Running Moms vs. The World

Take It and Run Thursday this week is a salute to running moms. I could write hundreds of blog entries about why I think it's important for me to be both a mother and a runner, how running makes me a better mom, what I hope Jack learns from my efforts, and so on. But today, I want to focus on how my fellow Mother Runners and I are taking on the rest of the world.

I absolutely hate it when McDonald's offers two different Happy Meal toys: one for boys and one for girls. I have spent the past four years making it clear that there are no toys that are just for girls or just for boys. If you want to play with a truck, fine. If you want to play with a doll, fine. Just play and have fun. But McDonald's sees things differently, offering My Little Pony for girls and Leggo stuff for boys. I prefer to bypass all of that crap and just ask Jack if he wants the horsey or the Leggos.

But at a recent visit, the McDonald's employee circumvented my efforts, handing Jack and toy and saying, "Here, this is for boys." It was a hand-held electronic sports game. Jack quickly looked at the display and saw that there were sports games and Hello Kitty games and that the sports ones were for boys. "That's cool," Jack said, "Because girls like Hello Kitty, but they don't really like sports."

Oh, hell no.

Jack lives in a home in which Daddy is just as likely to kiss boo boos as Mommy... and in which the most athletic of his parents is, in fact, Mommy. Girls don't like sports? You put Mommy and Daddy in a footrace, and we'll see who likes sports best and who's faster.

I sat Jack down and reminded him that plenty of girls like sports. Like his friends Emma, Kara, Avery, and Elizabeth who play soccer with him. Like the very strong and determined women who we watched run the Olympic marathon on TV. And, of course, like Mommy, who is a dedicated runner. He immediately saw the error of what he had said and thought it was silly that the sports games were given just to boys.

We running moms fight these sexist messages every single time we put on our running shoes. Every drop of sweat proves that women are not just for decoration, that we are athletes just like our male counterparts. My hope is that I am raising a boy who will not immediately dismiss girls when picking a kickball team, and a man who will respect the strength that women possess.

The Future of the Academy

I never expected that this would happen so soon, but that ample free time I've had on my hands, due to circumstances not of my choosing? Is soon coming to an end.

I feel extremely grateful and fortunate. I am absolutely thrilled to move on to the next thing - and to get my normal life back.

I am also sad that I won't have as much time with Jack as I have had. Betsy-Jack Academy has been, as Jack would say, very special to me. We have one more week left, which will be spent focused on Valentine's Day and love, which seems appropriate.

My new goal is to keep the Academy alive, with weekend sessions. I will plan out different activities for the two of us to do together. We both love it, and it beats the heck out of spending my Sundays doing lightsaber battle-fights.

Winning and Losing

As Jack grows up, I see it as my duty to teach him a number of important lessons. Lessons such as where it is, and is not appropriate to bring a lightsaber, will surely serve him well as he becomes a productive member of society. One of his most recent lessons was that when you play games, sometimes you do not win. This is, of course, especially true if you play against me at a trivia game, even if the trivia game is just Disney Scene It.

Jack reacted to Mommy's recent victory (which I swear was free of trash talking) by punching me.

Steve and I immediately declared "bedtime" and scooped him up.

Now, Jack is of a mind that if you ahve already hit Mommy, you are pretty much in as much trouble as you can be, so you might as well keep going. His ensuing rampage included throwing a toothpaste covered toothbrush at the wall, pouring a cup of water on the floor, and an impressive overall level of bitchiness.

When he finally calmed down, it was time for the Parental Lecture. This time, I stepped in:

Jack, you know how sometimes Mommy likes to run races? Well, sometimes I win, and it is awesome. I love the feeling of winning, of knowing I ran a great job. And I get to bring home a trophy or a medal, and that's really cool, too. But sometimes, even though I tried my hardest and ran really fast, I don't win. And that makes me mad, and it makes me sad, because I really wanted to win, and I really wanted to get that trophy. But, the other woman beat me fair and square, and that's just the way it is. And it would not be okay for me to hit the woman who beat me in the race, would it?

Jack agreed that it would not.

With the Parental Lecture over and the lesson (hopefully) learned, I tucked him in and kissed him goodnight.

But, you guys?

I cannot get out of my head the image of punching some chick who beat me in a race. She sprints past me to the finish (no doubt 'roided up), and as she turns to congratulate me on a good race, I punch her square in the ear.

