girly-boy

As I remember it, the first time I was spanked (yes; close your eyes, stick your fingers in your ears, start singing 'la-la-la', because at one time parents did in fact spank their children) was because I didn't want to wear what my mother had picked out. I guess at the tender age of four or five, I had this incredible sense of fashion that had to be expressed, that or the fact that I'm a girl that likes to wear dresses and my mother's choice for the day probably was not a dress, I'm a real girly-girl in that sense.

It appears that my son is a little bit of a girly-boy. I've posted about how he screams like a girl, how he loves his hats and accessories, and well, what did my now 2-year-old son wish for his birthday: a baby doll stroller and baby.


For those maybe in question of his toddler-manhood, he counts "3,5,3,5,3 go..." and speed races the stroller and baby across the length of the living room, back and forth, as fast as his little legs can take him until either he, baby or both crashes.

See, very much like a man, that and he never asks for directions.

it's official

It's official. My 5k run time was 25.54, meaning I ran an average of 8.23 minutes a mile, meaning that if I was 16 years old, I would have just passed that freakin' Physical Fitness Test. I'm so proud. I can envision it now, my old high school PE teacher, Mr. Jungbult tossing the badge in my general direction saying "Here you go, Buns. Why don't you go sew this on your Brownie sash or something".

Oh yes, so proud.

After I crossed the finish line Henry offered to make me a medal. (So endearing at the time, but slightly annoying in writing this post as I'm so not a big believer in participation ribbons and trophies for all those who played in any activity. If they are old enough to play soccer, t-ball, whatever; they are old enough to get that not everyone wins. Hey Kids: shake hands, be graceful and try to win next time.)

I should have have told Henry about my moral victory. That if it was just 15+ years earlier, I would have gotten this awesome, official-looking Presidential badge instead of his homemade (though quite sweet) medal.

Wait, did I just write that high school was 15+ years ago, I just negated my entire I'm not too old mentality.

bubble over

• BUBBLE OVER (verb)

Meaning: Overflow with a certain feeling

Classified under: Verbs of feeling

Synonyms: bubble over; spill over; overflow

Context examples: The children bubbled over with joy / I was bubbling over with love

I know it's sappy and crappy and stuff, but I didn't know how else to post a photo of his 12" high bubble 'hat' without sounding like we were bragging.

from the sidelines

For almost two years, you've sat on the sidelines of swimming lessons. You've gone from watching in your car seat oblivious to your surrounding to now necessitating me to remove all of your clothing, minus your diaper, so you can submerge as much of your body as humanly possible without actually being an additional participant in Henry's class.

I've become accustomed to straddling your body,laying on the cement, between my legs so you don't fall in, so I can still talk with the other moms while watching the boys jump in the 4' end with their noodles. You have not become accustomed to this, I can see it in your eyes as you don't understand why your brother is in the water and you are on the sidelines.

For almost two years, as you do with most everything, you have put up with being on the sidelines and while we have been to the pool a few time with you, this weekend was the first time that you felt like you were finally in the pool. You jumped in by yourself, you devilishly splashed water on your brother, your Dad and me, you blew bubbles in the water like you were born doing it and in true Wyatt fashion, you couldn't wait to dress yourself for your first, memorable trip to the pool.

too old

I decided to run a 5K next weekend because physically, I can do it and because I decided I'm not too old to try something outside of my it's-just-what-I-do-box. Funny enough, I can count on my hands the number of times that I've actually ran, running is just not my thing. I have horrible memories of my high school physical education. My PE teacher use to call me Buns (which I come from a very small school with very few feminists). 'Buns, hurry up and get over here.' 'Buns, could you please put forth a little effort?' I never put forth any effort. I hated PE.

My most vivid memory of PE was the President's Physical Fitness tests (remember these?). We were running the mile around the track. Starting our fourth and final lap, at the lighting speed of 30 minutes a mile, my asthmatic best friend in front of me by a few paces and in the lane to my left, decided she needed to spit.

She must not have taken into consideration the wind patterns for the day or how that breeze was totally affecting our speeds. We both watched in slow motion as her snot flip flopped, top to bottom, in the air to land directly onto my jogging shorts.

Good times.

So why again am I running a 5K? Because when I turned thirty, it wasn't a big deal to me. I didn't feel old. I didn't wish I was back in college doing a beer bong or back in high school (doing the same). The only thing I started to feel about being thirty-something was:

When did I become too old?

When did I become too old to wear skirts and leggings, together? When did I become too old to get my nose pierced? When did I become too old to add subtle streaks of pink or purple in my hair? It's not necessarily that I want to do these things (though I am secretly jealous that some people can get away with doing these and it look fabulous on them), but when did my age become the first reason for not doing something?



So, I decided that it's snot not.

written in the rear

I'm not a highly organized person, but my current occupational choice doesn't make it necessary for me to be either. My routine hasn't changed much in the four plus years I've done childcare, so having a planner seems redundant – it would say see previous day every day.

I use to have a planner where I'd attempted to Franklin Covey my career in A1's and arrows, but I usually ended up just scribbling notes down anywhere there was room. Today, you would more likely find notes not in a planner but shoved in my coat pocket, in the bottom of the washing machine barely legible and sometimes, though I rarely carry one, at the corner of the diaper bag, crumbled up.

The last time I got a number (with my husband at my side) from an old acquaintance at Henry's Kindergarten Roundup; when she walked away, he laughed at me and programmed her number into his phone for when I lose it. (Just to spite him though, it's still neatly folded in the pocket of my jacket).

I have scribbled notes on my hand in desperate need of something to write on, but I've never thought of grabbing my paperback. Probably because something like this would be found in the back page:

I borrowed this book from my sister-in-law and it's not her handwriting, so I have no idea who needs to remember hemorrhoid cream, socks and Zip Locks. It's not me, but I promise if it was I wouldn't be writing it on the back page of my latest Jodi Picoult paperback.

Things like hemorrhoid cream are put on what I like to call 'mental lists'.