That Word Actually Means What You Think It Means

Good is broad. I believe that there are lots of good. Lots of good restaurants. Lots of good schools. Lots of good parents. And none are alike. Agree?

So to you good mothers and fathers who if they heard their child curse would sharply gasp/freak out/smack their child’s face/wash their child’s mouth with soap/talk sternly to and add time out… you may not want to read any further.

I’m a good mom, too. And mainly because I was a curious child who asked a lot of questions that resulted in some, if not all of the aforementioned responses from my good parents I’m another kind of good.

Which is why I didn’t even flinch when my 5-year-old said, “I know ass is a bad word.”

Instead I thought to myself, I wonder if I can peg this on my husband.

“Oh that’s a new word. Where did you hear that word?”

“Nowheres. I just knowed it. What does ass mean anyways?”

“Just to be clear, it all depends on who says it. If you’re reading a bible story at school and they say ass, it means a donkey. But usually moms, dads, and teachers don’t like to hear little kids say that word.”

“Oh right. But what about the Ass Jack?”

“You mean Jackass?”

“Yeah, Jackass. (Let me just say it is uncanny how easily jackass rolled off his tongue. It was like he was talking directly about Rick Perry.)

“Oh that’s a terrible thing to say. It means jerk. Like a really dumb jerk who is mean.”

“Anyways, Mom, what about that ass of the kicking?”

“You mean like, I’m going to kick your ass?”

“Yes. Like when Cooper said that at the zoo!”

“Oh that is a naughty way of saying, I’m going to kick your butt (and here I nicely kicked him in the behind.)”

“Oh-ho-ho, now that would hurt worser!”

And that was basically it. No immediate intrigue and mischievous smile that told me he understood he was in trouble; but couldn’t wait to be in that kind of trouble again. Just, a stoic and placated peace from the backseat. See, I’m not that bad.

PS -- Remember when Cooper kissed my butt?!?!?!?

What Happened In Vegas

This is Van #1: Sadie, Me, Devin, Rachel, Marc, Lindsey.

I did something really incredible. Really. Like the kind of thing that buoys you up and makes you feel both loved and worth being loved.

Now I’m talking crazy and putting too romantic a point on a very plain event. I ran a race. Nope. That’s not it.

I boarded a plane, carrying two small bags filled with running clothes, tennis shoes, an iPod, a Garmin, 3 headlamps, and 4 reflective vests.

When I sat down in my excellently spacious exit row seat the joker next to me asked if I was traveling to Vegas for business, or pleasure. I hesitated and said, “I’m going to run a race.”

Here's my youngest brother and I, he's deciding if he can finish with heat stroke. He finished. He's a stud.

I’m going to run a race has been the sentence to sum up everything I’ve done since June. It was a good excuse. No one argues with this excuse. I’ll pass on a glass of wine because; I’m going to run a race. Why yes, I’ll have another slice of pie. I need the calories; I’m going to run a race. I’m waking up before the sun for training; I’m going to run a race. No questions, no badgering, no bullying, no pushing, no stink eye.

And it was nice.

But when I told this nice gentleman with a voice like Penn and Teller (whichever one of them talks) he raised an eyebrow and said, “What kind of race.”

A short description of Ragnar Relay, Las Vegas and I got an earful of how foolish I was. Not just from him, but from the whole row!

And it was nice.

I'm that little reflective T you see on the left of the picture.

There is a courage that comes from doing what others think is senseless, particularly if you’re prepared -- and for once in my life -- I was prepared. So, I was confident – though a little afraid of the dark – and ready to take on this adventure known as the Ragnar.

When I think about why I agreed to train and travel and participate in this particular relay there is really only one answer. My brother asked me. He said it would be fun. He said it would bond our family together. He said I could finish. And I believed him.

Obviously, that's me in the pink diaper shorts. Why do running shorts look like diapers!?!?!

Now that it’s all over and we did indeed finish I’ve been shuffling through the photos and I’ve come to this conclusion. I didn’t go to Vegas to run a race. I went to Vegas to discover who is my family.

