Feedback

I have a friend, let's call her *Shmulie*. Shmulie is very supportive of my essays and likes to send me positive, encouraging feedback about my musings. She has a fantastic blog of her own with lots of followers and people who view her work. Shmulie writes on a *daily* basis, sometimes more than one post. All brilliant, witty and well written, every day for close to six months. Recently Shmulie sent me a suggestion - perhaps my essays would be easier to read if I put them in paragraph form? She acknowledged that while she recognized I was going for a *stream-of-consciousness-vibe* the paragraphs would make them more *reader-friendly*. Um, yeah. Stream of consciousness... What Shmulie doesn't realize is that actually I was just being lazy. Too many years out of the workforce and my writing now reads like a grocery list. It's a miracle I remember how to use punctuation at all.

Once she pointed it out I became self-conscious. What if my readers (all three of you) *would* prefer if I made things a little easier to read? Well of course I would have to clean them up. In the same way that I would *never* allow anyone inside my house unless it was to a reasonable standard of cleanliness (except Beth) my writing must be presentable. And not give people a headache. If people are going to read this (all three of you) then I *must* make sure that Strunk and White would be proud. Thank you Shmulie, you have saved me from myself and your feedback is much appreciated.

What are you running from?

I am a runner. I haven't always been one. In fact, I came to it somewhat late in life. It started when my second child was a year old. His older sister was at preschool, he didn't need a morning nap anymore but was too tired and cranky to be much fun in the mid-morning, so I would put him in the jog stroller and started to run. At first it was only a couple of miles, but it grew, especially when I discovered it was the perfect antidote to the dropping-the-morning-nap crankiness. For the first mile or so he would look around quietly, for the next 2-4 miles he would doze, and then wake up during the last mile and play on the playground while I stretched. And by the end of the summer I realized, *hey, I run a lot on a regular basis, I could do a 10-mile race*. And so I did.

I am not a particularly fast runner, but I am not slow either. Running works for me because I am uncoordinated and lack agility. You don't need either to run distances. You just put one foot in front of the other and try not to trip (which happens sometimes but I persevere). It helps to have the right gear and I confess I have become one of those weirdos who have three pairs of running shoes. All identical. Now that I have asthma I also have to wear something to cover my mouth and nose when it is really cold out. Although it is a loud multi-colored stripe I still look sinister...or goofy, especially when I am wearing a headband to cover my ears and sunglasses. Before I accepted my status as *runner*, as opposed to *occasional jogger* I would be concerned about how I looked. Now I don't care. This is evident in my appearance before, during and after I run. Not only does my attire leave a lot to be desired, my hair and everything is simply unattractive. And I don't care.

I can't say I would necessarily have chosen running as my exercise of choice. Instead I think that it chose me. It was so...peaceful. Quiet. Really quiet. The kind of peace and quiet I hadn't had in four years, since my first child was born. So my son and I continued to run together and once he outgrew the stroller (and the dozing) and had turned into an ornery three year old...four year old...five year old... I kept running. Not only was it peaceful, but I could choose my own music to play on my iPod for the first time in several years. I realized that there are no children asking you to make them a hot dog when you are on the running path. If you come across some siblings squabbling you just run on by and it's not your problem. The only messes I see are from dogs, and since it's not my dog I just keep on going.

It gives me a window of time when I am by myself without anything else I can do but...run. For me, that's what makes it different from walking. When you are running you can't multitask. You can't talk on the phone, check your email, send or receive a text message or schedule appointments. I can't be out for a run and pull over to the side for a few minutes to make sure no one needs anything (okay, I could, but when I am running I don't want to. I just want to get.it.done).

I do a lot of thinking while I run - what I need to do with the rest of my day, how I am going to fit it all in, pending projects and so on. Sometimes I think about people I am irritated with. How they make me so angry and I need to let them know as soon as this stupid run is over (which I never do, because once the run is over I feel good and the top priority is a latte and a shower). But the fact of the matter is, I can't stay focused on that for too long because inevitably I need to think about...running. These thoughts are usually not pleasant. Popular running thoughts include: *this sucks, I wish I was done*, *this sucks, my hamstring hurts*, *this sucks, I can't breathe*, *this sucks, my foot hurts*, *this sucks, I can't believe I am only at mile two and have four more to go*, *this sucks, my knee hurts*, *this sucks, it's freaking cold out*, *this sucks, it's freaking hot out*. There are many more, but you get the picture.

