Early birds and cuckoo birds

Just a few quickies (some of which are on the longish side):

• Yesterday, as usual, Gunnar and I were the first ones up. "Where are Daddy and Annie?" he asked when I answered his morning bellows (he still doesn't realize he can just get out of the big-kid bed, but we refrain from telling him lest he exercise this freedom in the middle of the night), as per usual. "Ah, they're sleeping still. You and I are the early birds--that's our thing, Gunny." He ponders. "Yeah, we're da EARLY BIRDS!," he says, as if in celebration. "Dat makes Daddy and Annie da CUCKOO BIRDS!"
• I ended up not getting my cuckoo-bird husband anything super creative or extravagant for his birthday. (Thanks so much for your suggestions, though; I'll keep them in mind for Christmas and beyond!) Once he gave me the gift of a couple of hours at the mall alone, I perused and peeked and scratched my head. And came home with clothes. Khakis and a polo shirt. For work. But. My husband goes through khakis like a teenager fires off text messages, so he always needs another pair yesterday. If I leave him to his own devices, he'll proudly bring home a pair with pleats and/or an elastic waist he got for $12. So anyway. And the shirt was purple, Annie's favorite color. She always gets super excited when demands Daddy put on a purple shirt in the morning; and when laundry allows, he complies. It's kind of their thing.
• In addition, the kids worked furiously all morning to color special birthday pictures for Daddy. (Behold, Mario and Luigi Chasing Aliens, below.) They proudly helped pick out his cake (yeah, at the store, but wait...) and choose what colors in which to request the lettering (blue and purple, of course). Brian was working from home most of the day, and couldn't walk past one of the kids once without an exuberant, "Happy birfday, Daddy!" or "Daddy! Iss yo' birfday!!" I also managed to cook an entire dinner without touching the microwave. So maybe it was just Shake-n-Bake, rice, and boiled corn on the cob (the latter being the only part the kids touched), but the sentiment registered, I think. Overall, it was one of my favorite days as a family to date, and it wasn't even my birfday.

  
  
  

• I did have my own big day, however, on Tuesday, when I ran a 10-mile road race I'd been looking forward to for weeks. It was almost as stinking hot out as it gets up here, but I had a goal and executed it pretty much exactly how I planned. As they say, I left it all on the course--what every runner wants to be able to say once they've finished a race (horrible feeling to be suddenly done with more in the tank). Except this time, ran out of gas with about a half mile to go, but managed to sputter to the finish with a personal record of 1 hour, 17 minutes, and 38 seconds.
• The following evening, I showed up to my usual biweekly cross-country race. I could have easily justified taking the day off (and I intend to today), but I decided to just start out easy and see how it went. Obviously, my body was tired. Not so much sore, but completely lacking of oomph. The people I usually pass early gradually pulled further and further away until I was alone with the mosquitoes and my thoughts. On this day, I was fine with just enjoying the run at a gentle pace. But it made me think about the days, months on end in college when I would have rather shaved my head than taken a day off. When I ran in this worn-down state day after day, through practice, workout, and race, and couldn't figure out how I could be working so hard and not running any better. In fact, I progressively ran worse and worse until I finally had no choice but to take a whole season off. This is a very abridged version of Deb's Big Burnout Story, and I will elaborate sometime. But the moral is that "tired" is not an accusation or a sign of weakness. It's a fact of life that can be easily fixed with rest. I see a lot of runners today with different levels of experience who still don't get it. I tell my story (the long, sordid version), try to gently warn them that they're headed directly for a most-spectacular crash and burn, but just like the old me, they won't hear of it.
• So, I've just convinced myself that it is time for me to delve into writing about that experience--all the ugly moments and crises of identity--and see where it really sits in my consciousness today. I'll bet there are lessons that can also be applied to parenthood and beyond. Stay tuned...
  

