Bravery

So, it turns out that in addition to a general iron deficiency, my B12 levels are also pretty low. I swear to Yoda, once all of this is worked out, I am going to be such a superhero.

In the meantime, I am taking iron supplements, but for the B12, I have to get shots! It's once a week for a month, then once a month, probably for the rest of my life. It's a good thing the zillions of blood tests I had to take when I was pregnant have gotten rid of my fear of needles.

Instead of being scared of the frequent shots, my first reaction was to wonder about the logistics of it all. The easiest thing to do would be for me to go Monday or Tuesday morning before work, since Steve takes Jack to my mom's house those days. But no luck - that doesn't work for the doctor's office. No problem, I reasoned - I'll just get their first morning appointment, bring Jack with me, and take him to school afterwards.

It's a real sign of how much easier life is at Stately Wasser Manor that I'd even consider taking Jack to a doctor's appointment with me. He is growing up and is a lot easier to corral than he used to be. I also know that he is old enough to understand that Mommy needs to get a shot to stay healthy, just like Elmo did in that book we read. And that it will hurt, but just for a second, and that this time, only Mommy needs to get a shot, not Jack. I don't have to worry that he will freak out, cry, try to escape, or have a tantrum in the middle of the waiting room. Yeah, it might happen, but it's unlikely, and I can probably talk him down from the ledge.

This morning was our first trip to the doctor's office. Jack and I talked all about it, and he seemed awfully proud of his role of helping Mommy be brave. When we arrived, I snuck Linda, the nurse, a Buzz Lightyear sticker to give Jack when it was all over. It was pretty obvious that they don't have any pediatric patients in the practice, since she needed a second to figure out what I was asking.

The whole thing took about two minutes and just could not have gone more smoothly. Jack was not one bit bothered or worried by my getting a shot - and neither was I. He was pleased to see that Linda gave me a Band-Aid, but thrilled with his sticker.

All the way to school, he chattered happily about how the doctor gave him a sticker for being brave. He then immediately showed his bounty to his friend Emma.

My little guy is growing up, and in so many ways, it's a good thing. I can feel confident that taking him with me somewhere unusual is not a total act of bravery, I know just how to take care of him, and I know that he can be brave, too.

Cheer!

Hey, Internet!

On Sunday, give a great big cheeer for Sandy, who will be running her very first half marathon in Virginia Beach.

Sandy is one of my partners in crime at RNO, and a few months ago, one of her friends somehow convinced her to run a half marathon with her. Sandy had never been a runner before, but she decided to give it a shot. She's been working hard, and now her big day is coming.

I think it's incredibly cool that she went from blogging about how she was able to complete most of her run that day with only a few breaks to walk and is now ready to go a 13.1 mile race.

So, good luck, Sandy! I will be cheering for you in spirit!

The Color Game

Jack and I were in the car this morning when this went down...

Jack: I know! Let's play The Color Game!
Me: Okay, sounds good. What color should we do first.
Jack (looking pointedly at Roary): NOT orange.
Me: How about blue?
Jack: No, my want to do yellow.
Me: Okay, what's something that's yellow?
Jack: Shrek candy!
Me: Hey, yeah! There's yellow Shrek candy. Good one, Jack.
Roary: Shrek candy!
Me: Can you think of anything else that's yellow, Jack?
Jack: No, Mommy. I did my job. It not my turn anymore. You do your job.

How *you* doin?

One of the things about Jack that makes me most proud is that he is a very outgoing little guy. Jack pretty much assumes that everyone around him is friendly and approachable. He is not afraid to march his little diapered (or Pull Up'ed, I guess) butt right over to them to say hello.

The challenge is the opening line. Jack's favorite way to kick off a conversation right now is to say, "I have a new house." If that seems to generate some interest, Jack will then tell them that he has a big boy bed and that it has Elmo on it. He might then let them know that, "Him a tiger. Him name Roary."

Sometimes, he begins by seeking common ground. Jack saw a man the other day whose arms were covered by tattoos. Jack excitedly pointed to the Mickey Mouse stamp on his hand (which he got after tumbling class) and said, "My got it stamp, too! You got lots of stamps!" Luckily, the guy seemed to find it funny.

