Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Snow, boobs & pie

So I managed to get Christine to four miles this morning -- even with snow on the ground. Her knee remains bummed -- which means she's bummed, I'm bummed, we're all bummed. I need her to heal because she helps me get through my long runs. I decided to train for the National Marathon in D.C. (doesn't that sound so much more impressive than Steamtown in Scranton) at the end of March. So there's no down time for me.

I got home from a bad 14- miler on Saturday. After I took my jacket off, Grace pointed at my chest: "Your boobs are wet." Yep, m'dear, they are. It beats the previous boob comment.

A video of me appeared on YouTube, courtesy of a non-compliant, cell phone-toting squirrel in journalism class who took pictures of me learning the cha-cha-slide. I heard the video was posted, and I had to see it -- of course. Well, with Grace and Keni by my side, I found the video. Grace's first sentence: "Your boobs are big." After reeling back, I looked at her, speechless of course. She then laughed as she continued to watch: "Ha! Your boobs are dancing!" I guess they were. No holding these girls back.

I need to get fitted for a new bra.

Tonight I asked the girls what they wanted for dinner. French fries? Potatoes? Ham? Chicken?

Keni's response? Punkin pahh.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Long time

So it's been a while. Since my blog, I finished my marathon, deadened a previously beautiful toenail, lost a running partner to a bad knee, and been called the nastiest teacher in history. Can life get any better? Only on television.

So how do you explain "right turn on red" to a four-year-old kid? Lately, Grace has been so aware of Pennsylvania driving laws. "It's green. Go now!" "It's red. Stop, mom, now!" Every light, every day, every movement is monitored. Today I'm heading south on Cedar Crest, approaching Lower Macungie Road. The light is red. But, alas, there's a right lane that allows me to snake a right onto Lower Mac. I hardly have to stop. In fact, I can yield! Wheeee! But as I approach the light, my backseat driver yells: "Red light. Stop!" I tell her: I can go, right turn on red. "Stop, stop, stop!" She's shrieking. I keep scooting around the curve. It says "yield," I assure her. I can still go.

Honestly, I doubt this kid will ever exceed the speed limit. "I said stop. You hafta stop on red. Red means stop. Stop now." How in the world can I even rationalize this. I try to change the subject. Should we have pumpkin cookies at home?? She stops crying. "OK." Pumpkin cookies. I crest the hill. And I am the winner. I can yield when I want to. The truck plateaus at the top, and Keni sees the playground next to the turnpike. "I wanna go playground," Keni crows. "Maybe later. Ask Daddy." I put on the radio.

"Mommy?" Grace says.

Yeah?

"I told you you gotta stop on red."

I wonder if I should stop for a six-pack or ask Daddy.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Sleeping balloons

So we brought home two balloons from Red Robin on Wednesday. The helium lasted for, oh, 10 hours--much to Grace's dismay. We arrived home on Thursday and Grace found them on the floor. Lifeless.

"Oh no! They're sleeping!" she cried. She helplessly threw them in the air. Repeatedly. "Wake up, wake up, wake up."

It was cute, yet sad, all at the same time.

10 days to go. 10. I'm tired of dreaming about the marathon. Tired of envisioning a long hill that I can't tackle.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Princess

So Kendall and Grace seem to be acclimating to their new daycare. No longer does Kendall cry when I pick her up. In fact, she now runs over to grasp my thighs and show off her new pigtails that Miss Marcy braids every day. Funny how I can't even pull a brush through her hair, yet she allows Miss Marcy to practically put corn rows throughout her head.

And so I picked her up and she's got these Pippi Longstocking braids, the kind that bend up at the end as though wires twist them toward the clouds.

"Look, I'm a princess," she tells me.

Wow. You look beautiful, I say. She kind of blushes.

We find Grace, and I load them into the truck, and I pass around milk, water, and bags of buzzy-buzzy bee cereal (known nationally and beyond as Honey Nut Cheerios.) Well, the milk and Cheerios must've hit the spot for the little princess, for once we get home, she runs off to some far corner of the house where one can quietly squeeze out a number two into the Pamper. She comes running out, beaming, relieved. I can smell her as she approaches.

