On the up and up…

The upside of being down is… well, it’s the upside.  You start coming back up one step at a time and before you know it you are back on top.  I beat back the blues (again) simply by putting one foot in front of the other, over and over again as fast as I can.

I did not get to use my favorite treadmill today. And I brought the water bottle that leaks.  I turned on my music and I didn’t hit the playlist I had intended.  Instead, quite accidentally,  I started a single song.  On repeat.  Somewhere around the third time the song played I realized that I had it on repeat.  Somewhere on number five or six I had run just far enough to realize that I would definitely hit my goal for the year – one thousand miles.

This morning listening to the Cowboy Junkies’ cover of Vic Chesnutt’s  “Flirted with You All My Life” I ran.  I ran and ran and I cried (yep, on the treadmill like a lunatic) and I realized that I am not ready to quit.  (It’s not the first time that Vic Chesnutt made me realize that I am not ready to give up.) Chesnutt’s tune is about death and suicide but to me it has always been an allegory about letting go and moving on. Death is the absence of change, the absence of moving on and transforming.    And I am not ready to give up on Change.

I am so desperately afraid of that which is Unknown.  But sometimes to accomplish anything at all you have to change.  I am even more afraid of Hope.  But I am certain that in order to Change you have to Dream, you have to Hope.

When I decided that my bizarrely cathartic weeping and sprinting act really needed to stop I hit next on my phone.

And I had to smile.  The Universe was having a time at my expense today.  Jeff Buckley’s version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah serenaded me as I crossed my thousand mile marker.

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I updated my Facebook status from the gym today (like you do) – “I try not to be a runner that is all “holy shit, y’all, RUN. IT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE.” But if you don’t do something every day that makes you feel like every song you hear is the best. song. ever. and that you are at peace with everything and you totally understand your life – well then, find it. Because it will save you some heartache. Really.”

I can’t seem to find better words than those above. I don’t care what you do.  Yoga.  Meditate.  Paint.  Organize your linen closet. Skateboard. Do it. And love it.  And listen to music and figure out your whole entire life.  I promise you that the Truths that you realize in that hour a day will vanish.  It is similar to the way that dreams tend to evaporate in the time it takes you to roll over and say “damn, I just had the most fucked up dream.”  But for that hour everything makes sense and music sounds so good and your Life feels like no matter what it will all be okay….

I wanted to tell you what I figured out this afternoon.  I wanted to wow you with my simple understanding of Life and Death and Fear and Change and Hope.  But it’s gone.  Up in smoke.  Rather it is up in the grocery store and laundry and math homework and nap time.  But I will find it again tomorrow.

I want that for you. I didn’t run one thousand miles today.  I ran them over the last 343 days.  I have twenty two days to figure out what I will do with the next 365.

If you’re not sure what you are doing with the next year of your life go hide in the bathroom and listen to these two tunes back to back.  You still probably won’t know but they are damn good tunes.

Thank you for reading.  Thank you to all of you that have reached out over the last few days to say “Hey, I am sorry that you’re blue.”  It’s imperative that I write it down when I am hurting.  I need to.  It makes it start to go away.  But sometimes I forget to make the time to write it down when things are on the up and up.  I am back on an even keel, guys.  xxoo

December = Blecch

Oh hey, guess what?  It’s December and I can’t stop crying.   If you’ve been around a while you have likely already guessed it.  I hate the weird lull between Thanksgiving and Christmas when you hemorrhage money and you wonder what it is all really for and you wish you could just climb into bed with the people that you love and knit hats and wear sweatpants and eat pizza and watch movies on repeat. Oh?  That’s just me?

But when I am not moping I am hanging Christmas lights and loving my people. That’s the real pisser about the Winter Time Blues.  It’s broken up by a lot of really great moments.   This year’s funk is extra special.  Because the only thing that makes me sad and scared and completely anxious more than cold weather is good, good news.

When MQD and I got engaged I was elated.  And then terrified that I wouldn’t get pregnant.  When we got married and immediately got pregnant I was over the moon and then beyond scared that I would never be able to grow a healthy baby.  When my perfect Lucy Q arrived I was certain that I would never be a good wife and a good mother at the same time and that my marriage was destined for the shitter.

