not that you asked...

Don't think Dora has grown on me. SHE HASN'T.

My children have conspired to make sure that one of them is making life... let's go with difficult (for lack of a better, non-four-letter word) around the clock, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Lucy's talents are particularly well-suited for making me want to pull my hair out and punch crib mattresses between the hours of 7pm and 7am, and then when she gets up in the morning, I assume she gives some sort of secret signal to Asher (I picture her narrowing her eyes and dragging a tiny index finger across her throat when my back is turned to grab a diaper) and he accepts the relay baton of Operation Parental Destruction.

Lucy is working on her two top teeth. I know I should have more sympathy for her than I do. I know it must hurt, those jagged peaks of enamel breaking through her soft widdle gums. And God forbid she inherited MY teeth, as anyone who has ever seen me in person can attest, I have front teeth the exact shape and size of Chiclets, so cutting those suckers is probably no walk in the park. Each time she cries out for comfort in the middle of the night (ALL EIGHT OF THEM), I take my sympathetic response down a notch or two. Which is the OPPOSITE of what I SHOULD do, I know. Intellectually I know that more frequent wakings means the baby is in more pain and discomfort, but guess what? SO AM I. Do you know how badly my eyes burn after having to pry them open and then use them EIGHT DIFFERENT TIMES between the hours of midnight and five a.m.?

And then she gets up for the day at seven and pretends that we haven't seen each other every 45 minutes for the last 12 hours. That kind of charms me, I'll be honest. Especially if I was wearing my angry and frustrated face for our last meeting. But it's like she doesn't care, she's standing up in her crib and babbling and doing her best Godfather impression when she sees the photo collage of herself hanging on the wall. (I should videotape that. Words do it no justice.)

I get about 15 minutes of peace with her before her brother gets up and assumes his duties. About three seconds after he gets out of bed he starts whining and he doesn't let up until he's in bed for the night at 8:30, which FUNNILY ENOUGH, HAHA, coincides with Lucy's first scheduled wakeup for tooth comfort. It's amazing how they do it. I won't go into details about what Asher's job description entails. Suffice to say that I'm guessing he's just THREE, and is exploring all the different ways he can express himself, as long as those expressions make me want to lock him in a broom closet until he turns eight. (Short version is that we're working on asking for things politely and being gentle and kind with Lucy.) (And the short version to the question you're undoubtedly asking now is NO, it's NOT GOING VERY WELL.)

Which also means that even though Asher turned three a full month ago, we have not been pushing the potty training issue. We have some hurdles to work through still with communicating effectively with him (I have never met a child so hardened to bribery or peer pressure) but I did cave and buy him some (VERY PINK) Dora pull-ups a couple of weeks ago in hopes that it would encourage him. (It didn't.)

Can we just talk for a second about television characters? Can someone please explain to me why children's television shows feature normal, relatively sexless and genderless characters and yet the marketing for those shows turns them into either very masculine or very feminine personas? Take Dora, for example. If you watch a regular, 25-minute episode of Dora on Nickelodeon, there's absolutely nothing about it that would make a boy/male viewer feel as if it was too girly or exclusionary to his gender. Dora doesn't wear anything frilly or ridiculous, she has a crappy haircut, she has some pretty dorky friends (someone tell me what that squirrelly thing with the buck teeth is, and why he can DRIVE). But she does cool stuff. She helps people. She's selfless. She plays SPORTS. Yes, sometimes there are girly-ish things like rainbows and butterflies, but these things also OCCUR IN NATURE.

Now take the MARKETED Dora. There are DVDS of Dora princess movies and there are pink toothbrushes with Mermaid Dora on them and there are talking Dora dolls and pink Dora underpants and pull-ups. These are all things that are marketed only to girls, even though the Dora television show is not girly at all. So boys who like Dora are subjugated to wearing/buying things that are pink or girly, much to their fathers' dismay. (SPEAKING HERE OF PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.) Whereas if a girl happens to watch a show like Diego (again, a situation where the show itself is neutral and geared mostly towards kids who like animals, not necessarily just BOYS) it's considered totally okay for her to own/wear Diego merchandise, because of the double standard of girls being able to wear boy clothes/play with boy toys/be named boy names and society being totally okay with it. It's not usually okay the other way around.

