I'm standing in the shower, enjoying the peace and quiet. My shower extended well past the 10 minute mark and I slowly got out, noting that there was quite a lot of noise coming from the other bathroom. Since Wade is out ice fishing with the scouts, it must mean that Josh is in there, doing whatever it is that Josh does.
ME: (yelling from the bedroom) Josh, what are you doing?
JOSH: Just bleeding
ME: WHAT????
I rush into the other bathroom and find it smeared with blood. Blood on the counter top. Blood on the toilet. Blood on the floor and the mirror and all over Josh. Towels litter the sink and the floor from where he tried to (unsuccessfully) clean up.
ME: What happened?
JOSH: My nose started bleeding.
ME: Why didn't you come and tell me?
JOSH: shrugs shoulders. Can't know. (His way of saying I don't know.)
We have instilled in Josh the need to tell us if a stranger wants him to go with them. We've tried to instill in him the need to wear a helmet when riding his bike or scooter. He knows not to touch knives or scissors. What we failed to teach him is that if he's bleeding, from anywhere, he needs to come and find us and let us know.
I survey the damage and realize that if Wade were to come home from ice fishing to find this and us not home, he'd freak. A 48 Hours Mystery episode starts forming in my mind:
Wade H. arrived home on February 28, 2009 from an ice fishing excursion with Boy Scouts to find his wife and two children missing. In the guest bathroom, blood is everywhere. When investigators get to the scene, a subdued and well-mannered Mr. H. is taken off for questioning. It is determined that there is a space of approximately two hours where none of the 15 people ice fishing with H. can recall seeing him. Just enough time to drive home and back to rejoin the group. Chief Investigator Elmer Fudd notes that Mr H. does not exhibit signs of distraught that someone whose entire family is missing and evidence of foul play is in the bathroom might show.
Clearly, I've been watching too much 48 Hours Mystery.
A part of me wanted to leave the mess just to see what would happen. But, common sense prevailed and so I left the mess to blog about it.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Undomestic Goddess
There are certain things I wasn't taught in my youth. Certain domestic things. Like making bread. I had always envisioned homemade bread makers as lonely women stuck in a hot kitchen all day, churning out loaf after loaf while dozens of children circle the kitchen in various states of undress.
I'm not exactly sure why this picture comes to mind when I think of bread makers, but it does.
And, for a long time, it was the anti-me. I was going to be a career woman who flitted from place to place, staying only long enough to break a few hearts.
Then I met Wade when I was a (mature and aged) 19, and those ideals went out the window. I think he'd frown upon me breaking hearts and leaving. And so here I am.
My mom is more the "teach your daughter how to burn her bra" type then the "teach your daughter how to make bread" type. When informed of my quest to make homemade bread she simply replied "I hope you have better luck then I ever did."
It was news to me too. Mom made bread? Homemade bread?
I'm sure she'll swear on a stack on Bibles that she would've taught me how to make bread had I shared any interest in making bread. But the reality is, I was more of the "what's a kitchen" kinda gal.
When I was in high school, my mom suddenly got worried that I wouldn't be able to survive on my own. By then, though, the age of wonderment had come to an end. I rationalized that since I can read, I can cook. And I was out the front door on my way to soccer practice before she could point out the flaws in my logic.
I cooked when I was away at college, though I have very few memories of what exactly I cooked. I've managed to keep my husband alive for nearly eight years. Things must not be that bad on the cooking front.
However, I do need to know how to make bread. I may be called upon to make bread at some point in my life and I would be embarassed if I didn't know where to start.
And so yesterday, I ordered a wheat grinder for the 100 pounds of wheat I picked up at the cannery on Saturday. And then I called a dear friend, who's 65, and invited her over for lunch next week to try out my inaugural bread loaf. I figure if someone is coming over, then I can't keep postponing the task.
The silence was palatable on the other end of the line.
"You've never made bread before in your life?"
"Um...no. My mom never taught me. I didn't even know there were women my age that could make bread. I had no idea that I've suddenly become part of the minority that doesn't make homemade bread at least part of the time."
She graciously accepted my invitation and even said that she'd be available to help with the actual making of the bread if I needed her.
I'm determined to do this on my own. I will only call if there's an emergency.
I'm destined to be an Undomestic Goddess. Cooking and baking may never come as easily to me as I would like. But I will make my own bread. And it will be good.
