Wax on. Wax off?

So here’s the thing. I love sleep. When I was young, I was an insomniac. I couldn’t sleep for more than four hours a night for a very, very, long time. I watched the infomercials for spray-on hair more times than I’m ready to admit just to have company at 2 a.m.

I’m not sure what happened to change my insomnia, but midway through high school, I started sleeping like the dead. It’s not that I sleep until noon or anything, but I could take a four hour nap in the afternoon if you give me a good book and a fan, no problem.

Anyway, off topic. But, now you’ll have a little background about how I got in the following fix.

A few weeks ago, we finally got the boys to bed around 8:45, which meant after I showered and unloaded the dishwasher and brushed my teeth and made our bed and, and, and ―  it would be at least 9:15 if I put on my cape and moved fast.

Here’s the other thing. And I can’t believe I’m putting this in writing. I have a moustache.

I really do. I think anyway. I never let it get to that point. At least not since 5^th grade when one of my guy friends said, “Hey, you have a moustache.” Ever since then, I’ve waxed. I’ve waxed religiously. And normally, I’ve waxed professionally.

But then I became a mother.

And realized I made it to the salon, on average, about once every eight months.

So the other night, I realized it was way past my normal time for waxing and it was time to bite the bullet and just do it at home. But I was so tired, so I was annoyed as I waited for the wax to heat up in the microwave and was calculating I could still be in bed by 9:45 if …

So I did an extra fast wax. I didn’t mess around with half-heating the wax and getting the temperature just right. I fried that wax. I decided I wouldn’t hesitate at all about ripping the paper off ― I would just do it. And I didn’t put moisturizer on afterward.

See what a problem being an insomniac has caused in my life years later?

 I need to go to waxing safety school.

Anyway, in the middle of the night, I woke up. My face was burning hot. I couldn’t sleep it burned so bad.

I groggily walked upstairs, looked for an ice cube I could rub on my face, found a teether in the shape of a ducky, put it on my lip, and walked back downstairs. I did not want to look in the mirror. And that’s how the night went. I couldn’t sleep. My face burned. I walked upstairs, grabbed the next teether, and put it on my face. When I woke up the next morning, it looked like a baby safari had died at my bedside there were so many teethers littering the carpet.

Finally, around 6:30, I crawled out of bed and on my way to the bathroom, passed John in the hallway.

“What happened to your FACE?” he asked.

Oh great. Oh great oh great oh great, I thought.

I stood in front of the mirror and slowly opened one eye.

Ghasp!!!! I’d ripped half of my face off!

Okay truly, almost all of my face was there, but it had never been more evident that I was a person trying to remove a moustache, because right there was a red strip across my upper lip – skin that used to be there now burnt to a crisp and ripped off!

Fabulous. Just fabulous.

It took a lot of concealer that didn’t really do the trick, and a week's worth of moisturizer before that flaming red strip across my lip started to go away. Meanwhile, I met approximately 324 people in grocery stores, the mall, work, on walks, etc. that must have looked at me as a walking billboard for how not to wax at home.

Sigh. I should find a cure for my love of sleep.

That’s all for today. Thank God.

Until tomorrow …

A certain kind of love story

Okay, so when John and I met, it wasn’t like Nora Roberts was sitting there with a pen ready to capture everything in writing it was just so remarkable. We weren’t a romance novel waiting to happen.

At the risk of sounding risqué, when I met John, I lived with someone else. It was one of those things where I was trying to force a friend relationship to be a love relationship because he was nice and in the end, before
I’d even moved back to my hometown with him, I knew it wasn’t going to work. But I was stalling because I was afraid.

Meanwhile … I’d noticed this very cute boy who lived upstairs. He was just my type. He worked out. He drank beer.

What –

Did you think there would be more?

Well, there is, I just didn’t know that yet. I thought he had a cute toosh and I was still taken, so that was all for now.

