An Anatomy Lesson a la Carmella

Today as I was driving the kids to gymnastics I told them that I would be running while they had their classes. I reminded them that if I was late they were to STAY IN THE BUILDING and wait for me. I started in on the not talking to strangers and no matter what anyone said they were not go anywhere with anyone but Carmella interrupted me:

"Mommy don't worry," she said "Beau and I have discussed this. If it is a woman we punch her in the stomach and if it is a man we kick him in the shins . . ."

Now it was my turn to interrupt. "Not the shins," I said. "If it is a man you kick him as hard as you can in the nuts and run as far and fast as you can!"

Carmella confused asks "His nuts? Where are a man's nuts?"

Beau and I together answer: "His balls!"

Carmella still has a blank look and blinks her wide brown saucer eyes. So I clarify it for her: "His penis babydoll. You kick him as hard as you can in his penis. Got it?"

"Oh, right," she says getting it. "His shins. Same thing."

Oh my God! This is way better than the time when Carmella was 3 and asked why Beau's bottom was different than hers. I told her that he was a boy and he had a penis and she was a girl and she had a vagina. Then for weeks after wards all she talked about was her "china" and Beau's "peanuts". And no I never corrected her but somehow she figured out all on her own what shins are on a man.

Is it wrong that I immediately wished that I had shin splints as an injury instead of ITBS and I could go around complaining how much my shins hurt? That would really mess with her head! But even better than that it would make this conversation come full circle for Beau.

Ah kids. Even when you're knocked down they give you reasons to get back up and just laugh.

Puffed Up and Pouty Like a Swollen Creek

I can't talk about Fight Club yet. I am sour on things; bratty and really don't have a lot nice to say. Everything is off, out of place and just plain not copacetic in my little corner of the universe. Yes, I am hiding--throwing sticks and tossing stones and just not ready to come out. Maybe when it is sunny here again I will.

I do feel guilty for neglecting the blog. I haven't written because I am so negative lately. I can hardly stand to be around myself; much less spend time, thought, and words giving it a name, labeling and cataloging it here for you. I can't even find humor at it--at myself and well, that almost never happens. The yuckiness that I feel lately is thick and chewy and I want nothing to do with it and trust me, neither do you.

Yesterday though, when the sun peaked out a tiny bit, I did go for a little run in the morning and while not fantastic it was okay because it didn't hurt, I could breathe and of course, I was getting to run. But I didn't feel great and it was totally disgusting down by the river where I ran: sewer smell, gray and red mud slicks, twisted and broken trees, mushy gravel and occasionally, an impassable flood pool. All that on a mostly paved path.


In the afternoon I was feeling even better and really wanted to get another workout in. But Tuesdays Beau has his theater class . Typically, while Beau is in class, Carmella and I go shopping or go down by the river and she rides her bike and I run along side her. However, having seen the condition of the trail that morning and knowing Carmella's sensibilities I knew that wasn't going to work out. And because of the general lack of resources, as discussed in the previous post, shopping was out too.

So I convinced Carmella to go on a hike.

I convinced her by telling her we didn't have to run and that we could bring Lola.

Beau's theater class is in the historic section of Roswell and right near the old mill.
The mill area has been completely transformed in the last 10 or so years. When I was younger I thought of the area as a bit sketchy but now I am not even sure if I can afford to breathe the air over there it is so fancy and cute in it's pretentious small town quaint. (Hmm, that sounded a bit snarky. See, I told you I am not nice lately.)

I have heard that there are hiking trails over there and I have been wanting to check them out as I am always looking for new places with new sights to put the miles in. I have no idea how long they have been there but as far as I know they were not there when I lived over in that area during grad school. (I lived a block over on the street with all the churches. A huge 2 bedroom for $500 a month with hardwood floors that I had all to my little lonesome. It was cheap and wonderful and that is where I lived when I very first started running. Ah, nostalgia. . . )

At any rate, for those who have not been there and are also in need of a new place to run it looks like there are quite a few trails and they go all the way down to the cliffs at Allenbrook . How long the trails are I don't know-- the maps I saw didn't say but I am really really bad at reading maps. You go and figure it out and report back to me.

The trails are a little technical, probably most like the ones at Sope Creek. I don't know if you can mountain bike on the mill trails or not. I did not see signs saying one way or the other and I did not see any mountain bikers or really anyone else on the trails.

I brought my camera and we took pictures along the way.

This is the waterfall at Vickery Creek.
I am not totally clear on the names since I saw that it was called Big Creek in a few places. All I know is that I use to hang out a lot down at the waterfall off Sloan Street in high school and we called it Vickery Creek and we could walk straight across the top. And sometimes, never me, people jumped off the waterfall.

This is how it looked yesterday. I was kind of scared just to stand near it. Betting no one is jumping off it or walking across the falls this week.
There are mill ruins all over. Most people hate kudzu but one of the things I love about the landscape of the South is seeing the battles between the vines and the architecture. It is a war in slow motion.


Even though she made me promise we didn't have to run. She ran most of the time. Seriously. She is so silly. Running? It is what kids do. That walking crap is for old people.

I have never seen so many mushrooms in the area as I have this summer/fall. In fact, I have been wanting to make cut outs of Smurfs and put them under the mushrooms on the trails I run on. I think people would like that.

In my not so scientific study of local trails in the area and mushroom life the ones at the Lieta trail are the most interesting: bright pink, red or the spotted variety. At Kennesaw Mountain and at the mill trails all I've seen are the brown and white kinds and toadstools.

We walked down Sloan Street to check out the Founder's Cemetery.
I could stand it only long enough to take few pictures. I got chewed to pieces by mosquitoes if I didn't keep moving. I can't believe how bad the mosquitoes are and here it is mid fall.Aren't they usually gone by now? It it terrible. My legs look like I have the pox!

Do you see it? In this picture?

The ray of light? The sun? It is what I am hoping for these days. Trying not to read too much into it that I saw it, however briefly, in a cemetery. However, it is October so I suppose that makes sense. . . somehow.

Maybe?

A Relative Economic Problem

Special principle of relativity: If a system of coordinates K is chosen so that, in relation to it, physical laws hold good in their simplest form, the same laws hold good in relation to any other system of coordinates K' moving in uniform translation relatively to K.
--Albert Einstein

Or, in simpler terms: everything is relative, at the very least tangetically related.

