Timing is Everything

This time last year I ran in a 5K race. I’m not a strong runner. I don’t run. And yet, as it turned out, I won me a trophy (second fastest time for women ages 30-39). A gen-u-ine trophy! For about a week I was really cool in my hyper-competitive, sports-loving son’s eyes. He even showed off my trophy to his friends.

This year I didn’t run. Wise move. The woman who finished third this year beat my time by more than ten minutes. Don’t tell my son.

p.s. Today my son ran in a one mile long, non-competitive race for the kids. They called it a “fun run.” Isn't that an oxymoron?

I'm Not Shellfish

I was walking by a house yesterday and spied two of these fab lobster Buddhas flanking the driveway. I had to share him :)

Funny, funny website

shitmykidsruined.com

Daniel Boone was an Ass

Wow. If anybody actually read our blog I might be in real danger from the DAR. My daughter finally finished her coffee can biography of Daniel Boone today and not before time. I didn't know much about Mr. Boone other than that he wore a coon-skin hat which apparently is utter bunkum!

So I decided to read the book that my daughter used to make her timeline and cue cards (which reside in the coffee can - isn't that clever?!) and discovered that while incredibly brave and self-sufficient, Daniel Boone was also kind of a jerk. He disappeared for long stretches of time into Indian territory, returning home it seems only long enough to father 10 (TEN!) children, several of whom were kidnapped/killed by the Indians in retaliation. Fabulous.

Anyway, here's a picture of the project for your amusement. And if you think that's funny, you should see the model of Jesse Owens.

I'm Sorry, I Can't

I live in a society of volunteers and it's SO annoying. I could book myself to the hilt and would still look completely lame compared to most stay-at-home moms in my town. This one woman who has two children who require fairly intense therapy is perpetually out there: class mom, head of publishing center, town clean-up committee, theatre chair, PTA jack-of-all-trades. Omnipresent. Pththpbbthbth!

I'm helping out here and there but my only title right now is Cookie Mom for my daughter's Brownie Troop (I even get a badge ... though no instructions on where I'm supposed to put it).
My therapist has told me not to over commit myself but it's hard! The busiest people attract attention because The Others know they will get things done. No good deed goes unpunished and all that.

A friend of mine whose son was recently hospitalized confessed that the one good thing to come out of her experience was the falling off of sports and other commitments (only one soccer match per weekend!!!). It smacks a tad of Munchhausen Syndrome but sometimes when my kids are not 100% a small part of me loves to have an excuse to regroup and turn down requests. My son is having his tonsils and adenoids removed next week which buys me about two weeks and the best part? I get to spend it all with him.

It's OK. He Only Smokes When He's Really Drunk.

While I brush my teeth, I often find myself reviewing that day's events in my mind's eye. [That's before I start squeezing, picking, and plucking things that shouldn't be squeezed, picked, or plucked (guilty pleasure #16).]

Some days are good mommy days-- I rinse and spit feeling at one with the universe.
Some days are less good-- and I practically wag my finger at my reflection, resolving to have more patience, say, or to banish the yelling.

So, yeah, I'm not a perfect parent. Honestly, I don't know whether there exists such a creature. But I've got at least two things going for me (which is nice): 1) I'm always striving for perfection and 2) I'm definitely better than this kid's parents.

Good grief.

LOST re-enacted by Cats

I'm surprised some of the more intense Lost fans haven't already made the connection between the Island and Cats. I mean, really, it's so obvious-- check out the lyrics to the only song from Cats that I know:

Midnight - not a sound from the pavement.
Has the moon lost her memory,
She is smiling alone.
In the lamplight, the withered leaves collect at my feet,
And the wind begins to moan.

Memory - all alone in the moonlight.
I can smile at the old days,
I was beautiful then.
I remember the time I knew what happiness was.
Let the memory live again.

Every street light seems to beat a fatalistic warning.
Someone mutters and the streetlamp gutters,
and soon it will be morning.

Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise.
I must think of a new life,
And I mustn't give in.
When the dawn comes tonight will be a memory too,
And a new day will begin.

Burnt out ends of smokey days,
the stale cold smell of morning.
The streetlamp dies, another night is over,
another day is dawning.

Touch me, it's so easy to leave me
All alone with the memory
Of my days in the sun.
If you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is.
Look, a new day has begun.

After This I'll Go to Bed. Unless Someone Good is on Letterman.

Morning Me really, really hates Nighttime Me.*

*Years ago I heard a comedian (I wish I could remember who it was) doing an extended bit on this very topic and it totally stuck with me. If I had to pay the guy some kind of royalty each time the thought of “nighttime me vs. morning me” popped into my head I’d no longer have room in the budget for pricey lattes.

Morning Me has lots of things to do in a very small window of time: workout; shower; get ready; make breakfast for the kids; pack lunches; make sure the kids are dressed with teeth brushed and shoes on; find homework folders, library books, and bus notes/permission slips; and, most importantly, get to the bus stop on time.

There is not one task on that list that wouldn’t be easier, go more smoothly or be accomplished more quickly if I could just get a decent night’s sleep.

Yawn, coffee, yawn, yawn, coffee, yawn through the morning and the late afternoon and then… suddenly… I’m up. It’s like once the kids go to bed, Nighttime Me doesn’t want to miss a single minute of blissfully uninterrupted (quiet) time. Somehow, even though mere hours earlier a nap would have been like heaven on Earth, after dinner sleep loses all appeal. There's no reason for me to be up late. I’m not really doing anything important until all hours of the night— mostly just surfing the internet, watching TV, or reading. And, of course, making life harder for Morning Me.

Morning Me likes to quote my dad circa my high school years: “Six o’clock comes very early….”

Nighttime Me is blogging at 11pm.

Welcome to the World

Mr. and Mrs. Robin announce with pleasure the hatching of their babies, Rockin' and Batmanand.

(Isn't this a great shot? My next door neighbor took it. Look at those tiny, helpless, hungry little birds. My first reaction was awwww. Followed quickly by a pang of panic for Mama Robin. Yet another clear clue that I am not in the market for a third child.)

Are You Looking At My Bum, You Cheeky Monkey?

Call me old-fashioned, but I never really understood the appeal of those short/pants with writing on the backside. Do we really need to be drawing sicko attention to this fairly private area? I remember laughing hysterically with my father when we saw a girl with 'PINK' splashed across her bum and he said, 'Well, at least it isn't 'BROWN'! (Sorry UPS). Not the effect she was after I'm sure.

Once, at the gym, I saw a very heavy woman wearing a pair of shorts that said 'Rhand' on the back. Hmm, I thought, I'm not familiar with that school, I wonder where it is. Then she bent over to extract something from her gym bag - an image which, in and of itself will forever haunt me - and I saw the full picture: Rhode Island.

Welcome to Jamaica. Have a Nice Day!