I'm not exactly sure why this picture comes to mind when I think of bread makers, but it does.
And, for a long time, it was the anti-me. I was going to be a career woman who flitted from place to place, staying only long enough to break a few hearts.
Then I met Wade when I was a (mature and aged) 19, and those ideals went out the window. I think he'd frown upon me breaking hearts and leaving. And so here I am.
My mom is more the "teach your daughter how to burn her bra" type then the "teach your daughter how to make bread" type. When informed of my quest to make homemade bread she simply replied "I hope you have better luck then I ever did."
It was news to me too. Mom made bread? Homemade bread?
I'm sure she'll swear on a stack on Bibles that she would've taught me how to make bread had I shared any interest in making bread. But the reality is, I was more of the "what's a kitchen" kinda gal.
When I was in high school, my mom suddenly got worried that I wouldn't be able to survive on my own. By then, though, the age of wonderment had come to an end. I rationalized that since I can read, I can cook. And I was out the front door on my way to soccer practice before she could point out the flaws in my logic.
I cooked when I was away at college, though I have very few memories of what exactly I cooked. I've managed to keep my husband alive for nearly eight years. Things must not be that bad on the cooking front.
However, I do need to know how to make bread. I may be called upon to make bread at some point in my life and I would be embarassed if I didn't know where to start.
And so yesterday, I ordered a wheat grinder for the 100 pounds of wheat I picked up at the cannery on Saturday. And then I called a dear friend, who's 65, and invited her over for lunch next week to try out my inaugural bread loaf. I figure if someone is coming over, then I can't keep postponing the task.
The silence was palatable on the other end of the line.
"You've never made bread before in your life?"
"Um...no. My mom never taught me. I didn't even know there were women my age that could make bread. I had no idea that I've suddenly become part of the minority that doesn't make homemade bread at least part of the time."
She graciously accepted my invitation and even said that she'd be available to help with the actual making of the bread if I needed her.
I'm determined to do this on my own. I will only call if there's an emergency.
I'm destined to be an Undomestic Goddess. Cooking and baking may never come as easily to me as I would like. But I will make my own bread. And it will be good.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Humbling Experience #2 of 2009
Friday nights I typically lay in bed, thinking about my Saturday morning run. I have, unfortunately, adopted a "one day" running regimen. While nice in theory, when running with others, this proves to be a dangerous and humiliating pursuit.
Saturday was no exception.
Outside, at 8 am, were three people waiting for me--two more than I had originally planned for. I tried to rally myself, but I knew I was headed for disaster. What's a girl to do? Stare at them from between the comforts of the blinds until they give up and go away?
They stood there for a long time. Clearly they weren't going away.
So I joined them.
I had picked the route already and determined to stick with it, we headed off for the hills. As I stood gasping for air at the light, I tried to think positive. Really, it's that I'm out here that really counts, right?
Imagine driving in your car and coming upon four runners. Three of them are jovially running, laughing as they put each foot in front of the other, making it look effortless. The fourth one is a good 10 steps behind. Red-faced and panting, it's clear that while she's still part of the foursome and not a lone runner coming across a trio of good buddies, she is definitely not enjoying this early morning jaunt as much as the others.
And then one in the trio starts singing--Singing! Why? Who knows. The point being that she has enough oxygen in her lungs to allow her to run AND sing at the same time. The lone runner doesn't have any earphones with her, so in addition to having to listen to her own huffing and puffing, she now has to listen to singing, emphasizing how slow she's really going.
Sigh. I can see why a lot of runners prefer to run by themselves.
Saturday was no exception.
Outside, at 8 am, were three people waiting for me--two more than I had originally planned for. I tried to rally myself, but I knew I was headed for disaster. What's a girl to do? Stare at them from between the comforts of the blinds until they give up and go away?
They stood there for a long time. Clearly they weren't going away.
So I joined them.
I had picked the route already and determined to stick with it, we headed off for the hills. As I stood gasping for air at the light, I tried to think positive. Really, it's that I'm out here that really counts, right?
Imagine driving in your car and coming upon four runners. Three of them are jovially running, laughing as they put each foot in front of the other, making it look effortless. The fourth one is a good 10 steps behind. Red-faced and panting, it's clear that while she's still part of the foursome and not a lone runner coming across a trio of good buddies, she is definitely not enjoying this early morning jaunt as much as the others.