So. I think I have figured out what my problem is (well at least one of them); I have never really understood economics. None of it. Clearly this is the key to most, if not all of my problems.

And yes, I am even going to blame my lack of blogging on it because in essence it boils down to a supply and demand issue. In this particular economic scenario time is the commodity. Demand for it is high and supply is low. The resource is low. There is a scarcity. Choices have to be made people!

But I think "choice" is a bad word because really, most times I don't actually get to "choose". The choice is already made for me. And ultimately this is my problem with economics. I have a problem with the whole "want" versus "need" aspect of the "choice" theory. For example; I want to spend my time running, writing and shopping. But my resources--my uncooperative IT band, lack of time, lack of money--cannot meet my demands or, really let's just be honest--ever satisfy my "wants". So, this use of the word "choice" in economics really doesn't apply to me. I don't have a choice. Oh my God!<>--am I existing outside of Capitalism? Help!!! I'm trapped in a commune!!

My lack of grasping the economic obvious really wasn't too big of a problem until yesterday. Or rather I should say it wasn't a problem I really paid much attention to if I could get away with it. Denial is not just a river in Africa when it comes to me and economics. However, yesterday I was forced to think about it because my third grader had to study for an "Econ" test.

That's right.

Economics test.

In third grade.

I don't think the word economics was even in my vocabulary until middle school and in that case it was proceeded by the word "home" and was a super fun class where we got to sit at big round tables and make cookies and sew aprons. Imagine my dismay freshman year of high school in Economics when Coach Manus screamed at the class as he ground the chalk into the board writing "THERE ARE NO FREE LUNCHES!!"

(seriously, can't there sometimes be free lunches? )

That was a really, really sad day for me. Then he handed out copies of the Wall Street Journal stock listings and told us to pick a stock to invest in for our first assignment. I've been traumatized about money realities ever since. I remember thinking: This is economics? Where are my cookies? My appliques to sew on my apron?

Taking my required economics 101 class in college was no better and is probably the exact reason why I never wanted to be a business major or even take another business class. I have taken a lot of courses ( I graduated from undergrad with 90 extra hours because I changed my major 3 times) but economics across the board was the only class/subject that I really really hated. Everything else--Statistics and Organic Chemistry included--I could find something interesting, something that I liked.

So yesterday when I came across a white typed flyer that said Econ Lessons at the top of the page in bold print I immediately felt that same confusion and stress I felt in freshman economics. There were these bolded titles:
Lesson 1: Scarcity (no coincidence that the word "scar" is in there)
Lesson 2: Opportunity Cost (doesn't that just sound ominous?)
Lesson 3: Consumption
Lesson 4: Production
Lesson 5: Interdependence (this doesn't sound so fun either)

All with neat bullet point definitions below them. At first I thought maybe it was a political flyer from the mail that had gotten mixed up with the kids school papers. I turned it over expecting to see a political agenda but it was blank.

"I need to study that Mom," Carmella said as she snatched the paper out of my hand. "I have an Econ test tomorrow," she explained.

"Huh?!"

I have to admit. A little bit of me died then. For the first time since my kids have been in school I was scared (see, there's that word again) of their homework. I feel pretty confident I can explain most subjects to my kids but economics is the one class I always hated with a passion. It was like every time the instructor talked I heard Charlie Brown's teacher and when I tried to read the textbook I suddenly had dyslexia.

Truthfully though, it is not just economics homework. I really don't like any homework--never really was my thing. I made it my mission when I was in school to do all my homework at school (with the exception of reading or writing research papers. And that was because I didn't view that as work. I liked reading. I liked research. I liked writing-- of course the caveat being: so long it was a subject I actually liked.) If that meant skipping lunch or getting to school an hour early that is what I did. If I couldn't get it done on school property during school time? Yeah, it pretty much didn't get done then.

That said I am stickler about my kids doing their homework and I even help them with it every afternoon and make sure all their assignments are done. I even encourage them to turn stuff in early.

Lucky for me my third grader likes homework and does not make too many "help me with my homework" demands. This is particularly extra lucky for me this year since my first grader's homework is using up most of the available resources (my time).

I knew there were going to be issues with the resources (my time) this year having both a first grader and third grader. I have long heard people saying "third grade is tough." And after my experience with Carmella in first grade I knew it was going to be really hard for Beau this year and his homework would take up a huge chunk of time everyday. So I hoped third grade wouldn't prove too hard for Carmella since there is only so much time (and so much of my patience) in any given afternoon. And so far Carmella has managed all her home work fine. Meaning I have not had to do any of her homework. Maybe once or twice a week I have to answer a question or quiz her on something but otherwise she is on top of it.

First grade homework though. It is killing me! More so than my inflamed It Band is aggravating my left leg and messing up my training. And that, my friends, is a lot.

I found out when Carmella was in first grade just how much first grade had changed but now, if it is even possible, I think it has gotten even harder. Either that or I am just not remembering 2 years ago correctly. Maybe I got too complacent in second grade when the demand (for my time) was low and the supply (my time) was high. Or, even more likely, I am dumber.

My brain cells were compromised the day I found out I was pregnant and have been shrinking exponentially ever since. I thought by giving birth it would have stopped the shrinkage and early on had hopes of gaining some of what I lost back--you know like how your hair fell out and it eventually grew back or your stomach shrunk back--but no such luck for me. My brain is damaged beyond repair.

And just to give you a taste of what I am talking about here is a sampling of stuff my first grader-- wait let me be more specific-- my first grader who HATES to do homework because he HATES to write is assigned: Research Benjamin Franklin. Create a fact book about him." Or, "Write a math subtraction story about fruit. Include three things: a colored illustration, a written story, and a math equation to show the solution." Those are some of the more challenging (time consuming) assignments we have yet to tackle (we get to pick and have to do one every night for the quarter). The easier ones we have accomplished were: making a list of 10 contractions and writing the words that make up each contraction and making 10 addition sentences and writing the inverse subtraction sentence. We also made a "comic book with two characters, one who eats healthy and one who doesn't." We even did a science assignment showing the "water cycle" and listed the different forms of precipitation and drew a picture to go along with it. Seriously, my son with a speech problem can barely say the word "precipitation" never mind write it out. I motivated him to do that assignment by helping him create a word document on the computer. Typing, Googling, and my personal favorite "cut and paste" skills added to the lesson. Thinking this is how we will get that Ben Franklin book done too.

