Crouching Tiger, Weeping Japanese Man

When I got into the car yesterday after Day of Champs (which is the last soccer game for the season, and for the Under 5 league in which my daughter plays, it's also the day each kiddo gets a medal for being awesome) I wondered why someone had allowed a dog to poop in the backseat.

Well, it was somewhere in the car anyway-- I didn't see any feces in the back, all our shoes (and cleats) were clean and yet my car stunk of warm dog excrement.

The thing is that even if there was a full-on Great Dane living in the backseat of my Honda CR-V, we'd never know it for the garbage dump that is the kids' seats.  The best way to describe my backseat would be an aquarium (via millions of goldfish crackers) in Chernobyl; by "best" I mean "nicest."

Husband, being kind and wonderful and generous and possibly insane, offered to clean the car out today. Well, it actually went down like this:

Me: I don't wanna run today. I'm gonna take the kids to Amsterdam and we'll go swimming at Grandma and Grandpa's instead and I'll get my run in that way.
Husband: You can't drive your car to Amsterdam.
Me: Eh? Why not?
Husband: Because it smells like dog crap. You'll die of asphyxia with the windows up on the highway.
Me: Oh. Oh yeah.
Husband: Plus you need to clean out your car today.
Me: Well, anyway, those are the same problems.
Husband: Right, so how are you gonna clean your car from the pool?
Me: Well, I was just gonna drive it in with the windows down.
Husband: Can't make it any worse.
Me: So, problems are solved. Can you help me pack the kids up?
Husband: No and yes.

We fed and watered the children (it was noon) and got them almost ready to leave when Husband reappeared and said, "I can't, in good conscience, allow the children or myself to be transported to your parents' house in your car."

Seriously-- the DRAMA in this man.

I looked at him, sighed a big sigh and said, "Well then, I guess we'll just clean out my car at my parents' house because the kids are already excited to go."

Husband repeated his DRAMA about good consciences and how we'd all die if we drove the hour and a half to my parent's abode.  Oh, Amsterdam is what I call the little town my parents live in (Amherstburg) because it's an hour and a half from Chatham and it feels like you need a passport and an international flight to get there. It's cute and all, but dang the drive is long.

Right. Drama. So I said, "Well, I suppose I could take your truck with the children and YOU can clean my car out from the comfort of your own home."

...

Down the highway I tooted-- well not really tooted-- Husband drives a truck, and trucks don't Toot, they Shart.  Off I sharted, down the highway to Amsterdam and a pool and cardio via lap swimming while my children splash around with my parents and my husband cleans my car. The kids and I made a nice little trip of it, stopping at a cute bookstore and picking up a bunch of random produce at three different fruit/veggie stands along the way.

Random: I've always wanted to get a video of a sign that says "Fruit Stand 50 meters" and then, 50 meters later, zoom in on, like, Elton John just standing there looking around. Honestly, I look for an Elton John cutout every time I see a fruit stand sign and I crack myself up every time. I even picture the scene in Family Guy-esque images. Elton John is the 1978 version of himself with his gigantic sunglasses and crazy pants and a white feather boa, in case you, too, want a visual. And in typical Family Guy fashion, the quick clip takes way too long and everyone is just staring at each other and I'm cracking up on my couch, but in my car.

Around 8pm I got a text from Husband.

"Somewhere on this earth, a Japanese man is openly weeping for what has been done to this car."

I told him that he's hilarious but that my car was made in North America so probably the factory workers in Japan don't give a care what I do to the car, and thanks for cleaning it out.  He replied "The hardest part was getting the raccoon family to leave."  I said "Haha." He said, "I managed to only get a fine from MoE."  "Who's Moe?" I asked, knowing none of our neighbours are named Moe. "Ministry of the Environment. They showed up with Hazmat suits when I opened up the back hatch."

This is what I have to live with.

I returned home (minus Kiddo #1 who negotiated to stay with Grandma and Grandpa for not one, not two, but three nights!). Sure, the inside of the car is spotless and (I checked) smelling good, but the outside is still dirty and the windows are still smeary. Boo.