Save me from yet another birthday blunder

The husband's birthday is next week. I sort of forgot, actually, until he alerted me we'd (oops) racked up enough credit card points that I'm in the running to receive one of a host of highish-ticket items I've been eying (if there's a particular point-and-shoot digital camera you'd recommend, let me know) for my birthday. Next month.

Back to next week.

My ideas so far: Triple-A-Plus membership (it's a travesty he doesn't already have one), a 3-pack (or two!) of new Fruit of the Loom, a year's worth of pre-paid/prescheduled haircuts.

In my former life, before practicality consumed my soul, I was sort of bent on making my gifts thoughtful. One Christmas while we were in college, I disregarded the list of CDs (remember those?) and video games Brian provided me in favor of something more personal, that would remind him of me when we were apart (this was in the sentimental days, before I knew how hard it was for him to find the hamper).

I went to Special Thoughts at the mall, picked out the nicest Cross pen I could afford, and had it engraved with the phrase, "From your imagination to the world." I thought this was a thoughtful, sweet gift for my aspiring-writer boyfriend.

"YOU GOT HIM A PEN??!!" was my sister's response when I proudly told her about my purchase.

On Christmas night, Brian mustered up an appreciative grin. And maybe a tear or two, as he watched me beam proudly and realized I wasn't going to say, "Psyche!" and produce his real gifts, the electronics I'd secretly wrapped and hidden under the bed.

I was right about on thing. It was a gift he'd never forget. And something my sister will never let me live down.

I can't remember a single thing I've ever given him that's really knocked his socks off. Oddly, even actual socks don't move him to jump for joy and spin me around the room.

After the kids came on the scene, we pretty much just stopped getting anything for each other for a while, and just shared in the enjoyment of picking out things we knew our son and daughter would like, watching them play with them...fight over them....leave them all over the floor or swimming in the toilet for us to clean up....

Anyway, we know it's important that we get back to doing special things for each other, so we've made a pact not to agree to do this again.

Other than the fact that it makes him one month and four years older than me, it's really not fair that his birthday comes first.

I have less than a week to find "Wow" for under $200.

Help? Pretty please? (Yes, Brian reads this, so please send legitimate ideas via email or Twitter).

Red light, green light: A pop safety quiz for pre-preschoolers

My mom always used to have a little stash of "prizes" stored up in her closet for when my sister and I did something noteworthy or deserving of a treat were driving her crazy and she wanted to keep us busy for a while.

I have a similar bored-kids reserve of small toys, stickers, and books, stocked in large part with the help of my mom.

Today's lifesaver: Sesame Street Stop'n Go Safety! (with Elmo)


Once Annie settled down to her nap, three-year-old Gunnar and I delved into the book together--all three pages of it. We reviewed the importance of holding hands and looking both ways while crossing the street, what police officers' uniforms look like, and so on. It was light, unintimidating, and surprisingly interesting to my quiet-time companion. The last page is where things got interesting. It featured a number of characters doing safe (e.g., wearing a bike helmet) and not-so-safe things (e.g., going the wrong way up a slide), with a green light next to the good and a red light next to the dangerous. And the really fun part: A miniaturized traffic light with toddler-friendly red and green buttons.

It wasn't planned, but our light reading time evolved into a game about things that are safe (green light!) vs. dangerous (red light!). Although we talk about safety with the kids a lot (if being/listening to a broken record counts as conversation), this was the first time I tried to pry a little knowledge out of one of them from their perspective. With Gunnar, in particular, I tend to approach potentially scary subjects delicately or with a sense of fun. Our little pop quiz turned out to be a great way to test his judgment without (hopefully) causing him to lose sleep.

Happily (and very much to my surprise), he got most of the questions I posed correct--and we both learned from the ones on which he stumbled. Some of the biggies:

Is it safe or dangerous to...