That, my friends, would send a message far more clear than the one I tried to impart on Jack, that message being: Do not pass me in a race. I like to think that the word would get out, and other women in my age group would think, "Well, I would like to win, but I would also like to not be punched in the ear. Maybe second place is not so bad."

Marathon vs. Childbirth

The always fabulous Marcy is gearing up for her first marathon and poses the eternal question:

Does running a marathon hurt as much as childbirth?

It's a comparison I've encountered more than once. And seeing as how I've done both things, I feel qualified to tackle this one.

Preparation: No doubt about it, training for a marathon can be a bitch. Track workouts, tempo runs, and long runs can create a host of pain, from cramping, sore knees, shin splints, sunburn, blisters, missing toenails, and chafing. You're out in all kinds of weather, dragging yourself out of bed at ridiculous times of day. On the other hand, being pregnant isn't exactly a picnic, either. There's the first trimester, which was marked for me as three months of alternating dry heaves and crushing fatigue. I felt like absolute hell, but I didn't look pregnant yet, so I was just some crazy chick gagging at the scent of anti-bacterial soap. Then, in the second trimester, all of a sudden none of my clothes fit me, I was constantly kicked in the ribs by a freakishly strong baby, and to add insult to injury, developed stretch marks on just about every part of my body. But that was just a warm-up for the third trimester, in which I had restless leg syndrome, pain in my sciatic nerve, a constant pressure on my tailbone, a sore lower back, and well hello, my old friend fatigue! I'd love to sleep, but this kid keeps squirming around all night long. And if there was any other doubt, marathon training takes 18 weeks, pregnancy takes 40. Worse: Childbirth

Hero Factor Compare and contrast: "Wow, a marathon! I could never do that!" versus, "Oh, you're planning on an epidural? Well, I had an unmedicated water birth surrounded by three generations of women in my family. But I'm sure that will be nice for you." Worse: Childbirth

Anticipation: The weeks leading up to a marathon are tough. You're stressed out, poring over the course map, worrying about the weather, wondering about what to wear, thinking you might not be able to finish. But the weeks leading up to having a baby include people telling you how gigantic you are (thanks), feeling like hell, and realizing that there is absolutely no way you can back out of this ridiculous endeavor. Plus, you know exactly when your marathon is going to start, so at least you can be prepared. That baby will show up whenever he damned well feels like it. Worse: Childbirth

Pain: During my worst ever pain in a marathon, I felt uncomfortable to the point where I needed a walk break. During my worst ever pain in childbirth, I curled up into a tiny ball in bed, silently turning purple until it was over, unable to walk or talk. Sure, you can get drugs for the childbirth, and let me tell you, they work. But my longest marathon was less than five hours. In contrast, I started having labor pains on December 22, only to have the actual child on December 24. Worse: Childbirth

Recovery: I bounced back from both the marathons and the childbirth pretty equally. After the marathons, I took Advil for a couple of days, took some time off from running, and was fine. The baby-having was a little more dramatic, since I had a C-section. On Christmas of 2004, I was unable to move my legs for much of the day, and the pain I experienced the first time I tried to walk to the bathroom was probably the worst I have ever experienced. But by the next day, I was feeling pretty good, to the point where I never bothered to fill my prescription for pain meds. Worse: Childbirth, but only slightly

Swag Because I have a fabulous husband, I score jewelry after both giving birth and finishing marathons, so it's a draw there, provided you were smart enough to marry a good guy. But other than that? Finisher's medal vs. beautiful new baby? Worse: Marathon, easily.

So, there you go - having a baby is way more painful than running a silly little marathon. Marcy's got two kids, so homegirl has nothing to worry about. And men, you can forgive us if we smile a bit indulgently when you talk about how much it hurt when you bonked.

Fake Swearing

Okay, Internet. Several of you have now asked about some of my more colorful phrases, such as "catlicking" and "Laws!" Why in the name of Yoda (there's another one) would I say such things?

Here's your answer:

Captain Crazy Cubbypants here has not only developed the ability to understand people when they speak, but also to repeat them. Often, the results are amusing, like last night when he said, "I'm not a monster, you know," and "Sorry I freaked out back there, Daddy." What would not be so cute would be if he learned some of the choice four letter words that used to be such an important part of my vocabulary.