I had to shuffle Beau's homework aside yesterday and gave him a math sheet I printed out. He will do addition and subtraction all day long so long as I do not make him write any pesky words. I sat down with Carmella to go over her "Econ" homework.

Clearly, lack of understanding economics is genetic. Finally! Something Carmella and are have in common. No. I am seriously not happy about this but I did find it funny when I asked her to define "scarcity". The handout says "scarcity happens when there's not enough of something you want." And she just could not wrap her mind around that. No matter how many examples I offered. When I tried to discuss "economic problem" with her--which according to her handout is defined as people having to make choices because of scarcity well, let's just say it was challenge and severely muddied the waters. Like I said, I too have a lot of troubles with those so called "choices".

Her little friend Reina was here playing so I sent them out to play teacher and study the sheet. I told Carmella that I would quiz her when she got home from ballet. But either she was too tired from ballet or there is just a huge mental block in our genetic makeup against economics because she had no clue. I sent her to bed--very stressed out about her test I should add-- and told her I would get her up early to so she could get to school and have extra time to study.

Carmella was ready this morning to leave for school at 6:50 am. As we packed her assignments up and I signed important forms I happened to glance at her agenda. It said "Econ test Friday."

"Carmella," I said. "Your Econ test is when?"
"Today, " she groaned and also looked answered looking at her agenda.
"Really? You wrote that it is on Friday."
"Yeah. Friday" She answered gloomily.
" And today is . . " I ask her.
Her eyes get huge and excited, " Thursday!"

Thank goodness the child has another day to study! Maybe since it is third grade economics this time I-- I mean Carmella-- will finally get it.

So here is what I am thinking. Maybe if I can figure out economics I will in turn be able to figure out how much of a demand I can put on my It Band and still be able to run Mystery Mountain Marathon next Sunday without injury (or pain). I am sure there is some fine economic equation of rest, running, tapering, rehab-ing, stretching and foam rolling and if I can just figure it out then I will be able to satisfy my needs and my wants. I do think, possibly, like how I have a tendency to read too much into a metaphor, I might be reading a little too much into economic theory. Really, it doesn't matter the system, the theory or the law; in the taper the coordinate is always defined by madness.

Rope Hanger

This is my little rope hanger:
He has that perma-grin the whole time he is rope hanging, half drowning, half karate-man swimming his way across the pool--vertically not horizontally--you know, like how most people swim.
That, by the way, is his back stroke. He thinks he is AWESOME at backstroke. His freestyle looks the same except he goes forward.

That kid?

Pain in my ass that he is has the BEST attitude about swim practice.

This year is his first year on swim team. And while he struggles every single practice he doesn't complain, he doesn't get down that I (and everyone else) constantly yells at him TO GET OFF THE ROPE. He just smiles and makes his way anyway he can down the pool.

And let me tell you. The past few weeks have been the practices of tough-love-suck-it-up-get-your-butt-in-the-pool-buttercup.

I went through this last year with Carmella so she knows better but at least half of the kids are crying, shivering, complaining with their "I can't's" and "I won't's" and whining and belly aching their way through practice. I am not just talking about the 5-6 year olds. I've even seen a few 8 years lose their marbles at practice. You should have seen it when the coach said they had to swim for 5 minutes straight. Carnage everywhere.

But Beau.

He has a smile on his blue freezing face the whole time; swimming past all his little friends who are crying and begging their mommies to let them get out. The positive attitude though does not make up for the rope hanging. It is a problem and has become a habit for him. I even think he is doing it on purpose--not out of necessity. I constantly walk along the pool and scream "Put your face down and swim!" He just smiles up at me.

So I tried a different tactic and told him that he would NOT be able to swim in a meet if he couldn't swim to the end of the pool without touching the rope. Even still, at practice everyday, he was a rope hanger. Nevertheless the coach put him in one event.

So he got to swim: 25yd Freestyle.

And he did not touch the rope once. But urgency was not his. He even swam slower than he did at the time trials a week ago.
Why?
Because he had his face up the whole time looking around and smiling at everyone looking at him and yelling at him to swim!!!
He LOVED it.
Guess he wanted to prolong his moment and make it all his. Then he got to the shallow end and realized that he could actually stand up (since he was swimming vertically down the pool). So he stopped. Stood up. Raised his shoulders in a motion that said "what?". Then looked around at everyone; flashed his perma-grin and then put his face down and swam the last 8ft to the wall the correct way. The pool deck roared with laughter.

So he got third-- out of 3 swimmers. And when he got his ribbon he said "Oh, yay! I really like white!"

Cannot knock this kid down, I tell you.


I should also share that when I gave his team jammers he put them on and then asked me; "Mommy, do these make me look fat?"
Before I could answer I saw he had that wicked little smile. Such a joker.

I swear I feel like he is always mocking me.

Because it occurred to me Wednesday, while out for a 10 mile run and I was completely sucking tail that I am rope hanger. But worse, I am a whiner and complainer. Sure I can laugh at myself when it is all said and done and over but I HATE that I can't have that perma-grin; that positive, laugh at myself in the moment attitude. I am, the worst kind of rope hanger.

I really, really appreciate all the comments on my Twisted Ankle post and I am so glad I was able to make people laugh but I absolutely hate myself for my little melt down and not remaining positive. I hate that I didn't suck it up. I HATE that I was a rope hanger.

So Wednesday, when I found myself walking in the final mile of my 10 mile run I yelled at myself to "get off the rope and suck it up!" I did finish running and then further punished myself in the afternoon with a 3,500 yd swim--no stopping and no rope hanging I am happy to report. (Just a lot of boredom.)

I also went that afternoon and signed up for the Possum Trot 10k.

I am absolutely in no sort of shape to race a 10k but I am forcing myself to get off the rope and push through it. The way I see it: I have no residual pain from the marathon--aside from a little right ankle stiffness but I've had way worse. And my feet are pretty much healed up from walking all over the French Quarter in inappropriate shoes and my liver, well, it is what it is. It has been through worse. I am tired but I've been tired before. . . So I am racing tomorrow! At least in spirit. I may not be fast but I'll be out there putting one foot in front of the other as quickly as I can manage.

