Excitement on the side

Obligatory Update

Posted on November 13, 2013 | 13 comments

The Creative juices aren’t flowing. But it’s not because I am lacking Juice.

I have Running Juice.

My big girl walked/ran her first 5K. I looped back and finished with her.

I have kind of a lot of Running Juice. The physical therapist has me tuned up just right and I have run more than 300 miles since August when I got those new pink kicks.

So. I got some more.

I have tons and tons of Leaf Raking Juice. And I have 8 year old free labor. I recommend it.

I may or may not have had a little Juice at a party recently. I was excited. I wore a dress. And eye shadow.

Which is kind of funny because I also wore this mask.

You know you found the right church when there is a Burlesque show and a good excuse to wear a luchador mask and your shoes are carefully placed by the front door when you get there on Sunday morning. I think that is a sign of a good time, right? Losing your shoes? I seem to remember that from the Days Before Kids.

So.

I have Running Juice. And Leaf Raking Juice. And Fancy Dress Up Juice.

But I don’t have much in the way of Pithy Commentary Juice. Or even Sappy Emotional Observations Juice. Hell. I don’t seem to have any Get a Load of This Shit Juice even and I almost never run out of that.

I’m here. And I miss you guys. I just don’t seem to have a lot to say. And I don’t know what to make of that.

13 Comments

Posted in Nonsense

You know what’s Freaky?

Posted on October 31, 2013 | 15 comments

It’s really Freaky when everything is going along just fine.

It was a fairly simple question. “What time do you want me home on Thursday for Trick or Treating?”

I was standing in the kitchen making him a sandwich when he asked me. I was in my pajamas, complete with pink fuzzy slippers. Lucy was quite literally underfoot and Emily was getting her things together for school. He was wearing a tie.

And he asked me for direction. It is not as if he asked me to write him a to do list or asked me to fill out a satisfaction survey. But in that moment, I was The Boss. And it felt so good.

“Whenever you can work it out. We leave here at 5:50ish. Trick or Treat from 6 to 8pm.”

“Ok.” That’s all he answered. No questions about what time the kids would get in bed or how long it would take to get over to our friends’ home.

I tried to just keep making sandwiches. Eventually the words came spilling out. “This is why I am so happy at home, you know. Because I am in charge of something. Even if it is just what we eat for dinner and what time we go trick or treating, I don’t feel like I work for you. It’s so hard to feel like you’re not really in charge of anything or in control of anything and really it is just about how you say things and if you were a different kind of man and you said “I will be home at 5:30” instead of “What time do you want me home?” it would just feel different to me and I can see how it could feel like I….” I stopped eventually. He was gone.

He was standing in the kitchen but he had mentally checked out. How many times can you dissect out loud exactly why you are so happy before someone feels like they don’t have to hang on your every word? I suppose if someone you loved was sad you might be inclined to listen longer. But the weekly, sometimes daily, “Let me tell you why this is working for me” speeches I am prone to giving, I imagine they are growing tiresome.

But I still can’t really understand it. This Life. I want to understand why it works. I want to understand so that I can never, ever break it.

Five years ago on October 27th MQD took me out to dinner. We had never met. We spoke only briefly on the telephone prior to our first date. We had a nice dinner. We drank beers and laughed. It wasn’t more than a few weeks later that we talked about kids. We talked about a family. I said that in a perfect world I would stay at home and raise my children as long as it worked. He agreed.

And here we are. And it’s working.

I am in charge of some things. He is in charge of other things.

And then last night he asked me if I’d make banana bread today. Uh. Banana bread is your job, MQD. Don’t upset the delicate balance. It’s in the oven.

I made it. Because he doesn’t ask me to do things often. So, I hope it is tasty. But I secretly hope it is not really tasty because banana bread is his job.

Happy Halloween, y’all. Happy Anniversary of our first date, MQD. Five years is not a terribly long time. But it is long enough to build a pretty super life. And apparently it is long enough to start shirking on banana bread duty.

15 Comments

Posted in Parenting

Happily Divorced

Posted on October 17, 2013 | 19 comments

“But you probably don’t want to hear about that…” you said. You let your voice trail off the way you do when you aren’t sure if I am going to start talking. You were talking about your girlfriend’s youngest daughter, her schoolwork. If you were just a casual friend the dismissal could have been interpreted to mean that every parent has conversations about homework with their teenager and it isn’t terribly interesting so why waste time talking about it.

