Craziness.

I guess the slow progression toward old age is really bothering me. How do I know this? Is it the repetitive checking of grey hairs? Nah. They blend with the blondes. Is it the constant checking of my back-fat in the mirror? Nah. Been doing that for at least 15 years. No, it's the fear that won't be able to do things that I should've done in my 20s or my 30s. And when opportunity knocks, I don't bother looking through the peephole, or whatever you want to call it. (Peephole is just the wrong word...) Instead, I just swing the door open and say: "C'mon in..."

And that's what happened when Terry emailed me.

"Hey, let's do this little triathlon at Bear Creek. It's called the Dirty Grizzly. The shirts look cool."

Hmm...I have three marathons in two months this fall. I've been training fairly strongly and seriously for the past three months. Sure, why not mess everything up? Heck, there's a cool shirt involved!

The details are gory. The race was ugly. Basically, it was a highly technical mountain bike race with a little swim thrown in at the start (oh, there was a ton of goose poopers everywhere...) and a short run (2 miles) up a ski slope to the top of the mountain and then back down on rolling rocks. The bike ride, however, was a task I will not soon forget.

Within the first quarter-mile, I flipped the bike downhill, and over rocks, onto my head. That was, I repeat, the first quarter-mile. What was I thinking? I just kept letting people pass me, people who I had beat in the swim and little transition. People who were not nearly in the same physical condition as me, but who knew how to jump bikes over rocks. Long-story-short: I carried that bike for at least five of the six miles on the trail. It took me an hour and 53 minutes to do so. I rode off the trail, smashed my tailbone, earned bruises the size of cantaloupes on both legs. Three days later, I still feel as though I was in a car crash.

Someday I'm going to listen to my own advice, the warnings that I yell down the street as Grace and Kendall attempt to ride off on their bikes while wearing flip-flops. I didn't listen to my gut, my common sense. listened to my young heart, the one that says I don't want to grow old. I don't want to be left behind. I want to remain young at heart, even if old age threatens to stop that. After the race, we all gathered on the deck of Bear Creek, nursing beers and sharing bloody wounds with people half our age, people who look like they were at mosh pits the weekend prior. Yeah, we held up. We survived. We didn't just roll over.

And the shirt? Terry was right. It's pretty cool.

Obama and Kendall

Welcome to the Wedding of the Century.

This is the imaginary one in which my daughter, Kendall, marries the man of her dreams: President Obama. The kid has been obsessed with the Prez since last summer. Someone at daycare with a deep love for the Democratic party must've put a bug in her ear. Not that there's anything wrong with it. But this affinity for BO has become pretty deep.

We had a conversation about her love this week when a life-size poster of his head arrived from the DNC. Mark told Keni, a leggy blue-eyed blonde with big Chiclet teeth, that she had mail. He unfolded the picture, and her smile spread as wide as the Nile: "Baaaarack Obaaaamaaaahhhh..." It was like oral chocolate. Looooovvvveeeee.

I swear that diamonds glistened in her innocent eyes.

Innocent. Yeah. Right.

So I said to her: Do you still like Obama?

Keni: "I'm gonna marry him."

Me: Really? You do know he's married.

Keni: "Huh? Who he's married to?"

Me: Michelle Obama. I think it's pretty solid.

Keni: [Pause...] "He's gonna tell her he doesn't want her anymore. He wants to marry Kendall." [Smile spreads...]

Me: [silence....]

Keni: "And then I'm gonna have a big belly. We're gonna have four babies."

Me: Hmmm....

Wait to the media maelstorm that will follow this love story. I never envisioned my 15 minute of fame would happen this way. To think: my future son-in-law is President of the United States. How cool is that.

Thief

Who is this thief that sneaks into Grace's life and steals her away from normalcy?

Wednesday was a heart-breaker and a heart-maker, all in the span of two hours. She had speech therapy with Rebecca. I took the kid and read in the waiting room until she was done. Afterward, Rebecca walked her out and revealed to me (and other people around us) that Grace performed well on her speech in a controlled situation. But in a pragmatic setting, she cannot seem to get the words out. In other words, she lacks the words necessary for social dialogue. She couldn't answer the question: What kind of furniture do you have in your bedroom?

