Here's how the triathlon training is going: NOT. I can only run 2.5 miles at a time (per my PT guy's instructions), I haven't gone swimming in, gulp, two months, and my wee bike is dusty on its hanger-hook. I'm not worried about finishing the race; after two natural labors, I know I could slog through the whole thing with my kids tied to my back, but I had visions of being a bit zoomy this time. Of not flailing through the water like a drunken idiot. Of maybe placing in my age group. Oh well, I'm always up for a nice round of public humiliation.
Got me some new running sneakers, oh yeah, and at least I will float through my runs on wings. I suddenly realized that running camp is in TWO WEEKS. And I can only run 2.5 MILES. ACK. I won this trip to running camp last year, by writing a short essay on why a trip to camp would change my life. The piece I submitted likely got picked because the judges were afraid I would injure my children if they didn't send me away from them for a week; also, there were only two other entries. I got news that I'd won when I was in the depths of the mysterious Dengue Fever and had a left leg the size and mobility of a grass-fattened hog. To add to the humor of the situation, I was high on Vicodin when I got the phone call: "Hello, Linnie?" "Mmmmmm…" "Congratulations! You've won the running camp contest!" "Can't…walk…ug." When I called the camp director to ask if I could cash my prize in this year instead, the woman who answered sounded like a child. I really almost said, "Can I talk to your mom?" which would have at least established that I am a bumbling idiot; now I have to wait until they meet me for them to find out. But anyway, I just know she's one of these wee, twig-like super-fast runners next to whom I will feel and look much like an asthmatic hippopotamus. You know how hippos turn bright pink in the heat because all the blood rushes to the surface of their skin? I do that exact same thing when I run.
Ah, the joys of summer never cease. Here's a toast to imminent public humiliation!
Friday, June 30, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Achieving Adulthood
It wasn't when I got married. Nor was it when I gave birth to my first or second child (though they may be driving me to an early grave). Buying the house gave me an inkling of it, though it still feels like a toy house, there is so much that is funky about it. No, the moment I felt that I had reached a certain level of maturity was when I accepted delivery (via the front window, since they wouldn't fit through the door of the toy house) of these items:
I'm not entirely sold on the chair. The couch, though, she is comfy and supportive and oh-so-preety. We are teaching the Labra-Spaniel not to leap on it; I felt so guilty about taking away his bed that I bought a new (color-coordinated) one for him:
He is confused but happy that we shower him with treats when he gets near it. Yes, I fear the inevitable stainage of the couch's pale green fabric. The new (similarly pale) rug had a deep purple cherry stain on it within forty minutes of me laying it down. But that brings in the adulthood part of it. The new furniture is about being mature and setting limits, for myself and my children. It is about saying, "No, you may not leap from the coffee table to the couch, naked, holding a technicolor permanent marker in each hand." (I'm not going to say whether that was me or the kids.)
It wasn't when I got married. Nor was it when I gave birth to my first or second child (though they may be driving me to an early grave). Buying the house gave me an inkling of it, though it still feels like a toy house, there is so much that is funky about it. No, the moment I felt that I had reached a certain level of maturity was when I accepted delivery (via the front window, since they wouldn't fit through the door of the toy house) of these items:
I'm not entirely sold on the chair. The couch, though, she is comfy and supportive and oh-so-preety. We are teaching the Labra-Spaniel not to leap on it; I felt so guilty about taking away his bed that I bought a new (color-coordinated) one for him:
He is confused but happy that we shower him with treats when he gets near it. Yes, I fear the inevitable stainage of the couch's pale green fabric. The new (similarly pale) rug had a deep purple cherry stain on it within forty minutes of me laying it down. But that brings in the adulthood part of it. The new furniture is about being mature and setting limits, for myself and my children. It is about saying, "No, you may not leap from the coffee table to the couch, naked, holding a technicolor permanent marker in each hand." (I'm not going to say whether that was me or the kids.)
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Not Prepared For This One
Last night, while she was happily slurping her ice cream, the Biggie turned to me and announced, "Mama, I have two boyfriends." Hiding my shock, I asked, "Really, who?" "Connor and Wiley." This is familiar territory. She has proclaimed she would marry Wiley, an old family friend, since she knew about princes and princesses and the inevitable ending of every Disney movie. But what about this Connor character? "Why is Connor your boyfriend?" "Because he winks at me and smiles at me and we both like soccer." OK, I can handle this. A simple display of affection, shared interests. "But just because he likes you doesn't make you his girlfriend. Do you like him?" "Well of course, because we are the only two kids in class who play hockey."
