Daylight Savings Time(bomb)

I'm wondering if DST was invented just to mess with parents of young children. Exhausted moms who have spent weeks or months getting their children to finally, finally submit to a nap, bedtime and wakeup schedule to where you actually begin to feel like something resembling human.

So just when everything is going along just fine, when your children are sleeping like the obedient, perfect little monkies they are, you have to turn your clocks back. (pause for sounds of toddler and preschooler shrieking for attention and wanting to watch Curious George at 6:03 a.m.)

I mean, really, what kind of sick mind thought this up?

Strike a pose..

Ramblings..

Sage is getting pretty hilarious. Sawyer got a new big rig matchbox car, and Sage is obsessed with it. Probably because she senses that it's her brother's favorite toy. Her new thing is to snatch it the second he turns his head, race across the room shrieking, then wave it around. Sawyer is not amused. But I think, "This is just the beginning."

My Dad was having dialysis at the hospital before he was supposed to have surgery to remove a pin that had loosened in his hip. While he was undergoing the dialysis, he suffered a mild heart attack. He had two stints put in and is doing better, apparently, because when I tried to phone him just now, he'd been discharged.

We finally got Sawyer on antibiotics. He's been sick since August. I don't ever remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up coughing. We've had him on tons of meds, none of which seemed to help. He was burning up with fever Monday night so I took him to the pediatrician Tuesday, who gave him amoxicillin. Fingers crossed that it finally works.

Today we were driving home from the park. Sawyer said "Mommy, why is your hair backwards?" It was up in a ponytail.

My leg seems to be getting better. I've been popping motrin like candy corns and I'm trying to ice it at least twice a day. So hopefully it might just be another week. I don't want to get fat before the reunion!

SHHHH - THEY'RE SLEEPING!!!!!!!!!

That's what two older women snapped at me this morning. I was, apparently, cheering too loudly. Granted, it was about 5:45 a.m. Still. There wasn't much else for me to do.

Today was the final day of the eight-week running camp. That meant the dreaded timed mile. It was a day I had actually looked forward to. It would be a tangible result of eight weeks of waking up even before the butt-crack of dawn, of running when it felt like my insides were twisting out, of being so exhausted by the end of the day I couldn't function. I had been having anxiety dreams for the past couple weeks. How fast would I go? Would I have horrible stitches and fall across the finish line? Or would I kick butt? I wanted to know.

And then I pulled my quad Wednesday. And it hurt even worse during warmups today. I was out. So there I was, stationed about 200 meters from the finish line, shouting out times and yelling encouragement - much to the disgust of the two women walking around. They pointed to the darkened condos behind the course (it's a paved loop around a lake). I didn't bother mentioning that they also backed up to a major street. I really didn't care. If shouting the times and clapping and yelling for them to GO GO GO!! made them even a few second faster, it was worth it.

The runners were happy I was there. The fastest one finished in 6:50, knocking 14 seconds off her personal best. It was awesome. I was disappointed I wasn't running too. The coach wants me to take at least a week off. The next camp starts Oct. 30. I might not be ready to go by then. But this is out of my control. I just have to hope I'm a fast healer!

I guess now this means I actually have to watch what I eat, since I won't be doing five-mile runs for awhile...

Walk of Shame

No, not THAT walk of shame! Thankfully those particular days are way behind me.. But I digress. Today was the last running class before our timed mile Friday, about which I'm having anxiety dreams where I'm running in the wrong direction, or I've forgotten something, or the coach is picking on me. Anyway. Everything was going fine, when all of a sudden my left quad muscle clenched like an angry fist. YEEEEOUCH!!! I tried to keep running, but that is not possible when it feels like someone has tomahawked a hatchet into your leg. I stretched it out, tried to jog a bit, then had to walk. And we were two miles out. I ended up walking all the way back with the slowest runner in our group. She talked NONSTOP, which wouldn't be so bad, as she's a very nice person, but she hadn't apparently mastered the Talk-AND-walk equation, because even with a damaged thigh, she had to jog to keep up with my walk. And I wasn't in a particularly chatty mood, considering the timed mile is Friday and I -literally - worked my butt off for the past eight weeks. I iced it when I got home, then took a hot shower. It only tweaks occasionally, after I've sat for awhile or I try to pick up my 24-pound toddler. So please send positive thoughts that this was just a random cramp, not a tear, and I'll be fine to fly around that lake Friday.