With other kids, Jack often just asks for their name. It is pretty much a given in Jack's mind that they will want to play with him. Last week at the Family Museum, he tried a different tactic. Jack was, at the time, completely obsessed with The Incredibles. He was wearing a vest that he'd decided was a cape, so he was Syndrome for a change instead of his usual pick of Mr. Incredible. Jack kept saying, "My Syndrome! My bad guy! My got cape!" all in his gruff little "bad guy" voice. The girl tried her best to ignore him. I pointed out that maybe she doesn't like to play Incredibles (also, maybe isn't into bad boys yet), and perhaps would prefer a she's Cinderella, you're the mean kitty cat kind of scenario. Finally, he gave up on being Syndrome and just told her his name.

The best, though, was when he was playing with a little girl at the zoo. He went so far as to also chat up her mom. I saw him pointing to Steve and me and saying, "That my mommydaddy. Her name Betsy, Him name Steve."

Running Report

Remember two weeks ago when the half marathon kicked my ass?

Well yesterday, I ran 15 miles, and I rocked it out!

My plan was to run a six mile loop to and from my house, grab some water and pee if necessary, then do another six mile loop, water/pee break again, then three. I felt so strong after loop two that I opted to just keep going and finish out the fifteen. At several points when the Nike+ lady told me how far I'd gone, I just felt giddy. I knew I could keep going, and I knew I'd finish strong.

I then got home, guzzled some Gatorade, and took an ice bath. My friend Cindy says that I must have "brass ovaries" to even consider an ice bath, and I have to say, the first time was quite the leap of faith. But yesterday, I was actually looking forward to it. I even thought it felt good. I didn't even need my post-run nap! Instead, I took Jack to Starbucks and the pet store.

I feel amazing.

In other news, I had a check-up last Thursday. The doctor immediately asked if I feel tired often or if I am having trouble with my endurance levels. No, I told him, and added that I'm running a marathon in a few months.

He was very surprised, because my blood tests indicate that I'm anemic! He told me to take some iron supplements, which I started today. I suspect that once that extra iron is coarsing through my veins, I will be a superhero.



Like maybe Iron Man?

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.

Dios mio!

Can I tell you a secret, Internet?

Dora The Explorer is kind of growing on me.



The pace of the show is still excruciatingly slow. "Who do we ask for help when we don't know which way to go?" For the love of Yoda, Dora, it's the map, just like it is in every single episode. The loooong pauses are undoubtedly great if you're a preschooler, but if you're not, they are painful.

And sure, Boots is cool, but what about her creepy squirrel friend Tico, he of the multicolored vest and flying/floating/rocket ship car?



I'd hate to meet that dude in a jungle.

But Jack loves the show so much that I have to admit, his enthusiasm is contagious. I love hearing him answering Dora, telling her, "Swiper right there, Dora! No more swiping!" He also pays very close attention to the show and can tell you all about it. The stories as told by Jack are always more amusing.

"Mommy, Boots thought he saw bear, but Isa was being bear! That funny! Dora and Boots thought the bear was in the cave, but him no was in the cave. Bear was in the grass!"

At the end of the show, when Dora asks which part of the adventure you liked best, I always want to tell her that my favorite part was watching Jack.

I know that after a painfully long pause, she'd nod sagely and say, "I liked that part, too."

Extreme Cuteness

Steve: Achoo! Oh, excuse me.
Jack: No, Daddy. Excuse me is for burps. I say "bless you" for sneeze. Bless you, Daddy.

Angels

Yesterday was my longest "long run" yet. Granted, I'll be able to repeat this sentence pretty much every Monday until my marathon, but it's still satisfying to say it.

My goal was to run 13 miles, but I figured I might as well make it 13.1 and call it a half-marathon, because that sounds so much more kickass.

Sadly, it ended up kicking my ass.