I called to Hubby who groaned and said, "I can't help you bring Kiddo #2 in-- I'm sore and exhausted."
Me: You played soccer on Tuesday. It's Sunday.
Hubby: It's from cleaning your car.
Me: (silence-- mostly because I have no idea how to convey the emotions I'm feeling right now.)
Hubby: I didn't even get to wash it.
Me: I noticed that. It's gross on the outside now.
Hubby: Well, I cleaned your car for 6 hours today.

In the Choose Your Own Adventure version of this conversation, the reply would look like this:

I knew it!

Turn to page 68 if you said, "You spent 6 hours cleaning my car? No wonder your morning shower takes so long."

Skip to page 3 if you said, "Wow. That's a testament to the filth. I'm sorry  honey. I'll never do that again, probably, once the kids have moved out."

Hop over to page 5 if you looked at the wall and thought nasty and then nice thoughts and then a little bit nasty thoughts again. Not nasty like Playboy, but nasty like Dexter.

If you cheated while reading the Choose Your Own Adventure books and always looked at the three options to make sure the one you picked wasn't the Stop sign/End point and re-chose when it was, then you'll want to know which one was the 'right' choice.

Ha. Yes, you would, Cheater.  Yes, you would.

Apps, Sweat and Jeers

I started jogging in May.

I feel like I need to confess it, or come out of the proverbial closet since I've been a staunch anti-runner for a number of years now.

Yes, in the past I've said such ugly things as "The only time you'll catch me running is if Jason Voorhees is chasing me, with fire" and "Running? But why? Did someone steal your cellie and you're trying to get it back? Cuz it's got that Find My Phone app, right? I mean, you don't NEED to run. You're choosing to. Choose to not."  Oh and let's not forget the wonderful, "No one is born running. It's not a way of life unless you're a gazelle."

Oh the humanity.

See, because, the truth is that for as long as I can remember, I've known something was up. I'd watch people jogging and think "Good LORD why?" and then (quieter) "Well, maybe it's not that bad..."  I'd check out kicks (running shoes, for you laymen) and wish that I was wearing them instead of ridiculously uncomfortable shoes unsuitable for walking.

I'd watch parades of people, dressed all alike in running "outfits" (albeit some people chose to cover more than others), waving flags and posters that say such witty things as "I Run, I'm Out, Get Used to it!" I'd feel drawn to the scene yet would say things like "A Marathon! Lunacy I say!" and would snort and scoff until everyone around me was embarrassed.

And yet.

Here I was, buying an app for my phone-- Couch to 5K it is called. Wow. I drank the last gulp of my glass of water, and pressed "install."  I knew something was about to change when I let that, title and all, be on my phone for anyone to see.

I sat and stared at it for almost two weeks before I got the courage to open the app for the first time. And then, on May 15th, I decided I would try it out and timidly walked to the park.

I put in my earbuds, turned on the app and began running. I ran like it was the only thing I'd ever known. My hair, billowing softly behind me as I loped gorgeously around the park; my body easily took to running like a fish to water. My true self glowed with every step; my heartbeat sang with every breath. It's like I'd been running all my life.

I couldn't stop smiling the entire time.

Wait. No.
That's the Pinterest image of what I was doing.

I put in my earbuds, not yet wise to threading the wire through my shirt to keep it from bouncing the speakers from my ears.  My face was puffy and blotchy and my lungs were on fire after the first 10 seconds of running. I tried to pace my breathing so my heartbeat would be at the correct rate for something good (whatever that was). I quickly realized that was futile since I was, in fact, hardly moving at all and my heart was banging like screen-door in a hurricane. When the lovely British woman who narrates the run said "Just keep going-- only 10 seconds left!" I wasn't sure if she was talking about the end of the run or the end of my life.

2 minutes later, she told me it was time to start my second 1-minute run and I nearly shit. I mean, really almost shit. Who the hell is this Euro-bitch telling me it's time to run with her smiley voice and upbeat encouragement? I started running and lasted a total of 8 seconds before I dry-heaved on the pretty, green grass near the play equipment.  How can kids just run and run and run?
Eff-'em.

Reality: It's taken me 3 months to get to the 4th week of the program.

