How to lose your mind in about 90 days...

Register for a half-marathon.

The end.

Kidding. Well, not about the half-marathon part. Jeff and I registered last summer for the Indianapolis 500 Festival half-marathon. I've run it twice. And both times, the male winner was crossing the finish line as I was just entering the Speedway. (They're kind enough to run live feed on the jumbotron.) Since the infamous track marks the halfway point of the race, that means that guy was running twice as fast as I was. I am OK with that. I not only acknowledge, but embrace my limitations. I know full well there isn't a miracle on Earth that would make me run THAT fast.

But I digress...

Here we are, perched on February 1. This year's race is May 8. I have just over three months to snap this body into shape -- even better shape than before, if I want to keep up with Jeff and his fancy 8-minute miles. (I have consistently chugged along at a nice 10-10:30 trot.) I began a more "intense" training last week at the gym, setting the treadmill at 9:30/mile and raising the incline to one percent. Don't think that sound like much? Try it. By about the 10th stride, I was like, "what the...?" and considered going back to no incline at all. I stuck it out, though. I didn't want to go home and have to admit to Jeff that I completely wussed out on it. But let me just say, It. Kicked. My. Ass.

So, now I have decided to publicly check in on the training, with periodic posts on how things are going, and how much I question my sanity for doing this to my body. Again. If I've counted correctly, I've got five half-marathons under my belt. Each and every time, by about mile 8 or 9, I have seriously asked myself why in the world I'm running 13.1 miles. By mile 11/12, I swear that I will never do one again. By the 13th mile, I'm praying that God will get me across the finish line without falling down or throwing up. Yet once I cross that finish line, such a sense of accomplishment washes over me... I walk down the chute, grab my free water and banana and almost forget how much my hips and knees are screaming at me.

It's painful, but worth it.
Hear that, May 8?
Bring. It. On.

Deja vu

I am 41 years old, and I find I'm back to the question that plagued me about 25 years ago: What do I want to be when I grow up?

After losing my job last July (Dear Economy, Thanks a bunch! By the way, you suck. Best regards...) I never thought it would be so difficult to find another part-time job. I couldn't have been more wrong. In the past six months or so, I have sent out a bunch of resumes and applied online for many jobs -- several of which I thought I was an absolute shoe-in for at least a phone call. Want to know how many phone calls I've received? How about none. Zip. Zero. Big, fat nada.

This leads me to believe there is either a glaring error I've not caught on my own resume, or the economy is still just as crappy as everyone thinks it is. And now? I've found myself at a cross-roads of sorts: I have the opportunity to "create" my dream job. I love writing, and want people to pay me to do it. The problem? Finding people to pay me. Freelance writers are frequently the first to go where budgets are concerned. Staff people will take the bullet and dump extra work on underlings before shelling out company cash for an outsider to come in and write. Once again, the economy is baring its teeth at me and growling, warning me to stay the hell away. "Back off, Word Nerd!"

I told Jeff today that I am perfectly happy getting the writing assignments I've been fortunate enough to receive lately (Thank you, Sue and Northern IN Lakes magazine! Big shout out and a hearty WOO HOO!) The thing is, I am also very happy being a stay-at-home mom, taking care of the family. For me, interviewing and writing an article for publication has become equivalent to, say, baking cookies or bread and making an 8-yr-old's bed. I love both jobs; however, only one pays actual, real money, while the other is compensated with hugs and smiles. Unfortunately, utility companies and the bank don't readily accept payments in hugs and smiles.

I feel like I've been given an opportunity to find something new...something I really love to do and create a new career out of it. The only question is, what the hell is it? You know the feeling when you try to remember something, and it's just on the tip of your tongue? That's how I'm feeling about work -- there's something out there. I can almost make it out... I just hope I figure it out before unemployment runs out in July.

Food for thought...

Time is just whipping by. Where in the world did the past week go? Every time I sit down at the computer, I think about all the things I either have to write (you know,... for pay) and things I want to write. Then, as it happens, I usually find myself with enough time to post a brief status on Facebook, and I have to jump up and do something else. Usually laundry. The family is a bit picky about not wanting to walk around naked. Geez.

I was going to post something Jack had written for me last week. However, Lindy has a "kid note" theme going and I don't want to be a copycat. So I'll save that gem for one day when he's particularly trying my nerves -- that way, when I re-read the note and post it with its glorious "AWWW!" factor, it'll remind me why I'm not sending him to military school.