Okay, it would be kind of cute. But it would not be, so much, socially acceptable. Steve even calls me out for using the word crap. I was like, "Are you fucking kidding me? I can't say crap?" And then he pointed out that if Jack started saying crap, it would not sound too good to, say, his teachers or people at churches we are auditioning.

So, what's a mom to do? If you smack your funny bone, saying, "GOLLY, THAT SMARTS!" is not at all satisfying. So, I make up my own swear words. And if this means that one day Jack will get caught saying, "For the love of Yoda, Catlicker, if you don't give me back my catlicking Roary, I don't know what I'm going to do," I think I can live with that.

Mean People Suck

Last night, the boys and I went to the mall so that Jack could get his picture taken with the Easter Bunny. It has to be said, in his khakis, oxford, and argyle sweater vest, he was pretty much the cutest thing ever, especially when he was casually standing with his hands in his pockets, waiting to talk to the Easter Bunny about jelly beans.

After the pictures were taken and Jack had his chat with his bunniness, we went to the play area. Jack was excited to sit in a little car, as he was pretending to drive to Disney World. He got out of the car to run around, and in the time he was gone, a boy and girl sat in the car.

Jack was mad, because he wanted to get back in. Steve and I gave him the speech about how the car is not his, is there for everybody to play with, we have to take turns, blah, blah, blah. I swear, sometimes I bore myself with the parent speeches.

Jack was not happy. He tried, half-heartedly, to play with something else, but even after I pointed out that the rocket ship was red and that he could play Little Einsteins, all he could think about was the car.

First, he just kept a careful eye on the car, hoping that the other kids would tire of it and he'd have another turn. No such luck. Then, he tried to get them to play with him. I saw him approach the other kids with a, "Hey, guys," and an animated discussion of driving to see Mickey Mouse. They ignored him. Then, Jack noticed that the kids had a stash of books in the car at their feet. He brought them more books. The kids responded by wacking each other in the head with the books.

As all of this went on, Steve and I slipped from our primary objective, which was to make sure that our kid behaved appropriately, to watching the way the other kids were behaving. The kids knew very well that Jack wanted to play with the car, so they baracaded themselves in. If the little boy got out of the car, his sister stretched herself out across the front seat so that there was no room for Jack to get in if he wanted to. They ignored his friendly overtures, choosing instead to divide their attentions between fighting with each other and aggressively ignoring him.

To put it simply, they were jerks.

Finally, Steve and I called Jack over to us. Steve explained very gently to Jack that those other kids were not nice. They were fighting, and they refused to share. It's no fun to play with kids who are not nice, so it was time for us to leave and to go get that ice cream we'd talked about.

Ice cream, happily, proved to be just the distraction we needed, so Jack forgot all about the car, the drive to Disney World, and the mean kids.

As my little guy grows up, I am watching him navigate more and more social interactions. He is learning all the time. It makes me sad to realize that one of the lessons that he is learning is that there are people out there who are just jerks. Even if you try to be nice, try to share, and try to be friendly, they'll shut you out and be mean.

Luckily, sometimes ice cream helps.

The Well-Timed Tantrum

Things were going well between Jack and me last night. After work, he and I went running together. That is, the first part of the run was done in the jogging stroller. Then, on the way back, we stopped at the park and he ran around the baseball diamonds yelling "You can't catch me!" like a maniac. This is probably a good time to note that he was wearing his Superman costume at the time, delighting in the way the cape billowed behind him. Afterwards, we had dinner together while watching Beauty and the Beast: Enchanted Christmas, which we got from the library as a special treat. My boy loves princesses.

When the movie was over, it was time to go to bed. I quickly discovered that it was really time to go to bed, because Jack hit the wall. He bonked. Or, if you're thinking of him as a little kid, and not a runner, he had a tantrum.

The tantrum began because he didn't want to go to bed, he wanted to eat ice cream. I said no to the ice cream because he hadn't eaten enough of his sandwich, but gave him an opportunity to eat more sandwich, thereby earning ice cream.

But the tantrum quickly spiraled out of control so that pretty much everything was setting him off. He wanted ice cream and he didn't like his sandwich but he did want his sandwich and I shouldn't throw it away and he was upset because his nose was running and because I couldn't get him a tissue fast enough and because he wanted to pick out his own pajamas and no he didn't he wanted his favorite Spidey ones...

And, infinity.