I PERSONALLY am not opposed to buying my boy pink things. If I am buying him something that he likes, and it happens to be pink, well then, that's fine. (Case in point, two pink Mermaid Dora toothbrushes sitting on the bathroom counter. Because you can't buy REGULAR Dora toothbrushes! She has to be GIRLIFIED for some reason.) That's not my issue, though, even though it's annoying. It's okay for princess stuff to exist. I just don't understand why EVERYTHING has to be princess-related. I think my issue with it is the same issue a lot of moms have with the overabundance of girly princessy things: that they don't want their daughters growing up thinking the absolute coolest thing a girl can be is a beautiful, long-haired princess. 

Likewise, I don't want my SON growing up thinking that the only things girls are good for is being a princess or a mermaid or some other crappy fantasy. Why can't the Dora from the cartoon show be the same Dora that's portrayed in the merchandise? (And I know the REAL reason, obviously, because this kind of crap makes money, and who's to say that I won't buy it once my daughter is old enough to care? I can't say that I won't, because I haven't been there yet.) But for my son, and I know this is a first-world problem, the idea of struggling over marketing for a television show, but just BEAR WITH ME, I would like him to be able to admire a girl on a television show because she does cool, kind, and brave things. But he'll end up being bombarded by images of that same girl being reduced to a princess or a mermaid, neither of whom I tend to admire very much. THE WORLD DOES NOT NEED MORE PRINCESSES. Can I get an amen?

Geez, as much whining and wearing me out that kid does, you wouldn't think I'd have any motherly instincts left with which to love and protect him, and also RAISE HIM TO RESPECT WOMEN, but it turns out I do.

Two Stories About Pants

So Dave and I were lying in bed watching television the other night when, out of the blue, he asked me if the pants he'd put on me the other night were the right ones.

Um. Excuse me? What now?

“You know, the other night,” he said. “When you woke me up and told me to take your pants off and get you some different ones.”

Now, I don't remember this happening, but Dave insists that it did. Apparently I got all hot and sweaty in my sleep, and couldn't figure out how to get my sweatpants off, and all the noise and the kicking and thrashing woke him up. And I wasn't fully awake, but I was groaning and complaining about my pants and how I wanted them off and how I wanted to wear DIFFERENT PANTS and wouldn't you know? Luckily I married the nicest, kindest person in the world, because he actually DID IT FOR ME. He took my sweatpants off, GOT OUT OF BED, went to the closet, turned on the light, found another pair of pajama pants, and PUT THEM ON ME. In the middle of the night. In the dark. While I guess I just lay there, like a big, sweaty, sleeping, boneless blob of uselessness.

“You did that?” I asked him, astounded. “You... you got me another pair of pants? You DRESSED ME in the middle of the night?”

“Well you TOLD me to,” he said rather matter-of-factly. “You woke me up! What was I supposed to do? What would you have done?”

Well, I'll tell you what, Internet. If he'd woken me up in the middle of the night insisting I change his pants for him? I'd have woken him out of whatever creepy, freakshow dream he was having and, in my very best could-you-possibly-irritate-me-ANY-MORE voice, told him to GET HIS OWN FREAKING PANTS, because I'm trying to get some SLEEP here, OKAY? Remember me? Your wife? The one who still gets up with the BABY every night? I have no time or energy for this crap, okay? Wake up. CHANGE YOUR OWN PANTS. Also, LEAVE ME ALONE. Then there would be some heavy sighing and some harumphing and some angry pillow fluffing and then I would have gone back to sleep. Facing the wall.

And yet, the shame of knowing I am married to someone who is 1000 percent nicer to me than I would be to him in a similar situation. I'm working on that, okay? I'm really good at making sure the laundry is done and keeping the cabinets stocked with Veggie Booty and Yuengling and forgiving people for never ever closing cabinets after they open them (I WORKED HARD FOR THAT ONE) but as a general rule, I lack empathy. I am about as empathetic as a truckload of sod. Doesn't it count for something that I know this and am trying to fix it? DOESN'T IT?

Anyway, a couple of days later, Dave got dressed for work in one of two new pairs of jeans I'd bought him at Macy's over the weekend. (Something else I'm good at is keeping my family clothed in relatively recent fashion.) I was pretty excited that I'd found at least one pair that he liked without having to drag him along with me, where he would refuse to try anything on until we bought it and brought it home, leaving me to return it all the following week. Lather, rinse, repeat. Also, Dave is afraid of descriptive denim-related words like “boot-cut” or “rinse” and I always think he settles for a safe pair when he could do so much better. Anyway, he came downstairs wearing them and I gave them a glowing review.