Too tired to write..

So I'll just post some more pumpkin patch pictures - as that's all we have uploaded!

Gone far too young..

Cory Lidle died today, at age 34, after the small airplane he was flying crashed into an apartment building in New York City. He left his wife of 10 years, Melanie, and a six year-old son, Christopher.

I did not know Cory. I of course knew who he was, and my good friend covered the A's when he was there. He played on those great high school teams in West Covina with the Giambis and my pal Shawn Wooten. He also had a twin brother, Kevin.

There are plenty of people who die too young every day. For some reason, when it's an athlete, it's almost more unbelievable. Perhaps it's because they are perpetual children, playing a child's game in a man's body. And then they're gone, and what they leave behind is in fact very grown-up; a wife, children who depend on them, brothers, sisters, parents.

I did not know Cory, but I know so many like him. Young men. Immortal. Until they're not.

Run Mommy Run

Two weeks left - actually, 11 days - til the timed mile. Will I do an 8-minute mile? Isn't that the name of Eminem's movie? Today I kicked butt. Seriously. Never mind that a few women who are faster than me did not show up today, including the fastest woman in the group. I was running right up there in the top 3 or 4, and we did a tough hill run, going almost 5 miles. It is amazing how well I do when I don't have stitches that feel like someone is pulling out my insides with a melon ball scooper. Wednesday we're doing the toughest run of the camp. We did it a couple weeks ago and I thought that it was just a one-time thing, but no. That time, one woman's husband actually set up a table with water for us to grab - this was at 6 in the morning! I know my husband was snug in bed, snoring away, at that hour. Because he's smart.

A date!

Today David and I had our first extended outing sans children since Sage was born almost 13 months ago. We grabbed a quick bagel, then went to the spa, where we wiped the dust off the gift cards his mother had given us LAST Christmas. David was a massage virgin. I had a male masseuse for the first time. It wasn't exactly relaxing, as I got a deep tissue massage. But I felt awesome after. David also enjoyed his experience. Yippee! That means more massages for us! Then we drove down to Laguna Beach for lunch. We actually walked along and held hands - each other's hand, not the hand of an almost three-year-old while balancing a solid one year-old on the hip. And when we got home, BOTH kids were napping! The few hours spent away were a much-needed recharge for us. Can't wait to do it again!

Some Sagie pics..

The last picture especially cracks me up. She loves walking around holding my running shoes. Pretty appropriate, too, considering how much I chase her. Sometimes she pretends they are a phone.

Feast or Famine

So now about oh, every five minutes or so, Sawyer asks if it's time to go to preschool. He only goes Tuesdays and Thursdays. The four-day weekend is then a real killer for him. The conversations go a little something like this:

Mommy, is it time for preschool?

No. Not today.

After my nap?

No. Today is Monday (or Wednesday or Saturday, etc). You go on Tuesday and Thursday.

After it's dark is it time to go?

No. Not today.

oooOOOOOH!

And so on. This is from the same child who would scream and clutch us when we tried to drop him off. Who would start crying at home before we left - only a week ago! Now, he LOVES it. Which is, of course, a good thing. It's going to be a loong weekend.

I'm a cliche

I love my kids. I really, really, really do (that's three reallys, for those of you counting at home).

But.

Right now I am wearing a pair of Gap capri jeans that I bought at least five years ago. They are saggy. And baggy. Not attractive. My shirt, which I bought right before going back to work after having Sawyer, has partially digested cheddar goldfish crackers caked on the shoulder. It, too, is hanging off me. My hair is clean. But it is a mass of frizzy curls. My expensive flat iron sits ice-cold in my drawer. The entrancing clear plastic clip that I was wearing earlier now lies abandoned somewhere in my bed, the victim of a solid yanking by Sage. The lines around my eyes contain not a trace of leftover eye shadow. My pores are clogged. Not that anyone would particularly notice: my days revolve around soothing and wiping and refereeing and keeping Sawyer from eating the dogs' food.

I'm a mom.