However, I should mention--that little Beau, I think he is mocking me again. All day today he kept saying,"Look Mommy! A dead possum!" Pointing out recent road kill. Then he reminisced, when we drove by the patch of sidewalk that we walked down a few weeks ago that had a dead rotting possum on it for awhile saying: "Oh, it is gone. I think all the maggots finally got it Mommy, " he told me.

I am trying really hard to NOT read metaphors into things my 5 year old says but as a one time lit major it is hard. I have tendency to seek out metaphor in the smallest of moments and most insignificant of conversations. Not only am I a rope hanger; I'm a metaphor reacher.

One last thing. I would be remiss if I did not mention this on my blog--plus it is yet another example how my kids are a way better human beings than I can ever hope to be:

Carmella has a kicky new do:

She chopped 12 inches off her hair to donate to locks of love.

I'm still working on me being a better person everyday but hey, at least my kids seem to be a on solid track (even if there is the occasional rope hanging).

Mantra for tomorrow: Get off the rope and run happy!

The Modesty Gene

mod⋅es⋅ty /ˈmɒdəsti/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [mod-uh-stee]

–noun, plural -ties.

1.	the quality of being modest; freedom from vanity, boastfulness, etc.

2.	regard for decency of behavior, speech, dress, etc.

3.	simplicity; moderation.

4....... Carmella

---

Origins: 1525–35; italia modestia.

Common antonym:

I use to think that modesty was something one grew into; or rather that it was something life beat into you.

You know, kinda like how a lot of people will be bleeding heart liberals in their youth and then they have to go out into the "real" world and get a job and start paying real taxes and then bam: they are conservative. Or sometimes, they are liberal and then they have kids and of course that changes everything.

Shut up.

I am speaking generally.

Yeah you, I am talking to you who is reading this and saying: THAT totally doesn't apply to me.

Just bear with me please. This is not about you. This is, of course, about ME.

Anyway, I have come to realize that there must be a modest gene and I do NOT. have. IT.
Never have.
Life?
Has not beaten it into me.
I admit to being a little dumb. Or as my dad says "hard-headed".

Okay, I will concede that life has beaten a tiny bit of good sense into me-- but not much. Basically it boils down to that I may not be the first to take off their clothes any more but I can also promise you that I am not the last either.
The clothes?
Yeah, they'll still come off.

And by "taking off clothes" you do know I am speaking metaphorically? Right?

Well, kind of. . .

And sure, sometimes I do get embarrassed-- but I am over it in the blink of an eye.
I don't blush.
I am not bashful.
I am, let's face it, a bit of a braggart.
If you see me being quiet there are 3 things going on:
1. I am trying to figure out how to interrupt so I can talk.
2.I am sick or in pain.
3.You have bored the hell out of me and I am no longer even listening to you.

Of course there are good and bad points to having this type of personality.

Wait, I mean persoNATALIE.

But for better or for worse this is who I am.

My poor daughter. She apparently got more modesty gene than any human being should ever be allowed to have. Lucky for her though she has me as a mom to help ease her way into life so those embarrassing, attention drawing situations will be much less painful for her.

Beau, like me, is lacking the modesty gene. In fact, as I write this he is here in the living room in only his underwear dancing on the couch to Spoon's Underdog. Try as I may I cannot embarrass Beau. And try as he may he can embarrass me-- a little. But, like I said, it is short lived. Like him, my thinking is all attention is good attention. I--and he--can not help it. I swear!

Carmella, by the way, would NEVER dance around in her underwear in the living room in front of open windows.
I?
Totally guilty of dancing around in my underwear.

Let's put it this way; Carmella--at age 8:
Closes the drapes on her window when she dresses.
Me?
At age 37?
This still hasn't occurred to me.

Okay I think you get my point.

So today I was mystery reader for Carmella's class. I've known about it for about 2 months. I picked this particular date when the email went out for parent volunteers because I knew I would be recovering from ING and therefore would miss no important workouts and also it was the Friday before spring break and Easter. Automatic themes to work with. I may be a fly by the seat of my skirt kinda girl but I am all about a THEME!

Of course, since my kids go to public school, I can't really do a theme about Easter. And of course I wanted to wear a costume. Because, duh, if I didn't I would not embarrass Carmella. (And if I don't embarrass Carmella then how would that be helping her?)

Thursday I went to Border's Books to look for inspiration. First book I found was Humpty Dumpty Climbs Again. This gave me an idea that I could use plastic eggs with treats inside as their little favor--cause, really, unwritten rule is you can't come empty handed as mystery reader.

Past times I have been mystery reader I have done stuff like make cupcakes with spiders webs with a fly for when I read The Spider and the Fly.

Or, when I read a pirate book I dressed as a pirate and brought the kids chocolate doubloons and pirate outfits.

And earlier this year I read Halloween books and dressed as a witch and brought them candy and mummy eyes and we played Mummy in the Graveyard.

Needless to say I've set a standard by which these kids have become accustom to.

The pressure! This is second grade! Not kindergarten. They have expectations.

The next book I found was Dumb Bunnies. I was a little worried about the word "dumb". But decided to risk it and my plan, my theme began to take form.

Next stop was Target for plastic eggs and a pair of bunny ears--I know I have some but have no idea where they are. It was a dollar well spent not having to hunt down an old pair. I also bought dum dums and smarties.

My plan was to tell the kids to not be "dum dum's" over spring break and instead be a bunch of "smarties" and keep up their reading.

Unfortunately the dum dum's did not fit in the egg. I put tootsie rolls in there too. They totally didn't match my theme and I will admit that kinda did give me a bad feeling on the inside to not have everything "go" but I consoled myself with that "everything goes with chocolate."

I kinda did want to put Carmello bunnies in there too but that was getting too pricey having to make favors for 16 kids. I have to reign myself in one way or another and usually, in my case, it is because of a budget.
Self control? Will power?
Things I do not have.
Wild flying creativity?
In spades.
Money?
Nope.
The way I see it everyone needs a boundary. Unlucky-- and sometimes lucky--for me mine is the pocket book. Having limits forces you to make better use of your creativity because it becomes about finding solutions and work (here comes the cliche; brace for it),"outside of the box."