For starters, I got a lousy night's sleep on Saturday. For whatever reason, I woke up at 4:00 and was wide awake. I didn't get as early of a start as I would have liked because once I finally did fall asleep, I was dead to the world until Jack woke me up. And when Jack woke me up, Steve was then dead to the world for another hour. Once I finally got going, it was 9:00 and blazing ass hot, not to mention swampy humid. I could not catch a breeze to save my life, even though I stayed as close to the river as possible in hopes that it'd be a bit cooler.

The heat made what would have been a challenging run an absolute slog. I had to make all kinds of bargains with myself - if I gutted it out and didn't take another walking/water break for a couple more miles, I could walk up the killer steep hill at mile 10, for example. And if I needed to slow my pace? Hey, no problem.

Even still, by the time I got to the last mile, I was hurting. I have a mantra that I say in my head to encourage me: I am strong. I am tough. I can do this. I am a marathoner. I went from saying it in my head to muttering it out loud. Even that wasn't enough, so I spent much of that final mile saying, "Come on already. It's just one stupid mile, and you'll be done soon. Suck it up and keep going. Don't be such a fucking wimp."

Finally, it was over. Instead of feeling strong and triumphant, I was absolutely exhausted. I decided to cut through the grocery store on my way home to soak up a little air conditioning (which was heaven).

On my way in, a man stopped me. "Hey," he said, "I saw you running all the way in downtown Rock Island. Did you run all that way?" I told him yes, and then some. "Damn, girl! That's some running!"

With that, my mindset completely changed. Yeah, it was tough, and no, there was nothing pretty about that run. It was really hard - and you know what? I did it.

The Non-Runner's Guide to Marathons refers to "running angels." They are people who come along at just the right minute to somehow save you with a gel, a drink of water, or just a few words of encouragement. That man was my very first running angel.

I headed back home to survey the damages. My outfit was completely soaked in sweat. I downed two huge bottles of Gatorade in about 30 seconds. Then I took an ice bath. If you're not crazy enough to run 13.1 miles in ridiculous heat and humidity, then surely you're not crazy enough to be familiar with an ice bath, so here's the deal. You fill your tub with freezing cold water deep enough to cover your legs and stay in it for as long as you can. The cold water causes your blood vessels to tighten and drains the blood out of your legs. The new blood then sends more oxygen to your muscles and aids in your recovery.

It was painful, yet awesome.

I also discovered that I had sunburn on my face and shoulders and some chafing on my chest from my shirt. And that taking a post-run nap is even better if Jack joins me.

What Do I Know?

Sunday night, I was chatting with Steve and said, "You know what? Screw potty training for the time being." After all, we're going to Disney World in a little over a month, and it's not like Jack's going to figure it all out before then. We might as well just forget about the whole thing until after we get back. It was agreed, and it was a sound policy.

Then, I picked Jack up from my mom's house last night. Little man was lounging around in his t-shirt and a pair of underwear. My mom reported that he was interested in using the potty, did a fantastic job, and insisted on wearing his new (and awesome) Spider-Man underwear like a big boy.

So, yeah - what do I know?

On the way home, I told Jack how proud of him I was. I asked him if he wanted to go to Target after dinner to buy more big boy underwear, and he was all over that idea. I told him I'd get him whatever kind he wanted, and I don't think I'd even finished the sentence when he requested Thomas. Upon further thought, he decided he'd also like Elmo. And at the store, he put a pack of Cinderella underwear in the cart, which I removed when he wasn't looking. I'm a liberal mom, but I draw the line at cross dressing.

Is he really interested? Who knows. But in case he is, we are stocked up on Thomas and Elmo underwear - and carpet cleaner.

The Hills Are Alive

Last weekend, Steve, my brother, and I ran the Bix 7. The Bix is a long-standing Quad City tradition: a seven mile road race that attracts elite runners from around the world, as well as apparently everyone who lives anywhere remotely nearby who has the faintest interest in running. This was my third Bix, and now that I live here again, I can't imagine missing one.

The race is, in short, a blast. The course is really difficult. Not only is the distance tough (though decreasingly so for me, as my training miles have gone up), but the course itself is really challenging. The race starts almost immediately with a run up a very steep hill that goes on for about half a mile. And there are yet more hills, some rolling, and others that aren't very steep, but are long - the kind that kind of sneaks up on you.