And it was nice.

It turns out; family is more than your brothers and sister. It’s not just your parents. It is your running partner who logged countless miles and hours at your side and converted you to early morning runs. It is your husband who stayed behind to watch the kids. It is a neighbor who sent you a text in the middle of the night to wish you luck. It is one of the other 1st grade mothers who wrote you an e-mail just to tell you how amazing you are just days before the race. It is the woman you’ve known since you were 5 who saved you from chaos and provided you a safe and quiet place to land after the race. It’s anyone and everyone who touches your life and knows that those who have felt the greatest need for help give the most relevant help. Oh my gosh, I love my family!

The whole family, but not the whole team. From left to right: Trent, Andrew, Me, Dad, Mom, Adam, Devin.

Aside from learning that I like my family, I determined I want to test myself. Running through the desert in the middle of the night wasn’t as hard as I thought it was going to be. I think a marathon is next, my friends. (Or I could be convinced to do another 200-mile relay with a 6-man team.) So, if you’re wondering…

I’m going to run a race.

A picture just to prove I never take myself TOO seriously.

Tights and Tinfoil

First Field Trip, II

Interesting fact about me: when I volunteer to chaperone field trips I always get paired up with the slightly more difficult children. You know those ones. They run around, never stop talking, wander off, spill their lunch, eat their own boogers, try to ride the polar bear, require stitches.... or whatever. If it's a problem in the classroom, I will be required to follow it around a museum, a zoo, or the botanical gardens. Mark. My. Words.

During Mason's first learning adventure afield I acquired another badge of chaperoning glory. Amongst the children in my car and then chaperone group was a child who's name is difficult to pronounce and makes me uncomfortable to shout across crowds. In fact, the name starts with a D and rhymes with whoosh. And she was a runner. I wanted to stab myself in the eye.

That's when the teacher also realized that somewhere between the parking lot, the restrooms, and the pumpkin field she dropped the bag that had all the snacks, the first-aid kit, and all the emergency response permission slips. Here's what I know, the band-aids and latex gloves were not missed.

It's moments like these that I take a step back, look through the lens of my camera, and think, "I volunteered." I SO volunteered. I was like the first mom on the list. I always am. Why? It's not because I like stumbling over a name like, well, you know, the one that rhymes with cartouche. It's because I love watching my sons fit into their classes. I want to know what they think about the bees (a little nervous you'll see in the above photo). And all romance aside, I like to see teachers think on their feet.

This is Mason interacting with the little girl who has the hard to pronounce name. He calls her the bully. Can you tell by his face how he feels about her?

There is a fascinating field trip trend that I do not understand. The school (and this wasn't the only one) requires the children on the field trip to wear the same shirt and a bandana. But here's what I don't understand, when you are looking for a lost child, you look for unique attributes. If I'm helping you look and I don't know the child and you say, he's wearing a white shirt with an eagle on the front and all I see is a sea of white shirts I'm not a very effective searcher. Besides, Mason HATED the bandana.

I Run My Life

I can't remember if it was a phone call or an e-mail from my brother Devin. But at some point last year I agreed to be in a Ragnar Relay with him. And there have been times during my training that I've wondered what I was doing. But I've had a great partner in crime encouraging me and here I am just a week out and I am ready. For real.

Here's what I have learned while running.

Running suits me. I can run for a long time. I can run by myself. I don't mind running every day.

I run my life. If I'm not on a trail running as fast as I can, I'm trying to fit as much into my day as I can. My husband says this is my life running me. That is fine. But it's just how I do things. So if I weren't running 45 miles a week I'd be doing something that rushes me around.

I have a high tolerance for pain. And a low tolerance for nausea.

I don't like running in the dark. Or the rain. Or snow. Loathe snow.

I think about a lot of weird stuff when I'm running. For instance when I'm getting really tired I almost always think about Kenyans who just wake up one day and think, "I'm going to invite my brother and his wife to dinner. I better go ask him." Then the little Kenyan runs 30 miles to the next village and invites said brother to dinner and turns around to run home. Yes, I'm that weird.

