stuck in the middle

You know that pit in your stomach, that hard little sucker punch to your middle, the one you got when you found out you're pregnant again and then you looked at your first-born, your only child at the time, and wanted to cry? 

And don't tell me you didn't get it, because you would be lying... there is not one single mom out there that ever knows that they have enough love for another child.  When you look at your first-born, your heart fills like a balloon getting blown up in your lungs and you think 'how could I possible be able to take one more breath in?'  'How could it possibly handle one more person?'

I feel that way now. 

My poor, middle child.

I feel like I'm giving you the short end of the stick, that there just isn't enough me to go around.

When we sat at the table last night talking about your first day of Kindergarten, Dad asked if Henry was able to find your class okay?  You beamed and Henry shrugged and said something like 'it was no big deal, it was the same Kindergarten room that he was in.'

Then Dad looked Henry in the eyes and said that 'It was a big deal.  That Wyatt will remember that his big brother took him to his first day of Kindergarten.'

 (punch). 

Not that I didn't feel that ache already growing in my stomach

 as the hours past from the moment of dropping you off at school.

Because, it wasn't me. 

I was the one who dropped you off at the front of the school with four 2-year olds in the minivan waiting for me to kiss you goodbye, watching from the open minivan door.  It was your brother who took you in, walked you into the classroom and said goodbye.

It's a tough thing to learn at 5-years-old, that life isn't fair, that even in family, things aren't always going to be fair.  Being the middle child, you get the remnants of your older brother's.  Things aren't the same as they were 3 years ago, and they won't be same 3 years from now either.

But that doesn't make it better.

And it doesn't make me feel better right now.

I just wanted to let you know.  That even though I wasn't the one to walk you into that room yesterday morning, for your first day of Kindergarten, I was there. 

I held you in my thoughts all day long

and you are still this achy pit in my stomach.

survival of the fittest

I overheard them as I walked down the steps, coffee in hand and my mind planning what I could make for lunch with elbow noodles that didn't (yet again) involve spaghetti sauce and ground beef.

Henry cheered to Wyatt "I wish brothers could get married, because then we could be together all the time, forever!"

Wyatt gleefully shouted back to him "That would be so awesome, Henry!"

I walked into the room, smiling, trying to tell them something about 'being brothers is the best because they will always be together'.  They didn't care though, the conversation turned to police officers taking them away and forcing them to marry gross girls.

And the moment was gone.

But this is what I'm holding onto: our own survival of the fittest.  After a summer long of punching and screaming; of tears over who got into the car first, washed hands first, got to pick out their show first; of being bored and of asking 'what are we going to do now?',

we made it.

On the last week of summer, the boys still love each other enough to marry.

contrary to what some of the above photos may exhibit

death and dying and crying

I don't know what's wrong with my kids. 

Today, they packed up Henry's old backpack with their own homemade 'tornado survival kit'.  They included some stuffies and blankets, and at my suggestion, they added a couple granola bars, a bottle of water and a few flashing light things for their bikes that they got at this year's neighborhood block party.

(Note to self, supervise how many your children shove into their pockets without your knowledge when the police officer dumps out the entire contents of her bag and says "take it all, I've had a really bad day". Unsupervised pillaging leads to you owning approximately 2.3 billion little blinky flashy light things that all say 'Centerpoint Energy' on them.  This is enough to create a runway in our backyard to land the occasional, off-course airplane).

Back to my point, the boys are currently obsessed with death and dying and what if we all die.

Last night, as we dined at Costco.  (Yes, I'm fancy... I know.  I can't deny that I like spending less than 5 bucks for dinner, where I can split a ginormous slice of pizza, a Diet Coke and still get a swirl cup of ice cream.)  Sitting there with the spoon dangling from his mouth Wyatt wondered about him going into Kindergarten next week.

"Are you going to cry, Mom?"

"Perhaps," I replied.  "only because I know what a big change it will be.  You'll officially be spending more time with your teacher than with me... and that's sad."

Wyatt ponders that for a moment, "So, will you be really sad when we are all teenagers?  Will we make you cry all the time?"

I giggled at the thought of this and answered with a knowing smile, "Yes, probably."