It turns out that running hills is a really good idea for me. At the pre-race expo, I picked up some information about the marathon in Des Moines that I'm training for. There are hills at miles 3 and 7, and the literature advises, "If you haven't already incorporated hills into your training program, please do so now."

Message received!

Luckily, I live in a really hilly area. If I'm running more than three miles, it actually takes some doing to avoid hills completely. So hey, why not be prepared? I have a three-mile course that includes a really steep hill at around the midpoint, so that will be the run that I begin my week with every week from now on. And I'll definitely make sure my long runs are not flat and easy.

Thanks to four years of high school cross country, I am no stranger to running hills. They're definitely challenging, but the key to tackling them successfully is the mental game. The book The Non-Marathoner's Guide to Running suggests that you embrace the hills. The book advises that you say, "Hello, hill. Come run with me."

I take a slightly different tactic. When I hit a hill, I'm more likely to say, "Hill? I'm not scared of you, bitch. You're not that tough. I'm much stronger than you are, and I am almost done. You are a tiny part of this workout for me." And before you know it, I'm at the top, feeling triumphant.


Oh, and by the way, it wasn't just us grown-ups who ran the Bix. Jack was able to compete in the Junior Bix, a grueling 70 yard dash. Once he convinced me that he would literally die if he had to wear his race number, he was all smiles, running down the street, holding my hand, and taunting his fellow two-year olds with a "Neener, neener, neener!"

Get The Lead Out

Fisher Price announced yesterday that they are recalling more than one million toys because they may contain lead-based paint. The toys in question are all Sesame Street, Diego, and Dora toys - pretty much Jack's favorite stuff. I just reviewed the LONG list of stuff, and it's like looking into Jack's toy box, he has so much of it. Luckily for me, the recall only affects toys sold after May 1, 2007, and all of Jack's are older than that. But that's honestly just luck.

This story has me in fits of Protective Mama Bear Rage. Lead paint? Are you fucking kidding me? A few months ago, there was a safety recall on a toy chair that Jack had. That was a case that I'm not upset about. They tested the toy, but some kid got creative and found a way to hurt himself with it. Grownups can test things like crazy and still not have the ingenuity of a toddler bent on destruction. That's understandable. But lead paint is pretty damned easy to avoid- and to test for. Things like this are completely avoidable and simply should not happen.

Lesson Learned

Now that Jack is sleeping in his Medium Boy Bed, one of the little joys of my day is that he likes to come wake me up. I can always hear him coming. First, there's a light thump as he climbs out of bed. Then, I can hear him scuttering over to turn off his sound machine. There's a creak as he slowly opens his door, then closes it behind him. More little footsteps as he opens our door, then pads over to me. He rests his little hand on my arm and whispers, "Wake up, Mommy!"

It's really nice.

It is, however, less nice when it happens too early in the morning. In those cases, Steve and I just haul Jack into our bed to sleep between us. It never really works that well. He likes to position himself perpendicular to the two of us, forming a giant letter H. Or he'll kick us in the backs repeatedly. Or somehow get his feet tangled in my hair. Not ideal sleeping conditions by any stretch of the imagination, but still cuddly.

This morning, he arrived at the hideous hour of 5:00. He announced that he needed a binky, so I staggered into his room to get one (should really add one to the bedside table). Then, he told me that he needed Roary. Ugh, could he not have asked for Roary AND the binky at the same time? I brought him Roary, then tried unsuccessfully to go to sleep.

I finally told Jack that if he couldn't lie down, I'd take him back to his room. Jack, believe it or not, seemed into the idea. So, I took him to his room, and he stayed there for a whopping half hour.

He showed up again, and I took him by the hand, walked him back to his room, tucked him in, and proceeded to curl up next to him on his tiny little bed.

After a few minutes, he put his little hand on my arm and said, "Mommy, go to sleep." I told him that's what I was going to do, right there next to him. Jack clarified. "Mommy, go to sleep in mommydaddy bed."

Well, he didn't have to tell me twice. I went right back to mommydaddy bed and didn't hear from him again until 7:30.