And then one in the trio starts singing--Singing! Why? Who knows. The point being that she has enough oxygen in her lungs to allow her to run AND sing at the same time. The lone runner doesn't have any earphones with her, so in addition to having to listen to her own huffing and puffing, she now has to listen to singing, emphasizing how slow she's really going.
Sigh. I can see why a lot of runners prefer to run by themselves.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Unfulfilled Dreams
It was a Christmas present my parents--painstakingly I'm sure--picked out at the local department store. I can still vividly recall it propped against the wall behind the tree. My six year old legs itched to try it out, even if there was two feet of snow on the ground. The gift was nearly useless at this time of year, but I begged my dad to shovel the driveway and sidewalks so I could christen my first bicycle that very moment.
The sun had barely crested the mountains, the streets deserted. While my dad worked at clearing a path, I ran my hand along my present, noting the shine of the paint. The perfection of this vehicle. The miracle that would finally tether me to my brothers and force them to allow my presence in their games of tag and hide-and-seek among the neighorhood streets.
One minute separates my twin brother and me, but at six years old, it might as well have been a decade. With an older brother to model, my twin had little use for me and I was looked upon as the pesky sister, begging to go where they were going, do what they were doing.
With this bicycle, I'd be able to keep up with them--my long legs giving me an advantage over my shorter, stumpier brother--and they'd have to let me play. Allow me into their circle.
With a short path cleared, I mounted the bicycle, flying down the length of the driveway and careening into the street. Turning back, I could see my parents stifling laughter as my older brother did more of an open-mouthed belly roll in the snow.
Undeterred, I dismounted my bike, walked it to the concrete and prepared to whisk myself away to regions unknown.
I pedaled as fast as I could, the wind slapping at my bare legs while my nightgown bunched up at the knees. A smile was plastered to my face. Yes, I could feel it. This would be it. I would be able to travel to new places, experience the joys of the undiscovered.
It's a shame the bike was stolen less than three months later, my dreams unfullfilled. Since it was still considered winter, I didn't have the time to bond to that first bike. I don't even remember what color it was--though I've always imagined it to be blue or purple. It was probably pink. With a basket. The details seem lost in my memory bank. There are no stories to share.
I don't even remember the replacement bike, a used one from the local thrift store, my parents bought me once they could convince me that my Christmas bike had actually been stolen and not merely taken by them as a lesson for leaving something valuable on the front lawn.
I'm sure I used and abused it as I tried to keep up with my brothers, but if my memory does serve me well, it didn't seem to matter that I had a bike. I still wasn't invited into their circle. Eventually, I made peace with this and found my own things and friends.
Bikes came and went through the years and I do have some great stories from them, but from the first one, I can only remember that first day with it. That overwhelming feeling that I had finally made it to the big leagues, no longer miniscle in the eyes of my idols.
This is the entry for Scribbit's February Write-Away Contest. If you're an aspiring writer, or just want to do something different, check it out and enter the contest. You have nothing to lose (nudge, nudge Juliana) and everything to gain. Even though I won last month, I emailed Scribbit and asked if my writing career was over. She said that I could enter as many months as I want. Bonus. I'm sure you will all come to enjoy reading my entry each month.
I rushed outside, a winter coat concealing my obligatory Christmas pajamas, my feet stuffed in snow boots. The rest of the family was in close pursuit.
The sun had barely crested the mountains, the streets deserted. While my dad worked at clearing a path, I ran my hand along my present, noting the shine of the paint. The perfection of this vehicle. The miracle that would finally tether me to my brothers and force them to allow my presence in their games of tag and hide-and-seek among the neighorhood streets.
One minute separates my twin brother and me, but at six years old, it might as well have been a decade. With an older brother to model, my twin had little use for me and I was looked upon as the pesky sister, begging to go where they were going, do what they were doing.
With this bicycle, I'd be able to keep up with them--my long legs giving me an advantage over my shorter, stumpier brother--and they'd have to let me play. Allow me into their circle.
With a short path cleared, I mounted the bicycle, flying down the length of the driveway and careening into the street. Turning back, I could see my parents stifling laughter as my older brother did more of an open-mouthed belly roll in the snow.
Undeterred, I dismounted my bike, walked it to the concrete and prepared to whisk myself away to regions unknown.
I pedaled as fast as I could, the wind slapping at my bare legs while my nightgown bunched up at the knees. A smile was plastered to my face. Yes, I could feel it. This would be it. I would be able to travel to new places, experience the joys of the undiscovered.