But you aren’t a casual friend. So, I have spent the last few days wondering what that single sentence meant. Because that’s how we talk. We laugh about old friends and trade “Did you hear that so and so got married?” and “Oh man, I had a sandwich with boursin mayonnaise on it and damn I forgot how much I love that stuff” and in between we say small things that we mean. Things like “You sound happy” and “I’m glad you called.”

“But you probably don’t want to hear about that…”

Why? Do you think that I am not interested in hearing about how you are settling in to a quiet life of doing home projects and arguing with kids about homework and being around at dinner time? I suppose it is fair to assume that it might sting a little. Ten years ago I had imagined that you’d be putting down my hardwood floors, tucking our daughter in to bed and sitting on the deck with me wondering if we’d get one more warm weekend on the beach before fall quickly turned to winter.

I don’t hesitate to talk to you about the kids or my life. It isn’t a secret that I am very, very happily married and I don’t hide that from you. I talk about our daughter throwing a softball with MQD and I know that you’d imagined doing that someday. I know that probably stings a little more than hardwood floors and a seat at the dinner table. I don’t keep my life a secret because I know that in your heart of hearts you want us to be happy. Even if it stings a little.

blurry jer

For almost a decade I have believed that you just never wanted the life that I wanted. It was easier to imagine that this life, the dinner seven days a week at 6 pm and a quiet life raising kids in the ‘burbs just wasn’t for you than to admit that maybe the only part of that life that didn’t work for you was the part that was me.

Maybe that was why you said I didn’t want to hear about your life now.

But you’re wrong.

A person can’t run wild and free in to their old age. Sooner or later they need to slow down. For so many years I just imagined that you’d never slow down. You’d just go at top speed until the end. It is almost as if there is only so much life to be lived and you were planning on living all of yours before you ever hit 50.

I see you slowing down. I see you happy. You don’t have to hide it. Because you know what doesn’t sting at all? You just might be around when Em graduates from high school.

I am glad you’re happy. I am glad you’re slowing down. I am glad I wasn’t wrong when I thought that you might settle down one day. You know I love being right. Turns out I just wasn’t right for you. And I am glad about that, too. Because in the end we’re both happy.

I guess if we couldn’t be happily married than happily divorced will work.

19 Comments

Posted in Parenting

Tagged Divorce, ex-husband, Growing Up, Life

Running Skirts: They Hide the Pee

Posted on October 9, 2013 | 18 comments

Let’s talk about crotch sweat, baby…. Did I lose you? It was a better hook when Salt-n-Pepa invited you to talk about sex, baby, in 1990. But I don’t want to talk about sex. I want to talk crotch sweat.

Yesterday morning I posted to Facebook about catching hell from the wee one about my running skirt. “Your running skirt is too short when your 21 month old stops you at the door with a grimace and says “Mama, go?? Go?? Pants!!! Pants ON!” Evidently she thought I needed pants. It was funny. Not hilarious. But a momentary “Ha!” so I quickly posted it as I hopped in the car on my way to the gym. By the time I got to the gym the post had several comments. Most of them of the “running skirt, huh?” variety.

As the day wore on I got a few more questions. I contemplated a “Running Skirts: Not Just for the Stepford Wives at the Tennis Club” kind of post. But then I realized I had a civic duty to break it down. There were gals out there (and dudes, I suppose. Hello, dudes, that do not run the opposite direction at the mention of crotch sweat. Umm. Yeah.) I owed it to these folks not to write a tongue-in-cheek answer.

So. Here we are.

Where do I start? The running skirt rules. Let me tell you why.

