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Showing posts from November, 2011

i'm for sale. (black friday special)

I have a friend that I like a lot. She doesn’t live close and I see her almost never. But she knows I run lots of little races and asked me about a month ago if I wanted to run a half marathon with her. I said yes with little hesitation.
Partly because there isn’t so much she could ask me to do that I wouldn’t say yes to. And partly because it meant hanging out with her and possibly fitting back into my skinny jeans.
I am not much of a detail girl so the fact that it is a good 10 miles longer than the majority of races I run didn’t really stress me at the time.
One little detail did make me panic.
I had to be part of a team. A team that I agreed to try and raise money for. And even though it was for a ridiculously good cause. This little detail rather than the 13.1 miles with hills (lots of hills!) made me break into a little mini panic attack. Kind of like when someone asks me to go swimming with them. But worse. In other words, I think I’d rather wear my swimsuit in public than ask …

peace and quiet and turkey

My parents cook all night and all morning for a ridiculous feast. Usually for atleast 20. And more often than not there is someone around the table (tables to be more accurate) that I have never seen before in my life. Ever.
They may or may not be related to me.
And that hardly matters as long as they are willing to flatter the cook(s) and pour my dad another glass or wine. or bourbon. or slice of pecan pie.
Holidays at my house are a little crazy.
There will be yelling. There will be enough food to feed 40. My dad will tablescape and cook something I can’t pronounce and it will be delicious. Plates are paper and people often fight over leftovers. Prayers are long winded minisermons. There are 8 grandkids all competing for who can be the noisiest. And there is often football in the front lawn or atleast nerf balls being thrown off the balcony. There will be bad words. And at least one person will pass out. From too much turkey. Or wine. Or both.

I have spent the last few days with …

The Walk of the Unashamed

The other day I had to have a difficult conversation with someone about a difficult situation. It was the kind of conversation that it is best to prep for. To think about and maybe even write down what you want to say. And a conversation that I had been putting off for months….and people kept telling me over and over I needed to have. And I’m not even really sure what it was that was keeping me from it. Until I started talking. The conversation happened when I was least ready for it with absolutely zero prep time. And I caught myself saying the same phrase over and over...  "i was afraid that..._________(fill in the blank with one of a half dozen things)."

Somehow, over the last few months I have let fear get the best of me in lots of situations. Personal and professional. And I have tried really hard to raise my kids so they never let fear win. However, sometimes fear is a good thing.For example, I am afraid of snakes and bears and black ski slopes. And steering clear of the…

dancing with myself

I was hesitant to put my daughter in dance. Partly because I think she is too young, and partly because the whole idea of dance (and dance moms) scare me. That and Tess’s hair is still too short for a bun.
But people kept telling me that I needed to. And she loves to dance. So I signed her up.
Every Wednesday is crazy. I rush out of school earlier than usual, pray that I remembered her dance bag, pick up Tess, squeeze her into tights and a leotard and get her to dance abd then I’m usually right back out the door to pick up her brother, find his soccer gear and then back to dance. Usually just in time to watch the last 20 or so minutes through a one-way window. On my tip toes.
Her class started with 5 littles. One girl with a matching, leotard, dance bag and bow. All with rhinestones. Mom took several pictures of the whole ensemble before walking in the door. Two sisters, possibly twins, who were adorable but would much rather play with each other than actually dance. A little boy who was …

Guns, Boobs, and Racist Comments

...all from my kids.

My son was talking about someone named Maddy. We have a good friend named Maddy, but we haven’t seen her lately and I know that it is a common name so I was trying to decipher who exactly he was talking about. Our conversation went as follows:
Me:“Owen, is there a Maddy in your classs?”
O:” Yes, but that one is a different color than us.”
Me. (trying not to freak out or make it too big a deal, but slightly concerned and wondering where this conversation was going to go…because I have never heard him mention race or color before)…”hmmm, what does that mean Owen? What color are you?”
O: “Mom!!! (like I am asking the most dumb and obvious question ever). “I’m blonde”

In the car on the way home from dinner, Owen and Tess were entertaining themselves in the backseat. Mostly by Owen pretending that his hand was a gun and was shooting his sister with his fingers. Tess, might be the girliest girl I know….but she can wrestle and play legos and hang with all the boys on our…

I may run like a tortiose, but this isn't a fable.

With the gift of an extra hour ( I love falling back…just don’t talk to me in March when I have to “spring forward”), I decided to sneak in a short run before church. There aren’t many things out there that clear my head, but running is one of them. And it usually takes at least a few miles until my legs hurt enough or the oxygen is all in my muscles rather than my brain before things start to clear out.

This morning however. That was not the case. The longer I ran. The more muddled my brain became.

And it started to sound a lot like my three year old, asking lots of why questions. Things that haven’t bothered me in a while were sneaking their way back in. And I tried turning up my ipod and running faster. But. neither worked.
So, I decided I need to shut this down fast.
(and please don’t act like you don’t have conversations with yourself. We all do it. It is called self talk. And it can destroy or save you. And frankly, I’m tired of losing. So, I decided this morning that I was go…

daughter. mine. and a band.

There are two kinds of people.

Ones who will drive around the block again to finish a good song. And those who would never even consider it. Let’s just say I’ve made the block many times over.
Don’t have much to say tonight. Even though it was a really good night. But this song, that someone recommended to me today, is worth another loop around.

(and this might not have earned another trip around the block, but it did get her two hand stamps....which is the 3 year old equivalent of a 4 star review.

sleep to dream

My bed growing up used to scare me. I don’t mean going to bed. Or nightmares. Or things hiding under my bed. I mean my actual bed.

The headboard reaches the ceiling. It is 2-3X the height of a normal bed and the intricate carvings and designs I thought looked like a gargoyle face. At least they do when you are 6. Which is about how old I was when I inherited my grandparents antique bed. I practically needed a ladder to climb into it and rolling off in the middle of the night would cause me to check for broken bones. It creaked and cracked and occasionally the floor boards would fall out. This made sneaking out of bed tough growing up. And maybe my parents planned it that way.

I knew it wasn’t normal.
My friends had cute little trundle beds that you could pull out for sleepovers.
Or one friend even had a fancy four poster bed with tulle hanging over the top.
And to kids, tweens and teens my bed was just weird.
No amount of Tom Cruise posters or glow in the dark stars on the ceiling co…