There are also some good thoughts in there because I see some amazing scenery. I am fortunate to live in the Washington DC area and have such fantastic places to run. Where else can you do a six mile loop and see Iwo Jima, Arlington National Cemetery, the Pentagon, the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and that crazy white box, the Kennedy Center? Sometimes I literally get choked up, and not just from lack of oxygen. I am also amazed at the wild life I encounter. On the tow path in Georgetown I regularly see blue herons. And every time I shake my head (while running, being careful not to lose my balance)and think to myself *a freaking heron, go figure*. And the people are also entertaining. Out on the W&OD there is a guy who ran without shoes. I understand that is now the *in* thing to do, and it is supposedly *orthotically superior* (I also make up new words on my runs). However, *dude*, it's February. For the love of god, put some shoes on. And my all-time favorite so far - Mr. I-am-taking-shots-directly-from-my-bottle-of-vodka-in-the-middle-of-the-day-while-I-take-my-walk-with-my-dog-on-the-W&OD. With my lack of balance and coordination I almost veered off the trail into a ditch in shock.

My goal for 2011 is to run the Marine Corps Marathon. When people ask me why I respond - 26.2 miles of no kids and peace and quiet. What other reason do I need?

Do you really need that?

I love Costco. I truly do. If you ask me, it is the happiest place on earth. The great thing about Costco is that very few people really *need* to go. Unless you own a small restaurant, are a family of eight, or the parent of teenage boys it just isn't necessary. There is nothing there you need. Nothing. Not only can you get your industrial sized pack of paper towels or toilet paper at Target for about the same price, Target is closer and you are pretty much guaranteed it will have what you came for in the brand you want. And you won't walk away with two DVDs you had no intention of buying (what a great price, and on Blu Ray!)the new Rock Band III, a book on WWII with pop-ups, and the assortment of greeting cards pack.

That is not the case with Costco, which is what makes it wonderful. Once you get there you start to wonder how you ever lived without some of these things. Why yes, now that you mention it, I *do* need a velour Snuggie, some micro-fleece socks in garish colors and a pack of miniature flashlights that can be stowed around the house, never to be seen again because we can't remember where we put them. The point is you never know what you will find at Costco. Things you didn't even know you needed until you saw them there. And the prices - why they must be great since you are pushing your cart around a slab concrete floor in a warehouse with small birds flying about overhead. Of course the things are a steal - you don't even get a shopping bag to cart the stuff to your car.

I have found over the years that Costco can also break your heart. Why would you start carrying a brand of lotion that I fell in love with when I bought it from you (with a coupon!), only to cruelly stop six months later and now I must buy a bottle at Rite Aid that is half the size for the same cost as your super-sized item. It can also tease - maybe we'll have it, maybe we won't. You won't know until you get here. And oh yeah, just because we don't have it today doesn't mean we *won't* have it four days from now. And just because we have that best-selling book you have been considering purchasing as a gift for your mom *today* doesn't mean it will be in stock tomorrow, or ever again for that matter.

The pressure can be deadly, but not for someone like me who has been shopping there for over two decades. I am not one of those *newbie* Costco shoppers. You know, the ones that come out with the 5 gallon tub of mayonnaise because it's such a *great deal*. I confess that in my earlier years of shopping I would get caught up in the excitement of the samples and find myself the owner of a case of frozen pigs-in-a-blanket. That box of Flents Wipe'N Clear individual packets *seemed* like a good idea at the time, but three years after the purchase I still have more than half of the case left. And then there are the things that come in Costco sized containers that you can eat all of, but shouldn't. When is it ever a good idea to get a tub of gummy bears larger than your kitchen sink? And yes, if you ate steak every night for a week you could justify the pack of fillets for that amazing price. Just verify your medical coverage beforehand to make sure it will cover your bypass surgery.