So, I started running and swimming and biking and smiling and taking good care of me and of my people and things were good.  Really good.  For years, really. This last month things have been so good that I am starting the road to self-sabotage that I know so well.  It starts with candy wrappers shoved under the seat of my car.  And then I start skipping the gym.  And then I stay up too late too often and then I sleep in too often and then I start to knit hats and wear the same pants every day and whoa.  Before I know it I am weeping.  MQD says that depression is thinking about the past and that anxiety is obsessing about the future. I think I am anxiously wallowing in the present. I am a multi-tasker.

It has been more than ten years since I was fearlessly hopeful.  I had a new house and two new cars and a baby on the way and I was Living.  Things were Good. They were just going to get Better. Right? It was ten years ago that things started to crumble and I started to dismantle that dream one house, one car, one marriage at a time but it still haunts me.  I am so fucking scared to get excited because it hurts so bad when it falls apart.  I feel fearlessly hopeful for a moment and my head caves in and the “Don’t do this, you know better than that, you won’t survive heartbreak twice” starts inside my head and I beeline it to the gas station for M&Ms.  Not even my regular gas station because I don’t want to see anyone I know.

How long?  How long until I won’t be afraid when things get really good? And what’s so good, you wonder?  Nothing.  Everything.  We renovated the kitchen.  I like my kids.  My sweet three million year old dog is healthy. My husband is fucking awesome and he listens and he loves me so much and he really, really likes me.   And I have great friends.  And a Life that I really, really want.  I am good at struggling, I am good at working towards a goal.  But what do you do when you look around and you think “This.  I want this, just like this.  Can’t it stay just like this?” That’s terrifying.

I hope you had a good Thanksgiving.  I hope that you felt the same kind of  all consuming gratitude that I enjoyed.  And even more than that – I hope that if you are in a moment of your life that is Good that you can find the strength to let it be.  Being happy shouldn’t be so damn stressful.

To the gym.  To the grocery store.  Thanksgiving leftovers are gone.  And it’s not time to start eating cookies day and night.  Not yet.  Thanks for being here.  And for reading.

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On the road to find out…

I did not want to run today. That happens to me if I take a day off. In my heart of hearts I am not an Exerciser. I am a creature of Habit. I like to do whatever I have been doing.  Yesterday I slept in and skipped a workout.  Hence, I wanted to do the same today.

I peeled myself out of bed and poured myself into running clothes, anyway.

For the first two miles I was only going to run four.  During the third and fourth mile I thought maybe I might run seven.  Somewhere in there my headphones died and I found myself in this weird, inexplicably flat neighborhood that I have never seen before.  And I ran and smiled and ran and smiled and marvelled at the flatness.  And then I checked the map and realized that in order to get home from there I would be running nearly nine and a half miles.

So, I settled on ten and and for the second time this weekend I just looked at the leaves and thought about what a ridiculous phrase “fall foliage” is if you say it a bunch of times in a row.

And I ran.  And I smiled some more and I sang to myself.

The seconds tick the time out.  There’s so much left to know and I’m on the road to find out.  Then I found my head one day when I wasn’t even trying and here I have to say ’cause there is no use in lying, lying.  Yes, the answer lies within.  So why not take a look now? ~ Cat Stevens

I didn’t have anything on my mind when I left the house.  Sometimes I will use a long run to tease some Truth out of whatever mess I have in my head.  But today, I was smiling when I left the house. And I just ran.  And smiled.  I stopped twice and took two pictures.

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When I turned down my street to head home I had the runner’s high smile.  I felt good.  Really good.  I was still singing.

Oh I’m on my way, I know I am, somewhere not so far from here.  All I know is all I feel right now, I feel the power growing in my hair.  ~Cat Stevens

Sometimes I have to work hard to make sense of my day. Today was an easy day. I run to find my Truth.  I am now and hope to always be “on the road to find out.”  Right now the road is a literal road and my feet carry me mile after mile, sometimes closer to the Truth and sometimes not.   My Truth, whatever it is that I cling to in order to stay sane, “it lies within.”  And when I feel like I am drifting above my life and not really feeling it or participating all I need to do is Locate Love and before I know it I will be almost home.

