The plan was for Coco and I to meet Lucien and Alex at the finish line so I could share the glorious moment of my firstborn finishing his first race. But someone (Alex) forgot the plan. Instead of texting me as they neared the finish line so I could get into place, he chose to cross the finish line discreetly and take Lucien inside for hot chocolate, leaving me outside in the cold to wonder where the hell everybody was.
Here's a nice picture of people finishing the race but they are not related to me
I was outside for a long time, walking Coco up and down in the stroller to keep warm, glancing at the finish line from time to time, looking for my boys. I became concerned when the race participants became decidedly more unhealthy. There were several who sat down immediately upon completion and refused to move. One had diabetes and was taken to the medical tent. One rather out-of-shape woman cried and yelled for water.
Then there were tourists wearing fanny packs crossing the finish line. They posed for jokey "crossing the finish line ha ha!" photos and yelled at their friends in a foreign language so they would notice how funny they were being.
When the 15K race participants began crossing the finish line, I thought, "Oh holy hell what have we done to Lucien?" If the out-of-shapers and the diabetics and the German tourists wearing sandals AND the 15K participants have lapped him, perhaps this was a bad idea.
Then I got a text -- "We're in Bay Pavillion! Lucien finished in half an hour! He did great! He's had five hot chocolates now! Come pick us up!"
It was an epic communication breakdown, suckas.
I wasn't happy upon entering Bay Pavilion but I was still very proud of The Loosh. He didn't slow down, didn't stop, just ran that entire 5K like a boss. He wasn't even tired as evidenced by his jumping on the couch all afternoon. We've now signed him up for track and field where he will likely receive the nickname, "That Hyperactive Fast Kid."
Have you guys heard of Car2Go? I learned of it from Blonde Seattle Mom, who knows everything. We went out for drinks last week but it started raining so we didn't want to walk home. Blonde Seattle Mom said, "No problem, we'll just grab a Car2Go!" She made some magic happen by waving a card around and suddenly the three of us were crammed into a Smart Car and she was driving us the ten blocks home.
What's happening? Can someone tell me what's happening?
The best part of Car2Go is you don't have to make reservations and you don't have to return it where you got it. You can just ditch it wherever you want: sidewalk, tree, wherever. It's a Smart Car so you could probably put it in your pocket and carry it around for awhile if you wanted, too.
This isn't an endorsement, I'm just recounting another unexpected occurrence in my life (my favorite kind of occurrence). I have now signed up for Car2Go and look forward to popping a wheelie in a Smart Car in the near future.
Our neighbors are exactly like us; they are suckers who purchased a beautiful old "fixer" home (theirs was formerly full of artists who turned out to be squatters, remember them?) and now spend all their time fixing it and looking stressed. We share house fixing tips such as, "this sh*t's f*cking hard and takes forever" and wave at each other weakly across the driveway. They are oftentimes wearing large gas masks -- which reminds me, I should really ask them about that.
As I put Lucien to bed the other night, I glanced out the window and realized people who fix old houses can sometimes look like serial killers --
Whatcha doin' in that plastic-covered room with that spotlight and giant garbage bag, neighbor?
Not that I'm one to talk. Banister Abbey recently looked like this --
All of us fixers end up with Dexter rooms sooner or later
What the above photo doesn't capture is the dank smell of wet drywall plaster. Also, the several huge fans set at high speed that sounded like airplane engines all night long and made the plastic billow, flap and ripple in creepy ways. Downstairs was terrifying for two solid weeks.
Our dining room was no longer inviting
And the refrigerator no longer hospitable
Since the plastic has come down, my life has revolved around priming and painting all the new drywall. I haven't made it to the gym in the past few weeks but like to think I'm getting some good "Karate Kid" workouts -- roll on, roll off, up ladder, down ladder, brush on, brush off, lean in, lean out too far from top of ladder, fall off ladder, get back on ladder, repeat.
I can probably kick some arrogant blonde guy's butt right now and don't even know it.
In happy news, Coco is a Butterfly Princess and if you tell her otherwise, she will kick you in the shins --
Coco is also now taking a ballet class. There's a special place in heaven for people who teach ballet to small children. It's the most accurate example of the phrase "it's like herding cats" I've ever witnessed.
Coco's not too bad, but overall the girls in our class are the most uncoordinated group of children you've ever seen. If the teacher tells them to skip, they lumber across the room like mini-Frankensteins, often with one leg dragging behind them and seemingly no understanding of the mechanics of their own body. Most of the girls stop mid-lumber to pick their noses or sit on the floor to scoot around on their butts.
One girl is so hyperactive she runs back and forth across the room the entire class. I don't understand how she makes so much noise doing so; all I can figure is her tiny feet are made of lead. For another girl, jumping straight up in the air has proven quite a challenge; she kind of lunges to the side as the teacher looks at her with stupefied concern.
There's one little boy in the class. Apparently the teacher and the boy's father had a difference in opinion recently because I overheard him say, "He's a little boy! Just let him hold his penis for Pete's sake!" I'm going to stay out of that one.
There goes Ole Leadfoot
As our children make a mess of ballet, we parents sit against the wall and laugh so hard we cry. We bury our heads in our arms so the kids can't see. So far no obvious prima ballerinas have emerged amongst the 2-3 year old set but I'll keep you posted.
Skipping is hard,