On Finding My Life Pace Group

When I first started running again, back in 2011, I did it, in part, to have something that was *mine*. Something I was in control of. Something that I could call every shot in.

I had just gone back to work, after spending 3+ years at home, with my kids and I wasn't entirely pleased about it. I had loved being at home. It wasn't my *choice* initially, as I was laid off, but I loved it, all the same.

It wasn't entirely my *choice* to go back to work either. Mr. Man had been laid off and we were both scrambling to find employment. Which we both did. Within mere weeks of one another.

Making matters worse, I wasn't exactly warmly received by my coworkers and I felt awkward and unwanted...but I needed that job, whether I liked it or not.

When I was home, I had my kids and the PTO and all of the different organizations I had gotten involved in. I identified them as my "tribe".  I never had to sit alone at the table...anywhere I went, I had a spot.

At the office, I had no such spot. Everything was grey and lonely. People were sniping at one another and I got the sideways eyeball at least 4 or 5 times a day. And because I was now at the office during the day, the rest of my 'tribe" moved on, without me. They were still in the same circles, but I had become an outsider, peering in through the glass.

Not one to just sit back and wallow in a situation that I don't like, I set out to find something to fill the void that I was feeling. I tried doing the group fitness, yoga thing...but it didn't really come to me very naturally. I never really felt *relaxed*. The classes were at times that just didn't suit and I'd have to move mountains to make it work. Mostly, I just felt guilty.  

Guilty for leaving work a little early to get there.
Guilty for getting to the class almost late.
Guilty for not being home with my kids after so many hours away from home.
Guilty for not at least trying to hang around and socialize and make friends afterwards.

So I stopped going. Clearly the "zen crowd" wasn't my new tribe.


After a few months, I decided to get back into running. It was pretty simple really...I could go whenever  and wherever I wanted to. My kids had soccer practice several nights a week, and it was something I could do while I was there. I set whatever pace felt comfortable and was just pleased with myself for *doing* it. And *bonus*, I had a friend who was slogging through a C25K program with me...so we were a tribe...of 2.

That first 5K came and went, and my interest in running didn't wane. A gulf in ability had started to develop between my friend and I though, and we stopped running together much.

I stepped out on my own, and running became my own thing.

It started to fill that void...I started running early in the morning...when no one else was up. The pre-dawn roads of my small town became my own private playground.

And for a while, this was good.

Over time though, I started yearning to "find my people". I wanted people to talk to. People to bounce ideas and thoughts off of. People to get advice and understanding from. I started looking online, and discovered some great runners. I interacted with them...cheered them from afar...admired their accomplishments and sheepishly shared my own. The longer I "knew" them, the more about their real lives I got to know. Many of them had running friends. Running groups. Running clubs.

I was jealous.

I wanted someone to run with.

I started paying closer attention to the folks that lived near me, and discovered that there were some local-ish running clubs. And as it turned out, I knew some of the folks that were members! I started reading their newsletters and websites...and the more I did, the more I noticed that these weren't just runners...these were Runners. Real Runners. Fast Runners.

I was slow. And just starting out. I couldn't possibly ask them to deign to run with me, could I?

Self consciousness prevailed, and for a long time, I didn't ask. I'd nod appreciatively at their accomplishments...dismissively answer their questions about my own runs...and secretly wish that they would offer to run with me...they didn't. In retrospect, I realize that the ambivalence I was trying to pull off in regards to my running made me seem disinterested and cold...but that was then.

Fast forward a few years...(yes, I said years.) and I was still running. Mostly

alone.

With multiple marathons and half marathons under my belt, there was really no denying the fact that I was now a Runner. A Real Runner. I started meeting other folks who were just starting out. Folks that would tell me that they were inspired and intimidated by me. And I would remember being them, and would offer to run with them.

The answer was typically the same, every time..."I'm not ready to run with you..." or "I'd slow you down..." or "I can't run as far as you can..."

I'd always say "That's ok, we can run your pace, your distance..." All I really wanted was to cobble together my own little tribe...but it didn't typically work.

And so I kept running. By myself.

After a while, I focused more attention on coercing my husband and or children to run with me. It was always nice while it lasted...at least for me. They weren't nearly so...enthusiastic...about the experience.

About a year ago, my internet trail crossed with an old acquaintance who had also become a runner. A Runner. An avid Runner.

This ushered in a new age for me, as I finally had someone to talk to and share the obsession with. And because we were far apart, the differences in our abilities didn't matter. We cheered one another on from across the interwebs. We started having virtual running dates. We'd encourage one another when one of us wasn't feeling it and give one another a kick in the ass when it was needed..which was great. Sometimes, it is nice to someone other than yourself to hold you accountable to your goals. For me, it was a refreshing change of pace, from time to time.

Eventually, this gave me an idea...and so, The O'Dark Thirty Virtual Run Club was born, on Facebook. I started out just inviting everyone that I knew was a runner to any degree, on Facebook. And people actually accepted the invite! I was delighted at how many folks accepted the invite, and started posting on the regular. And then, some of them started sharing the group with some of their friends...and before I knew it, we had a fledgling running community.

This makes me happy. Very happy. Some of them live nearby one another. Sometimes they post runs together. I love this.

And I envy this.

Several of us have actually made plans now, solid, real, money backed plans to complete a Ragnar Relay together...people from the tribe we are building. This delights me...and has given me the gumption to start taking more risks about trying to interact with other runners.

Last night, I met up with a new (to me) group of runners, for a post-work 4 miler. A work friend of mine and I planned to meet up there and run together. Which, ultimately, is exactly what happened.

Just not right away.