I feel pretty lucky today.  I feel pretty lucky most days.

The Tooth Fairy

It’s a gamble to take a shower with a toddler in your house.  As desperately as I want to get clean I know that I must also want to Magic Erase crayon from a wall, scoop dog food out of the water bowl, re-roll a roll of toilet paper…. something.

I got out of the shower and I heard her start running.  She was up to something.  “Luuuuucy,” I cried. “What are you doing?”

I did not hear her customary response, “Nothing.” Instead I heard her dive-bomb onto the couch.  “Are you hiding?” No response.

I peeked into the living room to see a pile of blankets on the couch and assumed (correctly) that Lucy was hiding with some kind of contraband.  Whatever it was, she already had it.  I figured I could quickly get dressed while she was hiding.  I threw my clothes on and took a deep breath and prepared to find out what she had been up to during my 87 second long shower.

“Lucy, where are youuuu?” From under the blanket I heard her “Hiding!” only it sounded more garbled than usual.

“Do you have something in your mouth, Lu?” She pulled the blanket down, eyes shining. “What do you have in your mouth, Lu? Spit it out.”  I put my hand in front of her face the way a parent does and steeled myself for halloween candy, a beetle, part of a magazine.

“Rocks!” she announced triumphantly as she spit into my hand eight teeth.  Yes.  TEETH.  Two days before Halloween Lucy was living out some kind of twisted horror movie and she spit into my hand a mouthful of TEETH.

They weren’t bloody.  She wasn’t crying.  And yet still for a brief moment I thought “This kid astounds me.  She has fallen and busted out all of her teeth in the time it took me take a shower and it didn’t even slow her down.”  I am not sure what made me turn back and look into my bedroom.  But there on my dresser was my jewelry box.  It was open and on it was a small blue box.  I started to laugh.  In 87 seconds she had climbed up to open my jewelry box, dig to the back where I hide Emily’s teeth after the Tooth Fairy does her thing, stolen them and shoved them all in her mouth.

With a fistful of spitty teeth I started to laugh.  “Yes.  Rocks.  Do not put rocks in your mouth.”  And I started to count.  I counted the “rocks” and I dug through the couch and carefully ran my hand along my white bedroom carpeting until I had accounted for all of the missing teeth.  Teeth safely returned to their hiding spot I all but forgot she had done this.  (Now that is indicative of how absurd life with an almost three year old truly is, she spit teeth into my hand that she had stolen from jewelry box and I all but forgot it happened hours later.)

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Emily got off the bus later that afternoon.  “Look at this, this tooth is loose.”  We had the usual “Let me wiggle it” “No, don’t pull it” “I am not going to pull it, just let me wiggle it” argument.  It wasn’t very loose.  Nevertheless, an hour later she came back downstairs with a fresh gap and a bloody tooth.  “It was a one day process! Loose tooth to missing tooth, Mom! Just one day!”

The world is weird.  That night as I reminded her to put her tooth where the the Tooth Fairy would be sure to find it she smiled at me.  “You’re the Tooth Fairy, too, right?”

“No.  Go to bed.  I love you.”

“But you’re the Tooth Fairy, right?”

“No.  Go to bed.”

“I know that you are.  You can tell me.”

“Do you want your dollar? The Tooth Fairy won’t come if she hears you talking like this.” She smiled and pulled her blankets up to her pierced nine-year-old ears.

In the morning she came down and said “Dad, I got a dollar coin from the Tooth Fairy.” He asked if it was Sacagawea or Susan B.  Without thinking I responded “Susan B, 1979.”

Em just smiled at me and said “Yep. Silver. From the Tooth Fairy.”


