Run For Your Life!

I realize that I am quickly entering the period of life in which the things I want to do greatly outnumber the things that I will eventually do.  In light of this fact, I’ve been attempting to take a little better care of myself.  I’ve cut down on the soda and have been trying to follow the C25K running program.  I understand that good diet and exercise isn’t for everyone.  Some take the bent that we will all eventually expire anyway, why not enjoy life while you can.  And I fully agree that health is merely the slowest possible rate at which one can die, however, there are plenty of things I’d like to stick around and enjoy with my family.  I’d also like to enjoy it while standing on my own two feet and without the aid of a respirator.

When my sweet niece, Alexandra, found out that I was trying to get ready for a 5K, she invited me to run one with her.  I cautioned her that I was fairly certain we wouldn’t get first place, but if she was OK with that, I’d try.  She said that wasn’t a problem, and so I began to use the ensuing weeks to prepare for our run.  Well, that’s not entirely true.   A lot of life happened in those few months, and I found myself going for weeks at a time without making it to the gym.  I didn’t completely give up on my training, however, and was approaching a 35 minute 5K.  I was actually feeling pretty good about myself until about a week before the race when my brother-in-law called.  “Did I tell you what Alex did the other day,” he asked in the middle of the conversation.  “She ran a 20 minute 5K!”

“Are you serious,” I asked, fervently hoping I had misheard him.  “Yes,” he said, “twenty minutes.”

This was not a good thing, in my estimation.  If current figures held, that would place me about the halfway point when she should be crossing the finish line.  I didn’t want to hold her back like that, so I explained the reality of the situation to her.  Yet, she still wanted me to come up and do the run.

So…a week later I found myself in northwest Arkansas, heading to the starting line.  During that short walk, I noticed that a lot of the runners were wearing the same shirts.  I made a comment about it and found out that I was actually going to be in a ‘Girls On The Run’ event.  I would like to be able to say that I’m a mature man, completely comfortable with my abilities, leaving no room for prideful ego to get the better of me.  I would like to say that, but I can’t.  Up to this point, I had satisfied myself with the goal of not coming in last place.  Now that I knew it was an all girls event, and for 3^rd through 5^th graders no less, I was absolutely terrified of coming in last place.  How would a 35 year old man recover from that kind of shame and humiliation?  I could almost see a small pack of girl scouts dragging my lifeless body across the finish line.

Despite my fears, we got on the track, stretched, sang the National Anthem, and the gun fired.  We were off!  I kept a decent pace with Alex for about a half mile, which would have been great if this were not a 3.1 mile course.  It was at this point where I began a run/walk routine that would dictate our speed for the rest of the race.  Alex was very gracious and refused to leave my side.  She was encouraging and coached me for the remainder of the time.  It was extremely helpful.

What was not helpful was every third lady shouting “Let’s Go Girls!” every time they passed us.  I don’t know, it might have helped Alex, it just twisted the knife in my ego.  What really got to me, though was that one chick who kept saying, “Come on!  You can do it,” as she sprinted by us on her bicycle.  “Of course I could do it…*huff huff*…if I had a bicycle too…*huff huff*,” I said between gasps of air.  I fully intended to closthline the woman and steal her ride if she came peddling by again…she never did.

On we went, and with little less than a quarter of a mile to go, I finally convinced Alex to leave me and sprint for the finish line.  We did not come in last, in fact, we were probably in the top 25%, and completed the race in a little over 37 minutes.

I was glad that I did it, but even more glad that it was over.  Like any other intense physical activity, the real pain did not come for a day or so.  But when it did, it was in heaping bucket loads.  I swung my legs over the side of the bed that next morning and wept.  It’s an event that I’ll remember for a long, long time {the run, not the weeping}. =P

Why I Don't Sleep Late On Saturdays

Saturday used to be such a lazy day.  When we were in college and for nearly five years after, we could sleep till 10 or 11 o’clock in the morning.  With the advent of children, that has drastically changed.  No matter how late we go to bed at night, I’m assured to be woken up around 6 a.m.  It does wear on you after a while.  In fact, I can’t remember the last time I wasn’t at least kind of tired.

Why don’t I just tell the kids not to bother me on Saturday morning?  Well we haven’t quite reached the point in their development where that is feasible.  You see, toddler time runs differently than adult time.  If Gage has been awake for more than 10 minutes, he feels as though if half the day is already gone.  Griffin is starting to get the hang of it, but occasionally still thinks everything that happened in the past actually took place yesterday.

So, when I tell my boys to play quietly in their room until we get up, this is what happens:

6:03 a.m.

Two pairs of feet tip-toe up to my side of the bed

Griffin:  “Daddy, can I watch something on TV?

Me (groggily):  “You woke me up to ask about TV?  No.  Go to your room.”

Gage:  “I want some Eggo waffles.”

Me (growing irritated):  “Go play in your room, I’ll feed you in a little bit.”

6:07 a.m.

