someday

I made a new play list for my shuffle the night before the race: Dr. Dog, Mumford & Sons, Bon Iver and the Dixie Chics.  Obviously, Dixie Chics sticks out like a sore thumb, but even if I embarrassed to admit it, sometimes they are exactly what I need.

I shoved my ear buds into my ears and covered them back up with my stocking cap.  It was cold.  I don't like to run in the cold, or the dark, or the rain... but I don't think I was thinking about what the weather would be like when I signed up for this half-marathon in August.  I just knew then that I wanted to race again, and I knew that I wanted to run it in under 2 hours.

I stopped complaining to myself after about a mile in, it was after all, a pretty day; it wasn't raining, it was sunny, it was just too damn cold, but after a mile, I started to warm up and I started to think more about things other than if my toes were going to fall off.

That's when the Dixie Chics' song Godspeed started playing through my head.  My heart squeezed a little tighter, as I moved one foot in front of the other, remembering how I use to sing that song in my car.  I sang it to Henry, still in my belly, as I drove home from work, all the time.

I thought about how much love was in that song, from a mom to her son.

I thought about how much I say 'running is for me', and it is, but there is this little part of me that does it for my kids too.  To set an example; to be brave and strong, and to be fast and self assured.

And I thought about what my husband said to me the night before the race as we talked in bed.  I told him that 'the kids didn't need to be at the race... that they don't care, that they don't know the difference.'  And he looked at me and said that 'someday it will matter to them, and I want them to see what you are doing.  I especially want Edy to see what a woman can do.'

That's what I was thinking about at mile 11, with just a little over 2 miles left and 20 minutes left in making it under 2 hours.  I knew I had it if it continued to go as is; my thought was 'I got this'. 

I thought about Edy being proud of me... someday.  Maybe not today, maybe not even in the near future, but just that 'someday' had me moving forward.

I crossed the line at 1:57:33

I'm not the faster person out there, I'm not the fastest woman out there; but I did exactly what I had set out to do. 

Someday, that's exactly what I'll tell Edy:

'Set out to do something and do your hardest to do it... that you are lucky to be a woman... to make your someday, one day.'

And to quit complaining about it being too damn cold, we live in Minnesota, it's a given.

I really DO smile, most days

Apparently, I don't smile enough, hence this...

So, the timing of a t-shirt design contest from P.S. from Aeropostale called 'What Makes U Smile' is well, ironic.

 

But, it's a pretty awesome opportunity for your child to express their creativity through designing their own t-shirt of 'what makes them smile'.  Kids in grades 1-5 will have an opportunity to win $1000 for their school, win a gift card worth $500 for themself and everyone in their school will be handed a shirt with their winning design on it.  Better yet, there's not just one winner, but five, one from each grade!

 

Here's a finalist design from last year from Courtney B. of Cottage Grove, MN

 



So yes, local people can win and you bet Henry will be designing his own t-shirt... can you imagine what $1000 would do for his school, or yours?  You can start your own design here.  Henry will be working on his design tomorrow.  

 

In fact, we will all be at the Mall of America P.S. from Aéropostale store tomorrow, October 25th from 4-6pm!  There will be activity buckets, a place for the kids to hang out and work on their designs and there may be the random handing out of $50 gift cards to a few moms!  You can also use an exclusive 20% off code: PSMOMSMN online or in the stores from 10/25 until 11/11.

 

Go on now, have your kids show @psfromaero what makes them smile.

I will be compensated with a gift card for this post and attending the event tomorrow, but heck, you might be too... if you show up, and you know, showing up tomorrow would make *me* smile!

 



a picture's worth what again?

People ask me all the time 'how's Wyatt doing in school?'.  He's in Chinese immersion, like Henry, and perhaps people are thinking they better check on him since we are forcing him to learn Chinese (and plan on him saving us come their world domination) or maybe they're just curious since he's in Kindergarten, I don't know...

Wyatt jumped off the bus last week with a book in hand.  They make these little paper books, stapled together, pretty much weekly.  The books are pretty stinkin' cute and it's over-the-top-adorable when he reads it to me in Chinese.  And no, I don't speak Chinese.  Which is almost always the second question people ask me after wondering 'how Wyatt is doing'.

But Wyatt's picture book for this week was pretty easy to figure out.  One page says something like 'this is me and I'm xx years old'. 

(Worth noting is exactly how much detail he put into drawing himself and then notice the ones to follow.  Also worth noting is the freakish amount of candles on his cake, it's because he comes from a family who puts candles on anything.  I once even put candle on a hot dog, a birthday dog... so, yes, the poor boy is confused.)

Wyatt's 'this is me'

Next, 'this is my dad'

'This is my brother'



'My little sister'



and then there's me...



 

He told me that he meant to draw a smiley face, but he got confused and didn't have time to do it over... blah, blah, blah.

 

Anyone else not buying that?

labeled

The folders are just sitting there right now, on top of the printer, each one appropriately labeled, stashed with coordinating print-outs and resources, just waiting for me to do something about them...

It's like knowing what I already knew.  Can't I just go on with the status quo?  Does this confirmation make me feel any better?

No.

It's feels like a mountain dotted with barricades and fences.  Where instead of a sword, I'm handed these three damn purple folders and told to go off... 'fight a good fight'.

But I don't want to fight.  I'm not sure I have enough courage, or energy, or even fight in me to do everything that he needs.

And as horrible as it might sound, I do wish there was just some magic pill that he could take that would make it all go away.