Well, Grace looked at the floor, shuffled her feet. This all seemed so familiar to me; a year ago at Geissinger the doctor asked Grace why fire was dangerous. She looked around, pointed at the ceiling sprinkler and said: "Look, water!" There was a connection, but it was more of disconnect.

So here she is, a year later, and Rebecca brings this up in front of the kid and in front of strangers. Feeling sorry for her as we walked to the car, I said: Hey, guess what kind of furniture I had in my room? I have a computer, a desk, a tv, a chair... Well, with that, she let out a big little-girl sigh: "I'm not smart, Mom. I'm dumb." My heart sank. I felt horrible. I talked about her grades, her ability to do math, to write her name, to read some words. Nothing except the same response: "I'm not smart, Mom. I'm dumb." But by now, it was followed by tears and head that hung so low. She was like a young Cindy Brady, blonde innocence and no front teeth and all lisp.

I could not say or do anything to change her mind. Instead, I stopped trying to convince her. As I drove on the highway, I reached behind to the back seat. She found my hand, latched on tightly, and we headed home in silence.

Fast-forward two hours.

By now, she had quietly recovered. We headed to the Lehigh Parkway to watch Mark run a 5K. She typically seems to ignore him at races and, instead, looks for rocks to skip in the creek, much to the annoyance of the fishermen. But this day was, indeed, different. As we stood on the footbridge, she stopped and watched for him. As he passed beneath us in the lead pack, she yelled: "Go Daddy, go Daddy. Run fast..." She scurried to the other side of the bridge to watch his back. We then walked to the other side of the path where he'd pass on the Two Mile mark. She waited for him. As he eventually ran toward her, she yelled: "Go Daddy. You're the best daddy in the world. I love you, Daddy." She beamed as she watched him forge ahead in the evening humidity.

Eventually, he headed up to the end loop and returned toward the finish. And she waited a third time. And again, she shouted words of encouragement, more than anyone else was yelling for their runners. The people around her smiled. I'd like to think she noticed their approval, but I'm not certain.

Autism is a strange creature. It has robbed her of so many options in life, perhaps even the ability to live on her own some day. But it has done one thing: it has made us acutely aware of all of her actions and all of her words. We pay close attention to her because we have to help her feel successful, help her feel supported, help her recover from her pitfalls. And in turn, maybe she has learned to support others in the process. Perhaps she is not as GraCentric as we think. And that is a wonderful thing.

Persistence.

It's been a long time. A really long time. This goal that I basically gave up on after Round Three back in 2007. After that letdown, I resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't going to happen. I rationalized it: there are certain kids who need me, my kiddos with whom I have forged relationships, the ones who I consistently float money for lunch, the ones who need the fist-bump and constant praise.

But this time, when the opportunity arose, it paid off. And as thrilled as I am, this will be one of the most difficult life changes for me. Leaving my new friends and longtime colleagues will be hard. I will miss most of them; some of them I will probably never see again. Leaving my room, 209, saddens me. I know it's just a room, but I molded it to represent me. It stood for comfort, safety, creativity, a place where risks can be taken without fear. It was "the newspaper room." Leaving after one of the best years there, with some of the neatest kiddos, causes me heartbreak. I confess that some kids knew that I had again applied. They told me not to, just as they do every year when I joke that I may not be back. I can't count the number of times someone has said to me: "I'm taking Journalism 3 next year." And I replied: "Well, maybe I"ll be here to teach it." The response was always: "Oh, you better be here. You can leave after I graduate."

This time, it's true. I have a slew of young adults that I will miss: Professor, CashMoney, Linds, JLibs, SZ, Neela, Sean, Henceforth, Steph, and too many others. I feel, in a way, that I am letting some of them down. I want to see them graduate. And I won't.

Even more so, I feel as though I'm leaving my girl, my Queen of Shit. My mentor. All too many times I've relied on her so greatly to pull me through my rough spots, to help me refocus, to remind me to hold the line and respect the standards, to emphasize the three Rs: rigor, rigor, rigor. She scared the living crap out of me during that first month on the job, particularly when she stared over the top of those reading glasses and gave "the look." I'm sure this happened the first time I invoked the word "clusterfluck," one of my newsroom phrases.