Wyatt moves forward and says in his little serious voice, "Would you cry if Daddy died?  Without pause, he continues...  "that means if Daddy died, you would have to be the nice one - and that would probably make you cry the most of all!"

Of course, he's probably right, being 'the nice one' would probably kill me.

two

My Sweetith Edith,

Edy, how could you possibly be 2?  I look at you and see this long-legged baby with a freakishly good vocabulary, but nonetheless, my baby.

I want to write to you about the silly things I taught you; like eating a can of whipped cream off your finger, singing to every song on the radio, though mostly off-key, to dancing when no one else is, screaming when you can't keep it in any longer... all from me.

Then there are things that seem to have come naturally to you, the way you tell Wyatt to put his head on your lap and you stroke his hair or the way you sing to yourself while you color.  (People use to make fun of me because I would sing in my cube, to myself, as I checked stocks and orders on my open-to-buy.)  I didn't teach you this, it's innate.  It's you and it's me.

I joke, you aren't really a baby anymore, but there are times when you sit on my lap, your chest into mine, with your legs wrapped around my stomach, that you feel like my baby.  It's the way I've held you since you were born, heart-to-heart.

You have a true twinkle in your eye and I will ache when it's there no more, because it does disappear.  I see it... in your brothers, too busy with this or that.  Not enough sleep with the stuff they push their own little bodies to do.  And it makes them tired, their eyes less shiny, little red veins running through those eyes that use to be as white as yours are today.

You just started getting scared of loud things, like a large truck or our vacuum cleaner.  It makes me laugh, but it frustrated me too.  I just don't want you to ever feel limited about doing something because you are scared.  I want you to just try it.

Part of being a woman will be overcoming what you hear/feel that women can and can't do.  Believe me, you can do it!

And so I often make you 'do it'.  You've gone down huge, spinning water slides and up-a-mountain alpine slides.  You roll down grassy hills that go on forever and jump off the highest of beds.  You swing fifty feet in the air.  And you know what, once you tried it, you (almost always) scream "again" with that giant smile on your face.

I tell people all the time that I love this age.  It's the age where everything is magic, the world is this crazy place where bubbles float and water pours from the sky.

With this comes all that you have taught me, looking at the world in awe, feeling emotions; being brave but letting people know you are scared, having the sparkle in your eye for everyone and everything, for having fun in life.

Thank you for being my daughter.  I'm so, so lucky to be your mother.

one minute

"One minute."

That's what I thought when I crossed the finish line.  I was one (f'ing) minute over a 2 hour half-marathon.  In training, I've run 13.1 miles each month for the past three months and every single one has been at exactly 2:00.

So I knew I could do... but then again, I didn't.

It hit me about mile 10, like it does most times.  10 miles is the perfect run, enough to feel like you really did something, but not too much where you cuss under your breath about 'why the hell I ever thought this was a good idea'.

At mile 10, I looked up, sucked in air and whispered 'fuck' to no one but myself.  It turned from paved to gravel and even better, it was headed straight up to the clouds.  Running on rocks makes me feel unsteady, makes me lose my footing and forces me to think too much about every step, but I dug in my heels anyways and worked up it, moving slower and slower with every step.

Then I did what I never do, I stopped running.  I looked around, surveyed that lots of people were walking and justified it... 'maybe it will help me in the end' I thought.  I've never walked, only because once I do, I fear it gives me permission to do it again, and maybe again.

I'm pretty sure I had the look of defeat on my face as I reached mid-way up the 'mountain'.

Then a woman ran up beside me, slapped me on the shoulder and with a stern voice directed me to "Come on!".

It was exactly what I needed.

And it's exactly what I thought about hours later when I was driving my mini-van to drop off our latest DVDs at Redbox, just another mundane task on my to-do list, checked off.

I thought about this stranger, this woman, who just slapped my shoulder and told me, essentially, to 'fuck it... it is what it is and let's kick some butt'.

I'm pretty sure she has no idea how what she said to me makes me feel.  It's become my new mantra.  When you think you can't make it any longer, you can.  When you think that you have it suckier than anyone else, you haven't looked around enough.  When you think that hill is a mountain, that this road is going in the wrong direction, when you regret the decisions you've made, you're wrong.