A few months after noticing how cute John was, my boyfriend-at-the-time and I broke up. And I decided there was a good chance I’d be single forever. But that was okay. I thought, I will spread my wings and be silly for a while and have fun and maybe end up with 10 cats and that will be just fine.

And I surprised myself, because I really was, just fine.

For four months.

And then one night I went to work out at the apartment gym, and on my way back, sweaty and tired, I saw John coming my way and my throat closed up. I’m not the type of girl who gets really eloquent and beautiful when cute guys are around. I trip over things (literally, I’ll write about this later) and I mumble. I tried to think of something cool to say, but before I knew it, he was walking right by me and he said ―

“Good workout?” This was no doubt in reference to my beet red face and heavy breathing.

“Errrgaaaa….lala….”

Oh my God!!! Did I just say “Errrgaaaa…lala…?”

Yes. I had.

And the moment for any great eloquence had passed.

Oh. My. God.

Somehow, I summed up the courage to talk to him again a few nights later after I’d gone for a jog and he was sitting on his balcony. (I’d now thought about “Errrgaaaa….lala….” for three days and had to get beyond it).

Before I knew it, we were talking nearly every night, for just a few seconds, as I passed him on his balcony on my way to my apartment. And finally, the Friday of Mother’s Day weekend, I summed up the courage to invite him to get drinks with my girlfriend and me.

“I can’t.”

Oh great. I’ve made a fool of myself twice.

“I mean, I can’t because my mom’s in town – for Mother’s Day – and my sisters – we’re all taking my mom out to dinner.”

Huge sigh of relief. And … I’m in love.

“Oh. That’s fine. Rain check, maybe.”

“Definitely.”

So we went out for drinks a couple of week later, and I found I truly did like him. A lot.

And a few months later, I found out I truly did love him. A lot.

And a few years later, I still love him a lot, and now we have two children, who we love a lot more than a lot.

And to think … It all started with “Errrgaaaa….lala….”

Until tomorrow …

Smoke alarms and law enforcement

Remember that cold I was telling you about Monday? Ug. It didn’t get better. Throughout the day Monday, Sully got progressively worse. He was snotty and grumbly and just all around miserable and the poor thing was exhausted when we put him to bed that night.

Oh, if only it had stayed that way.   

We put Sully down at about 7:30. I ran to the grocery store to grab milk right after he went down, and just after I stepped in the door and dropped the bags, a horrible sound filled the house.

 “What is that?” I asked running down the hall to see where it was coming from.  

Horrified, I found it was coming from a finally-sleeping Sully’s room.

The vaporizer had set off the smoke alarm.

I grabbed Sully and yelled at John, “Shut it off!” as I took a very confused Sully into the kitchen away from the noise.

“Shut it off? There aren’t any freakin’ lights in his room to see!”

Oh my. This is a whole other topic, but we have a house that was built with rooms with no lights. Sometimes, I feel like we’re in that book, that one where the town never sees light. Luckily, they have big windows, but after 7:00, we rely on two lamps because the boys knock over the floor lamps we tried to put in and lordy, lordy, it’s just not a good combination. We can talk on this later though.

Luckily, John turned the smoke alarm off in a good way. I guess there’s a button or something because when he turned it off, I didn’t hear anything. When I turn off a smoke alarm a broom is involved and usually neighbors call the police.

So, here we were. John muttering under his breath about a smoke detector and a crazy fiancé. Me cursing the fact I hadn’t left a window open, or the door, or put in a skylight before I’d turned the vaporizer on, anything that would have kept the smoke detector quiet. And poor Sully, feeling absolutely miserable.

We rocked him. We cuddled him. He coughed. He wiped his chubby fist on his face and smeared snot all over his cheeks. We cleaned his cheeks. We swapped holders once our backs said, “no more holding chubby babies!,” and finally, at 10:15, I said, that’s it, I’m putting him in the car.