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Class of 1994

Here’s a weird thing to say out loud.  I think I was a cool kid in high school.  I didn’t know it at the time but as my 20th high school reunion approaches and the boxes of memorabilia have come out of the attic, I have had to face the truth.  That girl who spoke graduation weekend and got good grades and had a few nice boyfriends and friends in lots of different cliques – she was lucky.  If I am honest with myself  (or if I look at a high school yearbook with a discerning eye) I think I was, gasp, popular.

So, I should be excited about my upcoming high school reunion, right?  I even got conned into kicking around ideas with the planning committee, now if that doesn’t scream “in crowd” what does?  I should really be looking forward to this, right?

So, what gives?  I can’t be the only one that feels like I might throw up and has a knot in her stomach.  (Ha.  I never censor myself.  And I just did.  See? I must be nervous.  It’s not a knot in my stomach.  It’s a week’s worth of shit.  And about 12 teaspoons of Metamucil.  I have a friend that gets vicious diarrhea when she is nervous.  I am jealous.  It seems I am having the opposite problem.)

What am I afraid of?  It’s not seeing the people I knew in high school.  The 20th High School Reunion no longer holds the mystery it did once.  I am unlikely to be emotionally sucker-punched by an old flame or startled by the icy chill of a former friend.  The internet has kept us in touch as much as we’d like to be.

It’s me.  I am afraid to go home and see me.  High school me, that girl with so much potential.

I am in a good place.  I have fought hard to make peace with who I am and where I am and I no longer make self-deprecating jokes about figuring out what I want to be when I grow up.  I am in a really great marriage.  I am proud of the mother and the wife I have become.  My athletic endeavors give me something to make small-talk about. I feel pretty good (discounting the turd baby, of course.)

But fuck, I am nervous.  I really don’t think I am scared to see a bunch of people from high school.  They weren’t scary then and age has tempered most of us by now.  It has to be me.

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Does she look scary? I mean, she looks kind of bitchy, but I don’t know about scary.

So, here we go, 2oth High School Reunion Weekend.  Listen up Kelly circa 1994, your hair looks smoking, I will give you that. And you look like you have had a decent night’s sleep in the last decade.  I will cop to being super jealous of that. But you don’t have this one thing that I have now.  You didn’t know what you wanted. You thought you wanted to be an actress so that you could pretend to be all kinds of different people.  You thought that if enough people said “You’re so talented” or “You’re so funny” or the holy grail of teenage self-worth “You’re so pretty” that it would be enough to make you happy and it never, ever was enough.

But this life, this family, these people that love me – this is so much more than enough. This is all that I ever wanted.  And I have it.   I won’t return triumphantly home to say “Look at me, look at me and my fancy self and my great big life” but instead… Instead I will try to listen. I will say “How are you” and “tell me about your life” and “show me a picture of your kids” and I will let my smile speak for itself.  And I hope that when someone says “Did you see Kelly at the reunion” that someone will reply “Yes, she looked happy.”  I also hope that nobody says “Sure, she looks happy but it seemed like she was full of shit.  Seriously.  Full.  Of.  Shit.”  One can dream, right?

To my fellow classmates, I am looking forward to seeing you. Please, feel free to tell me a poop story as soon as you see me.  It will level the playing field.  Seriously.

 

 

Dear Emily June,

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Before coffee, before the alarm even went off this morning we sat down and I read to you.  Letters from previous birthdays. You were sitting on the kitchen table behind me.  We got to the year you turned five when I turned around and you had tears rolling down your face. “Stop after this one.  I am going to be sobbing when the bus comes.” Oh, my dear, sweet girl, we are cut from the same sappy cloth.  xxoo

 

Dear Emily June,

Yesterday morning when you looked at me and said “Last morning of being eight” I think you were disappointed that I didn’t leap over the kitchen counter and scoop you up in my arms and tell you that you will always be my baby. The truth is that I couldn’t get it out of my mouth without crying.

This year I have shed more tears over your birthday than I usually do (and we both know that I get a little sappy around your birthday.) I have tried to figure out what it is that has me so verklempt.  And here it is, kiddo.  The good, the bad and the ugly.