When I first got there, there were about 20 runners milling about, decked out in blinky-flashy-glowing safety hats, vests and knuckle lights. Not a single familiar face in the crowd. I stood off to one end, silently surveying the scene...and considered bolting. Small groups were huddled in friendly conversation...I couldn't envision an "in".

Just as I was about to back away, my friend, The Flash, appeared. I'm fairly certain that he has never, in his whole life, met a stranger. He has an open and friendly nature and immediately strikes up conversation with anyone around.

No leaving now...

We continued to wait, as he talked to a few folks he already knew. While we were waiting, a 10 year old girl came over and commented on my bracelets. We had a brief conversation and then I turned to what I assume was her mother and introduced myself. Which, for me, was a really big step.

Before long, we took off, lighting up the night and the back streets of central PA. The Flash and I chatted idly for most of the time, so I didn't really interact much with anyone else...but I was *there*. I was *present*.

As we finished up the 4 miles, the group made ready to pour inside of the restaurant that we had used as our starting an stopping point. (It is a "Beer Runners" group...) I didn't stay...but someday, maybe just maybe, I will.

Slowly, timidly, cautiously I am finding that, while I may not have a tribe to call my own right now, what I do have...what I can build for myself is a life "pace group". We may not connect on many things...but when we are running, we are a community. It's terrifying and wonderful.

Weight, Weight...Don't Tell Me...

Everybody has their demons…some people just hide them better than others. To the casual passerby, you may appear utterly carefree and well adjusted, while on the inside, an epic battle is waging on, that sometimes threatens to tear your heart, your soul, your sanity…or maybe just your afternoon…asunder. Society tells us to chin up and mosey along…don’t let it get you down…mind over matter…but what do you do when your mind is exactly what is the matter?

I like to joke. I’m snarky and ironic and oh-so tongue-in-cheek. I’m a proud mother and will gladly bore you with endless stories about my kids. I’m a happy wife, and can regale you with tales, both good and not so good about my spouse. I’m a runner, and will drone on and on about this race or that, until you have snuck out of the room, and I may not even notice. I can prattle on endlessly about my job, Doctor Who, the weather and the newest trends in hair care. All the while, a silent battle is waging on in my head.

I don’t suspect that this is all that different from anyone else. It’s not like I believe that you are sitting there, listening the whole time, without thoughts of something else running through your head. I know you are thinking about what you need from the grocery store. And that’s just fine. Or maybe you are fighting your own demon.

I have been wanting to talk about my demon here for some time…but I just couldn’t quite figure out how to introduce it. Maybe because I am afraid it would seem trivial…or self-serving. Or maybe because I am afraid that you will think it is something brought on by vanity. Maybe because by owning up to it, I would somehow seem…”less”. But then, I got to thinking, this is my space. This is my voice. If anyone is allowed to sing the blues here, and sing them off-key, it’s me. I’ve already relinquished the space in my head to this little monster for too many years, why let it win here too? So instead, today, I am calling it out…ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce you to today’s sponsor, Body Dysmorphic Disorder. Body Dysmorphic Disorder, this is everyone. Now, play nice.

Body Dysmorphic Disorder is a mental illness wherein the sufferer obsesses over a perceived defect, or collection of defects, to the point that it causes a great deal of distress and can inhibit occupational and social function. It doesn’t matter what the sufferer does to change or improve the perceived defect, to their perception, it never goes away. It’s like there is a tiny chorus of voices in your head, telling you lies, all of the time…sometimes they are relatively soft, and you can drown them out with common sense and logic. Others they bellow loudly, drowning out any other thought. On days when they are screaming, they may even spread out and tell you horrible, malicious things about other aspects of yourself…and it is next to impossible to not hear them. You find yourself looking around, wondering if everyone else knows what they are telling you…and if not, how long until they do.

In my particular case, it is weight. No matter what the numbers on the scale – which I don’t have…it’s much too dangerous and tempting to have one…I’d hang out by it, weighing myself nearly hourly if you let me… - say, no matter what the size on my clothing label reads, no matter what my husband, my friends, complete and utter strangers on the street may say to me…I always look the same to myself in the mirror. And the reflection? Is not a pretty one.

Everybody has “fat days.” I occasionally have “not fat days.” Every once in a blue moon, I will catch a glimpse of myself, from just the right angle, and think “hey, wait…that’s not so bad…” It’s fleeting though. The actual, honest truth of the matter is that I have no idea whatsoever what I look like to you. I cast about constantly, looking at other women, constantly wondering “Am I as big as her?” In some of my weaker moments, I drag my long suffering husband into my crazy and point out other people, asking him, “Am I that size?” I can only imagine that, on some primal level, this feels like a trap…”wait, you are *asking* me to check out other women and compare you? Duuude, no way am I falling for *that*!” Really though, I just want a sense of reality. I am trying to calibrate.

Not that attempting to level set against anyone else really works for long. Friends and acquaintances that I have mentally associated as being “thin” don’t remain so in my eyes, as I approach their size. Instead, I start asking the poor hubster…"Is it me, or has so and so gained A LOT of weight?” Maybe they have…but more often, they have not. It is just my voices telling me that, if I am smaller than they are, they must be practically pre-diabetic.

At my largest, about a year and a half ago, I was a size 12. From what I read, that is about the national average. Completely and utterly normal. Far from obese.

I knew I was bigger than I had ever been…and the labels on the clothing I was buying agreed with that assessment. The scale, not safely hidden away at that time, boldly confirmed my suspicions, proclaiming a number that made me want to cry.

At current, depending upon the brand, I wear anywhere from a 0 to a 4…and sometimes girl’s sizes…where I can wear as small as a 12 in some articles of clothing. I have no idea what I actually weigh. I won’t know until my annual physical, which is still several months off. I have my estimates, but I know that *knowing* would only lead to me needing to constantly monitor whether or not I was maintaining that number.

