The Greatest of All Time

Runners' World's December issue features "The Best of Running." It's a fun list, and I'm in agreement with almost everything listed there. Badwater as the hardest race? You bet - the more I read about that race, the less I ever want to experience it. Bananas as the ideal runner's food? Sure - portable, tasty, cheap, full of potassium. Pre as the coolest runner of all time? Shoot, that hardly even seems like an opinion; nobody's cooler than Pre.

But then, on page 70, they claim that Haile Gebrselassie is the greatest male distance runner of all time. Runners up (no pun intended)include Kenenisa Bekele, Frank Shorter, Roger Banister (debatable whether a miler counts as a distance runner, but no matter), and Jim Ryun.

Crazy talk!

Okay, yes, Haile is a great runner, with a pile of wins to his name. But he is not the greatest male distance runner of all time. That honor clearly belongs to Emil Zatopek.

In the 1952 Olympics, Zatopek won THREE gold medals: in the 5K, 10K, and his first ever marathon, which he entered at the spur of the moment. That is hard-core awesome. Even more awesome, he was generous with his fellow runners, offering training advice to men attempting to break a four-minute mile.

Emil Zatopek is the greatest male distance runner of all time.

The F-Word

Take It and Run Thursday challenges us this week to write about something controversial in the running world. To that I say fine, but just remember it was your idea, because today, I'm going to use The F-Word, a word that running bloggers everywhere are afraid to use. In a few minutes, this post is going to be riddled with F-bombs. You have been warned. Here it is:

Fast.

That's right, I said it: Fast.

It's just a little word, right? So why are so many of my fellow runners afraid to use it to describe themselves?

I have read many race reports about new PR's, the really great kind that smashed the previous best... without a single use of the F-Word. Descriptions of blistering track workouts, pounding out 400 meter repeats... without anyone so much as whispering F-A-S-T. I've even seen truly talented runners demur from using that word to describe races where they've placed or even won. The closest thing you'll hear is, "I finished with a really good time."

You didn't finish with a really good time, my friend. You were FAST! The fact of the matter is, there are a lot of runners out in the blogosphere who are extremely fast runners and just won't admit it. I read several race reports from the Boston Marathon in which the blogger noted that they'd never felt so middle of the pack as they did in Boston. Okay, so maybe you weren't in that lead pack in Boston, but if you were running the Boston Marathon at all? Let's face it: You. Are. Fast.

Is it modesty? It's true that runners are really nice and inclusive people. If I brag about how fast my 23:44 5K race was, I don't want to discount the accomplishment of a fellow runner who worked just as hard to finish in 30:00. Or, are we comparing ourselves to elite runners? Tirunesh Dibaba of Ethiopia is the fastest woman to run a 5K, and her time of 14:11:15 makes my 23:44 look like walking. Can I really call myself fast compared to her?

Yes. I am fast. And so is Tirunesh Dibaba, so are the Boston qualifiers, and so is my fellow runner who worked her butt of to score that 30:00 5K.

We all have our own Fast. Fast happens for all of us when everything clicks together just right, when we feel like we're flying, when our lungs are burning, and when we look at the time on the clock (or just the feeling in our hearts) and it is good.

I challenge you, my fellow runners, to own your Fast. To embrace the F-Word. And to shout from the rooftops when you have an amazing workout, run a strong race, or get a PR these words:

I am fast.

Celebrity Gossip

My friend K has helped me to accept the guilty pleasure that is celebrity gossip. Technically, I know that I have no business spending any of my time pondering the train wrecks that are Britney Spears and Lindsay Lohan. Or wondering if Sarah Michelle Gellar is pregnant. Or hoping that Katie Holmes manages to break free from her captors. They aren't people that I know, so it's none of my concern what they do with their lives, and maybe SMG just wore a slightly loose top one day, that doesn't exactly make her pregnant.

And yet, I find it good fun to read about the latest exploits of Brad, Angelina, and their gorgeous children, or to make jokes about Alec Baldwin's parenting skills, or to marvel at the freakishly skinny shoulder blades of Posh Spice Beckham.

Anyway, I've lately been thinking about celebrity relationships, and I'll tell you, some of them seem kind of fake to me. Like these people weren't all so much in love than they were looking for publicity. Their relationships seem almost political. Consider who some of them have dated.

Ben Affleck dated Gwyneth Paltrow back in the day. Does she have anything at all in common with Ben's later girlfriends (and wife) Jennifer Lopez or Jennifer Garner? Can you imagine those three women having anything in common?