Steve and I agreed that from now on, we'll try to put him back in his own bed. With Roary and plentiful binkies.

People Are Boobs

This is a picture of Senator Hillary Clinton on the Senate floor.

Washington Post writer Robin Givhan wrote a ridiculously puritanical article about it, saying that she was startled to see the "small acknoledgment of sexuality and feminity" from Senator Clinton. She talks about the history of Hillary's public appearance, noting that she rarely wears anything feminine in public and that when running for the Senate initially, she opted for a uniform of flattering, but sexless black pantsuits.

Givhan's article suggests that the fact that Senator Clinton is starting to show a more feminine sense of style indicates that she is becoming more confident. That she's not only intelligent and experienced, but that she also has a womanly side. I think that's true. I believe that Hillary is increasingly coming into her own, not just as Bill Clinton's wife, but as a force to be reckoned with all her own.

Unfortunately, Givhan also says, "To display cleavage in a setting that does not involve cocktails and hors d'oeuvres is a provocation."

Well, break out the red paint, because it's time to put a great big A on Hillary's chest. Calling Senator Clinton's outfit "a provocation" is absolutely absurd. She looks completely professional and businesslike. You have to squint to see the faintest hint of boob in that outfit. It's not like she's dressed like Amanda Woodward, for Yoda's sake.

I'd like to think that we, as a country, are evolved enough to elect a woman as president (whether it's Senator Clinton or someone else), but this makes me sadly wonder if it's true.

At least it's not infuriating as the conversations I've overheard about what Bill Clinton's title will be if his wife is elected President. "What's he going to be, First Gentleman," is bandied about with a guffaw as if that were the most ridiculous thing ever suggested.

My answer? I don't know; we'll work it out. Any man who is smart enough to marry our first female president ought to be smart enough to come up with an appropriate title, whether it's First Gentleman or something else. Martha Washington didn't have a template to follow, and she did all right. Let's not distract ourselves with stupid details like this.

The Age of Discovery

Yesterday, as Steve was changing Jack's diaper, he attempted to distract him with a little dance. The dance was goofy and included Steve hiking up his shirt to expose his belly (sorry, baby - abs)... and more.

Jack: Daddy, what's that?
Steve: Um, those are my nipples.
Jack: Want those off there.
Steve: I can't take them off. They're part of my body.
Jack: Want those off there.
Steve: Sorry, buddy - they're part of my body. Look, you have some, too.
Jack: Where Jack's nipples?
Steve: See, there they are.
Jack: Here Jack's nipples!
Jack: Here Daddy's nipples!
Jack: Where Mommy's nipples?

Could it be more obvious that I didn't breast-feed him?

The Chicken Dance

In the (freaking awesome) movie Knocked Up, Paul Rudd's character laments, "I wish I liked anything as much as my kids like bubbles."

It was a very sad little moment, and I think a lot of people feel that way when they see the pure bliss that a kid feels about so many small things in life. I feel lucky in that I truly believe that I am able to feel more joy, more passion about the world around me than the average person. But last night, Jack completely trumped me.

Steve was out at a party, so we were having some Mommy-Son time. I decided that Mommy-Son time would be a lot more fun if there were less of Jack throwing himself on the concrete crying, "Want Daddy" and more of us actually doing something. So, we walked over to our neighborhood park.

As fate would have it, a local church was having a public "Family Fun" night there, and let me tell you, their definition of the word "fun" was rather broad, in my opinion.

They had face painting, and little carnival games, which seemed like fun for the older kids, but not really for Jack. A completely unimpressive band playing Christian rock. They also had "train" rides. The train was, in fact, a riding lawnmower disguised as a train with some plywood, pulling a small cart filled with kids who were honestly too old to be riding on the fake train. Also, the train kept getting stuck in the mud. Jack spent a lot of time watching the "train" and talking excitedly about it.

We walked around some more, and Jack noticed a random guy in a chicken suit. Why a chicken? No idea. It's not like there's some chicken story in the Bible, and the chicken wasn't wearing a Jesus t-shirt or anything. Just, for no particular reason, Chicken. Nevertheless the kid was just as excited about the Christian Chicken as he would have been about someone actually cool like Mickey Mouse or Elmo. He said, "Mommy, want to go see that duck!" I said that it was a chicken, but sure, we could go see him.