Chub Rub. Nobody wants it. Unless you are a young gal or a lucky gal your thighs probably touch. This is not a huge problem when you are just casually walking down the street in a skirt. But start hustling? Yowza. You’ve got chub rub in no time. And once you’ve got it – it’s harder to get rid of than poison ivy. You think it’s gone and Boom! It’s back. You feel the burn.
Compression shorts. They prevent the chub rub but they are not actually a fashion statement. Compressing the chub is not really … attractive. Unless your compression pants go down to your ankles they have to stop somewhere, right? And where they stop your body comes shooting out as if to shout “You can’t restrain me!! Here I am, I am your chub!!” The running skirt allows for compression shorts that no one has to see!
Conceal the sweat. I sweat. Kind of a lot. I sweat on my face and my back and my head. I have been known to throw my hat at Emily after a long run just to hear her shriek “It’s soaking wet!!!” What I do not throw at anyone after a long run is my crotch. Sweat has a tendency to roll down the body, right? No matter where the moisture starts, whether it is from my head or my face or ample bazooms it seems to follow a path straight for my crotch. Have you ever seen one of those women that looks like she might have peed in her pants? Yeah. She is probably just sweaty. But it’s not all that cute. Because it looks like pee. And like crotch sweat. (I am going to say that a million more times to guarantee that when you google “crotch sweat” I come up. Because, really, we all have to have a goal, right?) So, the running skirt provides a perfect way to hide the sweat.
Pee. Have you ever had a baby? I have had two. I am in a lucky minority. I can jump rope without peeing my pants. In fact ,just yesterday afternoon I exploded a jump rope at the gym. I like to do a tabata cycle of alternating jumping rope and burpees. It pretty much sucks but it is a good way to crank up your heart rate in four minutes. The whole time I jump rope I think “Don’tpeeDon’tpeeDon’tpee” and I contract my pelvic floor. (The entire time I do burpees I think “ThisfuckingsucksThisfuckingsucksThisfuckingsucks” but that has nothing to do with peeing my pants or babies. So, ladies, if you think you might pee a little – the running skirt is your friend. In fact, if I ever develop a post-partum exercise gear fashion line that will be my running skirt sales pitch – Running Skirts: They Hide the Pee.
Lastly, I promise it really is the last reason – The Cute.

I mean c’mon. This is my all time favorite running skirt. The compression shorts are a little longer than most and it makes me feel like I have a little extra spring in my step.

Yep. Like I need extra pep.

What’s up Crotch Sweat? Oh hey, Chub, how you doin? I barely noticed you there underneath that adorable running skirt.

Running skirts deliver. They work. They just do. I resisted for a while. I thought they’d made me look like I was heading to the tennis club with Fifi and Mimsy for an afternoon smoothie and maybe we’d make it out to the tennis court. “Match point, Heather!”

I’m not a girl that wants to look cute at the gym. I’m not strong enough or fast enough to mingle with the hardcore gym rats, the least I can do is not look like I have no intention of sweating.

So, now you know my secret. The running skirt is my secret weapon. Because I sweat like … a whore in church. (When you’ve already said “crotch sweat” nine million times you don’t have to search for a simile that is not offensive. )

There’s the sweat. And yesterday’s eyeliner because I am not old enough to wash my face before I go to bed yet. I quit smoking and I exercise and I stopped drinking Bud Light all the live long day. One day I will moisturize and regularly wash my face.

And stop saying things like “crotch sweat” on the internet. One day. I promise.

18 Comments

Posted in Exercise, Nonsense

Tagged Compression shorts, crotch sweat, Exercise, fashion, fitness, Humor, running, running skirt, skirt

Keeping Up Appearances

Posted on October 8, 2013 | 24 comments

I used to mow the grass in cut off Levi 501s and a bikini top. It was an excuse to strut back and forth in the yard and work on my tan. As time wore on those Levis got shorter and shorter but I got older and sassier and cared less and less about what was appropriate. I was mowing my damn grass, right? And wolf whistles happened less and less frequently. I’d take what I could get.

This summer I mowed the grass often just to have a few minutes to myself. The cut off Levis have long since been retired. These days I don’t put a tremendous amount of thought in to what I wear to mow the grass. None of my neighbors (the same neighbors that wave at me daily as I stroll down the street with my dog or run by in the morning with the jogging stroller) are likely to cat call anyway so who might I even try to impress?

But my grass mowing attire was at least Go Out in Public Even If It Is Only To The Gas Station worthy. I would be traipsing back and forth across my yard for thirty minutes. This warrants more care than the Run Down To The End Of The Driveway With The Trash Can Before You Miss The Trash Truck outfit.

And then this happened.