After a few laps around town Sully was almost asleep. I noticed there were quite a few cops out as I drove around town. I saw lights flashing as I made a turn onto the highway and saw that one of my best friends who’s now a cop had picked someone up and I nearly scolded him because it was a Monday and everyone’s miserable on Mondays so who really wants a ticket on a Monday anyway? But, I decided I didn’t want to embarrass him since I love him so much (plus, I was going 50 miles an hour and it’s hard to scold anyone when you’re driving by them that fast).  And then, finally, Sully fell asleep.

And a cop got on my tail.

And stayed there.

And I thought, Dear Officer. If you wake a sleeping child to pull me over and ruin the 10 minutes of sanity I’ve had in 4 days, I will write you a ticket. And then I thought oh no. If he were walking to my car and I went to put my finger to my lips behind the window would he think I had a gun and be afraid of me? Okay. Now I was getting afraid of me.

Thank goodness, it was a smart officer, and I pulled into home ticket-less with a sleeping baby.

I enjoyed that for three minutes because Sully woke up as soon as we pulled him out of the car and stayed awake until 1:00 a.m. with small moments of sleep on our chest as we finally gave in to sitting down.

Yesterday we took him to the doctor. This is when we learned that one nostril running could signify he or his brother had tried to cram a peanut M&M up his nose (or any other small item, but I haven’t had much chocolate as yet today so I have chocolate on the brain). Knowing my children, I thought this was a very high possibility, so I was thankful when the doctor declared us free of M&Ms and other small objects.

Poor Sully though, he has croup.

We got steroids for him and this marks the second time my little 15-month-old has taken steroids (he had a dose in the womb to help his lungs develop since we knew they would be born early).

 Once he’s feeling better we’ve decided we’ll enter him in a weight lifting contest.

Three days from the start of that runny nose Sully’s still got a bark-like cough but is doing much, much better, and he slept through the night last night, which means John and I are doing much, much better.

Thank goodness. If anyone wants to know the brand of a very, very good smoke detector, just let me know.

Until tomorrow …

You're getting very sleepy ... or not

Disclaimer: I'm getting a head cold so this may, or may not, make sense. You might want to drink a few beers and then read it.

John was out of town this weekend taking a much-needed guy's weekend in South Dakota with his buddies. I don't know why, but I don't sleep well when he's gone. It is not because I miss what he calls his "gentle purr" (this is actually a snore). But the weather was fairly bad with thunderstorms, etc. and I kept waking up, thinking "what if I don't hear a tornado warning?" or "did I leave the stove on?" or "what if the boys rolled out from under their blankets and they're cold?"

Normally I don't worry about these things, because John follows me around the house fully aware that I constantly forget to do things like turn the stove off or water a plant or clean out the lint trap. So, when he's gone, the full responsibility of being a parent falls on my shoulders and I feel incredibly inadequate.

To sum it up though, I just want to say to all of you single parents, in moments like this, when I have more than 12 hours alone with my children, I realize how amazing you must be. And how I wish that all of you would get a cake every day and a vacation every weekend because you really, really deserve it.

Okay, back to our weird household. John came back home last night and said "I missed you guys."

And then four hours later, we put the boys to bed at 8. And then we bought The Informant on Pay-per-view. And 10 minutes in to it, Sully woke up. And his screams woke up Will. And an hour-and-a-half later, we gave up rocking them back to sleep and let them crawl all over us in the living room until they got semi-tired. At 10, we put them to bed. At 11:00, Sully woke up again. At 11:50, I woke John up and said, "I can't get Sully back to sleep."

And now our poor little guys have colds (a good explanation for the horrible night last night), and I'm on my way to one, and I think I will call all of you to help me this week because I have a very good feeling John might be headed back to South Dakota right now.

Until tomorrow ...

Earth Day, laundry, and other very important matters

Today, I’m giving a shout out to Earth Day with a picture of my favorite T-shirt.  

Unfortunately, my poor t-shirt was worn through my period of nursing the boys, so it does not look like this anymore.