As it turns out, the App I should've bought would be called Coma to 5K because I was not even anywhere close to "couch" in terms of fit. But, in the meantime I've almost lost a toenail (from cheaping out on sneakers, but it made me feel like a real Runner, so it's not all bad). And, if Sweating ever counts for anything in the Olympics I could steal Gold from anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Do I really want to run 5K? Nah. I'm hoping to be able to chase Kiddo #2 and actually catch him. I'm running so I can dance and sing with Kiddo #1, at the same time.  Hell, let's be honest: I'm running to escape the dishes and laundry and bills and weeds and whatever else is taking over my house. I'm running to have at least 30 minutes that are only for me where the only thing dripping fluids on me is me.

Hell to the yes.

After 30-ish years, I think it's possible to say that all the anti-running sentiments and general run-a-phobia might have been a woman resisting her true self.  So, to all the runners out there: I'm terribly sorry if I (secretly) thought you were insane or any proximity thereof.  And I'm really sorry if I told you about your insanity to your face.  You were confident in who you are; I'm getting there, one footstep and bucket of sweat at a time.

She's Got The Look

I dropped Kiddo #2, now snoozing in this carseat, off at the house with his (also snoozing) father. Kiddo #1 and I had about 10 million errands to finish running-- Kiddo #2 clearly didn't care for our schedule after stop 3, because he was snoring like a hibernating grizzly bear.  (possibly snoring because he's coming down with something-- he doesn't normally snore and also he doesn't normally fall asleep randomly. Geh.)

"Can you bring me a blanket when you come back, Momma?" I stopped and considered that perhaps, even though it's 900 degrees today, plus humidex, I had the car a little too chilly.  I returned sans enfant, et plus une couette. I asked her, "Kiddo #1, are you cold?" and she said, "Oh no, Momma. It's 900 degrees, plus humidex. No, I'm going to put it in my window for the sun."

So I said, "So, who taught you how to do that amazingly smart thing?" She giggled and said, "Oh. Uh, I dunno? I forget."

Whatever. I wish when she couldn't remember, and the thing she did was awesome, that she'd just give me random credit. I don't remember a dang thing I did 10 minutes ago, so I'd be quite, happily surprised. Heck, I might even be touched or proud or something-- who knows the emotional limitations of my astounding lack of short term memory?

Off to Superstore we bopped.  I turned up the iPod and we sang and danced; we were having so much fun, in fact, that I took the long way to the store. It took us 45 minutes to get to Superstore today and it's usually about 7 minutes, give or take a red light.  Good thing gas is so mega-ultra-cheap. Ha.

We sang about bad romances, a girl who'd like some guy to call her, maybe, the new one from Train and some One Direction. When she busted out the lyrics for "Little Talks" (Of Monsters and Men) I paused the song and said, "Like, where did you ever learn the lyrics to this?" and she giggled, "Oh. Uuuuh. I dunno? I forget. Also, can you play "Paro-paro-paradise" by that one band?"  So off to Coldplay-land I went.

When we arrived, Kiddo #1 insisted on driving the cart while I did the picking out of things.  It was actually kinda cool; with her loss of tooth has come great responsibility. She wants to push the cart, take care of her brother-- last week she was so sure of herself, I let her call our Internet provider and negotiate a better rate. We're now getting unlimited Internet with 2 iPads "thrown in" for $12.99 bi-annually. I know I'm just making my life harder when she's 16 and wants a car, but I figure the money I save on Internet can be put away for said automobile. Win-win.

Yes, I'd like infinite refills, please.

 We were in the grocery store about 15 seconds before Kiddo #1 was dancing and needed to go to the bathroom upstairs by herself STAT. I watched her disappear upstairs. Outwardly, I pretended to be intently checking out the tootsie rolls, marshmallow strawberries and other random stuff the grocery packs around the only stairwell to the customer bathrooms. Smartie-pants marketers; you know parents are going to be hovering in that area pretending to be buying stuff while their young, baby, kids go upstairs all by themselves to go to the bathroom all by themselves, and these parents are gonna have to do something to avoid having a complete panic attack all by themselves.  So, why not surround us with the ultimate junk foods? Genius.

Comfort Chocolates aside, I have her down to a 4-minute bathroom break, even though there's only one way up or down. I saw this one CSI once where very bad things happened in a bathroom and I can't get the image out of my head every time she has to pee in a public place. Honestly. (oh, and I was so freaked out by that 5 minute clip that I couldn't watch the rest of the show to see how it ended, so for all I know the nasty guy is still out there lurking AHHHH!)