Look carefully. This woman reflected in the side of her car is wearing a velour sweatsuit with the pants pegged so as to not drag along the ground and Crocs. Let me repeat that. I have PEGGED THE LEGS OF MY VELOUR SWEAT PANTS. And I have chosen to wear socks and Crocs. Now I think that some kind of a tool (any kind, really) can elevate a woman’s hotness. But let’s face it. A leaf blower is not much of a tool.

I think I have given up. It has happened.

I remember (as long ago as yesterday when I would not have dreamed of doing this!) looking at women and thinking “what the hell is wrong with you? You have a pulse, for fuck’s sake, brush your hair” and now look at me. What am I doing? Perhaps this has been a lesson in “Judge Not Less Ye Be Judged.”

Granted, I have a terrible cold. My youngest looks like a refugee and is currently wearing a shirt belonging to my oldest and flowered pants. Her baby is being toted around in a towel. I haven’t really made much in the way of dinner in two days and I am running on caffeine and Dayquil. (Speaking of running, I knocked back two slugs of Dayquil this morning, before I left for my run and set a PR for a 5K distance. Not an all time PR, but a since I have been injured PR. Wheee! Bronchodilators for the Win!!)

I am not at my best. I’m not sleeping. Showering is a successful day. I am spent and cranky and not looking for a hot date. But pegged velour sweatpants?

I can do better than that. I can. And I will. You have my word.

I’m a wreck. But my yard looks nice.

So, how are you? Have you caught yourself doing anything mortifying lately?

I like to mow instead of rake. It’s like vacuuming your yard.

24 Comments

Posted in Family, Nonsense, Parenting

Tagged Crocs, fashion, hot mess, Humor, judgement, Life, SAHM, stay at home mom

Existential Parenting

Posted on September 27, 2013 | 7 comments

Lucy looks like a happy kid. Here we see her heading in to the gym to see her pals. She enjoys coloring, playing with the large legos and chatting it up with the other small people. On the way out of the gym she receives a dixie cup filled with animal crackers or goldfish, after she washes her hands, of course. This is typically a highlight of our day.

By all accounts, life is pretty good.

When not mingling with her kind she enjoys a little solitary time. My girl likes to relax. She kicks back and takes in the world. Life is simple.

But I fear that underneath Lucy’s happy exterior lurks something deeper. I think she is struggling to do more than just exist. She is finding her essence, perhaps this life of coloring and taking walks is just not enough. What gives me this idea?

Take a look at Lucy’s bookshelf. A good look.

Right there between Eric Carle’s “With Us, on the Earth and Sea” and the mind numbing rhyming of “Hop on Pop” we have Jean-Paul Sartre’s “No Exit and Three Other Plays.”

This kid is going to be hell in her teenage years.

“Criminals together. We’re in hell, my little friend, and there’s never any mistake there. People are not damned for nothing.” – Jean-Paul Sartre, No Exit

7 Comments

Posted in Family, Nonsense, Parenting

Tagged existentialism, Lucy, Parenting, stay at home mom, toddlers

The Kid With a Name

Posted on September 25, 2013 | 10 comments

Sometimes my favorite thing about giving Lucy a bath at night is having the opportunity to eavesdrop on Emily’s conversations with MQD while they clean up the kitchen.

Okay, maybe it is my second favorite thing. Sitting on the floor next to the tub and drinking a beer is also pretty fantastic.

In another lifetime I used to sit back in the bathtub and enjoy a beer and a smoke. Recently a friend posted on Facebook that her son said that when he was in her belly he was “just like….this is the life.” Actually his entire sentiment bears repeating “I love fat Moms. Fat moms are so comfy and snugly. I bet when I was in your belly I was just like….this is the life.” All of this is a long way to say that when I say that drinking a beer in the bathtub is like “fat moms” you should know that I mean that I think it is “the life.”

These days I don’t kick back in the tub … umm… ever. But I do sit on the floor and drink a beer while Lucy splashes around and is both contained and occupied. And on a good night, I get to listen to Emily and MQD clean the kitchen.

Tonight MQD said to her something along the lines of “Don’t do that, don’t put a plastic bag near your mouth. You don’t want to be that kid in the newspaper that died from breathing in a plastic bag and everyone wonders why his parents didn’t tell him not do that.”