Eventually, he got fed up and asked me to leave him alone. I honestly thought that was a good idea, and not just because I wanted to ditch his crazy ass. I told him to come get me when he was feeling calmer, and that I'd be in the study. I was checking my email and listening to the crying in the next room when the phone rang. Steve!

Steve was in a great mood, due in part because he was a little drunk. We chatted, and I told him briefly what was going on. Then, I asked if he would talk to Jack. Not to solve things, but to possibly interrupt the cycle of freaking out.

I put Jack on the phone, and he alternated between telling Daddy about the things that were upsetting him (including "I wanted ice cream" and "I did not listen to Mommy") and telling him about his day ("Mommy and I went running and our shoes got dirty" and "Grandma and I made pizza"). All of it was covered in a thick layer of tears and snot, so Steve only understood "ice cream" and "wah."

So, no pattern interrupt. I forged ahead, and got a toothbrush into his cry-hole. Minutes later, the phone rang again. I figured it was Steve, so I had Jack answer the phone.

Jack asked, "Daddy, is that you?" several times in a teary, pitiful little voice. Finally, he said, "It's not Daddy" and handed the phone to me.

"Hello, may I speak to Mrs. Elizabeth Way-sur?" asked a heavily accented voice.

Yes, my name is Elizabeth, but nobody ever calls me that. And my last name is not Way-sur, rhymes with laser, but Wasser, rhymes with, um, tosser. There's only one kind of person who would call me Mrs. Elizabeth Way-sur:

A telemarketer.

I told the guy that this was not a good time (a fact that should have been incredibly obvious) and hung up the phone. It was pretty much the most awesome way to get rid of a telemarketer ever.

I hung up the phone and explained to Jack in terms a three-year-old can understand what a telemarketer is and why they are annoying ("No! I don't want any aluminium siding!") and how he saved Mommy from having to talk to the guy.

This cheered him up considerably, so after a couple of high fives and a bedtime story in which Remy from Ratatouille meets Superman, Batman, Spider-Man, Jack, and Roary on his way to buy cheese, then gets rid of a telemarketer, he was fast asleep.

Flying Solo

Steve is in Texas for the week, leaving me and Captain Crazy Cubbypants to fend for ourselves.

Obviously, I am perfectly capable of taking care of the little man on my own. But having two adults around definitely makes life easier. One can entertain him while the other makes dinner, for example. Also, the possibility of my going to the bathroom alone is considerably greater.

At the moment, Jack and I are working well together. He has watched just half an hour of TV since Steve has been gone. We've eaten nothing but healthy snacks (plus one cookie each). I have made arrangements so that I don't have to miss any workouts. Last night, we even took a trip to the library, where we read a zillion books and were pretty much a model of mommy-son educational adorableness.

Tonight, I'm planning on our baking banana bread together, then maybe doing some paint with water. I am also making an effort to take good care of myself - getting enough sleep, treaing myself to healthy foods and a daily latte from 'bucks. I even have a big bouquet of cheerful orange flowers on my desk.

Why do I have the nagging feeling that soon, all of this is going to fall apart?

By the time Steve gets back, Jack and I will be camped out in front of the TV, watching all six Star Wars movies on an endless loop, eating nothing but goldfish crackers and macaroni and cheese directly from the pan?

Hackin' Jack

These past few days at Stately Wasser Manor have been tough. Jack woke up at the hideous hour of 4:45 in the morning on Sunday coughing so hard that he was wheezing. It was really scary; Steve thought he might be choking and I thought it might be an asthma attack. Eventually, it calmed down, but at that point there was no getting Jack back to sleep. Steve took him downstairs and told me to take the first shift of sleeping.

It's not easy to fall right back asleep after something like that, but eventually I did. Unfortunately, I think I'd just hit REM sleep when Steve woke me up and asked me to take over. I stumbled downstairs, groggy and bleary-eyed. Jack was watching Dora, and I was even more confused. Dora put Boots in charge of a party and went off with... Swiper? Swiper was helping Dora travel around the world, even preventing different countries' versions of himself from swiping friendship bracelets? Huh? And how did Swiper learn the "Come on, vamonos" song? Several cups of coffee later, I verified that I was not halucinating, but it was a bit touch and go for a while there.

