Tag Archives: love

Running from Moms with Muffins

One of the more delightful side effects of having a child in preschool is the parade of parent interactions that comes with it. With the first child, you behave as though you are sending a tiny diplomat into the world: every item is selected with care, from backpack to water bottle to the outfit, and you attend school events with the grave pride of someone seeing a son off to war. By the third child, the standard has slipped somewhat. At that point, success means getting the child to school alive, more or less upright, and with pants on.

So when the notes came home announcing Dads with Donuts and Moms with Muffins, my reaction was less delight than a sort of weary administrative sigh. My husband’s work schedule ruled out the fatherly doughnut contingency. My dad declined as well, which meant the event was quietly promoted, in the way these things often are, to Grandmas with Donuts — much to my four-year-old’s disappointment, though children are nothing if not adaptable when faced with baked goods.

By the time Moms with Muffins rolled around, I felt duty-bound to appear and make up for the male shortage in my family tree. I should say we adore Wynn, but there are only so many pine cone bird feeders a person can assemble before one begins to feel less like a nurturing parent and more like an overtrained assembly-line worker with glue on her sleeves. Besides, I was by far the oldest mother there, which is not so much a social scene as a reminder that I arrived at motherhood by the scenic route. One suspects this may explain why my child runs everywhere, all the time, as though permanently late for a race nobody else knew had started.

Still, there was the muffin. One must be grateful for small mercies. There were also the rotating activity stations, which had the unfortunate effect of requiring actual conversation with other adults — an ordeal I generally try to avoid unless absolutely necessary. Wynn, being a very touchy child, spent the morning clinging, draping, pressing, and generally distributing himself over me like a small and determined octopus. By the end, I was not only thoroughly touched out, but decorated with snot as well, which is really the sort of finish that preschool parent events ought to warn you about in advance.

Moral of the story: all the kids matter, and at this point, sacrificing my own happiness for theirs is practically second nature — especially if there’s a pastry involved.

Running from Daniel Boone

Last night, my 8-year-old had a music program at school, which is the sort of event that reminds me parenting is mostly just a series of logistical challenges disguised as memories. The theme was American Heroes and Legends, and this, naturally, was my favorite part of the entire evening: letting my son choose his own outfit.

He understood the assignment. He knew he needed to look patriotic, but apparently, he also wanted to look like a young gentleman with somewhere important to be. So out he came in a short-sleeve blue polo shirt, red, white, and blue camo athletic shorts, a red tie that zipped around his neck, and a coon skin cap. I did not interfere. Some battles are worth fighting. This was not one of them. Besides, there is a special joy in watching a room full of people smile when they see his little face, especially with the tail of that hat bouncing behind him like it had its own agenda.

School programs, though, are a different matter entirely. I love seeing my kid do his thing, but the rest of it is pure endurance training. There is far too much peopling involved. You have to arrive early enough to secure a decent seat, which is difficult when you are also trying to wrangle siblings, coats, nerves, and the vague feeling that you may have already forgotten something essential. And dragging younger children along is its own special kind of suffering. By the time my son was on stage performing his “number,” the four-year-old announced that he had to poop. I informed him, with the confidence of a woman who had no intention of leaving her seat, that he did not. We remained exactly where we were and watched the show in its entirety.

The four-year-old is an odd little fellow in the best and most exhausting way. He seems to believe that leaving the house without a fully stocked supply pack is somehow reckless. Last night, he insisted on bringing a backpack stuffed with a blanket, a stuffed chicken jockey from Minecraft, a small telescope, a plastic hammer, and a bottle of water. I admire the man has a system. I do not, however, admire the part where I eventually have to unpack it all. Every pouch, pocket, and mysterious side compartment becomes my problem in the end.

A mother’s work is never done. Or, if it is, it certainly hasn’t happened in my house yet.

Running from 6-7

In a world where you can be anything, be kind—until they say “6-7,” and then, well, all bets are off. That’s my new motto, etched into my boy-mom soul with the same grim permanence as a Sharpie stain on a couch cushion. You know the original saying, the one that sounds like it was dreamed up by someone whose biggest household crisis was a slightly wilted ficus? Mine’s been battle-tested in the trenches of a home where survival sometimes feels like the main event.