Did you go in your pants?

"Mommy, Mommy. I'm a princess and I made a princess poop, a giant princess poop."

I haven't seen a child look so proud over a bowel movement that wasn't made on the toilet.

##

On Tuesday Christine and I headed out for six miles in a slight drizzle. We begged for the clouds to hold off, for we always joke how we've never been caught in a serious storm. We'd done sleet, snow, and slight rain. Damn, we'd make great postal workers. But we've never endured a downpour together.

That changed at about 2.45 miles into the run. 2.45 is the Route 100 turnaround where all of a sudden the water began pelting, and she began cursing, and I began laughing. Running in the rain is grand for the soul for it truly is cleansing of some impurity of life. It takes you back to childhood of running through forbidden puddles. Stomping in puddles really is fun. And it really is harmless--unless you're wearing really expensive shoes or wearing a white linen dress.

Well, the rain was so heavy it was raining buckets of cats and dogs. Not just buckets. Not just cats and dogs. Big freakin' buckets that contain Marmaduke dogs and round-bellied cats. At mile five, we agreed that we won't cut it short because it was too late. Nothing was dry. My shirt slapped against my stomach repeatedly, my shorts clung to my thighs, and my socks squished out water. So we crossed an intersection where water has gathered. In a blonde moment, I yelled at Christine to "watch out for the puddle." For some reason she found this profoundly hysterical, and I guess it was, because we were already drenched.

"Watch out for the puddle? I'm f*cking soaked," she yips at me.

Back at my house, I gave her a Princess Jasmine towl so she could strip down to her underwear to drive home.

You can't buy that kind of fun.

Sunday, September 9, 2007

Crazy days

Kendall is quite the card. She is going through this phase of trying to hold on to being the baby and wanting to be one of the "big girls." Today she insisted on doing practically everything on her own--including putting on Grace's Disney princess shoes (too big and on the wrong feet), using silver steak knives to fix the umbrella stroller, and deciding when I could open the pantry and refrigerator doors. She's the Huggies-wearing commander in chief who barks orders at everyone else.

Saturday, September 8, 2007

Fighting age

Good thing about today:

I ran a 15k race (9.3 miles) in just under 1:24. One second to spare. Although, the clock posted 1:25:03. It took me four seconds to get to the starting line due to the crowd. So I'm somewhat pleased, though I anticipated finishing a minute earlier. But the satisfying part: overtaking my biggest rival during the past year of racing. She'd pass me, I'd pass her. Then I'd walk, thinking I was going to toss my granola bar. She'd pass me. I'd catch her. I'd walk again. She'd pass. Finally, with maybe 25 yards left, I had her in my sights. And I went for the kill with my husband screaming at me to "go get her, go get her." She turned and saw me charging like a marriage-hungry bride at one of those Filene's wedding gown sales. She picked up the pace, but it was too late. She was toast.

It felt good. Damn good.

Bad thing about today:

I got an eye exam. Well, my prescription hasn't changed, but the eye doctor could tell I had a secret that I really hadn't told anyone. "I bet you're having trouble reading, aren't you?" How did he know. Freakin' psychic. "Um, kinda." "Hmmm, for how long?" "Oh, maybe a year or so."

And then he delivered the passage that I didn't want to hear:

"Well, maybe we should look into some bifocals."

Bifocals? Me? Not in this... summer.

Let's see how I've fared medically this summer.

Chest pains. Got the EKG. Bad mammogram. Got the CT scan. Now my eyes are going? Fuggetaboutit. Ok, ok, he agreed. Maybe not now. But down the road. He cut me some slack. Get the weakest pair of reading glasses at the supercenter and use them when you need them. Ha. I could use them every time I read. I could use them to brush my teeth. I could use them to pluck my eyebrows. And when could I really use them? When I'm searching my head for those wirey grey hairs that seem to be standing on end every two weeks or so.

