slap Bun-Bun (her favorite stuffed friend)

"Hey!  Hitting hurts.  No, Ma'am!"

Spit

"We do not spit."

Scream

Slap whatever surface is closest 

"Do you need a time-out?"

Nodding so vehemently that it looks like whiplash is next on the menu, "Yeh"

Now, her punishment is not going to sit in her time-out chair.  I've tried 4 different spots (3 chairs and a step), and as soon as she sits down she starts to grin, then giggle.  She absolutely loves it.  She has also figured out at what point I'm about to "let" her get up, and will scream, slap, or spit again in order to keep being "punished."  The threat minus the follow through has been working pretty well for a little while.  We usually only go through the routine once a day, and then she moves on to headstands or unnecessarily violent bun-bun kisses. "Mmmah!  Mmmah!  Mmmah!"

I brought 6 y.o. to Sea World last week to (finally-it has been open all of 2 1/2 months!) see the new Expedition Antarctica ride and penguin exhibit.  The ride was kinda boring, but I did enjoy the 2 extra staging areas that made it seem like the line was moving quickly.  And then, we exited the wild car on our right, and there was snow and ice and cold winds and workers wearing parkas and PENGUINS!  

Not a google image.  My own picture!

I haven't done any research, but I would still venture to say that this penguin enclosure is one of the first of its kind.  The barrier between us and them was only waist high, to me, and that was only closing in the giant aquarium.  I'm no zoologist (or ornithologist, or even psychologist, despite all my years in college) but it seemed like the penguins were pretty comfortable in their new home.  In fact, some birds hopped the fence to welcome us...or something.

4 times in the 5 minutes we were there, a penguin waddled into the crowd.

When the employee picked up this guy, we got a very close look at how penguins defecate.  In fact, the front pocket of 6 y.o.'s shorts betrayed the evidence of his closeness to the penguin's poopy protest of being picked up and put in time-out!  

Don't you just want to smooch his cute face?

6 y.o. was sent to his room a few times today, mere hours after the adorable photo above was taken.  Summer is wearing on him, I think, as is constant contact with Baby and me.  He claims he is feeling "only excited" about starting first grade next week.  Husband and I, however, would be okay with having him home for some more months, despite his backtalk and whiny, whiny, whiny whines.  

I have also taken a time-out this week, but not because I deserved it.  At least, I don't think I did.  I haven't been out for a run since Saturday.  That last run, brought to you by the number 7 (for different shades of pink I was wearing), the color pink, and the letter P (for pain in the knee), was my longest training run to date.  I had been experiencing some usually-bearable calf pain for several weeks, and had been disappointed by my performance in some of my recent runs.  

Pictured here: only 6 shades of pink, unless you count my sweaty face.  My sister borrowed my pink watch.
Also pictured here: evidence of my half-bag-o'-chips-per-night habit.  

So, like any dumdum runner, I ran 12 miles in a pretty hilly neighborhood.  I was quite pleased with my pace and with how I felt during and after the run, but I did feel a twinge in my left knee around mile 9.  I've now been limping around for 3 whole days, except for a 4 a.m. jog up and down the hallway to figure out whether or not I should join the running group for a 5 a.m. run.  Not sure if this is good or bad, but the pain is significantly different from the IT band pain I experienced a few months ago.  I'm still doing the IT band stretches that helped before, though.  Each time during this week that I think I'm successfully ignoring the pain because it isn't so bad, someone comments on my limp.  Therefore, I'll rest another day or so, I guess, and try to enjoy my time-out.

My advice for you, totally not given because misery loves company, is to take a time-out.  Whether you just want to sit in a big girl chair and will spit, slap, and scream your way there, or whether you want to greet the strange beings staring at you while you swim, sleep, and poop, giving yourself a little break will be helpful.  Don't believe me?  Fine.  But I think I saw you limping. ;-)

I changed the settings so you don't have to prove you're not a robot in order to leave a comment now.  So, go on.  Leave a comment.  

You too, robot.

Party Time! Excellent!

3 years, 2 months, and some days ago, we moved into our current home.  3 years and 4 days ago, we realized that we would be hosting a 4th of July party every following year for as long as this house is our home.  See, there's a lovely park just across from the end of our street, about 1/4 of a mile away.  It just so happens that "our" park is where the city holds its Independence Day festivities, and where they set off the big fireworks display.  We have a perfect view of the fireworks from our yard, without the headache of an entire city's worth of people crowded around us.