I'm so over it. Not the actually mothering part. My children make my heart sing and dance and leap to the beat of their smiles, cries, belly laughs. They are mine forever. They are light and hope and dreams and everything that help me to be a better, stronger, more optimistic human being.

It's the cliche thing that has me down. Where did I go? The essential ME. The woman. The person who breathes apart from my kids and my husband. I miss me sometimes. And, of course, there's the problem that I can never be the woman I was Before Children. You can't be who you were before life slapped you a good one. You can only be who you are now, based on all the experiences that have shaped you. It's not that I was so wonderful before, but I was, at my core, me.

Those who I've told about my running camp think I'm a tad nuts for voluntarily waking up at 5 a.m. at least three days a week to literally run my ass off. I actually even pay to do it. But I think it's a step (pun?) toward rediscovering myself, finding out who I've become. I run with adults (woohoo!) who speak in adult sentences about adult things. The workouts are tough and often painful. When I get back into my car, I feel exhausted, but also very much alive. My body is coming back. Fitting into my clothes, the ones from even before Baby #1, does give me a much-needed boost to say nothing of helping me feel a bit more, well, normal.

The best part is when I carefully open the front door of our house, muffling the sound of the bells that hang from it. I'm quiet, determining if the sound of Curious George's latest adventure is blaring from our bedroom's TV, signalling that Sawyer is awake.

Some days, like today, it's silent. I'm home.

My little pumpkin!

Sawyer and I went to Tanaka Farms on Sunday and we had a BLAST! There's been a couple times recently where we've gone out and he's actually listened and behaved like a nice little boy as opposed to a demon seed bent on seeing how many times he could make my head spin around.

Tanaka Farms has a little petting zoo. In the past, Sawyer's either wanted to be carried or just refused to touch the animals. This time, he was a wild man! He wanted to pet every goat - and he did! He was cute, pretending to kiss them. Then we went on a tractor ride and got to pick our own carrots, green beans and onions. If you ever want your kids to eat vegetables, let them pick them themselves!

It was a great day, and a nice mommy-son bonding time. It unfortunately ran through his normal lunch time, and I was desperate, so I bought a little lemon loaf cake at the farm's little shop. I dug out a hunk with my (washed) fingers, and Sawyer ate it in his seat on the drive home, shortly before he passed out and, I'm sure, dreamed of fuzzy little goats...

Running update: We are in our sixth week, and it's not getting easier. What I wouldn't give to do a run with no hills. I did a 6-mile bonus run Saturday morning which involved picking my way up and down steep hills covered with soft sand, rocks, and drainage flaps. Oh - and it was me and the two fastest women. Needless to say, I spent a LOT of time watching their ponytails flap in the distance. Today I did another extra 3.2 miles. This time, a few other women went too, and one of them ran right along with me, which was nice. Not sure if I'm going to get that 8 minute mile by the end of camp, but I'm a lot closer than I was when I started!

Where in the world is my REAL Fooious?

My mother recently sent Sawyer a new copy of the Velveteen Rabbit, which also comes with an audio CD narrated by Meryl Streep.
Sawyer loves books. He'd love it if I'd read 17 to him before bed. She had previously sent us the Little Engine That Could and that became his instant favorite. But now. But now. It's the Velveteen Rabbit.

The problem with this is I have yet to read it without the words having to squeeze through the enormous lump in my throat.

The book, for those of you who don't know, is about the little stuffed rabbit, a Christmas gift for a boy, who yearns to be Real. He meets an old toy horse who tells him that the only way to become Real is to be truly loved by a child. It eventually happens for the Velveteen Rabbit. He becomes the boy's constant companion, but after the boy gets sick, everything he slept with has to be burned. Velveteen Rabbit is rescued by the nursery magic fairy, who turns him into an actual rabbit.

There is just something so gentle about the message of love, love lost, acceptance and new beginnings in the book. I know I'm getting quite shmaltzy here, but if you haven't read it in awhile, or ever, it's worth another look. Even a teary-eyed one.

I remember hours upon hours spent with my stuffed animals when I was small, especially my pink dog, Fooious. Or perhaps it's spelled Foo E. Uss. I loved that creature literally to its death. At some point, the threadbare, understuffed thing was taken away and replaced by a nicer, plusher pink dog. But I knew.

It just wasn't the REAL Fooious.