Sometimes I write you letters and I give them to you. Sometimes I write you letters and I know that I won’t give them to you for many years to come.  This is one that I will hang onto for a awhile.  This has been a big, big year for us.  We have had lots of big, scary conversations. You pushed hard on me about the truth about my marriage to your father.  You were ready to ask me hard questions about divorce and love.  For the most part, I think I was ready to answer them.  I had planned on answering them someday.  And the someday just showed up and we ran with it.

We have talked about how sometimes two people just aren’t happy anymore and you have to let go. But here’s the thing – sometimes we were happy.  I don’t really talk about that part much because it opens the little girl door to “why didn’t you just try harder” or “see, maybe you could have stayed married.”   I know both of those doors because if I am honest with myself I still peek inside them from time to time. And one of those times is your birthday.

Because the truth is, Emily, that Jeremy and I let each other down.  We did.  But for at least a few incredible picture-perfect weeks we had it in the bag.  I was enormously pregnant and your dad was on stand-by.  Your dad, who is allergic to answering his cell phone, picked up in the middle of the first ring.  Every time.   The weeks surrounding your birth continue to be some of the best days of my life.  And whether I like to think about it or not, he was a huge part of that.  And that’s hard for me to think about.

It’s weird. I know exactly what to do with the feelings of resentment, anger, sadness and disappointment surrounding a divorce.  I am not really sure what I am supposed to do with the good memories, though.  They break my heart a bit, every year.  I have been struggling with all of these feelings, the good memories that surface surrounding your birthday, since 2011. You were turning six and you were seamlessly sliding into this new life, a new house, a new baby.  A few years later and I still can’t seem to figure out how to feel happy and sad all at once.

You are so much stronger and smarter than me.  You love and forgive and look forward.  I have so much to learn from you.  I am trying so hard not to lean on you, sweet girl.  It is hard enough to grow up, you don’t need to be worrying about me.  I will grow up, too, in my own time.

Last week I had a tantrum on a Sunday morning.  Your dad and your sister left for church and we stayed home for a few extra minutes.  Wordlessly, you just started helping me pick up toys and make order.  You know that I think more clearly when things aren’t a mess.  I was trying to clear the counters of your dad’s canning shenanigans and I might have been screaming about jalapenos and you said so quietly “But it makes him happy.” I just sat down on the floor in the kitchen and cried.  I wanted to have clean counters and you just wanted the people who you love to be happy.  See? You are smarter than me.

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Every day I look at you and I am amazed that you are so big.  Your sister is just the same size as you when it was just you and me and our big, scary, new life. When she slides into the crook of my arm at night and I press my head against hers I can close my eyes and see your face.  It is almost impossible not to run up the stairs and climb into your bed.  You’re so smack dab in the middle of being little and big.  I wish you would climb in my bed and let me hold you while you sleep but I wish I could pour you a glass of wine and spill my guts, too.

This is the messiest, sloppiest birthday letter yet.  And I am afraid it is more about me than you.   I used to write you birthday letters that tried to sum up who you were that year so that we could look back and remember exactly who you were when you were two, three, four years old.  I guess nine is the magic age when I don’t feel like I can write that down for you. I know how you make me feel.  I know how I feel about your birthday.  But I don’t really know that I can say “This, this is who Emily is” anymore.  That’s on you.

Oh, Emily… there is nobody like you.  You are the sweetest, kindest person I have ever known.  I am smiling through my tears as I write this.  My 20th high school reunion is in a little over a week, and here I am writing a letter to my oldest daughter and I am tempted to sign it like a yearbook…. “Don’t ever change, LYLAS, Mom.”

Because I do, love you like a sister.  I never had one growing up, but I imagine this is what it might be like, growing up side by side with someone who understands parts of you that you can’t explain. Like it or not, I am still growing up, too, right along with you. And really, if I had one wish for you…. do not ever, ever change, Em.  You are unfuckingbelievably cool, just the way you are.  You are kind and funny.  And in my book, that’s pretty much where it’s at.

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I love you, baby girl.  Every day more than the day before. You turned everything I thought I knew inside out and I never looked back. Keep being awesome, Ems.  You got this.