“Wow, they look really good!” I said enthusiastically. And then, “Do you like them?” He replied that he did, and after one more quick once-over, I commented that maybe, although I thought they looked great, that maybe they were a little short? Should I have gotten a longer length? But he said no, they were fine and if I wanted to return the other pair and get him a duplicate pair of the ones he was wearing, that would be great. I agreed and he left for work. It should be noted that later that same morning (foreshadowing, FTW!), I was unable to find the pair of jeans I'd worn the night before to dinner at his parents' house. After a quick search, I assumed I must have thrown them in the wash with the load of darks I'd started after breakfast.

He wore them again the next day. That afternoon, I was cleaning up our bedroom while the kids were napping when I came across the Macy's bag with the other pair of jeans in it. I picked it up and set it by the door so I'd remember to take it downstairs with me when I saw... wait, what the...? WHY ARE THERE STILL TWO PAIRS OF JEANS IN THIS BAG? If there are two pairs of jeans in this bag, then Dave isn't wearing the ones I bought him...

Which means it is entirely possible that he is wearing... NO. Please, God, NOOOOOOOO.

Naturally, I got myself right over to the computer and pulled up Twitter. Let's see... 140 characters of shame? I guess we'll go with, “I am wondering if my husband accidentally wore my jeans to work.” Aaaaand... update!

And then I called him.

“It seems that I am,” he said. We laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed and then he came home and changed into his OWN JEANS and we discussed who this might be more embarrassing for, him for wearing women's jeans to work (Express brand)? Or me, the wife whose husband FITS INTO her jeans, with room to spare?

Yeah, pretty much a toss up.

Seven Quick Takes: Things I Don't Trust

One: The FiOS channel guide. I've mentioned this before, I think. The FiOS guide is FREQUENTLY WRONG. And most of the time, it's not a big deal. Sometimes episodes that are labeled as “new” aren't really new at all except that they are still new to me. And it doesn't really matter what kinds of descriptions I get for shows on TLC because I can leave TLC on for 72 straight hours and enjoy every moment of programming, save for that creepy monkey-as-baby show, which I refuse to watch because monkeys are disgusting. Full stop. So the FiOS thing wouldn't be such a problem except for the minor fact that I live with a three-year-old boy who has developed all sorts of irrational three-year-old fears. He panics when my phone beeps in a different way and he covers his ears when the toilet flushes and he starts to tremble when the trash men arrive if you haven't been quick enough to prepare him that they are JUST AROUND THE CORNER and the noise he will hear is just bottles being thrown into the recycling bin. So when the FiOS guide says that the episode of Jack's Big Music Show coming on at 8:30 will be the one featuring Phil the Coo Coo Bird and instead it's the one with Spunky the Alien? Spunky the Alien who is VERY VERY SCAWY? Well, FiOS. I do not particularly enjoy giving my child a very specific reason to have nightmares just because you're too lazy to get your program guide correct. DO NOT TRUST.

Two: Leaving Hambone alone in the house. Now don't get me wrong, Hambone is a Mostly Perfect Dog. I'd say... oh, 95 percent. He's mega-weird, that's for sure, but you could leave a whole pepperoni pizza on the coffee table and leave the room and he would never, EVER touch it. (He will steal the kids' food right out of their hands, but we think this is because he believes he is above them.) However, since I quit my job and started staying home full-time three-ish years ago, Hambone is rarely left alone. I mean, obviously if we run out to Target or church, he isn't coming with us (side note: does anyone else think it's only a matter of time before someone starts a church that allows pets?) but I take him with me if I am going to spend the morning or afternoon at my parents' house, and we are rarely gone for a full day (NAPS, MUST PRESERVE THE HOLINESS OF THE NAP SCHEDULE) so when he IS left by himself for what he feels is a less-than-desirable amount of time, he leaves a delightful deposit of anal gland fluid on the couch. On our ONLY couch; the one we HAVE to sit on because there IS NO OTHER COUCH AVAILABLE. I don't have any idea whether this act is one of defiance or of sadness and desperation, but it stinks either way. If you've never smelled anal gland fluid, consider yourself lucky. It is potent and vile and it requires me to pull the covers off the couch cushions and scrub them down and then douse the entire room in Febreze, but WORSE, it requires me to take a washcloth to my dog's nether regions to try to scrub off any remaining scent. I have started covering the couch whenever we leave the house, which is both a time suck and a general teeth-clenching annoyance. DO NOT TRUST.