Jack marched his little butt right up to the Christian Chicken and said hi. The two of them hugged, and then Jack held Roary up to the Christian Chicken. CC hugged Roary also, then handed him back to Jack. Then, Jack and the Christian Chicken started dancing to the sucky band.

He proceeded to follow Christian Chicken all around the park until I finally convinced him that CC should probably talk to some other kids. I lured him home with the promise of popsicles.

I definitely can't muster up a child-like level of joy for watching a riding lawnmower get stuck in the mud or busting a move with a guy in a chicken suit. But sitting on my back step, eating a popsicle while Jack rests one hand on my knee?

Absolute joy.

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.

Being Green

Living in the new Stately Wasser Manor feels like a new beginning. It's like the first day of school, when you were determined to do things a little differently, like change your look a bit, or get to school earlier. This, I figure, is my opportunity to set things up in such a way to make our lives a bit easier and more organized. Everything from arranging the kitchen cabinets to buying a new family message center to finding a spot other than the dining room table to put our mail is a great opportunity.

One of the things that I've decided to do is to find little ways to live a bit greener. Just because I can't switch completely to organic produce, buy a hybrid car, or exclusively bike to work doesn't mean that my efforts to do little things for the planet, and for Jack's future on it, are wasted.

To that end, I'm reading a book called It's Easy Being Green that offers lots of simple, actionable ideas to do your part to improve the planet. Here are some changes I'm making:

• Switching all lightbulbs to compact fluorescents. This is really no big deal to do at all, and CFL's use significantly less energy than regular light bulbs
• Re-using plastic sandwich bags whenever possible
• Only running the dishwasher when it's full (not so hard to do now that I no longer have baby bottles to be concerned with)
• Using the timer on our thermostat
• Buying locally grown produce at the farmer's market whenever possible (which is nice anyway)
• Using only a trickle of water to wash my hands and turning it off while I lather. And not running the water while I brush my teeth
• No more bottled water. I never drank bottled water because I had any problem with tap, but rather because it was more convenient. Now I have a pretty green bottle that I just re-use every day. Much nicer.
• I bring my own travel mug to 'bucks when it's time for a cup of coffee. Like the water bottle, it's actually a little nicer than it's disposable counterpart.
• At the office, I try to avoid printing anything that I could just email or read online. And when I do print something, I take the pages, turn them upside down, and use them as scratch paper.
• No more plastic bags. I bought a bunch of re-usable cloth bags on eBay and have them in the trunks of both cars. I've used them so far at the grocery store and at my favorite store, Target, and I love them. For one thing, there's that sweet feeling of superiority I can enjoy when I ask for neither paper nor plastic. And the fact that they are much easier to carry than plastic bags. And, if that wasn't enough, they're red!

I'm constantly on the lookout for other small changes I can make. It really feels important to me, and so far, none of this has been hard.

And... We're Back!

On Thursday, the pain in my Achilles was excruciating. I have a pretty high pain tolerance, but I was starting to think that a pair of crutches might be in order. But I rested all weekend, iced it, and slathered myself in Icy Hot. I know, sexy.

I swear, other runners came out of the woodwork all weekend long, and I was completely envious of them, smugly running past me, prancing around on their healthy legs. Bastards. And the incredibly cute new running outfit, complete with apple green running skirt with racing stripes to make it faster, was taunting me from the dresser drawer.

But as time went on, my pain went from horrendous to tolerable to non-existant. And this morning, I braved my first run since it started hurting. It was a good day to start, since I was only scheduled for an easy three anyway.

I picked a flat course and went very slowly - a full minute and a half behind my usual pace. I felt some pangs towards the end, but nothing I couldn't run through. And when I stopped running, the pain was gone. It felt so good to be back running again! And thanks to some lucky timing, I only missed one training run.

I'm scheduled for a four mile run tomorrow. I'm going to make it a slow one too, because I really don't want to get hurt again.