But now I am older and wiser. There are items that I buy in the ridiculous Costco sizes, but they are honestly things I use in their entirety. Yes, my family will in fact go through this entire pack of 16 hot dog buns before they go stale. Yes, this giant pack of hot dog buns goes with the giant pack of hot dogs that is next to it (four packs of 12 dogs). And yes, the three pack of super-sized bottles of ketchup will be used within a few months. Trust me. So who am I to judge the lady in line behind me with the bottle of vinegar bigger than my first born child?

Where did you come from?

Last night I walked into my daughter's room to discover her engaged in a serious discussion with her brother. She was sitting on her bed in her pajamas and he was standing in the middle of her room. Naked, except for a pair of Batman socks. My mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened and closed a few more times searching for the appropriate words that escaped me until finally I gave up and walked out.

I come from a long line of women. Okay, so that may seem obvious, but what I mean is that the men in our family are there by marriage. So imagine my surprise when I discovered we were having a son. It started with the ultrasound where I badgered the technician - are you sure? Check again. It's not that I was opposed to having a boy, it's just that I didn't know what to do with one. We had a girl, and the next one was supposed to be her sister. That was the natural order of things. But we did indeed have a boy, and every single day I am reminded how unprepared I am for this job.

For starters, no one tells you that the desire to blow everything up starts very early on, pretty much before actual speech. *Anything* can be made into a weapon, being naked is not a cause for alarm, and bathroom humor never gets old. Ever. Before having a son I thought these were stereotypes. Exaggerated over-generalizations. With each passing year I am learning that they are in fact my reality.

In the early years I was amazed to discover the vast wealth of knowledge I had accumulated about...trucks. I could tell you about any truck on the road - what it was used for, who drove it, and so on. Although I had no practical need for this knowledge I am confident it is more useful then my extensive knowledge of 80s music. Now that the boy is almost six I have shed my truck data and replaced it with a disturbing level of knowledge about...Star Wars. One of my high points (or low points, depending on how you look at it) was when I found Mace Windu's head while cleaning out my van. Not only was I thrilled to find Mace's head because his headless action figure body disturbed me more than I like to admit, but I instantly knew whose head I had found.

I also find myself uttering phrases without the slightest trace of self-consciousness or absurdity, such as *stop playing with the bees in the bush* or *kicking your friend and having him kick you is not a game*. The other day he had a friend over. First I had to tell them to stop kicking each other. Next I told them to stop punching each other, at which point they cried out: then what is there for us to do?

I am not saying it would have been easier if I'd had a second girl, or that I would have things under control more than I do. Or that I would be able to shed my self-bestowed title of *mediocre mom*. I just often have the feeling that up there god is laughing at me. That my son is a daily reminder to me to *lighten up*. I am constantly amazed and amused by how this little guy thinks. I mean really, *why not* play the air guitar while jumping on your bed...naked?

Can you hear me now?

Today I went to the store to get a new *smart phone*. This is to replace my old smart phone that had faithfully served me for almost three years. This was the phone I had reluctantly purchased, not convinced that a stay-at-home-mom needs a phone that can keep an elaborate calendar, store information on everyone I meet and do everything but make dinner (although it does have recipes for what I can make for dinner, or make reservations for dinner, or reviews of which places serve the best dinner).

Fast forward three years and I am not sure how I survived *before* I had my smart phone. It keeps all my *valuable data* such as my calendar, contacts for everyone I know and most importantly, it provides me with valuable *apps* that allow me to look up important information while standing in the meat department of the grocery store, like "salt pork". The funny part is that this device is called a *smart phone* and yet I rarely use the *phone* part of it. In fact, when it rings I usually look around perplexed as to the source of the noise, despite my *very* distinctive ring tone (I am not joking, it is very unique, ask me about it). As a result, I don't so much as answer my calls as I retrieve messages people leave because it takes me too long to associate the *noise* with someone trying to call me. If the phone part of my smart phone were to stop working I probably wouldn't notice for several days, maybe more than a week.