When you think that you can't take it- the kids, your work, the piles of life- for one more minute, you can.

It's just...
one minute.

$43.72

I can't tell you how many times I've stomped the pavement with the song 'And I would walk 500 miles...", which I hate that damn song, stuck in my head. I blame the rhythm of my feet and me congratulating myself for, once again, rolling out of bed and attempting to calculate how many miles this will make it.

 'And I would walk 500 miles to be the man who'd walk 1000 miles...'

Do you have that song in your head now? You're welcome.

So, I've run more than 500 miles in the last 5 months. And this is just another excuse for my absence in blogging.

Backup, I've been napping when I use to be blogging, because I've been getting up to run when I use to be sleeping.

It's a vicious circle.

I read all the time about how running is suppose to be one of the 'cheapest sports out there'.  That statement feels laughable.

Obviously, if you run a lot, you have to buy new shoes a lot.  Even when they still look stinkin' brand new, the insides are all smushed up and worthless and your feet start to hate you, then your knees start to rally with their friends your feet and you have a little riot on your hands.

And then you go buy new shoes. 

And they can't be cheap ass shoes... no, they have to be an almost $100 pair of shoes.

I've experimented with shoes over the years too (before seriously running).  I'm not proud to say that I once bought RunTone shoes, because honestly, what woman doesn't want a nicer ass and if shoes are going to help by 25%, I'm saying 'yes and please'!

Well, unfortunately for them, us ladies get mad when we don't get nicer butts and we sue.

I honestly don't remember how this happen, but I was googling something, came up with a class action suit against Reebok RunTones and I filled out a quick online form.

And then I got my check:

Apparently, my ass is worth $43.72 for *not* getting any smaller.

Which will go directly toward new shoes, which, as it turns out, is the only thing that does make my ass smaller.

It's (another) vicious cycle

(I'll be running this half marathon on Sunday morning, if you like crowds of sweaty women with your coffee, come cheer us on!)

damn green

I remember, when Henry was born, how my husband and I joked about how we could mess with our kids, teach them that the color 'yellow' was 'blue' instead.  How we could have really fuck them up like the poor kid that won't have any friends that know if he's a boy or a girl.  We laughed about the power we had to teach them whatever we choose... 'No, the sky is purple you crazy kid'.

I was reminded of this yesterday, when Edy was wearing her green Crocs. 

Man, I use to hate those Crocs.  They were Wyatt's and the only reason I got them was because I accidentally threw his in the dryer and consequently, they shrank... and he hated me.  And of course, he cried and screamed and refused to wear any other shoes and 'luck' would have it, it was Fall and there were no Crocs, anywhere, in any stores, except this crappy second-hand store and the only pair left in his size were these damn green Crocs.

And now, Edy discovered these Crocs in the back of her closet and she loves them.  Ultimately, she loves all shoes.  She sits in the entryway, pulling pair after pair of shoes from the cubbies and tries them on.  They have to be shoes that she can put on herself, like Crocs, or she gets pissed off, like only a two-year-old little girl could do.

She has two pairs of Crocs, red and what I call damn green.

I look at the Croc a little differently now.  For some reason, they look adorable on her feet.  People compliment her on them all the time and they are her 'go to' shoes.

Except she gets the colors messed up and she calls her damn green Crocs 'red'.

I opted to attempt to teach to her: "No, these are red.  Those are green".

Enter full body convulsions and cue screams "NO... GREEN!"

I can't count how many times we've had this umm, 'conversation'.

I give up.  Damn green, or red, or whatever the heck she wants to call them that day, wins.

*

I know, I haven't posted in 3 months... let's just get that out there. I'm sorry. 

You can suck it up and forgive me or not.

Honestly, I've written 57 post in my head over the last three months and as each week goes by, it gets harder and harder to push 'publish'. I'm tired of the social media game: of tweeting my post, slapping it up on Facebook, making sure it goes up on my non-existent fan page, pinning it.  I just want to write.   So, I'm hoping to do just that.