Or take Jennifer Lopez herself. She dated PuffyDaddyDiddy, then Ben, then Skeletor/Marc Anthony. Really? Those three guys seem completely different. Would they all really be interested in the same woman, other than for her hotness?

It's funny how they loop together, too. Gwyneth Paltrow, who seems incompatible with Ben Affleck seems equally incompatible with Brad Pitt. And how did the guy who dated her also wind up with Jennifer Aniston and then Angelina Jolie?

They're like arranged marriages, I think?

Finally, I am upset to an unreasonable degree about the fact that John Mayer is dating Jessica Simpson. John Mayer is a talented singer-songwriter. He's also really funny and has written great stuff for Esquire. Why oh why is he with an empty-headed girl with big boobs?

Mama Bear

Last night, Steve and I took Jack to McManus Park. This park has been one of our best discoveries since we moved, because it is freaking awesome. It's absolutely huge, with all kinds of really fun playground equipment, all on top of a spongey surface (as opposed to the ever-popular mulch). The play structure is so big that we can play hide and seek on it.

Jack's favorite thing to do is to boldly climb all the way to the top of the very tallest twisty slide. Roary will wait for him about halfway down, and they'll slide down together. The slide is really high up, probably at least 15 feet, so it takes Jack a while to climb up there. Last night, he was working his way up the steps when two bigger kids (and by bigger I mean a maximum age of six) shoved past him to go down the slide. One of them practically stepped on him in his hurry to get to the slide.

Well let me tell you, my protective Mama Bear instincts came out in full force.

"HEY!" I yelled, "Watch it. He's littler than you."

To their credit, they were pretty nice kids. Both of them apologized and seemed truly sincere about it.

I was absolutely furious. Never have I wanted more to knock out a little kid than I did in that moment. I don't care if you're only six. You mess with my cub, you mess with me.

Gift Bags

Steve and I went to pick Jack up from school this evening, and quickly got hints that it was going to be a wild ride. For starters, Renee, one of the directors told us, "Your son is a Smurf." Why? Because today was Nicholas's birthday, and he brought cupcakes with royal blue, Smurf-hued icing. And Jack proceeded to spread said icing all over his face and hands. That icing tinted his skin.


"He had fun," Renee continued, "And he has a gift bag that he can't wait to get his hands on."

Gift bag? Oh, no.


Every once in a while, a kid in Jack's class has a birthday. They bring cupcakes, which is cool, but they also bring these crappy little plastic gift bags. In the gift bags are crappy little items that Jack becomes hideously obsessed with. It's about 75 cents worth of junk that makes me want to drink about $20 worth of wine. As soon as he gets his hands on one, I am plotting when I can divert his attention and throw the damned thing away.

This particular gift bag contained a lollypop, a small notepad (which apparently Jack needs to jot down ideas for the story he's writing for the school paper?), a Thomas the Tank Engine noisemaker, and a superball.

Jack ate the lollypop on the way home, making his hands sticky, in addition to being blue. He then spent a tremendous amount of time taking the stuff in and out of his gift bag. If only his success matched his determination, because he repeatedly couldn't get it to work, prompting him to whine and cry. He then likes to rip the plastic bag into little shreds, getting pissed when static electricity makes them stick to his hands. Usually the noisemaker gets all slobbery, rendering it a useless pile of cardboard pulp.


Today's superball rendered the gift bag even more of a problem than usual. I hate to be the kind of person who complains about this stuff, but a superball is a freaking choking hazard. Jack popped it into his mouth, and I confiscated it, causing a huge screaming tantrum fit. I was about ready to join him, though as Jack wailed, "Baaaalll!" I was going to wail, "Damn you, Nicholas's mommy!"

The good news is that I got the bag away and threw it in the trash before Jack became best friends forever with it. Roary also enjoyed the icing.

And Jack's dinner of tomato soup combined with his blue flesh to make a very interesting hue.

Mess? Yes!

Mary P. recently wrote about "Mrs. Immaculate," who threw a fit any time her son completed a day of daycare looking anything less than picture perfect. I think that's absolutely ridiculous. If you want your kid to have a chance to explore, to be curious, to LEARN, not to mention to have fun, they're going to get messy in the process.

Last night, Steve looked at Jack's sneakers, and they painted a picture of exactly what he'd been up to that day. The bottoms were coated in a sticky mix of Play-Doh and rice. We laughed about it and agreed that it looked like Jack had a great day. This morning, I shared that story with Ms. Marzia, one of Jack's new teachers. She said that they have the kids help make Play-Doh, and that they get even messier on that day. I think that's so cool.