Three: Push-button locks. I am, as a general rule, extremely skeptical when using a restroom that has a push-button lock. I mean, a deadbolt or a slide lock? Both offer visual proof that no one is going to walk freely into that bathroom and see me with my pants around my knees. But the push-button lock? HOW DO I KNOW IT'S WORKING? I'm just supposed to press this tiny little button and that's going to do the job? This MEAGER, TEENSY LITTLE BUTTON? That I just push in, weakly, with my ONE PINKY FINGER, until it clicks. Riiiiiiiight. Seriously. I'll just hold it, thank you. DO NOT TRUST.

Four: Local meteorologists. Always wrong. Always always always. I pledge my loyalty to The Weather Channel and their finely assembled team of national meteorologists, especially the ones who wear those blue Weather Channel raincoats and head out into hurricanes. Now THAT'S meteorology, people! That is TRUE WEATHER LOVE. The local dudes don't even go outside. They don't want to personally show us rain, or sunshine, or snow, for fear it may interfere with their perfectly coiffed and cemented hair. They'd rather show us primary-colored maps with big capital Hs and Ls and they want to wear suits with ugly ties and present the Five-Day Outlook painfully illustrated with really cheap clip art. Also, they're always wrong, did I mention that? DO NOT TRUST.

Five: Postal workers. In a similar vein, I do not trust Postal Workers. What I don't like is when I take my packages to the desk (even though as soon as there are more than three people in line, they always start yelling about the AUTOMATED SYSTEM IN THE BACK where you can PRINT YOUR OWN LABELS and I'm always thinking, geez, it's not like there are 80 people crammed in here, how about a less obvious way of showing us how little you like interacting with LIVING SOULS?) and I tell the person where I want to send them and the worker always tells me - rather blandly - about the express mail option and the priority mail option but never the much less expensive parcel post option even though the parcel post option always comes up on the little credit card reader that is RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY FACE. So then I feel stupid asking about the parcel post option, because why wouldn't the employee have already told me about it if it was available? And then I think, well, should I really be trusting this little electronic screen in front of me anyway? Although, in about three seconds, I'm going to willingly feed it sensitive information like, oh, my credit card number; surely it has SOME redeeming qualities. Frankly, I find the whole thing kind of sketchy. And then I never end up saying anything, and spending more money than I probably need to spend at the post office, and on the way out of the building someone is always screwing up the automated machine but sometimes I think the embarrassment of that situation pales in comparison to interacting with some of the employees themselves, who may or may not be lying to me about parcel post. DO NOT TRUST.

Six: My ear infection instincts. Asher has had two ear infections in his life. Two, and only two. And yet, each time he gets a cold, and turns cranky, I haul him into the pediatrician's office. I have even hauled him into the after-hours pediatrician, and paid more than twice the usual co-pay. Altogether, I have probably made eight trips to the doctor's office to specifically check on the State of his Ears. I am always wrong. OK, so twice I was right, but what's two for eight? Twenty-five percent? I wish ear infections were like poopy diapers, you know? You can suspect all you want, but all you really have to do is press your nose to the back of someone's pants for an answer. The thing I hate most is that I TALK TOO MUCH. The doctor comes in and suddenly I feel a pressing urge to convince him of my absolute certainty that there's an ear infection before he's even CHECKED for one, and I'm blabbing on and on about the FEVER and the INTERRUPTED SLEEP and the DRAINAGE and the IRRITIBILITY and on and on and on and after I've babbled for five, ten, maybe twenty minutes, I NEVER KNOW, he says something like, well, let's take a look. And then there's this long, drawn-out silence while he looks at one ear and doesn't say a word, and then looks in the other ear, and then he always turns around and throws away the disposable ear cone and hangs the little scope with the light back on the wall before turning back around as s l o w l y as possible before saying, “Everything looks just fine. Perfect, even.” And then I stutter and eek out something about how he SEEMED so sick and golly I suck at this and pardon me, but where is the checkout sheet so I can BAIL ON THIS SITUATION ASAP? Me + suspected ear infection = DO NOT TRUST.