It doesn’t even look close.

It has now entered the pile where all of my saddest shirts go – the dust rag pile.  

But then I feel good because I recycled.

Okay, that’s all on Earth Day, because everyone reading this post is probably a much better giver to the Earth than I – John and I go through about 20 diapers a day with the boys and I feel so guilty about our trash bags I don’t even look at them any more (plus, it ensures John always takes out the trash, so it’s a win-win). I thought about cloth diapers. For like a second. And then I thought about cloth diapers, two babies, John at work, me on maternity leave trying to nurse, and I almost tore my hair out, and that was before they were born. So, to save all of us from my insanity and bad hair (my hair looks really awful when I start going crazy – I pull on it a lot and it gets all strangly from me twisting the ends) I decided we’d go disposable. (My friend Kortney has stuck with cloth and I thought of her as a queen before she made that decision, and now that she’s stuck with it, she’s truly my hero).

Okay, now I’m really moving on. 

To laundry. 

It doesn’t get better than this post guys.

We go through a substantial amount of laundry in our house. About four loads a day (okay, so another reason we’re probably not Earth Day gurus).  John does the majority of this laundry, so looking back, I probably shouldn’t have argued with him at all, but there’s no rhyme or reason to my blow ups, so I will share this embarrassing one with you in hopes you too, have some weird blow ups with your significant other and then I will feel better about mine.

A while back, I think my laundry was scaring him, because my laundry has zippers and straps and hoods sometimes (this isn’t my rob-a-bank clothing in case you’re wondering, just my hoodies for fall days) and so he would leave it in a pile at the end of my bed where it could no longer intimidate him.

And when I would do laundry, I would fold his clothes and put them away.

And finally, one night, I got angry about my pile of laundry at the end of the bed, sitting there looking all wrinkled and sad. And John came in as I was angrily making our bed and said, “What’s wrong?”

 “Look at this!” I said pointing at the pile. “Look at my sad laundry! I put your laundry away and fold it and everything! And you throw mine in a pile at the end of my bed!”

And then I said it.

“You need to respect my laundry!”

Oh how ridiculous. This folks, is a sign of a woman who needs a break (and a man who needs a break from a crazy woman).

Well, John, bless him, somehow managed not to laugh in my face when I said this.

Or yell at me about how he does the majority of the laundry anyway so if I wanted it folded to do it myself.

And he even decided he would start folding my intimidating laundry; when he doesn’t know where it goes, he puts it in neat little rows on my side of the bed.

Ahhh. Thanks, dear, for putting my laundry away. And loving me even though I say things like “Respect my laundry!”

Until tomorrow…

 

The NFL Draft (don't ask me anything else - I don't know)

As I started cooking dinner last night John sat down with two sheets of paper at the kitchen table and said, "I want you to fill out an NFL draft sheet, it's $5 and chances are, you'll have a good shot."

He doesn't say good shot because I know a lot about football.Or because I know anything about football, really, beyond the fact I love a good tailgate. He said it to make me feel better.

I shrugged. "Sure. Whatever." And I started cutting up asparagus.

And then he started listing names. Well I thought they were, anyway. Until I said,
"Definitely Trade."
"Who would you like to trade?"
"Um. No one. Isn't that the guy's name, Trade?"
"No. It means you can trade for another team.
"Oh. Then I don't want him. Or, I don't want to trade I mean." I added summer squash to the pan and grabbed the cream from the fridge.

"T. Williams or D. Williams?"
"Are they brothers?" I asked.
"No."
"Oh," I said, disappointed. "D., I guess."

Then he listed off a couple more names and said, "...or McCourty."
"McCourty. Is he Scottish?"
"He's African American."
"That doesn't mean he's not Scottish."
"Honey. Who do you want to pick?" he said with an exasperated sigh.
"Are you mad at me about the Scottish comment?"
"No."
"McCourty." (I still don't know much about him, but I saw some pictures and a lot of articles when I Googled him today and I feel good about it."