This morning before my run I took some time to make my favors. Creativity struck again and I decided to make my eggs all Humpty's. Big on creative ideas, small on artistic talent I think they still turned out pretty good considering my lack of talent with sharpies.
The kids LOVED them.! They loved making Humpty climb up stuff, fall down and break apart. Evil little sadists second graders are!
We all played with our Humpty's after the stories.

After I made the favors I went out for a run and hoped inspiration to hit me again for my costume. I got in 6 hilly miles. My first road and hill run since the marathon on Sunday. Really, if I am being honest, I was hoping to run longer. Ideally it would have been 12 but I really didn't have time since I didn't yet have my costume fully realized. Besides, it was really windy and my lower left leg is still not 100% from the marathon. I am sure I could have pushed through it but there is not point. I am in recovery mode and I have run everyday this week except Wednesday because I swam that day (see how I have to say it to make myself think it is okay). So everything is coming along (again, if I keep saying it I will believe it--like my whole "run happy" mentality. Embracing the zen. Exhale).

When I got back Ryan happened to come home while I pulling stuff out of my closet and laying it out on my bed, designing my costume. He asked what I was up to and groaned a "poor Carmella" when I told him I was the mystery reader. He then advised me that the cheetah clogs were too slutty, not to wear any part of my Santa costume and then told me I was an idiot when he saw the final result. I, by the way, was just so excited that I found another outfit to wear with my pink leg warmers that go with the slutty kitten costume .

Ryan may think me a fool but he still took my picture (and he kissed me too and he like, Carmella, is modesty gene endowed.)
I give you Dumb Bunny Momma: (Note the cow bell. I? Am not afraid to have people look at me.)So I will admit to this strange sensation I felt --that I have to assume might be a type of embarrassment therefore akin to modesty-- when I had to walk across the parking lot of the school, sign in at the front office and then walk down to the second grade hall while every single person that passed me giggled, muttered under breath or just stared at me jaw dropped open. But you know what, I own it and just smile at them. I have found that if you don't give forum to self consciousness people tend to have a harder time questioning you outright and making fun of you in person because frankly, and this is just a theory, but I think they might be a little scared. So they say nothing.
At least not to your face.

PS. I think my plan is working on Carmella. When I walked in her classroom she just rolled her eyes and said "not again."
But she did laugh and sat next to me while I read and happily handed out the Humpty's to her classmates.

PPS. I stopped by Beau's class to give them candy and Beau just said, completely unfazed; "I like your ears Mommy" and then went back to talking to his friend. It was like it didn't register to him that it was a costume but rather he was just noticing that I had a fancy new accessory. Which in fact, he asked me about after school: "Mommy, those new ears that you had? Can boys wear them? I would like some but not pink."

Gift Bags

You know what?

I LOVE that Beau, when asked what he wants to be when he grows up says a vet. Some days he will say a bird doctor but most days he declares his deep passion to someday be a vet and take care of all the animals. I also much prefer his passion to be a vet to his 3 year old aspiration of being a lifeguard and surfer dude.

Carmella also wants to be a vet but her desire to be an artist is stronger.She doesn't think she can have both. Mostly I think she just wants to play with dogs--the other animals she doesn't care so much about.

Beau on the other hand is passionate about all animals. And even though I do get tired of reading encyclopedias on sharks or Arctic animals, or birds instead of real bedtimes stories with a plot and characters, I am proud of his curiosity and eagerness to learn.

I secretly love that Beau and Carmella prefer to watch the Westminster Dog show over cartoons. I'll even admit to finding the conversations such as this completely adorable:


Carmella: Beau, who are you going to marry?
Beau: I don't want to get married.
Carmella: You have to get married if you want to have a pet. How bout Livi-- or Riley?
Beau: Riley, she likes dogs and she has a Boxer. Boxers are my favorite dog, after Huskies.

And even though I don't love to go to the dog park, I'll admit that I think it is incredibly cute and funny that they want to go even if we don't have Lola with us. They actually beg me to take them to the dog park more than they do a place like Monkey Joes or Chuck E. Cheese.

And I love it when they encounter a breed of dog that they have only seen in books and will exclaim excitedly: "My first Yorkie! That is the first real life Yorkie I have seen!"

I wouldn't be surprised if Carmella, somewhere, has a journal listing all the types of dogs they have seen.

But what I do not love is that their passion to be vets has left me with no scotch tape and always searching for a pad of post it notes.

What does scotch tape and post it notes have to do with wanting to be a vet?

Let me give you exhibit A: The Animal Hospital (aka, Beau's top bunk)

(note all the scotch tape on the wall)

In case it isn't clear here is a close up of shark and panda with their scotch tape and post it note bandages.


So you see, this is why if you ever recieve a gift from us it will be in a gift bag (recycled no less). It isn't that I don't have wrapping paper. I don't have tape.

Playing with childish things

Monday through Friday my mornings are nearly always the same. I get up at 6 am. I have cereal and coffee and peruse the Internet in peace. At 6:30 I call up to Carmella and Beau to get dressed for school and ask them what they would like for breakfast: Carmella, never wanting anything, will say "just" cereal or a piece of toast or yogurt and then will be angry when I also put a banana on her plate (or God forbid offer her some juice.)

Beau, wanting everything, will peel off a list dreamily from his bed: waffles, yogurt, cereal, pop tart, eggs and french toast. Oh and bacon if you got some. Mom? We got bacon? I love bacon!

Then he will come downstairs half dressed and blanket toting and spend 5 minutes yelling at me that I only gave him three things for breakfast. Beau likes to get all his daily calories in and done at breakfast. All those other meals are stupid.

By 6:45 they are sitting at the table eating breakfast. And by eating I mean squabbling and being silly. Actually, Beau is eating and Carmella is merely pretending to eat; biding her time in hopes that Beau will quickly finish his feast and then eat her breakfast too when I am not looking.

Around 7 am I send them upstairs to brush teeth. I instruct Beau to also brush his hair--which invariably he won't do or will only get the front combed and the back will be a rat's nest. He takes "party in the back" to a whole other level. I will also instruct him to put on his shoes--which he will do but will put them on the wrong feet, most times I think on purpose. And I don't care. My hope is that his classmates will make fun of him and shame him into no longer doing these things. But so far Beau has proved immune to shame.