I tell people on the phone that 'it's fine, he's only 8, there is so much that can be done to help him.'

We went into his third grade classroom telling his teachers that this is a 'building year'.  Where we don't have all the answers yet, all the pieces to the puzzle, but we are getting there, and that's the most important thing... that we are heading in the 'right' direction,

right?

I want to make it easy, saying that sounds stupid though, who doesn't want 'an easy life'.  But as a mom, you know what I'm saying, that you would do anything in your power to make you child's life less... punctuated.

For me, it's the part about 'that reading will be hard for him, that spelling may be an overwhelming task, that he may never really enjoy reading, that these are things that will always be harder for him' that makes me want to throw up.

It's just more labels to throw into my f'ing labeled folders.

morph

There are few days that I see the kids more excited than this.  I slide the magazine across the counter stopping perfectly in front of Wyatt, who is sitting on a kitchen stool. 

No, it's not a freakishly early Christmas catalog, which by the way, if I see another Christmas display before October 1st I will go all momma-crazy on that thing, ripping it to shreds in front of innocent children, screaming incoherently, until someone from the Target security team has to drag me away and ban me.

On second thought, banishment from Target would be probably the worst day in my life.

So, back to the catalog.  Wyatt glanced down at the catalog, looking a bit confused, and then moved his eyes up to mine asking "Is this from the birthday party store?".  "Yes!"  I replied, "but it's the Halloween costume catalog."

I think there was a mutual gasp from the boys as they grabbed the catalog and settled into the couch to discuss potential Halloween costumes for the next half an hour.

They stopped on the page with morphsuits. 

Henry wanted one so bad last year, but they were out of his size... or so I told him that.  I mean, seriously, I don't want to own a lime green lycra suit that outlines every part of his body and I especially won't want to get one that he'd wear after Halloween, in so that I have to explain to perfectly good strangers that 'my son's in there... and yes, he's feeling fine'.

The boys scanned over the color options and read and reread over the description.

"It says here that you can even drink still wearing it, that would be awesome!"  Henry says.  He ponders that for a moment and says in his drifting off, quieter voice... "that means, if you can drink in well then you should be able to pee out..."

"How cool is that?!"

And that is the number one reason my 8 year old son will not be wearing a morphsuit for Halloween this year,
or ever.

pockets

I found a crumbled up leaf in Henry's pocket, folding the laundry early Sunday morning.  I smiled remembering the day before and laughed to myself because I'm not one of those 'check the pockets before throwing it in the wash' kind of moms.

*

Wyatt had been asking to fly a kite for the last month or so.  It's a hard thing for a 5 year old to get though, it needs to be windy but not too windy that you rip the kite and you don't want to make a special trip for a day when it looks like a downpour is inevitable.  "It's just not a good day to fly a kite, Wu" came out more often than I want to remember.

But Saturday was deemed the perfect day.

And Wyatt mastered it within minutes.  His kite was so high among the clouds that he ran out of string.  He'd run along with it, begging the kite to 'chase' after him.  He was the leader and the kite followed religiously.

Henry on the other hand, took to a style all his own.  He laid down on the trampled grass and took to just watching his kite float among the clouds, a happy gaze in his eyes.  He'd fold his body in as the sun went under the clouds, only to stretch out again when the sun peeked through once more.

Edy, my sweet little Edy, she'd run with her kite, letting it bump up and down as it bounced off the grass with each tug from her string.  She couldn't get her kite up in the air, so she'd borrow one brother's.  She watched the boys carefully, she knew to not let go or we'd lose the kite.  She was sucking every bit of that morning up; learning, processing, growing.

 

I stepped back from the scene wishing I had my camera, but I didn't... and it's OK,

 

it's burned into my heart, into my soul.

I slipped that memory right into my pocket.  It's there and I promise, it's not going anywhere.

Like I said, I'm not one for emptying pockets.

kirks

I'm certain there are more times than this, but there is only one time that I distinctly remember getting spanked (shut the front door; yes, some parents spanked their kids... and yes, I was one of them.  I'm apparently over it and doing fine, so there is no need to contact social services).

Anyway, the one time I remember getting spanked, was when I wouldn't wear what my mom had picked out.  It sounds trivial, but I imagine I threw my body across my canopied bed, kicked and screamed, and more than likely, threw some of my clothes across the room.  I don't remember the minor details, I just remember getting a whack across the butt and a proclamation that I was to 'pick out my own clothes' from then on.

And I did.  And I loved it.  It's where my love of fashion started, I imagine.

Now I have a daughter, a two-year old little girl that refuses to wear anything other than 'kirks' (skirts).  She will stand up, scream at me and pull off a pair of jeans if I have the audacity of trying.  But then there's that memory in the back of my mind, of where I started, that just makes me roll my eyes at her and laugh.

She borrowed a friend's 'high' heeled shoes yesterday.  Little pink plastic shoes with diamond stud running across the toes.  When she first put them on, she couldn't stand up and proceeded to wail.  I teased her 'welcome to womanhood'... she only looked at me with determination in her eye and steadied herself.

She wore those heels all. day. long.  She cried anytime they fell off her feet, but was oh, so proud when they worked with her, exclaiming to me "See Momma, walking!"  She even said goodbye to the shoes as her friend took them home with her.

And I begged her friend's mom to never bring them back over...

I'm going to have enough to deal with come January, when it hits 20 below here in Minnesota and this little girl of mine is only going to wear 'kirks'.

(sigh)