It's a shame the bike was stolen less than three months later, my dreams unfullfilled. Since it was still considered winter, I didn't have the time to bond to that first bike. I don't even remember what color it was--though I've always imagined it to be blue or purple. It was probably pink. With a basket. The details seem lost in my memory bank. There are no stories to share.
I don't even remember the replacement bike, a used one from the local thrift store, my parents bought me once they could convince me that my Christmas bike had actually been stolen and not merely taken by them as a lesson for leaving something valuable on the front lawn.
I'm sure I used and abused it as I tried to keep up with my brothers, but if my memory does serve me well, it didn't seem to matter that I had a bike. I still wasn't invited into their circle. Eventually, I made peace with this and found my own things and friends.
Bikes came and went through the years and I do have some great stories from them, but from the first one, I can only remember that first day with it. That overwhelming feeling that I had finally made it to the big leagues, no longer miniscle in the eyes of my idols.
This is the entry for Scribbit's February Write-Away Contest. If you're an aspiring writer, or just want to do something different, check it out and enter the contest. You have nothing to lose (nudge, nudge Juliana) and everything to gain. Even though I won last month, I emailed Scribbit and asked if my writing career was over. She said that I could enter as many months as I want. Bonus. I'm sure you will all come to enjoy reading my entry each month.
Friday, February 13, 2009
My Newest Obsession
So here's the thing. A few years ago, spinning became really popular in the gyms. I watched Dateline and 20/20 stories on it and thought "how dumb. Riding a stationary bike at the gym with a bunch of other people. How would that be even remotely exciting?"
And it's not. It's boring.
But, as I found out this week, it's an incredible workout.
I have spent the last few weeks trying to find something to do that would make my evenings not seem to drag on. Wade is gone Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings. He's usually holed up in the bedroom Monday evenings doing homework and Friday nights he'll spend in the basement.
Tonight though, we're going on a date. A real, live date with other adults and no children. I'll actually be able to have conversations with other people.
I'm clearly very excited about this.
Anyways, Saturdays are spent either doing homework or working in the basement (more the former than the latter, but that's for another post.)
The point--I have a lot of free time to fill with Josh and Aunika.
A lot. And coupled with the hours I spend with them during the day, I'm like a single parent without the benefits of being single and a stay-at-home mom without the benefits of being stay-at-home. I sorta have the short end of both sticks.
But, I'm happily married and would like to remain so, so I'll put up with the craziness for a few years because I know, at the end, there will be something cool waiting for me--like a trip to Hawaii or Cabo San Lucas.
Or at least there better be.
But I digress.
I learned early on with Josh that to be the best mother I can be, I do need a few hours a week to myself. Or nearly to myself. I need to be involved in other things that don't involve my children. It's true when they say that distance makes the heart grow fonder. It's one of the reasons I got into running. So I could "run" away, if you will, for a little while and remember that I'm an individual too.
Tuesdays, I usually spend the day in Salt Lake with my mom doing errands. Every week, on my way home, I drive by the Magna Recreation Center. A few inquiries into the Rec Center yielded some surprising finds. There is a spinning class that starts at 6:30 on Tuesday and Thursday nights. For $1.25/hour they'll even watch Josh for me. So for $3 a time, I get a killer workout and someone to watch the noisier of the two children. Unfortunately, they won't take any kids under two, so I have to drag Aunika upstairs with me to class, but she's such a good baby, no one even knows she's there.
This will be a good thing until she's grows out of her carseat. Which is looking to be in about a month at the rate she's sprouting. But, I'll just stuff her in as long as I can. :)
The really nice thing is that the Rec Center is only 17 minutes from home, roughly the same amount of time it takes to drive into Tooele anyways, and so it's no big deal to just run down there on Thursday night as well.
And so I hit both classes this week. Tuesday, my butt was literally kicked. The bicycle seat was uncomfortable and the handlebars weren't set right to my ape-like arms and so I spent most of the hour gripping the seat with my (apparently, amazing) glutes to keep from slipping off. After class, the instructor showed me how to properly set up my bike and Thursday, I did much better, though my butt was still very sore when I sat on the seat. I was told I would eventually get use to the seat, but that I needed to remember that I did just have a baby 11 weeks ago. (Oh, yeah, I guess that would play a minor part in the comfort level wouldn't it?)