I took Jack to the doctor on Monday - a walk-in clinic at his doctor's office since it was New Year's Eve, so he didn't see his usual doctor. This guy's name was Dr. Schott, which is awesome. Really if your last name is Schott, you should either be a pediatrician or open a bar. Honestly, he should do both. Dr. Schott would be an awesome name for a bar.

I told Dr. Schott about Jack's cough, and Jack, who was pretending to be Spider-Man at the moment, showed the doctor a boo-boo and claimed that it was the bite of a radioactive spider. He told Jack that he'd soon be able to crawl walls... and told me that he had Croup. Jack's treatment for the spider bite, I assume, is to remember that with great power comes great responsibility. For the croup, he prescribed a sterroid to lessen the swelling of his throat.

I went to Target to fill the prescription/see if they had any cute new clothes. Feeling like quite the responsible mom, I asked the pharmacist if there were any side effects I should be aware of. She told me that it would probably make him "jittery." Lovely. Really, every three-year-old needs something to make him especially hyper.

And the stuff definitely makes him nutty. Later that night, he was bouncing off the walls, so determined to destroy something that I gave him a catalog and asked him to rip it up so that I could get just a little bit of work done in the kitchen. Then I blasted my Jack playlist on my iPod and made him dance to burn some of that energy off. Napping is out of the question, and it's hard for him to fall asleep at night, between the coughing and the drug-induced crazy.

The good news is that he slept very well last night - from 7:30 PM to 7:00 AM. And he's only on the meds until Friday. I hope my little guy's cough gets better soon... for all our sakes.

Much Better

Hey, Internet, thanks for your kind words after my lousy day of mommying the other day. Jack's been doing much better since, and I think the only thing wrong is that he has a serious case of Two Year Old. Thank Yoda it'll all be over on Monday when he turns three!*

Jack was on the verge of turning to The Dark Side again the very next day, and I'm happy to report that we nipped it in the bud. He was offended by the ridiculous suggestion that Mommy and Daddy had that maybe he would like to sit down and eat some food, seeing as how he was hungry and all. Dude was about ready to throw some punches again, so I took him upstairs and we talked. I acknowledged his feelings - that he was mad at MommyDaddy - and had him say it in words. Then we practiced making angry faces, and by the time he was finished telling Pooh all about it (Roary was unavailable), he felt much better.

I really do think that the best way to keep him from hitting is to intervene as quickly as possible. It's like once he starts, he's like, "Hell with it, I'm already misbehaving, so I might as well keep it up." I shall advise him like Yoda: Once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny.







*Don't you dare correct me, people.

Yuck

Last night was going really well. The boys and I had a nice dinner, and Steve and I made plans for the three of us to go for a drive to look at Christmas lights.

Then, Jack had what was basically the Chernobyl of potty training accidents. You would not believe how calmly I handled it, like a real mommy. The strongest emotion I expressed was to say, "Oh, yucky!" It was such a hideous mess that I decided to just give him a bath. I had Steve finish off the bath so I could clean up any additional mess and change my shirt (seriously, people: ew). Jack did not want to get out of the tub, a feeling he expressed by slapping Steve across the face, hard.

Steve put Jack in his time out chair and had me take over. Jack started to apologize, but then punched me. More than once. Back in to his room, this time by himself and with the door closed.

More hitting continued, so we had no choice but to tell Jack that because "nice guys get nice things and mean guys do not" that we would not be going to look at Christmas lights. That resulted in lots of crying.

We finally calmed him down and got him to go to bed, only to have him pop out of bed at least 20 times.

It was a really, really hard day to be a parent.

Why I'm Not Running

Ugh, Internet - I have not been running all week. I am so cranky about it. Jack was sick, then I was sick, and there were many, many scenes like this...

Setting: Stately Wasser Manor, 5:20 PM
Enter Betsy through back door.

Steve: (Standing in front of fridge, attempting to make dinner) Oh, thank God you're home.
Jack: (Crying hysterically, red faced)
Steve: He has been like this ever since I picked him up. He hit a kid at school, then he was rude to his teachers, then he wouldn't leave, then he complained and whined all the way home. We got home, and he was mad about something in the garage.
Jack: (Sobbing) ANDDADDYDINTLETMEDOMYJOBANDMOMMYALWAYSLETSMEANDIWANNADOMYJOB!
Me: Oh, you didn't let him push the button to close the garage door.
Jack: (Wailing)ITSMYJOBANDADDYDINTLETMEANDI -
Steve: And then I was like, "Jack calm down," but he wasn't Jack, he was Luke, and I was the Wampa and the Wampa doesn't talk and -
Jack: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

At this point, it became pretty obvious I was not going running. I picked Jack up, and as his little legs kicked in my grasp, took him upstairs. I bribed him with vitamins to sit on mommydaddy bed and watch Dora with me. It is the "Dora La Musica" episode that we have seen eighty billion times and it bugs me that, for example, Benny says, "I play the drum, banga banga banga" instead of just banging on the drum to illustate the aforementioned banging sound.