I am violently ripped from my slumber as one of the children dump a large container of Die Cast Matchbox cars on their bedroom floor…with their door opened.  I get out of bed, tromp through the hall and tell them, in no uncertain terms, that they are to keep their door closed and play quietly.  Then, I go back to bed.

6:23 a.m.

A nagging, drumming sound coaxes me from my precious 15 minutes respite.  Something’s not right.  That drumming sound is getting louder.  I trudge out into the living room where the boys have dismantled their plastic alligator see-saw.  At current, they are using the handles to mercilessly beat the lifeless alligator.  How this hasn’t awakened sister, I do not understand, but the troublesome two are sent back to their bedroom amid protests of boredom and hunger.

6:37 a.m.

A wail like an air raid siren rattles me from the bed.  We are either being invaded or Gage is hurt.  It turns out to be the latter.  Passing by the nursery, I sourly note that sister is now awake and powering toward full steam.  The boys have taken fixing breakfast into their own hands.  Griffin is toasting Eggo waffles and eating them dry.  Amid watching his brother, while perched upon a laundry basket, Gage has fallen onto the tile floor.

At this point, the chances of nabbing a little extra shut-eye have dwindled to nothing.  Maybe if we get some breakfast fixed, and if we don’t have anywhere else to go, and if there’s not too many chores to get done around the house, and if all the children take a nap about the same time, then we might be able to sneak in a little nap too.

I realize that there’s a whole lot of ‘If’ coming off of that plan…but maybe we'll get lucky.

(*Shakes Magic 8-ball*) – “Outlook not so good”

Boys Will Be Boys

I’m sure that at some point in your life, you’ve heard the phrase “He’s all boy” or maybe “Boys will be boys”.  But have you ever wondered exactly what that means?  Surely it doesn’t mean that the little tow-headed urchin running around the house is only half boy.  And furthermore, if boys aren’t boys, what else could they be?

I assure you that these phrases have meaning that goes far beyond their face value.  For a deeper explanation, let’s consider the goings on around my house a week or so ago:

Getting Ready for a Cave Tour

Saturday mornings are generally a quiet time.  On this particular morning, I was on my way to the sink to brush my teeth when I noticed some odd patches of discoloration in the bathtub.  I leaned down to get a closer look at said patches and was immediately hit by the strong smell of ammonia.  “Griffin,” I yelled.  “Get in here!”  My eldest came bounding into our bathroom, “What is it, Daddy?”  I looked at my brilliant, straight A student and calmly asked, “Did you pee in my bathtub?”  A wave of emotions played over his face as he struggled to figure out what the right answer would be.  Finally he decided to just go with the truth and said, “Yes.”  “Why did you do that,” I asked him.  His reply…”Well, I just wanted to.”  That was good enough for me; everyone knows boys will be boys.  “Clean it up and don’t do that again,” I said.  There was no need for any harsher correction, after all, I can still remember when I was a little boy and thought it would be a most excellent idea to pee in my parent’s metal trashcan instead of the toilet.  Ah, good times…

But the day didn’t end there.  When I went outside to mow the lawn, I came across a strange monument in the backyard.  Someone had taken almost every decorative stone in our back flowerbed and pitched them into the grass.  For those of you who don’t shoulder the responsibility of maintaining the yard, it’s fairly common knowledge that lawnmower blades do NOT like decorative stones.  As my Troy Built clinked and sputtered in death throes, I yelled out to my children, “Boys, get over here!”  They rather sheepishly made their way from the swing set to where I was standing.  “Why are these rocks in the yard,” I asked.  “We didn’t mean to throw them out here,” the elder spokesman stated.  “Umm, yes you did,” I replied, “or they wouldn’t be out here instead of the flowerbed.”  They shuffled from foot to foot as I passed judgment, “Pick ‘em up and put ‘em back.  Every last one of them.”  Why did they hurl them with wild abandon in the first place?  No doubt they were protecting themselves from tigers or sharks or maybe tiger sharks.  Those are the kind of games boys play…and both of them are all boy.

The very next day was Sunday.  I only mention that because it’s important to note that the boys are dressed in their Sunday best.  Somehow, they managed to elude the watchful eyes of every adult at my parent’s house and make it outside.  Upon hearing five or so minutes of unnatural silence, we began to fervently try to locate the children.  When I found them, they were standing ankle deep in a mud puddle, preparing to spread their chosen medium across the canvass of the driveway.  Griffin had thought far enough ahead to roll up his pant legs…we weren’t so lucky with Gage.  They were tremendously proud of the grimy foot prints they had artfully put on display, and why shouldn’t they be?  That’s the type of thing that boys do.

So, you see, these phrases serve as gentle reminders that if little boys aren’t watched like hawks, they’re likely to do some off the wall things.  In fact, just the other night, I overheard them plotting something to do with the dog’s hiney.  I don’t know if they were going to sniff it, or poke at it, or what, but it’s just another example of boys being boys.  An interesting idea strikes them, and they immediately execute it with little regard to whether or not they should.  It definitely keeps things interesting.