I believe in possibility, not reality. I know our team can't win the Ragnar. But I'm going to win. What I will win is yet to be determined, but I'm ready to accept it.

I cannot run faster than my 5-year-old after running 16 miles. He loved winning -- so maybe that means he'll follow in my track shoes.

PS -- If you live in or near Las Vegas and you would like to cheer us on... that would be incredible.

If You're Scared, Don't Show It

Do you remember who taught you how to ride a bike?

I do. I remember just about everything from that moment. Of course that first tingle in your belly when you realize you have lift off and you're doing it. Doing it all by yourself. But I also remember silly things like the street I was on, and that I basically wobbled straight down the very center of it. Most importantly I remember it was my Grandma Helen who chased after me, hootin' and hollerin' and saying, "She's doing it. She's doing it." She is a peach, that Grandma of mine.

I even remember telling her that I was scared and I didn't want to try riding a two-wheeler. She told me to climb up on that bike (my father's childhood banana-seated bike) and said, "Well, that's OK. Just don't tell anyone."


Our Coop has learned to ride his bike. It was a rocky road to success. This past summer he swam lots and lots of laps, but he didn't pull that bike out of the garage much. So when he started first grade his badge of pride was a couple of medals, a few ribbons, and a trophy tucked away in his bedroom. Most of his friends rode up on their pride -- two-wheelers sans training wheels. It was a blow to the ego.

On one particular afternoon he had decided he'd had enough and he begged for a lesson from mom and dad. We planned it carefully. We mapped a gravel path that is mostly down hill where he could coast along and get the feel for balancing. And then we let him fall pretty hard. With a, "It doesn't get any worse than that." we brushed off his knees and put him back on the bike.

As with all things, once you get it you can't believe you took so long to figure it out. Now he's a real pro -- riding up hill, out of the saddle, over speed bumps, sideways inclines onto the sidewalk, even a small single track trail through the weeds to his school.

Congrats Coop! As always, we're proud of you.


PS -- I've even taken him with me on runs. He on the bike, me running like crazy to catch up.

PHOTO NOTE: Black gloves?????? He's cautious. What can I say.

On This Day, You Are 5

Our desire was that Mason would wake up to a surprise worthy of his adorableness. And at 7:30 a.m. we discovered that a life-sized bear can be just the surprise to render a 5-year-old speechless.

9:05
Drop off brother at school and begin a long walk and discussion that went something like this.

Mason:
Mom, I know what they do when people are about to die.

Me:
Really? What?

Mason:
Well, they bury 'em deep in the ground and put one of those gravemind things which are oval on top of 'em.

Me:
Do you mean gravestone?

Mason:
Then they squish their faces with dirt and they can't breathe so they turn green. And then they walk like this. (Pantomimes frankenstein walk with arms and legs outstretched and face stone still.)

Me:
Are you thinking of a Halloween decoration? Or actual dead people?

Mason:
Anyways, are we going to the museum?

9:50- 11 a.m.
Mandatory gym time.

11:20-12:40
One salami and cheese sandwich, and TV with bear.

1:30 p.m.
Museum of Nature and Science. Our first exhibit was the mummy room -- surprise surprise. Followed by the T-REX named Sue, which was scary. And finished with Space and then minerals.

3 p.m.
In the middle of the minerals exhibit Mason proclaims he's tired and would like to go get Cooper. As he's loading into the car I say, "So, how does it feel to be 5." He says, "I'm not actually 5. You have to blow out candles and sing Happy Birthday before you turn 5." Ummmmmm... was I supposed to get a cake?

5:40 p.m.
Start dinner. Mason has requested Macaroni and Cheese. It may be his birthday, but he is overruled and we settle for spaghetti and meatballs. Steve starts spaghetti while I start baking a cake and hunting for candles that say something other than CONGRATS!



8 p.m.
It's official.

PS -- A big thank you to our accomplices who have hidden this bear in their house since July!