In the mirror, I am just…heavy. Lumpy. Kind of a big girl. Exactly as I have been for as long as I can remember. My stomach is too “squishy”. My thighs are too thick. My butt is too rounded and jiggly, and my hips too wide. You would think that, being an at least marginally intelligent human being, I would be capable of looking at the change in size and be able to intellectually make the distinction. But I can’t. You would guess that, putting on articles of clothing that were once snug, and having them literally fall off of me would trigger some sense of recognition. But it doesn’t. Instead, this is what the demon tells me:

Those pants stretched out.

They never fit as well as you remembered.

You’re not really a 4, this brand just runs big.

You’re not really a 2, this is just vanity sizing at its worst.

You’re not really a 0, this item must be irregular.

Yeah, it came from the girl’s department, but my how sad that there are girls *this* big...Childhood obesity really is an epidemic.

They have a field day, doing everything that they can, using my own imagination against me, to convince me that I am super-sized. On days that they manage to chisel away my outer layer of confidence, they then start in on a whole host of other traits, both physical and otherwise, and leave me wanting to hide in the back of my closet.

…it all just sounds so…terribly, terribly vain. A first world problem.

“Awwww…poor skinny bitch is afraid her size 4’s are too big…here, let me get you a sandwich.”

Or…”stop fishing for compliments.”

The fact is, I don’t want anyone to say anything about my size. Or theirs. It makes me horribly, terribly, wildly uncomfortable. My perception is so skewed that I haven’t the slightest idea what is real and what is not. And I hate that. It is exhausting. I try to take all of the wonderful things that friends, family and more than anyone else, the hubster say to me and internalize them. More often than not, I let him be the judge of what looks good and what does not, because I know that my own eyes just cannot be trusted. I force myself to look at myself in the mirror and try to find something positive to “say” about what I see. Sometimes, I am there for a very long time. ..but eventually, I find something. And I use that as my talisman for the day…and remind myself that the demon lies. I cling to that, all day long, and try to see what you see…tell myself over and over again that I’m not as bad as they would have me believe.

Maybe someday, I will even believe it.

What Doesn't Kale You...

And now...for something completely different and unexpected...a food tutorial type thingy.

Over the last year, the Pandora household has taken to expanding our dietary horizons and eating things we have never tried before. Specifically in the vegetable arena. Out of all of the new veggies that we added to our repertoire, kale is, hands down, the favorite.

Now, it has come to our attention that kale can be gross, if prepared the wrong way. So far, we have been lucky, and seem to have stumbled across a fairly fool-proof kale cooking method. (I hesitate to call it a recipe, as I am way too vague for that shit.)

I am nothing if not candid about the fact that, whenever possible, I'm lazy. For this reason? Unless I have no other option, I will always get the bagged kale, that is pre shredded or whatever. Go ahead, judge me. Heaven knows it won't be the first time.

Great, now that we have properly demonized me, let's dive in.

Large pan, olive oil, Minnie Mouse timer.

Start with a nice, big, deep pan that has a nice snug lid. 

Uncooked kale is fluffy. Cooked kale is not. It shrinks ALOT. 

And if it turns out really well? The last thing you want is to have half a bag of uncooked kale mocking you, while your plate and pan are empty. 

So you want a nice deep pan. Trust me on this. 

Add approximately 2-3 tbsp of olive oil, and heat it for about 2 minutes. 

Add 4-5 (or more, if you either fear vampires or want to repel any errant and unwelcome requests for a kiss) cloves of garlic, minced, or freshly pressed. 

Heat on low, until the garlic starts to get really fragrant...about 1 minute.

Note, this is *not* a heaping quantity.
This is about 1/3 the final heap

Add the kale. Heaping amounts of it. 

Turn it and flip it in the oil/garlic mixture, until it is well coated, then salt it.

Nice, secure lid...

Add about 1/3-1/2 cup of water, and cover the kale. 

Make sure the heat is on LOW, then walk away from it for about 3-5 minutes. Turn on a song, and dance your butt off. I highly recommend Jimmy Eat World, "In the Middle". It's about 3 minutes long.

Open the pan, stir and flip the kale, and sprinkle with rosemary and any other spice of your liking. 

Nom, nom, nom

Stir it, until the kale is evenly coated then re-cover. Ignore it for another 2 minutes or so. I find The Beatles, Blackbird, a great way to pass that time...and I attempt to sing along. This usually clears the room.

Add about 2 tbsp of balsamic vinegar, then cover again. Let cook for about 2 more minutes, shimmy around to The Kinks, You Really Got Me, remove from the heat and enjoy.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I tend to pick small pieces out, throughout the process and taste them, to determine if I want more salt or rosemary or whatever. I figure every batch is a little different, so go with it. That or I am hungry and have impulse issues. 

Its sure to be one of those.

The Family I Never Really Had

I have a secret to confess...my life? It has been the stuff of a made for TV movie.
An afterschool special if you will. So many cautionary tales, all rolled up into one.

Want divorced family? We've got that here.
Want blended family, struggling to succeed? We've got that too.
Want said blended family crumbling to pieces? Check!
Want long lost family reappearing and reuniting? Double check!
Want vile actions driving people apart? Score!
Want alcoholism, drugs, abuse, suicide attempts? Tune in.

Basically any cliche you could dream up, you can find here.

There are people that I am related to that I do not talk to. These people have never met my husband, have never seen my children, have not spoken to me or me to them, for over a decade. And before that, they had only seen or talked to me for a handful of years, following a nearly 2 decade absence.

I was raised by my mother. For better or worse, she has been my family, my WHOLE family, for my whole life. The only child of an only child, with no living grandparents, it was just the two of us.