Seven: Any institution that substitutes a K where a C or a Q should rightly be. No thank you, Kwik Kopy. I AM APPALLED. As such? DO NOT TRUST.

Running: What You Dood (that's how Asher says "what I did," which never fails to make me laugh)

I got a lot of comments and a handful of emails asking for a more detailed description of my training plan for the half-marathon. I was surprised, frankly. Did I come across as somewhat authoritative and confident in that last post? Were you under the impression that I did anything other than SHUFFLE over the finish line and then complain about my aching knees for the next 48 hours? Did I leave out that part about being nauseous for the entire hour-long car ride home and maybe suspecting that the ripe scent of my armpits was the sole contributing factor?

So anyway, while I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, an expert or even a very well-informed runner, I will gladly share what worked for me.

I started training six months out, which was also about three months postpartum. I hadn't exercised for MONTHS when I started training – I'd been sidelined at the end of my pregnancy with swelling and general achiness – so I thought it was best to allow myself a lot of time to accomplish my goal. When I first started, I consulted the Hal Higdon Half Marathon Training Guide for the Novice Runner. I never followed it to the letter, but it gave me some general guidelines as to what I needed to work up to. The program actually worked really well for me at the very beginning, when I was huffing and puffing up hills and walking when it got tough and wanting to die when I got home. It was a great guide to start getting me in shape.

I'll be honest, at the beginning, running wasn't exactly fun. It was strenuous and punishing and time-consuming. Ok, ok, truthfully? It was hard. It felt unnatural. And every time I would see a hill coming up, I would dread having to run up it because I knew I would be out of breath when I got to the top; I knew my legs would burn and that nine times out of ten, I'd have to take a walk break to regain my composure before continuing on. I always felt good when I finished a run, but in the beginning, I can't say that I always enjoyed it. I wore my iPod so that I could listen to music to inspire me, but I also wore it so it would drown out the sound of my own heavy breathing.

I would say I ran four or five days a week. If I didn't run, then I walked the dog three miles, or I took the kids out in the stroller for the same distance (pushing NINETY POUNDS OF STROLLER AND KIDS up and down hills is called STRENGTH TRAINING). There were very few days when I did little or no exercise at all. And gradually, I was able to build up the stamina to take longer daily runs. In the beginning, it was all I could do to get through three miles. Back then, I tried doing a longer run (up to five or six miles) once a week, but I had to walk a lot of it. By August and September, though, I was able to run six miles at a time (when I had the opportunity) and I was also able to enjoy it. (The cooler weather definitely helped. It isn't particularly fun running in 90 percent humidity in July.) I never stopped dreading hills, but I always forgot why I dreaded them by the time I was halfway up – even hills got easier, and I rarely had to decrease my speed to finish the climb, nor did I have to stop or slow down to catch my breath when I got to the top.

I confess, I did only one REALLY long run before the half-marathon, and it was eight miles. And I walked a LOT of it, because I hadn't brought water, and was running on an unfamiliar trail, and it was sunny and hot and I was wearing shorts that I didn't usually wear and they were CHAFING MY THIGHS and IT HURT and basically it was just a big hot disaster. And I meant to go out for another one before the race, but I never found the time, and in the end, it turned out that it didn't matter much anyway.

So My Official Theory on running is that if you run often, and stay committed, and push yourself to do one more mile or half-mile or lap even when you really don't want to but you're pretty sure you CAN, then you'll be in good enough shape to finish the race without having done the long-run training component. Of course, the long-run training component can only help you. And I think it's pretty essential to try at least ONE long run if you've never EVER done one before. (I had run two 10-mile races before the half-marathon, so I knew what I was in for, even if I found out what I was in for, like, six years ago or something.) For me, consistently running five or six miles, three times a week (with some cross-training and shorter runs thrown in) was enough to get my body into really good shape, and I knew I could tolerate running 13 miles, even if I didn't do it fast or pretty. My goal was to FINISH, and I was hoping I'd be able to run the entire time. Check, and also CHECK.

