Not Really A Runner - Yet

I've never thought of myself as a runner. In fact, I never even WANTED to run. Ever. That old cliche, "I only run when chased" applies to me completely.

So how is it that I find myself going into week 2 of the Couch to 5K training program? What in the world possessed me to go to a local running store and purchase a pair of "real" running shoes last week? What was I thinking when I downloaded "crap-tons" of podcasts this weekend?

I have no clue.

I'm having fun though (OK, maybe not fun, but at least a sense of accomplishment). #1 Son is "training" with me. He rows competitively (crew), so he has to run a lot. He says that he's proud of me and is enjoying running with me. Personally, I think he's just scared I'm going to drop dead and there will be no one around to cook dinner.

At any rate, I'm going to see how far I can take this. Everyone I have ever talked to says that the C25K program really works. I'm not sure I really want it to, but I'll keep you posted.

Don't call me a runner though. It's more like a slow jog.

Under Attack

There is a vulture in my house.

I saw it.

It dove at me.

I was speechless for about 4 seconds. That coupled with my "look of terror," hyperventilating and frantic pointing finally clued C. in that something was wrong.

You bet your a$$.

We were under attack.

C. says he hates flying things too, and then asked me where it came from. Holy Mother of God, how the hell should *I* know?!?! Does he actually think I invited it into our house?

After several minutes of searching, C. told me to calm down, that my "hysterics" might wake the kids. He tried to convince me that it was "probably just a little water bug." Yeah. And I'm the friggin Queen of England.

It is at least 6 inches long.

No, I'm not exaggerating.

I crept back down the stairs a few minutes ago to ask my hero, "Have you hunted it down and beat it to death yet?"

He chuckled and said, "I haven't heard any fluttering."

He hates me.

I think he's trying to kill me.

If Only I Had Known

I believe I am the mother of the only child in North America that still has wrapped Christmas presents under the tree. Well, they were still under the tree until we took it down today. We waited 12 days after the holiday on the off chance that The Baby was observing some warped form of "12 Days of Christmas" or something. Turns out, he just wasn't all that interested.

The kid was pretty much done after opening the stockings. He made it as far as this big bouncy-ball thing that lights up. After that he was over it. While everyone else opened their gifts, he bounced that thing all over the place. While the big kids were trying on their new clothes and stacking up their haul, The Baby was content to chuck his new ball at the dog.

Yes, it's true that the older two were the same way as little kids. I distinctly remember one Christmas when The Princess spent the entire day playing with a package of Styrofoam cups. #1 Son was more partial to bows and ribbons (always great fun to attach to the dog). Fine, I get that.

But never...and I mean NEVER has one of the others ever left a present unscathed, still sitting in it's pretty paper and bows. They might have played with household items and trash, but they at least tore through some wrapping paper. Not this kid. Honestly, the whole family could have saved some cash and just bought him the fargin' bouncy ball.

I'm trying to look on the bright side, though. At least I've got his birthday shopping all done. He'll never notice the Santa wrapping paper.

Box THIS, Buster!

I curse the man (it had to have been a man) that invented the "box."

Wait...let me rephrase that.

I curse the person who taught my Husband that "cleaning" means stuffing all the crap you can into a box and shoving it into a closet.

"Out of sight, out of mind."

He actually said that to me with a straight face.

I'll be lucky to avoid spending my Christmas in a jail cell.

Creativity

Heard in my house this evening:

"NO! I want not beans!"

"But beans are GOOD! You LOVE beans! You liked them last week."

"NO! STOP sayin' dat. I want NOT beans!"

"Day-O!"

"Say Day-O!"

"Daylight come and he wan'go home."

"Day, he say day he say day he say day."

"HEY! Whachoo singin'?"

"It's the Greenbean Marching Song. They like to march into your mouth."

"I want song!"

"DAY-O!"

I ought to write a book.

Don't Know What To Do With Myself

Wow - I'm finally alone. The day I was looking forward to has come. The big kids are in school. The Baby is at pre-school. For the rest of this month, I will have Monday, Wednesday & Fridays until 1pm to do as I wish.

And there is SO MUCH to do. The house looks like a refugee camp. There is clutter everywhere - piles upon piles of clothes, books, papers, boxes and bags. The toys have formed an obstacle course that is almost impossible to navigate. I have appointments to schedule, checkbooks to balance, bills to pay. There are walls and windows to wash, closets to reorganize. I could fill a commercial dumpster with the trash that needs to be disposed of.