While I am directing Beau, Carmella, without being asked, will usually take Lola out and then feed her. After I have Beau in a passable state that won't encourage the school to call DEFACS on me I remind the children to get their snacks, jackets and make sure all papers, folders and anything else is in order in their book bags. By 7:20 we all pile in the car and I drop them at school. I would be lying to not admit the tiny thrill I get each morning seeing them run, jacketed with book bags waving back at me, eagerly through the school doors. I love that they run!

Then I come home and pour a second cup of coffee because I never got to finish that first cup. After properly caffeinated, I clean the kitchen, pick up all the toys, shoes and whatevers because apparently I am the only person in my house that has mastered bending over and picking up objects off the floor. It is a gift, for sure. Then I swap out laundry and then go upstairs to make all the beds and clean the upstairs. You know, all typical boring ass housewife stuff. I know you are all dying from your envy. Don't let it eat a hole in you.

Yesterday though I found a new responsibility added to my chore list.
The above picture is what I found laid out on the trunk at the foot of Carmella's bed. I paused, puzzling over it. It probably isn't clear in the picture but the post-it notes on the doll outfits say: Grace (brown) and Carly (blond). Grace and Carly are Carmella's dolls names. Yes, the dolls are named after her. Carmella's full name is Carmella Grace and until she was 2 and told me flat out that she was "a Carmella" we called her Carly. Very imaginative, I know.

I looked at the outfits and then to Carmella's unmade bed. And then I noticed the girls.

And I looked back at the outfits and back at the dolls as it all set in for me. To be certain I was understanding, I called Ryan upstairs who was working from home yesterday to confer with.

"Do you think," I asked him, "that she means for me to dress her dolls for her?"

"Looks that way," he said. "You better get on it."

Just so you know I didn't even play with dolls as a child. And I have to admit that I was a little insulted by the implication here: Carmella, too busy with school doesn't have time to tend to her toys. She has more important things to do but clearly felt some guilt neglecting her toys. But me? A housewife? What do I have besides time? Of course I should pick up the slack for her!

So in uncharacteristic passive aggressive form I dressed her dolls for her but mixed up the outfits. Not just putting the wrong outfit on the wrong doll but mixed up shirts and shoes and set them neatly posed on her made-up bed in her cleaned and straightened room. Bwhahahaha.

Later, after I had picked the kids up from school and was upstairs in my room folding laundry, Carmella having finished her homework came up to her room. She was quiet in there for a moment and then called out across the hall to me.

"Mommy," she says, her tone slightly annoyed, "I see what you have done here and I don't think it is funny."

Feigning innocence I call back to her, "What are you talking about?"

"My dolls," she says impatiently, her voice serious; "you mixed up the outfits."

"Oh that. Well maybe you shouldn't leave your dolls for me to dress. Obviously I can't be trusted."

She sighs and says, "I just didn't have time to do it this morning and I didn't want to forget which outfit to put them in."

And then, of course, she fixes the outfits and plays with her dolls.

Funny how I think I am the one in charge but it seems like I keep finding signs to the contrary and that maybe I am the only one who thinks that.

Poodles Eating Noodles

That's the password.

To the Pokey Puppy Club.

But before you rush out and sign up for Carmella's latest club you might want to know what all is involved. Not that I know everything but I have been privy to a few of the secret club on-goings since they meet in my backyard.

The Pokey Puppy Club is completely separate from the Super Club (previously The Cuddle Club). Best I can figure is that the Pokey Puppy Club arose because- back in the fall when we use to walk to school and all the neighborhood kids would join us- I would yell at them they were a bunch of pokey puppies because they walked so freaking slow.

Carmella is the leader of this club. Before every meeting she makes them do a "daily warm-up". This involves some stretching, some jumping jacks, and 20 pumps on the swings and a little running. I am thinking in another year or so she will be running her own kid's boot camp after school in the back yard.

I think the idea behind the daily warm up is to get the Pokey Puppies in shape so they won't be so pokey anymore.

Beau hates the daily warm up and pretty much gets kicked out of the club for not completing all his assignments. Carmella then tells him he can't be in the club. Beau then dissolves into tears for being ousted from the Pokey Puppy Club and comes crying to me. Having none of the squabbles I am forced to intervene and get off Face Book and yell out the back door that EVERYONE IS ALLOWED IN THE POKEY PUPPY CLUB!

There is also restitution for getting in trouble at school or with your parents or on the playdate. You have to go to the Principal's Office--which is the tower part of the kids' playset-- and have a 10-15 minute time out from the other club activities. Most times whoever has been sent to the Principal's Office comes crying to me and I will have to yet again get off Face Book and yell out the back door that EVERYONE IS ALLOWED IN THE POKEY PUPPY CLUB!

Most of these activities--at least from what I have observed when taking a Face Book break-- is running a muck throughout the yard and house, taunting Lola, playing hide and seek and jumping on the trampoline.


But there is one secret ritual that I have heard spoken about but don't really know all the ends and outs and exactly what happens during it.

It is called the Wishing Deer Circle.

I know.

It totally sounds very paganesque and Stonehenge-like.

The Wishing Deer I have figured out is Ryan's bow target (I know! Could we be anymore redneck? Trampoline? Fake deer target?).

And I think they all stand around the deer and say their wishes.

But I'm not sure.

There is to be a meeting of the Pokey Puppy Club this afternoon so I will try to spy and find out exactly what goes down and report back with any interesting findings.

Which you know this means that this is probably the only post regarding the Pokey Puppy Club.

On going long . . .

Two days after the Museum of Aviation marathon and 2 days before I became so deathly ill I couldn't move from the couch for three days because walking up a flight of stairs winded me so much I would nearly pass out, I had my hair cut.

No no no.

Not a lot.

It still looks exactly the same as always except it is 2 inches shorter, maybe. The idea of shoulder length hair frightens me so the notion of me with short hair is just completely inconceivable. My short hair phobia is Lala's fault. When I was three and a half Lala chopped all my hair off because I got gum in it and the resulting hair cut made me look like a boy. And considering how offended I was that the Aviation Marathon recorded me as male and that I proudly wear a Run Like a Girl shirt I am sure you understand that I definitely do not want to look like a boy.