I did take the girls to the supercenter, and I did buy the glasses. Cute little torties. Obviously I was more concerned with finding the eyewear than paying attention to my girls. For when Mark returned home, he looked at Grace and asked what was with her hair. She had a huge wad of a blue knot sticking out the side of her head. Turns out that when she spit out her blue liquid Advil last night (fever), it congealed into her scalp and it appeared that she had a wad of cotton candy stuck to her noggin. Well, it was Wal-Mart, and I really don't care what the other people thought. As long as I look fine in my glasses, I'm good. Besides, without them, I might never know what these kids look like up-close when we head to the store.

Sunday, August 26, 2007

Day before school

It's Sunday night, right before the first day of school. And I'm ready. It's been a difficult week, and I need to focus on something else other than my personal woes.

I completed 21 of a 23-mile run today, mostly due to a lack of fuel in my tank. Christine motored the entire run in a most impressive fashion. Somewhere along mile 17, another woman tagged along on her 14-mile run and eventually left us. It was kind of painful watching her go ahead, considering that she appeared to have, oh, 20 pounds on us. Ugh.

The run may've been more difficult because I just ended a tough week. I finally had my follow-up mammogram, which turned out to be OK.

The anticipation of undergoing the mammogram truly gnawed at me. I've always had my exams in the evening, so I'm generally the only person in the waiting area. This time, I sat with four other women, each of us donning the white capes. If only the capes allowed us to have some superpower, to prevent something bad from harming us, to allow us to fly away and escape the pressure of what was to come, the fear of the unknown. Each woman I saw was able to go in and fly away. I had to return after my mammogram because of the irregularity. My cape and I returned to wait for the ultrasound. We got called back. As I laid on the examination table, I felt the tears stream down my face, even before the ultrasound began. I wondered what would happen to my girls, to my husband, to my family. Within 10 minutes, the radiologist arrived to tell me that I have a depression in the right side. It'll be OK. For now, I hope. I wish. I pray.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Sunday, Rainy Sunday

A steady downpour is tapping on the sunlight in the kitchen, and I have to leave in an hour for a speed workout that I chose in favor of sitting after school for some diatribe on standardized testing.

I thought this would be a wiser choice for my training, my body, my spirit. At this moment, I'm thinking PSSA. Running in circles for an hour does not seem preferable.

Today Mark agreed to come to noon Mass. I told him I wanted the girls there with me, and he realized that it was important to me. His legs were tired due to his 15-mile run in the Parkway, so I was thankful he managed to get through the hour of sit, stand, sit, stand, sit, kneel, sit, kneel, stand, kneel, sit. (I think I got most of them in there.) Anyway, the girls were great. I felt some sense of peace by going, although it seems almost selfish to pray for yourself when you're accustomed to praying for other people. But if no one else prays for you, maybe it's not too egocentric. Perhaps.

After yesterday's illness, I feel mostly recovered (as I sit here donning a Blue Clue's headband that Grace wants me to wear.) Let's throw in a shout-out to Grace for her uncanny mastering of the porcelain shrine. Yesterday Mark tried to get her to do a Number Two. She balked, cranked a bit, but produced nothing.

Mark asked: No poop?

"Nope," she said, "my heiney's not working."

This morning? She headed off to the head on her own and dropped three impressive turds into the pond. She bellowed for me to run in so she could proudly brandish her accomplishment. Atta girl.

Keni, who's currenly in the midst of a two-hour nap, ended up being quite the card at Mass. She "read" the songbook for most of the service, even holding it correctly as we either sang or listened to Monsignor Hoban. Maybe she's training for the Little Sisterhood. It's been a long time since we've had a nun in the family. I don't know if the Mother Superior can handle her.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Fall approaches

You can feel it in the air. The crispness envelopes you, and the breeze slowly sways the trees. As you run, the fresh air whips you in the face, and it is cool. So cool that you wish you were beneath a comforter with the windows open, your face relishing the wind as it pushes through your bedroom.

Fall lurks.

And you welcome it.