• Take candy from someone you don't know? (Easy red light, but he was relieved when I said he just had to ask me or his dad first.)
• Hold the railing when using the stairs?
• Run up or down the stairs?
• Go into the dinosaur pool by yourself? (He hesitated, maybe because we don't usually physically get in the pool with the kids. This gave me the opportunity to explain that Mom and Dad didn't have to be in the water, but we had to be nearby watching, and have said it's okay.)
• Put a plastic bag over your head? (Always thought those warning labels were foolish until realizing how fascinating grocery bags are to toddlers.)
  
• Tattle if Annie is doing something unsafe (vs. merely displeasing ...)?
• Ask someone in a uniform for help if you get lost?
• Run away from Mommy or Daddy if we're outside?
• Put coins or anything that is not food in your mouth? (Though they're not babies anymore, we've caught them both doing this one lately.)
• Listen to your aunts and uncles when they tell you to do something? (Went over the main grownups--relatives, babysitters, and neighbors, by name--who can fill in for Mommy or Daddy sometimes.)
• Go outside by yourself?
• Pat a dog if the owner and Mommy or Daddy say it's okay?
• Tell fibs? (Trying to drive home the point that not telling the truth has consequences, even if he thinks he's just being silly.)
  
• Walk way around a swing that somebody's swinging on? (A good reminder after a few recent incidents.)
• Touch any of the bottles Mommy and Daddy use to clean the house [in theory]? (They're generally locked away, but Gunnar seemed recently enthralled by the Scrubbing Bubbles cartoon-ey character.)
  

There were probably a dozen more, and I did try to include as many positive actions as negative, though my list was probably skewed toward the no-nos. Even more than being relieved and proud that my son has the basics right, I love how engaged he was. He did dig for hints at times, as in, "Now, ask me sumfin' dat's really, really safe!," so he'd be ready to hit the green light before he even heard the question. But he was fully listening, and even tried to see if I was paying attention by intentionally hitting the wrong button a few times (and then roll with laughter when I called him on it!). He didn't do so hot as far as naming safe or dangerous things off the top of his head himself, but we'll try that again another time.

Up until now, we've just brought these points up as situations arise, without much of a plan (and I don't think we really need one). But with each kid I have different concerns. With Gunnar, his propensity to get freaked out; with Annie, her off-the-charts independence and general irreverence to everything and everyone (particularly me).

I intend to play our new version of Red Light, Green Light with both kids on a regular basis, but I'd love to hear what's worked (or not) for you. Please share!

How I work in working out

A lot of people ask me how I fit in the amount of running I do (30-40 miles per week) with two small kids to take care of (second only to strangers asking whether my 2- and 3-year-old are twins). And until the past few months or so, it didn't really seem humanly possible to me either. But, as a family with two running parents, we've finally worked out a half-decent system.

Perhaps some of these ideas could work for you:

I strongly prefer to begin, rather than end the day with exercise. While an end-of-day workout is better than none at all, and can even help wind down from a long day, I find I tend to lose motivation exponentially every hour I've been awake.

Most weekdays, I get up with the kids at whatever ungodly hour they decide is morning, then Brian takes over around 7 a.m. until about 8. I make sure I'm changed and ready to head out the door before getting him. Brian, who is also self-employed, can usually grab an hour himself in the late afternoon.

When this system works out, my entire day is a lot smoother. If I have to do some writing when I get back, the ideas come quicker and cleaner. I've got just a teeny bit more patience for squabbling kids; the nonstop laundry is a little less depressing.

I fight the urge to skip until our schedules necessitate it. I've discovered a little by accident that, at least for now, I run best with two days off per week. But I generally don't plan them, just wait the day Brian has to be out the door too early and gets home too late or I have obligations in the way or another crisis pops arises. With two jobs and two kids and life in general between us, this is inevitable at least twice a week.

We both also try to take advantage of having looser schedules on weekends. These are the days to run longer, even explore a little. When we don't have to be back at an exact time, the ability to get a little lost or bite off a bit too much and have to walk some is a luxury we've come to enjoy.