As for WHEN to run, well, it gets considerably harder when the days get shorter. I'm not much for treadmills or the gym, I confess. I don't mind running in the rain or the cold. I like the feeling of getting out the door, leaving the house and the kids behind, and seeing things and people along the way. I like tiptoeing past a bunch of grazing deer and waving hello to kids in strollers and watching the sun go down over the lake. During the summer, I'd put Lucy to bed before heading out around 7:15. I could squeeze in at least 45 minutes of running before it got even REMOTELY dark. Sometimes when Dave gets home from work around 6:15 and I know we're having dinner after the kids go to bed, I rush out the door to squeeze in a jog before bathtime. But I realize that soon it will be dark by 5pm, and my only hope is to try to run in the morning, which I hate, but which I will reluctantly do, because I don't want to backslide. I don't want to have to start all over from scratch. I love what my body feels like NOW when I'm running. I don't want to be the beginner again, with my lungs burning all the time and my knees wobbling when I tried to climb the stairs when I got home. No thanks.

I can't guarantee that you'll love it, but I think if you condition your body to be in good enough shape to do it well, then you might actually find that you enjoy it.

I hope this answered some questions. Like I said, me = furthest thing from running expert, but I'm happy to share my experience because it was a good one.

Half-Marathon Recap: Let's go ahead and get this out of the way, shall we?

I finished the half-marathon in two hours and thirty minutes.

I was so nervous before the start. That's when the whole thing about having to run thirteen entire miles kind of hit me. I recalled the race map I'd seen in an email a few days prior – the course was a big loop, so even if I decided I wanted to duck out at some point, I'd be faced with one of two choices: walk it and finish anyway, or hail a cab. Actually, scratch that, I didn't have any money with me, so the second choice would have been to feign some kind of full body muscle spasm or compromised breathing situation so I could be taken by ambulance to the nearest hospital, where hopefully someone would allow me to telephone my family members to arrange my retrieval.

Wait, scratch that again, because I did have one gold dollar coin in my pocket, but I'm not sure how far that would have gotten me. Around mile two, the woman in front of me kicked it, and I pocketed it. It didn't occur to me right then that it was probably HER dollar, but it likely was, and I didn't even attempt to return it to her, so it serves me right that as we jogged past her a few moments later, my running partner said something to me about how her phone was falling out of her bra, and in return, I said something about maybe taking it out and putting it in her underwear instead, and then I kind of jokingly apologized to Dollar Coin Lady for mentioning someone's unmentionables within earshot. And Dollar Coin Lady kind of laughed and said she was carrying everything in her underwear, too, which... YEAH. PROBABLY THAT COIN I PICKED UP OFF THE GROUND. Serves me right, I guess. (I rinsed my hands as best I could at the next water stop.)

We started the race at the very back of the pack. There were seven of us who planned to run together for as long as possible, and I think there were only about five people starting the race behind us. (When I said back of the pack, I meant it.) We figured that if it was harder than we thought, at least we wouldn't be in anyone's way, and if it turned out to be easier? Well, passing people feels good, so we'd have the opportunity to pass, oh, EVERYONE. We took the first three miles pretty slow, but after taking a potty break and then throwing back a couple cups of water at the three-mile marker, my friend Michelle and I started breaking away from the pack. We stuck together the rest of the race, and if you want the best advice I have about How To Run a Half-Marathon or Other Race of Ridiculous Distance, it would be RUN WITH A FRIEND.

I was lucky – I'd never run with Michelle before, but we paced with each other perfectly. If one of us needed to slow down, the other was more than willing to do the same. We encouraged each other up hills, we chatted about our kids and our husbands, we laughed together at the man dressed in a tiger costume standing on top of his car which was blaring “Eye of the Tiger,” we ripped open our free energy gel packs together at mile eight and then threw them to the ground when we discovered how disgusting energy gel packs taste. (VANILLA = HURL.) The most amazing thing of all is that this was Michelle's first race. EVER. In fact, up until four months ago, Michelle wasn't even a runner. I was intimidated by my first 5K, and here was Michelle, running thirteen miles on her maiden voyage. It was awesome.

(And when I say “running thirteen miles,” I mean it. We ran the entire time, stopping only for water stations and that lone potty break. I'm not sure I ever thought that was an actual possibility, even though I trained for this thing for SIX WHOLE MONTHS, even though I never went more than two or three days without running, even though I always ran at least three miles whenever I went out.)