I'm hitting fall. In fact, it's more like I'm diving into fall--the season of my life. Although, it is difficult to welcome it. I view life as the four seasons. My babies are in spring; my teenager is entering summer. And I am in fall, and I am scared. Scared that I may never experience winter.

Today I ran an 18-miler and have never felt better on a long run, runs that I generally dread. But today my legs carried me through with very little pain; my stomach felt otherwise. I had to stop once with the trots, and I hardly made it home before bolting to the bathroom. And then for the next five hours, I went. And went. And went some more. I could hardly eat. I developed a fever that lasted for two hours. And I dreamt about my impending ultrasound. I am scared of the fall. I am afraid that something terrible will be delivered to me on Wednesday, and I worry that I will not see my babies grow up. I wonder why I waited so long to have these girls, and I know I really did not have a choice if I wanted a family with my husband.

But the grief is enveloping me like the crisp wind that so took my breath away this morning at 5:30, when I watched black clouds skate across an orange sky and heard the wind as it whipped our bodies.

I am not sad at the prospect of losing a breast. If I do, it is God's will. But I pray that it not God's will to rob me of the golden opportunity to run with my friends, to share the love of my husband, to witness the growth of my baby girls from spring and into summer. Autumn has always been my favorite season; right now, it's not.

Summer's end approaches

You can feel it in the air. The crispness envelopes you, and the breeze slowly sways the trees. As you run, the fresh air whips you in the face, and it is cool. So cool that you wish you were beneath a comforter with the windows open, your face relishing the wind as it pushes through your bedroom.

Fall lurks.

And you welcome it.

I'm hitting fall. In fact, it's more like I'm diving into fall. Although, it is difficult to welcome it. My babies are in spring; my teenager is entering summer. And I am in fall, and I am scared.

Today I ran an 18-miler and have never felt better on a long run, runs that I generally dread. But today my legs carried me through with very little pain; my stomach felt otherwise. I had to stop once with the trots, and I hardly made it home before bolting to the bathroom. And then for the next five hours, I went. And went. And went some more. I could hardly eat. I developed a fever that lasted for two hours. And I dreamt about my impending ultrasound. I am scared of the fall. I am afraid that something terrible will be delivered to me on Wednesday, and I worry that I will not see my babies grow up. I wonder why I waited so long to have these girls, and I know I really did not have a choice if I wanted a family with my husband.

But the grief is enveloping me like the crisp wind that so took my breath away this morning at 5:30, when I watched black clouds skate across an orange sky and heard the wind as it whipped our bodies.

I am not sad at the prospect of losing a breast. If I do, it is God's will. But I pray that it not God's will to rob me of the golden opportunity to run with my friends, to share the love of my husband, to witness the growth of my baby girls from spring and into summer.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Sunday, August 5

Today I logged six miles with Kathy P in the Parkway; in the evening, I ran down the South Mountain twice, with Mark and the girls following me in the truck. We drove to the tippety top where he promptly kicked me out the door. You have to go several hundred yards before you begin the first descent. As the drop began, I could feel myself pulling back so that I would go too fast. As cars would approach from behind, Mark would toot the horn. The neat part of the run was that I could hear my girls in the car: "Go, Mommy, go" and "Run fast, Mommy." Their shreiks made me smile--more than any bowl of Moose Tracks could muster.

We also went out for an early dinner to celebrate Annie's 17th birthday. Fine dining, at its best--Red Lobster! Her choice. Why does it seem that so many large people eat there? I swear, there was a pair of two women across from us. Together they probably tipped in at 450. At least. One of them was on oxygen, and you could hear the tank pumping air as she shoved fried shrimp down her throat. There's something sad about it. On our way out, I counted two wheelchairs, one walker, and a little nun. It's almost like Old Country Buffer for fish eaters.

Afterward, we swam with the girls and Andrew while Ann sat on the sidelines. I wish she felt more like a player on our team. How do you get someone to join the game when they don't want to play? Even when they're an integral part of the line-up?