This morning, I'm feeling much better than I did Wednesday morning, so I think I'm getting used to it.
In any case, the workout was great, making me sweat and getting my heart racing. I felt rejuvenated, both mentally and physically. Josh was happy to be playing with some other kids his own age. Aunika just slept off and on through the workout, waking up and occassionally poking her head up to look around and then drifting back off.
The best part is that I'm working muscles I don't work when I'm running and so I'm getting a better workout.
And I'm getting into better shape for triathlon season. So maybe I can be a contender for a top position one of these days in our dinky little one here in Tooele in August.
And it's not. It's boring.
But, as I found out this week, it's an incredible workout.
I have spent the last few weeks trying to find something to do that would make my evenings not seem to drag on. Wade is gone Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday evenings. He's usually holed up in the bedroom Monday evenings doing homework and Friday nights he'll spend in the basement.
Tonight though, we're going on a date. A real, live date with other adults and no children. I'll actually be able to have conversations with other people.
I'm clearly very excited about this.
Anyways, Saturdays are spent either doing homework or working in the basement (more the former than the latter, but that's for another post.)
The point--I have a lot of free time to fill with Josh and Aunika.
A lot. And coupled with the hours I spend with them during the day, I'm like a single parent without the benefits of being single and a stay-at-home mom without the benefits of being stay-at-home. I sorta have the short end of both sticks.
But, I'm happily married and would like to remain so, so I'll put up with the craziness for a few years because I know, at the end, there will be something cool waiting for me--like a trip to Hawaii or Cabo San Lucas.
Or at least there better be.
But I digress.
I learned early on with Josh that to be the best mother I can be, I do need a few hours a week to myself. Or nearly to myself. I need to be involved in other things that don't involve my children. It's true when they say that distance makes the heart grow fonder. It's one of the reasons I got into running. So I could "run" away, if you will, for a little while and remember that I'm an individual too.
Tuesdays, I usually spend the day in Salt Lake with my mom doing errands. Every week, on my way home, I drive by the Magna Recreation Center. A few inquiries into the Rec Center yielded some surprising finds. There is a spinning class that starts at 6:30 on Tuesday and Thursday nights. For $1.25/hour they'll even watch Josh for me. So for $3 a time, I get a killer workout and someone to watch the noisier of the two children. Unfortunately, they won't take any kids under two, so I have to drag Aunika upstairs with me to class, but she's such a good baby, no one even knows she's there.
This will be a good thing until she's grows out of her carseat. Which is looking to be in about a month at the rate she's sprouting. But, I'll just stuff her in as long as I can. :)
The really nice thing is that the Rec Center is only 17 minutes from home, roughly the same amount of time it takes to drive into Tooele anyways, and so it's no big deal to just run down there on Thursday night as well.
And so I hit both classes this week. Tuesday, my butt was literally kicked. The bicycle seat was uncomfortable and the handlebars weren't set right to my ape-like arms and so I spent most of the hour gripping the seat with my (apparently, amazing) glutes to keep from slipping off. After class, the instructor showed me how to properly set up my bike and Thursday, I did much better, though my butt was still very sore when I sat on the seat. I was told I would eventually get use to the seat, but that I needed to remember that I did just have a baby 11 weeks ago. (Oh, yeah, I guess that would play a minor part in the comfort level wouldn't it?)
This morning, I'm feeling much better than I did Wednesday morning, so I think I'm getting used to it.
In any case, the workout was great, making me sweat and getting my heart racing. I felt rejuvenated, both mentally and physically. Josh was happy to be playing with some other kids his own age. Aunika just slept off and on through the workout, waking up and occassionally poking her head up to look around and then drifting back off.
The best part is that I'm working muscles I don't work when I'm running and so I'm getting a better workout.
And I'm getting into better shape for triathlon season. So maybe I can be a contender for a top position one of these days in our dinky little one here in Tooele in August.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Deep Confessions
So here it is. My deep confession.
I LOVE American Idol. Love it.
I know. I know. I'm a mother of two with a degree in mathematics and I should really be spending my time watching NOVA and other equally exciting shows such as that on PBS, but it's AI season and I can't help myself. Besides, we somehow lost the ability to watch the CW channel and so my other trashy favorite, America's Next Top Model, is out of commission. I'm hoping they'll put full episodes on the internet because I'm going through ANTM withdrawls.