The big picture hurts my head. I'll need to compartmentalize and that means a list. I guess I should start one.

Yes my friends, the kids are in school. There is no screaming, fighting, fussing, whining, running, yelling...or laughter.

It sure is quiet.

I think I'll take a nap.

Mickey - it Ain't

Several months ago I heard the pitter-patter of little feet again. Unfortunately, that did not signal another baby. "Unfortunately," you ask? Well yes, while it is known that I would welcome another pregnancy like I would welcome a plague of biblical proportions, it would certainly be better than our current situation. The scurrying noise that I had heard heralded the arrival of a more disruptive force than any child that might spring from my loins.

You see my friends, we have been invaded by a mouse. At first I thought it was rather funny. "Mickey," as the family took to calling him, would pop out of the air vents at night when he thought the coast was clear. Once he realized the error in his judgement, he would freeze in hopes that I was a figment of his little pea-brained imagination. Eventually he would figure out that I was real, and he'd dive for the vent not to be seen for several days. As the weeks went by, Mickey got braver. He'd run out of the vent, make eye contact with me and just stand there as if he was daring me to approach him. A few nights he even brazenly hopped towards me as if to ask, "what are you going to do about it?!" Eventually Mickey lost his fear of me. He would hop around from one corner of the den to the other running his little brazen mouse errands. Apparently, I no longer posed a threat to him. Silly mouse, I was catching up on TiVo after the kids were in bed. I was the least of his worries.

He should have thought about the dog.

One night, as I was engrossed in one of my shows, Mickey sauntered across the den floor, as had become his habit, and seemed to flip me the little mouse bird. Immediately he found himself engulfed in a smelly, slobbery dog mouth. I screamed at the dumb dog to "DROP IT!!!" I must admit that my reaction was not based on "save the mouse" as much as it was on "save the carpet!" I didn't want to know what the dog would hack up after ingesting a WILD rodent.

Notice the emphasis on "WILD." You see, I KNOW what the dog will hack up after ingesting a DOMESTIC rodent. But that is another story. Needless to say, I saved Mickey's life. And how did he repay me? Mickey moved in.

I didn't mind him too much. Sure, I saw the occasional mouse turd in the pantry, but I was raised in the country (FARM country), so he wasn't able to get into much of anything (not my first rodeo, you see). The weather got warmer, and the Mickey sightings slowed down. There was one night last month where I saw Mickey shoot across the hardwood floor of our dining room (silly mouse!). In no time, C. and I had cornered him and caught him in an empty planter (SOMEDAY I will get around to repotting the 3 plants that have survived my black thumb!). We took him way out back and released him behind our shed (pointed, of course, in the direction of our neighbor's house).

This morning C. heard some strange noises coming from our front hall closet. No one would ever suspect that space, as it only contains our cold weather gear and the occasional flag that we fly (lest you think we're all domestic, we fly Pirate flags - yes, yo ho ho and a bottle of rum - and the occasional Pittsburgh Penguin flag during hockey season). Upon further investigation, C. detected a "smell." Huh?! We may be the National monument to clutter, but the house does NOT smell!

Little did I know that Mickey was living a Lifetime Channel movie. It seems that our young hero had knocked up the local prom queen and she was a neglectful mother. Nestled in The Princess' handmade "shades of pink" fuzzy scarf were SEVEN mice "babies" with Mama nowhere in sight. She was probably partying with Britney.

Of course, I was unaware of the recent discovery and was not informed about the turn of events until the mouse babies were safely "enthroned" in the same empty planter that played a role earlier in the story (DAMMIT I really need to get to that replanting!!). Things went downhill after that.

You see it was bad enough when THEY (C. and his cohorts - #1 Son and The Princess) showed The Baby the "Cute Mickey Babies." He's not quite 2 years old, he'll forget about them. But then it got dicey when I found The Princess sitting in the kitchen, in low light, quietly watching the stupid obviously "teenage" mice eat the 6 pounds of sharp cheddar cheese shreds she had left for them. WHY did I have to point out to her that the food was one thing, but all creatures need water? What was I thinking?!?! The planter now has it's own reservoir.