At times, I have had a stepfather and step siblings. I desperately wanted them to be real. I wanted to be a big, happy family. And she wanted that for me. She endured years more of a bad situation than she had any reason to, in a brave attempt to give me a family. There players were all there: mother, father, sister, brother, aunt, uncle and cousins. Except that they weren't. They were the family that I never really had, but sort of did.

I picked up a stepsister, who is as close to a real sister as I will ever truly understand having.

But when you dig down really deep and push comes to shove, it has really always been mom and I.

My father sent child support through some convoluted state managed process, which meant that there was never an address or contact information attached to either end of the monetary transaction.

We moved alot.
We were not the easiest people to keep track of.

At the end of high school, with the cost of college and more immediately, the cost of college applications looming on the horizon, I got back in touch. It had been more than 15 years since he had seen me. I had no memory of him.

We had a whirlwind courtship and moved in together.
I had a family?

The next 7 years were a hellstorm of ups and downs, as we struggled to forge some sort of relationship. Years of expectations and wild imaginings about the true nature of the other crashed headlong into the reality that was one and other, and it wasn't always pretty. After several attempts at being who I thought he would love, and trying to fit myself into that shape, I realized that it was me or him. And hard as it was, I chose me.

I chose to cut myself off from the only person in the world that I looked like.
I cut myself off from the object of my fascination and longing for most of my childhood.
I rode off into the sunset, while I still had one or two unblemished, genuinely fond memories intact. I hoped that on some level, I would be missed.
I made myself nothing more than a blip in the story of his life. And the life of my stepmother, stepsister and the rest of the family that I never really had.

The intervening decade has been an incredible ride. I got married, had children and embarked upon the wild journey of raising my own family. Mother, father, sister, brother, and yet...

My husband has a family. Always has had one. Whether he wanted them or not, his parents and siblings were always there, in the periphery. He has cousins. Lots of them. Plenty of spares that he chooses to have space from.

He also has a son that is not mine.

When we met, my husband was a mess. Emotionally fragile and permanently fractured from the failure of his first marriage and subsequent loss of his son from his day to day life, he was completely immobilzed by his loss and depression.

I set off to try and make it right.
I provided the solution to all of his fatalism, forcing him to find positive outcomes and ways to get at least a little of what he wanted.

Through time and a mammoth effort and sacrifices on my part, I was breifly able to turn 7 people that had very little chance of ever interacting civilly into the most unusual of family units. It was complicated. It was exhausting. It was the juggling and balancing act of all balancing acts, but it seemed to be working. Mother, father, sister, brother, brother, other mother, other father. It was the family I never really had.

A few strong gusts of emotional wind, and the delicate house of cards that I had worked so hard to build, for my children, his child, myself was scattered on the wind.

But something was different. Mother, father, sister, brother. We were still a family. A damaged family. A family reeling from the loss of losing a part of itself, but a family nonetheless.

Time and technology has given us ways to keep tabs on the people that we have lost over the course of our lives, and I have used it liberally, as a virtual bush to cloak myself in, while I search for clues of what is really going on in their lives. A glimpse here, a long hard stare there, and I am able to comfort myself that at least they appear healthy.

I can see my father, looking much the same. I can read his blog and gain his persepctive of the world. I see alot about him. I see him fondly referring to his daughter, an unrestrained measure of pride in his voice. He speaks of my stepsister, with whom he has had more than twice as many years with than we ever shared. The one thing I never see, is an absence of me. But he seems happy, and that matters to me. I am happy for him, and the family that I never really had.

I can see my stepsister, aunt and cousins. Bolder now, I have reached out, and been granted permission to watch the parts of their life that they choose to share with the internet unfold. As people that I am blood related to, I sometimes yearn to be a part of their lives. To be missed. However I never expect it. I have no idea how my absence was explained to them, and I am not sure that I want to ever see the picture that was painted for them. They seem happy though, and that matters to me. I am happy for them, the family that I never really had.

I can see my stepson. Tiny glimpse. Just a blip. I can see the other mother and other father, a glance here, a glance there. I know that they are alive. I know that they are together. I can only assume that things are good for them. And I am happy for them. The family that I never had.

I often wonder what I would do if, from my long distance perch I saw something terrible happen. Would I, could I find a way to make it better?

I might just get that chance.

It's Just That Kind of Day...

One of my articles got flagged for plagiarism...the article that I am accused of potentially plagiarizing from? An article that I wrote on the same topic about a week ago.

Can you plagiarize yourself?

Raw

Well, our little family has just embarked upon a new and unexpected little journey...we former "city mice" have decided to go a little less urbane with our diet and have started drinking raw milk.

Raw milk, for the uninitiated is simply milk fresh from the cow. It is not pasteurized (cooked) as typical, store-bought milk is, nor is it homogenized. This means that the cream will separate out. It means that our whole milk is *truly* whole.

On average, our family of four drinks about 6-8 gallons of milk a week. (What can I say, the kids and the husband are milk drinkers...) At current local prices nearing $4/gallon, that is a healthy chunk of the grocery bill. This past Sunday, after church, we went to a small local diner with some friends. In typical diner fashion, the placemats had little ads all around the border. One of the ads was for raw milk, $2.50/gallon. This prompted a lengthy discussion, and the decision to venture out and try it.

So Monday afternoon I drove out to the dairy farm, picked up a gallon and we gave it a test run. It certainly has a slightly different flavor, but the kids and the hubby have decided that they like it.

There appear to be many potential health benefits to drinking raw milk, and it is certainly less costly, so we'll just have to see how this works out over the next several weeks.

Understatement

Me: I think I killed my lawnmower.

He: Oh? Why's that?

Me: It started smoking, then the oil cap shot off, and oil flew out of it in all directions.