At what point does parenting get less insane? Like, at 8 do we finally get to not worry that they're going to be attacked by killer bees on the way to the park?
Or is it 18?  28?  88?

And if it's any of those "adult" ages, why does parenthood not automatically come with a lifetime-sized bottle of anti-anxiety meds?

She returned right on schedule and off we trotted.

Remember these little delicacies? 

"Momma, is this garbage or good?"  she said, pointing at one of those plastic fruit-filled with sourish-sugar. I raise an eyebrow and repeat the question back to her. She giggles and says "GARBAGE! Good, delicious garbagey goodness!" and laughs.

She pushes the cart and we head toward the produce section. When she ran into my ankles, the first three times, I smiled and asked her to please watch out for other people when she's pushing the cart. When she whined a "Please can I get a bologna?" at the deli I took a deep breath and reminded her we don't ask for things with whining.

When she got crazy in the cereal aisle I calmly looked at her and said, "This is inappropriate. Please stop or you will get a time-out."

Also, to reiterate a whole other blog (http://doescoffeecomeinbucketsize.blogspot.ca/2012/04/fake-moustaches-and-soccer-practice.html), why is the cereal aisle the boiling point in any grocery store visit? I've tried running through them, I've tried pretending it's a whole different aisle (which makes me look like a lunatic, btw), I've tried just not going down the damn aisle at all-- doesn't matter. The kids can sense the Fruit Loops and Choco-Sugar-Smacky-Explosion cereals and Lose. Their. Minds.

So, we're in the dreaded cereal aisle and Kiddo #1 starts about how she'd like a Kinder Egg. I say, "Oh, no not today, baby. I appreciate that you'd like a treat, but today our treat is hanging out together."

I swear she rehearsed this next part.

Kiddo #1 covered her ears and said, "If I don't get a Kinder Egg, I'm going to start yelling."
I ignored her and pretended to read the back of a Fruit Loops box.  "I SAID, if I don't get a Kinder Egg, I'm going to start yelling!"
I continued to ignore her (a little because I don't  really know what to do and a little because I had no idea how much complete GARBAGE is in Fruit Loops).  She taps my arm (gently), then quickly re-covers her ears to say, "If I don't GET A KINDER EGG RIGHT NOW, I am going to get very CROSS and YOU WILL GET IN TROUBLE."

Nice. Not bad. Pretty good parenting on her end, I must admit.

I start pushing the cart toward the next aisle as Kiddo #1 digs in her heels and says (just as we pass a hip looking granny) "I am CROSS. You are getting ME a KINDER EGG or else."  Granny raises an eyebrow and gives me what I've decided is the "We've all been there" look, which is very easy to confuse with the "I'm judging the SHIT outta you right now, and sister, you FAIL" look.

I believe strongly that the former exists so I can stop with the shame and ulcers.
Whatever lets you sleep at night, non?

At any rate, I turn the corner when Kiddo #1 ups the ante. She says, quasi-loudly, "In fact, IF YOU don't GET ME a KINDER EGG, I. Will. ..."

I inhale slowly so as to savour the next few words.

"I will not share my children with you in the future."

Say what say what? "Puh-Pardon?" I say, rapidly blinking the way Madonna does and now I know she blinks like that because she's completely astounded by the statement she just heard.

"You heard my words. I will NOT share my CHILDREN with you in the FUTURE."

You. Won't. WHAT? I break down into hysterical, sobbing, laughter. I was bent over the shopping cart, tears streaming down my face and there she was, hands still on her ears, eyebrows pinched together and smirking. Then laughing while trying to pinch her eyebrows together. Oh lordy.

The two of us were laughing to hard that the hip granny arrived on the scene to give me the "We've all been there" look again, only this time, it might have actually meant that.

When I finally composed myself and stopped replaying the incident in my head and re-busting out in laughter, I said, "Like, for reals, where did you get that thing about the children?"

"Oh. Uh, I dunno. I forget. Momma, let's sing that paro-paro-paradise song."

We sing our hearts out and I briefly consider getting her that damn Kinder Egg but hip granny is in the next checkout lane giving me the look.

You know the one.