If only it could remain this simple.
Last night, while she was happily slurping her ice cream, the Biggie turned to me and announced, "Mama, I have two boyfriends." Hiding my shock, I asked, "Really, who?" "Connor and Wiley." This is familiar territory. She has proclaimed she would marry Wiley, an old family friend, since she knew about princes and princesses and the inevitable ending of every Disney movie. But what about this Connor character? "Why is Connor your boyfriend?" "Because he winks at me and smiles at me and we both like soccer." OK, I can handle this. A simple display of affection, shared interests. "But just because he likes you doesn't make you his girlfriend. Do you like him?" "Well of course, because we are the only two kids in class who play hockey."
If only it could remain this simple.
Saturday, June 03, 2006
It's a rainy Ithaca morning, a day for puttering, reading the newspaper and drinking too much coffee. The Ithaca Festival is this weekend; perhaps we'll go later and try to catch another performance of Hilby the Skinny German Juggle Boy. But for now we are just lazing about the house. Or at least I am lazing. This is what my children are doing:
9:30 am: Biggie has cut a long, long piece of yarn and has tied it around the front doorknob. She is making a coyote catcher. The Wee One is screaming and hitting her for no apparent reason. Time out.
9:45: Biggie is tying knots in the string. The Wee One is climbing up on the counter to the water thermos and spilling ice water on the floor. Clean up.
9:55: Biggie is tying knots in the string. The Wee One is "helping" the Husband paint a column in my office blue. She starts painting the white trim and has a tantrum when I take her away. Time out.
10:10: Biggie is tying knots in the string, which is now a decoration for the year-end party at school. The Wee One is letting the dog out so he can poop and trying to clean it up herself. Then she wants to pee out there "like a doggie."
10:15: Biggie is lying on the floor, tying knots in the string. In the two minutes that I was upstairs inspecting the Husband's paint job, the Wee One has opened a box of rice mix, poured it on the floor, and is trying to clean it up with a wet rag. When I take over, she goes into the living room where the Biggie is knotting, and hits her. Time out.
10:25: Biggie is taking a break from the knotted string, which is now four feet long and "a world record." The Wee One pauses to fight with her over Cheez-It. She pours the leftover crumbs on the freshly vacuumed rug. No time outs this time, but I do start shouting. Grrrr.
When we took the Wee One to a pulmonary specialist this week, he said that her asthma could be limiting her growth and energy levels. While we waited forty-five minutes for the doctor to show up, she climbed up and down off the examining table approximately twenty times, ran up and down the hall proclaiming "I am Superman!" and washed her hands more times than I could count. She is indeed small for her age, but I'm wondering, what exactly will happen if we get her asthma under control? How much more energy can she actually produce, and can we in some way harness it for our personal use? I'm thinking jet packs.
9:30 am: Biggie has cut a long, long piece of yarn and has tied it around the front doorknob. She is making a coyote catcher. The Wee One is screaming and hitting her for no apparent reason. Time out.
9:45: Biggie is tying knots in the string. The Wee One is climbing up on the counter to the water thermos and spilling ice water on the floor. Clean up.
9:55: Biggie is tying knots in the string. The Wee One is "helping" the Husband paint a column in my office blue. She starts painting the white trim and has a tantrum when I take her away. Time out.
10:10: Biggie is tying knots in the string, which is now a decoration for the year-end party at school. The Wee One is letting the dog out so he can poop and trying to clean it up herself. Then she wants to pee out there "like a doggie."
10:15: Biggie is lying on the floor, tying knots in the string. In the two minutes that I was upstairs inspecting the Husband's paint job, the Wee One has opened a box of rice mix, poured it on the floor, and is trying to clean it up with a wet rag. When I take over, she goes into the living room where the Biggie is knotting, and hits her. Time out.
10:25: Biggie is taking a break from the knotted string, which is now four feet long and "a world record." The Wee One pauses to fight with her over Cheez-It. She pours the leftover crumbs on the freshly vacuumed rug. No time outs this time, but I do start shouting. Grrrr.
When we took the Wee One to a pulmonary specialist this week, he said that her asthma could be limiting her growth and energy levels. While we waited forty-five minutes for the doctor to show up, she climbed up and down off the examining table approximately twenty times, ran up and down the hall proclaiming "I am Superman!" and washed her hands more times than I could count. She is indeed small for her age, but I'm wondering, what exactly will happen if we get her asthma under control? How much more energy can she actually produce, and can we in some way harness it for our personal use? I'm thinking jet packs.
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