Anyway, it worked like a charm, and Jack - who vacilated between being Dora and Senor Shush for several hours - calmed his crazy ass down. Steve (aka Tico) was still a bit freaked out. He needed to go to a basketball game for work, but he had just realized that we were the only house on our block that had not yet shoveled the walks and we are obviously bad citizens and will probably go to jail and all of the neighbors will hate us and -

I went outside and shoveled the walk while he and Senor Shush had cookies.

When Steve took off, I put Jack to bed. During Trip To The Potty #2 (aka The Stall), we had this exchange.

Jack: I will move my stool. That good idea, my friend. Ha, I called you 'my friend.'
Me: Am I your friend?
Jack: Yes you are. I love you.

So, life at Stately Wasser Manor is hectic, but good. I will be able to get back into the running soon (despite the snow).

8 on the 8th? I don't know. But I'll be back.

Boogie Nights Situation

This scene from Boogie Nights makes me incredibly tense. The drug deal is going horribly bad, Alfred Molina is batshit crazy, and that kid keeps making firecrackers go off. When I watch it, I want to knaw all of my fingernails off, because you just know that any second, something is going to go wrong, wrong, wrong.

The scene has inspired us to coin the phrase Boogie Nights Situation at Stately Wasser Manor. There are times when Jack is just the wrong combination of tired/overstimulated/hungry/randomly pissy that we just know that we are seconds away from something bad. Any second, Jack is going to rear back with a kickass tantrum, or he's going to hit me, or he's going to break something, or he's simply going to wack the hell out of his head on a sharp corner.

Sometimes, we can prevent disaster, but other times, we're just waiting out the clock, hoping that the scene will not end too badly.

Under Pressure

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I freaking love this commercial. And last night, I pretty much lived it.

It was a busy day at work. Not bad, just busy. But before I left, we had another incredibly painful and tearful goodbye from Jack. It is pretty much the worst possible way to start your day.

When I got home, he continued to cling to me like a barnacle. Steve was going to take him to the grocery store, but no way would he leave me for that long. So, whatever. I made dinner while holding him, which isn't exactly easy now that he's 30 pounds and wiggly.

He was super annoying at dinner. Jack ate, like, two bites of mashed potatoes and announced that he was full and ready for dessert. Ahem. He also didn't want me to eat my dinner and responded to my attempts to do so by pulling on my hand as hard as he could, saying, "Come on" over and over again.

Steve took out one of his plates and put two bites of chicken and a small mound of mashed potatoes on it, informing Jack that he needed to eat all of that food, or no snacks or dessert. Steve then had to go make a phone call, leaving me to deal with Jack.

Like an idiot, I went against my new policy regarding food, which is Eat it or don't eat it; I'm not going to beg you. I cajoled, I wheedled, I tried to inspire him to eat by having Spidey eat bites of chicken. Jack whined, spit chicken on the carpet, and generally annoyed the crap out of me.

The whole situation had me pulled in a million directions. On one hand,I feel horrible about the fact that he is having such seperation anxiety. I know that my little guy is going through a lot right now, and I just wish that I could shoulder all burdens for him so that life is nothing but easy for him. On the other hand, for the love of Yoda, kid, if you want to be around me so badly, how about not being a complete dick when you are? Then I feel guilty again, because I know that he's only being a dick because he needs me extra right now, and what the hell kind of mother am I if I'm calling my toddler a dick?

Steve got off the phone, detached a crying barnacle from my leg, and ordered me to go running. I picked a route with a really steep hill, reasoning that I'll need some extra hill training to prepare for the Bix. I also think that, subconsciously, I wanted a workout that would be really hard.

So I set off. At first, I was all distracted, thinking about how hard this whole situation is and wondering how badly I was handling it. But as I kept on running, all of it just melted away, just like in the commercial. By the time I was two miles in, all I was thinking about was the physical act of running. I felt a million times better.