I am so torn by this turn of events. YES, the Mickey babies are cute. So was Mickey for that matter. YES I know that if we take them to the local pet store they will probably end up as snake food. YES I know that my kids want to keep them and have apparently forgotten all concepts of math (7 mouse babies = 27 mice = 49 mice = 172 mice = Mommy's in a home). I think the best thing is to let them fly free in one of the two vacant lots in our neighborhood.

Unfortunately I have to time the escape when the kids are not home.

One week until school starts.

We should only have 78 babies by then.

The Clown on the Ball

So I have gotten on this big "Get Fit and Healthy" kick lately. I'm eating better, actually exercising and have lost some weight. All in all, a pretty good plan. This new lifestyle I'm trying to achieve has also brought me to a realization. It seems I have missed my calling with the circus.

You can imagine the warmth I felt when I finally understood that I have been put on this earth for my children's amusement.

Imagine their glee when I purchased a stability ball. Have you seen one of these things? It's a rather huge rubber ball that aids in a workout. I thought it looked like a fun piece of equipment to use for strength training - something I have added to my routine. Besides, it was cheap - about 10 bucks at WalMart. We took the thing out and blew it up (Hubby and The Baby had great fun doing that) and I tried a couple of exercises.

Apparently the sight of their Mother balancing precariously on a huge blow up ball is enough to send certain people's children into hysterics. Fine. I did what any self-respecting Mom would do. I challenged them to try it themselves.

Who's the clown NOW, Missy?!

'Tis the Season

My knuckles will be white and my jaw clenched as I look out over the endless sea of their minivans and SUVs. As far as the eye can see, they will be easy to spot by the luggage carriers strapped to their roofs.

Instinctively I will know that I must relax. I will practice deep breathing exercises - in through the nose, out through the mouth. I will get to know every inch of the vehicles that entrap me. I will memorize their bumper stickers, their magnetic ribbons of support and their license plate holders. I will play my own little version of "spot-the-out-of-state-plates" while trying to figure out what their obscure personalized tags mean. I will even watch parts of the movies they are playing to keep their kids from killing each other.

I will exchange knowing grimaces with other locals as we watch them dangerously weave in and out trying to find the "faster" lane. We will nod at each other because we know that there IS no "faster lane" this time of year.

Like locusts and other scourges, this fleet of mini-vans and SUVs plague us every year at this time. I, and my fellow locals, will get to know their vehicles intimately because for the next HOUR OR MORE we will all be CRAWLING towards the tunnel together. And as always, I will resist the urge to scream out my window,

"IT'S A FARGIN TUNNEL YOU MORONS! MAINTAIN THE POSTED SPEED!"

(NOTE: The post above was scrawled on pieces of a ripped up Happy Meal bag as I "drove" home from work the other day. It took me an HOUR and 50 MINUTES to make the 36 mile trip. I love tourist season. Really.)

Imitation In It's Sincerest Form

Having a teen, a tween and a toddler in the same house all summer has proven interesting. The Baby has always soaked up information like the proverbial sponge. This tends to color his language a bit.

We have been hearing, "whatever" as his response to being asked to pick up his toys or some other task that does not conform to his plans. He has learned the eye roll and has decided that it is cute so he performs this maneuver quite frequently. When he thinks I have lost my mind by asking him to do things like, "get off that chair," "don't stand on the back of the couch," and "For God's Sake, GET THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!" he will look at me and exclaim, "Girl-boo," with a kind of bored disdain in his voice. Of course he has also picked up some rather "colorful" phrases that both of his older siblings SWEAR did not come from them.

My favorite incident came this weekend. We bought a little kid potty a week or so ago, just so he had a place to sit when he follows one of us in there. I am nothing if not considerate. (For those of you without children, one of the neat features of small kids is that you will NEVER get to go to the bathroom alone and uninterrupted again from the time they learn to crawl until they leave for college)

For the record, we're not "Potty Training Nazis" around here at all. I figure they won't go to high school in diapers, so why sweat the small stuff? I have been letting the kid just sit on his throne with a diaper on. It keeps him occupied and he grins like he's been given admission to some secret and exclusive club.

C., on the other hand, decided that if the kid was going to sit there, why not take his diaper off?

Indeed.

The Baby sat there for about a second, got up and took the seat apart. He exclaimed, "hat" when he put the bowl on his head. Not one to be easily thwarted, C. reassembled the pot and sat The Baby back on his throne. Of course the kid sat there for about a half a second, stood up and promptly peed all over the floor. To this he replied:

"OOPS! My bad."