Track Purgatory

Being a track mom means I do the vast majority of my mom-ing at a track these days.  It means I've learned how to decently raise my kids in a set of bleachers. I know how far up the bleachers to sit to sustain minimal injuries (because my youngest will inevitably fall and roll all the way down to the bottom of the stairs) and I know which items at the snack bar have earned my "somewhat acceptable amount of sugar" track mom seal of approval.

If we're not at track practice these days, we're at a track meet.  If you're not familiar, track meets are where many teams come together and a zillion kids run every distance between 0 meters and 5,000,000,000 meters (in ten-meter increments) from right after school until the wee hours of the morning.

There is a 100% probability track meets will happen at schools that are very far from your home.  The map application on your smartphone is your new best friend.

I get a desperate sinking feeling when a large group of kids takes the field at a track meet.  "That many kids are running the 1500?  How many heats is that going to be?  WHY AREN'T WE ACTIVELY DISCOURAGING THESE KINDS OF DISTANCES?"  I told Lucien if he runs anything longer than the 200m his legs will probably break off.  He looked scared so that takes care of that.

Lucien would be a fine runner if he would just listen to his coaches.  It's twice now they've told him to stop waving at his mom while running the 50m sprint.  It slows him down, as does his constant looking side-to-side (and over his shoulder) to see where all the other runners are.  Sometimes it also causes him to swerve into his fellow runners' lanes.  It's real exciting stuff.

He grins the whole time, though, so at least he's having a good time.  As with everything else in his life since the day he was born, he's doing it his own damn way with no need for input from others.

My un-coachable child is also fairly un-teachable.  His teacher told me when she called on him in class last week he said, "No thanks, I'm OK" and wandered over to look at a book on ants.  In his defense, ants are fascinating creatures that can lift fifty times their body weight.

In better news, his teacher says Lucien's "a popular, natural leader with huge ideas."  He also walked past me in the kitchen the other day and said out of nowhere, "Someday there's gonna be a statue of me in this town."  Putting those two things together, it's fairly obvious Lucien is one day going to be the leader of a cult.

I pass the time at Lucien's track meets by eavesdropping on conversations in the bleachers.  One happened in front of me between two highbrow women who didn't realize they were being funny.  It went like this --

"So she became a vegetarian because one time we stayed at a sheep farm in Australia and -- well, I think we just got a little too close to our protein.  After that she was a pescatarian -- that is, until my husband took her fishing and she couldn't handle what happened to the fish, just really freaked out right there in the boat.  So now she's vegan and honestly, she looks awful."

I hope the lady they're talking about doesn't uncover any uncomfortable truths about the bean or nut industries because she'd really be in trouble.

Past her bedtime and Lucien hasn't even done his field event yet

I took the kids to a professional photography studio recently because we received a coupon in the mail.  It was a really good deal and I couldn't pass it up.

Our session was a little rough.  Lucien was so impossible to convince to look decent (and Coco will follow her brother's lead because she worships the boy), our sheet of proofs ended up looking like this --

I still ordered a bunch because they do capture my children perfectly.

We aged our photographer by a few years.  They probably won't be mailing those coupons to people anymore.

Mount Rainier on a sunny day never gets old.  Sometimes I turn a corner and see it on the horizon and it's so incredible I nearly drive off the road.  It may erupt someday and bury us all but until that moment, keep being awesome, Mt. Rainier.

Alex and Lucien and our good friend Uncle Alex ran another 5K last week.  This one was sponsored by Top Pot Doughnuts.  The sponsorship seems at odds with a healthy running lifestyle but it's actually a good motivator to get people moving.  Many people crossed the finish line in a big hurry with tongues hanging out and arms outstretched, desperately reaching for their finish line doughnut.

After the 5K there was a 1K Kid Dash.  Coco got nervous and wanted all of us to run it with her.  So I thought what the heck, even I'll run for a doughnut.

While carrying a large purse.  One never knows what one's going to need on a 1K.

(I'm now going to propose a Bacon Dash in which participants get bacon shoveled into their mouths every few feet.  Between the Doughnut 5K and the Bacon Dash, I would become a dedicated runner in no time.)

We also recently had our school's fundraising auction.  The theme was "Hats Off" so we all had to wear hats.  I thought it would be more appropriate if we had our HATS OFF but I was overruled on that one.

I've blocked out their faces because I'm too lazy to ask all their permission to post this pic --

 Aren't my friends gorgeous?

As Seattle Mom and I stood chatting at the wine section of the silent auction, Alex walked up and asked us if we knew anything about any of the wines.  Were any of them good?  Were any worth bidding on?  We said we didn't know anything about any of them.

Seconds later, another auction-goer walked up beside us and asked Alex, "Hey, are you a wine guy?" to which Alex immediately replied, "Why yes I am."  He then walked away with the man who had a question about a wine at the end of the table.  I overheard Alex tell him it was a great year and a great deal and he should bid immediately.  I love my ridiculous bullsh*ttin' man.

A group of us only stayed for the silent auction part -- we cut out secretly and went down the street for an incredible tapas dinner at Tango.  The good people working at Tango probably wondered, "Why are all these yahoos wearing hats?"

Parents of the Year all together now!

Slowly, I am building a new team of contractors.  I'm going to call one of our new arrivals "Contractor Smiley" because I've never met such a happy contractor.  The ones I've worked with in the past have been a little crabby (I'm lookin' at you there, Contractor God).

Contractor Smiley has a positive, can-do attitude.  For instance, we've been trying to find a door to fit our upstairs linen closet.  It's an odd size, narrow and short.  My perusal of the architectural salvage yards turned up nothing, which is never a good sign.