Every Tuesday, I sit down after the kids are in bed and cue up the TiVo. I usually have to wait for Wade to get done with whatever he's doing because he's a big fan as well. So last night, it was midnight before we got started. But I had been thinking about it since about noon that day, so I was ready.
I like Hollywood Week better than I do the audition rounds. Finally, we get to see who the lead contenders are. But, like every other season of AI, I'm sure the really, really good ones aren't being showcased at all.
I really like Danny and his best buddy, Jamar, who sang a quirky rendition of Hey There Delilah that I liked--a lot--once I heard it a second time. I like Scott from Arizona and the dueling piano man, Matt. I haven't found a lot of women I like, but I do like Lil Rounds and Jasmine. Tatiana needs to go home. I don't care that she can sing. She's annoying as all get out and if she makes the cut tonight, I may have to boycott AI. Do the right thing, judges, and send her packing.
I'm SO glad that bikini girl is gone. She was a brat.
Wednesdays are always bittersweet. I know that after the show on Wednesday, it will be another six days before AI is on again. Another six days before I can feed my habit.
I'm not as crazy as some people. I don't phone in my votes and I don't surf the AI website. I'm much too cool for that.
But I do anxiously await Tuesday night. Biggest Loser and American Idol on the same night. Awesome.
I LOVE American Idol. Love it.
I know. I know. I'm a mother of two with a degree in mathematics and I should really be spending my time watching NOVA and other equally exciting shows such as that on PBS, but it's AI season and I can't help myself. Besides, we somehow lost the ability to watch the CW channel and so my other trashy favorite, America's Next Top Model, is out of commission. I'm hoping they'll put full episodes on the internet because I'm going through ANTM withdrawls.
Every Tuesday, I sit down after the kids are in bed and cue up the TiVo. I usually have to wait for Wade to get done with whatever he's doing because he's a big fan as well. So last night, it was midnight before we got started. But I had been thinking about it since about noon that day, so I was ready.
I like Hollywood Week better than I do the audition rounds. Finally, we get to see who the lead contenders are. But, like every other season of AI, I'm sure the really, really good ones aren't being showcased at all.
I really like Danny and his best buddy, Jamar, who sang a quirky rendition of Hey There Delilah that I liked--a lot--once I heard it a second time. I like Scott from Arizona and the dueling piano man, Matt. I haven't found a lot of women I like, but I do like Lil Rounds and Jasmine. Tatiana needs to go home. I don't care that she can sing. She's annoying as all get out and if she makes the cut tonight, I may have to boycott AI. Do the right thing, judges, and send her packing.
I'm SO glad that bikini girl is gone. She was a brat.
Wednesdays are always bittersweet. I know that after the show on Wednesday, it will be another six days before AI is on again. Another six days before I can feed my habit.
I'm not as crazy as some people. I don't phone in my votes and I don't surf the AI website. I'm much too cool for that.
But I do anxiously await Tuesday night. Biggest Loser and American Idol on the same night. Awesome.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Crashing to Earth
A few months ago, when I was swollen with child and eager to resume any activity that required more of an effort than, say, climbing the stairs, I stumbled across the Tubbs Romp to Stomp Out Breast Cancer Snowshoe Event.
"How cool would that be?" I thought, cozily sitting in my pajamas and surfing the web. I think it might have even been warmish (well, warmer) outside--the temperatures not hovering at freezing.
And so I cajoled two friends into signing up with me. Between the three of us, we had spent exactly zero hours on snowshoes and knew only one person who had ever even been snowshoeing. But really, how hard could it be?
This event marked my return to the 5k circuit and ever since sending off the payment, I've been eagerly anticipating it, confident that I would be superheroish in my bounce back from childbirth.
Not so.
I'm not featured in any running magazines for my speed and endurance and people aren't inspired by me in the least, but I do enjoy running in 5k races. I like the all-out effort I experience when I outrun that old guy (and once, a little kid) twenty yards from the finish line. The feeling of accomplishment when I arrive home, snuggling back under the covers for a well-deserved nap. Three miles is a long way to go at 7 or 8 in the morning. Count in travel time, and I've been up for nearly 3 hours before the rest of the house.
So Friday afternoon, I packed up the kids and headed into Salt Lake to pick up snowshoes. I was able to rent two pair of racing snowshoes and one recreational pair for a very reasonable price.
I was kind of expecting these:
"How cool would that be?" I thought, cozily sitting in my pajamas and surfing the web. I think it might have even been warmish (well, warmer) outside--the temperatures not hovering at freezing.