Picture this: I’m in the thick of what I call the “keeping them alive” phase of parenting three boys—Cub, Oz, and Wynn, my little whirlwinds of testosterone and poor impulse control. It’s not hyperbole. These kids have elevated “6-7” (you know, that endlessly clever knockoff of the world’s dumbest joke) to a kind of tribal chant. Say it once? Adorable. Twice? Tolerable. By the 47th time before breakfast, I’m wondering if the neighbors would hear a scream or just assume it’s the dog again. Being a boy mom isn’t for the faint of heart; it’s for those who’ve stared down a fart joke epidemic and lived to tell the tale. Poop? Fart? Endless variations on bodily functions? I’ve banned those words so often I sound like a malfunctioning parrot: “Quit saying it! Napkin! Napkin exists for a reason!”

And don’t get me started on selective hearing. You can deliver a State of the Union address about bedtime, and it bounces off them like rain on a raincoat—yet whisper “ice cream” from the next room, and they’re there faster than a Disney Lightning Lane Premier Pass holder. Dinner tables? Forget Norman Rockwell; ours is a spill zone of biblical proportions. Ketchup arcing through the air like a poorly aimed missile, milk pooling mysteriously under chairs—it’s inevitable, like taxes or that one sock vanishing in the dryer. The shirts? Always, always stained, not from heroic spills but from the casual genius of wiping grubby hands right across the chest, napkin be damned. I’ve done laundry loads that could fill a Laundromat, each one a testament to why paper towels were invented.

Then there’s the trail of abandoned gear—water bottles sprouting like mushrooms in every corner of town, jackets draped over bleachers from wrestling meets to soccer fields as if we’re auditioning for a lost-and-found world record. We’ve left behind more Owalas than a hydration influencer. It’s chaos, pure and operatic, the kind that would send a lesser soul fleeing for the hills. But here’s the magic: amid the “6-7” choruses and the perpetual crumbs, there’s this ferocious joy in it. These boys are my tornadoes, my glorious messes, and somehow, in the eye of the storm, I wouldn’t trade a single stained shirt for all the quiet in the world. Kind until 6-7 hits critical mass—then mama roars. Be kind out there, friends. Or at least napkin-adjacent.

Running from Labor Day

September, already?

Honestly, I don’t know how we got here. Somewhere between Memorial Day and Labor Day, time slipped out the back door without so much as a goodbye. One moment I was dutifully buying sunscreen and popsicles, and the next thing I know, we’re knee-deep in sharpened pencils, lopsided backpacks, and the collapse of all illusions that summer still has any life left in it.

Labor Day, for us, was extravagantly uneventful. We made no plans—unless you consider “trying to stop the children from recreating scenes out of a medieval torture manual in the living room” to be plans. Which, in fairness, it probably is. My children have acquired a new pastime: exacting as much physical and emotional damage on one another as possible, all before noon. The soundtrack to this, of course, is a relentless chorus of shrieking, crying, and at least one nosebleed (always the middle child, who, bless him, seems doomed to a life of collateral damage). We have thus far managed to avoid the emergency room, but I can practically feel it penciled onto the horizon of future weekends.

Naturally, the boys would have been perfectly content to spend the entire three days motionless in front of the TV, embalmed in potato-chip crumbs. But, because we are excellent parents—or at least stubborn ones—we forced them outdoors. They ran half-heartedly around the block in under five minutes, returned looking betrayed, and then managed to ask for snacks roughly every three minutes until bedtime. Forty-six snack requests in an afternoon. I did the math.

Now, I like to imagine myself as calm, patient, and capable of handling these miniature crises with grace. This is a delusion. At the tenth spilled cup of juice or the eighth announcement that last week’s “favorite meal of all time” is now “too disgusting to even look at,” something inside me snaps. It’s usually at this point that my husband, recognizing danger, quietly slides into the scene like a diplomatic envoy, defending my honor and ushering me away before I declare dinner a lost cause and start packing my bags for Monaco.

And so here we are: September. A new school year, a new season, and new opportunities to relearn multiplication tables, lose library books, and discover that my children’s capacity for whining is in fact infinite. Still, I’m clinging to the lofty goal of keeping my head—and occasionally even my sense of humor—through it all.

