Close Call

June 30, 2010

It's a ridiculously beautiful morning and Maine, so Jared and I were both up early. He walked the dog, I made pancakes from scratch, James got himself dressed--it was all very idyllic. We were both scooted up close to Maggie's high chair, feeding her little pieces of pancake, snapping some pictures and taking turns singing verses of a made up song with an off the cuff melody.

I couldn't duplicate the song if the life of my ten-year-old dog depended on it, but for the sake of the story, I'm about to try.

Jared: Maggie has BIG BIG BIG blue eyes!

Me: Maggie's gonna ride a pony someday!

Jared: Maggie likes pancakes sooooo much!

Me: But if she tried it she'd like pudding way better!

Jared: Tomorrow is m'birthday!

Me: {silence}

Jared: I said tomorrow is m'birthday!

Me: Of course it's Daddy's birthday and we're so excited to do lots of the surprises we've been planning for weeks!

And that's when the singing morphed into talking. Jared flatly said, "You forgot my birthday."

And with all the exuberance in the world I was like, "No! Why would you say that?"

"Because you overcompensated on the last verse of that song."

Okay fine, Jared's birthday snuck up on me this year. But you know what? It's his fault, not mine. The man hates parties, hates cake, and strongly opposes most varieties of food. He doesn't even like presents--only accepts cash. It's to the point that when I buy him a card, he usually turns it over, glances at the price and says something like, "You should've added this four bucks to my cash. And now that you wrote in the card I can't even return it."

The man wants to see a bank envelope--nothing more, nothing less.

Maybe I'll use the money to whip up a sentimental scrapbook instead. I've still got time.



And for the Aunts and Uncles out there, here are the pictures from this morning:

She's looking more and more like a troll every single day!

Can't Complain

June 26, 2010

Vibes successfully received.

Against all odds, and oh my word were there ever some odds, I took my age group and set a new personal record in the half marathon today--1:45.38. An 8:04 pace. That's down from 1:47.something back in 2007. I'll get a full race report out tonight or tomorrow, and be prepared for it to contain way too much information (if you know what I mean).

Here's picture with some friends from my local running club:

Left to right we have Damien (who also set a PR and took his age group), Anna (paced a friend today), Seth (sat this one out to pace Damien), Me, Jala (that girl ran 1:40 and change and also took her age group), and Darcy, the 5k superstar!

Now you'll have to excuse me while I wear my medal to the grocery store.

Half Marathon Vibes

June 25, 2010

If you read this between now and 9:15 in the morning tomorrow, send 'em my way.

Thanks a million times over.

~Amy

Jimmy and the Violin

June 24, 2010

Last year at this time, James was taking violin lessons. And last year at this time, violin lessons were going terribly, horribly wrong.

James had just turned four and his violin teacher was some random, mature gentleman who really didn't have a way with children. Actually, in all of his many years on this fine earth, I'd be shocked to learn if he'd ever even laid eyes upon a child. That's how bad it was.

He used to say things to James like, "We're not progressing as fast as I hoped we would, Jimmy," and "Jimmy, it's imperative that you bend at the second knuckle."

I don't know about you, but I can spot about forty-seven problems with each of those statements. First, my kid was four, he didn't have the motor skills to bend at the second knuckle. Second, his name is James, not Jimmy. Third, this child doesn't even know what 'don't pee the bed' means, is he really supposed to be familiar with the definition of the word 'imperitive'? And so on and so forth.

But it was the name thing that really rubbed my kid the wrong way.

He'd be like, "My name es James, not Jimmy."

And the teacher would be all, "Okay Jimmy, let's take it from the top."

Honestly, I could feel the tension rise each and every time the teacher used the wrong name. Even the creepy portraits with the following eyes were more aware of the situation than the instructor was.

And then one day, it finally happened. Mr. Violinman told Jimmy to take two, and James cocked his arm back, paused, and violently stabbed the teacher square in his geriatric schnuts.

Apparently, it hurts just as much to get clonked in the gnads when you're eighty. Who knew?

We promptly packed up the violin case and never stepped foot in that dusty old studio ever again.

Today, while James and I were driving home from Dairy Queen, do you have any idea what the kid asked me?

He goes, "Mom, I'm pretty sure I want to be Jimmy. Or maybe Jim. Haven't really decided yet."

And I was like, "Whatever you want, buddy. Either way, I'll have Daddy wear his cup."

It's Not Just a Saying

June 22, 2010

It's true, we joined a CSA this summer. Long story short, we paid a farmer a couple hundred bucks at the end of the winter, and now that it's growing season we head to the farm every Thursday to pick up a big basket of just picked, organic vegetables.

Last week, when I got home and unloaded the bags, here's what it looked like.

Um, yeah--that's a frig load of vegetables, especially for a single week. And that one on the bottom there? You can bet your ass I had to google it to figure out that it was a head of bok choy--same stuff that you pick around in your Chinese takeout. Huh. Who knew?

Yesterday, while I was on my run I counted up my fruit and veggie servings for the day, and believe it or not, I lost track at fifteen. FIFTEEN! When's the last time you ate fifteen servings of vegetables in a day?Probably two nevers ago. Am I right or am I right?

So last night I was out for a run, and the whole thing was moving along just beautifully--a warm night, a setting sun, birds bobbing around on the water. And as for me? Well, I felt fantastic. Even at mile seven, when it suddenly felt like some sicko dropped a ten pound kettlebell into my colon, I felt like a jillion bucks and didn't break my pace.

I made it home with a smile on face and called for my dog. I was like, "Hey Gracie! Let's go for a walk! If you poop on the carpet I'll sell you to the glue factory! Let's go!"

She sauntered over and off we went.

We did exactly what we usually do--walked down the hill, past the lake, over to the trash can, up the other hill, and so on and so forth. I was plugged into a cooking podcast about ham and asparagus, and I was one happy girl.

While I was walking up the second hill, I was totally and completely surprised when a truck came speeding up behind me and laid on the horn.

So surprised, that I pooped in my shorts right there on Sandy Hill Road.

Apparently, if you eat enough vegetables, you literally can get the sh!t scared right out of you. I should know, I'm an expert.

Happy Tuesday.