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Saturday, August 4

Despite the heat, we managed 18 miles in 3.5 hours. OK, so we're not going to qualify for Boston. But I'm pleased, especially considering that I felt as though I was suffering some heat stroke or an angina attack by mile 3. I ended up crying for about minute or more, mostly because I was in pain but also because I cannot stand the idea of not finishing a long run. I fear that quitting early will foreshadow a poor performance in the marathon.

Anyway, we were at mile 16 on Gehman Road, which has no shoulder, when a man who looks as though he never misses a meal flies by in a conversion van with the windows up (suggesting, of course, air conditioning). Well, it was probably 85 degrees at this point, and we're sweaty Betties who are cruising on the white line. As he passes us, the old bastard starts mouthing curse words at us and gestures for us to get off the road. Of course, no one was coming down the other lane. He just didn't want bother moving toward the center line and expected us to jump from his path.

Christine used some of her truck-driver phrases as I just tried to laugh him off. It was reminiscent of the ice-pop guy incident two weeks prior. At that time, we had finiished another 18-miler and wound up clocking in at Wawa. We planned to make it our end point so we could walk the mile back to my house. Again, it was another scorcher of a day, so we ran in and each bought a 99-cent ice pop, the kind the changes colors as you eat it. We were like two schoolgirls--allright, not physically, but spiritually--as we raced to rip off the paper. It was a form of oral sex. Pleasure. Ecstasy. We were practically moaning. That is until a mini bus pulls up. The driver, another guy swimming in the obese zone, pulls the door open. "Hey girls, eating that ice cream is only going to ruin your workout."

I just smiled. Christine, on the other hand, says: "Hey, we just ran 18 miles. We're entitled." After all it was a mere 90 calories. His face just kind of sank into his lap and he pulled off.

For some reason, people seem to get angry or bitter when they see other people working out. Is it envy, jealousy, or simple guilt for allowing their own gut to rest on their thighs?

On a kid note: Grace ended her four-day cessation of pooping. For two days I worried that she'd take another BM in my mother's pool. But today when we got home from swimming, she ran to the bathroom with a fear in her eyes, knowing she was about to produce a monstrous waste.

That's my girl!

Thursday, August 2

Today I logged 7 miles, which weren't too bad save for the fact that Christine hauled major ars on the final leg. It was enough of a workout to allow me to continue my illicit affair with Mr. Moose Tracks this evening. Hell, we may even invited Mr. Peanut Butter to spooon with us for a few minutes of naughty fun.

Last night Grace made a new friend. I had the radio playing in our room where she was bouncing on our bed. A commercial came on and a woman started speaking in a conversational voice. "Hello, I'm Kathy Bortz, assistant director of admissions at DeSales University, and I blah blah blah..." Well, Kathy had Grace at "hello." Grace immediately stopped jumping and walked over to the radio and responds, "Oh, hello." She continues to listen to Kathy. Kendall kept jumping, and Grace says: "Kendall, be quiet. I'm listening to my friend." Grace stares at the radio, hanging on to Kathy's words. She wears this perplexed look and even looks behind the radio. Finally, the commercial ends and a song starts. Grace says: "Oh, my friend is singing now!" With that, she jumped back on the bed and bounced on. If only Ric Ocasek from the Cars knew he was mistaken for Kathy Bortz of DeSales, Grace's new friend who lives in the radio.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Ruminations

Monday, July 30: Today began with a four-mile tempo run of fartleks. I felt pretty good at the start, but began to suffer in the middle. Somewhere toward the end, I began to regroup and finished fairly strong. Not too bad for an old girl.

The best part of the day was spent at Nana's pool--with Nana, courtesy of Mother Nature who sent a lightning bolt through the township building on Sunday. This meant she couldn't work, so she was home. We talked quite a bit, and I got to spend some quality time with Grace and Kendall in the pool. Grace impressed me with her ability to swim underwater for quite some time. She's fearless. Tonight she performed fairly well on an online Curious George game that required visual perception. I was impressed with her ability. I wasn't impressed with her decision to hold her bladder from 2:30 until 7:30. That's five hours of cajoling someone to tinkle on the toilet. How tiring!