And then he listed a few more names, and at this point, dinner was starting to smell very good, and I didn't want to do this any more.
"...or T. Williams."
"Oh you know what? I think it would be fun to go to dinner with him."
Uh huh. John said distracted. "He and his wife probably want to have dinner with us don't you think? I said. "Well. I guess I don't know if he has a wife. But if he does, they'd probably want to be friends with us."

And John shook his head.
And I shrugged.


"Are we done now?"

"Yes," he said sighing.

I'm betting I don't win, but if I did, I would guess John still wouldn't think the money was worth the hassle of that draft pick session.

Embarrassing story number 3. Or 4. I’m losing count already.

It was the spring of 2002, and I was studying abroad in Ireland. My friend MB and I decided to travel through Europe together on our three-week spring break (they know how to do things in Ireland – a 3-week spring break was just the beginning).

I think, looking back, if MB had a chance to do it all again, she would pick a different traveling partner, because at the time, she didn’t know that I couldn’t read maps.

Or metro schedules.

This weird thing happens when I see numbers – it’s like they scramble to turn into code and then I hear strange chime music and my brain shuts down. I’m not kidding you. For the one thousandth time, dear Shane, I am sorry that you had to be my high school math partner.

Okay. Back to Europe. 

Halfway into our trip, we visited Prague – my favorite city of all time. I love Prague. I love Prague more than chocolate chip cookies. I love Prague more than cheesecake.

Amazingly, I love Prague even after the below took place there.

MB and I were heading back to our hotel after a day exploring the city and we were running down the stairs to catch the metro. About halfway down the stairs we heard the “buzzzz!” that signals the doors are about to close.

MB runs marathons. Literally.

I run, well, you know by now what I run.

So, I should have known MB would reach those doors before me. I should have known to say “MB! Stop! I am the tortoise – I am the tortoise!” But instead, I tried to keep up, my enormous European travel backpack that weighed 100 pounds bouncing off my toosh. And those pretty little metro doors started to close, but I thought surely I can squeeze through! And glory! 

My foot crossed the line and I let out a huge sigh of relief as those metro doors shut behind me.

Or did they? I tried to take a step further into the car.

I felt strange. I tugged on my huge backpack.

Oh. No. No! No!

I turned my head, but I could barely turn my neck. My bag was stuck. Wedged between the metro doors.

I looked like a starfish, my arms pinned against the doors.

MB turned to look at me, and at that point, so did nearly everyone on that metro car.

I thought, surely an emergency thing will signal that I’m stuck right? These doors should open right back up right? This will be over in ten seconds, right?

Wrong.

The engine started. And I heard the slow turn of the wheels click in. And MB started pulling on me, but to be honest, she was laughing so hard I don’t think it did much.

Now, although I didn’t speak the same language as anyone on that car beyond MB, I didn’t need to. They were laughing, and pointing, and giving me looks of pity, and I knew they were saying, “Silly American girl!”

And MB, she said, “If I had a camera right now, I would so be snapping pictures of you.” I have good friends like that.

I think it took about one minute to get to our next stop, but I swear, I celebrated a birthday during the trip that car took. And then, as though it wasn’t bad enough for everyone on the inside of the metro car to see me stuck against those doors, we slowly came to our stop, and it took a good 10 seconds for the wheels to slow, turn off, and the doors to open, during which everyone on the platform got to see “the silly American girl’s” backpack sticking through the doors.

MB patted my back as I hung my head on the way out the metro and up the stairs.

See? Isn’t it amazing that I still love Prague?

Nighttime lotion and story #2 (you'll understand this when you read it)

John and I believe in the power of nighttime lotion. We lather the kids in it before bed.

Part of this is because we think it works. The other part is that because over the course of 15 months, we got approximately 20 nights of uninterrupted sleep, and when you're on sleep deprivation for that long, you start doing weird things. One of those 20, glorious nights, we'd doused the boys in nighttime lotion before bed. Thus marked the beginning of our superstition.