And so I cajoled two friends into signing up with me. Between the three of us, we had spent exactly zero hours on snowshoes and knew only one person who had ever even been snowshoeing. But really, how hard could it be?
This event marked my return to the 5k circuit and ever since sending off the payment, I've been eagerly anticipating it, confident that I would be superheroish in my bounce back from childbirth.
Not so.
I'm not featured in any running magazines for my speed and endurance and people aren't inspired by me in the least, but I do enjoy running in 5k races. I like the all-out effort I experience when I outrun that old guy (and once, a little kid) twenty yards from the finish line. The feeling of accomplishment when I arrive home, snuggling back under the covers for a well-deserved nap. Three miles is a long way to go at 7 or 8 in the morning. Count in travel time, and I've been up for nearly 3 hours before the rest of the house.
So Friday afternoon, I packed up the kids and headed into Salt Lake to pick up snowshoes. I was able to rent two pair of racing snowshoes and one recreational pair for a very reasonable price.
I was kind of expecting these:
But luckily, they've come a long way in design since the early years and the racing ones looked more like this:
The recreational ones were a bit longer and, as it was made apparent on Saturday, a bit harder to manuever in.
Saturday morning arrived, and the three of us headed up to Mountain Dell Golf Course.
Now, I did just have a baby 10 weeks ago and I know I'm not in as good as shape as I once was, but I thought I was in at least passable shape. Maybe I could fake my fitness level to match those I had arrived with.
I was dressed to kill in a pair of wool socks, thermal underwear, running pants, snowpants, a tanktop, a long-sleeve shirt, a t-shirt, my parka, a wool hat and two pairs of gloves. I rationalized that snowshoeing was akin to skiing in terms of clothing and so dressed as though I were about to hit the slopes.
It became quite evident in the first 2 minutes that: (a) Snowshoeing is not as easy as it might appear (b) I might have been a bit overdressed for the sport (c) I was not nearly in as good as shape as I had fancied myself to be.
Being the charitable good sport I am, I gave the two pairs of racing snowshoes to my cohorts and kept the recreational pair (and the accompanying poles) for myself. Those on racing snowshoes didn't have poles to deal with and therefore had two free hands to carry their parkas in should they start to overheat. I, however, was occupied with useless poles and had to remain sweating like a little stuffed piggie with a big ski parka on.
An email sent out earlier in the week mentioned a list of items we should bring along. I briefly recall a backpack and water being among the "most useful items" and promptly dismissed the idea. A backpack for a three mile jaunt? Water in the dead of winter? I'd be fine without either. I also recall a step-by-step guide on what to wear. Obviously, didn't listen there either.
I realized, belatedly, that I should've heeded to the advice of people more experienced than I in snowshoeing. About a quarter of a mile in, I could've used both the backpack and the water. Lots and lots of water since I was quickly losing water under my coat and snowpants.
So round and round the golf course we went, looping what felt like the Grand Canyon. The uphills were torturous and the downhills brief. I huffed and puffed my way, trudging behind my two buddies, who in true friendship spirit, kept stopping to watch me haul my (big) behind up the hills.
At one point, I awkwardly ran ahead to get a picture of the two and ended up doing a face plant in the snow. The camera was snatched from my outstretched hand, and the picture of me laying the in the snow will be forever memoralized for the future.
My two buddies kept saying how nice it was to get out and not feel like they were dying during a 5k event. How peaceful and RELAXING the experience was.
I nodded from behind, too winded to speak up.
As we were making our way along the last 2k of the race, the wind picked up, and since I was drenched with my own sweat, I was freezing cold and miserable. I kept trudging along, mostly because there was no way to get off the course if I didn't.
Happily, I made it to the end and felt pretty good, minus the aching quads and calves and the wet clothes. I peeled off my outer layer of winter gear for the drive home, noting that another "most useful item" I ignored was a change of clothing.
The car smelled faintly of old gym socks that I'm sure was emitting from me.
I was surprised to awaken this morning with no lasting effects in my legs. However, I must've spent the entire three miles with my shoulders hunched and my back tensed because that's where I'm feeling it today.
This event will go down as the first--of many I'm sure--humbling experience of 2009. There was no faking my fitness level here, among the superfit. I realized on Saturday, I have a long way to go before I get back to where I was.