Why?

Because I am a girl.

So I will have long hair until I can just no longer have long hair. Which Lala is, well, 21 years older than me and until recently she had long hair--and I wouldn't be surprised if she grew it out again since she tends to favor long hair too. So, I think I will get to have long hair for at least another 20 years if it is at all genetic. I do wonder though how and when that grandma hair happens. Is it a slow evolution or does it just happen when you turn 80?

Darn it all.

I am already getting off the subject. Sorry, I am never one for the short or concise, in anything. Which is slightly ironic considering my short attention span but even when I was an art major I never could embrace the "less is more" concept that was so often parroted to me in critiques.

So anyway, not sure if I mentioned it before but my sister Pookie cuts my hair. She is a hair dresser by profession. She's pretty cute too. Here she is with me at party last month:

Which I should add that she did not last long at that party. Oh, wait here is another of us at the same party:

I know I look like the drunker sister but really I wasn't. I don't need alcohol for shenanigans. It helps; but it isn't necessary.

Anyway the party isn't my point. Just wanted to give you a visual on who is Pookie.

Pookie lives in town--ITP for the Atlantans in the house. Me and most of my extended family are OTP and live in the suburbs north of the city. Pookie is nice and drives up here and cuts or colors all of our hair here so we don't have to drive in town and go to the salon. Which would also cost more. So whenever she is up here with her gear I try to make sure I am around to benefit. Generally she does the cutting at Lala's. Which is fine by me since it is only a 10 minute drive to their house from mine.

Okay, so now I am almost to the point of my whole story. So pay attention. I'll set the scene:

Pookie is cutting my hair in Lala's kitchen. Carmella is sitting on the counter next to where I am standing doing a running commentary of everything. Beau is running around the kitchen talking guns with Pop-- who was eating a bowl of the $100 She-crab soup Lala had made the day before. I joke that after I finish getting my hair cut I am going to the grocery store and hope to spend around $100 for 5 days of groceries.

Lala is walking around with her hair in foils waiting for her grays to go blond or brown or whatever it is Pookie does to her hair. And I am just trying my hardest to hold still-- which by the way is very very hard for me to do and I am failing miserably because Pookie keeps letting out exasperated sighs at me. I am also worried she is going to poke my eyes out with her scissors so I am trying to be quiet, which is also hard for me to do.

Pookie changes the subject to running and asks Carmella if she is going to be a marathon runner like me.

Carmella empahtically tells her, "No. Running is boring. It takes too long."

And Pookie says, "You could run track-- or cross county in high school."

And Carmella with her wide brown eyes saucered with disbelief and confusion says:
"You mean like run to New York-- or California? People do that?"

Can't Wait for Christmas

I know I've been lame (okay, lame-er) on the blogging lately. My apologies. Christmas is a busy time. Normally during December I have an off month but this year I am making a genuine effort to be ready for a marathon in mid January.

Last week I got my mileage back up to over 50 mpw and I got in a 21 miler for the long run. Everything felt good (it has been 3 weeks since my marathon) but by the end of the week my legs were dead. I took yesterday off and cleaned out my house. My plan was to do my long run today (either 21 miles again or 23.5 miles) but the high today is barely in the 30's and currently it isn't even 19 degrees. Seeing how my lungs react to the sub freezing temps-- and I'd like to not be sick this Christmas (was last year)-- I think I will do my long run tomorrow when the low/high is 45/57.

Call me whatever you want but I don't see the point in torturing myself if I don't have to.
Right, right, right.
It could be really cold race day. . .

The way I see it is that it won't make a difference if I get sick and can't train and run on race day. Better to get to the start line healthy. I'll worry about how cold it is when I absolutely have to.

So, like I said. I've been busy; shopping, wrapping up gifts, decorating, cleaning etc. As the kids get older Christmas is becoming more and more fun and we've been busy with family activities, shenanigans and parties. This year we had some visitors from the North Pole: Walt and Rosie.

These are two very mischievous elves that Santa sent to the kids. Oh boy have these two made quite a ruckus at our house: tp'ing, leaving gifts and little notes, rearranging the furniture, making forts with all the cushions, un-decorating the Christmas tree and just this morning I woke up to q-tips and cotton balls over the house. Walt and Rosie had even gotten into those furry red handcuffs that Pop gave me and Ryan. I KNOW!!!! Don't you just want to know why my Dad gave me such a thing? Yeah, I'll get to that. . .

So, yes, I have been greatly entertained by the kids this year. Particularly Beau and his inability to wait for Christmas. Apparently he either doesn't like surprises or doesn't understand at all what is meant by "surprise."

It is funny but my sister Pookie is the exact same way. When we were little she use to not only unwrap all her presents under the tree (and then wrap them back up) she would also unwrap everyone else's. It killed her to not only NOT know what she was getting for Christmas but to also NOT know what everyone else was getting.

Me?

I'm okay with surprises. I even like them. In fact, I've been DYING for about all my life for someone to throw me a surprise party already.

Okay, in case they are reading, I did have some friends in high school who threw me a surprise party once but they ended up telling me about it beforehand because-- as they said-- they were worried I would "make other plans and not come to the party." But these days my social calendar is a lot emptier so feel free to throw me a party and rest assured I will be there because I will have nothing else to do.

But my sister? She must hate surprises. She would say stuff like "Do you want to know what Aunt Harriet got you?"

And I would say, "No. I can wait until Christmas."

And she would say,"It is perfume. And Mom got you a leather skirt--a black one, and Kathy got you a gift medallion from Turtles-- 10 dollars worth. What tape are you going to buy with it?"

It got so bad that Lala just let Pookie help pick out all the gifts she bought and then paid her fifty cents a gift to wrap and I guess, bribe her to keep the gifts a secret. And it wasn't just Christmas--birthdays too-- and she was this way ever since she could talk. We couldn't tell her any secrets. She can't keep them. And for that matter, Lala, can't keep a secret either.

Oops, starting to digress. Let's bring this back around.

So I have discovered that Beau is like Pookie. I can't help but wonder if is genetic or just a youngest child thing. Can anyone else weigh in? Youngest child versus not being able to wait for Christmas without peeking. . .