After begrudgingly deciding to have the door custom made, I mentioned a collection of old doors to Contractor Smiley, maybe ten or twelve deep, stacked in our garage.  They were left behind by the previous owner.  I'd never gone through them because what a mess.

Contractor Smiley said, "Oh my gosh, what are we waiting for?!" and for the next hour we heaved and grunted and hurt ourselves, moving and dusting off hundred-year-old doors covered in huge spiders, rat poop, and various grimes.  But there, at the very bottom of the pile, we found it -- an antique five-panel door of perfect size with original brass hardware still attached.

It's going to be incredible

We did the March of Dimes 5K March for Babies over the weekend.  My good friend's twins were born premature over a year ago. While they are both now healthy and perfect in every way, she and her husband have endured some really scary times.  They made it through thanks in part to the support of the March of Dimes.

We walk for the Seattle Wonder Twins  

(who had the stomach flu so slept through the entire walk and didn't notice our sweet team t-shirts.)

It was a perfect warm Seattle day, the kind that makes you happy with your dull, boring, repetitive track mom life. The kids got drenched in the Seattle Center fountain afterward and Alex and I permitted a small amount of sunlight to touch our ghost-white skin.

Someday there's gonna be a statue of me in this town,
MJ

Cat Stevens and Jesus Mouse

Since I started my writing class, I have less time for the blog.  Heck, I have less time for showers.  It's been three days now, people.

Perhaps I'm in over my head with this writing class.  I'm in there with "real" writers who have done a "publish."  My teacher's former job was literary critic for the Seattle P.I.  My writing assignments are returned with red marks all over them.  I'm pretty sure it's my teacher's pen, though I like to think he was just eating Twizzlers and got sloppy.

My assignment essays, strictly bound by a 300-word limit, have me awake in the middle of the night, writing in fits of sleepy inspiration.  I'm quite proud of my most recent essay and look forward to reading it aloud to a roomful of critics who will have no idea what I'm talking about.

Spring has sprung in Seattle and not a moment too soon.  Winters in the Pacific Northwest, as most people know, are chilly gray and dreary.  But in the past week of warm sunny days, we've come out of hibernation.  Everyone's back outside, stretching and squinting up at the mysterious yellowish circle in the sky. 

My favorite runner is back, running through our neighborhood for hours at a time.  He's my favorite because, while most runners look straight ahead and pound the hell out of the pavement, he gets more vertical with his strides and looks around the whole time.  It gives him the appearance of bouncing, near skipping, down the sidewalk.  He looks thrilled to be running, which is a strange concept to me.

I was sitting on the front porch when I saw him again.  I ran inside to yell to Al, "Ole Bouncy Black Pants is back!  Ole Bouncy Black Pants is back!"  I probably should have been taking a shower instead of sitting on the front porch watching the passersby but we all make questionable decisions sometimes.

The days when all the mountain ranges are out -- Olympics to the west and Cascades to the east -- and Mount Rainier is standing crisp and clear to the south, those are the days we Seattleites live for.  On those days, we are all convinced we live in the most beautiful place on Earth and feel smugly satisfied with our life choices.

photo www.seattlecenter.org 

 

We're now facing another string of cold gray days but last week was enough to give us all more patience.

Coco had a nightmare last night that woke her (and me) at 4:00 a.m.  She was bolt upright and crazy-eyed, screaming that something was in her bed. As I tried to calm her, she seemed to catch sight of something out of the corner of her eye.  Her eyes widened and she screamed again, then bolted to the end of her bed.

She convinced me.  I nearly yelled,  "Holy sh*t, girl, there IS something in your bed!" and hightailed it out of her room.  Instead I gathered my wits, pulled all her blankets off the bed, shook them out, and quickly became hopelessly entangled in the middle of them.  Lucien woke up and said sleepily, "Mommy, are you doing an April Fools joke?"

There was absolutely nothing in Coco's bed but don't bother trying to convince her of that, it's wasted breath and time.  She came back to bed with me where she spent the rest of the night kicking Alex and I in the kidneys.

As usual, for those of us with no family nearby, friends were family for Easter.  We gathered on the Street of Dreams for an egg hunt and mimosas (one was for kids, one for adults, you decide).  The kids watched in horror as Seattle Mom and Dad's cat attacked and nearly killed a mouse in the backyard.  Seattle Dad had to put the mouse out of its misery because there was much suffering.  Happy Easter, kids, and no worries, maybe that mouse will resurrect just like Jesus.

Then there was a ton of food including homemade cinnamon rolls and a psycho jello mold --

Want some candy, little kid?

It was a beautiful day so we headed down the street to an empty parking lot to ride bikes --

"Daddy, why doesn't my bike work anymore?"

When we got back to Seattle Mom and Dad's house, the jumping began --

 

It's not Easter until someone jumps over my head, scares me and makes me spill my mimosa. 

This one's for the ladies

There was some singing involved in our Easter celebration, which reminded me of a classic Alex tale.  When I first met him, Al loved Cat Stevens and sang his songs regularly and loudly.  His favorite song was "Peace Train."  But instead of understanding the chorus for what it was -- "Ride on the Peace Train" -- Alex misunderstood (it's hard to decipher foreign language song lyrics!) and sang, "I love to be straight." 

I love my foreigner.

I was flipping through a catalog full of useless items recently when I saw this --

How is this better than a dog pooping in your yard?  Instead of an occasional left-behind pile of poo, you're going to stare at a fake dog in full poo position, with fake poo coming out of its behind, every time you step out your front door?  Catalog people, go home, you're drunk!

Everyone jump on the be straight,
MJ

Moving Bodies

Alex and Lucien ran a 5K last weekend.  The forecast said it would be a beautiful crisp day but when we awoke at 5:45 a.m. to get the guys out of the house, it was just damn cold.

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,
MJ