And, as luck would have it, when I got home, I discovered a happy Jack, stripped down to his diaper, eating a giant cookie at the kitchen table, having made a valliant effort at eating the food we gave him. He was sweet, funny, and not even remotely unpleasant for the rest of the night.

Hey, and thanks to everybody who commented on my last post. It's nice to feel your support, it really is.

Too Many Teardrops

There is far too much crying going on in my house these days.

In the last week or so, Jack has entered into a gigantic crybaby phase. The tiniest little bump sends him into a tizzy, crying and wailing, "Got it boo-boo!" If he were actually hurt, it'd be one thing, but if you stub your toe just a little bit, then suck it up. The last thing I want is the kind of kid who knows he'll get attention for all of these fake injuries. So, I pretty much ignore him, tell him to shake it off, or suggest that he tell Roary about it. I know he'll get over it, and I know that he is, in fact, looking for attention. In the meantime, it's just annoying.

Worse, Jack is currently the president of the Mommy Fan Club and is undergoing some serious seperation anxiety. Last Thursday, I picked him up from his new daycare center, and let me tell you, he was having a blast. He was having so much fun dancing to The Wiggles and following Miss Rita in a march around the room that he didn't even realize I was there until the song ended.

In sharp contrast, the very next day, he started freaking out about a block away from school. He cried and wailed and begged me not to leave him. I've had him cling to me before, but this was the worst it's ever been. I know that he'll stop crying soon after I leave, and I know that he's a social kid and loves school, but it absolutely broke my heart to see him cry like that.

When I left the classroom, I was pretty upset. Carol, the director, peeked in and said that he was already starting to calm down. She ordered me to call her as soon as I got to the office to check in, which was really nice of her. Still, I broke down in tears as soon as I got to the car, then started crying again when Steve called and I told him about it.

Sure enough, the little punk was fine about five minutes after I left and was playing and having fun. But every single time I've had to leave him since then, it's been similarly tough. I am usually pretty stoic about the seperation anxiety, but I am having a lot of trouble with it right now. It's just a horrible way to start the day.

*sob*

On the phone last night...

Jack: Hi, Mommy!
Me: Hi, Cub! How are you?
Jack: A little sad.
Me: You're a little sad?
Jack: I miss Mommy.
Me: I'm a little sad, too. I miss you, too, Jack.
Jack: Yeah.
Me: I'll see you in a couple of days, okay?
Jack: Okay, Mommy.

I managed to get through that whole conversation without crying, but it wasn't easy. I'm actually a lot sad, and I miss my Cub more than I can say.

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.

Temporary Wasser Manor

We did it! Steve, Jack, and I have moved halfway across the country. Stately Wasser Manor is sold, and we are currently residing in Temporary Wasser Manor, also known as my mom and step-dad's house.

Things are going surprisingly well, especially considering that we have four unemployed adults (Doug and Nancy are now retired) and a toddler living under one roof. If that's not the makings of a sitcom, I don't know what is. Everyone is respecting each other's space, and we're all making an effort to be considerate and clean up after ourselves. Well, except for Jack, who is content to scatter crayons all over the place.

Steve and I were both really concerned about how Jack would adjust to the new environment. There are just so many changes, and the only things that are really familiar are Mommy, Daddy, and Roary. For the first few days, he was incredibly clingy. He tugged at me constantly, saying, "Mommy! Come on!" He got upset when either of us left the room. He also kept referring to stuff that was "at home." He and Steve were driving, and he wanted to stop watching Nemo and switch to Monsters, Inc. Steve couldn't switch it, so he said, "Sorry, buddy. No Monsters right now." Jack said, "Monsters at home," which just about broke Steve's heart.

But things are getting much better. The biggest improvment came on Sunday when the "big orgish truck" arrived with all of Jack's toys, his crib, and the furniture for his room. Jack felt a lot more secure and was happy to rediscover all of his stuff. We have also been working hard to emphasize that this is "Jack's new house." I was very happy yesterday when we were driving home, and Jack pointed at the house and said, "That Jack's house. Right there." He is still clingier than usual, and he's prone to a major tantrum at about 6:00 every night, but that's to be expected, and it's better than I feared it might be.