Although I love hosting parties, our < 1,000 square foot, single bathroomed house just doesn't lend itself well to holding lots of people.  And no, the 'I' in that last sentence should not have been a 'we'.  Husband and 6 y.o., while both being fun-loving, happy, friendly guys, do not much care for large social gatherings.  Therefore, most of our holiday and family get-togethers are hosted by others.

Since it is usually only once a year that I get to throw a party, I tend to want to cram in everything I can think of to make it fabulous.  One year, I made and hung a photo backdrop and provided patriotic-themed props for pictures.

He must love me a lot.

This year, I got new props.

I love cooking and baking, and I think red, white and blue are fun colors for themed food and drinks.  Especially in the Summer, when strawberries, blueberries, watermelon, raspberries, marshmallows, whipped cream, and cherries are abundant.  Two years ago, I served red, white and blue adult sno-cones.  Yes, they turned into super-sweet purple vodka drinks with tiny chunks of ice, but they started out pretty!

Last year, the specialty drink served was a watermelon margarita, made with homemade watermelon syrup, smooth silver tequila, sweet-n-sour mix and fresh lime juice.  This year's concoction was simpler.  I added pureed fresh strawberries to lemonade, and set a bottle of citrus vodka next to the dispenser for me guests to add if desired.

Happy Birthday USA cake.  And, a light saber.

Some of the foods I'm most proud to have served are: Apple pie trifle, American flag fruit-n-treat skewers, homeslavedmade white chocolate ice cream with strawberry sauce, and the cake pictured above.  Inside was a blue layer and a red layer.  This year, Husband bravely grilled the chicken wings that I had bravely (and successfully!) gotten chopped up by the friendly guy from the supermarket's meat department.  They were delicious, and a great addition to the giant spread of food we had (beef burgers, turkey burgers, hot dogs, pasta salad, potato salad, corn on the cob, chips and dips, cherry cobbler, and fruit).

The big fireworks show doesn't start until after 9:00 p.m., so we find other ways to keep ourselves and our guests busy.

Sparklers and grocery store fireworks

Water

Football throwing

Not pictured: patriotic sugar cookie decorating (a.k.a. "I bet I can put more frosting on a cookie than you can!") and the educational games.  I've found it difficult to live up to the first party's trivia/scavenger hunt competition during the subsequent two parties.  That year, I numbered and laminated cards with different sorts of questions on American history.  I then hid the cards around the house and yard, and the guests were tasked with finding all the cards quickly (1 prize) and answering the most questions correctly (another prize).  I also reworded the Declaration of Independence, separated it onto several laminated cards, and had the kids search for and then put the words in the correct order.  I'm still pretty impressed with myself.

This year, I hung an un-labeled U.S. map on the wall, with States and Capitals stickers that could be re-positioned.  Teams of 3 people had 1 minute, then 30 seconds, then 10 seconds to get as many stickers as possible into the right spots.  It wasn't a very popular game.  But, when nobody was playing, I was able to get all the capitals into the right spots, without the names of the states on the map, and only needed a tiny bit of help from my dad (I always think Wisconsin is Minnesota.  Not that it matters, much.  Other than that day, I don't think I've ever needed to know which one is which.)

Choosing a special dress for Baby has been fun the past 2 years, also.

It's the only night of the year that we allow 6 y.o. to stay up way past his 7:30 bedtime.  Last year, he started crying as soon as the fireworks show ended, and couldn't stop crying or get any words out.  This year, he handled himself a little bit better, but still seemed totally dazed by about 8:45.

Turns out, I do a bad job of taking pictures of the actual fireworks.  4 years of bombs bursting in air, and I could only find the one half-decent pic up there ^.  You'll have to trust me that it's a good show.  Even Baby enjoyed it!  She doesn't like loud noises ("Sorry, Husband.  I just couldn't vacuum today.  Baby didn't want me to.  She was scared of the 'wowed'.") so we were worried that she'd cry like her brother after 9 p.m., but she didn't shed a single tear.

Just in case there was any doubt re: my photography skills.

Unsolicited advice of the day?  1. It's okay to stop trying to do things you're obviously bad at (*cough* fireworks photos *cough*) after a while.  You're good at other things.  2.  Make sacrifices for those you love, like Husband does for me at least every July all the time.  3.  Be a tradition-setter.  When my kids have grown up, I want them to reminisce about the traditions they loved, and I want there to be no shortage of happy memories, holiday and otherwise.  Those "remember the time..." conversations are much more valuable than pictures of sparkly lights.

What is your favorite holiday tradition?  

Be honest- at least a little part of you is wondering about my marathon training, right?  You kinda wish this post had been about running, don't you?