When it comes to racing, we alternate who competes and who heads up the cheering section with the kids. Sometimes the person who was on sideline duty will jog home from the event, so that we can all be back together to resume our family time a little sooner.

I'm also lucky enough not to have to rely on Brian alone to cover run time. I have a runner friend who is also home with his kids (who play great with mine) during the day. Occasionally we'll get together for a runshare playdate, with one of us watching all four kids while the other runs, and then we switch. It's a little tricky to coordinate nap time and work schedules to swing this; but if you don't mind working out at high noon, we found that lunchtime worked well. (After one of these group lunches, I even returned to see that my friend's kids had taught my toddlers how to use, rather than shred, their napkins!)

As for strength training, I admittedly don't do much. But when I get a window of time to take an unhurried shower (a couple times a week), I bang out a few pushups and situps before hopping in. And the kids rarely let me forget to do my daily Gunny-Ups and Annie-Ups, where I lift them each over my head 10 times each. The bigger they get, the stronger I get!

Note there isn't any mention of a jogging stroller here. I used one to run with Gunnar for a while, and then for walks once I got pregnant with Annie. Although the deep seat and smooth ride was like magic for getting both kids to sleep, I never really got the hang of running with it. Trying to get my lungs and legs back was hard enough without having to deal with extra apparatus and an ofter-rowdy/hungry/cranky/demanding passenger. We never invested in a double-jogger. As much as Brian and I miss running together (how we met, on our college x-c team), we seem to get the most out of running right now by taking turns.

If this seems like a lot of effort to go out and sweat and exert ourselves some more on top of the already strenuous job of parenting, it is. But it's also my chief form of alone time, and probably my favorite way to clear my head and relax (yes, you read that relax part correctly). If you're new to running or any other activity, you won't feel these benefits at first. It'll be tiring and likely not fun. But eventually, your body will stop protesting and even start to crave the attention.

It can take a while to get over this hump, and might seem especially daunting if you've never before experienced the other side. But I'm telling you, seriously, this is what keeps me sane. I don't just like to run, I need to run, and will work pretty hard to make it happen.

So, my fellow crazies exercise enthusiasts, what are your tips and tricks for fitting in working out?

Don't knock joy

I have absolutely zero argument with the New York Magazine article, All Joy and No Fun. Zip.

For the foreseeable future, I live for those fleeting, transcendental moments. The ones where I'm curled up in a teeny bed, close to midnight, trying to reason with a two-year-old. When, hopeless as to figuring out what else to do, I acknowledge how doll-like she looks cast in moonlight.

But the stress, the sleep deprivation, the inability to venture anywhere alone (or at all) on a whim? They're horrific. The last one especially gets to me. After a certain number of days of all kids and work and end-to-end unfulfilled daydreams of a simple unscheduled hour at Starbucks or a walk on the beach, I hit an emotional wall. The kids could be having their most poignant brother-sister moment yet, and it's just noise. On more than one occasion, I've at this point wound up locked in the bathroom not quite sure what I was sobbing about.

The late Saturday mornings I used to spend enjoying uninterrupted conversation with my husband--much of it, ironically, about wanting to have babies--are all but an inconceivable memory. Seven days a week, we're both up and multitasking before the overnight informercials have stopped running. Our pillow talk, when it occurs, consists mostly of cute-kid stories (or sordid tales of fishing hairbrushes out of the toilet).

To the dozens of grocery store customers I nearly mowed down this morning en route to take my three-year-old to the bathroom--which naturally was clear across the store and just filthy enough to compel my two-year-old have to touch everything--I probably didn't fit the image of maternal bliss.

If I weren't doing this, though, I'd still be wishing for it. Was the motherhood I imagined anything like the brutal reality? Not even close.