Love,

Mom

Last day…

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She sat down at the counter for breakfast and smirked.  “Last day of being eight.”

She was waiting for me to say something sappy.  “Get your backpack, babe, and get packed for school. Let’s get totally ready for the bus and then we can ruminate on the matter of your birth.” She rolled her eyes.

As she packed her stuff she said “I am going to be nine tomorrow but I am still very immature.” I looked up from making lunches. “We are studying the duties of local government and every time…” that’s as far as she got before I started laughing.  “I know, right?  Duties.  I am the only that laughs.  In my whole class.”

“Do you think you will still laugh when you’re nine?” I asked her.

“Yeah.  Because that is only one day from now and we have state duties and national duties to talk about still.  But I’ll laugh really quiet.”

I am not sure how to break it to her.  There is an incredibly good chance that she will not ever grow out of this potty humor phase.  At 38 years old I am still yukking it up over here.

Emily June,

You will get an appropriate birthday letter this week but for today – enjoy being eight. Maturity is overrated.  Pierced ears will surely fulfill your need to grow up a bit, no need to stop laughing at poop jokes abruptly.

Love you,

Mom

If you give a kid a car nap…

If you give a kid a car nap than you might be stuck sitting in the car.

If you are in your car in the driveway you might just watch Breaking Bad on your phone.

But if you finished Breaking Bad yesterday you might not be ready for another commitment.

If you’re not ready for a commitment you might just sit in the front seat and look out the window.

If you look out the window you might start to think about how much you really, truly hate lariope.

If you hate lariope, you might decide to just pull a little up.

If you pull out a little you might find yourself digging up shit loads of lariope while your kid naps in the air-conditioned car.

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And when the bus gets home you might go buy a roll of weed mat and eight bags of mulch.

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And everyone knows if you only buy eight bags you will go back for four more.

And now it is 5:30 and there is nothing but one glass of wine in the fridge and no dinner. Who works here? What did she do all day? Because she sure didn’t make anything for dinner.

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Special thanks to Laura Numeroff and  If You Give a Mouse a Cookie. 

In Sickness and in Health

IMAGE_3940-MIX“Well, now you have something to write about,” he said.  And he smiled.

He kind of half-smiled.  The half of his face that wasn’t drooping and looking half in the bag smiled.

“So, if you’re not having a stroke, we can make fun of you again, right?  Because you look really crazy.”

On the other side of the curtain in our emergency room the girls were giggling, playing hide and seek.  I’d like to pretend that they were both blissfully unaware of the tension that had been in the room but Emily is too smart.

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Earlier in the day  I called MQD and said “Guess what I have to do right now? Nothing.  The house is clean and Lu and I are just goofing off.”  We FaceTimed while we ate lunch. I climbed in bed with her at nap time and MQD called again.  “Let me call you when I get her down,” and I cut him off.  I assumed he was just calling to tell me how wonderful I am or how much he loves me (because he does that just all of the time!)  In truth, we were having one of those perfect days, those rare married days when you text back and forth about how lucky you are to be married to one another instead of “get milk” and “do you see my wallet on the counter?”

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MQD didn’t wait for me to call him back.  Instead, he texted me to say that a co-worker noticed that he was only blinking with one eye and that he was experiencing numbness in his face.  He was “concerned.”  I tried not to react emotionally.  I simply called him, “Call your doctor.  You need to go in right now.”

When he called back shortly to report that his GP wasn’t in, that is when I was afraid.  “Do you want me to find an Urgent Care or figure out what you should do?”  MQD, this man who usually doesn’t let me get him a glass of water said simply, “Yes.  Please.”

Lucy was asleep.  Em was at school.  I called the school secretary and asked to have Emily ready in the lobby. I filled my bag with snacks, I dressed Lucy (because she strips the moment we walk back in the door lately)  and I left to get my big girl.

We walked to the car and Emily asked me “Are you scared?”

“Of course, I am.  I love you guys very much.”

She thought for a moment in the backseat of the car. “But should we be worried?’