Last night, I started a new tradition with our beloved lotion. I started putting lotion on their face too, because their face was dry, yes, but more because I thought, genius! Let's get this lotion as close to their olfactory senses as possible and then it will be even more powerful! I told you, we really believe in nighttime lotion, but even more so, we believe in everyone in our house getting a full night's sleep. We did this tonight with the true power of superstition on our heels, having tried it last night and been rewarded with 9 - that's right - 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Tonight, after the Ford assembly line dinner we moved the boys to the Ford assembly line diaper change. On the second dirty diaper, John said, "Really. These boys are doing some work tonight," while I lotioned Sully's face. And then, I noticed a little pink in Sully's cheeks.

"Uh oh." I said.

"What?" John said as he finished wiping Sully's toosh and reached for the Desitin.

"I think he's pooping," I said, looking at Sully's half-lotioned, now red face. I quickly glanced down at his toosh while John scrambled with the wipes.

"Ummmmmm....."

I'm really not good in these situations. I was born with sloth-like reflexes. Sully was now not only red in the face, he was grunting, and John was still scrambling to get a new diaper under his toosh. Totally avoiding the obvious, I continued to lotion Sully's face.

By some miracle of the Gods, Sully didn't poop. Apparently, he felt like grunting for a while. But I knew I wasn't in the clear. I'd acted like a coward (listen folks, I can do baby puke with the best of them, but poopy carpet, I'm just not someone you want with you on the front lines).

"Really?" John said, pulling the velcro tabs across Sully's clean diaper. "You're making a masterpiece on his cheeks with lotion and you couldn't stop to grab a diaper?"

"Ummmm," I said.

And John shook his head.

(I'll let you know how tonight works out with the olfactory senses and all - we could be on to something).

The Button Story

Okay, after posting my embarrassing story early this week, my aunt reminded me that I needed to tell the infamous “button story.” Somehow, I had forgotten about the below story. I think it’s because my pride can only handle so many embarrassing stories at a time so my brain starts throwing out excess embarrassments. Anyway, here goes.

Chapter I

It was my very first day of college, my very first class. Reaching into my closet, I was especially conscious of trying to look put together without trying too hard. So, I pulled on my favorite “I don’t care too much” khaki shorts and a fitted T and headed out.

My first day I only had one morning class ― English, which matched up well with my friend Jon’s schedule, so we drove to class together. I walked in and sat down behind someone who, little did I know, I would soon get to know very well. We were partnered for a discussion group during which I found out his name was Kyle, and we had a lot in common. We became fast friends, and somehow ― or maybe because of ― the below, remained friends for years.

Chapter II

Our English class let out and I decided I would park it on a bench waiting for Jon’s class to let out.

I was very strategic about where I sat on this bench because I was a bit shy since it was my first day and didn’t want anyone sitting down next to me (I’m really not good at “just getting to know you” awkward conversations).

I decided I would read our assignment for a few minutes until it was time for Jon’s class to let out. Checking my watch, I decided it was time to go grab him and head home. And here it comes.

I went to stand up from the bench and ―

Plop!

I was pulled right back into the seat.

What the heck? I thought. Oh no. Oh no. I’ve sat in paint, I thought. And turned to look at my toosh which I was imagining covered in forest green paint bynow. But I couldn’t even see my toosh – whatever had me stuck wasn’t letting my tookus get that far.

I plopped back down. Maybe I was imagining this whole thing. I tried to stand again and ―

Plop!

What in the ―

 I turned around and suddenly it dawned on me. My cute little “I don’t care too much” khaki shorts had a button on the pocket that had somehow slipped through the grating in the bench and gotten stuck underneath.

The chances of this happening are probably somewhere close to me winning the lottery, but that’s just my luck ― stuff like this happens to me ― not the lottery-winning stuff.