Here’s to a month of beginnings, cooler heads, and hopefully fewer nosebleeds.

Running from Friendship

I don’t have many friends. This is not a cry for help, nor is it a prelude to a heartwarming tale of self-discovery. It’s just a fact, like “I don’t like olives” or “I have never understood the appeal of jazzercise.” The friends I do have are scattered across the country like confetti after a parade—Kansas, North Carolina, California, Colorado, Wisconsin—each one safely insulated from the risk of spontaneous coffee invitations. Not a single one in Ohio, despite the fact that I live here, which is either a testament to my introversion or to the enduring mystery of Ohio itself.

Now, some might say this sounds lonely, and perhaps it is, but I find it oddly comforting. It’s a bit like running solo before dawn: the world is quiet, the air is crisp, and there’s nobody around to judge your pace, your playlist, or the fact that you’ve stopped to walk for the third time in a mile. I avoid judgment the way most runners avoid hills—by plotting elaborate routes and, if necessary, faking an injury.

I’m not what you’d call a “social” person. Every friend I’ve made has been through the forced proximity of work or some shared task. I’ve never met anyone in a bar and thought, “This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” My friendships are more like aid stations on a marathon course: you’re thrown together by circumstance, you exchange a few words, maybe a cup of Gatorade, and then you’re off again, each of you running your own race.

I am, I suspect, a high-maintenance friend, which is why I try to keep a low profile. Most of my friends are older than me—sometimes by decades. My best friend Greg is creeping toward 70, which is perfect because neither of us is likely to suggest skydiving or a spontaneous road trip to Burning Man. What I want is a friend who will sit on the porch with me at 7:30 a.m., sipping coffee after I’ve already done three loads of laundry. Or someone who’ll go to Disney World and not ride anything, just people-watch and critique the churros. I want friends who understand that sometimes, the best part of getting together is knowing you can leave whenever you want, no explanations required.

And food—let’s talk about food. If there’s a tub of cookie dough, and I eat three-quarters of it, I expect nothing but silent admiration. Or at the very least, discretion.

At the end of the day, I just want to be comfortable. And that, I think, is why my circle is so small. Not many people make me feel at ease, and after a few too many disappointments, I’ve learned to stick with the ones who do. The people I keep close are consistent, reliable, and utterly nonjudgmental. I like the person I am around them, which, when you think about it, is a rare and wonderful thing.

In running, as in friendship, it’s not about the size of your group or the speed of your splits. It’s about finding your pace, your people, and your own version of comfort—whether that’s a sunrise run, a quiet porch, or a spoon and a tub of cookie dough. And if you’re lucky, you get to do it all without anyone asking why you’re walking again.

Running towards Change

Let’s talk about crossroads. Not the Robert Johnson, “sold my soul to the devil and now I can play a mean blues guitar” kind, but the more mundane, “should I take the left path, the right path, or just sit down and have a sandwich?” variety. Life, it turns out, is littered with these intersections- some clearly marked, others disguised as perfectly ordinary Tuesdays. Sometimes you don’t even notice you’re at one until years later, when you realize that deciding to sit next to that stranger in Chemistry 101 led to marriage, children, and a lifelong inability to remember where you left your car keys.

Right now, I am standing at one of those crossroads, and not the metaphorical kind you can ignore until it disappears. Last Friday, I had heart surgery. (This is the sort of sentence that, if you’re lucky, you only have to write once in your life.) I’m in recovery, which mostly involves lying very still, contemplating the ceiling, and wondering if it’s possible to develop six-pack abs by sheer force of will. Spoiler: it is not.

The good news is, I’m on my way back to the body I knew before atrial fibrillation and a stroke decided to make themselves at home. The less-good news: I now have the stamina of a slightly asthmatic sloth and a to-do list that includes things like “walk to mailbox without needing a nap.” Progress, I’ve learned, is not a sprint. It’s more like a meandering stroll through a museum where half the exhibits are closed for renovation. And that’s okay. Sometimes watching things evolve slowly is its own kind of beautiful.