He: Yeah, that's typically not a good thing.

The Birds Are Back

And with a vengeance.

Those of you that have been following for a while, are familiar with the great bird saga of 2008. Those of you who are not, may go and get caught up here and here and here and here and finally here.

Last year, I thought I would outsmart those persistent pains in the arse by skipping out on the hanging baskets altogether. Which seemed to have genuinely done the trick, though making me a bit sad in the process.

Much to my dismay I launched into this spring sans beautiful hanging flowers, just to avoid such antics again.

I am t-h-r-i-l-l-e-d to announce that it is once again Robin mating season in the PA and apparently our yard has been voted one of the top 10 sexiest places for robins this year.

We have nests. 4 of them at last count. Each complete with eggs and babies.

That is one on the front porch, ON THE RAILING(!!!!!!), two in the tree in the front yard, and one in the forsythia bush around the side of the house. In the dog's yard. Where the nest can be a constant source of temptation, frustration, confusion and anxious whimpering for three 100+ lb dogs. Excellent.

The front nest has already begun hatching, and I frankly have neither the energy, nor the courage to investigate the others. On the upshot, at least my neighbor with all of the 100's of birdhouses that go vacant each year can hear and see the birds, and at least *pretend* that they are living in her avian housing development.

Message to a Long Lost Friend

I understand your silence and can forgive your unease. I know that the actions of my youth caused you great pain. I reach out, not to bring you back to that dark time, but instead to reach beyond it.

Every chance encounter, every acquaintance, becomes a part of our individual story. I know that I am a part of yours, just as you are a part of mine. I bear a permanent mark to remind me of that, in the most literal of ways, as do you.

There are facets of who I am that simply would not be, had I not met you, all of those years ago, and for the most part, I am glad to have each of them.

I am sorry to intrude upon your personal distance, but I just want to know where life took you, and who and what you have become. When I knew you, I had every intention of being a part of the rest of your story, but a few plot twists here and there, and I wrote myself out of the story.

I suppose it is somewhat selfish to assume that I have any right to know, but I guess on some level, some part of me feels a sense of responsibility in shaping at least the next road that you took, and I wonder what awaited you there. I hope whatever greeted you, whatever new adventure beckoned, led you somewhere wonderful, because it is what you deserved.

"A pistol shot at 5 o'clock

The bells of heaven ring
"Tell me what you done it for"
"No I won't tell you a thing

"Yesterday I begged you
before I hit the ground -
all I leave behind me
is only what I found

"If you can abide it
let the hurdy-gurdy play -
Stranger ones have come by here
before they flew away"

I will not condemn you
nor yet would I deny"
"I would ask the same of you
but failing will not die

"Take up your china doll
it's only fractured -
and just a little nervous
from the fall"
- R. Hunter

Teachable Moments

As a parent, I sometimes see our day to day lives as little more than a string of teachable moments, held together with moments when we can attempt to live out those lessons. At times, I try to seek out as many teachable moments in our days as I possibly can. Sometimes though, it is the moments that you don't even see coming that are the best.

Our church is very involved in community outreach programs. One such program is a produce outreach, where low income and needy folks in our community can get fresh perishable food goods on a monthly basis, in the parking lot of our church. This happened to be the day that those goods were distributed.

Today is also the day that my daughter's Daisy troop meets at the church. I happened to have both kiddos with me when we arrived to a very full church parking lot. My children surveyed the scene and marveled at the sheer number of cars. Seeing a small girl with her parents, my daughter asked if this was another new Daisy, come to join our ranks. I explained quickly that no, these were people coming for the fresh food outreach.

My son, playing the older and wiser sibling role immediately attempted to translate for her and explained "Yeah, those people are collecting food for the needy..."

I gently corrected, "No honey, actually those people *are* the needy."

To which he looked up at me with wonder and surprise in his soft brown eyes and said simply, "But mom, they look just like us."

There is no better lesson that I could have hoped to teach my children today than that: there is nothing that separates us from those that are less fortunate but luck and circumstance. There is no "us" and "them". No superiority. No distance.

I only hope that message can stick with them as long as it will stick with me.

And By the Way...

Can I just say, I really enjoy that Google has placed this ad on my blog in response to my "garbage cart adventure"?:

Nothing Doing

Not too much to report around this neck of the woods right now, which is primarily because we are all so busy that I don't think there is even a single, solitary spare second to to or say anything even remotely amusing or "blog-worthy". Between the hubbers stepping up to take on the role of Cub Master (and all of the additional work that entails for ME, ya know, the one that *didn't* volunteer for the position), my Daisy troop having their investiture ceremony, and normal kid's activity/PTO/Church stuff we are go-go-go all the time around here.

The Daisy troop has been an interesting experience thus far. Mainly because of the other leader. I have learned that I am not a terribly good follower. I know that I am capable of taking direction, and I am capable of giving direction. What I am not so good at is having NO direction. I am supposed to be the Assistant leader of this little venture. Unfortunately, the leader has no leadership experience. And is shy. And a bit disorganized. And not a good communicator. So I am staging a coup. Because this is too important to my little girl, and my friends' little girls. And it was making my teeth itch.

Don't get me wrong, I have tried to guide her and mentor her and offer her assistance and leadership advice. She doesn't ever take me up on any of it. When I was just letting it go, it meant extremely unstructured meetings that were nothing more than a weekly playdate for the girls, where they would color and play. Which is nice and all, but I have no desire to pay for. Nor do any of the other mothers.

I had set out *not* to be the leader because I wanted to have one thing that I was *not* in charge of. Now that is the case, and it is not working out for me. So I have grabbed a hold of the horns and taken off with it.