As for Steve and me, we quickly came to the conclusion that the midwest is a much better place for us to be. No more do we have to leave at least half an hour in advance of doing anything. Five minutes will get you just about anywhere. And it is remarkable how much friendlier everyone is. On my drive here, I stopped at a toll booth in Indiana. I asked the man working there for directions to a hotel. He looked me in the eye, made a joke, and smiled at me as he answered my question. It's rather sad how much that affected me. Everyone we've encountered has been the same way -- friendly, helpful, and not irritated with us. Despite the fact that I don't have a job and have an occasionally tantruming clinger monkey kid, my stress level is lower than it was on an ordinary day in Virginia. I am really happy that the three of us have made this change.

Still Here

This has been a busy -- but great -- week. Steve and I are officially done working as of last Friday. I've got a great lead on a job, so everybody cross your fingers. The morons at Verizon, after a stunning display of incompetence and poor customer service, finally got our internet up again (the best part was when they asked me if I'd be using service with Verizon at our new address; I almost laughed). And Operation Relocation is well underway.

Steve and I wake up, have breakfast, and make waffles for Jack. Whichever of us draws the short straw takes him to school, where he is horribly clingy. This morning, not even a table full of Play-Doh would loosen his grasp on my leg. Then we spend the morning packing like crazy. We've given ourselves enough time that if we follow our packing schedule, we have the afternoon off. So far, we've gone out for good lunches, wandered through a small town shopping, watched a movie, and generally just relaxed. Even though I'm packing and there are a lot of loose ends to tie up, I am more relaxed and free of stress than I've been in weeks. Hopefully this is a sign of things to come.

Vacation from the Vacation

Steve, Jack, and I took a road trip last weekend to Allentown to visit Steve's parents, Bill and Diane. By the time it was over, I think we were all completely worn out. Time for the proverbial vacation from the vacation.

The drive there was a lot of work. Jack really never got the message that little kids love the car and usually fall asleep. Instead, I sat in the backseat with him and did my best to entertain him for the four hour drive. We sang songs, played with Roary, and looked for cows out the window. Then, Jack was no longer amused by that, and I was honestly too worn out to do anything more, so it was time to bust out the heavenly portable DVD player. Jack and I watched a Sesame Street alphabet DVD (featuring Stephen Colbert!), then The Lion King. We didn't get to town until Jack's bedtime, but despite that, Steve's parents thought we should all go out to dinner.

Let's think about that for a minute, shall we? Behold, the potential pitfalls:
• Jack is a two-year old.
• It was bedtime.
• Jack had just been cooped up in a car for four hours.
• Jack's behavior at restaurants is a roll of the dice.

Steve and I remembered our important resolution, which is I am in charge and I know what I'm doing. We told them that we most certainly would not be going out to eat, and asked them to pick up some sandwiches for us.

The next day was filled with similar challenges. The B&D had planned for us to go out for breakfast and for Diane's daughter and her family to come over for dinner, but didn't have anything else on the agenda. Jack tends to get bored and destructive when faced with an activity-free day at our house, despite the fact that it's filled with toys. The B&D's house is not only not filled with toys, but it is instead filled with breakable ceramic objects. And not just any breakable ceramic objects, but ones shaped appealingly like Mickey Mouse. And, bonus, Jack refused to take a nap. Steve and I worked our butts off trying to keep him entertained so he wouldn't have a gigantic tantrum and start chucking Mickeys at the wall.

The other kids arrived, thank Yoda. The littler ones had fun playing with Jack and immediately opened the drawer in the coffee table Jack had been playing around all day, revealing it to be full of crayons and coloring books. Don't you think that maybe that was some information that I could have used?

Once the visit was over, it was time for another long car ride (this one at least broken up by a visit to Boyd's Bear Country). At home, it became clear that Jack was pretty stressed out about the whole thing. He did not want Steve and me to be out of his sight, apparently worried we'd leave him. Jack and I were watching Dora (the TV was my friend), and Steve went outside to get a ladder. Jack completely flipped out, crying, "Daddy! Daddy!" and "Jack coming! He coming!" We had to reassure him several times that no one was leaving Jack anywhere and that we are a team -- Mommy, Daddy, Jack, and Roary, and that we stick together. Even still, he was incredibly touching and prone to tantrums at the drop of a hat.

I am completely worn out and somehow managed to gain three pounds over the weekend. I need a nap.