Instead, I will share an idea that I know at least a few families are using, including our own: snack bins. This is an idea worth its weight in gold for families with more than one child. (And who knows? Perhaps even only-children wouldn't mind having their own snack stash...?) Anyway, while all six of our kids are frequently hungry, only five of them have the ability to open doors to either the pantry or refrigerator and peruse the selection of food items. This? Has posed a problem in the past. Why? Imagine doing your weekly or bi-weekly shopping, coming home and stocking the previously mentioned pantry and refrigerator. Then imagine a swarm of locust invading your home, eating everything in sight. That, my friends, is what we encountered here on more than one occasion. So, ladies and gentlemen, I present... snack bins:

All stocked full of snackity goodness.

And neatly labeled.

Welcome, locusts... help yourself.

Jeff and I were very clear on the guidelines involved with this new snackin' system. We will stock the bins every two weeks with (more than) enough items to get them by -- we aim for two snacks per day. If any one of the bin owners goes jackass batty and eats all their allotted snack foods before Restock Day, well... that's pretty much tough luck. And any sneaky dipping of hands into someone else's bin (blatant stealing) will result in forfeiture of the culprit's bin for a two-week period.

So far, this has worked out amazingly well for us, and for the kids. It teaches them budgeting, responsibility and, most importantly, being held accountable for their own actions. Or, in this case, gluttony. It has also taught me that I need to stop being such a SugarNazi, and not freak out when Jeff waltzes in with a box of Little Debbie Nutty Bars, or some pseudo-fruit snack. (Dear Snack Manufacturers, When you resort to spelling your product with another form of the word "fruit," such as "froot" please be aware that is a HUGE red flag to mothers who respect nutritional value. Your name-twisting shenanigans result in my 8-year old thinking he can fulfill his daily fruit requirement with "Fruit Gushers" or something similar. NOT. HAPPENING.)

Happy snacking!

Seeing the good...

For a couple of hours this morning, I became "Juror #2."

Over the past decade, out of five times being summoned for jury duty, this is the fourth time I've served -- one shooting/homicide trial, one theft and two (including today's) were drug possession. I began dreading the whole thing; getting dragged through someone else's dirty laundry and, ultimately, making a decision that was going to negatively affect his/her life. Leading up to today, all of the trials ended with a guilty verdict.

Imagine my surprise when, as the State and defense presented their cases, I saw a glimmer of hope. I really believed this guy was innocent. The prosecutor likened the elements of this case to one of the answers on a Magic 8 Ball: "All signs point to yes." However, all signs clearly did NOT point to guilt. I won't go into the minute details of the case, but suffice it to say that this guy was a drug abuser (crack cocaine being his drug-o-choice), which he ended up admitting to the arresting officer. In a surprising, bold move, the defendant actually took the stand. I've never seen that done in any trial so far. He admitted being addicted to crack last year -- he was unemployed and his life was "a mess." (His words.) During the past year, from the information he gave, we learned he was now gainfully employed by a company who more than likely used drug testing either in the hiring process or periodically on the job... or both. I really got the feeling that this individual was trying to turn his life around, despite the State's attempt to convict him of drug possession. They had three points to prove: that he knowingly possessed crack cocaine. Lab tests proved the substance was cocaine -- check. And, while it wasn't on his person, the baggie was in his car -- check. It was the "knowingly" part that hung them up. He testified under oath that it wasn't his. Whose was it? Well, he had a passenger in his car the night he was arrested. The details that came forth firmly convinced not only me, but my five fellow jurors that the drugs in possession were most likely the property of his acquaintance. Seriously. We deliberated for about a minute and a half. And I'm not entirely sure you could even call it deliberation -- we all felt exactly the same way.

After delivering our verdict and being dismissed from the courtroom, another juror and I were chatting. She said how hopeful she felt for the guy, and also had the distinct feeling he was really trying to make a fresh start. I agreed and told her that was exactly how I felt. I added that I find myself, time and time again, looking for the good in people. Unfortunately, more times than I care to recall, I have been proven wrong... disappointed... duped. One might think by now I'd be jaded to the gills, and walk around all brooding and cynical. Nope. I just can't do it. Even when I've given someone the benefit of the doubt for the umpteenth time, and was surprised when things turned around and bit me firmly on the ass, I'm still not able to make myself believe most people are simply awful to the core.

So, today was a good day for the defendant. It was a good day for me -- to be able to feel that familiar optimism and stand firm on my belief that he wasn't your average Joe Junkie, just looking to beat the system for now. I firmly believe that guy didn't leave the courthouse today and immediately ring up his dealer on speed dial for a quick score. I think he went home, changed out of his suit and went to work for the rest of the day. I sincerely hope he also took a minute or two to thank his lucky stars he found six optimists out of 40 or so people to decide his case today.

If you are looking for my brain, it's over there in the gutter...