On the one hand I feel badly about running right over this other young woman. On the other, my kids come first for me, and I want all of our girls to have a good, solid program that they can learn and grow from. I want them to make memories, and learn to be strong, fair, independent women. So...she'll just have to either grab on and come along for the ride, or deal with the skid marks.

Start your engines....

Oh My Goodness...

I have just discovered that I am married to an 80 year old woman...

My husband just looked at my son, and asked him to go fetch him his 'housecoat'.

Understandably, my son looked at him as though he had just asked him to bath in a tank of hungry piranha.

He said "What sir?"

And he asked again for our son to go and fetch him his housecoat.

The poor boy looked helplessly at me and I simply said "robe."

My husband looked at me and said "What? It *is* a housecoat."

OK Ethel.

Squeee!!!!

Have you ever had one of those days, where you were just waiting for the light at the end of the tunnel? One of those days when nothing is going particularly wrong, but it also isn't overwhelmingly right? Somehow though, despite the overarching mediocrity of it all, you truly believe that something good and right it meant to come of that day? Well, today is one of those days. Even the weather seems to agree with that fact, being at times gloomy and nasty and at others, letting small streams of golden light through.

And if you haven't ever had one of those days, just bear with me...humor me people, I don't get out much. Or don't. The door is over there ---->>.

Today was a dear friend's birthday. Unfortunately, her big day was overshadowed by the loss of her beloved grandmother. Though not a surprise, it is still very clearly, painful. I want to comfort her, but I don't even begin to know how to. I mean really? Is there anyway of comforting someone on the death of a loved one that isn't sort of meaningless?

I struggle with how to handle death of a loved one. Not really having any family that is aging out and passing away, I can't really understand what it feels like. My own grandmother passed away rather violently and unexpectedly when I was a small child. My mother has no conscious memories of her own father. My paternal grandparents have never really been known to me. I am aware that one of them is alive and one of them has passed on, and I have met them, but I have no connection with them. So how you are "supposed" to act and feel is a mystery to me. When I try to ponder it, by imagining losing one of my loved ones, I just want to curl up and cry. And the tears? I have never been good with the tears. They send me into a crazy place, where I just need to organize things. Someone starts to cry and I need to bust out with a list.

Anyway...

We did celebrate the occasion, but the celebration was decidedly subdued. Though my normal inclination is to make a birthday a REALLY BIG DEAL, and to go a bit over the top (go big or go home...at least when it comes to birthdays. That's always been my theory) I kept myself in check, so as not to be disrespectful. We enjoyed ourselves to be sure, but I'm still not sure if we hit the mark on that one or not.

At any rate, as the day has worn on I have been busying myself with taking out parts of my neverending to-do list and writing my articles (all about nutrition today!! Wooo!!! At least there are no dildos on the reference site!), taking breaks between each one. On one of my regularly scheduled breaks, I checked in with one of my favorite bloggers. (Yes, I have favorite bloggers. They are like friends, and I have never even met them. Most of them I have never even gotten up the gumption to comment to, so they don't even know that I exist. So yes, I am a dork. See above re: I don't get out much...) Lo and behold, what should I see but that *my* blog has been added in her links of places she likes to go.

I feel like a rockstar. At least in my own little world. And that my friends, is the light at the end of my tunnel for today.

The One In Which I Channel Oscar The Grouch

So, I really needed to vacuum today. Three dogs, 2 kids and all that will do it to you. So I needed to empty the canister on my Dyson vacuum. Which I did. Into the trash cart, out in our garage. Unfortunately, in the process of doing so, I also dropped one of the attachments to my vacuum into the trash cart. (gross)

In retrospect, I probably should have left it there.

But I didn't.

I tried to go in after it.

I lifted the lid, got up on my tippy toes, bent over the side and flailed about desperately, trying to retrieve it.

And then I fell in.
Like ALL THE WAY IN.
And the lid slammed shut behind me.
I threw myself out.

But wait, that's not enough mortification for one day. We eat embarrassing situations for breakfast here at Casa Pandora!

You see, the trash cart is neatly stored below my pantry shelf, in my garage. You can lift the lid *most* of the way, but not quite enough to flip it all the way open, so you always have to hold it open.

So, finding myself at the bottom of the trash can (did I mention: GROSS) I immediately jumped up and tried to fling the lid open. Only to have it crash back down upon my head. Which hurt. My pride and my head. Not sure which one most.

Regaining my composure, I lifted the lid again and attempted to climb out. But with one hand occupied with the business of keeping the lid lifted I couldn't quite get the leverage to get out.

At which point I got the brilliant notion to throw myself against the side of the cart in order to rock it over onto its side. Which would have probably hurt alot more than I ever considered, had it worked.

It didn't.

You see, the trash cart, as I may have mentioned, is in the garage. Do you know what else is in the garage? Cars.

I crashed the trash cart into the side of the car, with me in it. And the lid? Now was wedged under the side view mirror.

I was still inside the cart.

My thoughts? &^&^%^^#@^$#@$^#@$#@

I did finally manage to bounce it along well enough to get the lid somewhat open and scramble out. Which may or may not have involved me getting stuck, one leg in, one leg out for a rather longish time.

All I could think the whole time was that the kids were going to come home and find me in the garbage can.

really? There are not enough showers in the world to make me feel clean today.

Related: I tweeted about this...and Dyson responded! Apologized for what I went through, wished me well with getting it back and offered a URL where I could buy a replacement. I think they deserve a round of applause for being so quick to notice and to respond with a human voice!!!

Who Needs Sleep?