I’ve always been an athlete, or at least someone who owned a suspicious number of moisture-wicking shirts. My childhood was a montage of sports practices, muddy cleats, and the faint aroma of liniment. I majored in Sports Management, then doubled down with a Master’s in Sports Administration, because apparently I wanted to be able to administrate my own sports. I got married in a suite at a Cincinnati Reds game- a fact that is both romantic and, in retrospect, a logistical nightmare for anyone who dislikes stadium nachos. I’ve run four marathons, seven half marathons, two 10ks, and more 5ks than I can count. I coach volleyball. My husband coaches wrestling. My kids play sports. If you cut us, we bleed Gatorade.

So here I am, at a crossroads. One path leads to the couch, where I could spend the rest of my days as a professional spectator, perfecting the art of yelling at referees from the comfort of my living room. The other path is, frankly, a lot more work: getting back into shape after four months of enforced inactivity. (Technically, it’s been four years since I felt “normal,” but who’s counting? Oh, right. Me.) First, there was the stroke, which put a hard stop to regular exercise. Before that, I was pregnant, and my body decided to start practicing contractions at week eleven, which is a bit like showing up at the airport six months before your flight.

Anyway, I’m choosing the road less traveled. Not because I’m particularly brave, but because, as they say, “rent is due every day,” and I’ve been living rent-free in my own body for a bit too long. I want to feel like I’m in charge again, even if it means taking the scenic route, with plenty of rest stops along the way.

After all, you never really know what’s waiting around the next bend- maybe it’s a fresh challenge, maybe it’s a chance to surprise yourself, or maybe it’s just the satisfaction of putting one foot in front of the other again. Either way, onward.

Running to My Husband

I never really understood why, but I always wanted to be a wife. Not in the “I want to be June Cleaver” sense, but more in the “I need a permanent audience for my daily musings on laundry and the existential crisis of mismatched socks” way. So, after seven years of dating—a period in which we both became experts in the fine art of waiting for the other to propose—my now-husband finally popped the question. I suspect, if I’m honest, that after seven years he simply ran out of plausible alternatives. It’s either get married or start a competitive stamp-collecting hobby, and he’s never been good with glue.

The early years of our marriage were, in retrospect, a bit like the opening act of a play where the actors haven’t quite memorized their lines. I knew he loved me—he did, after all, tolerate my penchant for keeping the tv on while dead asleep every night—but I wasn’t entirely sure he liked me. I was there, keeping small humans alive, contributing to the family bank account, and occasionally reminding him where we keep the can opener. It took another seven years (because apparently, we do everything in seven-year increments) before we rediscovered the spark that brought us together in the first place, and realized we actually wanted the same things out of life—namely, a working dishwasher and children who don’t use the curtains as napkins.

Now, nearly eleven years into this grand experiment called marriage, I can honestly say we’re growing together. We have shared goals, synchronized hopes, and—most importantly—a mutual understanding that whoever steps on the stray LEGO has earned the right to pick the next family movie. We’re strolling through life with a sense of purpose, trailed by three small boys who operate with the energy and coordination of caffeinated ducklings.

I never imagined being a boy mom would be so entertaining. My sons are perpetually grubby, constantly ricocheting off furniture, and have turned minor household accidents into a competitive sport. Every day is a blend of slapstick comedy and impromptu science experiments involving mud, gravity, and whatever was once clean. It’s the best kind of chaos, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. My life is overflowing with more love (and laundry) than I ever thought possible, and for that, I am endlessly, comically, and profoundly grateful.

When one door closes

mapWell, here I sit on my last night in my apartment in California. On my last night alone as a single person. Wow, what a weird thing to say. My last night living alone, hopefully forever.

I have this weird urge to cry, not because I’m sad, but because I sort of have graduation goggles. You know, like when you were finishing up high school, getting ready to graduate and you completely forget that you were picked on, beat up, or ignored completely every day for four straight years. My California experience has made me a richer, more well-rounded person. The naive little Midwestern girl has now be exposed to the real world, and I have made it through to the other side.

I moved out here for a lot of reasons, and I can’t help but think it was absolutely the right decision. I am coming out of this a better employee in a job that I enjoy so much. I have found so many strengths and turn weaknesses into things of the past. I have become  a reality show producer, an event planner, a photo editor. I have been involved in so many wonderful things over the past two years with Prep2Prep. I have dedicated my life to the brand. I love this company, I just know that something great is going to happen for us.