So, we're driving home from school the other day, and we happen to pass a guy walking along side the road. Coincidentally, it's the same stretch of road where last week I saw a guy (not the same one) walking along in freezing temperature, carrying a huge bouquet of red roses. (My subsequent Facebook posting about this guy prompted general consensus that he was a stalker, not the hopeless romantic I believed him to be.) But I digress...

As we approached the guy, I saw that he had his head bent over and his hands were fiddling with something in his waistline area. He was in the process of zipping up his jacket. I heard Jack and Charlie pipe up from the back of the van, distinctly catching Jack say, "Dude, that guy's p--..."

Now, I clearly heard up to the "p" sound, and jumped to the conclusion that Jack had finished that sentence, "...playin' with himself." And, really? If you only glanced up at him, it actually might appear so -- if you're 10 years old and have a finely honed sense of "boy humor."

In mock exasperation, I said, "Jack... the guy's not 'playing with himself"... he's just zipping his jacket."

Immediately, gales of laughter erupt from the boys.

Jack says, "Mom, I said, 'that guy's pimpin'.... but 'playing with himself' works too!'" And more laughter ensues.

Nice. I spend a fair amount of time trying to keep their boy brains out of the gutter, and where do I end up?

I pity da fool...

...who makes fun of my boy today.

So, yesterday afternoon was cruising along like any other when I received a phone call from the boys' dad. Seeing as how we usually communicate very nicely via text, when I saw his name on my cell caller ID, I knew something was up.

Me: Hello?

Ex: Hi,... yeah, I just got a call from school. I guess Charlie and another boy had a run-in on the playground while playing football -----

I'm going to stop here for a minute for some backstory. Every day, rain or shine, come hell or high water, Jack and Charlie and their friends play football at recess. They have as much enthusiasm for the schoolyard version of the game as they had when they were on their PAL team this past fall... which means they tend to get into heated discussions over bad plays. I immediately took "run-in" as code for "Charlie got into a fight with another boy and is currently sitting in the principal's office." This explains why the next image that popped into my head was of young Charlie perched on his bed all weekend, in a grounding for fighting at school. Let's resume the conversation, shall we?

Ex: (continues)... and the nurse says he's got a pretty good goose-egg above his eye. She doesn't think he's got a concussion, but figured it might be a good idea for him to be picked up now, rather than wait for the end of the school day.

Let's pause again for a moment, mm'kay? Knowing full well that the boys also have a tendency to tackle during these games -- without the luxury of helmets and pads -- "Punishment Mom" was replaced by "Worried Mom." Quickly.

Me: I'm on my way.

I now know that Bobby and I are fully capable of being out the door and driving toward school within four minutes. Good to know.

When we reached school, I was led to Charlie lying on a cot in the clinic, holding an ice pack to the left side of his face. I had him take it off, an saw this:

I think I audibly gasped... probably saying something along the lines of, "Ohmygosh,Charlie!" I asked him if he'd seen it for himself, and he said no, so I snapped the picture and showed him. (You didn't really think I was just randomly taking photos of his injury for kicks, did you? I assure you, it was out of necessity, not having a mirror handy.)

Apparently, he collided face-to-face with his friend Jonathan, just after he'd caught the football. KA-POW. The recess aides assured the nurse that there was definitely no rough play involved-- just a matter of the boys being in the same place at the most unfortunate time. Jonathan's injury was similar, but I was told his entire eye had swollen shut, and he was at the ER getting things checked out. So, Charlie got out of school an hour early and I bought him a Sprite at the McDonald's drive-thru to comfort him. (By the way, when the HELL did they stop making McDonaldLand Cookies?! I was going for a true Mom of the Year moment, wanting to make the injury "all better" with a box of cookies. Now, all they sell is chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin. There is a permanent ban on chocolate in the car, and he doesn't care for oatmeal raisin. Plan thwarted... thanks A LOT, Ronald McDonald.)

Last night before bed, Charlie was a bit apprehensive about going to school today. He was afraid the other kids would make fun of how his eye looked. I assured him no one would do that... but then I thought, how do I know this for sure? I decided I would offer Charlie an escort to his classroom and survey the reaction. He can either accept or decline -- I will be fine with either choice. My guess is that he will be the center of attention for a while, which he won't mind for about, say, ... 10 minutes. After that, he (like his mom) will start to cringe and want to be left alone.

He may feel fine, have no concussion and not even so much as a headache. But I still have my "Worried Mom" cap on, which will quickly turn into "Protective Mom" should any wiseapple fourth grader try to make fun of MY Charlie and his puffy eye.

No one can say I wasn't warned...

A few weeks ago -- Christmas Eve day to be exact -- I returned home from a long afternoon of errand-running to find this on the boys' bedroom door:

Yes, it reads, "Beware of Children. P.S.: We Bite."

On sticky notes, no less.