My first indication of Beau's inability to contain a surprise was about a week and a half ago. He told me that he had made me a present at school and couldn't tell me what it was and I would have to wait until Christmas. And in the same breath he said: "It is an ornament. For the Christmas tree."

And I said: "Beau, you aren't suppose to tell me what it is. You are suppose to keep it a secret so it will be a surprise Christmas morning."

And Beau rolled his eyes at me and said: "I didn't tell you what kind of ornament it is." And with that off to school he went.

Fast forward to that afternoon when he comes home with said present:

"Open it," he demanded, thrusting the present in my hand.

I start to protest, saying I should wait until Christmas morning. . .

"It is an ornament, " he tells me yet again as he helps me pull paper off and before the unwrapping is done he says excitedly, "It is a snow man!!! With a sled!!!!"

The next day Beau comes home with another gift. This one he gives to Carmella and thrusts it in her hand and says "Open it now. It is a star. I sewed it."

Carmella was quite gracious and complimented him and told him she made the same star when she was in kindergarten too but that his is much nicer.

Another day goes by and the kids decide they need to buy some gifts. They clean out their piggy banks for what little is left. I think I have mentioned this before but if not, you should know my kids keep the school store in business.

The school, in addition to the school store, puts on a "Holiday Store" so the kids can go and buy little gifts for friends and family. Total racket, but a trip to the school store motivates the heck out of my kids and gets them ready for school way ahead of schedule.

When I picked the kids up from school that day they are waiting in the carpool line with their arms laden with gifts. We drive home and their excited chatter was indecipherable. We arrive home and I help them pile out of the car. Carmella tells me she has gifts for me, Daddy, Lola, Beau and her friend Ashton. Beau tells me he has gifts for Daddy and for himself.

I instruct them to go put their gifts under the tree. Carmella complies and goes off to do her homework. Beau puts his gifts under the tree too. But then, after a moment, he comes back and gets the one he bought for himself. I feel compelled to add that my sister also shops for herself at the holiday. In fact I think she spends more on herself than she spends total on everyone else. Seriously, is this a "baby of the family" trait or what?

"I'm just going to open this one right now," Beau tells me. "I already know what it is," he further explains.

I try to dissuade him but he already has it opened. Then he abandons "the gift"--a pad of paper and fancy pencil--on the couch and goes outside to play. He returns a few minutes later and asks if he can open the present Carmella got him.

"No," I tell him.

What about the one he got for Daddy, he wants to know.

Confused I ask, "but don't you already know what you got him?"

"Yes," he says, but he wants to open it anyway. Then he starts asking me where the gifts are that I got for him.

I tell him, "I'm not putting them under the tree until Christmas Eve."

"Why," he wants to know.

"Because you will unwrap them," I tell him.

"No . . . " he says smiling, knowing that I know he is lying.

He even tried to unwrap a gift for him at Lala's. She caught him and he told her that he was "just removing the bow" so he could "get it open faster on Christmas."

Yeah, right.

So everyday Beau asks me where his gifts are, what they are and can he have it right now? The suspense of Christmas is killing him slowly from the inside out. He can't stand it. He even told Ryan what I got for him--as if that would give him some sort of fix. And he only knows what I got Ryan because the UPS man gave Beau the package when he playing outside the other day and he opened it before I could get it away from him.

And Ryan upon learning of said gift-- I guess because he is the baby of his family-- asked if he could have his boots before Christmas too.

I tried to play dumb: "What boots?"

"Beau," he said, "told me you bought me boots. Let me have them for my hunting trip with Dusty."
Sigh. Darn UPS man for giving Beau the package. Note to UPS: Do not let children accept packages!

"There are no boots," I tell him. "They were the wrong kind. I returned them. You, like Beau, are getting potatoes and switches and coal for Christmas. Maybe Dusty will keep your feet warm on y'all's broke back rendezvous."

So Saturday, Ryan and I dropped the kids at Pop and Lala's to attend the annual Loser Christmas Party. My Dad, barely able to look me in the eye and at the time I think it is because I am wearing my Vixen costume, thrusts a gift in my hand.

He tells me that it is for me and Ryan and to not open it until I get to Dee Dee's. He says, "If you don't like it give it to Pookie."

Ryan is in disbelief that I ride in the car, not tearing into the gift, not even peeking. I repeat to him that Pop said not to open it until I get to Dee Dee's.

See, it is a youngest in the family thing and while we are in the midst of discussing my theory my sister happens to call. Of course I can't resist telling her that Dad got me a present but that I am to give it to her if I don't want it. And of course she is pissed that I got a present and she didn't.

"What is it?" She wants to know.

And I tell her she'll just have to wait until she gets to Dee Dee's.

Changing the subject I ask her if she is wearing a costume. She says she is but that I'll just have to wait until I get to Dee Dee's to find out what it is.

Whatever I can wait.

So we get Dee Dee's and finally my sister gets there and we open it.

That's right. My Dad got me The Naughty, Naughty Christmas Kit.

I know! I'm a little scared of my red lipstick too. Scary clown face! I never wear red lipstick. Clearly with good reason but I did giggle at myself everytime I looked in the mirror.

So then we called my Dad for an explanation about the gift.

He said he figured anyone who wore such naughty costumes for Christmas must need a naughty present. And he added that it was the only present I was getting since certainly I was on Santa's naughty list.

What!? You mean I'm not getting a frying pan or ham? Darn!

Hey Pop! Beau would like you to know that he loves ham. In fact, he hugged a ham today at Trader's Joes and begged me to buy it for him. You should give him a ham. He'll appreciate it. Really. He nearly a 1/2 lb of ham today by himself.

Okay. Just to summarize:

Beau? Doesn't understand surprises.
Ryan? Loves me so much he'll wear a goofy ass costume.
My dad? He gives the gift of ham. It is his thing.
Me? I wear costumes and am clearly my parent's favorite.
My sister? She unwraps her presents before Christmas.

And yes, of course. Like any good big sister would do I took those red fuzzy hand cuffs and hand cuffed myself to Pookie.

I hope everyone has a fun and happy holiday this year and doesn't take themselves too seriously.

I know, I know Jesus is the reason for the season. . .

But I know that if it was my birthday that I would hope everyone would celebrate by having some fun and enjoying themselves.