And yet, the most important aspect of having the smart phone is the urgent need to have *a phone* with you at all times. Why? Because what if someone needs to reach you? Urgently! It occurs to me that this ability to be reached any time, any where, was not something my mother and her generation worried about. These were woman who left their homes, went to the grocery store and other errands and appointments during the day and *they weren't reachable*. I marvel at their risk-taking, reckless behavior. What if the school had called and Bobby had vomited or contracted lice? Heck, come to think of it, most of them didn't have voice mail or an answering machine either. So if the school did call, not only couldn't these women be reached while they were at Target or at step aerobics, but the school would have to repeatedly call until someone could be reached. Oh, the horror. It should also be pointed out that they didn't have the contact information on hand for everyone they knew so they couldn't call someone if they needed something. Urgently! Like salt pork. Why? Because these phone books were back home on the counter, next to...the phone.

Don't get me wrong, I am glad that I can be reached quickly if Susie gets hit in the head with a ball at PE, but sometimes I wonder if things have gone too far when I start to contemplate whether the yoga instructor would notice if I snuck out to check if I have any messages. I am so obsessed with being reachable that I take the phone into the bathroom with me and set it on the counter while I shower. Just in case. I am sure there is a name for this type of neurotic behavior. Perhaps I can look up a diagnosis and treatment on one of my apps?

Letting Go

For the first few years of her life my daughter was content to let me select her outfits each day. I was fortunate in the sense that this willingness on her part lasted much longer than most little girls. Perhaps this is why, when the time came, and she began to assert her fashion independence, I wasn't willing to let go that easily. While most moms would probably laugh at the *creative ensembles* their offspring came up with I couldn't help but be aghast. Really? You want to wear that top with those pants? Let's be reasonable - how about this lovely top instead?And those socks are a travesty. Let's get out some nice white ones with the lace trim.

But really it was minor transgressions - shades of colors that god didn't mean to go together, the occasional clashing pattern, but nothing outright hideous. And I tried, I really tried to let go of micromanaging her fashion decisions. I realized that letting go of this one small thing was a good first step for me in a lifetime of letting go. Oh but how I cringed when she went out dressed as a valentine in head to toe red and pink. After several battles I vowed to let her make her own choices as long as they were seasonally appropriate (there must be *some* standards).

And then came the day of *the outfit*. She showed up ready to go to school wearing some horizontally striped boot cut leggings in garish jewel tones (how did those get in the drawer?), a bright blue and and red t-shirt from a soccer clinic she attended, black shoes, yellow socks and a lavender wind breaker. It was my worst nightmare. I may have gasped, or even let out a squeak of surprise, but instead of demanding she change I took several deep, calming breaths and drove her to school.

I was feeling rather virtuous in my tolerance and acceptance. I congratulated myself for *letting go*. And then the following week I got the Valentine's Day gift she made for me in class. A beautiful frame she painstakingly created containing a picture of her with the biggest smile I have ever seen, she was positively beaming. And she was wearing *the outfit*. Although I can honestly say that get up is seared into my brain forever, now I have photographic proof to produce when she is a teenager. It pays to be virtuous.

Capturing the moment

Back when I was growing up parents showed up to our sporting events carrying...nothing. Okay, since I grew up in Seattle they often carried umbrellas, but that was it. I don't think we even brought gallon-sized sports drinks with extra electrolytes in case someone dehydrated during the brief increments of time we were clumped together, *playing*, on the field. If any photos were taken it was by the *professional* photographer at the end of the season. That was the only proof that we ever played soccer. And yet I remember, as do my teammates, and my parents.

The other day I was at my son's soccer game. Like a good soccer mom I had my collapsible chair, my water, water for each of my children and my husband, snacks, the DSLR camera for *really good* action shots, the pocket digital camera for emergencies and the flip video camera to catch some action sequences. My son loves soccer like I love ice cream - too much is never enough (for those of you old enough to remember, this was also what Billy Idol sneered in the MTV promo ads back in the day, but that's for another post). So there I am snapping away like a mad woman. Shot after beautiful shot of my son playing soccer in the splendid fall weather in all his glory. It's the last game of the season and neither team has scored a goal. Then suddenly the crowd is cheering wildly - our team scored! I lower the camera from my face long enough to ask the other moms, "who scored that goal"? Your son, they answer. I had missed the moment because I was so busy capturing the moment. Perhaps next season I will leave the camera at home and savor the present.