The first three miles were a breeze – we were full of energy and anticipation and adrenaline. Miles three through six were much the same, as we hadn't run out of things to talk about. Miles six through eight were harder, but took us around a big picturesque lake, so we had something to look at. But by the time we got to mile eight, we decided we needed to start making some small goals so that we didn't think as much about still having five to go. At mile eight, we decided we'd call our husbands at mile ten to let them know we were about 35 minutes away from finishing, so they knew to head toward the finish line. And we had heard that at mile ten, the remainder of the course was pretty much downhill. But the best thing about miles ten through thirteen was that we ran through some pretty spirited neighborhoods filled with people who were shouting encouragement and handing out gummy bears, bite-sized Snickers and (no joke) Bloody Marys.

And I knew from my phone call that at mile eleven, my husband and my kid were waiting to see me run past. That was a total motivator. All through mile ten, Michelle and I talked about it and then, when we hit the marker for mile eleven, all we did was scour the sidewalks for them. Except my husband is either a liar or unable to count, because we didn't actually see them until mile TWELVE POINT FIVE. But it was worth the wait – nothing was as thrilling as seeing my kid perched on my husband's shoulders, both of them smiling and clapping and cheering as I jogged by. It was the extra oomph I needed to drag my body over the finish line, grinning like a sweating, stinky fool who would refuse one of those dorky-looking tin foil blankets and then wish harder than anything that she'd taken one when it turned out that Michelle's phone didn't work any more (it came into contact with too much boob sweat, we assume) and we spent almost an hour borrowing strangers' phones and searching for our families, while I FROZE TO DEATH.

I am proud of myself for a lot of reasons. I am proud that I did this, first of all. Proud that I was willing to consider it and proud that I followed through with it. Proud that I completed it, and in what I consider a respectable time. But I am probably more proud that I feel like I've officially become A Runner. And it's not the 13 miles that made me one; it's more that I feel like I'm GOOD at running and that makes me ENJOY running. And I'm not a NATURALLY GOOD runner, but it is something I have worked really hard at, and something that I have pursued with intensity and devotion, and something that makes me feel good and changes and shapes my body and along with all of that, I have come to love it.

I love running. I never thought I'd say that, I never thought I'd be here. I thought I'd be the kind of person who tolerated running, who knew what it could do for her body and her health and therefore would do it if she had to, but it turns out that I love it. There is no other form of exercise I've ever tried that I have enjoyed so much. I can't wait to get out the door some days; I'm disappointed if a day goes by and I haven't gotten the chance to lace up my Asics and hit the trail.

I'm a runner.

Three

It both is and isn't hard to believe that it's been three whole years since he was born. But it has, and he is so big and so amazing and so worth every tantrum and every fit and every limp noodle moment. He's my sweet, smart, delightful, hysterical, adorable boy. And he's three today. Happy Birthday, Asher. You are the most incredible blessing.

You can see his first year here, and his second here.)

Twenty-five months

 Twenty-six months

  Twenty-seven months

Twenty-eight months 

Twenty-nine months

Thirty months

Thirty-one months

Thirty-two months  

Thirty-three months

Thirty-four months  

Thirty-five months 

THREE YEARS OLD

Seven Quick Child-Related Takes

One: Asher will be three years old on Saturday. I had heard – from many reliable sources - that three would be a challenge. Unfortunately, all my reliable sources have proven accurate. Lately everything is cause for whining and fit-throwing. Changing diapers. Going to bed. Taking a nap. Going downstairs in the morning, going upstairs at night. Eating breakfast, lunch, dinner. Leaving Target or the playground or the bathtub. Walking from room to room. “You need help!” he cries constantly, in a desperate voice that you'd probably believe if you heard it shouted from the banks of a raging river instead of from where he ACTUALLY is, which is on the far side of the train table, where one of the trains he has made from an engine and 15 cars topples off a bridge. “Make smaller trains and this won't happen!” we say. “YOU NEED HELP MAKING A SMALLER TRAIN,” he whines, which is a lie, an outright LIE. Last time I checked, if you can make a long train? YOU CAN PROBABLY MAKE A SMALL ONE. “You know how to make a smaller train,” we encourage him. “You're GOOD at it!” we say. “Mama do it,” he replies. And then, as if we hadn't heard him the previous 8,500 times, “You need heeeeellllllllp.” Then, because I'm stubborn too, you know, I demand the word PLEASE and... well. That's when he starts KICKING AND WRITHING ON THE FLOOR. Aaaaaaand... SCENE.