Jack doesn't own a single article of clothing that can't be thrown in the washing machine, and that includes even his dressiest outfits. I remember back before I had the Cublet, I was shopping with my mom. She held up a tiny white dress, embroidered with blue flowers. It was beautiful, but, I said, any child of mine would immediately get chocolate ice cream right on that pretty little dress.

In other news, now that I've been at this Mommying gig for two years, I feel a lot more confident and competent than I did before. Sure, Jack will throw me for a loop every now and then, but my 2006 New Year's Resolution that I am in charge and know what I'm doing is proving true. This morning, I woke Jack up and found his face and sheets smeared in blood. He'd had a bloody nose in the night.

I think in the first year or so, this would have really worried me. I'd have called his doctor, looked up nosebleeds in at least two books, done a Google search, and posted a missive to the Mommy group. But this time, I shrugged, figured it was because he's got a cold and the air is dry, and washed his face. If he keeps getting nosebleeds, then I'll worry about it, but I don't think this is any big deal. It's nice to feel competent.

Defending Angelina

Angelina Jolie, bless her heart (which my friend Jon correctly figured out is a disclaimer that allows you to say anything bad about someone, such as “She doesn’t have the sense God gave a rock, bless her heart) needs to be careful what she says. Recently, she told UK Elle this:

"I think I feel so much more for Madd and Zee because they're survivors, they came through so much. Shiloh seemed so privileged from the moment she was born. I have less inclination to feel for her...I met my other kids when they were 6 months old, they came with a personality. A newborn really is this...Yes, a blob! But now she's starting to have a personality...I'm conscious that I have to make sure I don't ignore her needs, just because I think the others are more vulnerable."

As you can probably imagine, people have a lot to say about it, most of it pretty negative. Lotta from Mom-O-Matic (who is awesome and funny and I have nothing but respect for) says this:

“Mostly, I don't like that her children are being assigned status within the family. Love is love, is love, is love.”

I get where she’s coming from, and I can understand why people are up in arms about this statement. But the thing is this:

Angelina Jolie, I get you.

Angelina Jolie has three kids. One of them is gorgeous, white, and American and was born to ridiculously wealthy parents. The other two she saved from orphanages in third world countries. When your own tiny baby is born, it’s obvious that said tiny baby really needs you. But you might feel even more need when you see a baby in Africa or Cambodia who needs you. Maddox and Zahara needed her in totally different ways than Shiloh does.

It’s not like she doesn’t love Shiloh, it’s just that she loves her differently from her other kids. I think the same would be the case if you had two kids, one who had a disability and the other who didn’t. Obviously, you’d love them both. But you’d feel like the kid with the disability needed you more, or at least in different, clearer ways. You would have to make an effort to give the kid without a disability as much love and attention, since his needs would seem less immediate.

And the other thing? A newborn baby kind of is a blob. For the first several months, you’re not getting much out of that kid other than dirty diapers and crying. No smiles, no laughing, to say nothing of the joy that is a Flying Tackle hug while yelling, “Mama!” You do spend lots of time marveling over the tiny fingers and toes, and just staring at this amazing creature who is now yours. That’s wonderful. But there really is something special about the time when they’re able to give something back to you.

I’m sure it will come as a great comfort to Angelina Jolie that I am on her side. Give me a call, Ange, and we’ll go out and be sexy together while Brad and Steve stay home with the kids.

Tossed Salad

Now that Jack is more mobile and more independent, when he does something nutty, I often find myself wondering, "Should I do something to stop him?" Almost every time, I decide the answer is no. If he wants to put large rocks in his mouth, well, he'll probably be fine. If he were five, maybe I'd put a stop to it, but it's fairly socially acceptable for him to suck on rocks now, I guess. And hey, why not take advantage of that narrow "okay to suck on rocks" window?

Last night, the boys and I were all tired, so we ordered a pizza and watched it downstairs in our jammies. Jack took an interest in Steve's salad. First picked the matchstick carrots out. Some he ate, some he spit out, and some he gave to us (unfortunately, there was some crossover in those categories). Then he removed large leaves of lettuce and started throwing them like confetti. One piece in particular, he repeatedly threw into the air and caught on his head. I kept thinking, "Should I stop this?" and never really came up with a compelling reason to. He was having fun, and it was an easy enough mess to clean up. So I let it go. I don't want to be the kind of mom that is always mad about something, and this just didn't seem important.

The funny thing is, I must have this on my mind. Last night I dreamed that Jack was scooping potato salad into the interior of a plastic toy battleship. In my dream, I let it go.