Okay. I thought. Think. But I couldn’t. I was too nervous. I was stranded on a bench and Jon was waiting for me and a half-inch button was holding me down!

Okay, just reach around and pop the button back through. But I couldn’t do that either. My strategic way of sitting down to avoid awkward conversation had left my arms too short to reach over and under the bench to pop the button back through. You idiot I thought.

Okay, one way left. Force.

I stood up as fast as I could, working to pop the button off. Surely the velocity of my body weight could do such a thing. I heard a tear and grimaced for my favorite pair of shorts.

Still, no luck. I pulled, standing up and down up and down and up and down. At this point I was a bit frustrated, a lot embarrassed, but also truly admiring the craftsmanship of shorts that could withstand this much pull without tearing. Had to hand it to them. I was sure everyone on campus was starting to point out their classroom windows whispering, “Umm. What in the heck is that girl doing?”  

 “Hey!” Wide-eyed, I turned and saw Kyle, who, unperturbed by my strategic middle seat plopped right down next to me. “No way,” he said, looking at my book. “Are you studying already?”

I tried, and failed, to keep up a general conversation for a few seconds and finally caught up the courage to say, “Kyle. I’m stuck.”

“You’re what?”

“Stuck. I’m stuck!”

He shook his head. “What do you mean?”

I was all sorts of red at this point. Like ripe tomato red. Like a shade of red that would make Tim Gunn say “Work it!” on the runway, but it didn’t look at all good on me.  

“My button is wedged under the bench, and I think I need you to pop it back through.” This was a nice way of saying “Will you please touch my butt even though I’ve only known you for about five minutes?”

Kyle started laughing (this is another reason we became friends). He didn’t hesitate, nor give me a creepy look that said, “Wow, I get to touch your butt after meeting you for five minutes.”

Instead, he crawled right under the bench, popped the button through, and didn’t even comment on my ratty old green underwear that was now peeking through the bench due to the tear I’d managed to create pulling up and down.

“Thanks,” I said. And Kyle kept chuckling, and said, “No problem.”

Chapter III

“What took you so long,” Jon said standing outside his classroom.

“Really?” I said. “You don’t want to talk about it.” I turned and he followed me.

“Why are you covering your pants like that?”

“Jon,” I slowly pulled my hand back to reveal my torn shorts and Jon, who has been a best friend of mine since we were 9 and is like the best brother you could ask for smiled, lifted and eyebrow and said ―

“What the heck did you guys do in your class?”

René

Last night as I came out to the kitchen after putting Sully to bed I asked John if he would be around if I left to take a jog (that’s right folks, I’m trying it again).

“Nope. I’m leaving.”

“What? Where?” We’re not so exciting we leave our house every day, guys. We just aren’t.

“To see my mistress.”

“What’s her name?”

“René.”

Just as I suspected. She has beautiful red hair. (I have no idea why just hearing the name René made me think of beautiful red hair, but it did).

“Well, when you get back, I’m going for a jog. And let René know I’m coming after her. You know, when I’m done jogging.”

More head shaking from John.

And then he left.

And I picked weeds while I hoped above hope I didn’t hear a peep from the boys through the open windows, because I really was ready to jog. Well, not so much ready to jog, but ready for the quiet that came with jogging. And the fact that while jogging, I wouldn’t care about the dried baby food in my hair, or the bills I needed to pay when I got back, or what I would cook for dinner tomorrow, or the milk we needed to buy for the boys, or the project I needed to finish up for work that night.

And that’s when I realized that René (even though she’s just a red-headed figment of my imagination) ― she’s got nothing on us moms.

*My most embarrassing moment

My mom, sister and I had decided to take a trip to Kansas City to see my grandma, whom I love and will write an entire blog on later because she is graceful and feminine and motherly (we’re like human oxymorons she and I).  

Our first day in Kansas City, we decided we would go shopping on the Plaza because it’s one of our favorite things to do when we’re there. And I decided I would dress up because at the time, I had a job where I didn’t get to dress up that often and I felt the need to get gussied up that day. Who knows why. I do weird things.