So I'm not defensive (for once) about researchers pointing out what I've come to learn first-hand, what I've been writing about from the beginning. Parenthood is fucking hard and often miserable. But the upsides are too immense and profound to even try to explain, at least in a big-picture sort of way. It's not about having a smile plastered to one's face or making this job look fun or easy. It's about the moments so steeped in joy you don't care about your bills or the unfurled toilet paper billowing all over the bathroom floor. It's about a joy so powerful all you want to do is cry.

Independence Night

In honor of Independence Day (and Gunnar's broken crib, Annie's ability to scale the outside of hers, and the fact that all drop-sided models have been recalled), we officially let both kids out of their cages cribs and got them their own big(ger) kid beds.

Even though Gunnar has had the rail off of his crib for a couple of months now, he was ecstatic over his new bed (despite the disappointment that the car sheets featured on the box were not included). And for $79 (x 2) at Target, it seems we've almost doubled the size of both kids' rooms. And the little side rail should lead to fewer thuds in the night.

Why we chose the end of a three-day weekend--and a noisy, firecrackery one at that--to make this change is beyond me. But during our mini-vacation, Annie already proved that she could at least stay in a bedroom all night, even if she opted to sleep on the floor rather than the bottom bunk. (We think for Goldilocks, Nana's mattress was just too soft compared to the rock-solid one her paranoid mother purchased for the crib.) Like I said, Gunnar has had some time to get used to the freedom (which is still a bit lost on him, as he still calls, "Mommy, I'm all waked up now. Come get me!" every morning).

But even after Brian and I went out of our way to get both kids too exhausted to buck sleep--including a playground lunch picnic and late-afternoon beach trip in 90-degree weather--they zoomed between each other's rooms squealing and trying out each little dwarf bed for at least a half hour.

Storytime, traditionally hosted in Gunnar's room, was for the first time bi-coastal, with Brian and Gunny poring over the Super Mario tip guide in one room while I held Annie's favorite "farm book" in vain while she practiced hurdling the side rail (ensuring she could make a quick getaway over the highest point, I'm sure) in the other.

Within two minutes of lights-out, though, not a peep could be heard over the whirring fan and Annie's sound machine (set to heavy rainfall, twice as loud as usual). As of this moment (unless they're both in bed with Brian or drinking from the toilet), they're technically sleeping in.

Knock on assemble-by-letter wood product that this trend continues.

And now for the visuals:

Early afternoon Monday--Gunny showing Annie his new diggs.

Bedtime. Too giddy for sleep?

8: 15 (clock never stays set): Pretty cozy. It's looking good.

Annie demonstrating how she's going to "sweep all night." Could it be true?

Nipple confusion

I can sort of understand how a two- and three-year-old might confuse the word "dimples" with "nipples," and then mix up dimples (of which they're amply blessed) with freckles (a more foreign concept in their SPF 50+ world), and thereby refer to dimples, freckles, and those little buds on their little chests...all "nipples." Loudly. In public. At random, inopportune times.

Except: It doesn't end there.

At Target, while I happen to be perusing the aisles for the right post-adolescence, pre-wrinkle potion for the oily-skinned who hate makeup, Annie stares up from her elevated seat in the shopping cart and announces, as if in congratulations, "Mommy, you got NIPPLE on yo' chin!"

So that's: dimples, freckles, actual nipples, and pimples--all nipples.

Then, at the park, on a sunny, 80-degree morning, which happens to fall the day after school lets out. Gunnar is spinning the giant tic-tac-toe wheels one moment. The next, he's parked in the middle of a mini-suspension bridge, kids of all sizes bounding over and around him, while he tears at his right sock and whines, "No, I can't move outta da way, Mommy. I GOTTA scratch dis nipple."

Now we're up to: dimples, freckles, actual nipples, pimples, and mosquito bites.

You'd think that would do it for smallish, circular items a young person might throw into the "nipple" part of their memory.

But then we were at local cross-country race. The Cheers of local running events. Everybody knows everyone's name. And address, place of work, etc. And now: how much Gunny and Annie enjoy "a little nipple" of a post-race chocolate chip cookie.