I remember how tough it was for me when Pam left. She was the younger sister that I never had. We shared so many personal similarities; we were kindred spirits. Then Cathy left. She was the eldest sister that I never had, my literary guide and cheerleader, the person who "got" me as I suffered through all of the mixed family drama. I needed Marcy to stay. She was my middle sister, my rock. The one who kept it all together with grace and style and poise. We could sit in a meeting, listen to some knucklehead squawking, and just smile, knowing what each other was thinking. She completes me. And every time she's mentioned the R word, I'd get anxiety. After all, she's way too young to retire.

But now I'm leaving. Maybe this will help me avoid the pain that I would be experiencing upon her leaving me. I think that would be worse.

And so this is where my persistence has left me. Ecstatically sad. But in the end, richer for what I'm taking with me. If only I could take these people with me in more than spirit.

OK, here's some verification about Keni's choppers, to which I refer in the previous post. If you look closely as she does her Hannah Montana goes to Bear Swamp dance routine, you'll notice that those front teeth have already signed up for an appointment with the orthodontist. Money from the tooth fairy? Heck, no. It's all earmarked (toothmarked?) for some head gear.

18 months later.

Wow. Who would've thought that I'd wait 18 months to write again. I could tell a small fib and say that I was just waiting for some really good stuff to happen in my life. But that would certainly be a lie.

Perhaps the tragedies of the world have moved me to words. The Death Of.... Billy Mays. Inventor of Oxi-Clean. Seriously. I know MJ and Farrah were icons in their own right. But seriously. Did they make life easier for the mother of four? No. Yet take Billy Mays and the wonder of Oxi-Clean. With one swallow, that stuff could clean out all of the stomachs of a cow. Stains? Gone! No longer did we have to worry about the girls eating spaghetti. Cleaning products are the inventions of some understanding goddess.

Speaking of goddess, Kendall (who is currently in the midst of a nail-biting championship round of Dora Candyland with her father) started to swim today. Thank goodness she eats a lot of kibble because her very round stomach seems to help keep her above water. This pooch-belly acts as a buoy, allowing her to swim in small circles as if she was the star pupil studying at the Esther Williams School of Water Acrobatics. Of course, she will not yet put her face in the water. And as a result, she's squinting quite a bit, and I fear that she may swipe into the side of the wall with those rabbit teeth.

Tomorrow marks the official start of summer for me, despite having off for the past three weeks. Why is that? Well, summer school begins for Grace, and Kendall will be heading back to day care part-time, giving me time to catch up on all of the Judge Judy and other important daytime shows that managed to stay on the air during the school year. I do love daytime. Gimme a blue bag of Doritos, a case of Coke Zero and the remote control in the month of July and I'm as happy as a clam (even if I am allergic to shellfish).

Happy New Year

Eleven days without setting foot into a school -- any school -- felt really nice. No high school. No day care. No speech therapy. How nice to spend so much time with a pair of the funniest rugrats. It was a week of silly, competitive singing. It was a week of chasing the pipsqueaks through the house with the toaster tongs with the threat of tweeking their buns. It was a week of princess pajamas and cookies for breakfast.

For Christmas, they each received a pair of pink Dora Crocs from Santa, along with matching Mickey and Minnie sweatshirts and Disney princess pajamas. All were hits. Heck, even the character socks were a hit.

So we went out for Chinese food on New Year's Eve. Dynasty, in Emmaus. Fortunately, our wishes were granted when we saw French fries listed as an appetizer. Glory be to Dynasty. The girls could eat. They loved the tea cups, the sizzling platters, the fortune cookies. On the way home, the singing began.

Kendall: "We wish you a Merry Kwanzaa, we wish you a Merry Kwanzaa, we wish you a Merry Kwanzaa and a Happy New Year."

Grace: "Dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, I made you out of clay; dreidel, dreidel, dreidel, something something that rhymes with clay."

Today I celebrated the New Year with a 10-miler, no Garmin! I put in 54 miles last week; it was probably 55, but I never count the extras. Twelve weeks to Wirefly National...and almost halfway to summer break! Woo-hoo!