At the ripe old age of argumentative, I mean, 8, Emily knows everything. I sat back and waited for her rebuttal. It was sure to be a good one.

“Dad, that kid had a name.”

You can’t make this shit up.

10 Comments

Posted in Parenting

Dear Emily June, on your 8th Birthday

Posted on September 18, 2013 | 8 comments

Dear Emily June,

I have been writing you letters on your birthday since you were very small. But this year seems different. I usually write a letter that will help me to remember what it was like the year you were five or the year were two. But this year, the year you were seven, I don’t think it will take any remembering. Not because it was unforgettable or because I took a million pictures. It is simpler than that.

I don’t think I will struggle to remember the year that you turned eight because I think you have become the person that you’ll be for good. Things will change. You will grow up and fall in love and drive a car and flunk a test and get a job and make mistakes. Things will happen to you. Layers will form on top of this person that you are right now. But who you are – Emily June. I know her. She’s here to stay.

You will be eight tomorrow. And some day you will be nine and then ten. But you will always be Emily June. You will always have a little dimple in your cheek. You will always have a little sister that adores you. You will always make me laugh like no one else. You will always know just exactly what to say when I am blue. You will probably always obsessively organize your shoes before you clean up anything else when you pick up your room. You will always love crunchy peanut butter.

All week you have asked me if I am sad that you are turning eight. “Do you think I look a little bit old in these pants?” You shake that tiny heiny in front of your mirror and I watch you watch yourself. “Nope, I think you look a lot bit crazy.”

I like to give you a little piece of motherly advice on your birthday. It seems like the thing to do. Through the years I have told you to dream big and love fiercely. I have praised your strength and your kindness. I have told you time and again that you are funny because good god almighty, kid, you are a riot. This year I am at a loss. Not because I think my advice would fall on deaf ears, quite the opposite. You want so desperately to please. You’d move mountains if you thought it was expected of you. This year I just want you to be you.

I want to tell you to just keep on keeping on, kiddo. You are better at being Emily June than I could ever be. I’m going to do my damnedest to keep my mouth shut through the next decade. But if you are trying to make a decision and you need need to be reminded what Emily June would have done that summer right before she was eight – you just ask me, ok? Because I will never forget.

Happy birthday, sweet girl. I love you.

Keep it up, kid.

Love,

Mom

8 Comments

Posted in Parenting

Tagged birthday, Dear Emily, motherhood, SAHM

And then she was Six…

Posted on September 16, 2013 | Leave a comment

I will forgive you someday for refusing to wear pigtails beyond your sixth birthday. Someday….

Excitement on the side

Dear Emily June,

You climbed in to bed with me at a little before five in the morning on your sixth birthday. “Is it the middle of the night or very early in the morning?”

“It’s night time,” I told you. I am fairly sure I have a limited time left to tell you these white lies in the hopes of buying time in one way or another. You rolled over and snuggled up against me. You were quiet for just a minute before you said “I saw all those streamers, Mom. But I didn’t look at my presents.”

When I was a little girl my mom used to decorate our rooms at night so when we woke up on our birthday we felt special right away. And really I can’t think of a better way to start a new year. I hope you feel special every day of this…

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And then she was five….

Posted on September 16, 2013 | Leave a comment

We got our boogie on an awful lot when you were five!

Excitement on the side

Ems,
You make my heart sing. Thank you for being such a strong little girl. In you I see the strength that has always been in me.

In the last year you have grown like a weed. You have gotten taller, smarter, stronger, sassier, kinder… and more compassionate. The toddler you were last year that said hilarious things and likely had no idea why they were funny is gone. She has been replaced by a little girl that knows exactly why her clever comments are so hilarious. But she also knows what it means when she says “Come here, Mom, I’ll give you a hug.”

You still hold me tight. But I hold you even tighter. Because I see in you the little girl you are becoming. And I know that the woman is right around the corner. I’d slow the earth’s rotation to make the day’s longer, just to…

View original post 144 more words

Excitement on the side

Obligatory Update

You know what’s Freaky?

Happily Divorced

Running Skirts: They Hide the Pee

Keeping Up Appearances

Existential Parenting

The Kid With a Name

Dear Emily June, on your 8th Birthday

And then she was Six…

And then she was five….

Don't miss a beat.

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