Lunch at Cafe Rio and six rice krispy treats later, I started feeling slightly better about my performance and am happily contemplating what to do different nextg time--like read the entire email about what to wear and bring.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Finally, a Smile
We finally caught a smile on camera with Aunika. She's a cutie and spends a lot of the time smiling. She's been a pretty easy baby, even tolerating the sounds emiting from Josh better than I do at times. No complaints over here.
The other night, I had a moment of rare insight. Aunika wakes up at 4 am almost every night. Her little hands are freezing cold and she's wiggled herself out of her blankets. So I have to go in and rewrap her. She falls right back asleep but the problem is that I don't want to go in. I don't want to get out of my warm bed and so most mornings I wake up at 4 am a little perturbed. A little...frustrated you could say.
So I thought maybe I'd try putting mittens and a hat on her. She is still quite bald and something like 90% of your body heat is lost through the top of your head.
7 am the next morning was the first time I heard from the baby since 10 pm the night before. SUCCESS.
And to think that they've overlooked me for the Nobel Peace Prize, again.
The other night, I had a moment of rare insight. Aunika wakes up at 4 am almost every night. Her little hands are freezing cold and she's wiggled herself out of her blankets. So I have to go in and rewrap her. She falls right back asleep but the problem is that I don't want to go in. I don't want to get out of my warm bed and so most mornings I wake up at 4 am a little perturbed. A little...frustrated you could say.
So I thought maybe I'd try putting mittens and a hat on her. She is still quite bald and something like 90% of your body heat is lost through the top of your head.
7 am the next morning was the first time I heard from the baby since 10 pm the night before. SUCCESS.
And to think that they've overlooked me for the Nobel Peace Prize, again.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Open Wallet, Wave Goodbye
I was telling my mom about the newest salespitch going on in the neighborhood. Rainbow Vacuums. Now, I'll admit, after seeing the demo, they're nice vacuums, but hardly worth the price they were asking. Especially since the manufacturing website sells them at a fraction of the cost of what they were trying to sell me on.
However, everyone in the neighborhood is getting one and soon I'll be the only one with nasty carpets and no one will come over and play with me because I refuse to pay that kind of money for a freakin' vacuum cleaner.
Her remark was that at least I'll be the one in the neighborhood that still has money left in my wallet.
You know, because Wade wasn't just out at the furniture store, loading the new recliner we bought on a good sale (to match the couches we purchased for the basement back in September that are in the front room while my front room couches are spread out in two of the back bedrooms) into the new car we purchased on Monday to transport Scouts to various activities (can I get a receipt for that to turn into the ward clerk?) with the new tires I purchased on Thursday (because one was threatening to blow at any moment and the rest were going bald and with the all-wheel drive you have to replace all four tires).
Yeah, I'm sitting at home with money to spare in my wallet.
Seems like once you start purchasing things, you go bananas, loading up on everything in sight. Much like my consumption of chocolate over the last few months.
And while I'm confident we'll get this all paid for in less than two years, a part of me is sitting back in a stupor, wondering what just happened.
It looks like we're singlehandedly keeping the economy afloat. We should get an award or something. Recognition from the Obama administration for our part in the economic bailouts.
Or at least a big tax refund.
However, everyone in the neighborhood is getting one and soon I'll be the only one with nasty carpets and no one will come over and play with me because I refuse to pay that kind of money for a freakin' vacuum cleaner.
Her remark was that at least I'll be the one in the neighborhood that still has money left in my wallet.
You know, because Wade wasn't just out at the furniture store, loading the new recliner we bought on a good sale (to match the couches we purchased for the basement back in September that are in the front room while my front room couches are spread out in two of the back bedrooms) into the new car we purchased on Monday to transport Scouts to various activities (can I get a receipt for that to turn into the ward clerk?) with the new tires I purchased on Thursday (because one was threatening to blow at any moment and the rest were going bald and with the all-wheel drive you have to replace all four tires).
Yeah, I'm sitting at home with money to spare in my wallet.
Seems like once you start purchasing things, you go bananas, loading up on everything in sight. Much like my consumption of chocolate over the last few months.
And while I'm confident we'll get this all paid for in less than two years, a part of me is sitting back in a stupor, wondering what just happened.
It looks like we're singlehandedly keeping the economy afloat. We should get an award or something. Recognition from the Obama administration for our part in the economic bailouts.
Or at least a big tax refund.
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