Two: We're struggling with naptime, too. He still needs one most days, but truthfully, I wouldn't mind if he was ready to drop it. I DREAD putting him down for it every day, even on a day when he really needs one, because, as you might already know, just because a child NEEDS a nap doesn't make them willing to TAKE one. And I would be perfectly happy enforcing a quiet time for an hour or two in his room every afternoon. Except right now he is incapable of playing by himself. He neeeeeeds heeeeelllllllp doing a million tiny things he could easily do by himself, but won't. And when I refuse to help, there is screaming and more kicking of the feet and writhing on the floor and normally that wouldn't even be a huge issue, I'd be all HAVE AT IT, you're just wearing yourself out for bedtime, AWESOME, but I have another kid now, and I'd like to preserve that kid's nap, so the screaming just won't do. Today, for example, he wanted help putting together a plastic train track. “NEEEEED HEELLLLLP,” he screeched for hours. Maybe it was 15 minutes, I don't remember. And I remained calm in the face of screechy adversity, saying things like, “If you will ask me nicely by saying please, then I would be HAPPY to help you,” but people! He is ABOVE this saying please thing, so we went around in circles for many more hours (or another 15 minutes, I CAN NEVER TELL) until finally I threw him in his bed and shut the door and left him for dead. Or, uh, I mean, to settle down. And then! When I came in to RESCUE HIM! We had another argument about APOLOGIZING CORRECTLY. I would happily fast forward to age four, I think, had I not just spent a decent wad of cash on 3T clothing.

Three: You know the OTHER thing that irritates me about naptime, is that he's not even GRATEFUL when I let him skip it. There he is, announcing he doesn't want to take a nap, and lamenting the upcoming nap, and dreading the idea of LAYING DOWN IN A COMFORTABLE BED and then I say, “Ok, you don't have to take a nap today,” and NOTHING HAPPENS. There's no falling prostrate at my feet or welling up with tears, he just goes about his day. And then he complains about things during the time when he should be napping, and I say things to him like, “I let you skip your nap, child, you owe me PEACE and you owe me QUIET,” but he's too busy needing heeeellllllp and then I turn into a cartoon and smoke comes out of my ears and I vow that we shall have naptime the next day and we shall have it in the VERY TRADITIONAL SENSE, where small people close their eyes and drift into unconsciousness, even if that includes one of those cloths soaked in ether

Four: The boy has also taken to biting. Biting! Biting PEOPLE! Ok, so mostly his sister, but every time it happens, it makes me a smidge extra glad we didn't send him to preschool this year, just so it prevents us from being Parents of the Class Biter. I don't know how to curb the biting, really. He does it when we're not looking and then he reports himself. I'll be doing something and suddenly Lucy will start crying and then he'll sidle up beside me and say, “You bit her.” (He still hasn't grasped the concept of “you” versus “I” so every time I end up getting defensive. “I didn't bite ANYONE!” I have to stop myself from saying, before I figure it out.) When he bites, I take away his trains for the rest of the day and then when Dave comes home, Asher announces, “You bit Lucy.” It's like he's proud of himself or something, and we say the same things about how it makes us sad and how it hurts Lucy blah blah blah and then for some reason, I always think of the story my mom tells about my brother when he was in preschool. My brother was a lot like Asher, very timid around other kids, so he was a natural target for the Class Biter, and came home with teeth marks more than once. One afternoon my mom had had it up to here and advised my brother that if he wanted it to stop, he was going to have to bite him back and teach him a lesson. To which my brother replied through sobs, “Mom, I can't bite his back! He runs away!” Spoiler Alert: My brother turned into a normal person, sometime around 10^th grade.

Five: And then there's Lucy. Oh, Lucy! She's adorable in a million big and little ways. She waves and claps, she gives kisses to anyone who asks and to her baby dolls. She dances when you tell her to dance and she would much rather eat crackers than fruit (THAT'S MY GIRL) and she and Asher have this coughing joke that they think is the funniest thing in the world. She would look at pictures of babies all day long if you'd let her. She is a charming child during the day, rarely fussy (except in the car, WHAT GIVES) and she has been sleeping a little better at night in the last month or so. She is actually so cute that in the last two weeks, THREE RANDOM CHILDREN have quietly ventured up to her and tried to kiss her on the mouth while I wasn't paying attention. That never happened with Asher. NOT ONCE. What, you don't believe me about the cute? YOU WANT PROOF?

Six: Proof.

 

Seven: Also? She's walking. (Footage below of said child walking; additional footage of what other children do the minute you open the Photobooth application and set the laptop on the couch.)