From the Bare Naked Ladies Song "Who Needs Sleep"

Lids down, I count sheep
I count heartbeats
The only thing that counts is

that I won't sleep

I countdown, I look around

Who needs sleep?
well you're never gonna get it
Who needs sleep?
tell me what's that for
Who needs sleep?
be happy with what you're getting
There's a guy who's been awake
since the Second World War

My hands are locked up tight in fists
My mind is racing, filled with lists
of things to do and things I've done
Another sleepless night's begun

Seems that sleep has always been a somewhat fleeting phenomenon around the Pandora household. As a kid, I suffered occasional bouts of insomnia, whenever something exciting like going back to school was on the horizon. My husband was such an insomniac that he almost burned his house down as a child, reading with a lamp under a flammable 1970's blanket. (Yes, he's older than I am).

In college, I would routinely be up until 2, 3, 4 5AM every night. Every morning, as I dragged my butt to class (or didn't) I would promise myself that I would go to sleep at a reasonable hour that night. Every night I would fall well shy of keeping that promise, as some drama or other always seemed to beckon my attention.

As a young couple, many of our deepest and most passionate conversations took place in the wee hours of the morning, when most people were fast asleep. Our insomnia was an aphrodisiac of sorts - we fell in love because no one else was awake. The night we met, we talked for 36 hours straight. Then we napped for about 2 hours, then went our separate ways for the day.

Our first date started at 10PM one night, took us to Denny's, Walmart and the beach, finally ending at 7:30AM, when he could no longer put off leaving for work. And 100% of that time was "pre-intimacy". All talk, no action.

Pregnancy, though planned, took us by surprised. The overwhelming exhaustion of the first trimester was horrifying, as I became essentially narcoleptic. No matter how badly I wanted to regain my swerve after that, I just couldn't. The sun went down, and so did I.

When our first child was born, we learned how to operate on the worst kind of sleep - interrupted sleep. Many a night were spent jolting in and out of the jagged kind of sleep that comes from keeping one ear open for the inevitable cried that will rouse you from your slumber ever hour or so. The boy never slept for more than 2 hours at a clip. For the first 10 months of his life, he ate every hour and a half to two hours, round the clock.

When our daughter was born, she was a sleeper. Right out of the hospital, she slept an unbelievable 5 hours at a clip, ate, then put herself back to sleep. Right up until the very moment that I went back to work. Within less than a week, she started sleeping through the day and nursing through the night, as she deemed all bottles entirely objectionable.

We co-slept for most of the next year.

Finally, once our kids hit the year and a half and 3 year mark, both of them were sleeping soundly, for 12 hours a night. And we were free to go back to our own insomniac ways. Admittedly, having kids cured me of much of the night owl ways that I used to hold so dear. Days left running from work to mommy mode left me longing for bed sometime around midnight every night, which was like turning in when the sun was still up to my former self.

Now, with the kids 6 and 8, we suddenly have a sleep problem. The boy, it seems has developed an acute case of insomnia out of NOWHERE. He was fine. A regular Rip Van Winkle, for the last 5 years. Both kids had adopted the wonderful habit of sleeping for 10-12 hours, regardless of the time that you put them down. If they went to bed at 8, they would be up around 7. If they were up until 10, they were out until at least 8:30.

All of this suddenly changed for the boy on Sunday, January 3rd. He simply could.not.sleep. No matter what he tried, he was UP. Attempts to fall asleep were fruitless. Any slumber that he did drift off to, quickly interrupted. This went on until the wee hours of the morning. He finally succumbed to a good, deep sleep around 5AM. Just in time for his alarm to go off at 7:30. Needless to say, we missed the bus that morning.

The next night was even worse, with him in hysterics because he was so worked up over his inability to fall asleep.

That morning I took to Twitter and Facebook with my sleep deprived angst over what to do. I was greeted with a plethora of suggestions, ranging from giving him melatonin to rubbing him down with lavender. There were suggestions of massage, meditation and letting him read.

We decided to let him read. Which seemed to work. Sort of.

The first night with the lamp and the book he was asleep for good around 1AM.

The next night it was closer to 11:30PM.

The next night he was up about eleventy million times, but then Saturday night, he was asleep by 9:10PM and slept straight on through until about 8AM.

So we thought we were finally in the clear last night.

Not even close.

So now I ponder, what is at the root of the problem. Is something bothering him (he says no)? Or has he just inherited insomnia from dear old mom and dad? Do I move on to something more radical, like giving him melatonin, or do we just whether the storm, remain calm and keep the pressure off until his body regulates itself again?

This is the part of parenting that stinks.

Why Being Nosey Never Pays

So I have been keeping myself busy doing some freelance writing. Its an interesting opportunity that provides me with constant need to educate myself about new and different topics. Everyday I will get a pack of 5-15 articles on a particular topic or topics that I need to write 400 word articles about. Typically, these packs include a website that I will be writing for, so that I can see what point of view or position I should be supporting. When I receive these packs, my first step is always to check the link, to make sure that it is working.

Fast forward to a couple of weeks ago. The general topic for my articles was improving your married sex life. A little more risque than I had been assigned before, but heck, I'm a grown up, I can hack it. I checked the link, and it worked...it brought up a website called "Why Am I in a Sexless Marriage?" Not surprisingly, it featured pictured of vibrators and dildos and such. Since the kids were home, I quickly clicked on another tab, effectively leaving the images buried, and then rushed out the door with the girl child to go to Daisies.

That left the boy and his dad at home. Alone.

Apparently the hubbers needed to use my computer for something. And saw my tabs.

The next day, I called him, and he asked "Why?", I replied that I was thinking of him. Again, he asked "Why, what did you do??". I replied "Nothing really, just the articles that I am writing today are making me giggle."

"Oh, why? What are they about?"

"Improving your married sex life."

"Oh THANK GOD!!! I thought we maybe needed to have a talk or something."

And that should teach him to snoop.