We hopped in the car and rolled down the windows. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. This is always a sign that something dangerous could happen (not for normal people, but for me ― I find dangerous, embarrassing moments in the most unlikely of places).

---

We got to the Plaza and my sister and I split from my mom and grandma because we were going to shop for my sister’s lingerie for her wedding night, and no one should do that with their mom or grandma.

I don’t think.

But if you have stories about that, I want to hear them.

We stopped for a minute in one of my favorite stores, Anthropologie, where my sister and I headed to the bathroom to relieve ourselves from soda and the fact that we had just spent way too much money (oh if only I could go back to that bathroom and do things over).  

Minutes later, we were back to shopping – we walked a few blocks (this is very important to note later – a few blocks) down to Victoria’s Secret where we roamed (again, very important to note that we roamed) for a while looking at the many options of not-too-much fabric.

Finally, we decided on some scantily clad beautiful white thing that after having children I’ve decided I will NOT wear on my wedding night (see many future blogs on the wedding planning), and started walking to our next store.

And that’s when it happened. 

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” A woman yelled at me, chasing my sister and I down the block.

Oh no, I thought, glancing at my bag. Did I accidentally steal something? I searched my bag as I waited for her to catch up with me. She was a bit breathless as she spoke, much like me in my blog post on my jog yesterday.

“Ma’am!” she said bending over to catch her breath. “You’ve – you’ve tucked your skirt into your pantyhose! Your skirt!” she said pointing.

Eyes wide, horrified, I looked down.

There, for the entire Plaza to see was my chubby right thigh and buttock! My skirt (oh why had I insisted on dressing up?) was tucked into my pantyhose midway up my back (see? Had it been a rainy, cold day with no birds singing, no doubt I would have noticed a draft a long while back!). I hastily pulled my now wrinkled skirt out of my pantyhose, profusely thanked the woman and said, “Oh my God. I just brought Jennifer Anniston’s bridesmaid moment to life in front of the entire Plaza.”

The end.

*This actually may not be my most embarrassing moment. Sadly, I will write you again later with more embarrassing moments so that one day, you can vote from an entire Table of Contents on my embarrassing moments. I’ll write about meeting John soon, and you’ll see, I’m a walking billboard for embarrassing moments.

What are you running from?

So yesterday I decided it was high time to get back in shape. This came after one of my girlfriends from college posted on Facebook that she'd just finished running 20 miles. Not a typo. Not 2 miles. 20 miles.

Before work.

I looked at my Starbucks Frap and calculated that that was more miles than I had run in the past two years (I'm not good at math, but this didn't take long, because I haven't run any miles in 2 years).


Before the boys, I ran 4 miles a day. Not a huge accomplishment by any means, but I felt like if I wanted to say, go into a grocery store and steal all of the Hershey bars and run from the cops, I might have a good shot at getting away.

Not any more.

Now I would give up well into the chase. Probably just outside the store door. And eat all of the Hershey bars during my ride to the clinker.

This image, of chocolate on my face as I looked out a window with my hands in cuffs, was enough to make me put my jogging shoes on again.

So, after work, before I could think twice (and eat the chips staring at me on the counter) I grabbed the boys, plopped them in the stroller, and took off. And the road ahead looked very, very, long.

I made it a mile. Not in one shot mind you, in about quarter-mile increments. And people driving by looked at me like this:

"What the hell is she doing? Is she okay? Look how red her face is!"

But I pretended they looked at me like this:

"Wow. Isn't she amazing? I wish I could jog pushing two children!" And it made me jog an itty bit faster.

Today I am viciously sore, but I will try this again (maybe tomorrow, maybe I shouldn't abuse myself twice in 48 hours). A big thanks to the boys for their "wheee" giggles as we sped downhill (oh yes, forgot to mention that, a big part of my jog was downhill).

Until tomorrow ...