“I don’t think so, not yet.  But I think we are going to get your dad and go straight to the hospital so that if we do have to worry we don’t have to go to a different waiting room and start all over.”

The kids were in the car so we didn’t really talk much on the way there.  In retrospect that was a blessing. How many times and how many ways can you say “So, do you think you are having a fucking stroke?” We tried to talk ourselves into thinking it was a migraine, a terrible migraine.

It wasn’t long before the first nurse looked at him, watched him waggle his eyebrows and try to blink and said “I think it’s Bell’s Palsy.  How’s that?  A diagnosis and I am not even a doctor?!”  She threw her arms in the air and said “You can do the Happy Dance now, I really don’t think it’s a stroke.”

Six hours, five doctors, three nurses, a pair of neurologists and the best damn french fries in Chapel Hill (garlic fries from Tyler’s aside) later and we were back in the car.

At around 10am today I sent MQD a text.   I was emotional and overwhelmed with just how much I loved this man and how lucky I was.  IMAGE_3935 (1)

At noon I was afraid that loving him might not be as simple as it was just two hours before.

Someday we will laugh and say “Man, remember that day we thought you were having a stroke and you just had Bell’s Palsy?” But today I will watch you sleep and write it all down.  Because I feel like I want to hold onto this day so tightly, the day that I loved you so fucking much and everything turned out okay.

MQD, I love you like crazy.  In our wedding vows we exchanged Tom Robbins’ words “My love for you has no strings attached. I love you for free.”  We never said “in sickness and in health.”  That goes without saying. But god damn, if this was some kind of weird test, I think I passed.  You scared the shit out of me today and I just kept loving you.  So, now that you aren’t going to drop dead can you please try to do something about your face?  Because my 20th high school reunion is in just about a month and you look like Popeye when you smile. Yours, Kel

Race Recap: Boys on the Left

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Another excellent sprint triathlon put on by FS Series this past weekend! My race preparation was not what I wanted it to be.  The previous week included the consumption of a lot more pizza and beer than is ideal and the night before featured a long phone call with Poison Control (Thanks, Lucy!) but in spite of the lack of proper fueling and sleep I had a great time.

I am ready to take on the Olympic Distance triathlon next season.  I have two more sprints this summer before I switch gears into half marathon mode for the fall and winter.  So, now that I have more than a handful of sprints under my belt I feel like I can make an observation.

Answer me this, friends.  Why don’t the men tell you before they pass you on the bike?  Are they trying to kill me?

I am a novice cyclist.  It is super obvious.  If you don’t notice my white knuckled death grip on my handlebars than certainly you can see my somewhat swervy riding style, even from behind.  And if all of that escapes you – I am on a 35 year old, $200 bike.  That ought to tip you off.

I get passed on the bike.  I have made peace with this fact.  The bike is my weakest part of a triathlon.  Of the dozen  people who passed me – eight of them were men. Eight times I thought I was going to die as they zipped past me on my left.  Four of the people that passed me were women.  All four of them shouted “Left!” as they zipped past me.  What gives?

Is it just some kind of competitive streak? Maybe.  But I can’t say that the men aren’t supportive. As I was returning on this moderately hilly out and bike course every single man that I rode by while I was giving it all I had up a hill said something to the effect of “Yeah, get it, girl!”

It seems like the fellas like to see you work hard.  I understand the idea of having a little skin in the game, but, guys, do you want to see my skin on the street?  Because really I all but leap out of my bike seat when you whizz by.

Question for the cycylists – I get the etiquette for a group ride.  Do the same rules not apply for racing? I can see why they wouldn’t but it seems odd that everyone has plenty of lung capacity to shout out words of encouragement but can’t seem to yell out “Left!” to keep me from possibly wrecking us both.

So, that’s what’s on my mind. Summer is wrapping up.  School starts Monday.  Backpack is full of supplies.  Lots of debate about the first day of school ensemble is happening.  Pictures are forthcoming.

What’s on your to-do list as the summer winds down?  I still need to paint the kitchen in my ceiling before I can tell you about our summer kitchen reno.  That’s I have got!