Dude, I am Totally Stroking Out

So, less than 12 hours from now, I will be putting my two littlies on the bus together for the first time for school. I am a wreck. Which is quite amusing, considering that both of them have been to school before. Of course, they were going to *different* schools, and I didn't have to put them *both* on the same bus...but still. I can't quote put my finger on it, but I feel like I am going to LOSE IT.

The boy has recently been striken with a rash of violent behavior toward his sister. 3 times this summer, I have had to speak to him about punching her...which is *so* not like him. I keep trying to delve into his 7.5 year old psyche, to figure out what is troubling him, with no luck. I *think* that he is just not real happy about her starting to go to HIS school. Last year he had his school, she had hers, and never the twain should meet. This year it will be different for him (and her). The thing is, she is delighted. She tends to pretty well think that her brother hung the moon, so she derives no small amount of delight from the fact that she will be able to see him in the hallways. Add to that the fact that she has his teacher from last year, and she seems to pretty well think that she won the lottery. He on the otherhand appears to be rather distraught about having her invade his realm.

Trying to look at it objectively, I suppose I can understand where he is coming from. The boy has a very sweet, very submissive personality. He would rather not be the center of attention, unless it is to make people - and very few people at that - laugh. He is fine with being praised and lauded for his athletic prowess, but he really never seeks out the limelight. *She* of course spends her life dashing from spotlight to spotlight. A born performer, this child LOVES to have all eyes - and ears - on her. She is a pretty little thing (if I do say so myself), and knows how to work a room. Anytime that the two of them have a shared territory, the boy sort of lives in her shadow. He spends countless hours being embarrassed by her attention getting antics. ANd he is constantly having people coo all over his little sister and then make comments to him about how cute/sweet/smart/talented/whatever his sister is. That has *got* to get old for him.

My maternal instinct wants to shield him from this. But how can I protect him from the horror that is his adorable, outgoing sister without squelching her personality? As far as I can see it, I can't. All that I guess I can really do is hug and love him, and give him whatever spotlight he wants here, at home.

Here's to the back to school bruhaha. I hope that this year brings academic success to all of the students, teachers and administrators, and some well deserved pece and quiet to the parents. May their bus rides be safe, they lunchrooms be clean, and their homework be turned in on time. Have a good school year! We'll talk again soon.

Because It Wasn't Enough to Dress Her Like a Showgirl...

Back to school shopping season is in full swing once again and I am now fretting and genuinely missing the school uniform experience from last year. You don't realize how relieving it is to not have to make wardrobe decisions for a 5/6 year old girl until you are confronted with the meager offerings that are out there. And by meager, I don't mean a lack of selection. I mean a lack of substance.

Apparently dressing your grammar school girl like a hooker is all the rage. And I didn't get the memo. And it really makes me angry. Not the part about not getting the memo, the part about the tiny hookers. Seems like, unless I am willing to take out the necessary 2nd mortgage required to afford a Gymboree wardrobe I am supposed to dress my daughter for a day at the brothel. To go to school. Sequins, snotty sayings, super tight jeans, super short skirts, rips, slashes and see through places in spots that aren't even worth looking at on a 5 (almost 6) year old yet. Apparently I am either hopelessly UNhip or there is some big practical joke that I am the butt of.

I blame the Disney channel. Which you have to believe, pains me to no end. I love me some Disney. Love.IT. However...as the home of Hannah Montana they have to shoulder some of the blame here. Hannah Montana dresses like a rock star. Which makes sense, being a singing sensation and all. She is flashy. And a little skimpy. But hey, she is a tween/teenager, so that is OK. Unfortch, it seems that the old marketing geniuses at Disney decided that the tween crowd wasn't enough, so they market her show/clothes/cult following to kids as small as a size 4. Now. Don't get me wrong...I think Miley Cyrus is a lovely role model for tweenagers. She is appropriately angsty and innocent...boy crazy and mild. She has completely age appropriate trials and tribulations, and I could hope for nothing more than for my daughter to take after her...when she herself is a tween. But she is not. She is 5 (almost 6). She has NO BUSINESS watching that show. And so she doesn't get to. I know however, in a few short weeks, she will skip off to public elementary school where Miley Cyrus is all the rage. And I know enough to realize that I can't prevent her from learning about and hearing about Hannah Montana from her friends. Her friends who will all be sporting flashy/trashy Hannah Montana hooker gear...

I suppose the upshot is, that if I did dress her like a hooker she could bring in the cash to fund a Gymboree wardrobe? Not that I would pimp out my kid. But seriously.

My New Voicemail Message - In Open Letter Format

Dear Democratic Party,

If you are calling to badger me, yet again, about my choice of presidential candidate, please let me reiterate to you that I am voting for Obama...just as I was at 9AM, 11:30AM, 1:45PM, 3:20PM and at 4:45PM when you sent someone knocking on my door. I have been planning on voting for Obama since the moment that I knew the alternative. I even *voluntarily* put a (now purloined) Obama sign on my front lawn. (Granted, at least 60% of the reason that I did this was to needle my Republican friends, but still!) For heaven sake, stop stalking my vote.

I would like to ask though, that the dogged determination that you are displaying to check my position on the election be carried over, into the presidential term. It is my fondest wish to have a president that is as concerned about my opinion on the War in Iraq, the Bail out of the Banks and Gay Marriage as you are about my own, single, solitary, PRIVATE vote. Such an administration would truly be an inspiration and lend us all the sense that change was actually possible and on the horizon...I for one would gladly lay down my life for such a Commander in Cheif. If however, the calls stop on Wednesday morning, I have to admit, that I will feel sort of like the cheerleader that puts out on the first date...and then never gets a second call.

Yours Truly,
Duchess Pandora