For years now I have worked like a dog. My career has always been number one. I am so excited to finally have a reason to make work number 2. Prep2Prep is allowing me the opportunity to do what I love, what I am good at, and take care of my family at the same time. I have sacrificed two years with my puppy dogs, and now, I get to work from home and stay with them all day long.

There is a lot going on, and I still have to make it through three days of work and a 24 hour road trip halfway across the United State, but moving out of my apartment is taking one step closer to my dream. The days to come will be so special, and I can’t wait for new challenges both personally and professionally.

Keep Moving Forward…

The More the Merrier

My running hasn’t been in focus in the past few weeks. After I finished the Dopey Challenge, I got extremely sick and definitely needed some time off. I took more than needed, as the flu turned into a bout of depression, which turned into even more depression when my cat, Roll, died just over a week ago. I have had a few running sessions scheduled, but only this past week did I actually get back on the road. I am traditionally a morning runner, but last Wednesday, I took an evening 5 miler, which I thoroughly enjoyed.  It felt great to get back into the swing of things, and I compiled the activity I was doing by adding some kettle bell workouts to the mix. I really started to feel great, and I have to say, I am feeling closer to normal.

This morning I took on 12 miles, honestly not expecting to finish it all. In my mind, I kept telling myself to just make it to the half way point. I decided to take a route that I had not run before, just for a change of scenery, and it proved to be just what I needed. 12 miles later, I looked up and realized that I could go home. That’s a good run. 

Oddly enough, after eating dinner tonight, I got the inkling to go for a walk. A lot of weeknights I go for a walk, just a short one around the neighborhood, but close to 3 miles. It’s funny how exercise is contagious. The more you do it, the better you feel… and then the more you want to do! It’s what they call a vicious cycle without being vicious. With exercise, it’s the more the merrier. I forget this sometimes, but fortunately I love exercise enough to be reminded once again. 

It is hard to express to people how exercise changes your life. Quoting once again one of my favorite shows, Cheers, “You always come back to your one true love.” It’s fun to think that exercise could be someone’s true love, but it is something that I constantly find myself coming back to, even after a long absence. Exercise is always there, when I need to relieve stress, when I have gone off the diet deep end,  or when I just need to think. Exercise helps me cope with the changes in my life. I can do it anywhere, and all I need is an open road and a pair of shoes… and maybe a sports bra, right girls???

If you exercise, you know what I mean. If you don’t, take it from me, it is worth a try. Just remember, practice makes perfect.

Hind Sight is 20/20

Happy New Year everyone!

I just spent a few minutes reading my last post of 2012, the challenges I had listed for myself in 2013 and the struggles of the previous year. I don’t necessarily think that I became a better person in 2013, in fact, probably the opposite. It sounds awful to say that I feel like I have more hate in my heart that ever before. I am cynical and abrasive. I complain, and am often selfish.

And it feels like everyone around me is quite the opposite. This morning I started thinking about why 2014 will be a happier year for me. I figured if I posted my thoughts here, next year on this day, I will be able to reflect again on what they year has brought me.

My fiance is the most easy going, loving guy I’ve ever known. He is so happy and willing to take care of me, even when I am mean and in a bad mood. Sometimes I question why he would pick me. We have been through so much together over the past 7 years: deaths, births, sickness, financial issues, moves, controversy and baby puppies. We have made it through so much, and we finally get to be married in 2014. I couldn’t be happier and more excited for such a big life change.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I definitely don’t give my family the amount of time they deserve. We are spread out all over the country, so we never get to spend enough time together, but with the wedding fast approaching, everyone will get to be together in the same place for a few days, and besides the actual marriage part, I am so excited about this.

This sounds funny, but my life is my work most of the time. It’s really all I have in California. So over the next year, I think work deserves less of my time. I have devoted that last 2 years of my life to it, and I feel like it is finally time that other things become the priority.

I love running so much, but I know that my fitness can be better. With the wedding just 7 months away, I definitely have some work to do to make myself happy.  But don’t worry, running more is definitely on that list.

If I do nothing else, but complete the Dopey Challenge, get married, and make family more a priority in my life, I will consider it a successful 2014.  So Peace and Love to you all in 2014. I hope you take what life gives you and turn it into something amazing!